I Will Not Lie

It's nice being home. I can breathe deeper, I can sleep almost all the way through the night, I've even taken my three bags of stuff to the Boy's Ranch. I feel productive. It's almost like I need to touch everything in the house to bring my energy to it again, to wipe down the sinks, load the dishwasher, cook a meal and wash the dishes, fold the laundry. But a part of me stays in Bismarck, pulled, wondering when I should go. Dad says Mom isn't talking much, says that her hands and feet are cold. I'll leave tomorrow noon to go back, packing for two weeks should I need to stay that long.

How do I feel right now? Tired. I feel tired almost all the time, so I'm listening to my body and being gentle with it, eating when I'm able, resting as often as possible, just enjoying cuddling Bill or Steve, enjoying my short time with them. I know all of this is transitory, so I'm focusing on staying in the present moment, we're all here ... NOW, and that's a very good thing, as Martha Stewart would say. A very good thing. But I will not lie - it sure is nice to be home. There's no place like it. I cook rhubarb crunch and risotto-style barley to take back to my sisters and dad, then I head west 194 miles to the hospital, my other home.

Home for a minute

and then I go back. When? I don't know - that's the question. Mom's still alert, and I want to hold her hand while she's still alert, but is that selfish? I can hold her hand when she's unconscious, just to be with her. I know she'll know I'm there. She asked when I was coming back, and I told her two days. It's now been 24 hours, and my mind is back in Bismarck. My sisters tell me not to come back yet, that there are enough people there, that they want to keep things calm, and I think, I'm the most calm one, I'm the one who keeps focused and quiet. I know, I know, you may think I talk a lot, and am a little loud, and mostly I am, I guess, but not so much right now. Now I feel like being more quiet than talking, as if it's a great effort to talk. Besides, what do we REALLY have to say that's so important?

Sean Murphy from Taos told me a story when I was down there last. He said his friend went to his dad and told him about the benefits of meditating. "It will calm your mind." "But my mind's already calm," the dad answered. The son didn't know what to say back to him - he'd never met anyone with a calm mind. But I feel it right now - that still, quiet space. It came upon me last night when I lay in bed, right after reading the first chapter of the last Harry Potter book to Bill, and before he'd fallen asleep. It was a sweet, pervasive feeling of wholeness of being, just because. I liked it. A lot. I like where I am, but it's interesting to note that I tried to watch a DVD this afternoon, and none of the players worked. So I put on a CD, and THAT didn't work. I think it's me. I hope it's not permanent, or we'll have to replace all of our electronics. So now I go walk a bit before Bill comes back from his friend's house. He needed to play with his friends - a week of Mom would drive any kid mad. Bill and Steve will stay back, while I venture westward to be with Mom and Dad. Half of my summer will be gone, but I wouldn't have changed a single thing. I love my parents.

yin yang

For every sadness in my heart, there is a joy. For every difficulty there is a gift. I see one thing, then I think of its opposite, so I write my yin yang.

Mom is dying - I get to see all of my sisters
Dad is sad - we get to show him how much we love and support him
My sister left for vacation - I can see how some of my actions may hurt others, and am more aware of that
Jordan's situation - he'll finally get some good help
My fears - I am braver about some things, and scared of other things - education is a good thing
My fears are FRE - the most ferocious super bug that Mom has, and we have been around for the past two weeks - I almost fainted upon hearing the news - there are some things that we simply have NO control over, so we must trust (I have issues)
The drunk softball players screaming outside our hotel door at 12:30AM - I am NOT afraid of 20 drunk men - I opened the door and loudly asked them to keep it down, reminding them how late it was (Steve was shocked I was so brave, and was getting ready to "rescue me" - "You would've needed to rescue THEM," I told him this morning)
I feel SO ripped inside out - I am totally stripped down to my soul bare bones, and it's nice and clean and new
Mom is dying - she will always be with me

Our Last Conversation:
Mom: "How long do you think we've loved each other?"
Me: "I don't know. Forever. What do you think?"
Mom shrugs.
Me: "Do you think we've said everything we need to say?"
Mom: "Never."
Me: "I love you so much, Mom."
Mom: "I...LOVE...YOU!!!" Smile. "It's nice to have you here."
Me: "There's no place else I would rather be. I'll just sit and hold your hand."
Mom nods, closes her eyes, and smiles.

