As a freshman at the University of Kansas I was miserable. Actually I had been mostly miserable the entire year. Now, at the start of the third quarter, I seemed to feel the worst. I lived in one of the more colorful dorms, Oliver Hall, with a roommate from high school and was one of the few students not from Johnson County, Kansas. Pictures of me during this time show a young woman with a Farrah Fawcett haircut and confident features. But inside I was a mess of insecurities and awkwardness. I wasn't really ready for college but I'd gone because it was what seemed best at the time. My major was psychology and I wanted to join the peace corps after graduation.
It had been an awful year. I'd been two-timed by someone I thought I loved, lived with an out-going roommate who had lots of dates, was insecure and felt incredibly alone. For one brief moment I had hopes that things had changed for the better. I'd recently been baptized as an adult and become a 'born-again Christian'. But old ways of coping with life soon reemerged. Soon I was drinking and living even more wildly with reckless abandon. Hoping to join a sorority so that I could 'fit in' and have a more active social life, I went through Greek rush during the winter break. No sorority asked me to join so I was feeling pretty worthless and abandoned. Life was just plain ugly. "Alone, Again, ... Naturally" sang Gilbert O'Sullivan. His words fit my mood perfectly.
Looking for an escape I thought of running away. For one brief moment I envisioned flying to sunny California where the beaches were beautiful and love was in the air -- I wanted to be one of those girls wearing flowers in their hair while dreamily walking along the beaches with friends. "It Never Rains In California", a song by Albert Hammond, told me all I needed to know. Visions of hippie-togetherness ran through my mind as I hurriedly began making plans for my escape.
I had $500 in my savings account and cute clothes. What more would I need, I wondered. I pictured myself finding work as a waitress at a beachside restaurant and settling into life in paradise. Soon I was driving my parent's green station wagon to the Kansas City airport at breakneck speed all set to began a strange three-day journey in hopes of finding peace and love. Sitting on the airplane before take-off, I began to feel the first pangs of fear. "What have I done?" I murmured to myself. And when the plane finally settled on the tarmac of San Diego's airport, I really began to question the maturity of running away alone. "Am I nuts!?" I thought to myself.
Naturally I went to the one place where we'd stayed during a family vacation in 1973. It was a nice resort called The Dana Inn located just a mile from the California coastline. Taking a taxi from the airport to the Dana Inn, I disembarked feeling nervous and scared. I'd not taken the time to make reservations ahead of time so I considered myself extremely lucky to be able to book a room at this facility. There was a little restaurant about a quarter of a mile away so I knew I'd have a place to eat. And Seaworld was close by, too, although I was too afraid to go there by myself. I had enough money for about one week.
The funny thing, though, was that I rarely ventured from my room. Not only had I forgotten to pack things like shampoo and deodorant, but I also hadn't counted on how scary it is to walk unknown streets as a lone 19-year-old. I did venture to the beach one afternoon, but after seeing tough and burly beach bums hanging around, I stayed for a mere 20 minutes before skedaddling across the bay back to The Dana Inn. And eating alone was not an option, either. I sensed people looking at me with pity. "Poor girl. Doesn't she have any friends?"
Humbly I called my parents -- collect. "Mom, Dad. I'm in California." My mother was crying, but Dad was pretty matter-of-fact. "When will you be home? Do you have money? Where are you staying?" he questioned. Without much fanfare I informed my dad that I'd be home in a few days and asked if he'd pick me up at the airport. I don't remember much about the arrangements, but I suspect my dad bought my return airline ticket. And my sister picked me up at the airport wanting to know all about my exciting escapade. She also told how angry and sad my parents really were. I felt awful for having disappointed them -- and myself.
Upon returning from my runaway adventure, my parents had serious questions for me. I shared how miserable I'd been at college and, I was encouraged to find that my parents would support me despite their disappointment with my behavior. They encouraged me to return to finish my last semester at K.U., and gently suggested that I transfer to a smaller university in Missouri (which is where I was from). I did just that, although it wasn't easy to return to my KU friends who had lots of questions about my experience. The rest of the school year was just as penetratingly lonely and empty as the first semester, but I did try to make the best of it. Truth be told, I was way too immature to be able to handle a university setting. I was still wrestling with internal issues stemming from poor choices made in high school (but, that's for another blog).
What I learned is that problems don't disappear when you run from them. My insecurities and pains came with me to California -- and returned with me days later. I spent a lot of money and learned only that the grass isn't always greener in other places. And I learned that I, too, was only human. For all my bravado, inside I was still Kathy who needed and wanted to be around people. I just wasn't ready to live alone in this great big world. The songs of the 70's made life as a flower child seem more exotic than life really was. I learned that life is what is happening at the moment, wherever we are in the present. We have choices and it is maturity and wisdom that help us to make wise decisions.
