Maple Mutt-Skin II

Once upon a time a handsome, cream-and-white coloured guinea pig was born.  He had dark, brooding eyes and sharp, white teeth.

He was a member of the "bad hair day" guinea pigs and this did NOT mean he had messy hair. Nor did it mean that he had a propensity for mohawks or other-such rebellious forms of hair-dos.  What this DID mean was that he had several rosettes - similar to cowlicks - situated all over his body and these gave the appearance of the poor fella having a bad hair day.

When he was but a few weeks old, he was chosen to be the birthday gift of a lively young boy.  This boy welcomed him with tears of joy and a promise of long-abiding love.

"I'm going to call him Maple II!" the young boy declared to his grinning family, "after Maple-the-Hamster who is no longer with us...."

Young Maple II grew to a whopping 2 lbs and his hair swirls could have been the envy of any guinea pig out there.  He loved short walks in his cedar-chip lined cage and long runs on the green green grass of the outside world.  Carrots and green leafy vegetables were seized from any proffered hand with glee and nibbled and gnawed on to completion.  His favourites were snap peas.

Maple II grew to recognize the sound of vegetables being chopped and would squeak shrilly as a means of gaining access to munching on said vegetables.
His family grew stealthier and stealthier about removing vegetables from the fridge, but Maple II was shrewd and clever and could always detect food that he loved!

"Squeak squeak squeak," he would squawk loudly and continuously until the crunchy veggies were jammed into his cage.

Maple II loved food but he also loved to be cuddled.  A gentle rub between his large, floppy ears was delightful as was a friendly pet by his rump.  Then he would purr and rumble joyfully.  If his family would scratch at his nose he would nudge their hands to the top of his head....he preferred a head-scratch, thank-you very much!

Maple II would squeak, purr and rumble but he could also chatter his teeth very loudly.  This chattering sound was reserved for when that pesty Fudge - the other bad hair day piggie - would be overly obnoxious.  Fudge is decidedly younger and zippier and sometimes Maple II just wants to lie around and consider the meaning of life.

Although Maple II may not be aware of this, his existence has inspired the children in his family.  His boy and the siblings love watching him and imagining his life.  They have spent hours and hours drawing a cartoon version of Maple II and dreaming up his adventures.  The invented character grew more and more alive;  he became another living, breathing entity in his family's household and went by the name of Bob Mutt-Skin.
"Bob is Maple's spirit animal!" declared one of the children.  No one was exactly sure what he meant by that but the antics of Bob were wildly hilarious and enjoyed by everyone in the family, with the exception of Maple II, who never learned how to read.  Literacy is not that highly esteemed among guinea pig clans.  Maple II did have one encounter with books but this ended with the book being nibbled and transformed into a massive pile of brown, banana-shaped droppings.  After that, his family kept books far far away from him.

Bob - Maple's cartoon character - was most known for his wise sayings that usually went like this:  "Mutt mutt."  Apparently this was the sound attributed to guinea pigs by his boy.

All the children loved to draw Bob Mutt-Skin and his experiences.  He had a friend named Snakey and he loved to dab.....I mean, who doesn't?  Right?  Isn't dabbing the most normal thing, like, ever?
Bob also had gigantic eyes and wore sunglasses often.

But, alas, yesterday Maple II's family noticed that he was not eating or moving around with any sort of vigor.  He seemed lethargic and dull-eyed.  His boy tried to hand-feed him and researched what the problem might be.  There seemed to be no improvement by this morning, so his family removed him from his cage and wrapped him tightly in a soft towel.  He was displaying all the characteristics of a dying guinea pig.  His family took turns cuddling him and scratching him in all his favourite spots.  They poured on the love.

"You are loved, Maple."  they said over and over again.  He could feel it emanating off of them in waves.  All that love.  Their hands caressed him and held him close.  He could feel blackness closing in but before he succumbed, he lifted his head up once more and gazed steadily at his family.  "You are loved, Maple," they repeated gently.

And then.....he breathed his last breath and grew so so still in their arms.

Dearest Maple Mutt-Skin II,
You were loved.  You were precious.  You brought laughter, joy and warmth to our home.  We loved getting to know your spunky personality.  We love that you were so loud when you wanted something.  We love that you were always gentle and never bit all the hands that held you.  Your passing away was so sudden and we miss you.  Especially Fudge.  He is sitting quietly in his cage and we all know that Fudge hates to be quiet.  He is lonely.
Thank-you for all the years that we could spend together.
Good-bye, Maple II.
Love,
your family.

Sharing

For several months, I taught Grade 1.

This was quite some time ago and I was taking over the maternity leave of a woman who is now a close friend.  These kids that I taught in Grade 1 are now sporting facial hair and driving vehicles, but that is another story for another day.  The point is that while I was teaching, these kids taught me a wonderful lesson.  Actually they often chanted this lesson in sing-song, squeaky Grade 1 voices: "sharing is caring" they would squeak, usually whilst holding out grubby hands to receive some sort of snack or goodie.

This lesson came back to me today when I read a poem entitled "Sharing".  Ironically, this poem is found inside a book that someone shared with me today.  Look at all that caring going on!

Here goes:

Sharing (Author Unknown)

There isn't much that I can do, but I can share my bread with you, and sometimes share a sorrow, too - as on our way we go.

There isn't much that I can do, but I can sit an hour with you, and I can share a joy with you, and sometimes share reverses, too - as on our way we go.

There isn't much that I can do, but I can share my flowers with you, and I can share my books with you an sometimes share your burdens, too - as on our way we go.

There isn't much that I can do, but I can share my songs with you, and I can share my mirth with you, and sometimes come and laugh with you - as on our way we go.

There isn't much that I can do, but I can share my hopes with you, and I can share my fears with you, and sometimes shed some tears with you, - as on our way we go.  

There isn't much that I can do, but I can share my friends with you, and I can share my life with you, and oftentimes share a prayer with you, - as on our way we go.

You and I can't erase hurts.  Only God can wipe away every tear.  But God has given us one another and surely we can do some sharing.  Can't we?

Like, a little food can go a long way.  As can moments of our time.

Let's not be too busy to stop and share our stories: our joy, our hope, our sorrows.

Let's be ready to share encouraging words, uplifted prayers, pieces of our life that show our love.  

Because, like some wise little people once told me, Sharing IS Caring.

BV

Dedicated to Freda O.  Thanks for sharing your books with me!

Pass It On

I don't know if you have this experience, but I do time and time again: as long as my head is up and I am paying attention, God is sending messages my way.  Messages of his constancy and his faithfulness, messages of his love and compassion, messages that remind me that he is with me always.

I don't know about you, but I need these constant reminders.

Maybe its because my mind is like a fluttering butterfly that flits to and fro....lighting upon one thought and then getting waylaid by another.  Maybe its because there are so many distractions slamming in upon my brain....children yanking on my clothes and saying, "Mom MOm MOM" in growing volumes, my phone buzzing and chirping to indicate that there are VERY IMPORTANT TEXTS THAT SHOULD BE ADDRESSED, LIKE, NOW; laundry that should have been folded several days ago because we have been out of socks for a while now and we are all wearing dad's socks which, incidentally, are too big....  There are so many distractions that dismantle any coherent thought that I may have been piecing together so very nicely.

I don't know about you, but I am so glad that God just keeps on sending his messages.
Messages of his love and care for a creation that is breath-taking.....my morning walk with the dog was back-dropped with an orange-splashed sunrise.  An evening walk with my Beloved hinted at a full-moon mysteriously peeking out from a moody, night sky.

Messages about delighting in the minutiae.....hanging out with my kids who MUST fill their pockets with chestnuts EVERY time we pass the chess-nut tree on our walks so that they can plant them and grow trees for tomorrow.

Gospel messages preached by a pastor that seems to have been written just for me.  "The more you embrace suffering," he intoned this morning, "the less it overpowers you..."  

Written messages straight out of God's Word or straight out of my daily devotional.  Tonight I tucked my big boys into bed.  Before I wrestled a kiss out of these pre-pubescent noodle-heads, I pulled out their evening devotional.  It's a beauty.  It focuses on one Bible verse each night and explains it in very simple language.  I opened the book, read today's verse and snickered.
"There you go again, God," I felt like saying.  Actually I did say, it in my heart-of-hearts...."there you go again, feeding me just what I needed to hear.  Completing a thought that was niggling away in the deepest, darkest recesses of my brain-matter."

Tonight our devotional was from 2 Corinthians 1: 3, 4.  Here it is for you to enjoy:

"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies 

and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, 

so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, 

with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.  

For as we share abundantly in Christ's sufferings, so through Christ we share 

abundantly in comfort too.""  

A bit of a mouthful, right?   Now, from hanging out with my sports-minded kids, I have learned that we can find competition in pretty much anything.  Thereby, I noticed this:  Comfort - 6; Affliction/Suffering - 3.  Win goes to Comfort!   Woot!

