Facing the Wall

Obstacles. Fences. Walls. Roadblocks. Diversions. Challenges.

We maneuver around them daily. Sometimes with great skill and confidence. Sometimes bumbling along, bouncing into the roadblock headfirst a few times before working out a path to the other side.

When going through chemo, I felt fenced. In December 2009, my third month of chemo, I got through one treatment with a Hungry Cow Mentality. Head down, with a few strong kicks.

This week I faced a Wall. Working out with my team at the YMCA, we took on the challenge of climbing the rock wall; it soared to the ceiling of the gym. I have quietly wanted to attempt this since I turned 40; then I thought at 45 I would try it. But I was working on the aforementioned fence around that time. And since then, I have what I affectionately term a chicken arm: The underside of my upper arm has no feeling and the entire arm is slightly swollen. From surgery to remove lymph nodes, the nerves were shuffled around, so that wiggly part that most women hate, I can’t feel. I look at it and see a lifeless chicken wing.

Dressed in our team’s neon yellow shirt, I arrive early with my team mates. This is good, I think to myself. I will hoist this body with this arm at least two feet up the wall, see what it feels like, identify what muscles need to grow to make the climb to the top possible in the future. I did it! I made it two feet up the wall! My grips were strong, so I went a bit farther. I made one stretch with my left arm that was a little too big, but I had three other appendages firmly attached to the wall. I reversed that move and looked for a closer rock for the fingers of my chicken arm to latch onto. Holding that position for a bit, I let the sting of over-extension subside. I adjusted my sights and focused on the rocks that were comfortably within my reach. I saw the top three feet away. I felt a scrambling sensation. I felt my muscles twinge. I felt strong.

I slapped the top of that wall and yelled, “I DID IT! I MADE IT!” With the anchor man holding me in my harness, I clamored down the wall.

My body was shaking when I made it to the bottom. My fingers from the gripping. My legs from the energy they put forth. My biceps, both of them, from exerting power.

Focused on the weakness of my chicken wing and slightly swollen arm, I had not given much thought to the potential power in that arm: the bicep, the forearm, and my fingers.

Hidden strength. Combined strength of the whole was bigger than the weakness of one part.

Staying strong, Linda

Grandma's Funeral

Grandma passed away last Thursday, four hours after I sent Scrabble Grandma. Bill and I made the decision that the boys should go to the funeral, so I took them to Iowa last Saturday. The visitation was Sunday afternoon and the funeral was on Monday.

When I got the news about Grandma, I waited 12 hours to tell the boys that Grandma had died. It took that long to work out what to say to them. Grandma lived a very long time and her body was worn out. We were going back to Iowa for Grandma’s “funeral” – a celebration of her life. Grandma’s soul was in heaven, but Grandma didn’t need her body in heaven. The funeral is one way for people to say good-bye to Grandma’s body. Grandma would look like she was sleeping in a box called a casket.

How did Grandma die? Grandma’s kidneys failed. The kidneys are a major organ and those organs need to work together. When one fails, they all begin to fail. Did it hurt? No, the doctors gave Grandma pain medicine so she wouldn’t hurt. She died while she was sleeping – but only because her major organs were worn out. You can live without a leg like your other great-grandma did: a leg isn’t a major organ. But kidneys, heart, and lungs, those are.

“What about a mandible, Mom? (Tee hee…) I think that’s somewhere on the head, Mom.” Liam had built up his anatomical vocabulary in a weekly human body workshop at school this spring.

At the funeral home, the flowers around Grandma’s casket weren’t flat funeral flowers. Mom said they asked the florist for garden flowers. Three bouquets of summer’s best, from roses and lilies to iris and daisies, were in perfect full bloom.

The visitation started quietly with just the immediate family before the doors opened to extended family and friends. At 95 years old, Grandma did not have many friends at the funeral. They were already waiting at the Scrabble board. Yet over 200 people came to give their condolences: family and friends that bloomed from one matriarch.