Whenever I hear a 70's song about living a free life in California, I smile. Freedom is here and now. I just didn't know it back then.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Hole-Hearted to Whole-Hearted
As a toddler my dad was physically abused and emotionally neglected. Dad shared some of his early memories with me just a few years before he died. One day my grandfather beat my grandmother enough to send her into a hospital for several weeks, then placed my dad and a younger sister in an orphanage. My great-grandparents would eventually pull both children from this place and raise them.
Dad worked hard to be successful in life . I think he was trying to fill the holes in his heart. I think we all have some spaces in our hearts that long to be filled, too. For my dad and I, acquiring 'things' was what seemed to temporarily fill those empty places.
As an adult I would seek the help of counselors to learn new coping strategies for life. I had to learn how to be content with myself and with life. For many years I sought to fill the voids in my heart with material possessions. I'm sure Rick cringed whenever I'd announce, "I'm going to Walmart," for he knew how easily money could slip through my fingers in the early years of our marriage!
My parents clearly loved and raised me in a comfortable home with many benefits of my dad's hard work. So why, then, was I discontented? I think my personality was such that it craved more of everything -- more love, more stuff and more acceptance. And I didn't really know God very well. As I matured, I began to learn that not one thing was going to help me feel more content and comfortable with myself. And I slowly learned to accept myself for who I was, and, to learn contentment with my station in life.
Paul writes in his letter to the Philippians, "I have learned to be content in all things. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do all this through Him who gives me strength." (Philippians 4: 11-13)
I am still learning to be content in all my circumstances. Yes, my Toyota has 185,000 miles on it, but it is a very nice car. Yes, I'd like to paint my house a new color, but now is not the time. Others may find their own solutions for the holes in their heart, but for me, I've discovered that what fills my heart is my dependence on God. Only He can bring true contentment and peace to my soul.
Dad worked hard to be successful in life . I think he was trying to fill the holes in his heart. I think we all have some spaces in our hearts that long to be filled, too. For my dad and I, acquiring 'things' was what seemed to temporarily fill those empty places.
As an adult I would seek the help of counselors to learn new coping strategies for life. I had to learn how to be content with myself and with life. For many years I sought to fill the voids in my heart with material possessions. I'm sure Rick cringed whenever I'd announce, "I'm going to Walmart," for he knew how easily money could slip through my fingers in the early years of our marriage!
My parents clearly loved and raised me in a comfortable home with many benefits of my dad's hard work. So why, then, was I discontented? I think my personality was such that it craved more of everything -- more love, more stuff and more acceptance. And I didn't really know God very well. As I matured, I began to learn that not one thing was going to help me feel more content and comfortable with myself. And I slowly learned to accept myself for who I was, and, to learn contentment with my station in life.
Paul writes in his letter to the Philippians, "I have learned to be content in all things. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do all this through Him who gives me strength." (Philippians 4: 11-13)
I am still learning to be content in all my circumstances. Yes, my Toyota has 185,000 miles on it, but it is a very nice car. Yes, I'd like to paint my house a new color, but now is not the time. Others may find their own solutions for the holes in their heart, but for me, I've discovered that what fills my heart is my dependence on God. Only He can bring true contentment and peace to my soul.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Schoolbus Bullies
The yellow school bus bounced along the tree lined street. The year was 1966. Still sleepy and not always looking forward to the long day at school, we were usually quiet during the morning rides. Every morning our school bus driver would pick up students along the familiar routes and bounce us to Martin City Elementary School. The rowdy boys usually sat in the back rows along with a few more socially mature girls. The quieter and more serious students most often sat towards the front of the bus where it was typically a little safer. This year we had Mr. Lane as our bus driver. He was nice but never in control. When the boys in the back tossed spitwads his way, Mr. Lane just kept driving. Occasionally he'd glance in his rearview mirror to scowl at the merry pranksters.
Towards the end of our bus route there were some children who lived in a dilapidated white farm house. It was probably built in the early 1900's. There was a genuine storm shelter and a small barn structure which housed real farm animals. Further back on their property was a small fishing pond. What was most distinctive about these kids, however, wasn't that they lived in such an old farmhouse, but that they appeared to be authentic Indians. An older girl, probably 5th or 6th grade, a young sister and younger brother would literally run from the farmhouse side door to catch the school bus every morning. Wearing their hair in long braids, the girls wore bright colored clothes. The boy wore corduro pants, a plaid shirt with snap buttons and a short leather vest with fringe. They would scramble up the steps of the bus, jump over the large band instrument cases, then turn to face the rest of us already seated.
The three Indian children never smiled and only talked to one another. Their faces showed little emotion -- grave & serious at the same time. The children moved down the aisle looking for somewhere to sit. Others would scoot in their seats from the windows to the aisles in an effort to prevent the Indian children from sitting down beside them. After the younger two found seats, the eldest would most often simply stand close-by staring stoically straight ahead. Sometimes all three had to stand while the busy bumped its way to school! I wondered why Mr. Lane didn't stop the school bus so someone would have to move aside to let this girl sit down!
