The Riddle

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REALLY sorry I’ve let it go so long! Any of you on Facebook with me know that I’m fine, but for my non-Facebook friends, I’m sorry I left you hanging. I am indeed fine. Actually better than fine, but you’d never know that from my silence! Sorry ’bout that. I know I said in my last post that I had scans at Mayo coming up in December, and I fully intended to remind everyone as the day drew nearer, so that my prayer army could saddle up, but I kind of forgot about one thing: finals. Yep, as the parent of a college freshman I can totally say this is my first rodeo, and I’m still learning. And what I learned this time is that you simply do NOT schedule scans when your kid is in the middle of final exams. First of all, it’s just not nice to add worrying about Mom’s health to a list of stressors that includes things like calculus and chemistry. And second, what if the news was bad? We certainly couldn’t tell him in the middle of finals. But if he knew I had the appointments he would ask about the results. And I suck at lying. So we had no choice but to keep the Mayo trip on the down low. Lesson learned.

The day went great, by the way. My liver, lungs and blood all checked out splendidly, so the cancer is staying put in the eye for now (and hopefully forever). My oncologist was positively giddy at how well the Avastin injections are working, and for good reason – I was supposed to be pretty close to blind in that eye by now, and I am definitely NOT blind. It’s sketchy, and I would be in trouble if that was the only vision I had, but sketchy vision is way better than no vision. Plus, as luck (and symmetry) would have it, I have another eye. And that one works just peachy, so it’s all good. Barring any weird hemorrhages in the radiated eye, everything should stay like that from here on out, which is pretty sweet. And my oncologist didn’t give me any crap about my RA meds! Woo hoo! So he and my rheumatologist can go on disliking each other, but I don’t have to get in the middle of it. I like that. A lot. I don’t have to go back to Mayo for 9 months now (and before you say it, I already checked – no final exams then).

In December and January I saw my rheumatologist and orthopedist, and everything is going well there too. The one disappointing thing from my one year post-op appointment (hip replacement for anyone who forgot. That includes me, because I mostly forget about my bionic-ness), is that my orthopedist’s idea of “light running” is even lighter than I imagined. Like taking 9 months to work up to 3 miles, and it all has to be on a treadmill – that kind of “light.” I have to see him again in a year and at that point he will decide if I get to ever run outside. So I haven’t even started the treadmill running, because what’s the point? If I’m going to be inside on a machine going nowhere, I can ride a bike to nowhere or climb stairs to nowhere and still get…nowhere. The point of running (to me, anyway) is enjoying fresh air, scenery, the company of others, and maybe racing (especially if there’s a fun t-shirt and/or cold beer at the end). So that didn’t work out like I had hoped. I knew it was a strong possibility though, so while I’m bummed, I’m not surprised. The hardware is looking good on the x-rays, and things are working so well that I mostly forget I have it. I do have a leg length discrepancy from the new parts, and it’s made my pelvis a little wonky, but the doctor didn’t seem concerned about it. So I’m not concerned either.

I’m still working with a nutritionist, trying to find out which foods make me feel the best, which ones tick off my RA and how to best fight cancer through what I eat. The key is to boot the things that harm, without going overboard. As I explained to my internist, I’d hate to give up dairy, then later find out I’m dying and have my first thought be, “I could have had cheese!!”

So that’s the scoop on my health – pretty doggone stable, and I like it that way. It’s boring, but it’s the good kind of boring. And speaking of boring, allow me to explain the picture at the top of this post (no, it’s not the photographic equivalent of a butt dial, I actually meant to take the picture): it’s the waiting room floor at my oncologist’s office at Mayo. I hate it, I really do. And it’s all I get to look at when I’m there, because the very first thing they do when I get there is turbo dilate both of my eyes. So no texting, checking emails, reading magazines or books. Just staring at the floor for hours (and I’m not kidding about the hours thing – this last time I waited for 2 hours to see my doctor. Super fun.). I think what bugs me the most about the floor, aside from the incredibly drab colors, is the fact that there is no discernible pattern. I’m a Type A, organized, child-of-an-engineer kind of person. I like patterns. I like knowing what’s coming. And this room, this cramped space with the ode to brown decor and stale air, is where I would most like to know what’s coming. I arrive at the Mayo Clinic hours ahead, sometimes even the day before, and I go through test after test, until I finally arrive at this place, where we wait to hear news that will be either exhilarating or devastating. And while we wait, I stare at this stupid, senseless floor with no pattern. It occurred to me this last visit that having cancer is a lot like looking at this floor, like trying to find a predictable sequence where none exists. I can read up on my cancer, and I can research treatments and survival percentages. I can eat perfectly, sleep enough, exercise regularly, and do everything in my power to increase my odds of beating it, but I can never predict what it will do. I can’t tell you why I even got it in the first place, either. I think that’s why I don’t like the floor. It has no pattern.

