RSS

Winter, My Friend

19 Jan
Margarette Falls

Winter is the slow down
Winter is the search for self
Winter gives the silence we need to listen
Winter goes gray so we can see our own colors…” Terry Guillimets

I always anticipate the first snow hike of the winter season. One of my favorite local desitinations is the Margarette Falls Trail in Greeneville, Tennessee. The weekend weather forecast brought rumors of a coming snowstorm and sure enough, come Monday afternoon, the snow was falling and the ground was turning white. Tuesday morning’s sunrise presented a winter wonderland of freshly fallen snow. Plans were made for a gathering of friends and a quick after work hike on Wednesday. As our feet traveled up the crunchy trail, we were serenaded by the chilling waters of Dry Creek as it flowed over frozen rocks, and tumbled down cascades cloaked in artistic ice formations from the overspray. The crisp winter air laid gently on our exposed cheeks, bringing an exhilrating sensation as it rushed through our nostrils, warming our lungs on the uphill climb. My senses were on overload and I felt like a kid in a candy shop, standing in awe of the brilliant winter landscape before us. As we approached the falls, it was no surprise that Margarette would be stunning wrapped in her new winter wardrobe. Oh, what a blessing to experience such beauty and share moments and laughter with friends in such an incredible place. We returned home with refreshed souls and our longing for nature therapy fullfilled.

As Thursday morning greeted my sleepy eyes, my thoughts were still lingering on our hike. I used to despise winter and being cold is one of my least favorite things. Every year as Autumn approached, I could feel the dread of the cold days that were coming creeping up inside of me Nothing about the winter season appealed to me. I loathed the frigid temperatures that caused my entire body to shiver for months, the naked trees, the browns and grays, and the troublesome snow, well it was just a curse word to me. The only thing I smiled at was seeing my children play, building snowmen, snow angels, snowball fights and sledding. In the spring of 2013, when I discovered the hobby of hiking and something miraculous shifted in my mindset. I fell head over heels in love with nature on my first outing.The sights, the sounds, the wonders of nature all captivated my soul and with each new adventure, I fell deeper in love. The spring and summer wildfowers, the vast amount of different fungi, the getting up early to witness the sun break the horizon and say hello to the new day, the starry skies that covered me as I hiked out in the dark after watching the sun kiss the earth goodnight. The high peaks, the low valleys, the creeks and the waterfalls, the fiery red skies, the emerald green mossy forests, the colorwheel of leaves falling from the trees. I was enamored by it all and looked forward to every oppportunity that I had to put my feet on a trail. As the seasons changed and the days grew colder, I remember feeling a little downhearted about missing a few months of being out and a friend suggested a winter hike. What? Me, outside in the winter? As crazy as it sounded, I decided to give it a try. Needless to say, I was just as fascinated with mother nature in all of her winter glory as I was with her on her warm days. Eleven years later, I look forward to those winter destinations that cannot be tried safely in the hot summer months as the trails breed lots of overgrowth, briars and dangers of snakes.

While laying snuggled up under my covers with my doggie cuddled against me, I came across the above quote on social media. It’s one of those quotes that when you read it, it seizes your every being. I refelcted on how I use to see winter as my enemy, however these days, I look at her with a much grander perspective.The older I get the more I realize that just as the earth needs a respite from all of its blooming, so does my soul. Winter isn’t meant to break me, but instead a season to remove that which is not necessary and reveal the foundation which holds me together. Who am I underneath the vivid colors of growth? What virtues remain to steady me in the bitter winds and stripping away to bare bones? How deep is the faith that will carry me through until the sun warms the frozen ground again? Until the first new bud rises up with courage and perseverance and the songbird stirs a fresh melody of hope in my heart?

Ah winter, you are more of a friend to me than I have realized. My loyal companion who is not afraid to speak the truth. My comforter when my covering is sparse. You are my iron that sharpens iron. You teach me the art of letting go. Come, do your work in me until spring comes to sweep me off of my feet again.

Some of the ice formations along the creek
a trail treat 🙂
 
2 Comments

Posted by on January 19, 2024 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I Have Missed My Father

08 Jan

Have you ever wondered if you can miss something that you have never had? All of my life I have never had a close relationship with my father. From the moment I was conceived, my father despised and rejected me. Growing up I never understood the hatred that he seemed to have for me and the abuse that he inflicted.

My father met my mother when she was in her late teens. They married shortly after he returned from the army and fought in the war in Vietnam. My father served 4 years and returned home an alcoholic, full of rage, very cruel and very abusive. As a sober man, my father was handsome, funny, charming and quite likable. When he drank, no one was safe from the fits of rage that consumed him and everyone in his path. My mother lived in extreme fear of her life and ours for 17 long years until she was able to finally escape the horrible violence. I can still see that 13-year-old girl standing on her grandmother’s porch, torn with emotion as my father told me he would be leaving. My father left a lot and would be gone for days on end, so that part was nothing unusual. This time however, my father told me that my mother had filed for divorce and he would be leaving for good. I would be lying if I did not admit that part of me was elated that he would not be a in our lives anymore. None of us would have to spend our days and nights living in fear of whether we would live or die. Another part of me was sad because this man whom I had so desperately tried to earn his love and approval was leaving. My young, divided heart couldn’t help but wonder if I would miss him?

Before he left he handed me a $20 bill that he said he owed me for shooting me in my rear with a bb gun. One day when I was around 7 or 8 years old, He had told that he would give me $20 if I bent over and let him shoot me and not cry. He promised he would only pump the gun up once, and little did my innocent heart know he had pumped it 20 times already. I took the bet and as soon as the bb hit me, I screamed in pain and lost the bet. I had a bruise for weeks. Years later, standing on my grandmother’s porch, he finally admitted that he had lied about how many times he had pumped the gun up. As he handed me the money he asked, “B.D. (my nickname my dad gave me when I was little, He said I looked like a Bald-headed Duck. I really don’t think he meant it as a compliment) anyway, “B.D., I never was mean to you, was I.”  I reluctantly accepted his peace offering and replied, “no daddy, you were never mean to me.” We both knew that was a bold face lie. The hard truth was yes, YES! My father was meaner than a den full of vipers with Satan as their master, however I had learned over the years that the safest response was just to affirm the words he wanted and needed to hear.

