Things to Look Forward To

Posted on by
1


I’m a little late in posting last week’s column. As I type this, I am officially HOME at the ranch as of Wednesday evening.

On Wednesday morning I rang the bell to celebrate the completion of 33 proton radiation treatments and 6 chemo treatments over the course of 6 1/2 weeks.


This time has taken me away from my family for far longer than anyone should be away from their family. But it has given me the following:

Four new songs

Time to slow down and understand who I am in the quiet moments

An interest in watercolor painting

The Cher autobiography

Visits with my cousins, aunts and uncles and my far away friends

A little stress fracture in my foot from wandering to all the nearby pretty places and consequently, a better pair of walking shoes

A heart and body full of gratitude for my village

An unreasonable annoyance with parking garages and construction

An appreciation for Kwik Trip Gas stations

More adoration for my husband and all he is

Appreciation for the messy and noisy parts of my life propelled by my daughters

Heartburn and hair loss

Faith in the process

Hope

Chad flew in on Tuesday to help me pack up and drive me home. As always, no matter what comes, we ride home together.

It feels good to be back in my life and making the regular plans for track meets and goat wrangling and end of the school year celebrations. I am trying to take it a bit easy, but it’s hard to do when we haven’t really built our life around that concept. I know Chad was happy to have his help back getting the kids out the door the past couple days, that guy needs a vacation in the woods after all of this.

Anyway, below is a column I wrote after he and the kids visited me a few weeks back. Those weekend plans with family and friends in any capacity really made the weeks go faster. And while I won’t know until August how things are looking in the cancer-shrinking department, I am feeling fairly confident that we have this under control.

Lots of love to all of you who have helped see us through this. I could not be more grateful.

Things to look forward to


“Are you coming to visit me this weekend?” I asked my husband over a Facetime call last week while our daughters popped in and out to show me the kittens, or make funny faces to the camera, hair wrapped up in a towel after a bedtime shower. During our nightly visits while I’m at treatment in Rochester, at least one, or sometimes both of my girls, takes the phone into her room to have a private conversation with me, their mom, a little video square. Usually, the chat is about what they’re playing at recess, or news of a crush and then the “I wish you were home,” portion of the evening. Mostly Rosie, my eight-year-old, just turns herself into every cartoon animal in the rolodex of options and I have to see how she’d look if she were an octopus or a fox and so on until we both run out of steam and I wind up saying something motherly like, “when’s the last time you cleaned your hamsters cage?” or “have you been practicing your spelling words?” and she quickly hands the phone over to another family member.

I am not good on the phone, so being a phone-only mom for the past six weeks has sucked.

“No, I don’t think so actually. We just have so much going on here,” my husband replied, suspiciously.

And I say suspiciously, not because he’s not a good actor, but because I know him. He planned to make the trip last week and there’s no way this man wasn’t coming to see me.

“No, Mom. We can’t come” Edie chimed in from across the room and then the phone panned to her, a terrible liar.

“Quit messing with me people,” I demanded. “I need to know how to mentally prepare for my weekend.”

Turns out my husband was attempting a surprise visit with the girls, one where they would take a flight and show up at my door unannounced and I would be shocked and delighted after being sad and lonely. It was a sweet thought, but I made him confess. “The last thing I need in my life right now is any more surprises. I need something to look forward to!”

And so, on a Wednesday night during week five of my treatment schedule, he gave me just that, and I went to the store and shopped for the groceries the girls liked and made a little mental list of all the little trails I wanted to show them when they arrived. Turns out that along with their cute little suitcases, Rosie brought a little bug with her, so we spent most of our time together snuggling, coloring and watching movies from the 90s.

We did get a little rollerblading in on the endless sidewalks, which is a big deal for kids who live on gravel roads

But on Sunday afternoon I left my husband and youngest to nap in the basement and took my ten-year-old out to enjoy the beautiful, seventy-degree day, just the two of us. She sat in the front seat of the Jeep singing to the music she chose on my phone and somehow looking taller and more grown up with every passing minute. I asked her if she wanted to go shopping or try one of those electric scooters they have hanging out all over town, but the girl indulged me and so we headed to one of my favorite nature trails on the edge of town.

The sun was warm on our pale limbs and made the trees and blooms look neon against the blue sky. Everything in town was waking up with that sunshine and we strolled along the paved path holding hands and noticing the baby geese swimming with their momma in the pond, and the turtle sunning himself on a log, and a really ugly dog hanging with his family and all the babies in strollers and cute kids skipping and running and fishing, just happy to be out and together, like us. After getting the initial lay of the land, I found myself letting my ten-year-old lead the way in this big park with dozens of trails and things to explore. It wasn’t premeditated, I just followed behind her as she stopped to pick up a rock, or put her nose in a blossom, chattering and singing and trying out her favorite Texas accent, reminding me what it was like to be ten and outside and completely myself. And because she’s a country kid she found her way off the paved path to the dirt trails along the running water where she sat down on a rock and I sat beside her, watching the water run.

When Edie was a baby, I would take her with me every day on a walk like this. I would put her in her little pack and face her toward the world, and we would trudge through the hills together. When she got older, I’d pull her in a wagon out of the driveway and down to the barnyard or on the dirt trail up to the fields. And then she could walk on her own and, with her little sister strapped to my chest, I would just follow her outside on the road and into the grass or trees, to keep her safe while she splashed in a puddle or pulled up a flower or jumped off a rock.