I felt awfully sorry for these children. But I wasn't strongest enough to take a stand for them. I tried to make eye contact in an effort to convey, "I'm really sorry," but more often than naught I wasn't very successful. Once we did make eye contact enough to look into each other's eyes for a brief moment --and I could see anger. It scared me.
The family must have moved that summer because they didn't ride the school bus the next year. The following year that white farmhouse was demolished. Mr. Lane continued to drive for us, and eventually retired. The boys in the back continued to make trouble and those of us in front tried to ignore the spitballs being thrown from behind.
I've often thought of those three Indian children. Where did they go? How did their lives turn out? Did the rest of their school years turn out as ugly as those times on the bus?
I wish I could've had the courage to sit alone and let one of the Indian children sit beside me. Or perhaps I could have shouted to the rest of my friends, "Hey, move over! Let these kids have a place to sit, too!" To my shame, I neither shouted my concerns nor sat alone to leave space for one of the Indian children to sit. My root fear was facing the same persecution from my bus-mates that the Indian children had endured.
My hope is that growing older has given me the skills and wisdom to know when it's time to take a stand for someone else. In our world, we still have gross injustices happening all around us. My prayer is that I will be strong and courageous when such times arise.
I am reminded of what's known as the Golden Rule which says, "Do unto others as you want others to do unto you." This is actually a bible verse from the book of Matthew, chapter 7, verse 12. As I grow older it becomes more important to me that I respond to others with great kindness and courtesy. Hopefully those ostracized children forgave the whole busload of us and were able to extend kindness to others despite their frank persecution.
Towards the end of our bus route there were some children who lived in a dilapidated white farm house. It was probably built in the early 1900's. There was a genuine storm shelter and a small barn structure which housed real farm animals. Further back on their property was a small fishing pond. What was most distinctive about these kids, however, wasn't that they lived in such an old farmhouse, but that they appeared to be authentic Indians. An older girl, probably 5th or 6th grade, a young sister and younger brother would literally run from the farmhouse side door to catch the school bus every morning. Wearing their hair in long braids, the girls wore bright colored clothes. The boy wore corduro pants, a plaid shirt with snap buttons and a short leather vest with fringe. They would scramble up the steps of the bus, jump over the large band instrument cases, then turn to face the rest of us already seated.
The three Indian children never smiled and only talked to one another. Their faces showed little emotion -- grave & serious at the same time. The children moved down the aisle looking for somewhere to sit. Others would scoot in their seats from the windows to the aisles in an effort to prevent the Indian children from sitting down beside them. After the younger two found seats, the eldest would most often simply stand close-by staring stoically straight ahead. Sometimes all three had to stand while the busy bumped its way to school! I wondered why Mr. Lane didn't stop the school bus so someone would have to move aside to let this girl sit down!
I felt awfully sorry for these children. But I wasn't strongest enough to take a stand for them. I tried to make eye contact in an effort to convey, "I'm really sorry," but more often than naught I wasn't very successful. Once we did make eye contact enough to look into each other's eyes for a brief moment --and I could see anger. It scared me.
The family must have moved that summer because they didn't ride the school bus the next year. The following year that white farmhouse was demolished. Mr. Lane continued to drive for us, and eventually retired. The boys in the back continued to make trouble and those of us in front tried to ignore the spitballs being thrown from behind.
I've often thought of those three Indian children. Where did they go? How did their lives turn out? Did the rest of their school years turn out as ugly as those times on the bus?
I wish I could've had the courage to sit alone and let one of the Indian children sit beside me. Or perhaps I could have shouted to the rest of my friends, "Hey, move over! Let these kids have a place to sit, too!" To my shame, I neither shouted my concerns nor sat alone to leave space for one of the Indian children to sit. My root fear was facing the same persecution from my bus-mates that the Indian children had endured.
My hope is that growing older has given me the skills and wisdom to know when it's time to take a stand for someone else. In our world, we still have gross injustices happening all around us. My prayer is that I will be strong and courageous when such times arise.
I am reminded of what's known as the Golden Rule which says, "Do unto others as you want others to do unto you." This is actually a bible verse from the book of Matthew, chapter 7, verse 12. As I grow older it becomes more important to me that I respond to others with great kindness and courtesy. Hopefully those ostracized children forgave the whole busload of us and were able to extend kindness to others despite their frank persecution.
Monday, February 13, 2012
One Glance - A Forever Memory
Glancing at one another from across our high school cafeteria, we connected for one brief moment. There He stood by the entrance to our school gymnasium wearing a gold and royal blue letter jacket, laughing with some friends. "What a nice smile," I thought to myself, "And sparkly eyes, too". Fleeting though this look was, I remember this moment like it was yesterday. And the funny thing is that Rick remembers this glance, too.
Our brief encounter was just that. It was a cold and wintry February Friday Basketball Night. Because I was talking with a handsome Someone Else, I turned away and forgot about Rick. We wouldn't see one another for another ten years and probably didn't think about one another either. We were both busy trying to position ourselves as successful young adults in the post-education era. Both of us lived chaotic lives. We were living life with reckless abandon -- and I do mean reckless!
