Milestones

I'm doing something I have not been allowed to do for over five weeks - SWEAT!!  Being unable to get rid of the lingering dizziness and headaches at times for whatever reason, I decided to go on a little walk today on the treadmill and perhaps "work-out" the leftover brain stuff from surgery.

This may impress anyone over 90 years of age, but up until now, my daily walk of one quarter mile on the treadmill was taking me an average of eleven minutes and forty-eight seconds.  You read that correctly:  1/4 mile = 11:48 time.

I had whittled that down to seven minutes and thirty seven seconds last week.  7:37.  1/4 mile.

That is one of the most pathetic statements I have made in a long time.

But in my defense, I am a bit wobbly and I was instructed sternly not to sweat.  Because, rather importantly, sweating triggers your lymph glands, and my lymph glands are now GONE in some places.

Let's not remind your body of that and cause it to make trouble.

But today, I determined, it was time to give it a try.  I improved to doing a mile in fourteen minutes.  Or sixteen minutes - I'm not sure as I had to stop when the door bell rang and the post office delivered my late, late, late Amazon.com birthday gift for a party that was on Sunday.

So, I lost track of the exact time.  But feel free to laugh loudly at this one all you who run - today's numbers were:  1 mile = approx. 15 minutes.  I have some work to do it appears.

If I were walking the local high school track, I would have been lapped four times over by 82 year old women.

I told my surgeon last week I was "doing lazy" pretty well.  So well, that if I hear one more commercial that shows a little 'insurance-general', or see 'insurance-lady-Flo', or the 'insurance lizard' -- or one - more - political - commercial, my head may very well explode even if my arm heals up nicely.

Apparently I've made it to the "after-surgery-stage" of *boredom* but *not doing anything yet*......

I went to the dentist last week and found tears on my face on the way home.  Being in a medical office was reminder of what I was missing - everyone has a job - everyone except me it seems.  I never thought it would bother me.  But much of self-worth seems to be tied up in work.

I keep seeing things I want to do, things that need to get finished, but have little "umph" in me to get them started and done.  Maybe if I felt healing up was going to get me back into life, I would be more engaging.  But there is a bit of depression lying over all things with the looming chemo sign flashing up ahead again.

I know it's the thing to do.  I know I have to do it.  I know I can get through it and get done and it will be a benefit.  I know if I don't do it now, I might be doing it again in two years.

But, I also just fit back into my clothes after my "steroid-body-swelling" went down.  I just got to a point of being able to eat more foods.  I just got back my eyebrows and eyelashes and my hair has grown to a more acceptable length.

I'm feeling stronger and better each day.  I don't want to go back to being weak in limb and mind again.

Not again.  Not this soon.

***

Having said that, I'm happy to be alive this week.  I'm happy that the cancer camping out inside of me is gone for all notable facts.  I'm happy to be here.

We went to a birthday party on Sunday that was such a pleasure.  It was a hot summer day spent beside the Bicentennial Park Fountains in downtown Columbus.  I felt the hot sun on me for a short time, sat on the cement ribbon surrounding the fountains and felt the spray cool me off.  I watched five of the dearest little girls I know all jump into the water with differing attitude, differing methods, differing effects, but I watched them all try it, do it and immensely enjoy it.

I sat on a blanket in the shade and realized with horror that my husband, the teacher, wore his 'pirate' t-shirt from an Outer Banks vacation a couple of years ago that had splayed across the back in huge letters for all to see, "The Beatings Will Stop When Moral Improves".  It's funny, because that is so not him.  He wouldn't beat a kid or anything else if it started to put him into a plastic shredder.  He might hurt someone hurting one of his loved ones, but he is about the safest guy to be around that I know.  But there he was, standing beside of a fountain park, with lots and lots and lots of small children with a t-shirt sporting a message that is funny to us and his family, but not so much to anyone that doesn't know us.  It probably was not the best place to sport that sentiment.

But we all laughed.  

I watched that t-shirt get wet and dip into life and fun with his granddaughters all hanging on him at one time or another.

