My Mom Inadvertently Joined the Cancer Club

It was hard to hear my dad report back everything the doctors had told them about my mom's colon cancer as I sat in their home. Hard for many reasons, but partially, it's hard because apparently, I had expectations. My mind kept rethinking, "This is that moment where my mom tells me she has cancer." I didn't realize I had an idea of what a moment like that would entail, but I did. 

The most encouraging phrase she and my dad offered was that the oncologist had told them, "It will be a rough year." There were no final sentences or timeframes, just "a rough year."

For the most part, my mom's month of chemo and radiation treatment has been very calm. Her body handled it pretty well until the last week. With burns on her hands and feet and feeling too weak to walk, my mom heroically pushed through the last few rounds of treatments. 

The side effects of chemo are subsiding, and now, she will have her tumor removed surgically in the next little while. We think things will be fine, but we appreciate prayers sent our way nonetheless. She has shown a new courage and fortitude since this all began. She surprises me every day with her ability to take it all. 

I wonder if people realize they have such strong ideas about cancer before it taps them on the shoulder. We interact with it so frequently in forms of billboards and fundraisers, but those don't mean as much until you realize you've somehow joined the cancer club. 

Pardon my lightness. It's just comforting to think sometimes that cancer isn't something you can entirely avoid. EVERYONE should be screened, of course: colonoscopies, mammograms, whatever it takes to be on the defensive, do it. 

But outside of those things, and maybe smoking, cancer isn't exactly something you get because you were too unhealthy. Modern medicine may reveal otherwise eventually, but for now, it's simply: my mom has colon cancer and we fight it. There aren't any what-ifs.

So far, the fight is going well. When she completed her radiation treatment, the doctors gave her a certificate of completion and a bottle of sparkling cider to celebrate. 

She says that aside from her own birth and giving birth to my brother and me, it's the only certificate she's ever earned. I, for one, though, am very proud of her involvement in each one. 

Unemployment and How It's Good for Me

Back in the lavish days when we splurged on Disneyland.

If you can't tell from my post titles as of late, I am currently unemployed, in the true sense of the word. I am not on summer vacation. I am not taking a break from school. I'm not even taking a break for myself. I am unemployed because my yearlong internship/paid full-time job ended, as I knew it would, before I could secure another position. 

This has raised a variety of emotions. Over the past week, there has been much rejoicing about being unemployed. Though my internship was lovely (filled with nice people and generally nice tasks), it came with a two- to four-hour daily commute that tortured my soul when coupled with an eight-hour workday and a fifteen-minute lunch break.

I'm savoring the time to write, to clean, and to sew on all the buttons that had been waiting, estranged from their proper counterparts, until I had time for little things again. For the first time in my married life (all four months of it), I get to be home for real (having only a few hours, mostly marked by exhaustion from the day, didn't really count). Life lately has felt like a never-ending Saturday, without all the stress I had before when it was the only day to get something done. Taking this break right now is healing my soul from a lot of things.

Most of the time.

The other times I cry and panic and worry. I love having a job. I love doing things that matter to people. And I very much want to find a good job. When these concerns surface, they do so in a big way.

About a week before the end of my previous job, Super called me at work to see if my sister-in-law, a new BYU freshman, could stay with us for a few weeks. This sent me into an emotional freak out. (Not your fault, Bek. I like you! Let me explain.) I felt so worried about it because I had no idea what my life would look like by then. Would I be home all day? Would we need to move? Would I be commuting again? Not being able to picture myself three weeks from then terrified me.

Today, I've been reading the Apron Stage, a lovely blog to which my other sister-in-law Sarah contributed. The first posts of hers I read were actually the last ones (here and here), in which she announces the end of the Apron Stage blog and her own life changes. She says seven times "I do not know."

I wanted a scripture of my own that deals with these types of uncertainties—Sarah's past ones I'm reliving as I read (even though I know what happens next, generally, in the three years that follow that last post) and for my own.

I found this: after hearing a soul-shaking sermon from King Benjamin, a prophet in the Book of Mormon, his people say the following.

And we, ourselves, also, through the infinite goodness of God, and the manifestations of his Spirit, have great views of that which is to come; and were it expedient, we could prophesy of all things.

And it is the faith which we have had on the things which our king has spoken unto us that has brought us to this great knowledge, whereby we do rejoice with such exceedingly great joy.

These people are very happy and very certain about their future. But I don't think they were anymore certain about what the next day, week, or month would look like. They were certain that God would receive them safe and sound. I like that. As much as I'd like to see one month from now, "great views of that which is to come" might cover even better ground.

To Fathers

Today—the day after Father's Day—I saw the most lovely thing. At one minute to my train's departure time, I was still in the parking lot, running at full tilt to the platform. As I approached, I noticed a man casually standing on the platform near the doors.