For the next 10 years I remember seeing my father once. I went with my oldest sister to one of the gaps in Southwest Virginia to visit him for a while. I don’t really remember much about the visit except when we were leaving I told him I missed him when honestly, I didn’t. The only connection I had with this man was the trauma he had beat into me for the first 13 years of my life.  I lived many years of my adult life controlled by the lies he has instilled in my fragile heart. I believed I was ugly, stupid, useless, a crybaby, not wanted, unworthy to be called by his name and absolutely unlovable. It was a tough road to hoe for a young girl and I didn’t fare to well with it for a long time.

Life without my father went on. I graduated high school and my father wasn’t there. I didn’t miss him. I had my first date and my father wasn’t there. I didn’t miss him. I got a job and bought my first car. My father wasn’t there. I didn’t miss him. I got married and my father wasn’t there. I didn’t miss him. Birthdays, holidays, father’s days came and went and I never gave it a second though that my father wasn’t there. It wasn’t until I had my first child that an uncanny desire rose up in me for my children to know their only living grandfather. I reached out to my father and made plans to go visit him. Back in those days there was no internet or cell phones, so we communicated through hand written letters or land line telephones, making plans for me, my children, my sisters and children to visit him. We always had to pick a specific date to ensure that my father was sober for our arrival. Visits went decent for the most part, but on some occasions, not so much. One time right after my first son was born, we went for visit. My sisters and I could tell something wasn’t right. My father seemed agitated and was using curse words that he normally didn’t say when we were visiting. He commented that he didn’t know we were coming and his girlfriend piped up proclaiming that yes, he did! That did not suit well with him and I saw the father that I had lived with for years rise up in him. I knew it was time to leave, yet he wasn’t willing to let us go easily. I had to take all of the kids to McDonalds, leaving my sisters behind, and wait for him to pass out to go get them and all of us head home. Needless to say, it was a while before I ventured back to see him.

There were a few more occasions over the years that we all got together, mostly Christmases and Thanksgivings. I would try to remember to call and wish my father a happy birthday, although he never called to wish me one. I would remind myself to call him around Father’s Day and talk to him, although he never thought to call me on Mother’s Day. Usually whenever my father called me, he thought he was calling someone else. I would answer and when he realized he had called me, he would make small talk and promise to come to see us soon. “Soon” didn’t happened and honestly, I really didn’t miss him. The worst phone call I received from my father was one evening when he had been drinking. We talked for a few minutes and before he hung up he said those old familiar words, “B.D. I never was mean to you, was I?” At this point in my life I was no longer a terrified little girl that felt the need to give him the answer he wanted. Instead, my answer was “yes, YES you were mean to me. You were mean to all of us! You made our life a living hell. But I have forgiven you for all of that.” He did not like my answer one bit and all I heard on the other line was the phone being slammed on the hook. I don’t remember too many phone calls after that.

The best phone call I ever got from my father was on June 28th, 2011. It was days after my children had lost their father to colon cancer, we were on vacation, my phone rang and it was my father. He wanted to let me know he was going to have surgery the next day for cancer they had found in his colon. Mostly he wanted me to know that he had talked to the hospital chaplain and had made his peace with God. He had surety that no matter the outcome of the surgery, he would be fine. Despite the estranged relationship that I had with my father, it made my heart happy to know that years of prayers for his soul had been answered.

I would like to tell you a wonderful story of how life changed after that, of how my father and I finally connected and how he became a wonderful part of our lives, but none the less, that story doesn’t exist. Life continued to go on and my father wasn’t there. I finally went to college at the age of 44. Graduated at the age of 48 with two degrees. My children had significant birthdays, graduated high school, my daughter had her first child, I got my first career job; so many momentous occassions that we celebrated, but my father wasn’t there, and again, I didn’t miss him. Every few years he would show up at my house, usually in January, tell me how much he had missed me, and hand me $200 “to get the grandkids something.” My mind would always retreat back to the 13-year-old girl standing on my grandmother’s porch, accepting the peace offering that would somehow absolve him of his sins until the next occasion rolled around. Some things seemed to never change.

In January 2019 I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I would spend the next 17 months of my life in active treatment, fighting to overcome the nasty devil of cancer. My father never called or came by, in fact he didn’t even know what I was going through, yet I didn’t miss him. Somehow, he finally found out about my battle and stopped by to see me one afternoon. We talked a little about what I had went through, and he told me he was glad I was okay. I looked into his eyes, searching for some kind of connection between the two of us, but I found nothing.  At the age of 50 I finally realized that my father and I were strangers. He hugged me and left. That was the last time that I saw my father and he would know who I was.

My father was diagnosed with vascular dementia and over the past few years his memory has left him. It is a cruel disease that slowly takes from you what it wants and only allows you to remember what it says that you can. It frustrates you when you are trying to recall a simple word that you have used a thousand times but for the life of you, will not come to your mind. It robs you of your reality and traps you in the prison that it chooses for you. He and his girlfriend of 30ish years both struggled with other health issues, but she still had her wits about her, and along with lots of help from my middle sister, was able to take care of my father for the most part. On Christmas day 2023, his girlfriend suddenly passed away. Not only was my father not able to stay by himself because of the dementia, he was also in the process of moving from a mobile home back to an apartment that was near friends who could help take care of him. Unbeknownst to my father, he was in crisis and needed help.

