No, Not Me. You must have me mistaken with someone else.

 It started like this.  There was this thing called a pandemic.  It was only going to last a few weeks, or maybe months.  But then it didn't.  And people put off routine screenings because why risk going into a hot bed of the rona for a routine screening.  I made appointments, which were really hard to come by, for my annual mammogram.  And then news got worse and I put it off longer.  And then it became impossible to get an appointment--my HMO based healthcare provider who covers half of the county population only had one mammography machine available two-three days a week.  And since in all of my years I've never had an issue, have no familial history, have normal risks factors (other than living in one of the counties with the highest rate of breast cancer in the country), I figured it could wait.  Then things got busy.  I went in one day for my appointment, but after waiting over a half hour with no clue when I was going to be seen, I left.  I finally made an appointment for the day the sale of my house closed and less than a week before I was leaving town.  I went in and had my scan and went home, ready to move on to the next thing.

That afternoon I received a call back.  "We'd like you to have a diagnostic mammogram and an ultrasound. Can you come in the day after the holiday?"  Sure.  I had had my vaccine, there had been a lot of false positives due to lymph node enlargement.  I figured they were just being safe.  So the following Tuesday I went for the next two scans, not at all worried.

Now the facility where you go for this type of imaging is old and outdated and cramped.  Pretty much third world type.  Ironic since I have designed some kick-ass beautiful breast health centers.  Where I was treated was not one of them.

I went in for the mammography portion of the program.  There were five seats in the waiting room, and only three were available for sitting since the others were blocked off for social distancing.  And, by the way, extraneous visitors were not allowed.  Of course one woman brought her husband, who filled one of the chairs meant for the patients.

Several pictures later, after the radiologist kept asking for more, I asked the tech what she was looking for.  She showed me.  "Huh, that does look like it doesn't belong there," I thought to myself, "probably a cyst".  Time to move on to the ultrasound.  Well, that department is half-way across the hospital, through main corridors with patients, staff and materials.  They give me a double gown and I carry my sorry bag of clothes and purse down the public hall, trying not to think about the fact I'm half dressed and feeling very vulnerable.  

After what felt like a half-mile trek, I arrived at my destination (at least I was escorted) and prepped for the ultrasound.  The tech did her thing.  Then she called in the radiologist and she did her thing, staring intently at the screen and taking the ultrasound doppler across my breast and arm pit.  Then she says that there is a suspicious mass and the only way to know for sure is to do a biopsy, they could do it right then or I could schedule it.  I'm planning on leaving town the next day so I say "Do it".

The team scurried around, they brought in a nurse and collected supplies.  A sachet of lavender was pinned to my gown and I was positioned for the biopsy.  It wasn't horrible.  A little numbing medicine for the breast to go along with my very numb brain.  "This isn't happening, they just have to rule it out and I'll get on with my long awaited next chapter of my life," I was thinking.  Five core samples were taken and I was bundled back up in my two gowns and walked back to mammography through the very public halls because they needed new pictures to be sure the clips were in the right place, or some such thing.

And back into that mammo waiting room I go with the husband of a patient still filling one of the three seats and other patients in the remaining seats, also looking a little shell shocked.  There I stand, in a gown, holding an icepack to my breast and no where to sit after having five holes punched in me and there sits the big fat male, feeling entitled to a chair in a tiny room filled with women in gowns.  What the actual fuck?  Male entitlement at its finest.  The staff then had me and another patient wait in the stereotactic biopsy treatment room on rolling office chairs for our next turn at the torture device.  Finally I was called back into the scan room and had more pictures taken, with an additional few pictures for good measure and then told to get dressed and go home.  And as I left, the entitled male was still occupying one of the few chairs available for patients.

For the record, I can understand why someone would want their husband or loved one with them.  Hell, I wanted my husband with me too, except he's dead, so there's that.  This man appeared oblivious to all that was going on around him and the discomfort of women who may have actually had breast cancer.  He was an interloper.  He could have waited 30 feet down the hall in the imaging waiting room, where no one is waiting in a gown and made everyone more comfortable.  Also for the record, a state-of-the-art breast health center has an outer waiting room, where patients wait before gowning and where loved ones remain during the process, and an inner gowned waiting room for patients who have disrobed and wearing a thin hospital gown.  I know this because I've designed more than one.  Just my luck I am insured by the system with the least consideration of patient's dignity.  Oh, and did I mention, COVID?  Yes, no extraneous visitors.  I think that is also a horrible way to go through this process, but we are in the middle of a pandemic and some pigs are not more equal than other pigs (Animal Farm reference).

I left the hospital and got in my car.  I sent a text to my friend who is a 20 year survivor of Stage III breast cancer and told her I had a biopsy.  Her response was "that's not good".  And I responded, "Oh its nothing, just have to rule out this weird thing".  

I went home and fell asleep for two hours, clinging to an ice pack that had since lost its cold.  I was exhausted.  The next morning I got up, packed up the car, picked up my friend and hit the road to the Midwest.  This wasn't going to change my plans.  It was nothing.  I don't have cancer until someone tells me I have cancer.

Three days later, at a truck stop in Sydney Nebraska, I return a phone call to the breast care coordinator. "The biopsy came back positive for lobular carcinoma," she said. "But its tiny and you probably won't lose your breast and we can treat this."  The next words out of my mouth were "What's next?" and she went on to describe a meeting with a surgeon which she set up for the next week.  My friend and I looked at each other.  "What the fuck."  "I knew it, " I said.  "I would say I have breast cancer to myself and there was no emotional reaction.  I had a gut feeling, even though I kept trying to talk my way out of it."