Mom Haiku

There is this space, Here!
Where my hand fits perfectly
Over her beating heart.

gifts

There are so many. Will I be able to name them all? It will be an ongoing list, but here are a few.
1. Collecting Russian Olive branches to bring up to the hospital - and their unbelievable smell - I'll always remember
2. Seeing all of my sister and Dad gathered around Mom, holding hands and singing - and Mom singing with us
3. Understanding a little more about the gift of quiet presence
4. Learning to breathe through the pain - and walking through to that crystal clear other side of peace
5. Walking with my sisters, firming up our triceps
6. Shutting my mouth when I want to bitch about something - just let it go - it doesn't matter
7. Being there 100% for my dad, just sitting by him, supporting him
8. Sitting for an hour with Mom this morning, one hand on her heart, the other holding her hand, and whispering "I love you, Mom" with her every breath
9. Making sack lunches for Dad and eating them with him at the hospital
10. Not being ashamed to cry anywhere, in front of anyone - it's beautiful
11. Holding my 8 year old and telling him how happy I am that he was born
12. Thanking Mom for the gifts she's given me
13. Walking through the woods with Nancy and coming to a break, with the sun beam shining right in front of us
14. Laughing through it all
15. Crying through it all
16. Being grateful for every single moment my heart is beating and I'm with my family

There will be more, but that is what I'm thinking about today. There is NEVER pain without gifts, it's just up to us to find the gifts, be aware of them, and allow them into our lives and consciousness. It is NOT all pain, or only pain. There is heart gripping beauty in every moment. It is all very real. And all a dream.

It's almost time

Dear Mom - you are so brave, and so strong. Your body has been incredible for your whole life, birthing five daughters, working, carrying everyone. But I know you're tired. Enough. It's all right to go on to your next adventure. We're right here, surrounding you. We'll be all right, and we'll take care of Dad. It's almost time to go - we know that, and I think you know that. And it's all right. It really is. Just know how much I love you, and thank you for everything you've done for me. I am so much who I am because of you. Your generosity, your unconditional love, your tenacity, your loyalty, your intelligence and goofy sense of humor. All from you, Mom.

Yes, I will miss hearing your voice. Yes, I will miss hugging you. But this is not all there is, far from it. And in that other place, we'll always be together. I know we will. But for now? Well, we'll be separated by that thin curtain, but it's not so thick - I can feel you even now, I can hear you in my head. Your voice is sweet and clear and strong. And that's real. I know it. Rest now, Mom - it's been a long journey, a grand adventure, but now it's time for your next one. We're staying behind, but we'll be along by and by, as well. Then we'll be together again.

so beautiful

Mom is so beautiful, lying there with her eyes closed. She mostly has a sweet slight smile on her face. Her face is almost unlined, and there shines from her almost a tangible light. I'm happy when I'm sitting next to her. There's a different energy around her, for some reason. The only time I really cry is when I see Dad with her. The way he looks at her, touches her face, murmurs. It almost does ya in, you know? But other than that, it is peaceful. We cut Russian Olive branches from the trees across the way, in the forest where I walk every day, and they are in a big vase by her bed. The whole room smells like summer by the river.

Everything seems clearer, brighter, deeper, if that makes sense. I don't feel like I'm in a dream anymore, but that I'm absolutely, stunningly here. I like how I feel. Bill took pictures of Dad, Nance, Mary and me last night, and I look different. I don't know what else to say but that. Something has changed inside of me, expanded. And it's so beautiful. Just like Mom.

Not enough time

I don't know if I'll be able to keep up, as Mom lifts up and out more and more, so I will write this morning and take it one moment at a time. Dad called us this morning to come in, so a friend of the family's watched Bill, who's here with me, due to some family issues back in Fargo. When it rains, it certainly pours. I will never forget this June. Ever. But it's all right. It's more than all right - it's just perfect. I believe that whatever happens is supposed to happen, from Bill's absessed tooth, to Erik's coughing up blood, to Jordan's difficulties, to Mom. Even if it's all happening at the same time - that's life at its messiest. Nobody ever said it was a straight line. Now we're in the difficult and intricate tango sequence of our lives. Careful not to slip up - you don't want to fall flat on your butt. That would be okay, as well, I guess.

I know that Mom understands us, but is too tired to talk, so I keep telling her I love her, and that she is loved, and keep stroking her face. She liked it when I ran a warm washcloth over her closed eyes. She smiled and nodded. I'm so glad I can be here with her and Dad. There is no other place to be. I miss Steve and Fargo, but they will be there when I am done with this. Everything will be there, but later, after I am through here. For right now, I'm just present, totally breathing into each moment, watching Mom's peaceful face as she lies in bed, breathing. Just breathing. She's alive right now.

pretty songbird

I had a dream last night. I owned a pretty songbird, with bright blue and red feathers. She nuzzled her beak against my face and I loved her. But one day she was lying down in her cage, and couldn't sit up. I held her to me, kept her by my side, but she kept shrinking, until she was only a quarter of an inch long, see-through, curled up, with black eyes and beating heart. She slid along the ground and I yelled at everyone to watch out for her, to not squish her, but they kept on with their business, not listening to me. She slid along to the drain and slipped down. I cried, and tried to get to her. But she was gone. Then out of the drain came two geckos - one blue and one red. They were shiny and lithe and they slithered around the grass trying to get acquainted. I wanted to catch them, but they weren't my pretty songbird. She was gone.

minnow

Mom can't talk anymore. She doesn't respond when we touch her. I used to think we had our words forever. We're surrounded with words, with conversations, from senseless texting and chatting about things that just don't matter, to the background buzz of the radio or tv. None of that matters now. I'm tired of talking.