Now, this Word-Nerd loves to investigate terminology so I googled The Message's translation of these same verses:

"All praise to the God and Father of our Master, Jesus the Messiah!  

Father of all mercy!  God of all healing counsel!  

He comes alongside us when we go through hard times, and before you know it, 

he brings us alongside someone else who is going through hard times so that we can be there 

for that person just as God was there for us.  We have plenty of hard times that come from 

following the Messiah, but no more so than the good times of his healing comfort - 

we get a full measure of that, too."  

This life is hard.  Sometimes it just down-right sucks.  I know people who have experienced such grief and despair that they can't even GO THERE.  

But then God comes alongside and whispers, "I know.  It hurts, doesn't it?  I'm here.  I've got you."

And knowing a comfort that only God can truly and purely give....well, it's inspiring.  

Knowing His all-encompassing compassion - "I will wipe away EVERY tear," he tells us - it's motivating.  

I've felt His comfort and compassion.  I've felt His reassurances "Brigette, I am your refuge and strength; your very present help in trouble.  Brigette, I will go before you and be with you.  I will NEVER leave you nor forsake you.  Brigette, seek Me and I will deliver you from all your fears..."

Let me share these Truths with you.  

Now, go ahead and grab a firm hold onto these Truths!  Got 'em?  Now sling them with all your might against the Lies that have been building up inside of you.  

Be comforted by God's love.

Be reassured by His presence.

And keep your head up for all those messages He is sending your way.  

*************************************************

I would like to share some exciting news.  Remember all the "gain outta pain" stuff from several blog-posts ago?  No?  Well, I'm pretty sure I said something like:  "suffering often creates a space for opportunity".  I've seen it constantly where people find their path/ their meaning / their destiny, if you will, through or after a tragedy or a trial.   

Well, this Word-Nerd has had a secret dream of being a Speaker.  And God has plopped several opportunities right down into my lap.

"Thank-you, God!"

I am so humbled to have been asked to speak at an up-coming Women's Conference and then an Encouragement Cafe put on by the Christian Counselling Centre.  Also, 100 Huntley Street - a Christian daily tv show - will be interviewing me on Oct. 24 at 9:30am, asking me to share.....

God came alongside me and my family during our hard times with cancer, during our hard times with mental illness.  

He gave comfort upon comfort.  

And before I knew it, he was bringing me alongside others who were going through hard times.....it is my honour to share some Comfort.

I want to pass it on.

bvh

"Look to the LORD and his strength; seek his face always."  

- Psalm 105: 4

Je me Souviens

Several weeks ago, my family was treated with a five-day cottage stay.

This cottage was cozy, comfortable and picturesque.  It was neatly nestled among trees and located near Mont Tremblant in the province of Quebec.

Our family had registered for this vacation through a program called Cottage Dreams; a program that provides donated cottage-stays to families who have been "touched" by cancer.
I think I would have used terminology like "ravaged" or "rearranged" by cancer, but I know what they meant.

Cottage Dreams hopes to provide a place for "rejuvenation" and "reconnection" in the aftermath of cancer diagnosis, treatments, surgeries, radiation, needles, rearrangements and appointments.
It's like a wondrous reward all packaged up with four walls, a fireplace and lake frontage.

A beautiful, fellow breast-cancer survivor told me all about this program one evening.

"Our family went to this AMAZING cottage through Cottage Dreams!" she enthused one night.  We had met at a local Tim Horton's and were nursing our coffees over several hours, "Ours was huge!  Like, bigger than our house.  And so beautiful!  We had a wonderful time just being together that week."

"Wow!  Seriously!?" I had responded incredulously, "that sounds amazing."  Like, maybe the first super-amazing thing I had heard in a long time.
I had been getting used to hearing bad news.

"So, you need to have needles for 8 consecutive days following your chemo infusions.  They will occur from day three to day ten...."
Hurrah.

"These needles we are going to give you will help with your white blood cell count....but they may cause bad bone pain."
Wonderful.

".....oh...and your teeth will get yellow....and soften, so watch for extra cavities."
Great.

"....and chemo often causes something called 'chemo brain'; so if you notice that you lose your train of thought suddenly or forget words, that's 'chemo brain'..."
Yippee.

So, when my friend told me about the Cottage Dreams program, I was uber excited.  This was something my family could look forward to when all my treatments were done.

I did some investigating and got right to work getting registered.
Fill in forms?  Done!
Get 'em signed by the family doctor?  Completed!
Send said filled-in and signed forms away by mail?  Check and check!
And then we played a few weeks of The Waiting Game.

This game is NOT very fun.
The rules are simple.  You sit.  And wait.  Winning occurs when the waiting period is over.  I DID tell you it was not very fun.  You should not play this game when you invite your friends over for a night of comradery, companionship and cookies.  Unless you would like your friends to no longer be your friends.
Then you should play The Waiting Game all night.  With raw beef.

So, Paul, the kids and I all engaged in a riotous round of The Waiting Game and, one day, we received an email from Cottage Dreams.

"Congratulations!" the email proudly proclaimed, "Your family is eligible for a cottage in the  Cottage Dreams cancer recovery program.  Please let us know when you are available to go on holidays.  Also, let us know what region you are most interested in visiting........the Kawarthas, Muskoka, Haliburton Highlands, Bruce Peninsula, the Thousand Islands area, Barrie, Tobermory, Quebec...."

My family was so excited.
We reread the list of cottage locations and then checked them out on Google Maps.
We were giddy and giggled together over the possibilities.
We were like a bunch of kids in a candy shop.  Rich kids with extensive sweet tooths surrounded by aisles and aisles of sugary goodness!
We knew that any cottage stay would be fantastically super, but a cottage in Quebec had us all intrigued.

"Let's go to Quebec," one of our kids shouted because our children do not have Indoor Voices.

"Oui Oui.  Nous allons à Québec!" I intoned lyrically.  I was trying my French on for size and it was feeling good.

We made our choice and soon received further updates from Cottage Dreams.  They had a cottage for us and we could click on the link provided to check it out.
We clicked.
We checked it out.
We tried not to faint with excitement.

Not only was the cottage gorgeous and filled with every amenity known to mankind, but it was located on Lac Forget.

For reals, y'all!
Lac Forget.

Our family was going to cottage near the magical waters of memory loss.
A place where the memories of a year of pain, illness and crazy could be forgotten or, at the very least,  set aside for a time.  A time where we could be together and heal emotionally.
Spiritually.
Physically.

And what a vacation it was!
Most of the time, we had all of Lac Forget to ourselves.
We were surrounded by the soothing sounds of lapping lake and wind-rustled trees.
Paul and I spent a lot of time crayon-colouring and conversing with our kids.  At night, we gathered around the glowing embers of a campfire or lounged on soft red couches and read.  Candles flickered and dispelled the deepening darkness.
We fished for hours off the back dock.  Well, the kids fished for hours off the dock.  Paul and I spent copious amounts of time sliding wiggly worms ONTO hooks and then removing wiggly fishies OFF those same hooks several minutes later.
We took a panoramic gondola ride to the top of Mount Tremblant and then hiked.
We kayaked and tried out paddle-boarding for the first time ever.
We reconnected.

Tonight, I wish I could provide a cottage stay for anyone out there who feels stuffed-to-the-gills with suffering and sorrows.
I wish you could all experience the laying down of burdens on the shores of Lac Forget like we did.
But I cannot.
I am so sorry.

What I can do is share my story and encourage you.  So I will try.

For starters, let me tell you that despite hanging out at Lac Forget for five whole days with my family, I have no intention of forgetting.
I plan to remember our hill-top hiking, fishing frenzies and countless hours of colouring.  I plan to remember illness, baldness and surgeries.

Je me souviens.
I remember.

Because alongside those icky-bicky cancer memories are the memories of kindness, compassion and love shared.  While we were suffering, God surrounded us with people who prayed and encouraged and gave what they could to help out.
God sent family, friends and neighbours.
God sent our church-family and fellow homeschool mommies.
God sent out perfect strangers who didn't know us but who donated their cottage anyways so that we could have a place to heal.
Je me souviens.
I remember.

Thank-you from the bottom of our hearts.

Merci beaucoup.


I would like to conclude by sharing some song lyrics by Crowder (?) with you.  Wherever you are, be encouraged.

Come out of sadness 

From wherever you've been

Come broken hearted

Let rescue begin

Come find your mercy

Oh sinner come kneel

Earth has no sorrow 

That heaven can't heal

Earth has no sorrow 

That heaven can't heal

So lay down your burdens 

Lay down your shame

All who are broken

Lift up your face

Oh wanderer come home

You're not too far

So lay down your hurt

Lay down your heart

Come as you are

There's hope for the hopeless

And all those who've strayed

Come sit at the table

Come taste the grace

There's rest for the weary

Rest that endures

Earth has no sorrow

That heaven can't cure

Twas An Ordinary Night

It's just another quiet and ordinary night at the VanHuisstede household.