I have cancer.  Someone just told me I have cancer.

It doesn't end, does it?

There are just longer breaks between it.  It.  The sneak grief attack.  It happened again today.  Why today?  Why not?  I am subtly aware that 25 years ago today we moved into our beautiful home in California.  The home that was filled with life, love, joy and grief and sorrow and recovery.  And I am glad to have let it go.  Today it was music.  Don't Stop by Fleetwood Mac.  The signature song of RuMoRs.  The song they closed with at every gig.  It snuck up on me.  The wailing cry coming deep from within, the expulsion of all of the feeling mixed together--the missing, the fear of the future, the frustration with my misbehaving heart, the letting go, the surrender, again.  Then the hour spent searching desperately through files to find a recording of a gig with Don't Stop. I wanted to hear HIM counting in the band and hear HIM play the finale with the final crash on the cymbal.  In my mind's eye I could see him grabbing the edge of the crash to quiet it, leaning forward over his snare looking at his band mates with that smile, drench in sweat.  The exchanges between them, enveloped in the bliss of having come together to play an awesome gig, each giving from the depth their soul to an appreciative audience, happy and smiling from an evening on the dance floor.  The exhilaration and the exhaustion in his stance.  But most of all the joy and the contentment of doing what he loved.  

There was nothing left to do but break down.  I would dismantle the sound system, wrapping cords--the one's with the green tape were ours, the ones with the blue tape were Dave's, the one's with red tape were Bruce's (is that right?), collecting the snake and winding it back into its black and yellow box until the next gig.  Tom breaking down the drum kit, putting the hardware and stands into their rolling case, the cymbals (the crash, the splash, the ride, the gong and the high hat) into their case, and stacking the drums for me to put into their cases once the sound board and all of the pieces were packed up. I had a system for putting each drum into its individual case, with a minimal of wrestling between drum and case and me.  Tom would load the car, there an order to that as well.  Everything had to go in a specific way in the game of Tetris to get all of the piece into the Jeep and later the CRV.  I would drive home, Tom being so tired from playing.  They say that drummers are elite athletes given how physical it is to play with all four limbs doing something different.  It was usually a short drive home where we would unload everything into the garage (also known as the drum storage room) and yes, there was a technique for how things were put away.  We'd let Zora out for her nighttime zoomies, she had been alone all evening and had energy to expend.  Once inside, we would partake of our traditional post-gig snack of White Castle sliders, potato chips and Trader Joe's dill pickles. As we ate, with Zora giving us the death stare waiting on a chip, we would discuss the gig, who had missed a cue, how the band sounded in the back of the house, and could everyone hear their monitors?  And then we would head to bed, tired and sore and spent, together, looking forward to doing it all again on another night in another venue.

Oh how I miss these times, the being a part of, doing what I could, watching and supporting the band to be the best they could be on any given night.  

Heart Strong

The 5th anniversary of Tom's death is in 8 days. In the last 5 years I've dealt with Tom's illness and death.  I've had cataract surgery on both eyes.  Then 848 days ago, while having dinner at a local Mexican restaurant, my heart went into a strange rhythm.  It had happened once before but converted back to normal quickly.  This time it didn't.  I kept thinking it would.  But it didn't.  A week later I took myself into the ER and was diagnosed with persistent aFib.  I was put on medication and sent home.  A month later I had my first cardioversion to put me back in normal rhythm.  It didn't last.  It began my long journey through various medications, multiple EKGs, 5 echocardiograms, one angiogram, one stress test, one cardiac MRI (soon to be two), four cardioversions, one surgical ablation (heart surgery), one catheter ablation (heart surgery), and a bout of constrictive pericarditis which caused diastolic heart failure (since resolved), a thoracentesis, a 14 day monitor and a 30 day monitor.  Last week I received the results of that 30 day monitor and my cardiologist has declared the last ablation a SUCCESS!!!!!  My heart is still in the healing process from what is believed to be a flare of the pericarditis from the second ablation.  But I am HEART STRONG! Today I felt good.  And its good to feel good. Up for 2020, two joint replacements.  And I've done all this while continuing to work, redoing my house, learning to ride a motorcycle and just trying to recover.  Dayum!  That is a lot of stuff.  I am pretty awesome if I say so myself.  And yet, it could be so very much worse.  I am grateful for what I do have, a home, an income, health insurance, great friends who have helped me through this.  And Zora--who is the only reason I got out of bed the next day.

It has been a long hard difficult journey. There were days I didn't think I'd make it through and days I didn't want to make it through. I know the joint replacements will be very difficult surgeries to recover from. But, hell, if I can survive the last five years, I think I will get through it just fine. Its the last thing I need to do to reclaim my life, which has become limited due to the constant pain when walking or standing.

Our House

Twenty-three years ago today, on January 19, 1997, we first walked into the house that was to become our home.  We arrived from Chicago the day before and were looking for a place to rent, not buy.  The moment we entered we knew we absolutely had to have it.  We put in an offer the next day.  It took some finagling and the help of family and six weeks later it was ours.