And I think that’s true of a lot in life, not just cancer. For those of us who yearn for the stability of predictability, when life throws us a curve we’re shaken. Sometimes we’re shaken in a good way, nudged out of our comfortable, protected space and into a place of growth and possibility. And we are ultimately glad to be in this new place, even if it was rough getting there. Sometimes though, we flail and gasp for air, desperately grasping for anything that feels solid and safe. And predictable.

In December, on my two-year “cancerversary,” two teenage boys in our town were killed in a car accident. On a day when my family and I were celebrating that I was alive, two families and an entire community were trying desperately to wrap their heads around the unthinkable. Days later, I went to Mayo for my scans, terrified as always, but also bearing the sobering thought that I had already lived longer than those boys. It made no sense. It was out of sequence.

When the unknown is merely theoretical, we can give it poetic names, like “embracing the mystery.” And that’s great when the mystery involves only lovely things. Like, will we have cake or cupcakes? Wine or cocktails? But when the unknown could involve heartbreak, loss and grief? That’s harder. Faced with that, who wouldn’t want to turn to the last page of the book to see how it ends? Ok, ok, I know people who wouldn’t. But I’m not one of them. I like knowing things ahead, so I can prepare myself. In her book, Daring Greatly, Brené Brown calls it “foreboding joy.” And it’s not a good thing. If we live our lives preparing for the worst, we prevent ourselves from enjoying the best.

Of course, if we always knew what would happen, we wouldn’t need faith. We wouldn’t need one another. We wouldn’t need a lot of the things that ultimately make our lives meaningful. So we “embrace the mystery,” we “wrestle with the unknown,” we reach for one another, dare to try new things, take chances…and we don’t wait to find out that we’re dying to live.

So I’m trying to change how I view that awful, beige floor. Sure it’s ugly, but it presents a challenge, a helpful exercise if I’m willing to look at it that way. As with life, when I survey its patternless expanse, I can allow myself to get frustrated at my inability to make sense of it. Or, I can choose to stop trying to figure out the puzzle and instead make the most of my time in it.

I had a friend who passed away from colorectal cancer years ago, and I remember how she and her husband loved the song “The Riddle” by Five for Fighting. At the time I really didn’t understand the appeal of the song, but it makes better sense now. I read an article about the songwriter, and it told of how he took 18 months and over 100 drafts to write the song – a song that started out as a meditation on the meaning of life, but ended up being about his relationship with his young son. And that is about as close to an answer as I think we’re going to get for now. Relationships. With our Creator, and with each other. Spending our time well while we’re here.

“There are secrets that we still have left to find,
There have been mysteries from the beginning of time,
There are answers we’re not wise enough to see,
He said, ‘You’re looking for a clue? I love you free’…

Here’s a riddle for you, find the answer:
There’s a reason for the world,
You and I”

So I’m trying to make my peace with the patternless floor.

It’s still ugly though.

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Grace > karma

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How not to run a blog: apologize for taking so long to post and then assure your readers that you will try to write more often…and then take longer than ever to write another post. Yep, I’m not going to be winning any blogger of the year awards any time soon. Totally fine by me, but my sincere apologies to anyone who was wondering what happened to me.

What happened to me? Well, there’s the picture at the top of the post, for starters. That happened. Graduation. An absolutely wonderful, crazy whirlwind of a week, but I think I did a decent job of making good on my intention to savor every bit of it. So many people I love, coming together to celebrate and love on my kid…I still sigh audibly when I think of it.