Over the past couple of weeks, I have spent more time with my father than I have for most of my adult life. I’ve helped my sister pack and clean at his old place, unpack and organize at this new place and I have gone over and sat with him for a few hours at a time so my sister could take care of other things. My father has asked me numerous times my name, where I am from, and where have I lived. We have talked about places that he lived as a child, his parents, brothers and sisters, who sadly he doesn’t realize has passed on, his time in the military, his cats, country music he likes to listen to, his love for Elvis Presley, how he has hitch hiked across the country and when his girlfriend is coming back from California. We have laughed and we have sat in silence, yet not one time have we talked about the fact that he is my father and I am his daughter. We are just those two strangers who just a few short years ago was standing in my kitchen hugging each other, now sharing time together that won’t be recalled.

The word miss can be used as a noun or a verb. As a noun it can mean failure, loss, absence, or defect. Miss as a verb can mean want, feel a loss, crave, desire, long, need, pine for, wish, or yearn. It can also be used in verb form meaning to fail, overlook, disregard, or forget. Today, as I sat in the recliner and watched my father doze on the couch. I realized that all my life I have “missed” my father in some form or fashion. I’m sure there was a time as a young girl that I craved, desired, longed for and yearned for this man to love me, to show his approval, to care for me, to want me. Once he was no longer a part of my young life, the longing turned into forgetting and disregard.

I am not bitter at my father, nor do I have any anger in my heart for the abuse he inflicted upon me. I am no longer a wounded little girl or even a confused young woman who is trapped in the prison of trauma. I have not forgotten what myself, my mother and my siblings had to endure, but I know that freedom and healing has come with age, wisdom and understanding. I now know that my father’s father was an alcoholic, full of rage, who was very cruel and abusive. He made my father’s childhood a living nightmare and beat him into a cruel prison and threw away the key. I have realized that at one point in time, my father loved with the only capacity that he knew how, yet trauma and addiction dominated his life at a much greater capacity. Today this tyrant called dementia rules over his mind and has locked him into another prison that he cannot escape. The hard truth is that he nor I will never know what it is like to connect with one another the way a father and daughter was meant to connect. So, can you miss something that you have never had? I conclude yes, indeed you can, just as I have missed my father.

 
7 Comments

Posted by on January 8, 2024 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Anatomy of a Strong Woman

16 Aug

A strong woman. Who is she? How was she made?

Was she born with strength, determination and perseverance?

Or was she formed from necessity?

Forged in the fires of adversity,

Tainted by the sins of others,

Molded through the storms of loneliness and pain.

Was she once a carefree child singing a melody of innocence?

Dancing in the gentle rains of love and joy?

Running with hope and trust to find the strong arms of safety, security and acceptance,

Only to stumble under the iron fists of abuse and disdain?

Was her innocence stolen and traded for shame?

 Was she always “stubborn as a mule” or did her will rise up to form a mighty fortress to surround her fragile heart?

The strong woman, her shoulders squared, structured to carry the heavy loads for herself and others.

Her arms, stout, designed to endure the hardships without giving way, all the while serving as a safe-haven of grace and love.

Her eyes, fixated, discerning, possessing the key to the portals of her soul for anyone who is brave enough to enter.

Her expression, inviting to some, impenetrable to others.

She stands tall like the mighty oak whose roots entrench the earth.

Seasons change and so does she, blooming, bending, letting go, but never breaking.

She is independent, capable, a force to be reckoned with.

Intimidating to those who are weak,

Judged by those who are haughty.

Misunderstood by those who only observe her force.

Recognized by those who have traveled the same trodden path,

Yet, there are moments when being strong is as much of a curse as it is a blessing.

Yes, she can handle her own, however being on her own was never the path she wanted to take.

It was imperative, rise up or die!

When the storms of life rage, the onlookers shout, “You got this, ” “You are so strong,” “You will get through!”

Undoubtedly, she will, she knows no other way.

She will brave the turbulent winds, and trudge through the downpour.

The mirk and the mire may slow her pace,

Nevertheless, she will emerge as the phoenix rising,

Resonating victory in her weary outstretched arms.

All those who depend on her will not be disappointed.

When the clouds break and the light permeates her sky,

She will rest in the presence of the One who is always faithful,

Giving thanks for her breakthrough.

This strong woman, adorned with fortitude, anchored in peace.

Oh! how her heart is full of gratitude!

Her spirit soaring like the majestic eagle!

She is a fighter! She is an overcomer! She is a champion!

Ah, but underneath it all…she is a woman.

Her soul is weary.

She was designed to be the helper not the doer.

To complete, not compete.

To be adored, and cherished,

 Not hidden, pushed to the side, the back or the end.

Night comes to steal away the light.

The silence surrounds her and the tears of exhaustion fall.

Her soul is hungry for the safe haven she desperately needs to come undone,

To repose, reset, and renew.

Her skin craves the gentle touch of companionship that will set her mind at ease.

She doesn’t begrudge being strong, on the contrary, weak women and even weaker men annoy her.

She is just tired of being strong, alone.

She wonders if it is an oxymoron to be strong and fragile all in the same skin?

Why can’t her strength be celebrated? Appreciated but not taken for granted?

Is she too much? Should she be any less than who life has demanded her to become?

As her hands search for another to hold, she drifts into sleep.

When the sun rises over the horizon, and darkness gives way to the morning light,

Again, she rises.

Disciplined to face whatever the new day brings.

She girds herself in grace, welcoming her faithful counterparts of determination, perseverance and tenacity.

The fragrance of hope, kindness and compassion wafts in the air as she passes.

She is who she is and she cannot waiver.

She is the strong woman.

 
1 Comment

Posted by on August 16, 2023 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

The Trail

10 Jul

Life gets so busy, noisy, chaotic,

It’s time to steal away,

Quieten my thoughts,

Calm my spirit,

Feed my soul.

I go to the woods,

My feet hit the trail.

The clamor of life is lingering.