Now, at ten, she doesn’t need me to wander with her anymore, and so it occurred to me that it’s been a while since we’ve done the thing we used to do together every day that the sun was warm enough.

I watched her make a little boat with a stick and two leaves and throw it in the creek, laughing as it drowned in the water. I followed her up to a mural on an old building foundation, and then we found ourselves in an old cemetery reading  the names on the headstones and wondering about what life was like one hundred years ago before finding the trail back to the car and stopping for ice cream on the way home.

“It was so nice to spend that time with just Edie,” I said to my husband who was snuggled on the couch for a much-needed break with our youngest. “I know she loved it too. She needed her mom, in person.”

 The next day I drove my family back to the airport and hugged them goodbye while I stayed back for another week-and-a-half of cancer zapping. I cried alone in my empty Jeep on a new but now familiar highway,  anxious to have my life back soon, anxious to be an in-person mom again, anxious to get to all the things to look forward to soon… 

When they’re sisters

Posted on by
1

Sometimes, when I’m in the grocery store in our hometown, or the pharmacy or bank or at a sporting or community event, young kids will wave at me enthusiastically from across the room or pass by and give me a smile (or sometimes, even a spontaneous hug) and say “Hi Ms. Aamodt.”

I am not Ms. Aamodt, but I am easily mistaken for her, because Ms. Aamodt is my little sister. And, because my little sister is the guidance counselor at one of our elementary schools in town, she is basically a celebrity. I mean, remember what it was like when you were a kid, and you saw your teacher out of the classroom? It was a shock to your reality that she existed anywhere else.

I made the mistake once or twice in correcting a student in the moment, telling them that no, I’m not Ms. Aamodt, I am her sister, thinking the kid would get a kick out of that. Turns out that revelation was a little disorientating and embarrassing, especially when they realized they had just enthusiastically waved and (gasp) hugged a stranger. So now I just go with it. I am Ms. Aamodt when I need to be.

And, well, sometimes Ms. Aamodt is me.

Because the mistaken identity happens to my sister too. It seems the older we get and the more time we spend together, the more we sort of morph into one another. With the same mannerisms, cadence in the way we speak and similar hair and style, even our closest family has had us confused at times.

“Everyone’s sending their love and well-wishes,” my sister texted me last weekend from the Legion Club where a community of regional musicians gathered to perform together and remember our good friend and player, Jimmy C., who passed away last spring. They also used this gathering to pass the hat to help with my medical expenses. “I’ve been mistaken for you three times.”

While I wanted to be among those musicians and the community who continues to show up for my family and me during this rough patch in our lives, because I’m nearing the end of my treatment and my immune system is a bit compromised, I chose to stay out of the crowd. I was, however, able to be back at the ranch for the first time in two weeks, so the girls and I had our own dance party in the kitchen, complete with makeup, hair and outfits.

“Should I get up there and sing? I’d give them a big shock!” She texted.

“Yes, you should!,” I poked back. “They will think the cancer has really shaken my confidence. Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

As far as personal representatives go, I have a good one I can trust in my little sister. It’s a special gift in my life that is illuminated now as she’s standing in as mom to my daughters while I’m gone.

Some of my favorite women at the Legion that night

As I walk through the halls of Mayo clinic day after day, I get to witness and contemplate the relationships of people that sit side-by-side in the waiting room, push wheelchairs, hold hands or elevator doors, or walk slowly together to their appointments. There are husbands and wives, grandparents and grandkids, brothers, parents, daughters, sons and  friends…the pairings of relationships sent out together to weather the storm that we all face here in this wonderful place no one wants to find themselves, well, they’re endless…

I watch two women shuffle in front of me in a long corridor that takes us to the elevator to the parking garage to get us out of here for the day. I can’t see their faces, but their hair is graying and both wear it similarly, fluffed and curled at their ears and off their shoulders. Their shoes sort of match, like the style of their clothes. It’s not that it’s the same outfit entirely, it’s just that you can tell they’re from the same place, you know? One leans into the other, bumps her shoulder, says something snarky that I can’t hear, and they laugh. I’m glad for them that they have each other here.

I can always tell when they’re sisters.

Villages everywhere

Posted on by
1

When I heard the news about a six-week stay in Rochester, the turnover needed to be quick to make the arrangements to get things rolling. And first and foremost, I needed a place to stay. There’s an option here for free housing for cancer patients undergoing treatments, and there are apartments and  Airbnbs and long-term hotels and so I set to looking into what was available. And then I set into being overwhelmed. And then I got a message in my inbox.

“Thinking and praying for you. We own a townhome in Rochester and we don’t have a tenant now. If you’d like to stay there, we’d be honored to have you.”

It was a column reader, a concert attender, a fellow North Dakotan who had nothing to gain from the offer but to show kindness. Her family, unfortunately, knows what it’s like to be displaced by cancer. She was paying it forward.

I took a quick breath and tears came to my eyes. I messaged back to take her up on it and a wave of relief washed over in her response.

This is that village they’re talking about, only sometimes they take care of you while taking care of their own ailing loved-ones hundreds and hundreds of miles away.