Bill went fishing this morning and put the hook lightly into the minnow, so that we saw the bobber gently gliding across the water for 5 minutes, 10 minutes. The minnow was still alive. He decided that it was better to let him go, so I gently took him off the hook, and handed him to Bill, as he wanted to be the one to save his life. Only the minnow, in desperation, flopped in between the slats of the dock and landed on the floating black thing under the dock. We tried to save him by pushing him with a knife, but by the time we were done, he had died. I turned away from Bill so he didn't see me cry. He could've lived, there was no reason for him to die.

I feel better

I saw my sister, and I gave her a long hug. I feel better.

Be kind

I have been urged to be kinder, I have been urged not to be judgmental, I have been urged to be understanding. I have replied that I am being far kinder than I feel right now, and have not said nearly 1/10th of what is in my head, and I AM understanding. But there are some things that are just plain RIGHT and other things that are just plain WRONG. This is what I know: I know it is RIGHT to be here taking care of Mom and Dad, dropping everything to help as much as possible. I know it is WRONG to cut Mom and Dad out of your life, keeping secrets, withholding. I know it is WRONG to plan a vacation in 6 days, when Mom clearly only has a few days to live.

"Everybody has to make their own decisions, Susie."
"Yes, that's true. Everyone has their own issues, and will have to live with their consequences, but if this affects Mom, I will say the hard stuff. It's NOT okay, and if I'm the only one that has the guts to say that, then so be it. I'll say it."

Families stay - they are by your side when you are sick, especially when you are dying. It's not okay to stay away, coughing and saying you don't feel well, or you get sick if you stay up all night at the hospital, or your back hurts when you sit in the hospital chair for too long, or you're too busy with your kids. THAT IS NOT OKAY. It just isn't. And if anyone think I'm being unkind, well, then tough. Seriously, tough s**t.

Hey, aren't spiritual people supposed to go around with smiles on their faces, always gentle and yielding? Yes, but there are times when it is right to speak up, to say what's right. But aren't there several versions of "right?" Who am I to say what's right? Why would you deny your dying mother the right to see a picture of something kept from her? Why would you leave town when you know your mother will die any day? I acknowledge that we all have our priorities, and we all make our own decisions, but I don't want to delay the funeral for someone. I've chosen to stay at home for the last year, just to stay close in case Mom and Dad needed me. And they DID. I've been to Bismarck over 20 times in the past year. And I wanted to. Why? Because I'm kind. Are my sisters kind? I love them all, I do, but I will defend and take care of Mom first and foremost, and if that means saying some harsh things, then trust me, they'll be said. Mama didn't raise no fool. And for me to speak with that bad of grammar, you have to know I mean it!

Yes, these are tough, emotional, tough times, yes, we are all stressed out, yes, it's important to be gentle and understanding. Yes yes yes. I understand, I do. Believe me, I understand everything. That's the tough part sometimes. I can't be unconscious and just stick my head in the sand - I know too much. So I choose to speak, and for me, that's the most important thing. Maybe I'm wrong - who knows? I'm doing the best I know how.

just wondering

Mom has a fever today - up to 101 in her ear, which is 103 in her mouth, I think. She couldn't talk, and just lay there. I got scared, and it took two hours to get her some Tylenol. I'm just wondering what all of this is for - what are we doing? How is she living? She can't see, hear, speak, eat, move - she just lays there. Or is it "lies there?" One is active, that you DO, and another thing is for inanimate objects that you DO TO them. So I guess it doesn't really matter which verb I use, does it? They are doing some work to find out what caused her fever, possibly an infection due to her aspirating her food and drink into her lungs, and I ask again, what are we doing? I rinse the white washcloth in cool water and lay it back on her head, and tell her how brave she is, how she's my hero, and she snorts at me, and I tell her I'm serious, and once again, the tears come to my eyes. I'm pretty good about it, usually, really I am, until I go out into the hall while they do a chest x-ray, and I'm all alone with her, wondering if I'm taking good enough care of her, wondering what she wants when her hand starts patting the bedsheet, looking for something. "Do you want a kleenex? Your sucky thing?" She only always shrugs - what can she say? She slaps her hand gently on the side of the bed and sighs a little. She's frustrated, I know, and I want to help her, but the best I can do is just keep telling her, "I'm here, Mom, I'm here."

I bought a notebook and am doing some writing. That seems to help. A lot. I'm a writer, so writing is what I can do, to capture all of these myriad thoughts onto the page so they can be a little ordered. To keep some kind of a record of these times, of these hours and days. For what? I have no idea. For me, I guess. People tell me how sad it must be, and I think, it's not sad if you remain in the present moment, realizing that this is Mom RIGHT NOW, not her yesterday, or last year, or 10 years ago, or 30 years ago, RIGHT NOW, and this is her, and that is that. I sigh as I type, I don't know why, but I'm feeling tired, so I think I'll go rest for a while. Dad's up at the hospital now. It's almost 8PM - I'm ready for bed...

what day is it?