Son #1 can't get to sleep and gets up at regular intervals to ensure that we are tracking his non-sleep progress along with him.

Son # 2 had a tummy ache and also wonders if I have a night light somewhere that he can hang on his bed.  One that isn't too bright or too dim.  While we are chatting anyway, he ponders when he can buy a new fishing rod because he really wants to catch a marlin when we go to the cottage next summer.   Because apparently there are marlins swimming in the lakes of Ontario.

Daughter is fast asleep and having a hilarious dream because she is laughing her head off while she sleeps.

Son # 3 was sleep-walking until he banged into the vacuum cleaner that was laying in the middle of the hallway.  Then he fell over, peed his pants and woke up.

Yep, just another ordinary night at my house.

And I think to myself, what Wonderful Words.

Words.  Words.  Words.
Great, gorgeous, glorious, glamorous words.
Is not all of life wrapped up so lovingly with them?

I just LOVE words.  The way they roll around inside my mouth with the ability to inspire laughter, love, tears, rage, jealousy, comfort, grace, hope.

Think of some words that you love so much.
Favourite verses hanging on a wall somewhere inside your house.  Words become decor.  I have some of my favourite verses hanging in my living room; a constant reminder of hope, strength and love depicted in words.

Words made famous in their historical or literary settings......"I have a dream.....", "...frankly my dear, I don't give a ....", "If you prick us, do we not bleed....", "One small step for man, one giant step for mankind...", "A rose by any other name..."
Word become song.  "We don't need no education...", "Figaro, figaro, figaro....", "Praise God from whom all blessings flow....", "'Like a bridge over troubled waters....", "Cuz nothing compares to you....."  Are you singing along?  I am, baby.  I am.  I'm a thinkin' I fell hard for a Wordsmith who went all out and put his Words to Music.  Mmm mm.  What a man!

Words that twist and grow and mature with time and technological changes.  Googling and hashtagging being some of these newbie words that come to mind.

Words that situate you in time.  Like when "groovy" was no longer "cool" and "sick" began to mean something good that was groovy or cool depending on what decade you were born in.  Today's vocabulary norm will be yesterday's marker of time.

Words that reveal your geography.  Like when you go to throw something away and maybe you throw the debris into the "bin" and everyone laughs at you because obviously you meant the "garbage can".  Or when you went to the "cinema to catch a flick"  when you most certainly meant "going to the theatre to watch a movie."  Pffft.  Next you will be wearing your wellies and trousers and pushing babies around in prams.

Words placing you in culture or sub-culture.  You might want to spend some valuable time with your friends and before you know it, you are "hangin' in the hood with your peeps."  I'm down with the gangsta lingo because I am certain that a white, middle-aged homeschooling mother is pretty close to being Gangsta.  Pretty sure, yo!

Aren't words so lovely?  And luscious.  Like you just want to eat them all up but that would be weird because chewing on books isn't really condoned or cool no matter where or when you live.

Sometimes I wonder if I homeschool so that I can be present time and again for that transformational and magical time when "A" becomes more than just a symbol etched in ink on paper and, instead, a key to unlocking the power to the universe.
"This is an 'A', my sweet little Monkey-Head.  It stands for "adorable", "awesome" and "amazing".  Today, the letter 'A'; tomorrow we take on the world!"

Bollocks, you say?

John 1:1 "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God."  Beautiful!  I once heard a sermon where the Pastor talked about how God reveals himself through Words and that was a riveting moment for me on so many levels.  Great, glorious God revealed through literary means.  Now, that is REALLY speaking my language.  Our almighty, powerful, gracious, loving God wanted to reveal himself to his people.  So He did so.....using words.

Wrapped up.  Revealed.  Recognized.

By our words we shall be known.

Something to think about.
Or ponder.
Or ruminate over.
Whatev, dudes.  This blog be done.
#overandout
Cuz it ain't over till it's over.
'yo!

-Brigette

It's a Prosthetic Life

There are some things you may not know about prosthetics.
For example, did you know that the plural of "prosthesis" is "prostheses".
I know!
Ka-BOOM!
Mind blown, right?
I mean, these words are even pronounced differently.  Say it with me:  "prosthesis"......"prostheses".

What a world!

Also, have you ever heard someone say, "Man, if my head wasn't attached to my body, I would totally lose it too!"
Because people misplace things.
Sometimes people lose their keys.
Sometimes people lose their sunglasses.
Or wallets.
And sometimes people lose their prosthetics.
Can we all say, "AWKWARD!"
Nothing like hearing mommy hollering from upstairs, "Hey, has anyone seen my boob?!"

Yes, I'm sorry.
This is a blog about boobs.
Fake ones, though, so no one should be offended.
And if you are, I heartily apologize, because I do hate to offend anyone.
Ask my mom.  Offending others makes me feel like I need to hide in a corner, rocking back and forth with my eyes squeezed shut pretending I'm in my happy place.  I'm in my happy place.  I'm in my happy place.
There are unicorns and rainbows and pink fluffy things there.
And they all exist in perfect harmony.
La la la la la la.

Now, where were we?
Ah, yes.  Prosthetics.  The booby kind.

See, this past January, I had a mastectomy.  Due to breast cancer.
I asked the doctor if I should have a double mastectomy but he said,"There was no medical reason for that to occur."

What a man thing to say, I thought, scoffing inside my head but keeping a smile pasted onto the outside of my head due to the whole "I-don't-want-to-offend-anyone" thing I have got going.  Whee!

See, a double mastectomy would have kept things all symmetrical, I thought, but NOOOOOO we were in for crazy un-symmetrical surgery, weren't we?
But surgery was successful and that is a wonderful wonderful thing!  The cancer was removed!
Out out dang cancer!
I am truly so thankful!

But then I healed.  I spent several weeks in sweatpants and zip up sweaters because this healing thing is hard work, I tell ya!
I should make a workout video about it.
We could call it the "Cool Kids Convalescing Workout Video or CKCWV".
You could hang with me in your sweatpants.
There'd be cool music to go with it.
Probably written by my hubby.  Or my kids, who incidentally downloaded some weird music-making app that enables them to put together sounds and make actual songs.
But let's stop getting off topic, shall we?

Healing occurred.
The sweatpants were exchanged for everyday clothes but then....
....there was a lack of symmetry.
Uni-booby is not my look, I decided.

"Let's go shopping!" my mom and my sister urged eagerly.  
"But I don't wanna!" I whined over and over again, "I don't like shopping.  I'm disfigured.  It's too depressing...."  I had all the excuses in the world and I dug in my stubborn heels.

But my mom and my sister pressed on.
"We'll get you some nice bathing suits," they gently prodded.
"You'll feel good getting out, "they assured.
"We'll go with you.  It'll be a girls' night out," they comforted.
"We can help you pick out a prosthetic so you look more symmetrical," they pressed patiently.
And then my sister-in-law chimed in, "I want to buy you something that you need..."
Their gentle and patient kindness wore me down.
Gentleness.
Patience.
Kindness.
And love.
The best healing salve in the world.

My mom took me to the first mastectomy shop on Hamilton Mountain.
When I was there, the owner was very open about that fact that she was a breast cancer survivor.  She also had had a single mastectomy and there she was standing there looking all symmetrical.

She showed me a colourful mold that an artist had made of her.  It was a mold of her....that's right....her boob before her mastectomy surgery.
That boob mold was hanging on the wall with a bright, purple and white flower painted right onto it.

Because suffering, sorrows, scars and sadness often become a launchpad for art.

Haven't you noticed that?
I have.
So many times.
That's so like God.  Taking the horrible and making something beautiful out of it.
Like that phoenix rising from the ashes....
A piece of art on the wall of a successful mastectomy lingerie store.

These are the kind of stories that give me hope.  So much hope.
I would like to pause to pass on some hope to you.
You got sadness?
Tears?
Pain and suffering?
I'm not suggesting that some artist is going to pop out of the foliage just ahead of you and offer to make a mold of it.....but God's got some plans for you.  Plans to prosper you.
Hang in there, dear friend.

While I was at this particular store...."Mastectomy Lingerie" it is called....the owner beckoned me to the back.
"Check this out," she motioned proudly to a glass case.
"I call it my Booby Case," she said and we both giggled.
Because sometimes you just gotta laugh.
Life brings on some powerful punches, doesn't it?
And laughter lightens the mood.

Take that, cancer! I thought as we stood together, uni-boobed both but chuckling.
I gazed into the glass case and saw many different prostheses available for sale. (note the plural form used there!)
Did you know that you can purchase all kinds of different booby prosthetics?
I sure didn't!
But now you do and your life is so much richer for that knowledge!
You're welcome.