I’m writing this now from their little back deck facing a small field on the edge of town under a blanket my friends put in a care package full of carefully researched gifts: throat spray, notebooks, crossword puzzles, cough drops, tea, a nail kit, candy, a thermos and more all in a bag I load up with me on days I head to chemo treatments. And what was so touching about the gift is that the givers seemed to have researched more than I had about the symptoms that I may encounter and the things that I may need to send me on my way as ready as can be.

My little sister did the same thing, the master of Google, asking me questions that I didn’t know the answers to, she found out for me. And she sent me groceries for the first night we arrived at the townhome. And because I am who I am, I accidentally gave her the address to the Post Office instead of the house, which sent Chad on a little field-trip at 8 am, but we got them and were stocked up for the first week.

My little sister is the queen of my village, living right over the hill and working in our daughters’ school as the guidance counselor, I couldn’t have picked a better woman to take it from here. I mean, as my daughter said, “Can we just stay at Alex’s? She’s just like mom.”  I’m comforted knowing that with her my kids feel safe to be themselves, even when it’s ugly and messy and emotional. They can misbehave and not feel ashamed. She will get after them the same way I do, hold them to the same standards, and force my youngest into group hugs when she needs it and won’t admit it.

And she’ll let them try to catch the chickens and make sure they have fun.

Meanwhile, friends are sending spaghetti and roast beef suppers home with my husband a couple days a week so he doesn’t have to worry about meals every night. And they’re taking the girls on play dates and making sure they get their 4H presentation done. The lemons-to-lemonade theory is in full effect as they’ve spent special time with their other aunts, uncles and cousins and of course, they’re grandparents.

Turns out the best thing in the world you can do for your kids is to set up that village. I’m seeing first-hand, again, what it means.

A fun gift basket for the girls sent with a meal from a friend

But I’m here to tell you that I know I am fortunate to have placed our lives in the middle of family and friends I have known for decades. It was a choice my husband and I made when we knew we wanted to have a family, and there are some sacrifices that come with that, but they have never outweighed the rewards. I understand fully that being surrounded by family is not a reality for everyone and I know the struggles that come with that. And I know it’s so hard to find those friends who you can rely on to be fully vulnerable in a community that hasn’t always been yours. I’d like to give some sort of profound advice here, but I don’t have any. I just have examples of how people showing up for us has informed my life and made me realize that existing in the village means paying attention not only to your own needs but to the needs of others. I’m here to tell you it is as simple as a text, a card dropped in the mail, an actual phone call without the expectation that they will pick up or call back. I am the first to admit I am not so good at that. But you all are teaching me every day during this blip in my life what it means to be cared for and I thank you for that. I thank you for being my village at home and from hundreds of miles away.

Who are we without one another?

Visiting Home

Posted on by
4

After I completed the second week of my six week cancer treatment at Mayo Clinic, I was able to get back to the ranch for the weekend. I spent Saturday morning helping coach Edie’s first soccer game

and Saturday night dancing with my husband and celebrating with family and friends at a gala we host to raise money for arts and parks and recreation programming in our community.

Screenshot

My treatment schedule allowed me to stay home all day on Sunday to spend time with my family.  It turned out the first calf of the year waited for me to get home to be born and so I got to be part of the start of the season. Calving on our place always coincides with crocus season, so my sister and I packed the girls into or side-by-side (which is harder to do these days now that they’re growing up so fast) and popped up to the hilltops to collect a hat full and deliver them to grandmas in exchange for ice cream. I got to see the new kittens that were just born and meet my sister’s new little chickens, sit in the sun on my parents’ deck, visit with my in-laws who came down to watch the girls for our night out, scratch the dogs’ ears, shoot a million hoops with the girls and eat my husband’s grilled hamburgers before packing my bags and getting back on a plane. All of these things that are part of the regular programming held extra shine for me, of course.

Up until this point I have been able to see the girls every weekend, but I’m not sure now exactly when I’ll be back before the end of this. I guess it all depends on how I feel, but it will be at least two more weeks. I fought back tears the whole trip.  

It’s a strange thing to be a weekend visitor of your own home, especially when you consider yourself the Co-CEO of the operation. In some ways the visit reminds you of the ways you’re needed, like the un-swept floors, the girls’ rooms that noticeably haven’t had a mom’s reminder and the Christmas lights that still need to come down off the house. These are the things I pay attention to, but they aren’t that important. The important things are handled just fine without me—getting to and from school, cooking and the meal-train that my friends set up to help Chad, after-school activities, bedtime snuggles, playing at the cousins’, homework—to know that I can step away and leave our lives generally unscathed, except for maybe the matters of the heart, is a gift.

But then that leaves me here, in this duplex, hundreds of miles from that life, with only myself to take care of for the first time since we got married nearly 20 years ago.

Now, I travel quite a bit with my music, so it’s not uncommon for me to be on my own and away from the family for a week at a time, maybe twice a year or so. It seems like this has helped prepare the girls and myself for this weird blip better than if I was a full-time stay at home mom. So that’s a blessing. But people have been asking me how I’m doing in terms of my energy-level, and to be honest, I haven’t been as rested since before Edie was born.

I went grocery shopping the other day and had to ask myself, what do I eat? What do I cook if it’s just for me? I picked up a box of macaroons and raspberries and just sort-of wandered around because well, I had time to do that–time to wander the grocery store without little people trailing behind me or a rush to get to the next meeting or event.

