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
Wednesday, 31 August 2016
Friday, 19 August 2016
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!
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!
Wednesday, 10 August 2016
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
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
Wednesday, 3 August 2016
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
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
Wednesday, 29 June 2016
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!
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 |
Monday, 13 June 2016
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
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
Sunday, 12 June 2016
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.
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.
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