There's the Been-A-Boob which is essentially a bean-bag shaped like a boob.  The beans shift with gravity for a more life-like look and this prosthetic can be used in a bathing suit because the water will just flow right on outta there and not get all absorbed by the prosthetic.

Can we all say Handy-Dandy!?  I mean, no one wants to swim with a prosthetic that will go and absorb all the water that everyone is swimming in.
Awkward!
Do you also just love the play on words with the Been-A-Boob....... been / bean?  Get it?
Sigh....I love plays on words.

Then there's the Knitted Knockers.
You can actually get a knitting pattern for these.  A friend of mine knit me one; she's so sweet.  But....then her dog ate the knocker so I didn't actually get it.
I went ahead and ordered one because you can get a knitted knocker for free if you are a breast cancer survivor and go to knittedknockers.org.
Check 'em out.
They are comfy, soft and accurately shaped.
You can even pick the colour you would like it to come in.

Next, we get into all types of silicone breast forms which warm to your body temperature, flatten when you lie down, come in all sorts of skin colours to match your own skin colour, have built in nipples and can even adhere to your skin.
There is one called "Almost U".  Awwww.  So clever!
The Mastectomy Lingerie shopkeeper showed me one of these such silicone breast forms that can adhere to your skin.
That means stick.
The breast form or prosthetic is designed to stick to your skin.
I don't know why, but when I was holding and considering this particular prosthetic I had an immediate vision of my kids running around with it ADHERED to their forehead and me running behind them shouting, "Come on, guys!  Cut it out and give me back my boob!"
So....I put that one back.  Because I am a realist and I could realistically see that happening in my household.

Bean-A-Boob.....Knitted Knockers....Almost U....man, there are people out there having some great fun with marketing plans.
Can you just picture them around a table?
Sharing stories, tears and giggles;
coming up with some great word-play to sell a product?
A product that is so beneficial to others.
I love it.
Gain rising up out of pain.

I'm glad my mom, my sister, and my sister-in-law dragged my whining butt out to these mastectomy stores.
Because I've come to realize that these mastectomy-store-people are my people.
Proudly posing in prosthetics.
Scarred but surviving.
Living loud and laughing lots.
Because cancer can take away so much .... but now I have a whole drawer full of prosthetics.
Oh yeah!
Gain outta pain, I tell ya, dear friends.
Gain outta pain.


Much love and cheers to you all.
Brigette V

Grocery Drama

This morning we needed to go grocery shopping.
This put a little "ugh" into the morning for several reasons; all of them having to do with the fact that I despise grocery shopping.
But we ate the last egg yesterday.
And the cupboards were looking a little sparse.
And my mom and dad are coming over for lunch tomorrow and they may not appreciate the culinary culmination of leftovers that I currently have in my kitchen.

"Anyone care for some residual Kraft Dinner, lightly ketchupped?
And we have half a can of tuna?
Oooh, this would be greatly enhanced with a side of slightly stale tostitoes!
And lightly bruised peaches!"

So, off to the grocery store we went.
Me and the four kidlets.
There was a time when I would avoid this outing like monkeys-allergic-to-peanut-butter would avoid peanut butter!
Because grocery shopping with four young children usually meant there would be a whole lotta crazy happening in a teeny-tiny period of time:  someone needing to pee, at least one awkward meltdown involving ear-splitting, ulcer-inducing screeching, someone racing a grocery cart down an aisle and clipping a tottering senior citizen, someone ripping open a bag of something expensive and repulsive that was not on the grocery list and a final someone climbing towering stacks of canned goods whilst disapproving onlookers looked on.

Grocery shopping just a few years ago meant organizing the kids into grocery carts and baby snugglis so that there was actual room leftover in the cart for groceries.  Bringing snacks and drinks.  Having the diaper bag along so that I was prepared for the explosive bowels that erupted, I could swear, EVERY single time we grocery shopped!  And then dragging at least one child around because there was no room in the cart for him and he would whine louder and louder that "he was TIRED and could I carry him already!"

Grocery shopping with four little ones usually meant that the entire city of Hamilton would have fodder for conversations for the rest of the week based on the entertainment we were bringing to the store.  Just by being there.  A giant, crazy gong show.  With groceries.
"Didja see that lady with ALL the kids hanging on to her cart?"
"What do you mean ALL those groceries will ONLY last her one week?"
"Her kids were CLIMBING the stacks of pop!  My kids would NEVER do that!"

But now, bringing four kids to the grocery store is a special sort of wonderful.   Truly.
We are a well-oiled machine, I tell you.
We come.  We see. We conquer.
We park. We spill forth and connect-hands-for-safety-sake while we cross the treacherous parking lot.
We disengage two shopping carts with our quarter-keys and roll into the store.
We pause for dramatic effect and also because the kids like to stare at themselves on the overhead television-camera thingy.
I pass off one grocery list to the big boys and keep one for myself.  I go over some of the details and then we rev our grocery cart engines and BEGIN!

The list for the big boys takes them far far far to the opposite end of the store and I get to shop in relative PEACE.  I usually have one or two wee ones with me but one or two is so much quieter than four.
We quietly contemplate carrots.
Placidly peruse pasta.
Silently scan and scrutinize strawberries.
Test toilet paper prices tranquilly.
Inhale.  Exhale.
So.  Calm.

I knew my children would love the challenge of grocery shopping.  I began challenging them last year in the form of SECRET MISSIONS.

"Today," I would hiss like we were co-conspirators on some top-secret mission, "your mission is to get ........ the MILK!  GO!"
The kids....usually the older boys.... would channel their energy into bolting in the generic direction of dairy.
"Careful...don't run...." I would weakly call after their fleeing forms.

And then..........milk would be there.
In my cart.
Like some strange sort of grocery store magic.  Abracadabra-style!

Hmmmm....I mentally fist pumped, which is sorta weird to do...this is super handy.
The kids were bouncing on the balls of their feet.

"What's our next mission?  Huh, mom?  What is it?" they would pant, all hyper-sweaty boy energy.

"Your next mission.....is....to get the CREAM!" I would triumphantly state and then they were gone.

After several grocery shopping trips like this one, I decided they were ready for :
The Top Top Top Secret Mission:  The Grocery List.
And they are.

Today, I gave them their list and in less than ten minutes they were back.  We reviewed the list.  So that I don't go home to find that we have a year's supply of chocolate mint ice cream in lieu of milk, eggs and bread.
"Did you get cheese?"
"Yep.  It's right here!"
"Was it the cheese that was on sale?" says I with squinting eyes and suspicious tone.
"Yep, it was $4.88.  Oh and I got this cereal because Dad likes it and Life cereal was on sale for $2.99 so I got it too.  Is that okay?"
"Sounds good." I nod approvingly and that's when I see someone standing off and staring.

Oh, here we go again, I mentally sigh, what is it now?  Are the kids wrestling?  Is someone peeing in a corner?  I hope they are not starting a food fight in the grape section....

But this lady waits until my kids have set off to capture cauliflower and round up raspberries.

"Are those your kids?"
"Yeeeeesss....." I say hesitantly, drawing out the response as I am reluctant to admit full responsibility until I know where this conversation is going.

"They're grocery shopping?" the lady continues, incredulity dripping off her like sweat off a sweaty person after a hot yoga class.

"Yeeeeesssss......." I remain non-committal.

"They were comparing prices and everything!  That was awesome!  Wow!  Good for them!"  The praise was rolling off her lips like there was no tomorrow and it just felt so good.

I mean, my original intention of these Top Secret Grocery Mission Trips was very selfishly based.  I just wanted a little quiet at the store.  A little quiet so that I could think and not just wildly throw the nearest cans into my cart and then careen down the aisles like a mad woman.  I just wanted to stop the crazy from getting crazier when we needed to get stuff done.  This lady was right, though.  The kids were amazing:  comparing prices, considering products, working together and learning.   Nice.

I stood a little taller.
The kids crowded about and I shared the lady's praise with them.  They smiled and high-fived each other.  Then they grinned some more.
They are great kids, I tell ya.
Crazy, but cute and an amazing blessing all of the time.
We gripped our carts and with a tingle of pride lightening our step, we left the grocery store.
After paying, of course.
Because we are not thieves.

What we are is a bunch of lean, mean, Grocery-Shopping Machines!

Spreading the News!

My kids have a paper route.

This is because my children wanted to find a way to earn money and I heartily encourage an industrious spirit like that.  This is also because I got tired of paying these industrious children for their version of cleaning our car.  Their cleaning-version lasted about 5ish minutes and seemed to involve large amounts of spraying each other with the hose and little amounts of actual cleaning said car.

So, back to the paper route.

