Greetings on these last days of January,
May this find that the first month of our new year has been kind to you!
I anticipate for some of you, you didn’t have the privilege of dancing with polar bears. (smile, grin). For others of you, who found themselves gliding across the dance floor of winter with significantly minus windchill temperatures like me, may this find that the cold offered you the gifts of coziness, warmth, and restoration.
Despite the challenge of having a German Shorthaired Pointer who found her love of being outdoors and the polar bear vortex incompatible, which translated to cabin fever and pent up “gotta goes” waiting to spontaneously combust (smile, laugh), among all the gifts of the extreme cold was Nature’s reminders sing, joyfully sing.
As my boots crunched against the frozen snow, in that squeaky way a footstep sounds when it is too cold to see one’s breath and nostrils begin to feel like they are staying closed with each inhale, I was in awe of how I could hear the birds singing in the trees. In gratitude for me refilling the feeder, sure. And there was more to their lyrics. They know that life includes moments of suffering, and they were choosing happiness in how they were responding.
As I hurried back to our entry door, I thought less about just how crisp the air felt in my nose and found myself bursting into a giggle thinking of polar bears dancing in the snow.
It’s pretty cool – no pun intended – how much our perspective can change when we choose to see a frigid polar vortex as playful dancing bears.
Thanks to my singing friends with wings.
Namaste’
-Christine
The Creases Now Speak
Mary
The delivery driver brought their usual – egg rolls, fried rice –including the pineapple version, Beef and Broccoli for Henry and Pad Thai for Mary. She feigned eating while she watched Henry consume his meal as if it was two weeks ago when they last ordered from Eathai.
When it was BFC. Before F*&#’in’ Cancer.
Much like most things for Mary, for most of her life, she was about creating her own language, her own path, her own way. She wasn’t about referring to her diagnosis as The Big C or the C word, nor how she was now on a journey nor was she battling a serious health condition.
Mary knew her share of battles. She knew how to confidently command a boardroom from the moment she entered until the second she victoriously exited. After deftly and usually mercifully defeating naysayers, opponents, and kings, as some sitting around the negotiation table believed they were.
Mary knew when she exited the room where her doctor had sat at one side of the table and she, along with Henry, on the other side, that she wasn’t in combat. This wasn’t two executives from one corporation sitting across from the president of another convincing him why he should consider merging his kingdom with theirs. There wasn’t room for negotiation. She didn’t hold any chips. No aces up her sleeve.
Mary wasn’t staring into the eyes of the opposition preparing for battle.
Mary was certain her preparation needed to be to die.
Part of her wanted to shout at Henry for acting nonchalant, like her body was another nearly impossible deal she would ultimately seal in her favor. I’ve never been at the table with F*&#’in’ Cancer! she screamed internally as Henry took another bite of broccoli. Part of Mary was comforted by Henry’s confidence in her. Thank you for saying I will make it 11%, she thought as she watched Henry add more rice to his beef broccoli mixture.
When Henry got up to rinse his plate, Mary yearned to ask him, hold me.
Mary remembered being eight years old. Patricia was five. Their dad was away on business and just after dinner, the doorbell rang. Their mom answered it to find a police officer standing at the doorway. Mary couldn’t hear what the officer was saying, but she could see her mom put her left hand to her mouth while her right arm wrapped itself across her stomach.
The officer had removed his hat before speaking, so after what seemed like several minutes but was probably less than ninety seconds, the officer raised his downturned head, spoke something, and when her mom nodded, he slowly put his hat back on, turned, and quietly left. Mary heard her mom say “thank you” as she watched her at the doorway for another eternity, and then she turned and called to Patricia and Mary.
“Girls, could you come here in the living room, please?”
“There has been an accident. It is your Aunt Emma. And your cousins. Teddy and Susanna. And Uncle Theodore.” Aunt Emma was their mom’s older sister. Teddy was two years year older than Mary. Susanna was six months younger than Patricia.
Mary could barely hear her mom’s voice by the time she spoke their uncle’s name. When Mary saw tears start to run down her mom’s cheeks, Mary felt conflicted between being mad and scared. She had never seen her mom cry before. But she had often witnessed what she would later describe as meekness, when she wasn’t vehemently exclaiming, she had grown up with a mom who cowered to kings.
Patricia scooted closer, put her tiny hand on their mom’s leg, and offered her stuffed rabbit. “Mommy, do you want to hold Thumpy?”
Taking Thumpy in her left hand, and scooping Patricia onto her lap with her right arm, their mom held Patricia tightly as she told them that Aunt Em, Teddy, Susanna, and Uncle Theodore had died.
Mary, frozen in place on the sofa cushion, watched her mom and her sister holding each other. Their mom was gently rocking Patrica, cooing softly “ssshhhhhhh, I know, sssssshhhhhhh, it’s going to be ok, honey. Mommy’s here.”
Now sitting in her and Herny’s high-rise, Mary sat on the sofa cushion, frozen in place, watching the waves roll across Lake Michigan. When her phone alerted her to a text message, she smiled. Of course it would be her sister. Patrica had that uncanny way of reaching out when Mary was especially thinking about her. Or needed her.
Patrica had known Mary was meeting with the doctor about her biopsy results. She was texting to hear how it went. She figured it was good news since Mary hadn’t messaged her.
Patrica’s soft, loving voice sounded like their mom’s when she answered Mary’s call. Or maybe that is how Mary wanted her to sound.
Mary’s voice became less and less audible as she told Patricia the news. “Stage IV, lymph nodes, radical mastectomy, chemo.” Mary’s voice barely audible by the time she said “10%.”
She heard Patricia softly coo “Oh, honey.” Then “I love you.”
When Mary began to cry, she heard Patricia say “ssssshhhhhhhhh. It’s going to be ok. I’m here”.
It would be a couple of weeks later when Patricia sat at the table across from the second king – Mary’s oncologist – demanding a second opinion while she also let him know his bedside manner sucked. Mary recalled another memory observing her mom sit across from a king, letting him know under no uncertain terms what he would and would not be doing.
Perhaps Mary had it wrong all these years, she thought her mom too subservient. Maybe what her mom had was grace under pressure until the most important battles warranted a fight. And then her mom – and her sister – donned their armor, went headfirst into battle, and always came out the victor with what mattered most.