In every community I visit when I am traveling for music or work, I always picture what my life would be like if I lived there. If I have time, I like to walk their parks or neighborhoods or visit their cute cafes and shops and get to know the place and how I feel in it a bit. Here in Rochester, I imagine I would be a bike rider using their pretty paths along the river every night. And I would have a little dog for my lap on the couch and a big dog to come with on those bike rides and walks. I would have a nice lawn to mow and pretty flowers out front that the deer would eat. I would have a job in marketing or run a little shop or, maybe something like I do now, and my kids would play soccer in that cute park I walked past last night. There was a time I thought a community like this was where I would wind up, before moving home to the ranch was an option. If it did become my fate, I will tell you, there would have been a scooter era.

In preparing my mind for my time here away from my family I lined up some goals for myself, like get outside every day so I don’t go crazy, play my guitar more, do some sit-ups and pushups, read a book, start work on my new book and doodle–all the things working parents wish they had time for when we’re in the thick of parenting things. As it turns out, trying to morph back into a single, child-free woman for a few weeks at a time after a twenty-year hiatus is weird. To be honest, I’m spending most of my time working. And there’s a nice blessing in that too.

But I’m also eating avocado toast for breakfast and those macaroons whenever I want without judgement. And doing some sit-ups and always getting outside. I’ve considered knocking on my neighbor’s door to see if she needs me to walk her dog, but I probably won’t. That might be weird too.

Thank you for all the love and support you’ve sent my way during this journey. I read every card and every email and, by the time you read this, well, I’ll be half way done!

Onward!  

For the sake of doodling

Posted on by
7

Edie got the highest score of the day on the basketball shooting game at the arcade last weekend. My husband and the kids came to Minnesota to spend the Easter holiday with me while I’m here doing radiation treatments for several weeks, and so we took the time to spoil them a bit and do some fun things together as a family—and one of those things was putting time in at the arcade. 

My kids, like all kids, love a good game and competition, and so they set out to win tickets on air hockey, pin ball, ski ball, Pac Man, a weird duck game, a motorcycle driving course and countless others, but every time I turned around, Edie was making her way back to the basketball hoop game where the goal was simple—make as many shots as you can in two minutes.

My oldest daughter joined a basketball team for the first time in December, and slowly it has become her 10-year-old obsession. Remember that? Remember when we were that age and we stumbled upon our thing and locked in? Watching Edie dribble the basketball incessantly in the house and then out on driveway to shoot hoops for hours, listening to her report what she knows, search up videos of Steph Curry, and seek out any chance to stand in front of a hoop, reminded me that the ability to really hone-in is what makes childhood such a special part of the whole human journey. And it made me wonder why and how so many of us lose that part of us along the route.

After I said my goodbyes to my family for the week, I found myself alone in Rochester once again faced with more quiet time than I’ve had since I became a mom ten years ago. And while my schedule is busy enough with appointments, treatments and whatever work I can get done remotely, facing down an empty house and a schedule that is entirely mine for the time being had me wondering if, at 42, I am able to lock-in to something that is purely for the sake of joy, like Edie. 

Now, I will say, that I could answer this question with songwriting. When I get behind the guitar following an idea, time does that thing where it doesn’t really exist. Writing music for the sake of writing music has always been my joy, but now that it’s part of making my living, it’s shifted a bit and I’m not entirely sure it counts in the same way.  I did the same thing with my love for photography—turning a hobby into a business might be a generational defect, but I digress…

I want to know:  when’s the last time I’ve been obsessed with something besides my children? Something that I do, not to improve the look and shape of my body, or to develop a skill to be monetized, not to be mindlessly entertained, but something that I would rush home to do without an ounce of productivity behind the thought? Like dribbling the basketball on the concrete slab? 

It’s a good question to ask ourselves, especially in this time of constant device distraction. Having the ability to be entertained at every whim has really threatened our ability to find things within us that light a spark simply for the spark’s sake.

When I was Edie’s age my thing was riding my horse, Rindy. I was old enough and big enough to go out to the pens and catch her myself whenever I wanted, and that’s what I did any chance I got. There was no hope of rodeo royalty in my future, she wasn’t a fast horse or a young horse or a beautiful horse. She was just a horse, and she was mine, and I loved to climb on her bareback and go trotting through the trees, humming to myself. I close my eyes in this quiet house now hundreds of miles away from the ranch and decades from the girl I used to be. I can remember the feeling—no agenda, only time that felt slow and the freedom to kill it.

I stopped at the Walgreens yesterday to pick up some medications. I filled my cart with grown-up things: heartburn medication and lotion, Tylenol and shampoo. I strolled by the small section of art supplies and spotted a pad of blank paper and some fresh markers that looked like they would glide nicely across the page. Before I had kids I used to sit down with my nieces and color with them. I couldn’t wait to have kids of my own so I could drop all my other responsibilities and join them just to color for the sake of coloring. I think about that now and even that feels like duty, like I would only allow myself a coloring page if it was a productive in the way that it was CARING FOR MY CHILDREN!? 

What’s wrong with us? 

I grabbed the markers and the sketch pad and I put them in my basket on top of my mascara and said quietly, “I’ll allow it.” 

I’ll allow it. 

If you need me, I’ll be doodling badly for the sake of doodling. 

And you should too… 

Promise?