During these years I dated several young men. For one reason or another, none of these relationships lasted. When I was 28 years old I finished college and began working as a nurse. My plan was to stay in Kansas City for one year, then join the Navy. Yes, I had always wanted to see the world and was willing to see the world on a Naval Destroyer if necessary!
Then one night I ran into Rick while out with friends. We met in a dance bar in the Westport area of Kansas City and had our first date about a week later. We just seemed to 'click' and dated steadily from then on. One year from that fateful dance at "Guitars & Cadillacs" we were married ~~ June 6, 1987, (D-Day!) We will have been married 25 years in June.
The point I am trying to make is this: One never knows when a chance encounter will turn into something more meaningful in the future. At the time of our 'glance' in high school, Rick and I would never have guessed that we would marry ten years later. And, neither of us were looking to be married at the time of our second encounter. God knew better, though. He gave us just one glance -- just one glance to remember for a lifetime. 1986 was the perfect time for the two of us to meet and, the next year, marry. Our rebellious youth would be replaced with a quieter, more settled life. We would tackle the next 25 years together -- as God intended us to do.
I love you, Rick. Happy Valentine's Day!
Our brief encounter was just that. It was a cold and wintry February Friday Basketball Night. Because I was talking with a handsome Someone Else, I turned away and forgot about Rick. We wouldn't see one another for another ten years and probably didn't think about one another either. We were both busy trying to position ourselves as successful young adults in the post-education era. Both of us lived chaotic lives. We were living life with reckless abandon -- and I do mean reckless!
During these years I dated several young men. For one reason or another, none of these relationships lasted. When I was 28 years old I finished college and began working as a nurse. My plan was to stay in Kansas City for one year, then join the Navy. Yes, I had always wanted to see the world and was willing to see the world on a Naval Destroyer if necessary!
Then one night I ran into Rick while out with friends. We met in a dance bar in the Westport area of Kansas City and had our first date about a week later. We just seemed to 'click' and dated steadily from then on. One year from that fateful dance at "Guitars & Cadillacs" we were married ~~ June 6, 1987, (D-Day!) We will have been married 25 years in June.
The point I am trying to make is this: One never knows when a chance encounter will turn into something more meaningful in the future. At the time of our 'glance' in high school, Rick and I would never have guessed that we would marry ten years later. And, neither of us were looking to be married at the time of our second encounter. God knew better, though. He gave us just one glance -- just one glance to remember for a lifetime. 1986 was the perfect time for the two of us to meet and, the next year, marry. Our rebellious youth would be replaced with a quieter, more settled life. We would tackle the next 25 years together -- as God intended us to do.
I love you, Rick. Happy Valentine's Day!
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Beautiful and Bald
"Do not let your adorning be external -- the braiding of hair and the putting on of gold jewelry, or the clothing you wear -- but let your adorning be the hidden person of the heart with the imperishable beauty of a gentle & quiet spirit, which in God's sight is very precious." ~~ 1 Peter 3: 3-4
I knew this day would come. One balmy January day, while playing in the park with Rick & our children, I noticed strands of my hair lightly floating away in the breeze as the wind whipped around my head. Four year old Megan was calling to me, "Mommy, Mommy, watch! Watch me cross the monkey bars all by myself!" But I was only half listening as I reached up to feel the hair on my head. "No, not, yet," I murmured to myself. Tentatively I reached for a handful of hair and tugged. In my grasp came a clump of hair. Yes, it was time.
I can still feel the raw, emotional pain that gripped my heart that one single day in the park. Our family played for awhile longer, but Rick could see that I was distracted. He gently asked, "Are you alright?" With panic in my voice I whispered back, "No. My hair is beginning to fall out! And, I'm not gonna look very pretty for you." Inside I felt like screaming about life's unfairness and how I didn't deserve to have cancer. "Why me!?" I moaned to myself. I most certainly did NOT want to lose my hair and look like Sigourney Weaver in the "Alien" movies!
The bottom line, though, was that I would lose most of my hair within the week. Both Rick and I had tried to prepare for this moment. My precious mother bought a human-hair wig. And we bought hats & scarves with the hope of hiding my impending baldness. The truth of the matter was that I would still feel bald & ugly no matter what measures I took. All those years of perms and hair cuts seemed worthless & unnecessary in light of this new reality. Later I stood in our bathroom with the door locked pulling handfuls and handfuls of hair from my head. "Where does all this hair come from?" I wondered.
The next day I called my hairdresser to see if he would shave my head. With sorrowful eyes Eddie took me to a private stall so that others couldn't see the shaving of my head. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I watched my hair slip silently to the floor. Soon enough I was without a single strand of hair on my head. "Don't worry, Kathy," Eddie said. "I have taken care of lots of women who have lost their hair from chemo. When your hair returns, it will be thick and luxurious! Just you wait ... " His kind words brought me some measure of encouragement & hope.