This is a once-a-week paper route.  I am thankful that the paper route is only once a week.  Once a week, we haul in the stacks of papers.  Once a week I encourage, cajole, strive-to-motivate and threaten the kids to put the papers together.  Bag them.  Put bagged papers into carry-out bags.
Once a week I listen to arguments that stem from someone bagging a paper and throwing it ACCIDENTALLY at someone else's head.  This accidental whacking with papers happens about 98 times each week.  It's great fun.  Yelling usually ensues.
I often end the yelling and paper-whacking with intelligent parenting skills that involve me raising my voice above the din to say:  "Stop hitting your sister with the papers or I will throw a paper at you!"  I'm a good parent like that.  I promise.  My intentions and motivations are through the roof, I tell ya.   But sometimes, I'm worn thin.

But the paper route seemed like such a good idea.

It will teach them responsibility, I keep telling myself.
It will teach them about earning and saving money.
It will teach them to work hard.  The experience will look great on a resume.
It will teach them about perseverance.
It's a great idea, I remind myself....each week as a paper sails through the air and smacks someone upside the head.  "Ooops," says the thrower, but I distinctly saw him aiming his projectile.

Yet today, one of my babies woke himself up at 6:30am to begin putting the papers together.  Because he knew we had a busy day ahead of us and he wanted to plan ahead.  Then the other three babies wandered downstairs, yawning and with the coolest bed-heads ever, and they set to work.  Only about 90 papers sailed through the air and smacked people this morning.  There was minimal yelling.  We even got most of the papers delivered with temperatures soaring at 33 degrees Celcius.

The kids worked hard even though it was hot and they were tired.  They worked together - Yeah for cooperation!

Tonight, I waded through the remaining papers that lay abandoned and spewed across our floor.  I cleared a narrow path through the room - kicking papers to each side - so that I could reach the computer desk and began to ruminate on this paper route of ours.  It IS a good idea, I thought.
 
It gives us more time together, I told myself.
It's fun and helps us get to know our neighbours more.
It's good for the kids.  We all get some exercise.

Even though sometimes it is so exhausting:

Listening to the senseless arguing.
Motivating them to get going.  Even though it is over 40 degrees with the humidity.  Or the snow is knee-high and it is nostril-freezing-cold out there.
Putting half the papers together myself because, frankly, I am seven thousand times more efficient than these crazy offsprings of mine.
Pretending I am totally cool with my house being overtaken by slippery bagged papers.

There's a learning moment in there, though.
I am sure of it.
Somewhere.

In the meantime, we will bravely face the blazing heat and blistering cold.
We will bravely toss our papers to the doorstep of our neighbours.  Our aim is tried and true.  That's what comes with practising on one another EVERY single week.
We WILL press on.

Have a great day!
BV

It's An Update!

It's really about time for an update.
Because Time has been racing forward and things have been a-changing.
But I have been keeping pace with Time with the busy-ness that is Summer!  Busy busy busy with swimming, hiking, walking-zee-dog, applying sunscreen to all my little people, cottaging, watching/ driving to/ coaching soccer, building castles in the sand, biking, reading, sleeping in. Ahh......summer!
Intermingled in all that nut-house summer activity, there have been doctor's appointments.
Because apparently the fun hasn't yet come to an end.
whoopee.
I have been wanting to update you all on the new normalcy that is anything BUT normal.
I have been wanting to update you all on the post-chemo curls that are ridiculously huge.  On a hot, humid day I have a giant afro haloing my head so that I resemble some sort of Ronald McDonald /  Kramer love child.
I have been wanting to update you on all things fun with prosthetics.  Whee!
And we WILL get there.
When I stop running around like that proverbial chicken with her head cut off.

(On an interesting side-note, my grandfather used to do said chicken-head-cutting-off and it was my mom's job to race after the headless-clucker and bring her DOWN.  Blood spurting forth like some sort of macabre fountain of devastation and ick!
So glad that my childhood chores more resembled vacuuming the stairs and less resembled wrestling decapitated creatures!  Thanks, mom and dad!)

Back to the point at hand.
Doctor's appointments.
We had a doctor's appointment some time ago at the Juravinski Centre to address the issue of my raging hormones.
My Estrogen was up and running and working over time.  I secretly think my Estrogen was trying to make up for some lost Estrogen time.  She DID get shut down during chemo.  She was most likely feeling a little sad about that lost time.  She is part of a Type A personality, so most likely texted herself to arrange making up for the lost time already.  Because apparently my Estrogen texts.

Anyhow, my cancer is Estrogen-fed so it is not a good thing that she is up and running and working overtime.

"We need to shut down your ovaries," my oncologist firmly informed me at the appointment some time ago, "sooner rather than later!"

We discussed what this would mean.
Drugs for immediate shut-down.
Surgery for permanent shut-down.
So, this is where today's update takes us.  I just wanted you all to know.  Some of you have known this already but there were a lot of unknowns up in the air.  What?  When?  Where?  Why?  What would this mean?
What we do know right now is that Estrogen in my body will feed any rogue cancer cells lingering about.  So, a laparoscopic hysterectomy surgery has been set for September 22.

You have carried Paul, me, Liam, Donovan, Gwen and Lochlan in your thoughts and prayers for so long.
We are so thankful.

On a good day, I crack jokes about feeling like a Human Pez-Dispenser spewing forth body parts: Adios Appendix!  Bye-bye Boobie!  Au Revoir Ovaries!  Auf Wiedersehen Uterus!

On a sad day, I wonder when/ if it will all end.  Isn't a Whole the Sum of it's Parts?  What does that mean when so many parts are....gone....?

I'm thankful for that busy busy busy that is Summer.
Hike!  Hike!  Hike!  Swim!  Paddle!  Cottage!  Apply sunscreen!  Play soccer!  Hike!
The busy keeps me and Paul and the kids distracted.
And sometimes it is nice to be distracted from reality.
Know-what-I'm-saying?
Maybe you don't.
But if you do, YOU DO!
I'll say a prayer for you.  Can you say one for me and my family?

Dear Lord, this life is busy and can be so crazy out-of-control.  You see us rushing around so busy, trying to drown out our worries.  Please help us TRUST that you are there, loving us and guiding us through this life.  Please help us bring our giant pile of anxieties to the foot of Your cross....and LEAVE them there!   In Your Name, Amen.

Enjoy your Summer.
Brigette VH

It's a Family Photo Shoot!

Family-Photo-Shoot-Time.
It's everyone's favourite time, right?
When mom or dad pulls out the camera and starts demanding that everyone get-over-here-please and  look neat and tidy and would-you-all-just-smile-already!
Maybe someone hauls out the matchy-matchy sweaters or decides on a beach theme.

Then mom starts licking her fingers and wiping them all over your face as she tries to clean off the jam or pizza sauce that managed to somehow splash onto your forehead over the course of the day. And you end up smelling like mommy-spit.
She attempts to smooth down those hairs that constantly spring forth from your double crown with reckless rebellion, but then she sighs and gives up.
She fusses with your clothes, buttoning up those buttons that have been crookedly connected all day. It didn't matter when you were building a fort or playing baseball, but it matters now.  Because now is picture time!
And everyone is being tidily arranged for a Family Photo Shoot.

I love taking pictures.
Not that I am great at it, or anything.
I have this beautiful Nikon camera that is black and has all these super pretty, fancy buttons on it.  When a camera has that many buttons, its gotta take great pictures.
And it does.
I'm sure it could take even better pictures than the ones that I come up with if I took the time to learn more about how it worked.  But I lack the patience to sit through the learning part.  What I do know is that you point the lens doohicky part towards people or things and then you push down on a thing-a-ma-jigger and - viola - moment stored in time.

Because, for me, that's what it is all about.

Not the hokey-pokey, people, but the moment-storing part.

I love how a camera allows you to seize a moment, to take a snapshot of time and keep it close.
Like a concrete "carpe-diem-ing" if you will allow me to totally slaughter some Latin phrase for a moment and make it into a verb.

I love taking pictures because I love storing moments.
The funny moments:  eyelids flipped inside-out, tongues sticking out, eyes squinting, mouths caught open mid-laugh.  Family members piled on top of each other.  Friends connected by looped arms.

The sentimental moments -    Starry-eyed bride and googly-eyed groom standing shoulder-to-shoulder with interlaced fingers, making promises of a forever untainted by trouble.  Tiny, wrinkled and pink newborn baby cradled in the arms of proud and terrified new parents.   Kids crowded around candle-lit cakes at wild and rambunctious birthday parties.   Close-up of a Grandmother's face, wrinkled and wise, only months before she passed on.

The picturesque moments - sunset setting the world on fire.  Rainbows arcing across a thunder-storm sky.   Blood-orange lilies burst wide open on stalks of slender green.  

The memorable moments - the first day of school, of summer, of work.  The first tooth, first step, first haircut.  Or the last day of school, of vacation, of work.  The last holiday spent with the closest of friends at a campground, sharing laughter on a still and moonlit night.

All moments stored on film.
To be gazed at again and again so that I can remember, retain and reflect on that time.