I thought I'd posted for today already. I couldn't sleep last night, my head full to bursting with the excess thoughts that crowd in and race. I'm used to that energy, that anxiety energy that seems to multiply with the stress. I practice my deep breathing but it doesn't help, so I take one of my new "Calms" homeopathic pills that I got at Earth Pantry, and pick up my book, "Water for Elephants." I brought along 5 books to read, and I'm halfway through this second one, reading while sitting with Mom. I heard Dad at 4AM, so got up to see how he was doing. He said he couldn't sleep, and as I leaned against the wall hearing him talk about what he thought had happened to cause the fluid in Mom's lungs I could feel my heart rate start to pick up, so I took deep breaths, and told Dad I had to go back to bed. He did, too. By the time I awoke at 8AM, he was STILL asleep. I cooked him breakfast, then we both went to the hospital to wait for Mom's procedure to get her stomach feeding tube put in. She was worried about it, so we said we'd both be there with her.

We sat until noon, when they finally came and took her, then waited until 2PM when they finally started the procedure. Dad left to go home to nap at 3 and I stayed until 6, so I could make the chicken stir fry with brown rice that I had promised Dad. I won't lie to you - I'm tired, I'm overwhelmed, I'm stressed out, my body is approaching maximum overdrive, and there's no rest in sight. Nancy's waiting for test results down in Colorado, Peggy's in London, Mary's in Greece, and Judy's at her house. I don't know what to do. I miss Steve and Billy so badly. I call three times a day to keep up with their schedules - how was climbing camp, how was fishing, how was dinner, do you miss me? Maggie called today to check in - god bless my friends. I didn't get outside once today, but wanted to walk and do tai chi, but ended up just holding Mom's hand and rubbing her sore back. I want to be here, I do, but I'm tired, and I don't know how Dad is able to keep up this pace. He wants to be at the hospital as much as possible to keep up on everything that's happening, but I just want to be here, cooking. I want Steve and BIll to drive up here so I can be with them, so I can pretend I have a normal life, and this is normal summer, and we're doing summer things. But instead I'm missing family vacations and memories, and I'm totally and perfectly split in two - wanting to be here, and yet wanting to be home. But I stay, because this time is precious, and invaluable, and will never be again. I know that. I wonder if my sister feels the same way? Perhaps not, but then, I shouldn't be thinking about why anybody else is doing or not doing things, should I? No - I should just concentrate on my life, and on helping Mom and Dad, because that is the most important thing in the world right now, in my world of prioritizing. I will never regret these times, or any of my decisions. I'm just glad I can help. It's the least I can do, after all they've done for me.

Mom and Margaret - Day 2

I couldn't find the three girls anywhere. We assumed the worst. But when I checked with the ICU hostess, she said Margaret was still alive! I couldn't believe it. Then I saw Joan, the eldest girl, and she said that miraculously the perforation in her mom's uhm, I forgot which body part, liver? had spontaneously closed, and she had stabilized. When she saw her, she was actually even sitting up in a chair, still a little confused, but going to pull through.

Then Joan looked at me and asked how MY mom was doing. I wish she could have the same sort of miracle, but we'll take what we can get. They pulled her blocked feeding tube out of her nose, and she ate a little soup and a popsicle last night, oh, and water. She was so thirsty. But they told her this morning that she couldn't eat, so there we go again - what to do? Luckily Mom agreed to having the procedure to get the stomach feeding tube put in, so that buys us a little time.

Here is what I want to say: I'm lonely. Every day feels like a week. I'm worried about Dad - his eyes are so baggy and red, and sometimes he just sits quietly, staring at the wall. But I can hear him thinking. After all, I'm his daughter. He wants to DO something. He wants an action plan. He's a leader, and no one really seems to know what's going on, or is in control. That bugs him, I think. So I hold it together for Mom and Dad, and it's easy, really. I go to my Happy Place, and I'm peaceful, and lightly funny, and optimistically realistic (is that an oxymoron?). But then I went to the Mom's dentist today to get my temporary crown glued back in, and they asked about her. I started crying. I told them to change the subject, so they did. Then someone else asked about Mom, and I started crying again. It would be sort of comically funny, in a tragic sort of way, if it wasn't so intense and surreal.

I'm home now, inexplicably tired, but not wanting to rest. I want to BE with someone. I miss Steve and Bill, and it seems like they're doing swimmingly without me, but Steve's got a headache, and I think he's a bit bugged that I'm calling 3 or 4 times a day, just to see if "Bill's okay." Really, I just want them to tell me they love me and miss me, and their lives just aren't whole unless I'm there. I want them to tell me they want me to cook the roasted vegetables for them, they want me to walk Spikey with them, they want me to cuddle.

But they don't. Well, yes, they do, but it's just not the same. I don't want to talk, really, but I don't want to be alone. I'm cooking for Dad, being their rock (that's what they're calling me - Rock or Rocky), running errands, figuring out plans, keeping family updated, but that's all too much. It's like, let me breathe and see what it's like. It's like I'm living in this parallel life that's running side by side with the rest of the world, but I'm separated from them. I can look over at everyone else, but I'm alone. That's how it feels, and I love people so much that it hurts to feel this way, but I suppose it's just the time, and the circumstances. But that's today, anyway. It's beautiful here, so I may go out for a little walk to see if the goose eggs have hatched yet.