I allowed only a few pictures during this season of 'no hair'. The first is a picture of me soon after my head was shaved wearing a turban-scarf. I looked pale and had dark circles beneath both eyes. There is a faint smile on my lips. I'm sitting outside on our front door step trying to play with Megan & Jeremy. It's chilly and I'm really wanting to go inside and lie down.
I remember once telling Rick just how ugly I felt without having hair. I'll never, ever forget his words to me that night. "Kathy, you are just as beautiful to me without any hair as the day I married you." I realized just how fortunate I was to have a husband like Rick. He showed me the love of God that night. He offered me an unconditional love. Humbled and grateful, I lifted a short prayer of gratitude to God for this wonderful man in my life.
The last picture taken was one of me wearing my human-hair wig. In this picture I am smiling because I'm riding the Plaza Trolley with my children and a dear friend & her children. My chemo was finished and spring was in the air =) The winds were blowing wildly that fine May day, but my wig hairs were barely moving due to hair-spray. It felt good to feel almost normal after four long months. In this picture my eyebrows are much thinned, but there were emerging baby-soft hairs on my head which offered a measure of hope for returned normalcy.
In time my hair did grow back just like Eddie said it would. It was baby soft and curly =) Oh, how lovely to have my hair once again =) I can't say that I ever truly felt beautiful without my hair, but I can tell you that I learned and began to realize that beauty is really only skin deep. During this time of loss, I realized that who I am is more than just the outward shell that others see. My true friends saw beneath the pallor. They showed me unconditional love & acceptance for just being me. And by their genuine love I grew to appreciate myself even without hair on my head. Rick's love was unconditional and I began to heal internally with his free no-strings-attached gift.
Now when I see someone who appears to be in the throes of chemo, I utter a short, silent prayer and (sometimes) introduce myself as "someone who's lost their hair, too". It's amazing to see their smile and to feel an instant connection. Then I offer them the same comfort that Eddie offered me years ago, ... "When your hair returns, it will probably return baby soft and curly ... and you are gorgeous even today without your hair."
I knew this day would come. One balmy January day, while playing in the park with Rick & our children, I noticed strands of my hair lightly floating away in the breeze as the wind whipped around my head. Four year old Megan was calling to me, "Mommy, Mommy, watch! Watch me cross the monkey bars all by myself!" But I was only half listening as I reached up to feel the hair on my head. "No, not, yet," I murmured to myself. Tentatively I reached for a handful of hair and tugged. In my grasp came a clump of hair. Yes, it was time.
I can still feel the raw, emotional pain that gripped my heart that one single day in the park. Our family played for awhile longer, but Rick could see that I was distracted. He gently asked, "Are you alright?" With panic in my voice I whispered back, "No. My hair is beginning to fall out! And, I'm not gonna look very pretty for you." Inside I felt like screaming about life's unfairness and how I didn't deserve to have cancer. "Why me!?" I moaned to myself. I most certainly did NOT want to lose my hair and look like Sigourney Weaver in the "Alien" movies!
The bottom line, though, was that I would lose most of my hair within the week. Both Rick and I had tried to prepare for this moment. My precious mother bought a human-hair wig. And we bought hats & scarves with the hope of hiding my impending baldness. The truth of the matter was that I would still feel bald & ugly no matter what measures I took. All those years of perms and hair cuts seemed worthless & unnecessary in light of this new reality. Later I stood in our bathroom with the door locked pulling handfuls and handfuls of hair from my head. "Where does all this hair come from?" I wondered.
The next day I called my hairdresser to see if he would shave my head. With sorrowful eyes Eddie took me to a private stall so that others couldn't see the shaving of my head. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I watched my hair slip silently to the floor. Soon enough I was without a single strand of hair on my head. "Don't worry, Kathy," Eddie said. "I have taken care of lots of women who have lost their hair from chemo. When your hair returns, it will be thick and luxurious! Just you wait ... " His kind words brought me some measure of encouragement & hope.
I allowed only a few pictures during this season of 'no hair'. The first is a picture of me soon after my head was shaved wearing a turban-scarf. I looked pale and had dark circles beneath both eyes. There is a faint smile on my lips. I'm sitting outside on our front door step trying to play with Megan & Jeremy. It's chilly and I'm really wanting to go inside and lie down.
I remember once telling Rick just how ugly I felt without having hair. I'll never, ever forget his words to me that night. "Kathy, you are just as beautiful to me without any hair as the day I married you." I realized just how fortunate I was to have a husband like Rick. He showed me the love of God that night. He offered me an unconditional love. Humbled and grateful, I lifted a short prayer of gratitude to God for this wonderful man in my life.
The last picture taken was one of me wearing my human-hair wig. In this picture I am smiling because I'm riding the Plaza Trolley with my children and a dear friend & her children. My chemo was finished and spring was in the air =) The winds were blowing wildly that fine May day, but my wig hairs were barely moving due to hair-spray. It felt good to feel almost normal after four long months. In this picture my eyebrows are much thinned, but there were emerging baby-soft hairs on my head which offered a measure of hope for returned normalcy.