Physically, my rheumatoid arthritis was crappy during all of it, so that was a bummer, but I was too busy to take much notice. And I knew I could take the prednisone that I keep handy for flares, but that stuff, while amazingly effective, does make me a wee bit crabby. Ok, a lot crabby. And this was just not the best time for Crabby Jen to be appearing in public. So I pushed through it and things were fine. Once the dust settled, so did my symptoms, so I didn’t have to hit the dreaded ‘roids after all. And my family breathed an enormous, collective sigh of relief. Cause it’s not a ton of fun when Crabby Jen is running the joint.

I have a rheumatologist appointment in August, and we’ll certainly be chatting about my meds then. I’m still not loving the ones I’m on, mostly because they don’t seem to be working as well as the previous ones, but also because they might be causing some side effects that I’m not crazy about. We’ll see what the rheumy has to say about it, and then – oh joy! – we might get to enter into the delicate diplomacy of trying to get the rheumy and the oncologist to agree on a new drug. Just in case I get bored having a kid off at college and need a hobby to fill my time.

I also had my six month post hip surgery blood work and – drum roll please – I am no longer excessively metallic! In fact, I’m barely metallic at all, which is supremely awesome. So it’s safe for everyone to have magnets around me again. What a relief for you all, I know. And speaking of my hip, I am apparently recovering so well that my surgeon didn’t even want to see me for my six month follow up. His assistant called and asked if I was cool with waiting till the one year mark to see him. Now I like my surgeon and all, but I am just fine with sitting in one less waiting room, thank you very much. In the meantime, they have me going to physical therapy, just to try to get back to 100%. I had hit a plateau at about 80%, so I’m very close, but it will apparently take a little more work to get all the way back. Bring it, I say.

And for the final ring of my three-ring health circus: my eye. I have now had three Avastin injections, and as I said in a previous post, I expect they will be bestowing pro status upon me any day. Really, I can rock those things. Ok, ok, they’re just not as big of a deal as they sound, but don’t tell anyone. I like that people think I’m tough. But the truth is, my blind spot totally works in my favor, because I can’t see the needles coming at me. So I’m grateful that worked out. I’ve got a lot more of these coming, as there is still bleeding around the tumor, but they’re starting to space them out more now. Once again, I say bring it.

So at this point you’re probably wondering what’s up with the title of this post, because so far I’ve just given you a rundown on my health status. It actually has to do with something that happened back in May, when Rich and I were traveling to St. Thomas, but I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately due to the road construction going on around our neighborhood. (Say what? No seriously, go with me here, it connects. I promise…)

There is a major intersection near our house that has been closed since May so they can convert it into a two-lane roundabout. Consequently, traffic has been diverted to surrounding streets (including ours), none of which were designed to handle the volume and speeds of the roads that are currently closed. I probably don’t have to tell you that this is not exactly bringing out the nice in anyone. And we who live here and drive on these streets every day get a front-row seat to witness all the anger, impatience and general ill-will of all the folks who now have to take a much longer route, with much longer waits, to get to their destination. It’s discouraging, to be honest, to see people acting like total jerks to one another, but you know what? It also makes me mad. And then I want to act like a jerk too. Because they deserve it.

And then there’s Facebook. Holy crap, can people get their nasty on when they’re at a keyboard. Just the other day, I saw that a friend had shared a post about a sensitive topic. It was a compelling message, stated with great thought and some solid logic. And it opened up a good opportunity for some thoughtful dialogue about the subject. But then I read the responses. The amount of emotion and venom contained in them was matched only by the extreme quantity of judgment and righteous indignation. Gone was any logical argument or respectful dialogue, replaced instead by LOTS OF SCREECHING IN ALL CAPS, because apparently that shows that you REALLY MEAN IT and that the other person IS SO INCREDIBLY WRONG. They all had to get their jabs in, and I’m sure they felt their hurtful words were justified because he had posted something so stupid and so offensive to them. He deserved it.