It has been the happiest of places, filled with love.  It has been the saddest of places, the home of a broken heart.  It has provided shelter to three dogs and two birds, a devoted married couple and a devastated widow.  It has been a place of refuge and a place of angst (think nasty neighbors).  It has hosted band practice and countless dinners.  Music and laughter still echo from its corners. It is the place where we fought and made up. It is the place where we laughed and cried.  It echoed with the howls of anguish after a failed IVF cycle.  It is the place that recharged us after long days of work and a week of business travel. It is the place we returned to after learning of the death of my dad and fourteen years later, the death of my mom.  It was the home to which Sonnet traveled across the country with us to spend her last four years and the home that Kona traveled from Texas to live in with his new family. It is the home that Zora traveled to from SoCal to bring joy to two people recovering from the loss of their goofy lab. It was the home that Bubba settled into after being abandoned by his family of twenty years and where he passed being loved on.  It is where Phoenix would scream his lungs out and where he would cower when a hawk would fly close to the window. It is the very sacred space where Tom took his last breath It was Our House. And it was a very very fine house.

I love it today just as much as the first day we moved in.  I still remember the feeling walking down the stairs the first morning thinking "this is ours".  I felt it was the beginning of something great, that we had arrived.  We would stand on our deck at night and marvel at the stars, which could never be seen in Chicago, and admire our view and talk about our home in Chicago where the view was of two brick walls, a used car lot and a tree.

This place, these four walls and the roof, this mass of concrete, wood, metal, glass, gyp board and paint, is far more than a house.  It is a home, my home.  I am extremely grateful for it.  Every time I walk through the door my heart and breathing slow and my shoulder relax because I am home.  Of course the happy greeting by Zora will always make me laugh.  It is now my home--the place where I have healed.  It is still filled with that love and good juju.

The Photographic Journey Part Five

My photographic journey has been an experience.  I never really thought about it as experience, focusing more on the outcome, the photos.  I neglected to understand the most important part of the process, the actual shoot, the day you stand in front of the camera and contort your body to make yourself look good.  Do not underestimate the value of good lighting and professional hair and makeup to change your everyday self into your "OMG is that me?" self.

The photoshoot with Zora was really two parts.  The first, Zora in the studio.  The second, Zora and I in the park.  The images of Zora in the studio are precious.  She was such a good girl and worked really hard to please me.

Zora the Princess

Zora the Pathetic Abused Dog

Zora the Catcher

The photographer captured her personality.  And her beauty.

The images from the park captured exactly what I had told the photographer that I wanted, our interaction.  What surprised me was how much Zora looked to me, how she would focus on me. The shoot provided some amazing art.

Sunset Silhouette 

One of the things that I came to realize during the photoshoot and shortly thereafter was the job that Zora took on after Tom died.  I believe he told her to take care of her mama and she took his request to heart.  She has become much more protective of me. And while she has people in her life she absolutely adores like her buddy Christine and her Aunties Mary, Dawn, Holly and Rena, her first priority is her mama.  She looks at me with love, mostly.

On the Bridge

In the Park

On the Bench

This dramatic image now hangs in my bedroom.  There is something about it that speaks to my soul.  My pup and me gazing out over the valley and admiring the sky, together.

And finally, our "Gone with the Wind" photo.  It hangs on the mantle, and it says everything about surviving, and moving forward.  Me and my pup.

Regrets and Lessons

I wrote this in 2019.  The lesson has been driven home even more since then.  My beloved big brother died in August of 2020.  Tom's big brother, my "udder brudder" died five months later.  And not quite a year after that, a few short months ago, my brother's wife and my precious sister-in-law also left us.  These words, which I hadn't yet published, are still true, and ever more powerful.  We've survived a pandemic,  One of the things to come out of the pandemic is the "Great Resignation".  Workers have re-evaluated what is important to them and are making hard choices.  Employers are also having to adjust if they want to keep qualified workers on their teams.  It is, in my opinion, a good thing.  A little late for me as I slide toward retirement in the next five years.  Take heed.  

"It has been a long few months. Work has been intense, and fast paced, and frustrating, and brutal.  I have worked more hours in the last year than I have in several.  And in all of the work, I gave up so much of my life.  Work has taken over my life.  It has taken from me the time to care for myself, my home, my health, my sleep, my pup.  It has taken the fun from my life.  When I do have a day off, I'm so tired that I can't get on my motorcycle.  I don't get on it when I'm tired.  It is dangerous.  Work has taken my time and energy to build a new life. It is not a new story.

After a particularly intense work-filled weekend I headed into a two-week run of meetings.  On that Monday morning I approached the trailer, rolling my case along with me I thought "I don't want to do this."  That isn't how I usually feel as I approach a round of meetings.  I'm usually excited and pumped to do it.  But that morning I had nothing left.  I realized that I did not survive the last five years to work like this.  I did not survive Tom's illness and his death, two heart surgeries and a rare dangerous complication to do "this." This is not what I want for my life.  Don't get me wrong, I love the work. What I don't love is the unrelenting pressure and the demanding schedule.  This is not the quality of life that I now want.

I harken back to the biggest friction in our marriage--it was how much I worked.  And how much I traveled. All of that time that I put into my job and for what?  My clients didn't care what I sacrificed. And the firms I worked for certainly didn't care.  All they cared about was how happy the client was (I always had happy clients) and how much money they made. But they didn't care about me, or my life, or my husband's life.  That was true for most of my professional life.  I will say that I have been fortunate that in the last six years I have worked with a stunningly good firm and had stunningly good clients who were so very kind to me when Tom died. I was blessed at that time to be working with good-hearted, solid kind people.  The antithesis of my previous experience where I spent so much time crisscrossing North America for a different firm that didn't care at all.  Some individuals may have cared, but the firm and leadership as a whole did not.

