The Waiting

The waiting is the hardest part.
Everyday you see one more card.
You take it on faith, you take it to the heart.
The waiting is the hardest part.

Tom Petty knew what he was talking about when he said "the waiting is the hardest part." Even if he was talking about a woman, and I am talking about a job, I am so exhausted from waiting around for an answer.

I can see why it's so appealing to be your own boss, and not have to depend on someone else to give you answers about the future of your own career.

Since January 24, I have been in limbo with the WB and the new fangled CW network...I just want the plug to be pulled already. It has been agony...I am chained by a contract and prohibited from looking for a new job. Yet any day, I could be released, and the time on my contract would still end on the same day. Time is ticking on the hour glass and I am still here...

Almost all my coworkers have been laid off or have quit. Their offices are packed up and locked. Occasionally, a few pop in with cheery faces to check email on their way back from playing tennis or before going to a yoga class. I could scream "The Star Spangled Banner" at the top of my lungs, and no one would hear me. The halls are void of people sans the occasional messenger delivering one of the last rough cuts the WB will ever receive; there are boxes of abandoned tapes of scripts stacked against every wall in the halls. It is like the Burbank City Morgue, without even an undertaker.

Outside my office door sits a pile of unopened envelopes, mostly containing agency script submissions for clients I haven't read yet, but who I will be unable to help staff because I am not involved with staffing the new shows.

I crave being able to have a new focus - a new challenge, at work. I want to work, to have a normal routine where I can feel useful and important and like my thoughts matter. I used to feel that at this job. It was invigorating most days. The pace of working in television is intense, and you get in the groove of your routine, and are constantly reading and reviewing new matieral so it's always exciting and fresh. Your days are packed yet somehow you find the time to get EVERYTHING done.

Now I am planning a wedding, which is a welcome distraction since I have a bit more free time, but it doesn't take away from the fact that I still need to get my work-life sorted out...and soon...because the waiting...

SUCKS!

Revlon Run/Walk

On Saturday, May 13, my roommate and I participated in the Revlon Run/Walk at the L.A. Coliseum to help raise money for breast and ovarian cancer research.

We joined a group of over 50,000 people who are committed to finding a cure.

What I saw was unforgettable. Women, men, boys, girls, children and dogs everywhere. It was well-organized, but could have been chaotic considering how many people were there. But amidst all the people, the pets, the jog strollers and the white tents, loud speakers and music of Chaka Khan, there was an air of calmness. 100s of people walked in support of loved-ones. 100s of others walked just to walk for the cause. People walked in honor of their mothers, aunts, sisters, daughters, friends, and coworkers.

Some walked in memory of loved-ones, and that's when it became more intense. But nonetheless, they walked. They walked because they couldn't just sit at home and feel sad, doing nothing to help.

We may not all be doctors or work in oncology labs doing research, but we all have something to contribute.

Only 3 days before the race, I decided to send an email to close friends and coworkers, inviting them to sponsor me. I was blown away by the response. I hate asking people for money, no matter what the cause. But I am so appreciative of everyone I know that donated to the event. It made me feel good to know they support me and my mom, and everyone else who is impacted by the disease.

I don't know how I can repay the generous people who donated. A simple thank you seems too mundane, but the strong sense of gratitude I feel inside is strong, and I hope they all know that just as I was touched by all the thousands of people supporting the cause on Saturday, I was also touched by those who gave their hard earned money to help in the fight...

https://www.revlonrunwalk.com/la/secure/mywebpage.cfm?pid=336262

Marrying Patrick Swayze

When I was 9, I believed I would never get married. I was going to be an actress AND a pediatrician, who also did veterinary work on the side. I would live in a big, Meditteranean-style mansion with my adopted daughter, and we wouldn't need a man to take care of us.

As I grew older and wiser with age, I finally at age 10 realized that perhaps having a man around wouldn't be so bad. I could marry someone like Patrick Swayze in DIRTY DANCING, and we would spend our free time dancing to Otis Redding songs; he'd raise me up high above his head in a lift just like Baby and we'd be happy always. My dad would learn to like him, and I would be committed to changing the world, just like Baby.