Mom and Margaret - Day 1

I went back to the hospital at 11, having tucked Bill and Steve safely in bed. I met Janelle in the lobby.
"Susie? Susie Ekberg?"
I didn't recognize her - it has been over 30 years. She was 11 then.
Janelle - the daughter of my high school basketball coach. I babysat for the three girls.
"Why are you here?" I asked.
Her mom, Margaret, had fallen three weeks ago, and suffered head injury. When they ran tests, they found problems with her kidneys and liver. When they went in, they cut her bile duct and didn't know it. Bile poisoned her throughout the night. When they went back in, they couldn't find the cut, so they just sewed her back up again. Her kidneys were failing, and they were all just waiting. Margaret was a school teacher - on basketball trips we would help her correct papers and cut out construction letters and pictures. She had dyed white blonde hair and dark glasses. When I saw the girls yesterday afternoon at 1:30, I handed them a sympathy card, told them how much I cared about them, and left to sit with Mom. By 3 they were all gone. They never came back. Margaret probably died. 64 years old.

How odd to be so happy to see these sweet girls after 30 years, but how sad. What a coincidence? I think not. I don't know why we met again, but it means something, I know it does.

I went for a walk last night, after sitting with Mom for 8 hours and not eating. Steve called - their cable was out, and Tiger was on the 18th, needed to make an eagle to win, par to tie with Mediate. I'd been following the tournament on Mom's hospital TV, and actually cared. I turned right around and started running for the house so I could keep them updated. I made it just in time to watch Westwood line up for the putt (he missed), then gave Steve the blow-by-blow report on Tiger's amazing putt to tie. Then I felt the thudding in my chest - my heart rate wasn't too high, but after I hung up and went into the basement to rest, it went up to over 100 and wouldn't back down, thudding and racing and beating irregularly. Is this new? No, but it scared me a little, like my body was betraying me. Then I thought about what was going on. Bill had cried and screamed for 5 straight hours on Saturday with a molar that was coming out, my hormones are uh, a little off-balance, I ate 1000 calorie Father's Day brunch, then hadn't eaten for 8 hours, and on. Time to slow down, take better care of myself. Dad, too. I'm staying home today to make spinach broccoli soup for us, re-sod the dry patches on the lawn, and go grocery shopping. Oh, and go to the dentist to have my temporary crown glued back in.

Mom has a feeding tube. She doesn't want any more treatments. She can't get out of bed. There's more fluid in her lungs. We don't know what's going on, or what to do, so we keep meeting with the doctors and getting reports. And we talk - people call, family calls, we talk to each other, I keep clearing my throat. Not that I don't like to talk, but I find myself seeking solace in the great trees on the other side of the road. The goose eggs are still on the little island, and the turtles are coming out to sun on the log. That's what makes my heart calm down, that's what calms the ice that is flowing through my veins, the ice of anxiety that I'm trying to make friends with, because I can't panic now, now when everyone needs me, but it's hard, sometimes, because I just want something to be different than what it is now, but it's not. So I stay. And I cook soup. And I'll watch for Margaret's funeral announcement, and I may go. I DID bring my black dress.

63 years but probably that's all

Mom and Dad celebrated their 63rd wedding anniversary on Tuesday. They talked about the wedding, and laughed about Grandpa just getting released from the hospital for heart problems, and telling Grandma to just "walk over him" if he fell over during the ceremony. Dad remembers how he felt when Mom walked out, ready to leave for the honeymoon. She's wearing this beautiful gray suit on, and Dad had the best smile on his face. He couldn't believe how happy he felt. I've got a picture of that time. "You're a beautiful woman, Marietta," Dad says, gently brushing the hair off her face.

Mom can't eat anymore, so they're putting in a feeding tube. Her lungs are full of fluid and bits of food. She's losing weight. She can't walk or hardly sit up anymore. I'm going up to Bismarck indefinitely, to help Dad with Mom, and to help Mom die. Two of my sisters are out of the country, one's down in Colorado, and one doesn't seem able to help in any way, so I realize it's not only the logical thing to do, but the right thing. Am I sad to be leaving Bill and Steve and my home? Yes, but this is the summer for driving, and for doing important things, so this is the important thing I'm doing. I'll keep up with my blog and HPR columns, and really, we don't know how much longer it's going to be.