The hard pill to swallow is that I am not the victim here.  I made the choice to do those things.  I thought that there would be some special reward at the end of the line.  Some type of recognition.  There wasn't.  Any loyalty was not reciprocal.  I had been sold a bill of goods about working hard and being rewarded for your hard work.  I bought it hook line and sinker.  And the sad part is that I learned way too late in my life it wasn't true.  I don't know why, exactly, that I have been so driven to get on that treadmill and put so much effort into a project.  I do love the work and the process.  And I love solving problems for my clients and building the relationships.  But why am I pushing so relentlessly, and why do I continue to do this to myself?  At this point, the only way out is through.  And I will need to endure and try to find ways to lessen the pressure cooker.  I am certain that the stress contributed to the reoccurrence of my aFib and the need for a second surgery.  Trying to answer this question will take more than a blog post to unravel.  Bottom line is that I am the only person who can change this. And I will have to figure it out.

As I was bemoaning my situation Friday to my brother (who is just like me in this regard--actually he is much worse), I wanted to drive home the point that time in finite.  Time with the people you love is finite.  One will never know when a moment could be the last.  And all of the extra time spent at the office or working for the client or being on the road to land the next big project or trying to impress the boss--

YOU. NEVER. GET. IT. BACK.    

EVER.  

Work is a necessary evil and can also be a rewarding experience.  I've enjoyed my career.  I've felt drawn to and committed to the work.  I have believed it was important work, that it made a difference in some small way.  Even if the only thing it did was support us so Tom could do the work he was meant to do, which really was important work.  My work serves it purpose.  My problem is balance.  I suck at it.  I keep trying and I keep failing.  I have had the hard lesson put right in front of my eyes.  All Tom wanted from me was to spend time together.  It was that simple.  What a fortunate woman I was, and what a clueless one as well.

I know you have heard it before but I am the lesson.  Put first things first.  Spend time with the people you love.  That is really all they want from you.  And it is the very best gift you can give them.  You.  Your time.  Your love.  They are what matters. And you are what matters to them."

The Photographic Journey Part Four

I've said many times since Tom died that Zora saved my life.  She was the only reason I got out of bed the next morning, and every morning after.  She couldn't lose both her daddy and her mama.  She needed me.  And I needed her. She has made it her mission to protect me, to take over for her daddy.  She has taken her responsibility very seriously and done it very well.  I wanted to honor her and do a photo session--a professional one since she isn't a big fan of Mom behind the camera.  Zora's walker had told me about a photographer who does amazing pet photography and I had been following her page on FB.  I loved her work and reached out to her to talk about a shoot. I told her I wanted to capture the many personalities of Zora and our interaction together.  Barbara had us come over to her studio to talk and to see how comfortable Zora was in the environment with the lights and camera.  Zee was a trooper and did great.  We scheduled a date, which we had to reschedule at the last minute.  Then a coveted Saturday date opened up and I jumped at it.

So on a Saturday evening Zora and I jumped in the car and made our way over to the East Bay spending way too much time sitting on 37.  Once we arrived Zora quickly set about checking out the space which was all set up and ready for her.  We started the shoot and Zora did great. She listened well, did as she was asked and was easy to bribe with Charley Bears.  Barbara said that Zora was part of the 1% of dogs who get to be in the studio without a leash.  After we finished in the studio we headed to a local park for outside shots with both of us.  I was much more comfortable in front of the camera this time.  The photographer said she should send all of her clients for their goddess shots before coming to see her.  I was easy to direct and she could focus on the dog. Again Zora did great, even with all of the new smells.Barbara noted that Zora wouldn't take her eyes off of me.  When we are at home she either ignores me or runs away because she thinks I'm going to do something to her ears or her toenails.  I didn't realize how much she focused on me until we had this experience.  I saw a few of the shots in the camera and they looked fabulous. After two hours of shooting we got back in the car and Zora conked out--she was exhausted.  I was so very proud of her and how well she did.  And I found the experience with her bonding.

A week later I received the proofs.  They were awesome.  And it was so amazing to see how much Zora kept looking at me.  The photos of us together were so sweet and loving, you can see the connection.  And the studio photos of Zee were great.

The first finalized photo is so dramatic.  As I was reviewing the images with Barbara, she described what she saw in this image as this "What I see in this image is a devoted pup looking so lovingly at her Mom who is recovering from her horrible loss and has begun to spread her wings in a life affirming and sassy way! Sniff...."   I fell in love with the image in an entirely new way.  Remember, one of the things that I wanted from this journey was to see how others see me.  

The Photographic Journey Part Three

Four weeks can go by so slowly when you are waiting for something you want.  My wedding anniversary was approaching and I was hoping to get at least the images in my wedding dress in time for my anniversary. I was anxiously checking my email awaiting notification that the images were ready.  And then on a Saturday evening, the email arrived.  Heidi had told me to look at the images on the biggest screen available and to not review them on my phone.  I found it interesting that I was nervous about looking at them.  I was afraid I would be disappointed, that these fabulous photographers would somehow fail when it came to making me look good.  I put off looking at the images.  I made myself a lovely dinner.  Then I figured out a way to hook my laptop up to my television.  It was time for the reveal. The first image came up.  Wait, what?  Who is that?  That couldn't possibly be me.  Wow.  I continued to scroll through the images, amazed at each one.  And then this photo appeared.