Grandma taught school before she became a mother. And long before she became a grandmother and a great grandmother to 43 grandchildren. At the visitation, I visited with cousins that I had not seen in years, and I needed introductions to their children and significant others.

Will chose not to go up to see Grandma in the casket. By the end of the day, he was walking by the casket, but he never approached it. Liam wanted to see Grandma. I was with him on the first visit when the young undertaker came over to talk to us. On bended knee, he pointed out Grandma’s pink cheeks and immediately put one hand up above his own head and one down low. He explained to Liam that he had put blush on Grandma’s face because when the heart stops pumping, blood stops circulating. After that 30-second explanation, the undertaker held his hands side-by-side: the one that had been above his head was white the one down low was very red. Liam was impressed.

Then, Liam reached out to touch Grandma’s hand. My whispered “D” in “Don’t” was overshadowed by the undertaker’s matter-of-fact, “Sure, you can touch Grandma.” So Liam touched her hand. Another time at the casket, my aunt joined Liam. They chatted a bit, and my aunt walked away. From 10 feet away I saw Liam’s mouth say, “Are you really dead, Grandma?” Later my aunt said that he told her he thought he had seen Grandma’s chest move like she was breathing. My aunt confirmed that she wasn’t alive, that she was with God. “So, it was like an optical illusion?” Liam checked in at the casket throughout the day. I followed him up a few times and ultimately decided he was just curious and didn’t need more explanation.

After the visitation, Liam confided in me some information for which I needed an oxygen mask to drop down from the heavens: “You know, Mom, I couldn’t get Grandma’s mouth open.”

After murmuring “Thank you, dear Lord,” and really meaning it, the definition of mandible hit me. Mandible… the bottom jaw.

Once a teacher, always a teacher. Grandma, thanks for that one last lesson.

 

Scrabble Grandma

My grandma, Mom’s mom, has started her journey Home. Grandma is 95 years old. She was ill in April but beat two rounds of lung infections and then a bout with an intestinal virus. Today, her body is tired. My cousin calls Grandma “Apple Grandma” because they often made apple pies together. I remember making pies with Grandma too. But, to me, she is “Scrabble Grandma.” After Sunday dinners is when the Scrabble board would come out. With a dictionary.

The shadow of time smoothens over the Sundays as they progressed through the years from her Scrabble tile rack shared with me; to my Scrabble rack shared with her; to our individual Scrabble tile racks with a bit of help at the end of the game; to pretty fierce competitors each manning our own tile racks right to the end of the game.

Through my year of breast cancer, I savored the moment when Grandma and I could sit across the table and play Scrabble again. But by the time I traveled back to Iowa after all of that, Grandma’s Scrabble days were done. Since then I have looked at Scrabble boxes with selfish anger.

Until spring break when the boys and I went back to Iowa for a belated Easter celebration. With the dinner dishes done and adults wandering around at loose ends, I found Mom’s Scrabble box, dusted it off, and rallied together four players: my sister-in-law, my sister, my mom, and me. When those letter tiles jiggled in the bag, they drew my three nieces to the table: 6-, 5-, and 2-year-olds.

Our game in April was not about the biggest word or the most points. It was about a 2-year-old counting and pulling tiles; a 5-year-old dumping the rack as she rearranged tiles; and a 6-year-old reading the word aloud that was to be played the next round. And I realized what incredible patience Grandma drew from a very deep well as her grandkids’ small fingers rummaged through her Scrabble rack throughout the last 40 years.

Grandma’s 10 fingers weren’t present at the table in April, but 70 fingers from three generations were carrying on that Sunday afternoon tradition.

Triple Word Score for 48 points, Grandma. “Heaven,” with the “H” on a Double Letter Score. May the Scrabble board be waiting.

(Grandma passed away four hours after I wrote this.  We went to Grandma's Funeral -- a whole other story that will make you smile.)