Which brings me to something I observed on our trip this past May. As our flight was about to depart, we noticed that while we were crammed together in a very full row, the row ahead of us only had one person, sitting on the window. “I’ll just jump up and sit in that aisle seat,” Rich offered. “That way maybe we can stretch out and grab some sleep on the flight.” Sounded reasonable enough, but as soon as he stood to move ahead, the guy sitting in the window seat of that row immediately slung his big, hairy, flip-flopped foot across the middle seat and onto the aisle seat, glaring at Rich over the top of his sunglasses (yes, sunglasses. Inside. On a plane). Wow, what a jerk, I thought. Rich returned to his seat next to me and sat down. “Sorry, I don’t think I’m moving,” he whispered. “It’s fine,” I grumbled back, “you probably don’t want to be near him anyway.” Just then, the captain came on the intercom and announced that they would be holding our departure to allow for some passengers coming in on a late connection. The guy in front of us exhaled loudly in disgust. I turned to Rich, “Wouldn’t it be awesome if they end up sitting right next to him?” Rich nodded. We settled in to wait for the additional passengers, the time punctuated by a few irritated groans from the guy in the row ahead of us. Finally, we heard breathless voices as the remaining passengers arrived and began to hurriedly make their way down the aisle to find their seats. An older woman stopped at the row ahead of us and squinted at the numbers above before yelling triumphantly over her shoulder, “THIS IS IT, HONEY! THIS IS OUR ROW!” As her adult son joined her, she threw multiple bags onto the floor and squeezed into the seat next to Grumpy Sunglasses Guy. I turned to Rich, unable to contain my glee, “This is fantastic!” “I hope she’s chatty,” Rich added, watching as the woman and her son (and all their bags) settled in ahead of us. Still out of breath, she turned with a grateful smile to Grumpy Sunglasses Guy, “Thank you for waiting for us!” He snorted. “It wasn’t my choice, believe me,” he shot back, sighing loudly before turning toward the window. She was not easily deterred, however, and continued chatting happily at his back, filling him in on all the details of their travel, seemingly oblivious to his disinterest. Rich and I just sat and observed, savoring the sweet schadenfreude of seeing someone get what they deserve. The lady continued to ramble on as Grumpy Sunglasses Guy writhed uncomfortably, and I thought with great satisfaction, this can’t get any better. After enjoying it all for a while, I sighed contentedly and got out my headphones and my book, settling in for the flight. All was right with the universe. About an hour later, I glanced up from my reading and saw to my great pleasure that she was still talking. Ha! Love it. But wait, it looked almost like – he was actually listening. And his body language was all different. He appeared relaxed and kind of…pleasant. Wait, what? I took out my headphones and sure enough, they were having a conversation. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but his head was angled in towards her as he listened intently, and I could hear that he was talking too. Weird. I went back to my book. Finally we began our descent, so I took out my headphones and started to put them away. The in-flight movie was just finishing up – McFarland, USA – one of those feel-good, based-on-a-true-story sports movies. It was the final scene, where the team runs in the state championship race. Rich, who had been watching the movie, shifted his gaze for a moment and then looked at me. He pointed to the guy ahead of us, “He’s crying,” he whispered incredulously. I glanced over, and true enough, he was wiping his eyes. Wow. We were on the ground a half hour later, and as we stood to get our bags from the overhead compartment, I looked over at the row ahead of us. The guy had his sunglasses perched on the top of his head and was reclining against the window, laughing with the lady. Like he wasn’t in any hurry at all, completely at ease and content to sit and chat with his new best friend. And I was stunned. At the beginning of the flight I thought things couldn’t get any better because come on, what’s better than karma? What’s better than seeing a total jerk get what he deserves? I now found myself looking at it.

Grace. Grace is better.

Because I have been that jerk. We all have. And thank goodness we don’t always get what we deserve. Thank goodness.

So I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately, as tempers flare on the roads, on social media and in every other place where I’m tempted to think that it would just be so awesome if people got what’s coming to them. When I feel completely justified in letting anger make me the worst version of myself because, “That’ll teach ’em.” It’ll teach them – what?

We can’t really make karma happen anyway, it’s pretty much beyond our control. But we can be instruments of grace. We can resist the urge to return hurt with hurt, condemnation with condemnation, venom with venom. It’s not always easy – oh, how I wish it was! – and the rewards are more than we can see sometimes. But sometimes we do get to see it. On a plane, for example.

Grace > karma.

It just is.