It took my breath away.  It was amazing!  It so clearly conveyed a story, the story I wanted to tell, of love and loss and beauty and grief and memories and beauty within tragedy and power.  It was all of those things and more.  I was stunned.  And I was stunned that I could use the word stunning about any image of me.  I scrolled through the images again, and again and again.  I went to bed with so many thoughts running around in my head.  I woke up the next morning and looked at them all again.  Do I really look like that?

Or this?

Or this?

Who is this person?

I certainly wasn't disappointed in the images,  I was awestruck. The outsides look fabulous.  But what I really noticed is that these pictures reflected my insides, my spirit.  I could see me, different sides of me, different looks of me.  When I look at the series of selfies I've taken, they all look alike--same head tilt, same smile, same angle.  I edit the picture that I put forth to the world.  We all do, we see ourselves as one dimensional when we self-edit.  We criticize everything we don't like about ourselves and nit pick every imperfection in each of our photos.  In an unusual twist, these photographers do not give you all of the proofs to look  at then choose the ones that you like for further editing.  They make the selection, do the editing and then send them on to you.  It is a scary thing to put one's trust in others to choose, it limits one's ability to self edit and reinforce the self perception that one puts out into the world.  But I put my trust into the process and I wasn't disappointed.  As a photographer I know that when I review images after a shoot, there are ones that grab my attention and those are the ones I focus on.  It was an act of faith to let the control go.  And it was very freeing because it took the responsibility off of me to decide.

About a week later I shared my photos and the story in the FB widows' group that I have been a part of for almost five years.  I received lots of compliments but that really wasn't the point.  What struck me is how some women viewed themselves in such a negative light.  They, like many women, have negative self talk in their heads. They also have survived tragic and devastating loss which further impacts their self image.  It sparked something in me.  I'm not sure exactly what to do with the thoughts.  One thing I do know, the process of going through the first two shoots has been transformative.

And there are two more to go.

Photo Credit: In Her Image Photography

The Photographic Journey Part Two

Preparation for a photo shoot is a process.  There are decisions to be made about clothes.  What is the image one wants to project?  What photographs well?  What looks good on my body?  What colors look good on camera and against the skin and the backdrop.  And what jewelry to wear with outfits?  What about shoes?  Will they be seen in the shot?  And then there is hair and make-up?  Do my own?  Hire a professional?  Decisions. Decisions.

I had learned that when doing a photo shoot you need a lot more make-up than one would normally wear because the lights and camera absorb it.  What would seem in the mirror to be the amount of make-up a hooker would put on before heading out to work, looks like you've barely put on enough make-up to define the fact that you have eyes and lips.  During the previous week I did a dry run.  I tried on different outfits to see how they would look and fit and if they would look good on camera.  Its a deal.  There is a reason people hire stylists.

The morning of first photo shoot dawned.  It was August and it was warm.  The photographer was going to come to my house to do the head shot and then we were going to head outside.  I had spent way to much time doing my hair and make-up.  I had decided to do my own for the first photo shoot.  I was ready.  Selfie to start.

Selfie before the first shoot

I was nervous, after all, I'm used to being behind the camera.  Dennis, the photographer arrived and set up.  We did the test shots.  I was so uncomfortable.  I felt stiff, I looked stiff.  I was worried about how I looked and how I was smiling.  I was doing a lot of negative head talk.  It showed.  We finished the head shot and then headed to downtown to do some outdoor shots.  It was hot out.  And I was still uncomfortable.  There was a lot of snapping going on but, truth be told, I was literally a hot mess.  It was so warm that we called it a day and Dennis agreed to finish up a few days later.  I could see in the photos that I was really not having a good time.

Day One 

Day One 

There were several more shots taken after these.  The photographer didn't even show them to me.  They were that bad.

Two days later I was scheduled for my goddess photo shoot (not the word I would use about myself, but it works).  I had my outfits picked out and I had booked professional hair and make-up.  In my prep sessions with the photographer I told her that I wanted to do a shoot in my wedding dress--my 25th wedding anniversary was coming up and I loved my dress and I wanted to honor the day.  She was so supportive of the idea.  So on Saturday I loaded up all of my stuff and headed up to the studio.  I met the make-up artist and was glammed up.  All the while with the negative self talk--I'm too old, my eyelashes had almost disappeared because of the medication I had been on, my jawline was slack, blah blah blah . . .  She was wonderful and she did a great job--I looked almost presentable.

Ready for the Shoot with Elise the Magician

The photographers arrived and I felt so unworthy and insignificant until we started to interact.  When we first started we did a lot of talking, they asked about things I liked, anything to get the conversation going and get me comfortable.  As we talked, Heidi would give me directions on how to pose and Tara would assist with lighting and wind.  We would laugh and talk and then I'd be in a different pose--sometimes I felt like a contortionist.  We joked that it wasn't good unless it hurt.  I now have an entirely new respect for models.  After the first outfit change we jumped in the car and headed out to a park where more photos were taken.  A quick clothing change in the car and it was round three.  We headed back to the studio and did the last outfit before it was time to put on my wedding dress.  I had a vision in my head what I wanted and I shared it with Heidi and Tara.  I was asked what song would be appropriate to the vignette.  I chose "Color My World" by Chicago.  It was the only song that Tom sang with the band and he would always dedicate it to me.  It was followed by several other tunes by Chicago.  Tara was working the lights and the fan.  I looked over at her and I saw that she was tearing up.  Heidi then asked me what my favorite dance song was--"Uptown Funk"  She told me to get up and dance.  How often do you get to dance in your wedding dress again?  I remember how much fun it was to dance in at my wedding.  By the time we were done for the day I felt so different.  I felt confident and comfortable and mentally and physically exhausted. I don't know how to describe it, but the day was an event, a transformative one.  I would not see the images for another month.  It was going to be a long wait.

