Eileen Loveman Daily Posting

My schedule changed drastically this month, shifting from a 4-hour workday to a 14-hour one.   Although it is only temporary, I automatically revert back to the tricks I used to keep things in order at home and my sanity intact.   Alone in the house after a grueling week of work, I finally sit at my desk to begin a column that is long overdue.  It was a hot day, but the fact I didn’t spend it at the office was a needed reminder to be grateful for the slow ones.  After spending the early morning with my beloved, it was finally time to relish in some moments alone.

It is August and I am reminded of back-to-school sales of times long past as I pushed my cart down the supermarket aisle later that afternoon.  The rush to get school supplies has begun and a wistful smile tugs at the corners of my mouth as I am forced to remember that time with fondness and just a touch of melancholy.   From the time my children entered kindergarten to the day they began college, I was there handing out folders, pencils and pencil cases, loose leaf paper and three rings binders, the proprietor of all things stationery.    In between math tests and essays, our nest was feathered with pictures drawn by chubby hands and taped to the refrigerator, later hung in wooden frames for all to admire.   Images of long, squiggly strokes or misshapen happy faces, they are a reflection of our life together and a snapshot of their childhood.  They mean more to me than any Renoir or Picasso adorning an art gallery in any city.  Smiling at me from the refrigerator is the memory of those beautiful pictures, images I will not soon forget.

I thought it would get easier now that my birds have flown the coop and created nests of their own, but find the days are still filled with things to do and chores to get done.  I find myself walking in circles at times, and laugh out loud as I wonder how I ever got from point A to point B, not to mention while carting armfuls of babies while grocery shopping.    

Although I’m certain that I have not entered the realm of senility yet, there are times nowadays upon returning to the parking lot that I have no idea where I left my car.  I try to imagine what I was doing and where I was headed when I parked.  Walking in the general direction of where I thought I had been, I am once again astounded to find someone else’s car in my spot, only to realize that if where I had parked two days prior. 

After taking a tour of the parking lot one rainy afternoon, I decided there was a way to help myself remember where I was parked.  No matter where I shop, I always look for the numbers posted on the poles, searching for the number “7.”  I don’t know why that number appeared in my head, but I realized that would be the number that would save me the time and trouble of finding my car.   From now on, if I can’t park directly near the sign that says “7”, I park to the left hand side of the “7.”    I even have rhyme so I don’t forget, and I can hear you laughing now as I recite it while waiting at the checkout.

Left of Seven.   All God’s Children Go to Heaven.   Like the pictures on the refrigerators of old, I will always know where to go and where I have been.   Cherish these days of back to school sales; be sure to purchase reams of paper and buckets of tape.   You won’t be sorry.    

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Tatiana was the most beautiful mermaid in the ocean.

 

Her long red tail was the envy of both the other mermaids and fishes in the sea. Her scales were soft and a creamy green, and her eyes were a brilliant blue.  Her beautiful soul was legendary amongst all the creatures of the sea.

 

Tatiana sang like an angel, her soft melodious voice soothing to most species. She especially like to sing on hot summer nights, while lying amongst the cool rocks. She sang to wayward sailors, guiding their lost ships back to port. She mesmerized many a sea captain with her lilting arias and sensuous longings for a mate she would never find.

 

For she had been banished from her home in the ocean, forever doomed to wander throughout the seas of the earth. She was a mermaid without a home because she had revealed the unthinkable.

 

Tatiana didn't know how to swim.

 

It was a secret she had kept for many years, telling no one but the snails and the goldfish. They kept her secret and alerted her to when someone was close by. She would duck her head under the water and look like she was just coming up from a romp down below. But as she got older, she got tired. She was tired of the lies, tired of the pretense.

 

Most of all, she was tired of lying to herself.

 

Is there no one who can teach me to swim? she cried out the night of her confession to the great Mother Mermaid.

 

How can you not know how to swim?  Mother Mermaid screamed How? You are a mermaid, you are born to swim!! You are a disgrace, you must leave and never come back!