And wee Millie-bean is all of a sudden an *old* four year old.  I will miss three year old Millie greatly.

She cut another chunk of her hair out last week and I leaned over and told her that she could just run out of hair one day.  She just smiled and laughed.  She's her own person and if she thinks she needs some hair cut, she's fine with the outcome of it all.  And I have to say it's pretty adorable.

I also told her I didn't care what her hair looked like, especially when she was one of the first ones to still hug and kiss me when I didn't have any hair.  Pre-schoolers may not always react that way, but she did.  She knew exactly what her Grandmum needed, as did her sister and cousins.

I love it that they all have parents that have implanted such tender loving hands and words in their daughters.

To me, Millie-bean will always be a perfect picture of one that overcomes hardship with an outcome of joy.  When she was nine months old, her mama found out she had a tumor in her brain.  She found out her life could be changed forever and would be in some ways.  She found out  her recovery would be long.  And Millie's young mama grieved it all and held her extra close because she knew she would not be allowed to pick her up for long months after her surgery in a few short weeks.

Millie's life, after that moment that stopped time for a while, was so different.  She needed to be more quiet than other children.  She couldn't be picked up by her mama for months on end.

She overcame it all.  She learned how to climb up into her mama's lap.  She learned, much to my amazement and horror, to climb in and out of her crib.  She was such a tiny little thing - I was convinced she and God had made a deal for her to stay small for a long time so her mama could eventually lift her with greater ease.

We called her "little mighty-mite".

I tried to run down the long stretch of 71 and help as much as possible.  I would walk in the door, and little Millie-bean would stand in front of me with her bunny and blanket and wait for me to pick her up and then she would just lay her head down on my shoulder and snuggle in.  I would vacuum with her attached to my shoulder.  I would dust and do laundry, all with the little bean firmly attached to my body.

I always had a sense of her grieving somehow when she was doing this.  It was as if she knew she had been dealt a hard hand in life, and she was grieving it.

Her sweet mama, and hard working daddy, even when a little overwhelmed with life's curve balls, still provided her a deep cushion to fall on, to rest in, to feel a firm foundation even when it was shaking a little bit.  They even at times allowed her to rage a little, then sob, then cuddle and feel loved.  There were limitations, but they taught her how to work around them.  She had a little bit more freedom and learned how to do things for herself, but so loved and appreciated things more when they were done for her.

Then, little bean turned three, and the sun came out.  She was passionate and could throw a temper tantrum with the best of them, but when her sun came out, she was the funniest, most intensely educational three year old I have ever met.  Each time I saw her I would sit with her and ask her what her "baby" was doing this week, and she would give me long explanations of how she as her mommy had taken care of her and all the work she had to do, and how many diapers she had changed.

When Millie-bean was three, her most delightful gift to receive was a box of Preemie-Pampers.  She would expertly change a diaper on her doll, completely wrapping it up like mothers do, then "dispose" of it.  Her parents would unwrap each of those "used" diapers after she fell asleep at night and the next morning she had a whole stack of refolded diapers to use again.

If you ask Millie what she wants to do when she grows up, she says excitedly "A MOMMY!!"  She has expertly worked out any kinks in her life.  Not only worked out the kinks, but made it better and more fun than anyone could have imagined.  

Her bright smile, her mischievousness smile when talking about *poop*, her high-eyebrow pointer-finger-extended explanations on "how to take care of baby"; the way she stands beside of anyone with a baby and watches intently - and you are never sure if she is watching to learn, or watching to see if they are doing things correctly -- all that and more is Millie-bean at three.

Recently, I showed her my drains after surgery and where they connected into my body on the side of my ribs.  She explored them intently and asked me seriously how I "took care of them".  At her party the other day, her cousin Zoe asked to see my now drainless "holes".  They have all been intensely curious about the whole drain idea.

Millie looked at the three holes very closely then sighed, looked up at me with a bright excited smile  and said "they look really good, Grandmum - good job!"

I don't know too many other little kids that could do that - look at three literal holes in someone's skin, examine them, then give a proper comment.

