Dearest Don Raine || Edition 2

Dearest Don Raine,

I’m not sure where to begin. I thought I could be one of those parents who blogged that could (well, blog reguarlarly for starters…) post letters to their children, but it turns out I am not and I haven’t even been doing a good job of trying. It has actually been two years since I wrote my first blog letter to you. I’m not going to apologize because there’s a delicate point to be made that perhaps all of my blog is for you. It is for me, to create and cope; it is for those who read it, to take what they will from it; and then there is you. You will become someone who reads it with the extraordinary gift of having been inside its world. To be a part of the very heartbeat that is my pulse in my fingertips at the keyboard. I don’t think about this much at all. As a writer, an artist, someone trying to survive–I don’t think about this space more than the basics. It has to just breathe on its own.

It is August of 2017 and life is complicated. We left our blue house and left Oregon. We came to Illinois and lived in a white house so that we would be closer to family. However, your grandmother Mary died this past winter. You had seen her in person only a handful of times in your short life, and then you had six months to be around her, warm up to her, and then hug and talk to her. I used your anatomy coloring book to teach you why Grandma Mary looked and acted the way that she did–one of her organs didn’t work properly. You are very tender and caring and like to comfort me when you know I am sad and miss her. You have had many questions about losing Grandma Mary but you are honest and seem satisfied with my answers. Ha!–Until you think of another question. You were not afraid to see her dead body and touch her at the funeral. Your generosity at that time was a part of my healing. Thank you.

First day of school - First Grade

 Your father still gets his special medicine every three weeks. You are now able to pronounce it –“chemotherapy” and you can also pronounce his disease, “cancer.” At this moment in time, he is here with us every day. Solid with his warm skin and heavy weight on your bed at night, he counts from 299 to 0 so that he can tell you he loves you and send you to sleep relaxed. He helps you ride your bike. You play video games and do science experiments together. He takes you on road trips, finds parks and places to play or explore, and makes sure you keep trying at things like fishing and soccer, or reading and eating new things. You have developed a keen sense of what buttons to push and how to get what you want from him. (You know that he will give in a lot easier than mommy will).

He is with you every day unless he has to be in the hospital or he takes a road trip by himself. I have not showed you in your coloring book all of the parts of daddy’s body that are hurt by cancer. I was afraid but now I am ready. I need you to know because you have fallen in love with your father. As we take our next steps, you deserve to be a part of the conversation.

You continue to be the best of both your daddy and me…Except your favorite subject is Math. We don’t know where you get that.

We Made It To Our New Home

I am too exhausted to share about our moving week! The good news is IT IS OVER. We have officially made it to my dad's in Washington, where we will be living with him (we will be on the main floor and he has built an apartment downstairs). We have beds to sleep in, the pets know where to find their food, our couches are situated, and the tv/electronics are in working order. 

Hallelujah!

The weight and burden of another move (with another downsize) just one year after we relocated from Oregon to Illinois has now finally been lifted from us. Even Rocco and Hobbes seem to sense that the ‘Great Anxiety’ has passed. With their relief, they are napping hard and basking in the sunlight of their beautiful new back yard….Or if it is Rocco, running away. Six times.

Further relief graced Dan and me after our appointment last Wednesday morning. Dr. Kumar shared that Dan’s latest CT scans revealed yet again that the cancer remains stable.

Onward.

He is still sleeping off the chemo treatment and fighting another infection but doing well. We welcome meal deliveries this week while he rests and we keep unpacking!

Dan doing freelance design work || A celebratory kiss at the doctor's office

Seeking Solace

In memory of a man who was a significant person in my life a very long time ago.

In memory of my youth, innocence, and my religion.

We Are Moving (Again)

In 14 days, we are moving into what was my mother's house in Washington, where we will live with my father. We will also get another round of scan results.

Honestly, I can’t figure out what I want to write about. I feel numb with exhaustion.

The move wasn’t an easy decision. There were so many different layers to our choice. I still can’t exactly put into words the myriad of emotions I have had about it, back and forth, over the last six months.

I still find myself shocked over and over again at how life is so unpredictable, for better or worse.

We’d appreciate your thoughts and good vibes for the next two weeks.

My Dog Peed on My Mother’s Obituary

At a time when we were unaware, Rocco chose a plastic bin of mine on the floor to lift his leg over and urinate on. He is a well trained dog and this was unexpected–so unexpected, he kept his secret for what might have been an entire day or two. The bin was one of several in a plastic storage unit that contained every note, card, letter, photo, and sentimental piece of paper (or pipecleaner) I had saved since I was in the third grade. So Rocco chose to not only urinate inside the house, he selected the only spot that could desicrate my emotional well being. (Other than my blankies).

At the top of the pile in the bin was my mother’s obituary. It appears the obituary took the first hit. Urine spilled across the obit and soaked into the edges of everything else stacked below it. A small pool formed in the corner and slowly expanded for the amount of time it took for me to notice. When I did, some items were still damp, while others were completely dry. They all had the unbearable stench that made me plug my nose.