 

And so Tatiana stole away like a thief in the night, ashamed of her secret and sleeping on sand banks during the day, floating on lily pads during the evening.

 

She floated that way for many years, through many seasons and many towns. Always beautiful and loving she would make friends in one town or another and would stay until her secret was found out once again. Oh the shame, oh the pity, the beautiful mermaid Tatiana can not swim!  they would cry in disbelief, and she would sneak off yet again.  She could not bear to be pitied.

 

Until one day she came upon Nathaniel.

 

Nathaniel was a lone wolf who could swim like a fish, but couldn't sing a note. Wolves were known to howl at the moon, but he couldn't do that either. He was tone deaf. His voice always sounded like a croak of a frog, instead of the strong, lone timbre of that of his brothers.

 

He was so distraught he tried to drown himself in the ocean. He couldn't drown however, because he was such a good swimmer.

 

And so one evening he came upon Tatiana as she was laying amongst the rocks. She sang a sad, tortuous melody of long lost love and hopeless adoration.

 

His heart was moved so that he forgot about his plan to end his life. He fell immediately in love with the beautiful mermaid and had planned to tell her so. But he couldn't find the words.

 

They had shared all this with me as Riley and I were taking our evening walk along the shoreline of the Lake. They had travelled together for many months, talking and laughing, helping each other with their shortcomings.

 

Where Tatiana could not venture out, Nathaniel would swim to retrieve.

 

Where Nathaniel could not put into song, Tatiana would sing for him.

 

They filled the gaps of each other's hearts, but had never known true joy.

 

I asked them if they had ever watched a sunrise together.

 

No! they both answered, surprised at what was obviously a profound realization on both their parts.

 

Watch a sunrise together, I told them. It will change your life. 

 

And so the last I heard, Tatiana and Nathaniel watch the sunrise every morning and the sunset every evening, no matter what port they are in, no matter what the weather. They watch them in blizzards and in heat waves, in monsoons and hurricanes, holding on to each other and never tiring of the feelings it releases within their hearts. The sunrise gives them the courage to face their trials and tribulations, to work around their shortcomings, and to embrace their individuality. The sunsets assure them they have lived yet another day, and are thankful for the many blessings they experienced together.  If they are ever apart, they still watch the sun rise or set as if they were together - because it's the very same sun for both of them, as it is for us all.

 

Watch a sunrise with someone you love. It will change your life.

 

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Sometimes the best thing to do is not say anything.  That is what she did, and what I needed to hear.  Nothing.

So it was with a great sense of peace with which I entered into the examining room once again.  This time to have a biopsy of my left breast,  a procedure performed many times during the course of the day on hundreds of women throughout this country.  I felt fortunate to be living in a country that would do it effortlessly.

The details I will spare you; anyone who has had one done knows the drill, no pun intended.   Needless to say, it is not something you want to have done on a daily basis.  It is, however, the incentive to have the yearly mammogram once a year, as is routinely repeated from the age of 14 years old.  “When you reach a certain age, there is no reason why you shouldn’t do it….”

Waiting 24 hours for the results was the epitome of patience and retrospective analysis.  I had never smoked a cigarette in my life, never did drugs and had always been healthy.  What a cruel turn of events it would be indeed to learn the unthinkable.  Why did I think I was special and that it wouldn’t happen to me?

Late afternoon the following day, I received the welcome news that everything was fine; I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, imagining all the negativity blowing out into the atmosphere along with the toxins I imagined consuming my body.

I was okay.  I was fine.  I am here.

My beloved was relieved as I, confident and assured we would be able to make our dreams for the future a reality.

There is still so much I want to accomplish in this life, and I felt like I was given a wake up call to not take a second of the journey towards it for granted.  But there was one more piece of business I had to attend to before moving on.

I quickly emailed the one other person who knew and was waiting, having walked along side me every step from the other side of her computer.

“Dear Teresa”  I wrote happily, relief dripping from every word.  “Good news!  I am fine!  Everything is going to be all right!”

“Thank God” she said simply.  “Now pray for those who did not receive good news today.”