I pause,

Taking deep heavy breaths,

Exhaling slowly, methodically,

Until everything fades.

Hello serenity, I have been longing for you,

Let’s walk for a while.

The slight breeze dances gently on my skin,

The crunch of Autumn past echoes under my feet,

Winter had her way but Spring is springing!

April showers have left the ground refreshed,

The richness of the earth permeates the air,

Ah, she is coming alive again.

Two birds exchange conversation as I walk by.

I don’t know their language,

But their words are intentional.

The sun peaks through the trees,

Her warmth embraces me.

My attention goes to a not so distant crackling.

Its huge! is it a bear?

No, just a squirrel scurrying to find dinner to store away.

I chuckle.

The dwarf crested irises are blooming.

I thank my Lord for placing some on my path.

I see red out of the corner of my eye.

Fantastic fungi, elf cups.

3 miles have passed,

The dirt turns to pavement.

My heart is full,

My soul, restored.

My spirit, thankful for the peace that consumes me.

Farewell trail, we will meet again soon.

 
1 Comment

Posted by on July 10, 2022 in Uncategorized

 

How Dark the Darkness

05 May

Humans. We argue. We debate. We demand. We all want our way.

Christians. We quote scripture. We condemn. We judge.

We cry out “SINNER!” while we sit hidden in our corner praying the light doesn’t expose our own darkness.

What is darkness? What is sin?

We pick and choose our arguments.

Consider,

We commit adultery…

Every single time we lust after another man/woman’s spouse.

Every single time we watch pornography.

Secretly. Openly. Blatantly.

Lust is lust.

We preach salvation and forgiveness yet out of the same mouth we tell a mother she is cut off from her family because she chose to leave a marriage that stripped her of every bit of her decency.

We sit on the church pew on Sunday morning and then go home and verbally, emotionally, and yes…even sexually abusive our husbands and wives.

We worship entertainment all the while raging when we provide for the needy.

We despise the woman who made a choice we boldly disagree with while we justify putting our daughters on birth control and feel righteous about our decision.

We scorn the drug addict while we pop our prescription valium to make it through our day.

We lie. We cheat. We steal. We are envious.

Isn’t the greatest commandment of all to love?

Yet we hate our brothers and sisters due to the color of their skin.

We shun others because of their socioeconomic status.

We shame those who are struggling, broken, addicted.

We bully. We ridicule. We laugh at the expense of others.

No one is safe, social media makes dang sure of that!

Yet we are perfect…right?

Or at least isn’t their darkness darker than our own?

Yet if not for grace, how dark would my darkness be?

 
2 Comments

Posted by on May 5, 2022 in Uncategorized

 

Oh, Sweet Valleys Below…

19 Apr
Atop Mcaffee Knob along the Appalachian Trail, Roanoke VA

Oh sweet valleys below…

So precious to me

Who would I be

Had you not shaped me?

I give thanks

For all that I am

And all that I’m not

For every loss

For every gain

Through the laughter

Through the pain

Warmed with the sunshine

Drenched with the rain

With every step

I have been changed.

Oh sweet valleys below

On this mountain I wonder

I gaze and I ponder

Who would I be

Had you not broke me?

Sometimes choked me

Left me gasping for air

Oh deep despair!

You Defined. Refined. Sublimed.

Oh sweet valleys below

You are my treasure

My measure, my pleasure

Without you I would never be

All of me

Risen. Redeemed. And Free.

Oh sweet valleys below…

 
2 Comments

Posted by on April 19, 2022 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

The Rebellious Boob Chronicles – One with the River

12 Oct

Recently I had the opportunity to attend a cancer recovery retreat in the Lake Logan North Carolina area hosted by Casting Carolinas. Casting Carolinas is a non-profit organization that offers one-day and three-day retreats for women surviving all types of cancers. They use their own unique F.L.O.W. program that combines fly fishing instruction with medical education and mindfulness, teaching survivors skills to help them deal more effectively with the emotional effects of cancer and survivorship. 

To say that I was extremely excited for the retreat is a gross understatement. I had originally been chosen to attend in October 2020, but due to unforeseen circumstances of a pandemic, the retreat had to be cancelled indefinitely. Sigh. I would remain on the waiting list to be contacted when things opened back up. When the email came through in June stating they were opening up registration again for an October 2021 retreat, I was so thrilled that I set an alarm to remind myself to sign up first thing! The anticipation over the next few months stirred in my soul as I felt this time away was going to bring many blessings. I am a nurturer at heart and I spend the majority of my time, at work and at home, taking care of others. This 3-day weekend, however, was going to be a time of focusing on me and for once in my life I didn’t feel selfish about that.

The day had finally arrived, the weather forecast for the weekend looked fabulous, I was packed and headed out. I had my windows down, some praise music on, the leaves were already wearing autumn attire and the two hour drive quickly passed. I caught myself smiling from ear to ear as I drove up the gravel road to the retreat center, pulled into a space, took a deep breath, and stepped out of the car to spend 3 days with complete strangers whom I shared a common bond with – survivorship. All of our lives had been uprooted by a cancer diagnosis, some more than once, yet we were all here, ready to embrace what was in store for us.

Laughter and peace permeated the atmosphere as I stepped up on the porch of the cabin. I was greeted by several volunteers that made me feel welcomed immediately and directed me inside to the registration table. All the ladies that hosted and served at the retreat were so full of life, joy and friendliness and made you feel at home immediately.  Once I checked in I was to come back outside and be fitted for my river waders and boots for the fishing trip on Sunday! Wait. A River. Moving water. Insert anxiety. Was I ready for this part?