In junior high school, I mentally moved on from Patrick Swayze and decided I would set my sights on marrying Jason Priestly. What I now recognize is that I didn't really want to betrothe myself to the chain-smoking, race-car-driving, Canadian hockey-playing Priestly, but rather I was in love with Brandon Walsh, the character he played on the TV show, BEVERLY HILLS, 90210. I wanted to be with someone who was dedicated to always making ethical choices. He would work long hours at the Peach Pit, or wherever his place of business was located, and also make time to hang out with his friends at the beach. At Thanksgiving, he'd invite the homeless war veteran back to our house for supper, and he'd always be loyal to his sister and his parents.

Now, at 27, I have completely accepted the idea of marriage to a non-fictional character... The nine year old in me gasps for air and questions what I'm committing myself to, but the adult woman in me knows that two is better than one. The adult woman in me knows that only with a special person can you laugh like you're a child at the most inane things, and knows that it is a blessing to find someone with whom you can completely let down your guard. And that someone is not Patrick Swayze, or Brandon Walsh, but a real-life man.

About 2 weeks ago, my boyfriend of several years proposed, and my life has not been the same since he asked me "to accept the beautiful ring and say I'll be his wife."

Suddenly, I look at him differently. Now that there is a ring on my finger, he looks smarter and more mature. He smells differently, too. His normal scent of Right Guard Mountain Fresh seems even manlier and more serious - like an extra-strength clear gel that can keep you dry during ANYTHING life presents you. His eyes are deeper and more sincere, and I realize that these are the eyes I will be looking into for the rest of my life. His hands are stronger and smoother, and I know that these are the hands I want to hold forever. His hands will be the ones that help me move furniture into my first real home, and his hands will be the ones that hold my children when they cry.

And unlike Patrick or Jason, I have actually smelled Kiko. I've touched him the flesh, and he has indeed lifted me up above his head. I've held his hands and I know what they feel like around my tiny fingers and I know that they'll be reaching out to me, to everything the 9-year-old in me was, and everything that the 27-year-old me NOW is, for as long as I am lucky to be with him...

Quotes about (Wo)Man's Best Friend

"Dogs feel very strongly that they should always go with you in your car, in case the need should arise for them to bark violently at nothing right in your ear."
-Dave Barry

"I'd be happy to have my biography be about the stories of my dogs. To me, to live without dogs would mean accepting a form of blindness."
-Thomas McGuane

"Humankind is drawn to dogs because they are so like ourselves - bumbling, affectionate, confused, easily disappointed, eager to be amused, grateful for kindness and the least attention."
-Pam Brown

The Pathfinder - Day 1

1. Childhood visions of my future career:

When I was a child, I dreamed of being many things. First, I wanted to be a singer. I think I was in kindergarten when I dreamed the perfect life would involve lots and lots of music all day long. I loved to sing, to dance, and to perform. In first grade, I realized to be a "professional singer," as I called it, you actually had to have a good voice.

I gave up on that idea, and then thought maybe being an actress is the next best thing, because you can still perform, and maybe even dance, but no one has to hear your off-key singing.

I imagined I'd feel creative all day long. I'd love working. I'd spend my days writing new songs and learning to play new things on the piano or the guitar. I'd sing about all the issues that were important to me and to those around me. The first single that I actually every recorded was when I was 5, and it was a song I wrote about my Scottish Terrier, Pabbay. Pabbay was my truest friend when I was little. She used to sit at my feet when I wrote papers all through high school and lick them, and it would calm me down. She died a few days before I moved to college, and I was devasted. I couldn't speak for days, but I think it was better that it happened before I left, rather than having to get that painful call from my mother. But maybe I'll write another blog journal about that dog. Let's talk about singing...

As I grew older, and started to do well in school, and also I realized that I loved learning, I thought I should find a career that is more challenging than just being an actor or a singer. In third grade I decided I'd be a doctor: a pediatrician, no a veterinarian. Or both. Or maybe a pediatrician and an actress. I like kids and I like movies. So that's perfect.

Then in high school, I thought maybe I'd be a lawyer. I didn't love biology, but I loved learning about history, politics, and government. I still loved acting, and figured that if I was a trial lawyer, then I could "put on a show" every day in front of the judge and the jury.

When I fantasized about what I'd be when I grew up, it was easy. I always knew I'd be satisifed in my job. I never thought about money. I felt inspired, and creative, and like my unique perspective and voice came through everything I did. I imagined myself alone on stage, discovering things about myself. Maybe people would make fun of me, or maybe I'd make them cry. But I'd make them feel something. And we'd share an experience and be bonded.