In time my hair did grow back just like Eddie said it would. It was baby soft and curly =) Oh, how lovely to have my hair once again =) I can't say that I ever truly felt beautiful without my hair, but I can tell you that I learned and began to realize that beauty is really only skin deep. During this time of loss, I realized that who I am is more than just the outward shell that others see. My true friends saw beneath the pallor. They showed me unconditional love & acceptance for just being me. And by their genuine love I grew to appreciate myself even without hair on my head. Rick's love was unconditional and I began to heal internally with his free no-strings-attached gift.
Now when I see someone who appears to be in the throes of chemo, I utter a short, silent prayer and (sometimes) introduce myself as "someone who's lost their hair, too". It's amazing to see their smile and to feel an instant connection. Then I offer them the same comfort that Eddie offered me years ago, ... "When your hair returns, it will probably return baby soft and curly ... and you are gorgeous even today without your hair."
Friday, January 20, 2012
Lonely, But Not Alone
Feeling uncharacteristically dejected and lonely, I found myself sitting in our bedroom closet one afternoon with a box of Kleenex. I was a busy mother of three, ages 15 through 8, wife, sister and daughter to a recently widowed mother. To sit down and reflect is not part of my nature. To be active and perform tasks is more my bent. So to be sitting on the carpeted floor of my closet with tears streaming down my face was unusual. Lonely was a new emotion for me.
I missed having girlfriends to spend time with. I missed having playdates and lunch with others. I wondered, "What had I done to cause this emptiness?" I realized that I believed myself to be the root reason for not having friends. "If only I were a better friend to others," I muttered to myself, "Who would want to be friends with me, anyway?"
What had happened to those friends from earlier years? Well, one dear friend moved to the another state. Another friend grew busy with her ever-expanding brood of children. A third friend stopped calling when I began chemotherapy treatment for cancer. But a fourth friend hurt me the most by simply walking away from our friendship without even so much as a word of departure. I was crushed by the end of this friendship and was thinking about this loss while sitting in my closet that day.
I realized that this season of being friendless was something I would need to endure. It seemed that no amount of work on my part was able to break the invisible glass dome that separated me from others. From now on, I vowed, I would learn to be comfortable with myself.
I began spending more time doing activities that filled me with a sense of accomplishment. My prayers changed from being me-focused to other-focused. Spending time in the morning reading the Bible and praying became more important to me. Several verses helped find peace during this time ... "For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord. Plans to give you a hope and a future," says Jeremiah 29:11. And, "We know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to his purpose," as written in the book of Romans.
I quit trying so hard to make friends. I asked God to help me see myself as He saw me. I had lost several close friends within a short period of time, and now blamed myself for their departures. Insecurity and fear of people not liking me had kept me in bondage and had probably kept me from making new friends as well. I worried that new friends would leave me if they really knew me. Still, I prayed for the chance to make new friends ~~ in God's time.
I learned to establish healthy boundaries for myself, learned how to be comfortable with being alone, and learned that I was never really truly alone. I just needed to lean into God more. In time, I grew more confident & at peace with my station in life.
In the course of another year I did begin to build friendships once again. Today my friendships are deeply cherished and I take great care to let my friends know that they are appreciated. I hope that my efforts to be a good friend cause others to appreciate themselves as well. God has blessed me with many friends. I hope that my love for others is received as being warm & genuine.
I missed having girlfriends to spend time with. I missed having playdates and lunch with others. I wondered, "What had I done to cause this emptiness?" I realized that I believed myself to be the root reason for not having friends. "If only I were a better friend to others," I muttered to myself, "Who would want to be friends with me, anyway?"
What had happened to those friends from earlier years? Well, one dear friend moved to the another state. Another friend grew busy with her ever-expanding brood of children. A third friend stopped calling when I began chemotherapy treatment for cancer. But a fourth friend hurt me the most by simply walking away from our friendship without even so much as a word of departure. I was crushed by the end of this friendship and was thinking about this loss while sitting in my closet that day.
I realized that this season of being friendless was something I would need to endure. It seemed that no amount of work on my part was able to break the invisible glass dome that separated me from others. From now on, I vowed, I would learn to be comfortable with myself.
I began spending more time doing activities that filled me with a sense of accomplishment. My prayers changed from being me-focused to other-focused. Spending time in the morning reading the Bible and praying became more important to me. Several verses helped find peace during this time ... "For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord. Plans to give you a hope and a future," says Jeremiah 29:11. And, "We know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to his purpose," as written in the book of Romans.
I quit trying so hard to make friends. I asked God to help me see myself as He saw me. I had lost several close friends within a short period of time, and now blamed myself for their departures. Insecurity and fear of people not liking me had kept me in bondage and had probably kept me from making new friends as well. I worried that new friends would leave me if they really knew me. Still, I prayed for the chance to make new friends ~~ in God's time.