Every Christmas, just before my family is about to sit down around our tree and begin opening gifts together, I shout out, "WAIT!  HALT!  HOLD THE PHONE, IT'S PICTURE TIME!"

My hubby and my kids always groan, "Nooooooooooo!  NOT THE CAMERA!"

But they are always too late and I will have the black-cased Nikon clutched in my claws and the lens pointed at their faces.  I calmly assure them:  "Someday you will all appreciate these pictures," I console them, "So please stop rolling your eyes, smooth down your hair and maybe get changed into something that matches."


Every year, my family goes to a cottage together.
One cottage.
Two grandparents, four adult kids and their adult spouses, nine children ranging in age from 2-11 years old.
One and sometimes two dogs.
All in one cottage.
It's like a weeklong, crazy, reality show.  But we have a lot of crazy fun too. And every year while we are there, we gather together for a big family picture.  Not many enjoy this moment.  We are at the cottage and, thereby, away from the hair straightener, hair curler and hair dryer.   Clothes have extra wrinkles and picture time seems to always interfere with one of the children's naps.  Also the nine kids and dog are difficult to keep together and smiling.  The big boys begin wrestling and are suddenly filthy and everyone is hot and irritated, already.
But we persevere.

My dad gets it.

He used to be an avid photographer complete with his own dark room in our home back in Fergus.
He photographed many weddings and loved to whip out his handy-dandy camera and snap shots of me and my siblings as we grew up.  There are many pictures of us growing up....all uber cute, chubby cheeked and innocent looking.   And then, all uber cute, less chubby cheeked and less innocent looking as we grew older.
So my dad is a big supporter of wrangling the masses into one group shot.

My mom loves it because we are her offspring and she has used up a lot of mommy-spit on our faces over the years to get us camera-ready.  She understands that a whole lotta spit and agony is necessary to capture those faces on film.  And that it is worth the trouble.
For memory's sake.

Last night, my little family had a Family Photo Shoot.  Not a point-and-click photo shoot done with mommy angling the camera, setting the timer and then dashing in front of the camera and diving into place beside daddy.  Not that kind.  An honest-to-goodness Photo Shoot with a Real, Live Professional Photographer.

I was so excited!
My kids were less so.
I had had an appointment yesterday at the Juravinski Centre and it had gone much later than expected.  I'm talking an hour and a half later!
Which meant I had to rush home.
Thankfully my mother had begun dinner so only the finishing touches had to be applied.
I bellowed to the kids and Paul to come to the table and then announced, "Okay everyone, you have to eat QUICK QUICK QUICK because we have pictures tonight!  It's TURBO-DINNER-EATING TIME!"
Because that's a thing.
Well, at least it is in my house.

Everyone eyed the pasta piled high on their plates, took a deep breath and then began gobbling.
I mean, there was sauce splashing all over the place.  Globs landed on foreheads and the walls.
Noodles were slurped and nibbled lickety-split.

We tossed the dishes into the sink and then raced upstairs to wash faces, change, smooth down hair and apply make-up. It was mayhem, I tell you.

I had carefully selected clothing several days before.
Matchy-matchy golf shirts in several shades of blue for the boys.  Matchy-matchy colourful dresses for Gwen and I.
I hairsprayed anyone in my vicinity and then attempted to corral my post-chemo curls into a style that did NOT resemble Seinfeld's Kramer.
No luck but we were outta time.

"Everyone lose the socks and put on the nicest sandals you own!" I screeched as we all sped down the stairs and towards the car.
Seat-buckled in and careening towards our Family Photo Destination.

We arrived with time to spare.
I breezed out of the car like I had all the time in the world and chuckled deviously with Paul.
"Who'da thought?"

We were at Sam Lawrence Park in Hamilton.  This is a glorious rock garden with stone walls, stairs, shading trees, flowers of every shade and variety and a sweeping view of our city.

There, we met our Photographer.

Her name is Tobi Bos and she emerged from her car with a Gigantic camera slung about her neck.  I think it was a Canon.  I know it was black and had lots of buttons, dials, gadgety-things and viewing screens.
I'm pretty certain it could take pictures AND fight crime.

Tobi greeted our decked-out family with a bright smile and some cheery chatter.
Then she lugged out a heavy black backpack and hoisted it onto her back.  More Photographer Paraphernalia, I surmised.   She was armed and ready.
I gulped with excitement.
This was going to be SO good.

Tobi photographed my two oldest boys when they were teeny-tiny.  They are among my most precious photographs.  In one, my three-week-old son peers over my shoulder.   He gazes straight into the camera like a black-eyed baby model.  In another, my tiny second son is modestly wrapped in a colourful scarf and tuque.   His blue eyes are bright and his chubby fists clenched.

I have spent years trying to photograph my family with my Nikon a la dash-and-dive technique.  But someone is always looking askance.  Or blinking.  And someone is always making a face.  Eyelids flipped inside-out, toothy-grimace-like smile, fingers in the nose.
Which is fine.
I mean, that is my family.
So I click click click and keep those pictures like the treasures that they are.
But having a real live, professional family photo.
Oh boy.
This was a savoury treat, indeed.

Tobi directed us down a path through the picturesque rock gardens at Sam Lawrence Park.  My kids scampered off gleefully on their long gazette-like legs.  Paul and I looked warily after them, willing them to not trip and fall and get covered in oozing, bloody scabs or dirt.

But Tobi was calm and undaunted.

She is AMAZING, people.  And I am talking AMAZING with a Capital A, Capital M, Capital A, Capital Z, Capital ING, babee.

Where I saw stone stairs, slightly dirty and covered in black ants scampering too and fro, she saw a backdrop.
"Sit here, lean there, drap your arm over there," she said and we sat, leaned and draped.
And she click click clicked double fast.
Clickety-clickety click click click.
If we blinked in one picture, there was hope that picture number 17 would be Blink-Free!
If fingers lurked near noses, we could be optimistic that picture number 43 would have fingers far from zee face!
Hurray!

After each pose, our children would burst forth with explosive energy.  They saw rock walls that needed to be scaled, gardens that must be explored, and trees that were essential to be climbed.  I could feel my irritation level rising a little with each energy explosion but Tobi remained calm.

Remained Calm and Clicked On.

"They are so cute," she would comment as Paul and I would begin shouting after their fleeing forms.

"Come on back!" Paul and I would hiss gently at our children.
"Listen to Mrs. Bos."
"This will go quicker if you cooperate!"
"Smile, don't grimace.  You look like you are in pain."
"Sit up, no slumping!"
"Less teeth.  Open your eyes.  Please stop jumping on my back and ruffling my hair."
"Don't get dirty."
"Come back!"

Tobi pointed and clicked.
Squatted and clicked some more.
Clamboured up onto a wall - my children were very impressed - and clicked yet again.
We smiled and droned out "cheese" for a million or so pictures.
Together.
Individually.
Near a tree.
With the city-scape spread out in the background.

While we ambled from one photo spot to another, we conversed quietly.  Small commands to "stop throwing rocks" and "not pet the dogs right now" punctuated our conversation.

"So, what is your favourite subject to photograph?" I queried once.
I would have thought it would be the newborns.
Chubby rolls wrapped in gauzy linen.  Sleeping forms arranged into angelic poses.
For sure, the newborns, I thought.
But I was wrong.

"I love taking pictures of families," Tobi promptly answered adjusting the strap of her heavy camera around her neck.
"I love families and putting them together in pictures.  Big families with tons of kids.  Families with just one or no child.  I love it."

"Really?" I questioned incredulously eye-balling my kin.  The boys had begun to wrestle with each other.  My daughter was having a minor melt-down.  My youngest almost lurched in front of a moving bus.  Paul was unleashing several one-liners.
"Really?" I questioned again.

But I think I get it.
Families are wild and chaotic.
Kept clean by spur of the moment spit.
Families are loud and can be characterized by moments of ugliness and inappropriately-timed wrestling.
But families are also so beautiful.
Characterized by people who love and support each other through times of trial.
Who persevere even if it is nap-time for all involved.
Who encourage each other and make promises of a forever-after that may not be trouble-free but will be endured.
Together.

I am so thankful for my family.
And, today, for the woman who captured our family on film.
Effortlessly.
Artistically.
Lovingly.
Beautifully.
Click on, Tobi, click on!

The Family Tree

Of Hurts and Happiness.

When I was a child, I loved to dance.
Now, I'm not talking ballet, jazz, hip-hop, swing, foxtrot, bunny hop, twist, salsa, zumba or breakdancing.
Dudes, I not even talking line-dance or the two-step shuffle.
I'm talking uninhibited, crazy, wild dancing.
Most likely it looked like I was having an epileptic seizure while standing.
But, man, did it feel good.