His cream polo shirt with orange and red stripes was tucked neatly into his khaki pants. He had a fair amount of hair left—a bit fluffy, in the color scheme of his shirt—and large glasses with thin rims.

As I threw myself into the open door of the train, I realized he was standing there conversing happily with his son, a nice kid in the image of his father, wearing a charity fundraiser t-shirt and a sixteen-year-old grin.

I took my seat, as the doors closed and the train started out. The father started out too—framing himself in the window across from his son and waving with the same grin. He smiled and waved and kept pace with the train. Occasionally stooping down in the classic imitation of going down stairs. The train moved faster, and so did this dad. He ran along with his ipad in one hand and more waving with the other until the platform ran out and the train was out. And by then, I was crying.

I'm crying again as I write this. Everything about it was just so beautiful: all the joy brimming over and the love pouring out, and the son who seemed to enjoy it. The train goes to the airport, so it's possible this was goodbye for longer than a day, but I doubt this kid was going away for very long. I think his dad just really likes him.

It reminded me of the father who wore 170 different costumes over the school year as he waved to his son on the bus. You can read about that here.

I think seeing these two made me happy because my dad is sort of like them. He doesn't wear silly costumes, and he's never sent me away on public transit. But he hangs around like that. He keeps talking with me until the last second, and that always makes me feel loved. It's clear that he loves me and my brother by his smile. My dad is a great man through and through.

I wanted to share this video on fathers. It's a bit repetitive, but I think about it often.



P.S. Super and I got married! Hence my lack of posting. Do forgive me. To whet your appetite for great pictures of us, you can go here: http://olsonandpitts.ourwedding.com.

Where I Was Left

It was the last final before Christmas. That semester was one of those that I really didn't think I'd make it through. In three months, I'd been through a brief mysterious illness brought on by the terror of committing myself to a country called India. I had changed my mind and experienced every degree of soul-rocking doubt. When I sat down to take my last test, I believe I was signed up to go to India, but for the number of times I changed my mind, it could have easily been the other way around. Either way, I felt dark as the lead I began putting down one bubble at a time. Three hours later, I hit the last bubble, answered the question, and read these words from a gracious humanities teacher who loved art for everything it says:

"I leave you now in the best place I can: Auguste Rodin, the Hand of God."

Taking this birthday of Rodin's, I would like to also place you in that merciful state of contemplating this sculpture: the Hand of God.




Photo: kaitlin.marie

A Smattering of Storm Stories

There are many bright stories coming out of this recent storm. Truth be told I've read very few, which is why these three odd ones stick out to me. I know none of them really capture what people have been going through, so don't think me insensitive. They've just been tossing around in my head nonetheless.

These two are my favorites, in terms of imagery and dedication.

From Juli Olson, of Long Island, New York: "We all went outside and began working, some of us bailing in the driveway and some of us building a dam of branches with leaves across the driveway. (Who decided that having a driveway that goes down to a basement garage was a good idea in this neighborhood anyway?) Brittyn was the force behind the dam and it was working, keeping the flow from pooling in our driveway, but it didn't take long for us to realize this was a different scenario from last year's Irene. I have a clear image by the eerie light of the full moon somehow reflecting under the clouds of Brittyn up to her waist in water in the middle of the street as the water was rising." More here.

From the Times: "As hurricane-driven waters surged into New York University research buildings in Kips Bay, on the East Side of Manhattan, investigators in New York and around the world jumped on the phone to offer assistance — executing a reverse Noah’s ark operation, to rescue lab animals and other assets from a flooding vessel." More here. I also love the last line of this one.

And the one that made me sad (mind you, I've read few): the loss of the boardwalk where I took this picture.

Press Forward, Saints

The Madonna of the Praire
by William H.D. Koerner

Recently, someone I love told me that I am a pioneer woman. I think this may be the greatest compliment I have ever received, and I'm liking that this disclosure happened right around the time of Utah's Pioneer Day holiday. It has given me lots of time to reflect on just what this means.

We often talk about how our modern struggles are just as hard as those of our pioneer ancestors, except they look really different. What is the same? Read more.

Superhero love

There are so many superhero movies these days, and I'm tempted to say that I'm sick of them. I'm not actually though. I'm still enjoying them along with the rest of the world.

Here's something I am sick of though: the idea that to save the world we must do something big,something flashy, something newsworthy, something death-defying. Let me explain why.

Healing marriages

No other truth is more deeply sunk into my soul than this one: "If our bodies are sick we seek to heal them. We do not give up. The same should be true of our marriages."-Elder Dallin H. Oaks

Social awkwardness is not a sin.

Social awkwardness is not a sin. Why does it feel like it is sometimes? Here are some of my thoughts.

http://byuwsr.blogspot.com/2012/06/social-awkwardness-is-not-sin.html

How to clear a bar with Brandon Flowers

It was recently brought to my attention that my great-grandfather once cleared a bar.