My mind wandered back many years, to a moment in time that had forever seared itself into my brain. I was 6 or 7, at the lake with my family and my father was trying to teach me to swim. He stood at a distance, chest deep in water, swearing to me that it wasn’t over my head, and promising that if I started to go under, he would save me. Little did I know he was standing on a stump that lifted him up a good 3 feet.  I attempted to swim, face down in the water, arms stroking back and forth. I was making some progress but suddenly, I began to sink. The water overtook me, I was thrashing left and right, eyes wide open, surrounded by the murky water and bubbles created by the oxygen that was leaving my lungs. My feet desperately searched for the bottom and it was nowhere to be found. I screamed but no sound came out, only gulps of water rushing into my mouth. Where was my father? I needed him to save me! Whether this lasted 5 seconds or 5000 years, for me it felt like an eternity and  I just knew at that moment I was drowning. Finally, a hand reached down and pulled me out of what I thought was a near death experience, and as soon as my feet could touch ground, I ran out of the water, coughing, spewing out water, and terrified. I sat there on the shore crying, wanting a hug or reassurance that I was okay, yet what I got was belittling laughter. I was a worthless crybaby, a chicken, a coward, a sissy. My dad demanded that I get back in the water but all I wanted was to run away in fear and I didn’t care what kind of punishment I would get for refusing his demands. A whipping would be better than dying, right?

From that moment water became my enemy and at the age of 51, I still cannot swim. I can climb a 500-foot mountain, stand on death defying cliff edges, leap a tall building in a single bound – okay maybe not that extreme – but I can handle getting my feet wet in stream crossings. However, if the adventure involves any part of my body above my knees being immersed in water, you can guarantee that anxiety rushes in. There I stood on the front porch of the cabin, getting fit for boots and river waders and in two days, I would be standing in a mighty rushing river holding a fly-fishing rod. Oh Lord, what had I gotten myself in to?

The next couple of days were amazing! The heart of the retreat is a mindfulness program developed by the hosts of Casting Carolinas, called F.L.O.W. It focuses on taking a deep breath, calming your spirit and being aware of what is going on with your thoughts, emotions and reactions. We had several group sessions where we all came together and spent time connecting with ourselves and each other, learning, and growing. We shared lots of laughter, life experiences, and shed heartfelt tears. I felt incredibly honored to be in the midst of so many strong and powerful women. We also spent time learning about fly fishing! We learned about the river and the different aspects of it. What kind of insects the fish eat. How to put a fly-fishing rod and reel together, tie on the flies, and how to cast. We even got to make our own flies! Saturday evening, we were entertained with a time of live music, dancing and singing, oh and not to mention that we ate so much delicious food I thought I would bust.  My heart was overflowing with joy and gratefulness as I laid my head down on the pillow Saturday night, closing my eyes in anticipation of Sunday morning’s river adventure. All that we had learned about fly fishing would be put into action as each woman would have their own guide and get to spend almost four hours on the river fishing.

The sun rose quickly the next morning, and decked out in our boots and waders, we all gathered at the cabin for a closing ceremony. Whew, what an emotional hour! 🙂  We then made our way to the dining hall for breakfast and to meet our guides. My guide for the day would be Rick, an experienced fisherman who cut his teeth fishing in the Gunnison Valley of Colorado. We enjoyed small talk over bacon and eggs, got group pictures and then headed out to the Pigeon River to hopefully catch some fish! As we made our way down to the river and stepped in, I was entranced by the melody of the moving water. Rick took some time to educate me on a few things, observe my newly learned casting skills, find a nice spot to steady ourselves and then it was time to fish. I admit it was awkward at first feeling the difference between fishing with a spin cast and spinning reel versus the fly rod. I was used to having weights on my line and the fly-fishing line seemed weightless. After a bit of practice, I got the hang of it and I was casting, getting bites, losing fish, and yes, I finally caught some.

My catches included a brook trout, a rainbow trout and a brown trout, which earned me the badge of what fishermen call a “grand slam,” catching one of each type of trout.  Go Christy! It was so fun being played by the fish. The water was crystal clear, you could see them just hanging out underwater and watching as my fly would float downstream right in front of them. Then those little buggers would jump right out of the water in front of you just to show you who was the real boss! As we were walking upstream to fish in another spot, I noticed a brook trout hanging out in a little pocket of water to the left of the river. I said to my guide, “hey, there’s a fish right here!” He said, “see if you can catch it?” I said, “with my bare hands?” Yes! So, I took a deep breath, raised my hands in the air and breathed out, “I am one with the river.” I was being silly, but hey it worked! I knelt down, slowly put my hands in the water and very gently eased them under the belly of the fish and bingo! I raised him right up out of the water! My guide let out a huge belly laugh and I was proud to be his first student to catch a trout with their bare hands!

As fun as it was catching the fish, my favorite part of the day was reading the river. I loved observing how the different sections flowed at different speeds. I learned what lanes were and began to identify riffles, eddies and pockets. I discovered that you begin fishing the river in front of you and slowly progress across the stream so that you don’t spook the fish. At one point I even told my guide that he was more than welcome to fish while I just stood in the river being mesmerized. For the professional record…he did not fish! :). At one point I was standing in moving water that was almost chest deep and I could feel the weight of the current against me. Wait, I was standing in water ALMOST CHEST DEEP!  I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and realized that for the first time in my life I was surrounded by water and my mind was not consumed with anxiety.  In fact, all morning I had not given one thought to anything other than the delight I was feeling as the river had wooed me like a new suitor and captured my undivided attention. 

Twelve thirty rolled around quickly and it was time to head back to the dining hall for lunch, our graduation ceremony, to tell our fishing stories, say our heartfelt goodbyes and head back home. Some folks had caught tons of fish, others a few, one had caught waders full of water as she took a tumble, and me, yep I told the story of how I caught that brook trout with my bare hands! The weekend had written so many great stories yet I knew that the greatest story of all was that, on this wonderful Sunday morning in October, I was no longer a terrified little girl, a crybaby, worthless and a coward. I was also a strong, powerful woman, and in those few passing hours I had made a new friend and the river and I had truly become one.