Every person in the world should have a friend like that.  

It is amazing how much she says without saying much.  

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“Did you know you bought decaf by mistake?” my beloved asked me the Sunday before the week of withdrawal from all things coffee.

“No.”  I answered softly.  “It wasn’t a mistake….” and I told what had to happen and why I had to do it.   I am blessed to have found a man who feels exactly the way I feel about things that are important.

There is no sense in worrying about something you have no control over.   God would give me the strength to deal with whatever came my way.  And his.

We sat at the kitchen table opposite from each other, his tall legs touching mine.  He digested all that I had told him and where I stood in preparation for this next event in a somewhat eventless life as of late.

“Do you feel ok?” he asked, his eyes filled with love and concern.

“Yes!” I answered “That’s why this is such a shock!  I’ve never felt better!”
 

Standing up slowly, he leaned over to kiss me on the top of the head.

“Then its decaff for everybody.” 

Later that night I relayed the conversation to Teresa, and shared with her what he had told me.  “Tell your mother, and ask her if there is any history of cancer in the family.  You have to know.”

“I’m scared”  I wrote, “…….but I have to do it.”

“You aren’t going through this alone” she wrote back, and I felt the peaceful calm wash over me every time we wrote to each other. 

“If I need to have it wacked off, I’ll have them build me a new one” I wrote in the most smart alecky voice I could summon.    “But until then, I guess I really will Eileen…..”

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It does not come as a surprise to those who know us, but will be a shock to those who don't.   We start our morning with prayer.  Actually, not every morning; it may be midday, or early evening, depending on our schedules.

We now use a daily devotional entitled "Our Daily Bread" a pocket size prayer book with scripture readings accompanied by the thoughts of different authors each day.  They may be ministers, priests, or lay people.  It's an interesting mix of thoughts, without fire and brimstone.   Each day orders up a specific passage, with an appropriate message attached. 
It is one of the best parts of our time together, drawing us closer and more intimate in ways the Creator always intended.  It made me think about our shortcomings as a society and how quick we are to judge. You do not know what is truly in other people hearts.  You do not know what makes them weep or cry out in pain or anguish.
 

It is wrong to judge or try to assimilate a person's motive or question of character.
 

A recent reading is from Revelations 2:12-17.  The chosen writer to accompany this reading starts off with ".....There's an old saying, 'Sticks and stones will break my bones, but names will never hurt me'.  It isn't true.  Words can hurt us most of all......".
 

Always  be mindful to watch not only what we say, but how it is said.  Words can hurt us most of all.  Amen.
 
 

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As you may or may not know, I met my husband on the internet.  Not on a matchmaker website or an online dating service, but through a writer’s group.   The website was a place for aspiring writers to post their musings, short stories, poetry or chronicle the experiences they wanted to share with the world.  In the beginning, it was new and exciting, and I looked forward to posting something every morning.  It was a fun place to be back then. 

I also made a lot of friends on the website, commenting on the things they had posted as well as they commenting on mine, and some interesting conversations came about because of our comments.  I made some good friends who lived in the area where I live, and we often got together for dinner around the holidays, or visited during the summer.   Some friendships wore themselves thin and faded away; others grew stronger as we travelled together towards learning new things about ourselves and what we were capable of.  

One of these friends was a woman named Teresa, even though she didn't live nearly as close as I would have liked.  Although she lived in Utah, it could have been down the road.  Her upbringing and mine, however,  were about as far apart as they could be.  She lived on a farm when she was young; I lived in the city of Queens, NY.  Her religion was Mormon and mine was Irish Stalwart Catholic.  She was married for 20+ years, and I had left a 25 year marriage.

For all the seemingly opposite traits we held, there were as many similarities which we shared.  We both loved our big families, mine consisting of 6 children and she having 5.  We loved being self sufficient and independent (as independent as someone with 5/6 kids in tow could be) and encouraged our off springs to be independent as well.   We reveled in the holidays and all the chaos it brings. We both had great senses of humor and cried at the drop of a hat. 