2. What dreams of the future lure you away from tedious times today?

Travel. A ranch house in Montana. Country music, and home cooking. Now, I think when I dream about the future, I imagine adventure, serenity, and wide-open space. I want to be whisked away in an instant - experiencing new cultures, trying new food, meeting new people who seem very different on the outside, but actually are a lot like me. Then, I want to come home from my travels, and reflect. Sit on a rustic wooden porch, with a couple of dogs at my feet, and a man at my side, and laugh and wonder in amazement at the world. About how many people live in it, and how every person is just trying to find their way and hopefully do the best that they can. (Maybe the man isn't at my side, but maybe he's horse back riding, or swinging golf clubs in the back yard. But when the sun sets, he'll join me and we'll snuggle and plan our next vacation together.)

But the point of this exercise is my career. Dreams of the future? I dream about feeling challenged. Using my brain, and learing something new everyday. I want to teach people, too. Working in TV now, I love working with the writers. Sometimes I dream of being one of them, too. Then I wouldn't just be the network executive who swoops in and critiques their ideas. But I could acutally help birth the ideas from the ground up, and I'd learn how hard it is to write. But I'd feel that sense of satisfaction that only comes from hard work and from putting your mind to something.

Sometimes I miss doing improvisational comedy. I loved the spontaneity. I loved how I felt after a Groundlings class because I always was so surprised at the character I'd create, or the idea I came up with. I never second guessed myself in that environment. I was confident, and I got out of my head. Sometimes things worked and others laughed, and other times, they didn't. But it was such a supportive team, such a creative environment. Those people, the classmates and the teachers, are what makes the wheels tick in TV.

3. What stands out as as the most important qualities that made these fantasies so compelling?

Creativity. People. Comedy. Writing. Thoughts. Thinking. Imagination.

Jean's Addiction

Dark rinse. Distressed. Faded. Stone washed. Acid washed (I love the 80s.) White. Stretch. Low-rider. Cropped. Button-fly. American flag patches. Butterfly appliquéd. Vintage. Levi 501s. Ripped ever so cleverly at the perfect place on the thigh. Whatever the style, the wash, the fit, I am addicted to buying jeans.

There are few things in life more satisfying than the feeling you get after purchasing a superlative pair of jeans. Though trying them on can be a tall task, because often times you have to go through all sorts of styles to find the pair that flatters you just right, it's always worth it. Here are the things I like consider when buying jeans:

1. Pocket placement: Do they make my butt look small, tight, and round? If the pockets are too far apart, then often times, my backside will look out of proportion from my thighs.

2. How about the length? Do I want to wear them with high heeled boots or wedges? Or will these be my Sunday afternoon comfies, that I'll slide on with tennies or flip-flips? Cropped denim is cute too, but I must be sure I like where they hit on my calves or I'll never feel good in them.

3. The SQUAT test: Can I squat down like Mike Piazza in them? If this move is difficult for me in the dressing room, then I know I'd better seek out a pair of blues with more stretch or I'll be benched in the dug out.

4. Can you see your lower back indentations? How low do they go? Personally, I have a very short torso and no waist, so I need jeans that are cut to fit low on the hip, otherwise, I look like I am borrowing Fred from I LOVE LUCY's pants and sporting them hiked half-way to my chest. There is nothing like a pair of jeans that sits at just the right place on your hips. They can't be so low that they reveal your skivvies, but they must be just low enough so that your hips might peek over the sides.

Once I find a pair that passes all the above mentioned tests, then it's all about rinse. I like to have a variety of different rinses, from bright white to indigo blue, as well as a few pair with fancy adornments on the pockets. I have one pair with copper-colored Swarovski crystals emblazoned on the back pockets and I feel like a goddess when I wear them.

Jeans are one article of clothing that I don't mind forking over some of my hard earned dough for. They can be dressed up, or dressed down, and they are always in fashion. Especially in LA, where jeans are the common uniform at most places, it is important that I always have jeans on hand, to be slipped on at any moment.

Just thinking about jeans gets me quite excited. When I find the perfect pair, that meet the above criteria, I can't wait to take them home and put them in the mountainous stack of jeans that already occupies space in my closet. I think about when I will get to wear them, and which shoes will get to carry me around in them as I strut around L.A. I feel as if I've accomplished something huge. Maybe I haven't found a solution to world hunger, and maybe I haven't put an end to the bloodshed in Iraq, but somewhere, I feel good knowing that some undereducated, mal-nourished child made these jeans especially for me; and though she was paid $0.37 an hour to make them, I know that the $178 of hard earned cash I had to give the store, in order to get them to remove the ink security tag and relinquish them to me, is being put to good use...