A doodle from Edie

Firefighters Everywhere

Posted on by
7

I stood in line with my husband at the pharmacy in the Subway level of Mayo Clinic. It was Tuesday, which means we survived a week of worry and wondering if our insurance was going to cooperate so that I could continue the doctor’s recommended path for proton radiation to treat the cancer that has grown back outside of my esophagus. I could spend some time here describing how derailing and mentally defeating it was to get news that puts you completely out of control of your healthcare plan even though you’ve done all the right things to be prepared by way of paying plenty of our paycheck for insurance, but I don’t want to dwell and you can about imagine. It was awful and frustrating and distracting. But when I got the call on Thursday that the third appeal was the charm, I couldn’t help but laugh at the fact that my definition of a reason to celebrate has come down to getting the radiation treatment I wanted. It’s like I won the lottery. Everyone in the room with me at work had to be interrupted to hear the news, and they all cheered too. 

Life is weird. 

All the things I think I’ll need

And so anyway, there I was in line at the pharmacy after we packed up that Jeep again, made the mental preparations and care preparations for our daughters, again, and drove the eleven hours to Rochester to start the process. The first dose of radiation went easier than I thought, despite the fact I made it awkward by having them play a podcast over the system that turned inappropriate for mixed company. But the radiation team didn’t seem phased at all by the detailed conversation about prostate checks coming through the loudspeakers, and in hindsight I was so focused on my poor entertainment choice and my sweaty armpits that maybe it was a good distraction. And so, we moved on to the next day’s appointments of blood draws and MRIs and a long conversation about chemo treatment that I wasn’t prepared for. By the time I was in line to pick up a second round of medication that included three different prescriptions for anti-nausea medication before my first round of weekly chemo started, I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for myself.

But among the many life lessons and gifts that time spent at the Mayo Clinic gives you, maybe the most important one is to put your circumstances in context—or to put you in your place, so to speak. Which is exactly what happened when a mom pulled in line behind us pushing her seven-year-old son in a wheelchair with a little chicken fuzz of blond, balding hair coming out of his beanie, holding a stuffed cat, wearing a mask. My throat tightened for him instead of me as I walked up to the counter to get my lesson in nausea care, which I’m glad to report, I haven’t needed to be implemented thus far. 

So that’s where we are on the details of it all. I wanted to catch you up, so many of you have expressed so much kindness and concern. But this brings me to the sentiment I really wanted to share, and I’m not sure if I’m going to articulate it the way it deserves to be articulated, but I’ll try. 

My husband drove me eleven hours to Rochester and back, and Rochester again. He made arrangements for his business and to be home for the kids when I’m gone and kept his duties as soccer coach and goat wrangler so the girls don’t have to miss out on a thing. He sat with me in every waiting room so far, which in just these last two days totaled nearly twenty hours. He makes sure we have a plan for our meals and navigates construction and parking garages and helps me stay out of my head by annoying me just the right amount on purpose. And he has never complained once, only that he wishes it was happening to him instead (And also at our GPS).  But all around us in one of the best clinics in the country, thousands and thousands of people are caring for the ones they love in similar ways, day in and day out. They push a wheelchair, they hold a hand, they write down questions and listen for the answers, they read the maps and park the cars and ask for a blanket and push the call buttons and worry but try not to show it. They buy the lunch and deliver the lunch and don’t get frustrated if only a few bites are taken. They tell jokes and read things out loud that they find funny. They say, “It’s ok. You’re going to be ok,” and “What can I do for you?” and “I’ll get this.”   I’ve heard kind and soothing words spoken in every corner of this facility, except for that one lady in the surgery waiting room who told her husband to shut up, but that was fair. He was talking on speaker phone and everyone agreed, quietly chuckling to themselves in total understanding. 

We’re all so vulnerable here, in varying states of worry, panic, grief and relief. To be surrounded by it every day is a lesson in humanity and humility, and I want to declare that I notice it. Your world is on fire the same as the hundreds of other fires sitting with you in the waiting room, passing you by in the halls, pushing the elevator button…standing in line for medication with their baby.

I dropped my husband off at the airport this morning. He’s flying home to drive the girls back to me for Easter, so for a couple days I’ll be alone in a house that a generous couple offered me as a place to stay during my treatment. There are fire-fighters everywhere. 

Thank you for reading and tending to this flame. If you need me, I’ll be here setting up a more appropriate listening choice for my treatment tonight.

The Swimming Part

Posted on by
6

Before I share last week’s column, I want to say I wrote this a week ago after a great vacation in Florida with the looming plan that I was leaving for Mayo Clinic immediately after we returned for six weeks of proton radiation treatment and once a week chemo to treat a reoccurring cancer in two places that has grown outside my esophagus. And so we prepared the girls and ourselves mentally, had all the arrangements made for their care while Chad drove me and got me settled in, packed all the things I thought I would need for that length of stay in a house that has been a blessing offered up to us from a very thoughtful and generous couple, and we hit the road. But as soon as we got to the highway, not even ten miles out, I got the call that our insurance did not want to cover the cost of my proton radiation, and after an appeal, that decision stood firm. And with that, they said they were going to try for one more appeal, because my doctors believed firmly that proton radiation (which is a newer form of radiation treatment that can pinpoint the cancer that needs to be radiated within millimeters, creating less damage to surrounding organs, which reduces the risks of creating subsequent cancers down the road) was the best course of action for me given my history and age.