It's pretty powerful, this dying stuff. It certainly isn't for sissies. I look at my mom still keeping her sense of humor through it all. Nurses ask her how she's doing, and she smiles and says, "I'm doing all right!" and I think, "How can you SAY that?" but it's not my story to tell, it's Mom's, and I admit it gets progressively sadder if I stop to really think about it, so I'm choosing NOT to think about the sad part of it, but rather think of her life on a continuum. It just keeps changing. There isn't one time that's necessarily BETTER than another, it's all just dots on a line that keep moving. And Mom's right HERE right now. And I'm here right now, and we're together. When I left she told me how much it meant to have me there with her, helping. I started crying. It comes on me at strange times, this crying. I'll be fine, then John Strand tells me how glad he was that he got to meet my mom, and I start again. Crying really hard that time, actually. And crying's fine, too, but I seem to be most helpful to Mom and Dad when I'm able to stay in that calm, clear state that is loving and attentive and present. I'm grateful to be where I am, spiritually AND physically. God bless you all.

thoughts

It happens, not infrequently, that my mind drifts to thoughts of the purpose of life. It starts broad, like to have a job, or to do things, then, not finding a satisfactory answers, swoops closer and closer until it lands on more specifics, like, having children, having nice things, but it's never right. I ultimately end up at the same place - realizing that the absolute only point of living and of life is to be with each other. It's not that I'm macabre or pessimistic or depressed, it's my truth. And it's not sad, it just is.

The drive to Bismarck was interesting. Lots of rain until right before Jamestown, when the sky became stunningly clear and blue. Ah, I thought, a clear shot to Bismarck. Then I overheard a man saying they were expecting some fierce weather. I got into my car and headed west. I saw a line of white clouds on the horizon, and thought they were just, well, clouds. As I got closer, the sky beneath the white clouds became darker, darker, until the solid block was a deep deep gray. Uh oh. The odd thing was that there was a slip of sky beneath the gray that was just lighter clouds, as if it was a huge box held over our heads. I could see lightning on either side of the road. Yup - you know I just LOVE lightning, especially when I'm in a metal car, but darn it, I started taking deep belly breaths, and drove on. As I passed directly under the system, I could feel the car rattling with the thunder, then the rain hit with such ferocity and determination that all of us cars had to slow down to 20 mph as we couldn't see past our windshields. But the line was brief, maybe 5 minutes, and as I looked at it in my rearview mirror, I was struck at how symbolic that storm is for how I'm feeling right now in my life.

Sometimes there are storms, sometimes it's clear for days on end, and sometimes it's soggy for weeks. When we're in one place, the storms seem to find US, but when we're on the move, as we are wont to do, WE encounter the storms, who are moving also, but we're faster, so we can see them coming, can plan a touch, but then are forced to just keep going, knowing that the best way is THROUGH.

Mom can't speak very well, getting out of breath fast. Her hair was all pushed forward in the back, so I smoothed it back, then kept petting her head. She used to do that to me when I was little, when she was putting me to bed. It made me feel calm. She wasn't hungry, but needed to eat, so Dad helped her figure it out, but she had to take these monster pills, and had a hard time. I moved down to her legs and rubbed them, up to her knees, and down to her ankles.

It doesn't look good. I know I've said that before, but Dad said they can't get the water out from around her heart, and if that's the case, well, she's about done. Mom said she wants to change the poem for the back of the memorial service program, and I said that's fine. She wants "Happy Trails," which is perfect as that's what she used to sing to me every night before I fell asleep. It goes something like this:

"Some trails are happy ones,
Others are blue.
It's the way you ride the trail that counts,
Here's a happy one for you.

Happy trails to you,
Until we meet again.
Happy trails to you,
Keep smilin' until then.

Who cares about the clouds when we'ere together?
Just sing a song, and bring the sunny weather.

Happy trails to you,
Til we meet again."

P.S. I have to Leave

Dad called - Mom's in the hospital with fluid around her heart, and right now they can't stabilize her. I'm leaving in an hour, so probably won't be able to post for a few days. I'll try to, though. Please send prayers to sweet Mom.

Symptoms

Fatigue, weight gain, hair loss. Although these are mild, I notice them, and when a friend said she has the same symptoms, and thinks her thyroid is out of whack, I'm encouraged again to never underestimate the power of energy shifts and integrations. Are these more energy symptoms? You tell me. I wonder sometimes - is just EVERYTHING an energy symptom? Crabbiness, restlessness, joint aches, stomach cramps, headaches, blurry vision? At what time do you think, "should I go get this checked?" Usually about the time that the symptom STOPS. It's a crap shoot - really, it is. And this is not for sissies. It requires a HUGE amount of blind trust and faith in things unseen, just like the Bible verse: "Faith is the evidence of things unseen." Yes, yes, it is.

So I'm just sitting there yesterday, minding my own business, and whoa - hard cramp in my lower right abdomen. It hurt! My mind races - slight weight gain, abdominal cramping - Kim had that around Christmas, and they found a huge benign tumor. Puh-lease, Susie - CALM DOWN! How long have you been going through these changes? 3 years? Isn't it about time that you relaxed? Well, sometimes I can, and sometimes it's hard. But maybe THIS time it really IS something wrong. Best friend Maggie laughs at me (in a loving way) when I call her and say, "So, tell me I don't have ovarian cancer." Or whatever ailment, take your pick -it changes daily or weekly. I wonder what this worrying does to the energy of my body, if we can affect our health by our thoughts, so I counter these worries with loving, affirmative messages to my body, like "Yes, you're a GOOD body, you're so healthy and strong, just look at you!" sort of like you'd talk to a good dog, or 5 year old. Sigh.