In it, not through it

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Let me begin with an important announcement: I’M FINE! Yes, I know it’s been over a month since my last post, but I assure you it’s only because I got busy with the stuff of life, not because something bad has happened with my health. I absolutely appreciate the concerned queries when I’ve gone an extended amount of time without posting, but I promise you, if anything ever goes wonky health-wise you will be the first to know. Wait, let me correct that. I will FIRST notify my parents and close family. THEN I will tell the world. “I don’t want to hear it on Facebook,” my mom is fond of saying regarding any major news. You won’t, Mom. Promise. And, I hope to never have anything bad to report anyway, so let’s talk about something else.

Ooh, how about something new, like for instance my health? Yeah, even I’m getting tired of all that, so I’ll keep it brief. I had my second eye injection last week and I think I’m already well on my way to achieving pro status at that craziness. Which is good, because the first one didn’t seem to put a dent in the bleeding around the tumor, so this is going to be a monthly thing for the foreseeable future. It’s a pretty slick process: numbing eye drops, then a shot of novocaine, then the Avastin injection and a super attractive eye patch for a few hours. The eye is irritated and a little sore for a bit, but that’s about it. If it didn’t take two hours, I’d be fine with the whole business. Yes, you read that right – two hours. I have no idea why, other than the office is crazy busy. Or they figure all the patients are ninety years old and don’t have anywhere else to be, I’m not sure. At least they didn’t dilate my good eye this time, so I was able to sit in the waiting room and send annoyed texts to friends. Yes, I could have used my time much more productively and positively, but the snarky texts were more fun.

On the rheumatoid arthritis front, things haven’t been going so swell (Ha! I just caught that when I reread this. Bad pun. Sorry, I’ll try to be better…). I’m starting to think that the new drug isn’t working as well as the old one, mostly because when I was on the old drug I frequently forgot that I even have RA. Now I’m not a doctor, but I would say that’s an indication that a drug is working. On the new drug, however, I am in no danger of forgetting that I have RA. It’s nothing terrible or debilitating, but it’s not pleasant either. I only switched meds in mid-April, so it’s probably too soon to officially say that it’s not working (you’re supposed to give RA drugs a good three months to work), but I might have to call my rheumy soon to chat about it. Which stinks, because in the Great Mayo/Edina Treaty of 2015 we were able to find an RA drug that both my oncologist and rheumatologist were cool with. Getting both parties to the table again in the same year would require a huge diplomatic effort. I might need to call in some reinforcements.

Speaking of calling doctors, I do have something to share that may be of some help to any of you who, like me, have ever put their life on hold while waiting to hear back from a doctor. You know how it goes: you call the office and leave a message with their nurse. She/he talks with the doctor and then either the nurse or doctor calls you back…sometime. You know that if you miss their return call, you’ll have to repeat the waiting process, so you resolve to have your phone on your person at all times. You’re ready. You bring that phone with you everywhere. In the car, to the grocery, within reach of the shower when you bathe, in your fitness class (yes, you even risk being one of those people), and yet they never, ever call. Fear not, sweet friends, for I have found the answer. I have discovered exactly what to do to cosmically summon that phone call: color your hair. Yes, it has worked for me enough times now that I can say this with the utmost confidence. Color your hair. Pile a ton of the darkest, goopiest, stickiest dye you can find on your head, smear it generously into your hairline, being careful not to miss the sections around your ears, and a doctor will certainly call. I just had to replace my phone case because it had auburn smears all over it, that’s how well this method works. A small price to pay for returned calls, I would say. So if you want a doctor to call you back, just color your hair. Or, if you like your hair the shade that it is, I bet that any messy project will work. Just make sure that it is super inconvenient to hold a phone while doing the task, and you can expect that call. I colored my hair the other day and not only did two doctors call me, the guy from the car dealership also called to tell me my new floor mats were in. Bonus.

So that’s it for today. I will try not to go more than a month without posting, but no news really is good news. It means life is keeping me busy, which is a lovely thing. Being alive is just great period, I try not to forget that. It’s easy, however, to get caught up in the to-do lists and things that stress me out – and when I do let them overwhelm me, I am not my best self, I will be honest about that. I end up just trying to get to the other side of it, get it over with, instead of relishing the fact that I get to be here for this. For all of this.