Ugh..suddenly, I am coming down from my jeans buzz...it's a long, hard fall onto a cold and dirty floor. (Fortunately, nearly all denim jeans are machine washable so the mud and dirt washes right out.)

Ashes and Snow

Imagine walking away from the Santa Monica pier and stepping into a dark, cool, and damp expansive new world. The smell of salt water and fresh wood is in the air, and you are housed inside a massive barn-like gallery, built entirely of metal crates which are stacked on top of each other in a checker-board pattern - the negative space creates depth in between the train-car-like crates.

Your mood is instantly transformed. Everything is quiet, except for the faint sounds of African music, drums and wood winds, and the gentle, slow rhythm of other visitors' feet pressing and lifting off of the wooden walkway built on the sand. Smooth gray rocks line the wooden walkway and rest underneath the photographs, and large blood-red metal pillars rise floor to 8-story tall ceiling of this new-fangled barn.

Creak, creak, creak sound your shoes as you proceed down the planks. On either side of you, works of art that change your body's composition: sepia toned photographs of the most amazing shots of man and animal suspended from wires that seem miles long, as if they are being dangled down from heaven, held in God's own hands.

On your left, there is a young African boy reading to an elephant. The elephant's posture convinces you he's hanging on every word uttered by the boy, his front legs are crossed, his eyes fixed on the little boy's face, which is completely tuned in to the words on the page. In front of him is a 1 ton elephant sitting inches the boy's 50 pound frame, but inside of him is an important story that he knows the elephant will understand.

Whatever the story is, there is peace between the photographer's subjects. There is a relationship between boy and elephant far too complex to put into words, but there are more than 1,000 I could use to try to explain what I felt when I experienced this picture and its companions.

Each image amazed me in a different way. A film of a man swimming with whales almost seemed normal and common after watching it for a few moments. A shot of a woman resting with a cheetah, with her eyes shut exuded a bond I never imagined possible between female and fierce feline. Another photo with a young girl sleeping in a canoe, and a monkey holding her head, with both of their hands dangling in the still water which their canoe drifts upon seemed like something Monet might have painted, as if it was a common everyday occurence. These images portrayed peace, love, and friendship between beings not normally depicted as pairs.

The artist, Gregory Colbert (coincidentally, my friend's neighbor in the Bahamas), spent over 10 years in Africa taking pictures of humans with elephants, cheetahs, and all sorts of other animals that were in THE LION KING movie who's names I can't think of right now.

Everyone should experience this exhibit. It's unlike anything I've ever seen before. It's more thereapeutic and more soothing than a trip to your shrink's office and Burke Williams in the same day.

http://www.ashesandsnow.org/en/portfolio/

What did Jay say today?

"I am not going to honk at her. The only way she'll ever learn her lesson is if I just ram into her car." Jay, on refusing to honk at a lady who pulled in front of him with her huge SUV.

"I think it's time we stop getting upset by office politics. Rather, we should start enjoying them, since in a few months, none of us will be working together and we might actually miss those jerks..." 3/1/06

"I don't like splitting things except for multi-million dollar jackpots," said Jay, when asked to go in with me on our office Oscar pool.

Jay on whether or not he should break up with the woman he's dating:
"I don't know. I just really don't look forward to spending time with her."

Head Pulse

Pulse. Pulse. Pulse. There is this tiny, but present pulsing on my forehead that only seems to happen when I am feeling tense. The pulsing occurs just above my left eye brow, right above the fattest part of my brow, and it's like a mini-heart beat on my head.

Pulse, pulse, pulse. it always pulses three times in a row, and then stops. Sometimes when my anxiety rises throughout the day, as if I wasn't already aware that I felt nervous and unsure of things, the mini-heart beat taps my forehead as if to remind me that there is a lot on my mind. Maybe it's my head's way of saying "hey, there's too much to think about in here. Keep the oxygen flow steady to the brain."

Or maybe it's like the human body's version of the hour-glass icon that the computer mouse becomes to signify the computer is processing something. My thinking icon is the heart beat on my head...please wait...retrieving files...

Hmm...that's something else to think about...

CH-CH-CH-CHANGES

It's been months since my last blog...