But there were two things we had in common that cemented the bond we felt with each other: 

We love to write.  I admired her talent immensely and wrote to tell her continuously.

We love God.   No matter who he was.

I consider her to be as close to me as any of my friends who have graced my life since I was 7 years old.  I can tell her anything without feeling judged or embarrassed, yet we have never seen each other’s faces except for pictures.

So I felt no fear at all when I decided that I finally had to tell someone about the possibility that I might have cancer.

From her wheelchair, she dispenses the loving advice I needed.  It was two years before she shared her prognosis with me.  My admiration of her spirit knows no bounds.   

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A week had passed and I had still not shared a word of my news with anyone.  For too long I had been the one who stood strong for them; I was not looking for martyrdom, I was just always the Mom.

So too, did the image of my beloved husband’s face loom before me if I had told him of what was going to happen.  The biopsy and the testing, the awful waiting and the tricks your mind can play on you, taking you on a journey to places you really don’t want to go.  He had a big comedy show planned, and there was work to do.  The Red Neck Luau was coming up and 4 of my six children would be coming as well.  My oldest was flying in from Colorado after being away for 4 years with the woman he is to marry, and my youngest was flying in from New York City, herself a survivor of Hodgkins Lymphoma.   We would all be together and it was time to rejoice, not a time of worry and anxiety.

So I said nothing.

But my silence took a toll on my resolve, and the stronger I wanted to be, the more desperate I was becoming.  Short tempered and frustrated, I blamed my bad mood on the heat and the upcoming events.  But I knew that’s not what it was.

My innermost thoughts always told me that God prepared us for our trials, that he didn’t just dump them on us.  He puts people and situations in our path to learn from and to confide in, to pass knowledge on and share the experience with the next one who needs our help.

He had put three women in my life that had Hodgkins before my daughter was diagnosed.  I knew what to expect and how to handle it.

Such is what I felt about those who I had met who had battled and conquered breast cancer. 

He was preparing me, but I wasn't ready.

I went about my days, working in the daytime, writing in the evening, and shopping in between.  It seemed to be the only thing that calmed me, as I excitedly awaited the arrival of my oldest and his true love.

 

But the pressure to be 'unaffected' was getting harder and harder to fake.   

Who could I tell?  Who would understand, and not see the fear on my face or hear it in my voice as I spoke the words.   No matter how many times I picked up the phone to tell someone, I knew there was only one that I could call on. 

I clicked on my email and began a quick short blurb. 

"Dear Teresa....." 

 

 

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Ok, I have a confession to make.

 

Even though I like to think most of the time I’ve got it all together and I know exactly what I’m doing, there is a characteristic of my personality that will shatter any presumption of competence I am trying to project.

 

I am directionally challenged. Before Yahoo Maps I was severely disabled, bordering on blithering idiot.

 

I can get lost in a paper bag. Actually, I can't find my way OUT of a paper bag. I don’t know which way is up. I think up is North, South is down. That’s about it for me, folks. Show me the way to go home, I’m tired and I want to go to bed. I had a little drink about an hour ago, and its gone straight to my head. I think that could be my theme song, except I’m that way even when I don’t drink. Maybe "On the Road Again" is more on target. I always travel with a toothbrush in my purse, just in case.

 

I know that when I get on Route 390 after visiting an unfamiliar place and I have to find my way back home, the only guideline I have is a little voice inside my head, telling me to “head for the water.” Forget heading for the light, if I head for the water, then I know I’m heading north and will be home soon. Like a month to a flame. Yup, that's me.

 

Except if I want to go West. Then I know I have to head to Buffalo and Niagara Falls. My destination may be Batavia, but I get off at Buffalo. Which, yes, I NOW know is past Batavia.

 

East is Albany and south is NYC. Asking directions is futile. I also can’t calculate mileage. If someone tells me to “….go 2/3 of a mile to the next light and go 4/10 of a mile to the third stop sign” I would probably end up in Pittsburgh.

 

That’s about it for my traveling expertise. Someone once asked me how many times a day did I make a U-turn? I told him three times, but the truth was really seven! How about backing up, does that count?