Insurance disagreed, reinforcing what I think we can all agree can be a pretty brutal system we have here. Cue the angry and frustrated and worried week that followed as I unloaded my things, went back to work and prayed they changed their minds.

Which I’m happy to report they did, thanks to the relentlessness of my advocates at Mayo Clinic. So here I am now, settled into the house with two long days of tests and treatments under my belt. Two rounds of radiation went well and my first round of chemo was very well tolerated with no negative reactions. I just dropped Chad off at the airport so he can get back home and he will bring the girls to spend Easter with me here, and so there is something to look forward to and I’m not letting myself feel lonesome yet. All of the calls, texts, gifts and well wishes have been so heartwarming and helpful and I thank you all from the bottom of my heart. And thanks mom and dad for letting me use your Jeep so I don’t have to drive the giant mom-mobile into these parking garages and also I look way cooler in it, which is important.

Ok, so now you’re all caught up, which I think was necessary given the space I was in when I wrote last week’s column. Love you, I’m gonna be alright.

The Swimming Part

Several years ago, my in-laws took the family to Florida to experience a Disney vacation. This was a time in our lives when Chad and I were not parents yet, but we took our roles as aunt and uncle to our young nieces and nephew very seriously. On this trip that meant that we moved ahead of the group, made plans and schedules for the next rides, secured fast passes and kept everyone as hyped as seven and nine-year-olds and their haggered parents could possibly be after the initial wow factor wears off and everyone’s hot, hungry and overwhelmed in a sea of people. Despite the unseasonably cold Florida weather and a theme-park sold out of sweatshirts and getting stuck in a tiny boat in the broke-down “It’s a Small World” ride for longer than any human being should have to listen to that song on repeat in German, and the look of terror in my nephew’s eyes while he screamed “Get me outta here!” on the jungle safari cruise when the fake hippo came launching out of the water looking too real –oh, and the one incident I’ll never live down where I used my five-year-old niece as a shield to Shamo’s wave in front of all of my in-laws and Jesus—the family trip lives in my memory as one of my favorites

You know what the kids remember all these years later now that they are teenagers and grown adults with jobs? Swimming in the backyard pool at the Airbnb in sixty-degree weather. Which is typical, and also a bit of a relief knowing that Shamo, the hippo and the animatronic dancing people didn’t scar anyone for life.

Last week I watched my daughters flip and splash and jump and chatter in a similar pool in Florida with their cousins. The sun had gone down, lighting the water up dramatic and perfect for the dolphin, whale, narwhal and squid show they were putting on for everyone after supper.My parents treated the entire family to a spring break trip to the beach in Florida and it was our last night of six days spent watching these kids swim in the warm pool, despite, again, the unseasonably cool temperatures that had us all shivering on the beach in double sweatshirts. A few days before we wandered around an aquarium and watched a dolphin show, and so they were recreating what they learned to much applause. That week we offered up arcade trips and go carts, beach walks, shopping and ice cream outings, but when the sun came up, before breakfast or the first pour of coffee, those kids were in the pool and that’s where they stayed. It’s all they wanted to do. They swam so much their skin turned raw and I had to slather them in Aquafor and coax them out for a sandwich and a drink of water before they turned around and cannonballed back in.

This trip had a sort of heaviness to it as we tried to forget that waiting for us on the other side was weeks of disruption to our lives as I relocate for cancer treatments in Rochester. Despite my best efforts to pretend that it wasn’t inevitable, that sort of thing sits lodged in your chest until it’s over. And it was on my daughters’ minds too as they would grab me in passing and say quietly “I don’t want you to leave.” I’d give them a squeeze and then they’d be off. Turns out a 90-degree pool is good medicine for lingering dread.

I type this at my kitchen table back in the real world. My packed bags are all splayed out open on the floor of my room after our first plan to leave was suddenly delayed by insurance issues we’re scrambling to resolve. Turns out even the best laid plans for the worst reasons aren’t set in stone and I’m left feeling like my nephew on that safari ride screaming “Get me outta here!”  Or my niece stunned and shivering after a big whale’s splash, unprotected. Treatment will happen soon, one way or another. Hopefully, in time, I’ll only remember the swimming part.  

I close my eyes and think of my ten-year-old daughter, the last to leave the pool on the last night of our vacation. She asked her dad if she could stay in a little longer to spin and dive and sing on her own while the younger girls got ready for bed and the adults packed up to go home. She wanted a little more time to play, a little more time before facing the thing coming that will be hard. A little more time before growing up.

“Watching her swim out there by herself, it makes me choke up,” my husband said that night as we got in bed. “She’s just so innocent, and it goes so fast.”

“Remember when all you wanted to do was swim?” I said, tears lodged in my throat.

I continued folding my sandy clothes.

Dear Daughters:Make Lemonade

Posted on by
6

Before I share this week’s column I just want to send a heartfelt thank you to everyone who has reached out the past week with support and love regarding this recent development in my cancer story. Every word has been held closely to our hearts and we love you.

We are home now and packing for a family spring break trip and when we get back I’ll be headed straight to Rochester for 6 1/2 weeks of radiation with a small weekly dose of chemo for good measure. I have a place to stay there and a good doctor who says we have like a 95 percent chance of getting rid of it this go ‘round. So I’ll take those odds and I’ll cuss a little and head that way to do the thing with all your words of encouragement as my wings.