The next day I had the follow-up shoot scheduled with the first photographer.  I slept in the makeup since it was so awesome. It held up well overnight. I should always look this good in the morning.

Makeup Survives the Night

It was going to be another hot day and I really didn't want to be a hot mess again, but it looked likely.  I changed into my outfit and waited for Dennis to arrive.  We did the first several shots in my house.  I wanted to stay cool.  He didn't have lights with him, so we worked with reflectors and he took some interesting shots.  It was different this time, I was so much more comfortable in my body, how to position it, and in following direction.  The pictures showed that I was more relaxed.  We headed over to the bridge over the creek in the valley for some outdoor shots.  It was really hot out, but we were able to get some work done and we wrapped it up.  I had images within a few days.  I was happy with them.  I could see the difference from a few days earlier.

            

I was half way through my plan.

The Photographic Journey Part One

Transformation comes from the darnedest places in the most unexpected ways.  Sometime in August I had a niggling idea to do a utilitarian photo shoot.  I needed a new head shot.  And I needed some decent photos to enter the online dating world.  Selfies only take you so far.

May 2019

June 2018 before Widow Sister Wedding

April 2019

So I decided I would do it, and the idea started to expand.  I wanted to showcase who I was now.  How do I do that?  What things do I represent?  There is me, my motorcycle, my dog, my professional life and my casual side.  I researched photographers and found one that looked like a good fit.  I scheduled a date for the first shoot.  I shared about my idea on one of my FB widow's group.  One member reached out to her photography group and provided me a lead for two other local photographers who would be interested in working with me.  What started out as a pretty utilitarian idea started to morph into something else.  I realized it was a stretch to expect one photographer to accomplish all things.  I decided to reach out to different photographers, matching their best skills to what I envisioned.  One of the photographers that was referred to me from my FB widow sister happened to be in nearby Petaluma.  I checked out their website and was blown away at what I saw, their passion to help women find their inner Goddess.  I knew these were photographers with whom I wanted to work.  I also knew of a pet photographer that did amazing work.  And a friend who is finding her footing in photography and a motorcycle rider seems like a good fit for the motorcycle shoot.  An overall plan started to take shape.  And then it started to happen . . .

Self doubt.  So much self doubt.  The rationalization of why I would do this.  Its a lot of money to spend on a luxury.  And how vain is it to want to have pictures taken of you?  I had lots of good reasons to do this.  First of all, I've had a good year work wise and there is a little bit of extra money.  I needed a new headshot for business.  And then there's that whole dating thing, a thing that I find embarrassing to talk about it.  In my mind I believe everyone is wondering who would want to go out with me?  Who do I think I am to hope for a second great love in my life after having such a wonderful husband.  Shouldn't that be enough?  Oh, and I've lost about 14 stone over the last year and half (do the math on that one).  And let's not forget the piece de résistance--in the last five years I've survived Tom's diagnosis, illness, death, two cataract surgeries, numerous heart tests, two heart surgeries and constrictive pericarditis.  Wow.  A Lot. I survived.  Its not the typical milestone event like graduation, engagement, weddings, children, etc.  Widowhood is its own unique milestone and not one to be celebrated.  Surviving and thriving, perhaps.  Finally a good friend told me to stop justifying my desire to do it.  It wasn't necessary and I didn't need any one's permission.  That's why we have friends.  To state the obvious and push you in the direction you want to go.

The story started to change for me.  Besides the obvious reasons, I am in still in the place of rebuilding my life, trying to figure out who I am now and who I want to be.  And one of the keys to that, for me, is seeing myself through other people's eyes.  Which is not the same as seeking other people's approval or compliments.  We only see ourselves through the mirror or in photos.  In this age of selfies, we self edit what we put out into the world so that it is in alignment with how we see ourselves.  It can be very limiting to our self perception.

So the journey has begun.

The Wedding Dress

Many little girls dream about their wedding day, marrying their Prince Charming and most importantly, their wedding dress.  I was one of those little girls.  I was engaged when I was 19 and fell in love with a wedding dress that I hoped to wear.  It was simple for the time, a soft jersey with an empire waist, A-line.  It had a high neck with beading which continued down to a placket.  It also had long sleeves.  No lace.  It was simple, like how I perceived myself at the time.  That wedding never happened.  I never had the chance to try on a wedding dress.

Fast forward seventeen years to when Tom and I were engaged.  An important part of the wedding planning is finding just the right dress.  I started shopping nine months before the wedding.  My mom didn't live locally so my shopping buddy was my bestie Mary Beth.  I went shopping with her six years earlier for her gown.  We went to the standard bridal places and since they only stocked tiny sample sizes, I was never able to try on a gown.  Mary Beth was my personal mannequin.  But nothing we saw came even close to what I thought I wanted, even though I didn't even know what that was.  I was a bride in my mid-30s (considered old in the 90s) and most thought the appropriate dress would be a pale pink fitted suit.  That wasn't what I wanted.  I also preferred more tailored clothes back in the day so I wanted something more subdued.

On a cold December Friday afternoon, Mary Beth and I drove down to Orland Park, a suburb about 40 miles southwest of Chicago.  In that little town was a bridal salon that represented a local designer, Jon Bradley.  We didn't know it when we made the appointment but the owner of the salon, Andrea, was the same woman who was the salesperson who helped Mary Beth when she purchased her gown. Her headpiece was also a Jon Bradley design.