Cleared a bar. That's the common way of saying he knocked out everyone (which means at least more than three men to upwards of thirty) in a room by himself with his brute strength.

I didn't get any more details on it from his son, my grandfather. I just know that it happened.

Sometimes that seems like a completely foreign world. In my world right now, there are no bars, and even if I went into one, I wouldn't want to set down my root beer long enough to punch anyone. And even if I did set it down, I wouldn't know who to punch. And even if I did know who to punch, I wouldn't know how to punch them. And furthermore, if I did punch them, they wouldn't know what hit them because my fist would have no impact.

Sad story for my strength.

Still, somewhere in my blood courses the potential to clear a bar. I may not know how to swing, but I am the type that would go down swinging if the cause was right.

Somewhere in me is the strength to wipe out a small army for a good cause. Somewhere in me lies the power to bring down a house of villains and ruffians if needs be.

This also means that somewhere in me sleeps the strength to raise a house, to bless nations, to uphold those who hang down, and generally move mountains.

I've been thinking about this in conjunction with this great video from Brandon Flowers. What hit me are these words, "Tell the devil he can go back where he came from. His fiery arrows drew their beat in vain. And when the hardest part is over, we'll be here. Our dreams will break the boundaries of our fears." Check it out. To learn more about Brandon Flowers, I suggest you watch the second video at the bottom.

The day graduation happened to me

According to all ceremonial purposes, I have graduated. I've done the whole walking thing, and after one more class, I've have a real diploma to cover up the "example" one they put in my cover.

I've had some really rough and dark days in the five years I've been at BYU. I've had some really incredible days too. Looking back, it seems that every moment has been a little bit of both. Of all the let downs and breakdowns, I'll be honest in saying that there have been some times over the past two days of graduation that could actually rank pretty high in the list of most harrowing and emotionally trying moments at BYU.

That being said, here are some of the brightest spots and tender mercies:

• Discovering that the Graham Canyon ice cream at the creamery now has amazingly tasty streaks of graham crackers in it.
• Aneka and I talking about how degrees are still not going to cut it for what we want in life.
• The little red haired girl at the creamery who thinks her dad is weird for not liking dipping sauces and who confirmed to Aneka and me and that yes, we'd rather be moms. She gave me the most excited and sincere congratulations I heard all day—except for Brit's surprised, "You graduated!" and the excited but deep and reverent congratulations of my family.

• The little girl's mother who doesn't think her husband is weird and has a cool purse hook and who keeps track of the little girl who probably has more energy and love than anyone ever. I'd like to be like her.
• The graduate whose cap said, "Daughter #12" on the top. I have no idea what her parents have done and sacrificed to bring twelve daughters (and who knows how many sons) through college. I want to know though so I can do the same.
• The flowers my mom gave me, which were in my favorite color scheme ever—dusty blues, pale yellows, and toned down primrose—with the perfectly hued spider mum and the biggest rose I've ever held.
• My brother saying "I love you" before I said it to him.
• Finally making it to Bombay House and having my family actually like it.
• Seeing my mom's smile after the ceremony.
• My dad being really excited to receive my stole/sash thingy for his garage.
• My family attentively listening to and genuinely laughing at the story I shared.
• Drinking my first Calypso lemonade with my brother in the 7-11 lot.
• Having my grandpa with us at our two family outings.
• The moment when commencement didn't last for two hours.
• Three lovely convocation talks.

• Seeing Sarah Smith, Sara D., Alysa, Megan J., Talia, Christine G., Lori, John Bennion, Kent, Tom, and the man who looks like Ron Weasley in completely unexpected places. These were the kinds of divine meetings only the highest of powers could have orchestrated for me.
• Shaking hands with the man who looks just like Ron Weasley. He wasn't super thrilled to be meeting me, but he should have been. 
• Jenny and I both getting a balloon in the hole above the pendulum in the ESC. This long standing tradition for physics graduates is a tough challenge. We both rocked it—together.

For my dear friend with the chemistry final

HOSA Conference 2007: my closest brush with chemistry

Confession: I have never let myself take a chemistry class. In high school, I was too afraid I couldn't do well in it, so I never took one. In the past two years though, I'm been writing news stories about chemistry, and it never fails to intrigue me. I'd like to understand it better, and I hope that someday I will.

Thinking about chemistry, often reminds me of this essay by my good friend, Bess. She literally wrote the entire thing in a blue book in the testing center instead of taking her chemistry test. I don't recommend this to everyone, all of the time (meaning skipping out on the test), but I do love the beautiful nature of her experience. Though these moments of life changes are scary, they are mysteriously grand.

Please enjoy: http://inscape.byu.edu/blog/2012/03/01/chem-352-007/