Last Tuesday I found out that my company, THE WB, is now going to be merging with the illustrious network UPN, which I learned does not stand for "The Urban People's Network." The new name for now is the CW, which does have a way of just rolling of the tongue, doesn't it?

From a business perspective, this new joint venture makes sense. They are taking 2 networks that aren't doing well at all, and trying to form one big happy family TV network that targets the young demographic like the WB. But rather than the merger happening in a very "Brady Bunch" like fashion, with one fellow coming together with his boys (THE WB employees) and one lady bringing her girls (the folks of UPN),and this group of boys and girls must somehow form a family, this merger will happen more like this: Imagine if Mike and Carol Brady never got together and actually Carol stayed a single mom, and she only got to pick her favorite kids to come with her...

What I know is how I feel....and right now, I feel like I've been dumped by my boyfriend, but I am obligated to continue dating him for several months, or until he decides to set me free. It's a feeling of powerlessness, so I strive to find ways to become empowered. But then I realize this man may not be the love of my life, and maybe this breakup is for the best. I mean, I really like my job. I was not wanting to try something different, but I do believe that all things happen for a reason, and for whatever reason, my time at the WB will be coming to a close soon...

The worst part right now is that I have no idea when my last dance with the frog will be. Maybe next week? Maybe May? Maybe not until August...which is when my contract expires...ugh...but not many industries do people who fear getting laid off think "Hmm....maybe when my contract is bought out, I'll be able to take that much needed trip to Costa Rica..." So maybe, in fact I am luckier than most (potential) lay-off-ees.

So that's where I am right now...trying to make sense of what I want to do next, and trying to find out when I am going to know what my fate is for the CW. If I were a betting woman, I'd be safest not to assume I'd join the new company. Carol Brady is no friend of mine, and of course, she's going to want to keep her people.

Luckily, I have time to figure it out.

Splash Mountain has a winter setting?

I was at the HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH with three friends on a rainy Sunday autumn afternoon. It was one of those days where everything just felt right. Sure, it was raining and we didn't have rain coats or umbrellas, but we were at Disneyland AND California Adventure, and not much could disappoint us. If football players and golfers do their things in the rain, then what was stopping us?

We had a superlative time playing all day; at one point we contemplated seeing if we could break the world record for riding "The Tower of Terror" so many times in a row. We ate Churros, corn chowder, and ice cream, and we drank Mint Juleps, iced mochas, Coca-Colas, and anything else that tempted us in the moment. Our eyes teared up in the inspirational film "Golden Dreams" (narrated by the golden goddess Whoopi Goldberg,) as we saw a version of California history summed in 20 minutes that didn't overlook the sacrifices and contributions that minority groups made. It was a day of mirth and magic...until sun-down...

My friend Jay really wanted to ride Splash Mountain, but being as though we were already a little damp from the Anaheim showers, Thommy and Geoffrey were less willing to board the logs. But of course, Susan, who considers herself a "Disneyland" aficionado (Well, at least a novice Disneyland aficionado...there are some mega-dorks out there that I would someday aspire to be like, but for now we'll just say I am a Junior-Varsity Disney Dork. I don't own Marc Davis sketch books, but I have seen them. I know that the Splash Mountain characters use to be housed on the beloved America Sings attraction; and I miss the People Movers and Mission to Mars because you knew you could always get on those rides sans waiting in line even on the most crowded days at the park) insisted that the ride is on its winter setting, which means the ride is designed for passengers to experience less "splashing" than one might experience in say the warmer summer months.

"We won't get wet on Splash Moutain; its on the 'winter setting.'" I promised. I swore someone once told me that all the water rides have seasonal settings, and when it's colder out, they turn the water that sprays you as you barrel down the drop to a lower setting. On the summer setting, when you come down from the big daddy drop, there are faucets that basically spray you with water like a hose, and on the winter setting, the extra water streams are turned off...it's a good idea in theory, I swear...I insisted that since all my other Disney knowledge is correct, that we'd be fine on the ride and it wouldn't be that bad. Afterall, who would ride it on a rainy day if they knew they'd get cold and wet afterwards? Apparently, a lot of people...

I decided to survey a small sampling of people as they exited the ride, to see how wet they became. Never mind that most people's clothes were splashed with water, so asking them if they experienced some extra H20 was somewhat unncessary, I still asked. Of the five people I talked to, 3 people got wet on the ride (but I knew they were TRYING to get wet by leaning into the splashes...), 1 person was just wet from the rain, and I think the fifth person was just really sweaty from taking extended artillery practice at the shooting gallery in Adventureland just before.