When asked what I was looking for, I could only describe what I didn't want--something that looked like a 20 year old would wear.  I wanted something that fit my personality.  Andrea brought out several beautiful samples, fabulous one-of-a-kind gowns that Mary Beth modeled for me.  They were all beautiful.  But nothing was speaking to me.  I was worried that I wouldn't find one.  Andrea gave me a sideways gaze and said she had one more, it was from the previous year's collection so the sample was a little beat up.  Perhaps I'd like to look at it.  When she pulled it out of bag, Mary Beth and I looked at each other and just knew.  As I held it up in front of me in the mirror, the Hallelujah Chorus started to play on the radio.  It was the song we were using as our recessional.  It was my dress. I looked at Mary Beth.  She had tears in her eyes.

Since the cost of the dress was above the budget I felt that I had to discuss it with Tom before committing that much money (it was a lot).  I worked with Andrea to make some modifications to bring the cost down, but it was still a lot.  Tom, in his usual fashion said, "If its what you want, you deserve it.  Get it."  And I did.  I love the dress.  We used to joke that it cost so much we should just stuff it and use it as a couch.  Tom said it was so big that he would need a hand truck to move it.

It was so much fun to wear and to dance in.  It was also a challenge to maneuver in.  But I loved it.  I still love it.  After the wedding I had it cleaned and stored it in the closet.  I would put it on occasionally for the sheer joy of wearing it.  I had a special area of our closet designed to hold it.  I had always hoped that we would be able to have a renewal of our vows and I would get to wear the dress again.

Two years ago I did a photo shoot of the dress on our anniversary.  I noticed, for the first time, that the detail on the trim was a rose.  A rose.  I had the dress for over 20 years.  I adored the dress and I didn't realize until 2017 that the trim was a rose.  Talk about not being observant.  Geez.

On the occasion of our 25th wedding anniversary I wanted to honor the day and wear the dress.  It was to be a prop in documenting what it feels like to be a widow on such a milestone.  And that's what I did.  I tried the dress on and it was too big.  I had to have it taken in.  Not something the seamstress had heard very often--a twenty-five year old dress that need to be taken in, not let out.

The dress holds the energy of that day.  And the memories.  It is precious to me.  And it is still just as gorgeous.  Perhaps not as timely, but gorgeous just the same.  Its 90s big. And its me. And us.

On the Occassion of our Twenty-fifth Wedding Anniversary

Tuesday September 24, 2019 will be the twenty-fifth anniversary of the day we married.  It is an auspicious day, both joyful and deeply sad.  It marks the day, that day, twenty-five years ago, that we united in marriage.  A marriage that brought us both incredible love and joy and commitment and humor and devotion.  A marriage that at times humbled us to our knees with human frailties and lifted our hearts to incredible joy.  A marriage that was a spiritual journey for each of us as individuals and both of us as a couple.  A marriage that taught us what it means to be really committed to another human being, how to love deeply and accept each others' shortcomings even when those shortcomings drove us to distraction and frustration.  It was a marriage that ended far too soon, after only twenty years on the physical plane.

I always wanted to be married.  I was engaged when I was 19 to my first love.  My parents divorced the next year and things did not go well for the next decade or so on the relationship front.  Tom had been married and divorced.  I met him about a year after his divorce and he was still deeply hurt.  He said he never wanted to marry again.  I had to chase him until he caught me.  We were together for six years before he was ready to try again.  The one thing I know is that he never regretted taking the plunge again and that he believed it was the best thing he ever did.

I am so saddened about this milestone.  And angry that we didn't get to twenty-five.  I feel cheated.  It isn't fair.  I think that goes without saying.

I wanted to mark this occasion.  To honor the day, the beauty of it and the sorrow it now holds.  I still have my wedding dress.  I LOVE my wedding dress.  I had a photo shoot done with it,  The photo captures exactly what I wanted to show.  The beauty and the sadness, the loneliness, importance.

The day we married it was raining.  In fact, it was raining for the entire week prior to our wedding.  And we had planned an outdoor wedding.  Fortunately we had a plan B, moving the ceremony and the reception inside.   The Redfield Center at the Grove, designed by George Elmslie, a follower of Louis Sullivan, was a architectural gem for our intimate wedding.

I think I remember every moment of that day, and what I have forgotten can be recalled by our wedding video or any of the many photographs taken.  My father, who had waffled at coming to our wedding, did not attend the rehearsal the day before.  My sister-in-law urged me not to worry about the situation.  I told her I was getting married no matter what.  My parents both came to the wedding and were cordial to each other, it was the first time they had seen each other since they divorced eighteen years before.  I remember seeing Tom's face as I walked down the aisle.  I felt so loved, by my family, our friends and most of all, the man that I was marrying.  It was a beautiful wedding.  And as we left that evening, the rain had ended, the moon had come out and there was a low ground fog over the meadow in front of the house.  They say rain on your wedding day is a sign of good luck. One source says it signifies the cleansing of tough times or sadness in your past. True for me  Another source indicates it is because it symbolizes the last tears that the bride will shed for the rest of her life.  I don't know about that.  I've cried gallons of tears before Tom's death and particularly after.  We had a happy marriage, built daily by the minutia of life.

The 24th is a special day--a day I will always remember.

Turning the Corner . . .Or is that an oncoming train?