I learned to establish healthy boundaries for myself, learned how to be comfortable with being alone, and learned that I was never really truly alone. I just needed to lean into God more. In time, I grew more confident & at peace with my station in life.
In the course of another year I did begin to build friendships once again. Today my friendships are deeply cherished and I take great care to let my friends know that they are appreciated. I hope that my efforts to be a good friend cause others to appreciate themselves as well. God has blessed me with many friends. I hope that my love for others is received as being warm & genuine.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Cancer -- A New Kind of Normal
It was 1996 when I received a phone call. "Is your husband at home with you?" asked my surgeon. Instinctively I knew the results from my recent biopsy weren't good. Outside our two children were playing in the backyard. Jeremy, who had just turned four years old and had recently been diagnosed with autism, was swinging on the teeter-totter and Megan, our bright & chatty five year old, was actively scooping sand into little buckets for sand house construction. Although it was the second week in January, the weather was balmy and unseasonably warm ~~ like the past few days in Kansas City this year.
Immediately I knew that the news my surgeon was going to deliver wasn't good. Instinctively I grabbed for the back of a chair to lean upon (for support). "Yes, he is," I stammered. "The report came back positive for cancer, didn't it?" Short pause. "I won't discuss this on the phone, Kathy. If you want the results, you and Rick will need to come to my office this afternoon." It was a Saturday.
It's amazing the way our brains handle information like this. Looking back, I can only tell you that it felt like free-falling into a dark crevice. In total shock, I called out to Rick and hastily told him what my surgeon had said. We moved quickly like automated robots. First, call my parents. Second, call my sister who lives in St. Louis. Gather our children together and explain how much fun they were going to have at their grandparent's house. Shortly after, Rick and I stood outside the door waving "good-bye" to them as my parents drive away. Time for a good cry, "What if it's cancer, Rick," I wailed. "I'm too young to die! This can't be happening to me! What will we do?"
It was 1996 and I was 36 years old. To my knowledge no one in my family has had cancer except for a couple distant relatives. A few weeks earlier, I had detected the thick lump. Radiographic images showed nothing, but a biopsy that we had lobbied for revealed otherwise.
Over the next several months I would undergo major surgery followed by four months of chemotherapy. It was grueling to say the least. With each successful treatment I grew more despondent and frail. I only allowed three pictures to be taken of me while bald. One was me with a scarf and hat sitting outside with Jeremy on a fairly warm March day, one was me sitting on our front porch with a wrap-around scarf covering my head, and the last one was with me wearing my "Texas Big" human hair wig. I grew more pale with each treatment. There were very dark circles beneath my eyes. My recovery from each chemotherapy injection could be measured by looking at my tongue. It would turn a ghastly white by the second day, then slowly return to pink when my body began it's attempt to rebuild cells before the next round of medicine assaulted, again. Food tasted dull. I felt ugly and less human. Although Rick told me that I was beautiful even without hair, it was embarrassing to go out in public knowing that others looked at me with pity.
Upon reflection I realized that this season in life may have been very difficult, but it was also strangely rewarding. For years I had worked my life away ~~ as a wife, mother, worker and so on. I was one of those people who gained self-worth by doing things and accomplishing tasks. During my time of treatment I did very little besides rest in bed, watch TV and take lots of hot baths when the restlessness grew extreme. Oh sure, there were weeks when my energy returned, but I was never able to fully take on the demands of taking care of my family by myself. And that is where I learned two valuable lessons...
... First, I learned that God often works through others when we're not able to care for ourselves. It was amazing! People just seemed to step-in to help our family. Our family received four meals a week for almost five months. (Thank you, Janet.) My parents hired a wonderful woman who cleaned our little ranch home like it was her own. (Thank you, Mom & Dad.) People brought me gifts, helped run errands, took Jeremy to his special preschool, had Megan over to play (often) ... prayed with me, sang for me (thank you, Lisa), massaged my feet, and the list goes on and on.
One special friendship developed as a result of my cancer ~~ both of us young cancer survivors. We forged a deep and abiding friendship that remains to this day. While many others in similar circumstances have died, Miriam and I lived to tell others about our incredible journey & to encourage others. (Miriam, I love you like a sister.) My younger sister, Judy, and I also grew closer while weathering this experience. Together, my sister, Miriam and I, we share the kind of love that appreciates life just a little more fully knowing that our lives are not to be taken for granted... and that binds us together for life.
Second, I learned that God really did love me. I guess I learned this as I was receiving love from others. A very dear friend of ours offered this bible verse to me to reflect upon: "(God) who comforts us in all our suffering, so that we may be able to comfort others in all their suffering ... as we, ourselves, were comforted by God." (II Corinthians 1:4) I began thinking that maybe there were reasons why God allowed my body to develop this cancer. Early on I vowed to dedicate my life to encouraging and loving others up in support whenever the need arose ~~ if I lived beyond this diagnosis of cancer. It seemed to me that God was asking me to be strong and lean into Him so that I could later help others walk through their own 'valleys of despair'. This verse gave me hope and encouragement.