68 years

There are 68 years between the youngest member of our family, my two-year-old niece, and my dad. With every new grand child, we get to see our parents and our kids bond. Each one a little differently. During the Easter egg hunt at Mom & Dad's, my niece soon sorted out the path to many an egg: Grandpa.

While Grandpa may have started out leading the way, he was soon working to keep up with her. I followed them snapping pictures. They were in their own little world, youngest and oldest. Both enjoying the thrill of the hunt, they were wide-eyed looking for the eggs.

My niece on little feet that bounced over the ground. My dad in work boots that lightened as he followed her bounce. When she spotted an egg out of reach, she turned, put her arms up, and Grandpa lifted her to the egg. Her big blue eyes spoke to his soft blue eyes with an occasional, "Up Grandpa!"

And when it came to counting the eggs and checking for the goodies, Grandpa was just as serious about the business as my niece was. With a few hundred miles between us, I'm not often privy to those little connections between my parents and all their grand kids. I don't know what their "thing" is. But on this day, it was Easter eggs.

When my boys were two, Will looked for surprises in Grandpa's bib overall pockets, and Liam learned how to hold a pencil under his nose by curling his lip up. While 50-pound Will doesn't sit on Grandpa's lap often to dig through those pockets, Liam still runs for a pencil when Grandpa is on Skype.

I don't remember my grandpa's voice. But I still have the little red pencil he gave me the last time we talked. I was 10. I remember walking through the barnyard with him looking for all the materials to make a corncob pipe. And I can nearly taste the Dairy Queen vanilla cone that we rode 10 miles in his Oldsmobile to get after school.

Happy 4th Monday in a Row

Hello, who are you today? Is this a Hump Day-less week? I can’t bale over the hump. I’ve been in four Mondays slid together.

The Laundry Maven is a wreck searching for a black shirt because the only thing clean is a black bra. And that makes absolutely no sense because today it’s going to be sunny and 98 degrees with 97 percent humidity. Imagining a hormone-less woman dressed in black dripping with sweat as she stands outside on a beautiful, sunny day makes the Laundry Maven cringe.

The school volunteer can’t get traction on the ground and is flying like a hovercraft crashing into year-end activities and trying to avoid the 8 p.m. question, “You need a WHAT for tomorrow?”

The baseball and soccer mom… well, she never really did exist… but the stand-in is counting down the last few games and trying to orchestrate better management of baseball belts, gloves and hats. She scored BIG last night though with an ice cream run for end-of-practice treats. Maybe she can just be the ice cream Mom next year.

“MOM!! MOM!!” has given up on verbal directions and calls for action. If she wants something done, she posts bribery posters: “Surprise! If you clean out the van, empty the dishwasher, pick up the toy room, pick up your bathroom, and pick up your bedroom, you can have ½ hour of electronics this afternoon!” This is so effective she’s pounding her head on the wall for all the words she has been draining into a black hole. Plus, Surprise Posters are much easier to manage than bribery star charts for a week. More pounding as she thinks of all those star magnets in her jeans pockets that the Laundry Maven has pulled from the washer and dryer.

The short-order cook is looking for the right sign to post in the kitchen. Something to the effect of take it or leave it, but don’t complain about it. And, eat protein. It’s brain food and you are a mess when you have too much sugar. She hasn't quite gotten the wording down on that one yet.

Linda Malcolm is screaming, “Hey, you stole my day!” at all of them. She gets all in a tizzy when she can’t empty her mind on paper.

All of this… like grabbing a galloping horse’s mane as it flies by or sitting in the back car of a roller coaster with my heading beating side to side and pushing my earring posts into my skull. Yes, that’s more like it. Because that is where I close my eyes and scream for the duration.

But it’s coming… Can you feel it? All this build-up? The energy whizzing in the air? All this magic we parents are making happen?

Summertime. When the living is easy. Er. Theoretically.

Happy 4th Monday in a Row.

(When summer finally arrives, so does my Hillbilly Joe.)