When I got older, my sister, Crystal, and I would shake it up (and get on down) in our front foyer.  It was spacious and our family's ghetto-blaster was located there.  We would pop in our favourite cassettes and turn the tunes up loud (as loud as we could without someone bellowing "Turn that music DOWN!")
Then, we would spin and shimmy and side-step like mad.  We even had some homemade dance routines down pact.
I think we could still dance in sync like those good ole days.
With Abba crooning about a "Dancing Queen".
Or the record player at our cousin's house spinning round and round while Cyndi Lauper belted out "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun".

I grew older still and Paul and I took some uber-cheapo ballroom dance lessons at Fred Astaire's Dance Studio in Hamilton.  Some friends of ours were taking lessons and we joined them for five whole lessons.
We fox-trotted.
We waltzed.
We tangoed.
(and, let me tell you, that Paul-of-mine can tango!)

At this point, you are most likely wondering, Brigette-Dude, what's with the dance blog?
Just bear with me for a minute.
There is a point to all this!
I'm not just waxing eloquent reminiscences on you all!
I promise!

Because yesterday, in the midst of mourning and despair, I saw someone dancing.

I've been struggling with despair a bit lately.  My moods are up and down and all around.
There is a part of me that keeps whispering, "What's the point?  Why the fight?  Why bother?"  Because I keep hearing about people with recurring cancer.
Or people with ravaging cancer.  
Or people who have died from cancer.
Like a 13 year old boy who got to wear his graduation gown but will never go to high school.

Sometimes it's so much work to push forward.

Have you ever had days like that?
You wake up and just want to fall back asleep because in sleep, sorrows are silenced, despair is deadened, and peace prevails.

Even been in a room full of happy people and a song comes on that used to make you scream "EEEEK, I LOVE THIS SONG" but at that moment, you just want to sob in a corner?
This life can be pretty stinkin' rough sometimes.

But then.....God.....sending subtle reminders that get all lodged up in my brain.

Like a dancing guy who I write about because he was just was so hilariously uninhibited.

And my kids' memory work from last week:  "REJOICE ALWAYS, PRAY CONTINUALLY, GIVE THANKS IN ALL CIRCUMSTANCES...."

And then my workout tunes belting out "I wanna dance.....I wanna dance.....ooo I'm no good at dancing....but I gotta do something" and then "We live to dance another day..."

And then people start responding to my blog about Micheal.  A blog that was so sad and mournful but that ended in a strange way because I could not get the dancing guy out of my head.  He didn't seem to fit but something compelled me to write him in there.

Dancing.

And a friend of mine - Alicia - told me to look up "the Dancing Man of Hamilton" because there actually is one!  He is #18 in an article entitled "22 Signs you Grew Up in Hamilton".
His name is Jed Lifeson.
He grew up in Serbia and moved to Canada when he was 14 years old.
His cousin is a guitarist in the band, Rush.

This man came home one day to find his mother dying.  She was rushed to the hospital while Jed prayed.  He prayed and asked God to not take his mother JUST YET, because he had not said goodbye.  Seventeen days later, his mother awoke from a diabetic coma and Jed was bursting with joy.
Apparently he ran out of the hospital praising God and danced all the way home.
Apparently, he dances everywhere he goes now because he is so full of happiness.
Apparently, he has been dancing on the streets for years.

In an interview he admits that when he first moved to Hamilton, he hated it because everyone was so MISERABLE.  But now he loves Hamilton, because he has come to recognize that everyone is actually just HURTING so much.
But Jed is filled with happiness and he dances his happiness on out.
Bringing smiles, laughter, dancing and inspiration where-ever he goes.

Wow.

Can you imagine?
Letting your joy spill up and over so that where-ever you go people feel blessed by you.
Can you imagine?
Blessing others by doing what you love to do.

You are happy.  You love to dance.  You dance to share your joy.
You are musical.  You love to sing and play guitar.  You play to raise awareness for a cause.
You are athletic.  You love sports.  You start up a league that promotes prayer and reaches out to kids who cannot afford to play sports.
You have a green thumb.  You love to grow things.  You grow produce in your huge garden and donate it all to a food bank.
You are a great cook.  You love to fiddle with recipes.  You triple up that recipe batch and bring meals to others.

Inspirational.
Encouraging.
Intentional.
Beautiful.

Isn't it?

Sometimes it's easy to get bogged down in the ick of it all.
Cancer.
Death.
Infertility.
Murder trial.
Shootings.

Good thing God gives us subtle reminders,
constant reminders
and one another to lift each other UP and OUT of that bog.

I think I'm gonna go get out my dancing shoes, baby.

Cuz tonight, it's time to dance!


Signing off and Praising His Name with dancing,
Brigette
(Psalm 149:3)


Check out Jed Lifeson on YouTube.  "Human Stories:  JED - the Dancing Guy"*
* thanks to Alicia Looyenga and Joy Horsman for directing my attention to him.

 "....a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance..."  Ecclesiastes 3: 4

"You have turned for me my mourning into dancing; you have loosed my sackcloth and clothed me with gladness, that my glory may sing your praise and not be silent.  O LORD my God, I will give thanks to you forever!"  Psalm 30: 11, 12

A Tribute to Micheal.

When I was 13 years old, life stretched out ahead of me with endless possibilities.
I felt strong and young and FULL of LIFE.
I loved to read and run and explore.  I loved to body surf down rapids with my cousins when we were camping.  I loved to climb trees and sing off key from the top of my lungs, if only to make the friends who were at the top of the tree with me laugh.  I loved to put my desk together with a friend at lunch and discuss topics like "do animals go to heaven?"
I loved to live.

When I was 13 years old, my life stretched out ahead of me like an unopened gift.  Complete with gaudy wrapping paper and a big bow.
I was excited about growing up.  I wanted to be an actress, a writer, a runner, a teacher, an explorer.  I wanted to get married and have kids.

But tonight, I don't want talk about me.  Tonight I want to talk about Micheal.

I met Micheal only once.
We didn't even speak.
It was this past April during one of my radiation appointments at the Juravinski Centre.  I had already rushed to my appointment and was adorned in my blue-patterned hospital gown.  One of my lovely sister-in-laws - Cara - sat with me.  We were whittling away the wait-time with chatter.  We had a lot to talk about.  We both do NOT like grocery shopping.  We both get lost while driving and despise driving instructions that include words like "North" and "South".  We both have four lovely children who love to be busy busy busy.

While Cara and I chatted, the waiting room filled up.
Directly across from where we sat, a man and a young boy sat down.
Right in our line of vision.
The man was middle-aged and he leaned in towards the boy beside him.
Like he was trying to loan him some strength.
The boy was bald.  He wore an eyepatch.  His head was red and raw from radiation treatments.

Conversation between Cara and I faltered.
We tried not to stare.
We looked away from the bald boy right in front of us and tried to resume talking like everything was all normal.
But it was hard.

Ravaged, I couldn't help but think, look at how this disease RAVAGES a person.
Ravages.
Robs.
Wrecks.
Rearranges.
Ruins.

But then I remembered a day when I had been at the gym.  I needed to shower and walked through the change room wrapped in a towel, bald head exposed.  I remembered the sharp, averted gazes from other ladies in the change room and the shame it made me feel.
Ashamed for looking this way:  I am sorry my disease makes you feel uncomfortable, I wanted to scream at them.
I remember feeling ugly.  Freakish even.
Once a pair of little girls pointed at me and laughed.
Another time a child covered his eyes when he saw me and said "Yuck!  Yucky, mom!  Yuck!"

So I stopped averting my gaze to be polite.
I stared right at that bald boy.  I looked right at his eye patch and red, raw skin.
It was then that I noticed how young he was.
And how beautiful.
Image-bearer, I thought then.  Bearing the image of God even yet.  Even with no hair.
The young boy's one good eye met my gaze.
I smiled and nodded.
He nodded back.
I see you, I wanted to say, I see you and you are beautiful.  I see how cancer has ravaged you and I will look at you and see you.  Brave.  Beautiful even while you are broken.  

Cara and I were shaken.
I went home and asked Mindy if she knew of any young boys that fit the description of the boy Cara and I had seen at the Juravinski Centre.
Mindy is my physiotherapist.  She is also the physiotherapist for children at MacMaster who are cancer patients.  I figured she might know about the bald boy.

"Oh, yeah," she responded to my inquiries, "that's Micheal.  He's 13 and has a brain tumour."

Ugh.  Brain tumour.
When I was 13 years old, having a brain tumour was something I NEVER would have seen on ANY of the possible roads that life had in store for me.
Not at that age.
I thought I was indestructible.


Tonight, after church, Mindy shared some sad news with me.
This past Friday, Micheal passed away.
At home.
Surrounded by family.
At 13 years old.
Slipped away from the pain of this life.


Micheal.
I do not know much about you.
I don't know if you love hockey, soccer, basketball, baseball or badminton.
I don't know if you love to play Minecraft or Clash of Clans or Nascar 14.
I don't know if you loved to read or explore or climb trees.
I don't know much about you at all.