I am positive that I was making the same exact sour faced expression that my mom always did. You’d have to ask Dan, who witnessed my discovery, but it really is one of those effortless abilities from sharing her genes.

Then fifteen minutes later, after I had inspected everything and stacked the bins safely lifted on top of Raine’s play table, I turned around to the sound of all of the bins crashing to the floor with everything inside of them spilling out. All of my f*ing precious s*it that wasn’t peed on, that I had carefully spent weeks organizing into g*d*mn f*ing chronological order, from my first f*ing baby photo until this recent f*ing laminated s*itty piece of paper that meant my mother was f*ing dead—

You get the idea. It wasn’t “Oh no! My kid spilled my glass of wine,” or “Dang, I locked my keys in the car again!” It was a torturous built-up reaction of anger that had been deep within me for months.

It was EPIC.

But it was all in my head. I didn’t dare let it out completely! To myself, I cursed every curse word in every combination I could think of, grabbed at the collection of matte, gloss, cardstock, newspaper, and notebook paper (and pipe cleaner) and threw them in heaps into the bins, carried each one upstairs stomping and sweating, to a closet in my office, where I slammed the door when I was done and yelled in a loud whisper at my mom for not being alive.

I marched into the dining room and opened a bottle of black label, and took a giant swig of it. Then I stomped across the house to the side door and burst outside, slamming the door behind me, OF COURSE.

I walked down the driveway and stopped, standing and looking up at the night sky with my arms crossed. I was fuming. But what could I do?

The sky is different in Illinois than it is in Oregon. There are no grandeous mountains here, nor the canopy of trees–cypress, fir, sequoia, pine, or cottonwood–Everything that I loved. Without those visual cues, the sky looks like it is closer, hovering at a shorter distance above me than I had experienced before. In this way, it is comforting. I really need that sensation–that the incredible expanse, with its myriad stars and planets and galaxies, vast and beyond comprehension, unknowable--—that I am nearer to thee. I take solace in moments of feeling that I am just a single speck of humanity, and having my tiny moment in the great infinity to live a life. I am made of the same dust and spark as everyone else, with a connection to them, I feel. I am nearer more than I am apart, even in these moments when the isolation of what I feel is so staggering. Who is to say that our connection and being nearer ends when we die? Even if it does, I would still give everything inside me to get what I get. It is small, but it is enough. Anger and all.

Along Came a 40th Birthday (Part 2)

We were all about geography during travel time

I can not even begin to describe how fortunate Dan and I are for everything we have–our love for one another above all–and how special the celebration was. We don’t take a single day for granted.

The trip back to Oregon proved to be a little emotional for me but really great time together as a family. Even if I lost the photos–I’d remember every detail of them and more for the rest of my days –the little cottage in Lake Oswego, the smell of the forest, the crashing waves on the coast, seeing Dan at Bandon Dunes, playing with Raine, and the generosity of our friends.

An Oregon Easter || Blue Star Donuts || Carmen's 40th!

Spa day with Mel || Kittens in Eugene || Heritage Distillery

Bandon Dunes

Along Came a 40th Birthday (Part 1)

It felt like an outrageous accomplishment. It felt like the summit of Mt. Everest.

And it also felt normal.

We made it to his 40th birthday and life with cancer has become so normal to us, I was distracted by daily non-cancer minutia and completely forgot to plan something.

While I was distracted, Dan planned his trip to Oregon. He always hoped to celebrate his 40th by traveling to the beautiful southern coast of Oregon to visit Bandon Dunes Golf Resort, consistently rated among the top golf courses in the nation. He set up plane flights, a rental car, air b&b’s for Lake Oswego and Bandon, reserved a golf cart–got a doctor’s note so he could have one–and penned a daily schedule for the entire trip, April 10th-18th.

With only 3 weeks to go, I realized his actual birthday (April 8th) was occuring while we were here in Illinois. Hail Mary! I threw together a 3-event-celebration for the 8th and invited people on Facebook.

After 12 years, having family join in on a birthday party is pretty cool!

Event 1 – 30 family, friends, and kids stopped by for lunch or beers at Peoria Brewing Company, where I rented a golf simulator, we had cake and ice cream, and drank lots of beer.

Carrot Cake Fire Hazard! Raine and Marlena, Cupcakes by Char

Jim and Char || Aunt Pat, Natalie, Aunt Mary || Doug || Tom and Rachel

We met with friends for cocktails and appetizers at Jonah’s Oyster Bar and ended up with a group of four hilarious couples plus my dad at the Seafood House for dinner. There also was an impromptu trip to 8-Bit after dinner, with just a few of us trying to bravely stay out past 10:00 p.m. The best part was that Dan preferred not to know what I was planning, so he was actually surprised all day long.

Out to dinner with Nick, Meg, Corey, Kate, my father, Suzy and John (where are they?)