The following column I wrote on my phone in between scans and pokes and prods last week. I turned it in three minutes to deadline while the girls were at home with my parents and then Chad’s parents. Dealing with health issues and kids who are old enough to be worried is new for me. I hope I do right by them.

(Also, before I left, Chad put on a timer for three minutes and let them say as many and whatever cuss words they wanted in that time, which is probably not the best parenting choice, but I would highly recommend. In fact, I’m about to go do it myself…)

Anyways, here’s to zapping some tumors and being pissed and annoyed and grateful and worried and hopeful…and here’s my letter to my daughters.

Mayo Clinic

Dear Daughters,

I’m writing to you 694 miles away from the ranch, drinking coffee from a paper cup with your dad outside a big hospital. We drove all day yesterday to get here, or I should say, your dad drove all day while I managed what we were going to listen to, where we would stop to eat and how to get there. 

I’ve spent thousands of hours driving thousands of miles beside this man, for dozens of reasons. This reason, in particular, is so doctors can take pictures of the inside of my body to make a plan to get rid of cancer that has slowly crept back into our lives.

Yes, it’s in my body, but it affects our lives, your lives especially. It means that for a time I will have to be away, and I won’t get to drive you to school, or pick you up, or make you supper, or do your hair, or argue with you about bedtime and cleaning your rooms. And that’s hard for me and you, too.

But it’s all just temporary. A blip. And it gives you a chance to spend more time with your grandparents, who love you and want to help. And your aunts and uncles, too. And your dad, which will be fun, you’ll have him to yourself for a bit, even though he’ll probably make you do the laundry. You’ll make memories through this bump in our ordinary lives, and they will be good ones, even though I know you’re nervous.

This is what I’ve learned in my life — that good stuff comes from the hard stuff. Almost always the best stuff actually. And I want to say I’m sorry you have to learn it early, daughters, but actually I’m not. The earlier you can learn that life, no matter how much we’ve tried to make it comfortable and uncomplicated for you so far, eventually has a way of showing us we have limited control, and we need to manage what we have carefully.

What does that mean exactly? You’ve probably heard the phrase, “When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.” And that sounds cute, because lemons can be sweetened easily with sugar. But real life lemons vary in scope and scariness, like losing a friend or missing a buzzer-beating shot or failing a major test or crashing a car or getting sick or your mom having cancer.

But the lemonade part is the attitude you choose to keep at the forefront of your actions. And it’s also the people who love you and how you love them back in the hard times.

So here’s a real example of how you can make lemonade now, dear daughters, while I’m gone for a couple of months zapping this cancer: stand by your dad in the kitchen and let him teach you how to cook your favorite supper. Or pick a new recipe every week to try together. He will love to show you, and you will gain a new skill. Then break the rules and pile in the big bed together to sleep every night. Shoot more hoops together because it makes you happy, play more cards because it makes you laugh.

Or, when Nana is here, ask her to bring her sewing machine and make a fluffy pillow together. Or read your dragon book to her at night and ask for one more chapter.

Have Grandma Beth take you shopping, that’s her love language. Ask Papa Gene if you can help him feed cows and cut the twine with your little pocket knife.

But most importantly, I think, is to be helpful. Do the dishes without being asked, and turn the music up loud and sing while you do it. Learn to fold your laundry, and put it away. Take care of your pets, give the dogs more attention. Wipe the bathroom sink after you brush your teeth. Organize your drawers. Being helpful makes you feel useful and more brave and less scared. 

I know, I’ve been practicing it my whole life. I’m practicing it right now actually.

Dear daughters, in your life you will be the driver and the one who needs to be driven, and we are lucky to have people in our lives willing to take the wheel. Learn from them, let them love on you and be grateful.

It’s all gonna be in the rearview mirror soon, kids. And we’re going to be sweeter for it.

Make Art. It’s an Emergency.

Posted on by
7

“Make art now. It’s an emergency.”

I saw this sentiment come across my feed the other day and it made me pause for a minute. Art as an emergency? It shouldn’t make sense, but it does. Entirely. In fact, I wish I would have thought to put it as bluntly. 

Emergency indicates a frantic moment forward to fix something that is broken, but the process of making art and music is quite often slow and methodical, one that’s personal, meditative, trial and error and try again. To make a painting, for most of us, is not lucrative. To sing at the top of our lungs in the car or out in the hills with your kids makes us no money at all. Dancing in the kitchen, you may argue, is not going to save a life. 

But could it? 

Recently I received confirmation the cancer that was cut out of my airway over five years ago has slowly crept back, this time on the outside of my esophagus. After a month or so in the weird and worried place of not really knowing what it all means, I’ve learned that it’s time to head back to Mayo clinic to handle it. After some testing and intake in Rochester this week, I’ll be there for six weeks of radiation treatment and a low dose of once-a-week chemo. We’ve been keeping an eye on this, it’s treatable and I’m going to be fine, but ugh. It’s annoying. 

Is that a word anyone uses for a cancer diagnosis? I don’t know, but I think I’m grateful for it. To be annoyed means I’m not in imminent danger, or in pain. It just means I’m inconvenienced.

But let me tell you the worst part about a reoccurring cancer diagnosis for me (and maybe some of you who have found yourselves in similar situations can agree) it’s hands down sharing the news with the people who love and worry about you. 