 
5 Comments

Posted by on October 12, 2021 in breast cancer, Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

The Rebellious Boob Chronicles: Cancer and Cicadas

17 Aug

A few days ago as I was walking out to my car for work, and I walked around to the passenger side to put some things in the front seat. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted something brown and green on my bus tire. When I took a closer look, I discovered that it was a cicada that was molting out of its shell. Now, in my neck of the woods, it is not uncommon to see the cicada shells stuck to just about anything, however to actually catch one in the process of molting, well that is just a rare occasion for me.

My Marlee Jayne is fascinated with science, flowers, bugs, snakes and nature and she loves collecting the cicada shells and leaving them all over my house for me to find!  I knew capturing this process on film would tickle her fancy so I took a few moments to sit down with my handy dandy phone camera and begin filming.  Wow! What an incredible process I was observing. Before I get into describing it, let me share a few facts that I’ve since learned about Cicadas.

Cicadas begin their life in the egg stage, laid in a groove of a tree limb. When its ready, it will crawl from the groove, bury itself in the ground and dig until it finds roots to feed on. Nearly all of them spend years of their lives underground as juveniles, from 2 to 17 years. They will emerge as nymphs and find a vertical surface and begin to shed their nymph exoskeleton. When they are free of the old skin, their wings can begin to inflate with fluid and their skin will harden. Then they are ready to begin their adult life and serve their purpose of reproduction. Cicadas are mostly known for the song they sing on warm summer evenings.

Now back to my story. The adult cicada was half way in and half way out of the shell. If you looked close enough you could see It gently trembling as it was making its way out of the skin that had enclosed it during its juvenile days. Its shiny green skin was such a contrast to the old brown casing it was coming out of. The detail in its new body was intricate, delicate and beautiful. The thing that amazed me the most was the size of the adult body emerging versus the old shell it was coming out of. I said out loud, “Lord, how did that big ole cicada fit into that little shell? Even if it wanted to, It could not have remained encased or fit back into that shell!” And that is when I heard that still, small, familiar, comforting voice say to me, “its not meant to fit back into its old shell, and neither are you.” So, what began as a science lesson on a warm summer morning ended in a life lesson that penetrated to the core of my soul.

Life is a beautiful gift; however, it can be troublesome at times. At some point we will all face challenges, circumstances and situations that, after we come through them, we are different. I have experienced great loss, heart aches, disappointments, job changes, relationship changes, lost friends, family challenges – goodness, at times I felt as if it was just one unfortunate event after another. With every event came new growth, stronger faith and wisdom gained. However, the greatest challenge I have faced so far in life is my battle with breast cancer. It wasn’t something going on around me, or something happening to someone I love (although I do love myself!), it hit me personally. I am a nurturer at heart and when someone I love struggles, I wrap my arms around them, comfort them and assure them that everything will be okay. When someone has a need, I go boldly to the throne room of grace to petition the God who provides all things on their behalf. I step up, show up and do whatever is necessary to see someone I love make it through their situation.

This time it was me that needed held, comforted and assured. It was me that needed prayer warriors to petition heaven on my behalf.  It was me that needed friends to step up and show up. It was my body that was being attacked by a disease, and in turn saturated with chemicals in the name of healing.  It was my hair, my eyelashes, my eyebrows that fell out, leaving a cancer patient to greet me each morning in the mirror. It was me that was struggling on the trail, being the last one to make it to the top. It was me that laid in the bed, too weak to do my normal routine. It was me that had my body altered and my femininity modified. It was me that would never be the same again. It was all me.

I shared my journey on my social media pages and my blog for many reasons. One reason, or course, was to have the comfort, encouragement and support that is necessary to make it through such a battle, we cannot face something like that alone! Another reason was to have a reference to look back and reflect on when my focus wasn’t just survival. I love the Facebook memories that remind me of all the struggles I overcame, however sometimes when the memory is something ‘BC – before cancer” I wallow in my vanity and lament a little. Goodness at the difference in my physical body! Two years later I am slowly gaining back my muscle tone but the strength just isn’t there yet. I remember a body that was fit as a fiddle, that didn’t ache when I rolled over or spasm when I stretch, and oh! one that didn’t struggle with hormonal weight gain! I grieve a mind that didn’t fear a reoccurrence every time there was a weird feeling or pain; the anxiety can be overwhelming at times, or a heart that didn’t pound a little faster with each check-up. The physical limitations that once weren’t there can be downright disheartening and piss you off all in the same moment.

Sometimes, for various reasons, I want the old me back! However, on a warm summer morning while staring at a bug on my bus tire, I am gently reminded that, like the cicada, I am designed to embrace change. I lived along time in my juvenile stage of “before cancer” and regardless of how good things may have been, enduring my battle has transformed me, strengthened me and better prepared me to fulfill the purpose I am created for. I had to dig deep in the dirt and find the roots that would sustain me until the appointed time had come for me to emerge from the darkness. The new me, although full of battle scars, is intricate, delicate and beautiful and will never fit back into the old mold, and I should not long to.  Just like that cicada, I have a song to sing – a song of hope when things seem hopeless, of perseverance when I may be weary, of a faith that doesn’t fail, of new mercies that come every morning, of a grace that is sufficient and strength that will get me through. I, like the cicada, may have trembled through the transformation, but I am confident that today, as I sit here on this side of the battle, I am much better now than I ever have been and for that I am truly thankful.   