She's been our "little Miss Sunshine", and makes the sun come out whenever she is around.  She and her good mommy and daddy and sister have all coped and learned a lot about love and doing things even when you don't feel like it, and have burst out with some sunshine that rolls over others, bringing them warmth and smiles as well.    

That only happens to those intent on "overcoming".

And now, Millie-bean opens up "four".

I'm sorry to see "three" go - but excited to watch her unwrap "four".  And so glad I'm here to watch.

***

I watched some fascinating programs last night on the Science channel.  I have been pondering why I have little desire to create things anymore.  I used to sew quite a bit when my children were young, and I could create dresses, shirts, skirts, blouses - a lot of things out of the purchase of one pattern.

I used to plan and put together blankets full of squares put together in patterns.  I have put together rooms with little money.  I planned a garden and after getting Scott on board, implemented it and it was beautiful.

Now I barely have desire to cultivate it, plus, my doctor would rather I don't for a while yet.  A long while.  I could sew and create, but have two year's worth of material stacked up ready to go, and yet cannot get past the starting gate.

I want to learn a new language, yet walk away overwhelmed after the first three words.

I have been growing increasingly concerned that maybe I was dealing with some real brain damage and fall out from several years of thyroid issues, and then chemo.

An expert in the field of brains explained some of it last night.  He had learned and believed that we all have "creation" or "creative juices" or "great creative impulses" in each of us when we are born. He had learned also that we have "great inhibitors" in us as well.

He said the 'creative' rises up - pushes up - and wants to create and explore and learn and all the while our 'inhibitors' push down and suppress that to "acceptable levels".  So putting a baby or toddler in a seat in front of a tv, pushes down their natural desire to create.  Allowing kids to explore and use stacks of paper to create and make huge messes, allows them to learn to trust their creative genius inside them.

This triggered a memory from long ago.  I came across my four year old son *dismembering* one of my favorite garden baskets.  I realized in an instant it was too late for the basket, so I asked our little Mr. Creativity was he was doing.  He replied "you'll see".  I later found him up on a chair attaching it to our back porch wall and he smiled really big and told me he had made his daddy a "basketball basket hoop" - because he knew he liked basketball so much.  He then showed me how his dad could put the ball through the 'basket' anytime he wanted to now.

That ripped up, cut away basket stayed up there on that wall for a long time.  That little kid grew into a man that can make anything out of any piece of wood you put in front of him.

Back to the Science channel, the expert also noted that injuries to your brain could alter the 'creative / inhibitor' balance within as well.  He took us to a man who had a recent brain injury and suddenly all the man could do was paint.  He painted walls and walls and walls with brilliantly colored, good art.

He had not painted before.  The expert did not think his "creative" had been upped, as much as maybe his "inhibitors" had been taken away with his injury.

I am pondering this greatly.  There is little doubt in my mind and the ones around me, that my brain was a bit altered with chemo.  Maybe, my "inhibitors" for whatever reason, have suddenly pushed down more than before.  I don't know, but I know my greatest joys used to be in my ability to create.  And now, I can't even start.

While I walk on my treadmill, I have placed some pieces of paper that have great meaning to me.  This past week, I put a crudely cut heart shape, brightly colored, on there - crudely cut but pretty darn good for a three year old.  She kissed it and gave it to me "to take home and make me feel better".

Little Bean's creativity seems to be firing up just fine.  So I taped it there to study it and ponder over it all and pray that my "inhibitors" lift up some.

Four of the five little girls in our lives that are old enough and able to hold a crayon, have made me some pretty incredible "get well - feel better" art pieces.   They are spread out over my house, and when they visit and look at them and remember they gave those to me, I tell them every time I look at their art, I feel immensely better.

They smile as if they knew that would be the result when they made those.

Maybe, I now need to add another dimension as well and look at those pieces of art in a different light.  Those creations were given with great detailed explanations on why they were so special.  If I do indeed need to lift my "inhibitors" some and allow my "creative" more leeway, I have a pretty fine example in front of me on how to do that.