This week is totally nuts. My son graduates, I have out of town family visiting and we’re hosting a party. I’m also on the senior poster committee for the all night senior party and coordinating music for a Disabled American Veterans event the day before graduation. Riley has parties to go to, a few last tests, the senior brunch and baccalaureate. Tessa has dance team tryouts and a major group project due for one of her classes. We are not a calm household at the present moment. At times like these, it’s easy to think, “I just want to get through this week.” But then at church yesterday morning I ended up talking to my friend Marilyn and she said something that really grabbed my attention. Marilyn is one of those people that just has a light around her, one of those rare beings that you find yourself wanting to get as close as possible to, as if her goodness is a kind of wet paint and you’re hoping to get some on yourself. Among the challenges she’s faced in her life is a very advanced case of RA, and she inquired as to how mine was doing. I told her a little bit, but then couldn’t help totally fan-girling her: “You are so incredibly strong, Marilyn, and your attitude is just inspiring. How do you do it?” She smiled that beautiful, radiant Marilyn smile. “Well, I ask God every day to give me a heart for my journey, and peace as I make my way.”

I let that sink in a bit.

“Give me a heart for my journey, and peace as I make my way.”

I know that’s meant to apply to life in general, but I couldn’t help hearing it in the context of my upcoming week. I realized that during a pretty important week in our family’s life, I was only seeing the work that needed to be done, and the obstacles, both health and otherwise, that lay in my path. I was just trying to get through the week, get on the other side of it, rather than simply being in the week. Living “in the moment” can be such a clichéd phrase that the meaning doesn’t even register anymore, but that’s really what it is. Or needs to be.

I resolved then and there to focus on being in this week, rather than just trying to get through it. Being fully present for everything. Enjoying the company of friends and family, marking a huge milestone in my son’s life and doing it all with gratitude. A heart for my journey. And peace as I make my way.

Deep breath. Here we go…

Cleaning glasses and taking carts

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Well folks, the news on the eye injections is that they are NO BIG DEAL! Can I get a woot woot? As you can see from the picture, I still rewarded myself with a chocolate bar, but it was definitely a case of the anticipation being far worse than the actual event. And yes, I did see that scary anti-smoking commercial (by accident, I assure you), where the woman is sitting in the doctor’s chair with her eyelid held open with some torturous device and a needle coming directly at her, and that is quite honestly what I expected. Thank goodness that wasn’t the reality. But oh, I sure did work myself into a pretty good panic ahead of it, I will tell you that. And it took forever at the retina specialist’s office before we even got to the injection, AND they dilated me in both eyes first, so I had absolutely nothing to do but sit in the waiting room nervously awaiting the procedure, listening to all the other patients around me chatting – and by chatting I mean shouting at the top of their lungs. I am sure I don’t have to tell you at this point that everyone else in the waiting room was a good 30-40 years older than me, because that’s pretty much the drill at all my specialists’ offices. What can I say, I don’t just have an old soul, I apparently have an old body too. After listening to one couple engage in a disturbingly clinical discussion of funeral homes, I heard another lady remark to her daughter that she was getting another injection. “Does it hurt?” I interjected. The woman looked at me quizzically. “DOES IT HURT?” I shouted desperately. She looked at me like I was a total wuss. This frail, 90-something year old woman, who needed a walker and was about half my size. “Well not really,” she responded, still looking at me like she couldn’t tell if I was joking or not, “It’s just a little stick, that’s all.” Seriously. This is how I knew I was being the world’s biggest ninny.

Honestly, the worst part wasn’t even the injection, it was getting dye shot into my hand for the fluorescein angiogram (fancy eye picture that shows blood vessels). The eye injection stuff was legitimately no big deal. They used numbing drops first, and the doctor gently held my eyelid open with his fingers, not that horrible clampy thing from the commercial. He stuck me with a needle of novocaine and then the needle of Avastin, and it was over. And I didn’t feel anything. All that panic for nothing. Which is good, because apparently this is going to be a monthly thing for me until they get the bleeding under control. I had to wear a patch for a few hours and I was sore for the rest of the day, but really – not worth the emotional energy and stomach lining I wasted worrying about it. I find that a lot of things in life are like that, and every time something like this happens I am reminded of something my friend Jami’s mom used to say: “Worry is suffering in advance.” Truth.