So I sat in the front of our log, with Thommy, Geoffrey, and Jay beind me, and also some other strangers who are now immortalized on my blog in the blurry picture above that I pirated from the photo screen at the end of the ride. And how many times did I get splashed, or doused? Not one time, not two times, but every time we went down any sort of descension at all, the water found me!

Winter setting - bah! This was like on peak summer setting...After the big-drop, I looked like a wet puppy dog. My head was dripping with thick ride water, mascara was running down my cheeks, my jeans were three shades darker blue than before, and my tee shirt and sweat shirt were soaked through to my skin; But it was so fun! Luckily, I was wearing a velour sweatshirt that soaked up the dirty ride water like a sponge. As we trudged back to main street, I dragged my sopping shoes and the boys walked slowly next to me because they were laughing so hard. Water still dripped from my face, and my little crooked pinky fingers were turning white and frozen. But of course, we couldn't go home just yet because we had to wait for our 2nd fast pass for the new Space Mountain to become valid....

Thankfully, Space Mountain was on the indoor winter setting, and the heat in line turned up extra high, so I dried off quickly in line, and returned to a just slightly damp state for the car ride back to L.A.

So next time you're at Disneyland, about to board Splash Mountain, don't take their signs lightly - Y'may just get wet, winter, spring, summer or fall...

In sickness and in health...

Do you take this woman, to be your lawfully wedded wife, in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad, as long as we both shall live?

This is the phrase almost any one who’s ever been to or seen a traditional western wedding ceremony can identify as being part of the standard wedding vows. I think I’ve been familiar with these words since I was 5 or 6.

Growing up, I always hosted grand weddings – for my Barbie Dolls, my stuffed animals (usually Ms. Kitty was the blushing bride, and Ted the Walrus, who was shorter than Ms. Kitty but just as lovely, was the proud groom,) and I think I even once officiated the nuptials of my She-Ra doll to my brother’s He-Man figure. (Don’t tell Matt, but you should have seen the rock He-Man gave his very own princess of power, very impressive, even for a Master of the Universe.)

Bling or no bling, the point is that over and over again as a child, I would mock the words that priests, judges, and of course, brides and grooms say at weddings. “In sickness, and in health, as long as we both shall live...” But never did these words mean so much as they did when I saw my dad with my mom when she was in the hospital.

During about day 4 of my mom’s hospital stay back in February, she was feeling better, all things considered. The “suicide watch” seemed to be calming down, and she had made up her mind to fight the battle against ovarian cancer. But really, what choice did she have? The pure shock and devastation was still hidden under her surface, but she sat upright in her hospital bed with determination and dignity, ready to get home and ready to start her chemotherapy treatments as soon as possible. Sure, she had questions, but more than anything, she was ready to start solving the problem, as moms often want to do.

However, before she could go home, she had to gain her strength back. Let’s step back for a second and think of how active my mom is. She is a horsewoman, and though she knows how, she doesn’t mess around with English and polo ponies - my mom is a COWGIRL. She rides western, and she doesn’t stop at just jogging and loping the horse, but she does reining and working-cow horse events, where she makes her horse race down the fence, perform slide-stops, spins, AND runs a cow up and down the fence. She is tough. She is active. So seeing her in the hospital and bed-ridden, lacking the strength to walk without the help of someone else wasn’t easy to digest.

But, it was when my dad would help her out of bed, arrange her IV cords, and other various hospital devices in such a way that she could push her rolling-IV monitor stand with one hand, and hold onto his arm with her other hand, that I realized the true meaning of “in sickness and in health.”

Up until this point, my parents had been fairly lucky. Illness and hospitals were new developments in our lives – at least for Mom and Dad. But seeing the way he supported her, the way she leaned on him for strength, the way he slowed down his usual brisk pace to assist her slow, pained baby-steps, the way they seemed so in-sync with each other, like they could just carry on walking like two arms beating a slow and steady bass drum…Step, step, step, step. Their eyes staring down at the floor, conversing about the newborn babies in the hospital, how many chairs I’d snatched from the hospital waiting room so Mom’s many visitors could have places to sit in her room, or what flavor Jell-O the nurses would bring in her next meal, they kept up their pace with each step, moving forward. Once a day, then several times a day they would take these walks side-by-side.