 
6 Comments

Posted by on August 17, 2021 in Uncategorized

 

The Christmas Doll

14 Jul

It was a rare occasion to find myself at home on a Friday evening. Usually I was either already on the road to Western North Carolina or gearing up to get on my way for an adventure-filled weekend. However, work schedule changes for my significant other created a shift in my normal plans, so here I was, sitting at home in a quiet house with time on my hands. I decided I would take advantage of my time and tackle some cleaning and household projects that had been on the back burner. I moved furniture, swept down dust bunnies, moved some pictures around on my wall and cleaned out a cabinet. Next thing I knew, I found myself up in my attic going through boxes and totes, not really looking for anything in particular, just sorting, organizing and purging items that no longer added any rhyme to my reason. I opened one tote that had several Boyd’s Bears in it I was saving for my grand-daughter, and there in the bottom of the tote, I found her – my Christmas doll. I picked her up, looked into her dreamy eyes, and for just a few moments, as a rush of emotions consumed me, I traveled back in time almost 40 years.

Growing up in our house was not always the most pleasant of occasions. My father was a troubled man who had come from a very poor and violent upbringing. In appearance, he was strong in stature, handsome, and if you met him on a normal day, you would say he was quite likable and funny. When I see pictures of him as a young man, dressed in his military attire, I can see why my momma fell in love with him. What a looker! However, my father was also an abusive alcoholic and when he drank, the portals of hell could not compare to the evil rage that came out of him. The demons he wrestled with wreaked havoc on any one in his path, and most of the time that was my momma and us children.

I am the third child of four children, and other than the fact that I look more like my momma than the rest of my siblings, I was just like any other ordinary child trying to grow up in a hostile world. In his drunken rages, my father made no bones about the feelings he had towards me. He despised me, detested me, abhorred me, loathed me – heck, he downright hated my stinking guts! I endured many beatings for simple things like looking at him the wrong way or laughing too much. I still recall the piercing sting of the steel rings of his thick white belt all over my back, sides, stomach and legs as he beat me for laughing at my sister while she was in the shower.  I was 5 years old. The physical beatings were painful, yet the things I recall that hurt the most were the words he would spew out of his cigarette and liquor ridden breath. I heard often how I was such an ugly child, so stupid, nothing but a cry baby and if I heard it once I heard it a thousand times how he wished I wasn’t his and how he didn’t even want me to call myself by his last name. He always called me by nicknames, which to him were amusing, but to me they were degrading and made me feel less than human. I was 33 years old before I ever heard my dad say ‘Christy’ and it shocked me so much that it took me a minute or two to respond to him.  As a young child, I did not have the ability to process that these things he would say weren’t true, I thought a father’s words was the gospel!  Nor did I have the wisdom I do as an adult to understand that these vicious demons belonged to him and had nothing to do with any shortcomings on my part. The aftermath of his destruction left me wounded, bleeding, literally and figuratively, broken, fearful and confused. I had no identity, no value in myself, I just knew that I was disgusting, unwanted, worthless and unlovable.

Needless to say, Christmases in our house were not the joyous occasion they were intended to be. I honestly only remember just 3 holidays that were significant for the first 13 years of my life. One was when I was in 5th grade and someone from the Salvation Army Angel Tree Program came to our house and met with my mother to get a wish-list,   clothes and shoe sizes for all of us children. I was ever so proud to wear a brand new outfit on our first day back to school from holiday break. I felt like a runway model as I sported those baby blue corduroy pants and a blue and brown plaid button up shirt. When my momma was finally able to break free from my father, get a restraining order and file for divorce, she was able to go to work at a local department store. That year we all had a brand new pair of house shoes under the Christmas tree! The third occasion I remember was the following year when we were picked to have a Christmas shopping spree at the department store where my momma worked and that is when I found her, the Christmas doll. The moment I laid eyes on this doll I knew that I had to have her. She was the most beautiful doll I had ever seen and she looked like someone straight off of my favorite TV show, Little House on the Prairie. I coveted Laura Ingalls Wilder, her simple life with a daddy who loved her and her family ferociously and worked hard to take care of and provide for them. There was a deep longing in my soul for this doll, and I chose her as my Christmas gift.

Fast forward almost 40 years, to a grown woman, sitting on the living room floor, holding this doll that I had kept for so many years. Through nine moves, two states, broken relationships, a wonderful marriage, a hateful divorce, unspeakable heartaches, terrible loss, shattered dreams and life-threatening disease. Through years of healing, helluva hours of counseling, renewed hopes, incredible transformations, perseverance, and self-discoveries. Through hard times, good times, joy, laughter and tears. Time and again  I had set her out on beds, put her back in boxes, set her back out in chairs as decor, only to put her back in boxes to safely store away and move again.

 When I saw her so many years ago sitting on the shelf in that old department store,  I had no understanding of the depth of why I not just wanted her, but needed her so badly or why I would keep her for so many years. Yet finally, on a rare friday evening that I found myself home alone, the answer flooded my soul like a dam break. This Christmas doll – she was beautiful, she was valued, she was wanted and she was loved. She was everything that I had yearned to be as a child and everything that I had fought to become as a woman.  I was her and she was me. 

Alone on the floor in that quiet house, I rejoiced because I am no longer that lost, broken child searching for love, significance, worth and acceptance. As an adult woman, I know that my wounds have healed, my scars, although still a part of me, have faded and I am fully aware that sometimes in life we are the victim of someone else’s battle. I can honestly say that I do not hate my father, I feel he has hated himself enough through the years for the mistakes he made and the devastation my tender heart suffered at his hands. I pray he has found the healing, peace and forgiveness in his own heart that I have embraced for myself and that we all desperately need. I breathed a slow, heavy sigh as I placed the doll back into the safety of her tote and laid my other keepsakes around her. One day, when I am long gone from this world, my children may find her and wonder why their momma kept such a simple, old doll stored up as a treasure. 

 
7 Comments

Posted by on July 14, 2021 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , , , ,

The Rebellious Boob Chronicles – Life After Active Treatment: The Quest for Normalcy

01 Apr

10 months ago I finished up active treatment for Breast Cancer. 17 months of my life spent dedicated to eradicating the terrorist that had invaded my body and threatened my well-being.

