It's Tradition

I arrived in Portland a day before my class, mainly to go to Powell City of Books--a book store so incredibly large they actually have a map of the store. A real map, one similar to a transit map for a  metropolitan area, well, at least a metropolitan area the size of Frisco, CO.

I wandered aimlessly, then focused. Searched shelves with intent as well as casual amusement. Narrowed on three books, a gift and a quick exit before spending above more than my pocketbook would allow.

I arrived in Pioneer Square to watch the lighting of the Christmas Tree.

I have long since converted to Judaism and decorating and lighting up a Christmas tree an activity of my past, lost is the tradition of my childhood. Serving me now only memory.

I'm born December 23rd so my childhood was short on birthday parties and rich in Christmas tradition - a "birthday month" where most years  my birthday was buried in red and green wrapping paper and pecan and pumpkin pies. But hunting out the tree from a lot of spruce and pine, scented in cinnamon-spiced cider, listening to Christmas carols was fun. We often went as a family. Sometimes we even cut our own tree from one of those come-select-cut tree farms. At home the great untangling of tiny little white, red, green, and blue lights began. Ornaments hung. A beautiful mom-hand-sewn angel-like doll on top. The tree became a sanctuary of peace. Looking at the lights and watching as piles of gifts surrounding it's trunk began to build. Chocolate chip cookies and milk left for Santa. Fighting to stay awake the night before Christmas, eventually overcome by sleep. Christmas day my brother and I pouncing on my parent's bed "wake up! wake up!" In a moment all that's left is piles of wrapping paper, bows and ribbons askew, my brother and I setting up new games with new toys - "where Barbi meets Luke Skywalker". In our house, Barbi never dated Ken, but she was often tight with Yoga. The tree still lit.

I still remember sitting by the tree, watching its lights tinkle on and off and sometime watching an entire strand of lights go off, for good.

Today I don't know whether I believe Jesus has already come to save us or Isaiah is coming to save us. Likely my beliefs fall somewhere else altogether. But what I do know and I do believe is that tradition is the glue that holds us together.

Ouch

My shoulder surgeon suggested that my shoulder surgery would be one of the worst pains I would experience. I said there was no way a shoulder surgery would be worst than a bilateral radical mastectomy. Turns out I was right. Perhaps it is more than just the physical surgery that makes the mastectomy worse. I don't know. This shoulder surgery seems to be a breeze, a simple 2 out of 10 pain and nothing a couple of Tylenol and a chocolate chip cookie can't fix.

I looked forward to the surgery. I knew that I would be better from surgery, not worse, not left contemplating "what next?" in my life. Just well. Able to do vinyasa flow and down dog and lift weights and all the stuff that has evaded me for the past several years.

Today I walked in and out of all the stores in Frisco. Stores I heard of but have never visited. We have some great little shops in Frisco. I walked into one store without a customer in the store yet four staff and not one of them said a word to me. I walked into the very next store with only one employee and three customers and the employee managed to say hi to all of us. I suppose the clerks just assumed I would not buy anything and most certainly not try anything on. After all, I was in a shoulder sling. Pity really as they did have some really nice things and I won't be a shoulder sling forever and I do live right down the street, but I likely will never go into that store again.

Monday I receive an MRI on the right shoulder and on Wednesday I find out if my right shoulder can borrow the sling from the left shoulder in November. And for the rest of the year I'm going to  squeeze every penny from my health insurance as my deductible has been met! And for the past several years I've gotten to pay my deductible along with my premiums every year! Ahh, but as my neighbor once said to me "I get to...". When I think about it, that is a grand thing that I'm able to do.

I'm "wine"-ing now!

Over the course of the last five years I've lost a lot --  my boobies, ovaries, uterus, cervix, even my fallopian tubes! And I've gained a lot -- 30 pounds around my middle! (Cancer, have I had a chance to thank you yet for that?)

I feel like I've done a good job at embracing my new vitality. I still hike, swim, play, lots of play. But here is where I have to draw the line -- I can no longer drink wine, or any alcohol for that matter. Not that I am a huge drinker, because I'm not. But it is nice to go for a glass of wine. A wine bar opened in Bozeman when I was living there. I used to meet with a friend of mine over wine and cheese, watch the hustle and bustle of guests getting the street beat from the locals at the bar. It was fun. And definitely would not be the same sipping on a tall glass of water!

Just one glass of wine - red or white, there is no discrimination - and I cannot sleep. I wake up sluggish with swollen eyes. Really?

I have a choice to make: sluggish and sloshed or a tall glass of water with lemon. I've been battling this for the past year. I have to say, even though it is not a big deal (I drink two to three times a month) it is the last thing I want to surrender to cancer.

I may go to war a few more times over a glass of chablis, kicking and screaming the whole way.

Here's a toast &^%! cancer!