I supposed this is what they’ve been doing for the past 40-plus years. You just don’t take notice of as many things during the “in health” times of life. That’s one thing that adverse times will bring – perspective and promise. Perspective on all the things to be grateful for - all the health you had before you got sick, and promise for all the health you’ll have after you’ve healed. And promise for the renewed vivacity that only comes with the perspective of having survived a difficult walk.

As long as we both shall live.
I do.

The Pastor Visits

The reason for the creation of this blog is almost entirely selfish...but I suppose I can assuage my Catholic guilt momentarily and rest assured that anything like a journal, is supposed to primarily be about oneself - representative of the author's voice, thus in the very nature of it is selfishness. I take that back. I suppose there are journals where writers share thoughts about politics, religion, the environment, Davey Jones, Tom Cruise, tap dancing, or any other myriad topics that they choose to write about. One could argue that for a writer to share thoughts about topics that aren't only about the author's life, then they wouldn't be selfish...this is not one of those. This is designed to be therapy for me, gosh darn it, and what kind of therapy would this be if I weren't true to my own voice in what I shared?

Back on topic...Without mapping out what I hope my blog will explore over the next several weeks, months, or years, or however long this entertains me, I can already imagine that much of my thoughts will be about my mom's recent diagnosis with cancer. Yeah! Uplifting. But readers, rest assured, in between passages of sheer poignancy and heart felt emotion, there will be some dang hilarious parts, too. After all, if you can't laugh at your own life, or the lives of your good friends, then what's the point in living?

I digress...

It was about 3 days after we received the news. My mom was still in the hospital in Goleta, California, looking as beautiful as ever. She sat upright in her hospital bed, with the mattress curved like a boomerang, wearing a lavender fuzzy robe over her stock hospital gown, brown curly hair tousled and messy, but still looking gorgeous in only the way that my mom can pull off. She always smiled the biggest when she had visitors other than family members. I think that's a Southern thing. When she smiled her "I have visitors smile" the image she projected seemed so near to that of the old pictures I've looked at time and again of her in the hospital after she had me 26 years ago. In those pictures, she was beaming with only the joy that a new mother could have, arms folded behind her head, grinning with excitement and anticipation of what was to come with the birth of her new baby through all her exhaustion of labor.

This day she looked so similar, but instead of her grinning with excitement about a new baby, this time, in Feb of 2006, she was grinning through fear of the unknown. She'd been diagnosed with primary peritoneal cancer - a kind of cancer similar to ovarian cancer, only she no longer had her ovaries, so the doctors couldn't dub it officially "ovarian cancer," even though the way the cancer cells behaved in p.p.c. is very similar to that of ovarian cancer.

My family had been at the hospital practically around the clock. Between my dad, my brothers, my sister-law, oldest brother's girlfriend, my boyfriend, and other close friends, she was barely alone long enough to hear the soft buzz of the ugly fluorescent light on the wall above her bed.

On this night, there was a knock at the door, around 8:00 pm, and who walked in? The pastor from the local Presbyterian Church and his wife. Did I mention we're Catholic? Some people might think this is a problem, since often times, it is believed that Catholics think that their religion is superior to all other religions, so why would they bother with anyone who did not share the identical beliefs? Well, if some people feel this way, I am NOT in this group. I always appreciated my Catholic upbringing; after all, it was in going to weekly mass that I learned ways to sit still and quiet for 55 minutes without fighting with my brothers, how to eat dry Cheerios without crunching so much that the old ladies in front of me would crane their necks in disdain, and where to draw on the back of the church bulletin without scribbling over any of the sections that my mom or dad would actually want to read. As I grew older, and actually started reading the bible on my own, and not just reading my CCD books or handouts kept in my Peachee folder, I became more open to other forms of Christianity, often participating in a lot of the youth group functions at the Presbyterian church rather than at my own church. This was because my best friend went, and because I enjoyed singing in the Presbyterian church services because the pitch and key seemed more "pop" ish to me, and I preferred acoustic guitar and piano to the pipe organ.

Is this about my mom? Of course...getting there...

So in walks the pastor, we'll call him Ken. Ken is a wonderful man. Ken is almost 7 feet tall, and every time I see him, he seems taller. He kind of looks like a Ken doll, with floppy dirty blonde hair, and fairly tanned skin. He also has that permanent smile like a Ken doll has; no matter what he's preaching about: death, the end of the world, pancake breakfasts, baptism, he always has the same pleasant expression on his face. And I suppose he has nice white teeth like Ken, too, which could be a nice shout-out to my dad, who's his dentist...