18 weeks of chemotherapy involving 2 chemotherapy drugs and 2 immunotherapy drugs.
17 immunotherapy infusions.
5 surgeries including a double mastectomy and reconstruction.
25 radiation treatments.
Completed. Done. Finished. Over with. Sigh. Hallelujah.

Being the hope filled, positive-attitude-kind-of-girl that I am, I had noble aspirations that finally life could go back to normal after everything was said and done, right? Yeah, I know, I love the way I crack my own self up sometimes but a girl can dream, right?!?

According to Webster’s dictionary normal is “the usual, average, or typical state or condition.” “conforming to a standard; usual, typical, or expected.” I am sure that at some point in my educational plight ‘normal’ had been a spelling word that I had to look up the definition for. I was in fact the spelling bee champion for many years throughout my elementary and junior high years (hey, we all have to be good at something! I just so happened to thrive at memorization!) and I have always had a love for words, their meanings and the way you can scramble them together and write a beautiful story. Anyways…

I was ready to be ‘normal’ again. My healthy, active, adventurous happy world had been rocked by the diagnosis of breast cancer. I had sat week after week enduring treatments that, although the ultimate goal was healing, came in like a wrecking ball and transformed my fit, strong body into a caricature of weakness. I worked hard during the off-weeks of my treatments to keep myself built up, knowing that the next round would inevitably wreak a little more damage, bring a little more fatigue, a little more muscle atrophy, and a little more transformation to the woman I saw looking back at me in the mirror. I don’t despise the treatments that were successful and have given me more years to live my life, but I won’t pretend that I enjoyed those suckers one hairy bit! They were a dastardly yet necessary task and I would be just fine to never, ever, ever have to endure them again! I was ready to begin the process of rebuilding without the task of being tore down again.

I was ready to be normal again. To not have to undress in an open room and lay bare chested on a table while nurses chatted casually as if I wasn’t present. At times I didn’t even feel human as they lined up the fire-breathing dragon machine to zap any cancer cells that might be lingering in the shadows of my chest area formally known as my breasts but now a cavity with muscles separated from the chest wall and stuffed with concrete filled expanders.

I was ready to be normal again. To get up, get dressed, put on my face and not have to worry that throughout my day my painted-on eyebrows would get rubbed off and I would be walking around looking like Pinky after his horrifying eye-brow shaving bathroom scene. (referencing Pink Floyd’s ‘live action/adult animated surrealism musical The Wall Movie’ that was popular in the 80’s. The majority of you reading this blog may have no clue what I am talking about, and if you don’t, it’s okay, don’t watch it.  You will forever be traumatized any time you hear any of the songs from the soundtrack. Just googling the album cover is enough to scar you for life!)  

After 17 months of fighting a disease that was sent to take me out, I was ready to be normal again.

9 months later, I can say to you that normal is:

A setting on your dryer.
A temperature of 98.6.
An average statistic.
A blood pressure of 120/80.
A man not asking for directions.

However, normal has nothing to do with how you feel after active treatments are over.

Don’t get me wrong, physically, for the most part, I feel great!

My hair, my eyebrows, and my eyelashes have all grown back and I look pretty much like myself again (except for the natural hair color. No more Clairol! 😊)

On most days, my energy level is fantastic. I can now work again until I am done – not until my body says whoa…you have used up all of your energy cells today and I am shutting down…at 11 am.

I am starting to rebuild muscle tone – it’s a slow process but hey, it’s a process!

I can wear tank tops now without being self-conscious of a port bulging out of my chest like a third eye.

I am no longer referred to as a cancer patient – I am now a cancer survivor! whoop whoop!

There are SO many positives and for each and every one I am thankful.

But am I normal? Of course, some would debate that I was never normal to start with, right but zip it!

My point is I have discovered that going through cancer changes you. There is no such thing as going back to normal. It not only alters your physical body – noobies and nice new boobies are not the same! Trust me! My whole entire upper body has been restructured; I have shoulder aches, I have noobie muscle spasms (OUCH!), I am constantly aware of the discomforting tightness on my right side, blah blah blah – For more information you may read a previous blog about the new girls. 😉

There are some days, for absolutely no reason at all, that I am unusually tired and I have to have a zero evening.

My hair that was so nice and thick growing back is now thinning due to the medication I have to take daily.

I am depleted of estrogen as a preventative to keep new cancer cells from growing back. My body went from pre-menopause to post menopause, which is normally a several year transformation, in 8 seconds.

In spite of all of the physical changes I have experienced, I can honestly say that the thing I have found most challenging with surviving cancer is the way that it affects your mind set. Yes, I feel great, I take care of myself, I eat healthy, I exercise on the daily. I feed my body, soul, and mind daily with positive energy. I am religious with my check-up appointments and I even google my bloodwork to make sure things are, yeah you know, NORMAL! UGH!

However, any woman (or man!) who has had cancer knows that there is a constant nagging forethought of reoccurrence. Any odd feeling. Any abnormal pain. Any unexplained fatigue. Time for a check-up? Count on some anxiety. Time for yearly scans? They call that nervousness ‘scan-xiety.’ Even on the best of days, the thought of reoccurrence can creep up like an ex-boyfriend showing up at the same restaurant.  The timetable of your life is now forever associated with and referenced to “before cancer” and “after cancer.” Will this course of thinking change with time, perhaps, maybe, hopefully, please Lord!

So, is life after active treatment perfect? Nah? Am I back to normal, double-nah. It is a futile pursuit and I have given up the ridiculous notion that there is such a thing as me and normal in the same sentence. Nevertheless, I am certain of one thing as sure as my name is Christy. I endeavor to enjoy every single day of life after active treatment that I am blessed with and to live to the absolute fullest. I also know undoubtedly that I am much better now than I was when I began this journey many months ago, and for this I am forever thankful.

 
4 Comments

Posted by on April 1, 2021 in breast cancer, Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , , ,

← Older posts