I would struggle through this episode of cancer for many years. It wasn't easy to move beyond the pain & uncertainty of life. But I did learn that we have a higher purpose in life than simply living comfortably and enjoying the bounties of our hard work. Sixteen years later I am still awed that God would allow me to live. Perhaps He knew how much more work was to be done in my life. As yet, I am still 'unfinished business' trying to learn & grow through life as a Christian.
Immediately I knew that the news my surgeon was going to deliver wasn't good. Instinctively I grabbed for the back of a chair to lean upon (for support). "Yes, he is," I stammered. "The report came back positive for cancer, didn't it?" Short pause. "I won't discuss this on the phone, Kathy. If you want the results, you and Rick will need to come to my office this afternoon." It was a Saturday.
It's amazing the way our brains handle information like this. Looking back, I can only tell you that it felt like free-falling into a dark crevice. In total shock, I called out to Rick and hastily told him what my surgeon had said. We moved quickly like automated robots. First, call my parents. Second, call my sister who lives in St. Louis. Gather our children together and explain how much fun they were going to have at their grandparent's house. Shortly after, Rick and I stood outside the door waving "good-bye" to them as my parents drive away. Time for a good cry, "What if it's cancer, Rick," I wailed. "I'm too young to die! This can't be happening to me! What will we do?"
It was 1996 and I was 36 years old. To my knowledge no one in my family has had cancer except for a couple distant relatives. A few weeks earlier, I had detected the thick lump. Radiographic images showed nothing, but a biopsy that we had lobbied for revealed otherwise.
Over the next several months I would undergo major surgery followed by four months of chemotherapy. It was grueling to say the least. With each successful treatment I grew more despondent and frail. I only allowed three pictures to be taken of me while bald. One was me with a scarf and hat sitting outside with Jeremy on a fairly warm March day, one was me sitting on our front porch with a wrap-around scarf covering my head, and the last one was with me wearing my "Texas Big" human hair wig. I grew more pale with each treatment. There were very dark circles beneath my eyes. My recovery from each chemotherapy injection could be measured by looking at my tongue. It would turn a ghastly white by the second day, then slowly return to pink when my body began it's attempt to rebuild cells before the next round of medicine assaulted, again. Food tasted dull. I felt ugly and less human. Although Rick told me that I was beautiful even without hair, it was embarrassing to go out in public knowing that others looked at me with pity.
Upon reflection I realized that this season in life may have been very difficult, but it was also strangely rewarding. For years I had worked my life away ~~ as a wife, mother, worker and so on. I was one of those people who gained self-worth by doing things and accomplishing tasks. During my time of treatment I did very little besides rest in bed, watch TV and take lots of hot baths when the restlessness grew extreme. Oh sure, there were weeks when my energy returned, but I was never able to fully take on the demands of taking care of my family by myself. And that is where I learned two valuable lessons...
... First, I learned that God often works through others when we're not able to care for ourselves. It was amazing! People just seemed to step-in to help our family. Our family received four meals a week for almost five months. (Thank you, Janet.) My parents hired a wonderful woman who cleaned our little ranch home like it was her own. (Thank you, Mom & Dad.) People brought me gifts, helped run errands, took Jeremy to his special preschool, had Megan over to play (often) ... prayed with me, sang for me (thank you, Lisa), massaged my feet, and the list goes on and on.
One special friendship developed as a result of my cancer ~~ both of us young cancer survivors. We forged a deep and abiding friendship that remains to this day. While many others in similar circumstances have died, Miriam and I lived to tell others about our incredible journey & to encourage others. (Miriam, I love you like a sister.) My younger sister, Judy, and I also grew closer while weathering this experience. Together, my sister, Miriam and I, we share the kind of love that appreciates life just a little more fully knowing that our lives are not to be taken for granted... and that binds us together for life.
Second, I learned that God really did love me. I guess I learned this as I was receiving love from others. A very dear friend of ours offered this bible verse to me to reflect upon: "(God) who comforts us in all our suffering, so that we may be able to comfort others in all their suffering ... as we, ourselves, were comforted by God." (II Corinthians 1:4) I began thinking that maybe there were reasons why God allowed my body to develop this cancer. Early on I vowed to dedicate my life to encouraging and loving others up in support whenever the need arose ~~ if I lived beyond this diagnosis of cancer. It seemed to me that God was asking me to be strong and lean into Him so that I could later help others walk through their own 'valleys of despair'. This verse gave me hope and encouragement.
I would struggle through this episode of cancer for many years. It wasn't easy to move beyond the pain & uncertainty of life. But I did learn that we have a higher purpose in life than simply living comfortably and enjoying the bounties of our hard work. Sixteen years later I am still awed that God would allow me to live. Perhaps He knew how much more work was to be done in my life. As yet, I am still 'unfinished business' trying to learn & grow through life as a Christian.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)