There are moments when it takes my breath away when I realize how much grief and loss have demanded of me, and how much is continued to be asked of me.  I look backwards four and half years and am amazed that I am still standing.  I've proclaimed mightily how hard I've worked to recover, and it is true.  It has taken everything that I have to get this far but unfortunately the damage from the loss is more than emotional, but incredibly physical as well, something I was not expecting.  The last year and a half I've had to deal with aFib (brought on by the stress of the loss), and a surgery to treat the aFib.  I had made the commitment to stay in our home and to update it last fall, which I did.  But then I developed a late onset rare complication from that surgery.  Two and half months to get a diagnosis (the physicians in the practice had never seen this complication in my type of surgery).  I was pretty ill.  I kept soldiering on, doing the best I could to work and live life, but there was nothing left in the tank.  I missed the holidays with my family.  The treatment is long and the pace of improvement has been glacial.  Two months into treatment and I was feeling like it would never ever get better.  My doctor reminded me that it was a long treatment and improvement would be slow, but after being ill for four months, it felt like it would never get better.  I kept hoping that one day I would wake up and feel better, a lot better.  But it didn't happen.

And then, last week, I had a long busy week.  I did my best to parse my energy to get through a 60 hour work week, which a month before would not have been possible.  I realized I felt better, I had more stamina.  And although I was worn out after that long week, I wasn't debilitated.  I could breath better.  I'm not fully recovered, and that will probably take a lot more time.  I didn't realize how ill I was until I started to feel a little more like myself.  I also acknowledged that I have just passed through the most difficult weeks of the year for me, the anniversary of Tom's death followed closely by my birthday--both accompanied by a lovely cold.  There is a heaviness to those days, and it was a difficult anniversary this year.  In the last month I finally turned off Tom's cell phone and his car has been rehomed with our nephew.  Two emotional steps.  I feel like I've cleared the decks, that I'm ready to move forward in an entirely different way.  I no longer want to talk about how far I've come (no promises there, though), I want to live how far I've come--and how far I may go.

As I was driving home on Friday night and the thought occurred to me, actually it was a sense of knowing, that the very best of my life is yet to come.  It is an awesome feeling, knowing. The person that I want to most share this with, who would be happiest for me, is Tom.  There is no doubt that he is beaming and saying "that's my girl."

Regrets

Blessing for the Brokenhearted

There is no remedy for love but to love more.  --Henry David Thoreau

Let us agree

for now

that we will not say 

the breaking makes us stronger

or that it is better

to have this pain

than to have done

without this love.

Let us promise

we will not

tell ourselves

time will heal

the wound,

when every day

our waking 

opens it anew.

Perhaps for now 

it can be enough 

to simply marvel

at the mystery

of how a heart

so broken

can go on beating,

as if it were made

for precisely this--

as if it knows

the only cure for love

is more of it,

as if it sees

the heart's sole remedy

for breaking

is to love still,

as if it trusts

that its own

persistent pulse

is the rhythm

of a blessing

we cannot

begin to fathom

but will save us

nonetheless.

--Jan Richardson

Tomorrow (or today depending upon when I actually post this) will mark four years since Tom died.  The week leading up to this anniversary is generally more difficult than the actual day itself.  That day was the culmination of the anticipation of what I knew was coming, but did not know the exact day, time or experience.  And each day this week I have relived the circumstances.  Two days before a hospital bed was delivered to our home.  I asked Tom about it, and he really didn't want to, perhaps because what it meant to him.  I explained that our bedroom was our sacred space and I wanted to keep it that way, that I didn't want a lot of strangers traipsing through it.  He understood and reluctantly agreed.  So began our last two nights together, me sleeping next to him on the couch, him in a bed.  He was so weak and I woke up every 45 minutes to help him.  I was getting cranky from all of the awakenings and then I remembered something my friend, also a widow, told me about the time caring for her husband.  She wished she had stayed in the love.  That clicked into my brain and it changed how I approached the day, I wanted to stay in the love.  So on that Monday morning, the day before he died, I lovingly bathed him and shaved him (he was pretty scruffy) and changed his clothes.  Hospice came by in the afternoon to check on him and tweak his meds.  That evening our niece and nephew stopped by.  As we were getting ready to go to sleep, Tom looked at me and said "I think it is going to be tonight".  He never ever talked to me about dying.  I restrained myself from saying "Don't say that." and instead asked why he thought that to be the case.  He said he was so weak.  I reminded him that his brother was arriving the next day.  I so wanted him to hold on until his brother arrived.  I have only one regret about that night and it is I didn't further the conversation, that I didn't ask him if there was anything that he wanted to tell me.  And that I didn't get a chance to tell him how much he meant to me.  I lost that chance.  I was too busy doing to take care of him that I didn't allow the space for what was really important.  That is what I regret from 1,460 nights ago.  He knew how much I loved him, and I know how much he loved me.

A lot has happened in the last four years  It has been a brutal journey made more difficult with the onset of heart rhythm dysfunction which led to surgery which had a rare complication from which I am still trying to heal.  Tom's death figuratively and literally broke my heart.  I've been in the process of rebuilding my life, albeit more slowly because of recovering from my heart challenges.  I've reclaimed my home--paint and carpet and other changes to make it my home, not our home.  It has been two steps forwarded and one step back.

I find it astounding that my heart has kept on beating these past four years.  Even though it took a left at Albuquerque when it came to its rhythm, it has stayed solidly in rhythm for the last eight months, even with this complication.

When this man came into my life, it changed everything.

Tom

1952-2015

And when he died everything changed again.