But here is what I do know.
Your name is spelled "Micheal" not "Michael".  I had to respell your name many times in this blog. Your last name is Madden.
You left this earth only a few weeks before your fourteenth birthday.  You were born on July 1, 2002.
Your obituary picture shows you in a graduation gown.  You had blonde hair styled with a neatly combed side-part.  You were smiling a closed-mouth smile.  I think your eyes were blue.
You had many siblings and your obituary describes you as "dear" and "cherished".

Micheal, cancer ravaged you physically before it claimed your last breath but you are no longer troubled by tumours or the painful treatments to cure you.

Several weeks ago, I met you, Micheal.  Our lives intersected in a waiting room.  Our gazes met and we exchanged a nod.  That's it.
But I have thought of you many times and tonight I tried to comfort a woman who knew you from MacMaster Hospital.  We shed tears over you - a boy who endured suffering no 13 year old should have to suffer.

You are suffering no more.
Tonight, Micheal, you rest in peace.

As I drove home from church tonight, my heart was heavy and my brain was full of thoughts of a 13 year old boy.
Red light.
I stopped the car and saw a bus shelter up ahead.
A man stood in front of the shelter with red ear buds pressed into his ears.  My windows were up so I could not hear but I would imagine those ear buds were the conveyors of music because this man was dancing.
On the sidewalk right beside the road.
With reckless abandon.
Shaking his hips and waving his hands.
Head thrown back and smiling.
My face was still wet with tears but I couldn't help it:
I burst into laughter and my family joined in.
We laughed a belly-bursting, full-on laugh.  And we kept on laughing.
When the light turned green and I pressed my foot to the gas pedal, I honk-honk-honked my horn at the dancing man and gave him a thumbs-up.  He looked at me and smiled and returned the thumbs-up.

Good grief, it's been a night.
Death then dancing.

But since God is all around and in everything, I wonder at the meaning of this.

LIVE while you are living, the dancing man seems to say.

LIVE WHILE YOU ARE LIVING.

RIP, Micheal.  Tonight, you dance in peace.

TICKIFIED!

Yesterday, we discovered a tick sauntering arrogantly across a kitchen chair.
Like he owned the place.

With a shriek and a screech, I sprang into action and applied a variety of Kung-fu, Karate, and Jiu-Jitsu moves to DECIMATE, PULVERIZE and plain ole SMASH that tiny tick into non-existence.

Then we all did the Heebie-Jeebie dance.
You put your right foot in.
You put your right foot out.
You put your right foot in and you thrash it all about.
You've got the Heebie-Jeebies, so you shake it all around.
That's what it's all about!
Ick.  Yuck.  Blech.

One of my sons placed the teeny tick corpse into a clear glass and then we all ran over to the computer to ask Mr. Google some questions!

What kind of tick had infringed upon our bug-free home?  Did we need to react with mass hysteria....call the police, call the newspaper, call the zoo, call the exterminator......and begin wearing Hazmat suits?  Did we need to rush ourselves down to the emergency room for an examination, some medication and maybe defibrillator usage?

Mr. Google was patient and provided lots of details for us.  I really like Mr. Google.  He is thorough.  He is detailed.  He provides articles, pictures, worse-case-scenarios and short videos on pretty much any topic we are interested in.  And this is what he told us.....our Ticky Trespasser was most likely a brown dog tick.
Brown dog ticks are reddish-brown and are the tick most likely to be found inside people's homes (ugh).

They can lay their eggs pretty much anywhere and are found anywhere in the world (crazy little opportunistic pest!)

They are not known to transmit Lyme disease but CAN transmit Rocky Mountain spotted fever (ugh and good to know).


We also read about some generic Tick Topics like:

Ticks are members of the arachnid family.  That means they are related to spiders not insects.  They have 8 legs.

Ticks have four stages to their life cycle:  egg, larva, nymph, adult.   They blood-feed at the last three stages (larva, nymph and adult) and then the females will seek to reproduce and lay more tick eggs. (WHEE!)

A female is bigger than a male (probably cuter, too.  The size thing is a good distinguisher since ticks don't shave their legs or wear pink hair ribbons.)


Okay, so now we were Tick-Informed and were feeling much less Terrified-of-Ticks or Tickified.

We eased away from Mr. Google.

"How did the tick get in here?" I questioned the kids suspiciously as if they had maybe snuck him into the house for some fun and games.

"Ugh....the computer said they often attach to dog hosts," quipped Liam, my eldest.  He rarely misses things.  Don't try to pull any wool over this kid's eyes....especially because that wouldn't be very nice.

"Hmmmmm...." I mused and we all cast narrowed glances at Yukon.  He sat up, wrinkled his brow at us and tilted his head to the side as if to say "What?  What'd I do?"

I clicked some keys on the keyboard and mouse-clicked on an article entitled "How to check your dog for ticks".  See what I mean?  This Mr. Google thing is HANDY stuff!   I mean, how did our parents do it before Mr. Google came around?
I just don't even know!!!

Mr. Google advised that we thoroughly check our in-house canine so we descended on Yukon.  We examined between his paw toes.  We peeked way way down into his ears.  We checked under his armpits (or paw pits) and all over his groin (awkward!)  We ran our fingers all over his head, neck, body, legs.
Nada.
No ticks.
Nothing.

"Wait!  Didn't Lochlan say he saw the tick earlier?" my second oldest questioned.  He is the detail guy.

We swivelled our eyes warily Lochlan's way.
"Did you?  See the tick?  Earlier?" I asked.  Apparently I had forgotten how to form long questions.  Ticks will do that to you!

"Um...." Lochlan stalled, trying to remember the exact details, "I saw a spider on my hand and I wiped it off."

"AHA!" I announced triumphantly, cocky with my newfound tick knowledge, "that was the tick!  Maybe he came inside the house on you!"

We mused on that for a moment before I shouted, "Eww.....TICK CHECK!" and all the kids snapped to attention.  We are avid hikers, after all and have been preparing for this moment for years.  We tick check regularly but just have never found them before.
The kids lined up facing me and pulled up their shirts.  I checked their tummies and backs, arm pits, arms, legs and ran my fingers through their hair.
Nothing.
No ticks.
Nada.

"Okay, maybe it was just a one time thing," I ruminated out loud, "where were you playing outside, Loch?"

"In the front yard!" my daughter responded quickly, "We were playing Ancaster Fair."

(side note:  "Ancaster Fair" is a game of genius imagination.  The rules are flexible but usually involve taking all the INDOOR toys and placing them OUTDOORS all over the front lawn.  The game is won when all the toys are outside, all the kids are inside and Mommy is standing in the middle of the yard pulling out her hair.)

"In the front yard," my daughter repeated, noting my flagging attention and shudders at the mention of the game "Ancaster Fair".

"Hmmmm......." five sets of eyes sized up our small, very urban, short-cut, front lawn.  Toys were spewed haphazardly over the grass in a crazy, colourful collection.   A surfboard was fasted to the umbrella tree.  Sidewalk chalk was spilled onto the sidewalk.  Several bikes, bike helmets and a guinea pig named Maple completed the chaotic scene.

Was that toy explosion the scene of tick infestation, I wondered?

The lawn provided no more clues.
The dog had been checked.  The kids had been checked.  Paul was gone all day.  I decided to check him later.
Nothing more.
No more ticks.
Nada.

We all felt pretty grossed out though.  All day, we had Phantom Tick Sightings.

"Look, mom, a TICK!"
"No, Sugar.  That is an ant."

"Look, mom, a TICK!"
"No, Buttons, that is a spider."

"Look, mom, a TICK!"
"No, Noodles, that is a caterpillar."

"Look, mom, a TICK!"
"No, Honey-Cakes, that is a cat."  This was getting ridiculously out of hand!

Today, I woke up with a resolution.  I decided we needed to learn some more about these Tick Terrorists.  Ignorance leads to Fear and Hysteria and we would NOT be ignorant!  No tick was going to scare us away from our very own front yard.

Education is Ammunition and all that!

We researched types of ticks found in Ontario.  Liam and Donovan each picked one and are working on a research paragraph complete with a drawing of their ticks......Deer Tick and Brown Dog Tick.  Gwen is doing a simpler research assignment on a Lone Star Tick and Lochlan.....well, he coloured a picture of a tick.  And that is because, yes, you CAN find Tick Colouring Pages online.  Good to know, right?  You are all going to Google, Pick and Print your own colouring pages now, aren't you?

Today, maybe you have your very own Tick Tale.

Maybe you have been calmly picking ticks off your torso for years and you wonder what the hype is all about.
Maybe you have just had your first tick-sighting like our family.
What did you do?
What have you learned?

Maybe you care to share?
Please let me know your story and we can stop being Tickified together!

Cheers!
Brigette-the-Tick-Terminator!