I hate it. I don’t want to be the reason anyone worries. That’s a big one for me. Don’t worry. Don’t worry about me. There’s that part. 

And I don’t want to be away from them. 

That’s the other one.

But what you want in times like these doesn’t matter. You do what you have to do and then you get called brave, even though brave indicates a choice. There’s no choice. There’s just the next step. 

Which brings me to the art. I’ve spent most of my career working to figure out how to bring more of it to rooms of people in rural communities. And over the course of six months or so I’ve seen that vision really blossom in the work we’re doing with our arts foundation. And I’ve felt it more profoundly on the stages on which I have been so fortunate to stand and sing. The rooms have been full, every seat in the crowd there waiting to listen, to tap their toes, to feel connected to something. Every chair sat behind an easel waiting for instruction, or body hovered over a paint pallet looking to create, is there to make something that wasn’t there before. Not for money. Not for acclaim. Not for anything but the learning, the sitting together, the laughing, the making. 

What is that?

 What brings people out of their homes or out of the everyday tasks of being human to create or witness art? And why is it hard to explain? Maybe because it’s primal? Like, we weren’t born to live behind computer screens, or to move eighty-miles-per-hour down a four-lane highway for hours a day. We weren’t born to know tax structure or the best product made to clean our floors. But turn on some music and watch a baby start to wiggle. Give a toddler a brush and watch her create circles. Grab your husband’s hands and he might just spin you around. Sing “You are my Sunshine” to your ailing grandmother and watch her toes tap and her lips move to sing along.

I told my kids the news the other day. They cried a bit because cancer is scary. I told them I was going to be just fine, but daddy might make them do the laundry when I’m gone. I showed them my muscles; they showed me theirs and then hit the ground to do some pushups. They can do more than me. Way more.  

After school, they asked me if it was still ok to feel happy. It hadn’t occurred to me that I needed to give them that permission, but now I know. We turned up the music loud on the way home, they sang the National Anthem at the top of their lungs in the kitchen while I made supper. They sit at the table and draw pictures of aliens and unicorns and a girl on a hill with long black hair. They dance down the hallway with the music on blast on the way to bed. I sit behind my guitar in the dark when they’re sleeping and things I didn’t know I had to say come out of my mouth in a song. 

We lose this instinct, and we lose ourselves in the sorrow and callouses that living creates.  We can’t let it happen. It’s an emergency.

Snow on the backs of horses

Posted on by
Reply

It’s March now, and I feel the chilled surrender that January brings start to break up and separate inside of me, even as I stand under a gray sky that blends into the horizon as if it weren’t a sky at all but a continuation of the snowy landscape…below us, above us…surrounding us.

Flakes fell from that sky yesterday afternoon, big and soft and gentle they drifted down to the icy earth and coaxed me from behind my windows to come outside and stick out my tongue.

When the snow falls like this, not sideways or blowing or whipping at our faces, but peaceful and steady and quiet, it’s a small gift. I feel like I’m tucked into the mountains instead of exposed and vulnerable on the prairie. I feel like, even in the final days before March, that someone has shaken the snow globe just the right amount to calm me down and give me some hope for warmer weather.

When the snow falls like this, I go look for the horses. I want to see what those flakes look like as they settle on their warm backs, on their soft muzzles and furry ears. I trudge to the barnyard or to the fields and wait for them to spot me, watching as they move toward that figure in a knit cap and boots to her knees, an irregular dot on a landscape they know by heart.

I know what they want as they stick their noses in my pockets, sniff and fight for the first spot in line next to me. I know they want a scratch between their ears.

I know they want a bite of grain.
They know I can get it for them.
Our horses in the winter take on a completely different persona. The extra layer of fur they grow to protect them from the weather makes them appear less regal and more approachable.

Softer.

I like to take off my mitten and run my fingers through that wool, rubbing them down to the skin underneath where they keep the smell of clover and the warmth of the afternoon sun. I like to put my face up to their velvet noses and look into those eyes and wonder if they miss the green grass as much as I do.

On this snowy, gray, almost March afternoon the horses are my closest link to an inevitable summer that doesn’t seem so inevitable under this knit hat, under this colorless sky.

I lead them to the grain bin and open the door, shoveling out scoops of grain onto the frozen ground. They argue over whose pile is whose, nipping a bit and moving from spot to spot like a living carrousel. I talk to  them, “whoah boys, easy” and walk away from the herd with an extra scoop for the gelding who gets bullied, his head bobbing and snorting behind me.

In a month or so the ground will thaw and the fur on the back of these animals will let loose and shake off, revealing the slick and silky coat of chestnut, white, deep brown, gold and black underneath. We will brush them off, untangle their manes, check their feet and climb on their backs and those four legs will carry us over the hills and down in the draws and to the fields where we will watch for elk or deer or stray cattle as the sun sinks below the horizon.

I move my hand across the mare’s back, clearing away the snowflakes that have settled in her long hair and I rest my cheek there, breathing in the scent of hay and dust and warmer days.

She’s settled into chewing now, his head low and hovering above the pile of grain I placed before him. He’s calm and steady so I can linger there for a moment and wonder if he tastes summer in the grain the same way I smell it in her skin.

My farewell to winter is long, lingering and ceremonious.

But it has begun. At last, it has begun.