Ken bent down from the waist and leaned forward to grab my mom's hand as she sat in this hospital bed. (Hopefully the Eucharist minister from the catholic church who'd been trying to feed my mom communion hosts every day she'd been in the hospital didn't see my mom cheating on her with another religious figure...she's allergic (or so we thought) to gluten, therefore had to deny herself any orally ingestible Jesus because of his high gluten content after his body was converted to the bread of life. ) Ken's intentions were nothing but altruistic, and it did feel nice to have visitors, whoever they were. But it was when he said "do you mind if I pray with you?" that I should have been on amber alert as to what things might come out of his mouth. After all, what did he know about my mom's condition? She was fragile, frail, handling the news that she has cancer, which came as a huge shock considering days before, right before she went into her surgery to remove what they thought was scar tissue, the doctor assured her, "well, we don't know what's wrong...but at least you don't have cancer..." Oops! His bad. She DID have cancer...of course, I am sure these things happen all the time, so any bitterness that I might seem to carry because of this doctor's diagnosis quickly fades away when I apply rational thought to the situation...Still, it does kind of suck to be told that you have cancer, not a mere 5 hours after you were just told that THE ONLY GOOD NEWS WAS THAT YOU DID NOT HAVE CANCER. Again I say, oops...

So Ken's prayer made me at first feel nervous, for fear of the "tone" his prayer might take, but then I thought, "heck, he must do this all the time. It's fine...If there is anyone that can be there for my mom right, it's Jesus, so Ken, bring on those prayers. Enlighten us. Lift all of our spirits through the Lord. We need some encouragement. And more than anything, we need hope."

But instead of just spontaneous prayer that I would have felt was appropriate, he opted to read from the bible. Not a bad choice, just maybe not the route I would have gone. When he started reading the verse "ye though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death..." was when I had to hold back with every inch of my being to not push him out the door so fast he tripped on his own robe...Was he really reading my mom the same passage that he read to my entire family before...at my grandmother's FUNERAL? Oh yes, he was. I am sure poor Ken did not realize this. I am sure his intentions were pure. I know this. He is a good man. But my goodness, he was NOT on his game that night. Either that, or the gossip chain in Santa Ynez that day had really given him some misinformation...she was not on her DEATH bed. There are 100 other verses I could think of that would have been more appropriate in that situation.

The praying I had to do after Ken left was triple the amount of praying he did during his visit. First, I had to ask for forgiveness for thinking such ugly thoughts about a man of God. Then, I had to pray that my mom's drugs were still strong enough that she didn't really know what was going on, and that she didn't remember that was the reading he did at Dado's funeral. Finally, I had to pray for her; for the reality of her situation; for my dad, that he would be granted more strength that he already had to really look after my mom and be there for her, that he would have the strength to lean on all of us like I knew we would lean on him, that he would take care of himself and her in the hard times ahead when we couldn't be there; I prayed longer and harder, that God would show us the reasons in time why my mother, a woman not even 60, was given something like cancer, and that He would give all of us the courage and the will to lift her up to fight the battle, and win the war; I prayed for my brothers, because in all the chaos, through all the tears, and questions, even though they are men and supposedly insensitive, they were practically her biggest cheer leaders, exhibiting strength through their sadness in a way that left me awe struck; I prayed for every person who sent flowers, or a card, or their well wishes, that they would know how deeply touched the entire family was for the love and the support, and most of all, I prayed for a peaceful ending - that after all of the cancer was gone and behind us that we would all feel blessed for having survived something that so many people sadly have to deal with. And this is the prayer that lingers...as do all of them, but this one the most...The day she was diagnosed, we all joined a very exclusive club. It is a club that no one chooses to join (not even smokers) but that so many people unfortunately find themselves in...a club where there are members of all stages of cancer, of all economic backgrounds, ethnicities, religions, body types, etc. But they are all loved...and they are all fighting in their own unique ways to graduate from the club - cancer free and proud. Proud to have survived one of the worst diseases plaguing our country. Proud to have stuck it out through the hard times, and to have lived to the fullest during the easier times...But most importantly, proud to have lived...

As I write all of this, I am still trying to determine exactly what I mean....there is so much inside to blurt out...so much to share and even more to dig deep and find that I don't even know about. I look forward to it, and hopefully, with each thing that comes to the surface, everything will slowly mesh together and begin to make sense.