Oh, and Riley picked a college! He’s going to be studying engineering at the University of Wisconsin – Madison next year. And no, we didn’t get any signs to help with the decision. Not one. No prophetic dreams either (one of his friends was lucky enough to have one of those, and is going to Madison because of it. “Did you happen to notice if I was there too?” Riley asked him hopefully. No dice). No, sometimes tough decisions demand to be wrestled with, and that was the case here. We are all just relieved that it’s finally over and that we know what color sweatshirts to buy.

I saw something in the paper the other day – one of those heartwarming stories about a person who did this very huge, very generous thing for someone who was down on their luck. It was a great story and an even greater act of kindness. I cried when I read it – but then, I have a senior who is about to graduate, so I cry pretty much daily now. Don’t judge. But this was legitimately tear-worthy. And it got me thinking about all the amazing acts of kindness that I’ve been the fortunate recipient of with all my health “issues” in the last few years. The thing is, the ones that come to mind aren’t always the huge, splashy ones. Actually, it’s some of the smaller ones that touched me the most. For instance, we were over at our friends’ house one night a few months ago. I was tired and crabby for reasons I can’t remember, and I was complaining to one of the other guests that I can’t keep my glasses clean. Yes, that is the minutia that I chose to gripe about – my perpetually smudged glasses. I had to start wearing them after my cancer diagnosis (to protect my good eye), so maybe I associate them with that. Or maybe they’re just a pain to wear, who knows. Anyway, just as I was mid-rant, our friend Stan (who, with his wife Deb was hosting the evening) happened to walk by. He stopped and listened with a furrowed brow, and then held out his hand. “Give them to me, I’ll clean them.” “What?” I stammered, “No, you don’t need to – I mean, I can totally – it’s nothing, really – I’m fine.” As I was protesting, Deb walked by and patted me, “Oh let him clean your glasses! He’s so good at it.” “Yes!” Stan laughed, “I’m the expert! Now give them to me.” So I meekly handed them over and he went to their kitchen desk, produced a special cloth and a bottle of glasses cleaner – I think I have one of those but I’m too lazy to ever use it – and began to meticulously clean my filthy glasses, periodically holding the lenses up to the light to check for errant smudges. I just stood there and watched. It was such a small thing really, but in that small act of kindness I felt heard and cared for, even at my whiniest and least deserving. Grace… It doesn’t just feel good, it has the power to transform.

One other moment that I remember vividly happened in February, a few weeks after my hip replacement. I had made the transition to using only one crutch, and was fully enjoying my newfound mobility, freedom and independence – well, I thought I was independent. At this moment I had just completed my first solo run to Target and was feeling thoroughly triumphant as I exited the store with my cart. Unassisted, ha! I can do this! Now, the thing about having a handicapped tag for your car is that you get to park close to the store entrance, but not necessarily close to the cart return. Did I mention it was snowing? Hard? Yep, and as anyone who doesn’t live in a tropical paradise knows, carts are hard to push in snow. I contemplated this reality as I used my non-crutch arm to unload my bags into the trunk of my car. So much for being capable and independent. Just don’t wipe out, I told myself. As I turned to look for the nearest cart return, a woman approached. “Can I take your cart for you?” She asked with a kind smile. “Oh my gosh, that would be amazing! Really?” I peered at her through the heavily falling snow. “Really,” she laughed, and proceeded to commandeer both her cart and mine and move briskly toward the cart return. “Thank you!” I called after her, suddenly feeling very warm even as the cold snow fell.

It’s impossible to put into words exactly what these small acts of kindness meant to me, or how they encouraged and changed me. And I wonder how many times I’ve missed opportunities to do similar things for others. How often have I been so engrossed in my own personal sphere of “me-ness” that I haven’t noticed people around me who could use a hand? Or an ear? Or a shoulder? It’s so easy to get caught up in the mental to-do list, the “what’s next?” and completely miss what’s happening now. Because what’s happening now could be an opportunity to love on our fellow humans, if we can just poke our heads out of our bubbles long enough to see them. We tend to think of acts of kindness as being BIG things. But there is incredible power in the small acts too. I know because I was and continue to be the recipient of so many beautiful gestures. They inspire me.

Hoping you maybe find yourselves inspired too, and that you grab hold of those opportunities – both big and small – to be kind to others. You may not get thanked or know the full effect of what you did, but I can assure you, it makes a difference.