What's left, then, at the end of the day when you're alone with your thoughts and your body? Usually I go over my options, and they run like this: if I DO want to get checked out, I have to make an appointment, and it's going to take time and cost money. If they recommend drugs or surgery, I'm not going to do those, anyway, so why go in the first place? Just to get a "diagnosis" of what they say is "wrong?" Trust that whatever is happening, it is a temporary, but necessary part of whatever transformation piece is happening right now? Wait and see - if it doesn't get better, then look at it again? That worked for the flu that I got a month ago. Man, I felt like crap, but only really badly for 2 days, and even then I could still get around. It worried Mom, got her angry, even, but I told her I wouldn't get the tamiflu anyway - it caused seizures in Japanese children. I'm quite certain she tsked at me, but that's her right - she's my mom. But I DID tell her that I'm not stupid about my health. I love myself, my body and my life, and if I really get worried, I'll certainly go get checked out. So I gave it until the next morning, and lo and behold (whatever that means), I felt a lot better. See? Just give it a day or two and most likely you'll be just fine.

So, there are the symptoms. I wonder sometimes if we should even think about our bodies and our health in terms of symptoms. Does it really serve any purpose? It's sort of like saying, "Well, now the bedroom is dusty" when the workmen destroy the bathroom wall. Well, le duh! So maybe bodily observations aren't that helpful, and only serve to scare us or make us hyper-sensitive to the process. Maybe for the next week I'll look at everything on a continuum - I'm in this part of the process, so now I'm feeling this, then tomorrow I'll be in another place, so I'll be feeling THIS. Something like that. How am I feeling RIGHT NOW? That's always a great question to ask. Thich Naht Hanh recommends that question - "in this present moment, is everything okay?" The answer will almost always be yes, so then you're okay. The sun is shining beautifully, and I'm about to go change into my workout clothes, turn on my iPod and go for a long walk. Then grocery shopping (I didn't have the ingredients for the chicken pad thai last night so we made homemade pizza with red peppers, mozzarella cheese and lamb), but I'll make it tonight, I promise. After that? Who knows? Bill and I finished all 6 of the Star Wars movies for one of our summer goals, and I finished reading "Pride and Prejudice" and am halfway through the Colin Firth movie (Colin Firth - dreamy). It feels good to have goals, and to cross them off when you reach them, but always remembering to leave enough room open to possibilities and greater outcomes than you can imagine. I think that's important.

So while I'm considering my political future, I'm also being soft and open to other possibilities that may come up, because in the end, I don't know, I don't know, I just don't know. And that's okay.

Day Two- German Potato Salad and Roasted Lamb

Okay, this was kind of silly, because we were invited to Deb's house party for dinner, but I made it anyway, just to munch on during the day. I used the small red potatoes, and just scrubbed them to keep the vitamins in the skin. I fried up 4 slices of natural bacon (no nitrites or nitrates, and low sodium), then crumbled them. I cooked a whole sliced-up red onion in some of the remaining bacon grease (I know, but seriously, can you blame me? It's just a touch...), then added the onions and bacon to the cooked potatoes, along with 3 tablespoons of cider vinegar and some cut up italian parsley. Served warm? MMMMMMM. Okay, we could substitute the whole bacon/bacon fat thing, but overall, yummy! The lamb was almost the last of Myrene's, and was a shoulder roast. Not my favorite cut, but I actually ended up putting it in a crockpot with some red wine, and it was moist, tender, and really really good (a little later night snack).

I don't have enough recipes for a whole week, just three more days, so that will have to do for now, plus I want to speak of other things (imagine that!). But we'll keep the recipe thing going because I promised. It has not stopped raining for oh, 40 days and nights? Oh no, that was Noah, but sort of the same. Last night Bill and I went outside during one of the downpours and filled up all the water containers, then he rinsed his hair under the downspout (I told him rainwater makes his hair soft), then he put out 6 big plastic glasses. This morning they are almost full. Did you hear that rain last night? We saw some baby earthworms wriggling around, confused with the soggy earth, and I wonder if it's true that our bodies store Vitamin D for 28 days? If so, then we've got some wiggle room; otherwise I might have to drag out my light box if this keeps up. I'm amazingly not depressed yet, but feeling buoyant and optimistic about everything. Life is sweet and gentle and peaceful. Why? I have no idea.

I spend some time every morning just to breathe and smile, to pray for those I love and send them healing and light, to think about what I want in my life and ask to be in alignment with my Highest Good, and just sit with my hands over my heart and really feel what it's like to be totally in my body. I'm starting to miss speaking and teaching. I still speak, but not as much as I used to (maybe that's a good thing). I'm considering moving into the political arena, but need to ask some people for guidance. I know I'd do a good job, and there are so many things I'm passionate about, that I think I can help bring about much-needed change. What do you think? Politics? Good idea or bad? I'd want to help with education, and nutrition in the schools, and recess, and recycling and landfills, and health initiatives, and and and!

So we face the last day of Bill's invention camp. He loved it, and we get to go see his fabulous inventions later today. For me? I meet with Phil to overhaul my website, bringing in a ton of new, changing features, things that are in line with my goals and vision for my life and the world. A walk? You bet - I'm training for the 3 Day Cancer Walk in September - 60 miles in 3 days! I need to raise $2200, so wish me luck. I haven't even started fundraising - too busy wondering how I'll be able to walk 60 miles in 3 days! But I know I can... goal for the day? Get an outline for the last part of Dad's book. Stay tuned. It's almost done. Well, the first part - then comes the editing.

Day One - Lentil Soup and "yes, no, maybe so"

Lentil Soup, Caramelized Onions with Asparagus and Warm Whole Wheat Bread

Billy and his "Yes, No, Maybe So" Creation

Bill's caught the culinary bug (there are worse diseases), and, upon seeing me take out my stack of recipes, got out a pencil and paper and wrote the recipe for his newest creation, "Yes, No, Maybe So." Why is it called that? He explained to us last night.

"Is it unhealthy? Yes, because it's got Cream of Mushroom Soup in it. Is it unhealthy? No, because it's got broccoli and whole wheat pasta in it. Is it overall a healthy meal? Maybe so." What a guy - he was so proud - we all tried some, and took pictures. I love my son - he's fabulous.

I put 3 cups rinsed lentils on to simmer in the morning in 12 cups filtered water. At 2PM I came home from a fabulous lunch with Shirley and added a cup each of cut up onions, carrots and celery. At 4PM I added 1 1/2 cups cut up tomatoes, some molasses, red wine, wine vinegar and pepper. Voila. Lentil soup.

Then I put olive oil in a skillet and caramelized a cup of cut up onions. In another saucepan I steamed a pound of cut up asparagus. When the onions were done, I added 2 teaspoons of dijon mustard, a teaspoon of fresh cut up thyme and some fresh pepper. I tossed the asparagus in and mixed it all up.

We already had the fresh whole wheat organic bread, so I just heated that up, and served it with some butter.

As you can see - it's all so beautiful! Today I'm making Hot German Potato Salad and organic lamb shoulder with a side salad.

Why all the food entries? I don't know - maybe it's the rainy weather, maybe I just need a change of pace, maybe it's because I've surrendered eating sweets for the summer and I'm feeling more energetic. Maybe this is just what interests me right now. I don't know - I'm just going with it.

A Week of Good Cooking

We're all excited. We even found a recipe for Chicken Pad Thai that we're going to try. But tomorrow we make lentil soup, followed by Indonesian Rice Salad and Hot German Potato Salad, then asparagus with carmelized onions. We'll make something, then take a picture of it and report on how it turned out. Why lentil soup first? Because we're COLD to the bone! We made a fire tonight, and huddled under a blankey watching Star Wars "Attack of the Clones." It's the second movie - we've already watched 4,5,6, and 1, so we just have 3 left to complete one of our summer goals.

How am I feeling these days? Really happy, peaceful, even, lovingly detached from most of my self-inflicted burdens. I'm not worried about anything, but feeling really excited about everything that is unfolding and will be unfolding, and there's no rush, no worries. I love my work with my sweet clients, I love my writing, I love being with my friends and spending time chilling with my husband and child, but most of all I'm just loving BEING. It's all SO good. Stay tuned for the first installment of "a week of good cooking" tomorrow.

Enjoy the rain! There are SO many songs we've been singing, like "Singing in the Rain," "It's Raining it's Pouring (the old man is snoring)," "Laughter in the Rain," oh, I'm sure we'll think of more. But now off to look up recipes on www.topsecretrecipes.com - Bill wants to check it out. Until tomorrow, here's to simple bliss.

Something's Brewing

Here are my boys at Brewer Lake yesterday. It was an absolutely GORGEOUS day out. Perfect, really - a slight breeze, warm sun. We packed our cooler full of ham sandwiches, apples and grapes, grabbed the fishing poles and worms freshly dug from our back yard, then piled into Gitana, our RV (Gitana means female gypsy). We used to go to Brewer Lake all the time when the older kids were younger. Steve took Jordan fishing there every weekend. I don't remember it being that crowded, but we're going to try camping there some weekend. We brought the squirt guns (as you can see from the photo - Billy usually toted all three, and we got soaked), and I realize how much I miss just being outside. If it's not for the gardening or walking, I'm usually inside, writing or trying to get organized. But yesterday? Ah - yesterday was heaven.

Steve is getting information on buying a farm south of Jamestown. I told him, "We're not getting any younger, honey. Let's just do it!" (whatever "it" is). Don't you think? I'm tired of just waiting, of waiting to see what the market does, waiting to see how the housing market will change, waiting to see if we'll move out of this house. Waiting... for 9 years we've sat, waiting, and I'm done waiting. I'm shifting into DOING (whatever "doing" means), if that makes sense. And part of the doing was to drive around North Dakota in our sweet little RV, exploring and making memories with our sweet youngest son, Bill. Don't let the expression on his face fool you - he's an absolute angel!