 

I used to tell the kids that we were "on an adventure" whenever I was about 50 miles off from our intended destination. That explanation worked until the oldest was about ten years old and finally figured it out. He had just about enough of the current adventure. “We’re lost again, ain’t we, Mom?” “No, we’re not lost” I would answer, nonchalantly “I meant to take a look at the beach.” “In December?” he would smirk. “Yes, they have special Christmas trees out this way, I believe.” We spent another half hour looking for Christmas palm trees. There used to be screams of terror if I had to take them anywhere, and they needed to be there soon, like, within two hours.

 

It isn’t for lack of trying either. I have long suffered with this hideous affliction. When I was a teenager, my Dad used to have what he would call map reading classes. He would take a NY State road map, lay it on the living room floor, where my sisters and I would lay face down on our stomachs on top of the map. Hence, North is Up. He would tell us to find a certain town, and then look in the key, find the designation by the top of the map (a letter) and the side (a number). Bringing two fingers together at the apex should be where the town was. Bingo! Easy, right? Except you couldn't do the apex thing with your fingers and still handle the steering wheel.

 

I would always pass the map class tests with flying colors. It’s when I got in the car that I got into trouble. Although I was pretty safe when heading into Manhattan, because the Long Island Expressway was more or less straightforward. You didn’t need to get off until Brooklyn. Going to the beach at Southampton (before it was trendy) was easy too. It was just the other way. Somehow I thought all towns were laid out that way, just North and South. Up and Down.

 

Moving to Rochester and the Can of Worms was an exercise in stress management. For my husband. I kept looking for the connector lane, similar to the LIE. Trouble was, the connector lane on Route 390 was Route 490. I can’t tell you how many times I ended up in Leroy, when all I wanted to do was go to Wegmans. I was so relieved when they finally realigned the routes. I still had Route 590 to deal with, but that’s another story. I have absolutely no sense of direction. Instead I go by landmarks.

 

I’m big on landmarks. I look for barns that I bought an antique from on the right of me when traveling the countryside. Taverns I frequented on the left when visiting a Great Lake in the Fall to pick up a grape pie. Heaven help me if someone cuts down a tree that I used as a marker to head towards Dansville. I was a goner when they moved the Giant Indian from in front of the Nursery in Rush to somewhere near Elmira.

 

Sometimes I think I should have been born a man. At least no one expects them to ask for directions.

 

So keep the light on for me, I'll get there. Eventually

 

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It was Fourth of July week, the unofficial mid point of summer, and the time of the year the company I work for chooses to shut down.  It was a double treat for me, however, because I had already put in my week long vacation request for the end of the month.  I usually took the third week of August, but wanted to help with the party we were planning for the last Saturday in July.  Plus, my husband had a big show coming up the week before the party, so it was all hands on deck as we joyfully prepared for the fun times.

I had planned to take care of the medical things during the first part of the week and enjoy the hot summer days by the lake, reveling in some down time, basking in the peace and quiet before the parties began and guests started arriving.  Like most mothers, I was long overdue for the things women do for themselves when they take care of themselves; I had difficulty putting myself first, and it still felt foreign to be scheduling all these appointments in the ‘to do’ section of my day planner.   
I had always planned to do things tomorrow, but tomorrow always got moved.  Perhaps I had hoped it would never come.  
Amongst the entries for bone density tests, blood checks for cholesterol scores, mammograms and dentist was the notation of a plastic surgeon.   I was looking forward to visiting the doctor who would be repairing a torn ear lobe, the result of an injury caused by a 3 year old and long dangly pierced earrings eons earlier.  The ear had finally torn through, sliced clean and neat, not noticeable if bare and unadorned, but unable to sustain the heavy metal backing.  I felt naked and was anxious to get things back to normal.
 
The bone density test came back normal. I was aging, of course, but still calcium strong, intensified by the will to sustain it.  So too, was the cholesterol scores, and I took pride that I had lost some weight, fortified by a carbohydrate-less diet and much more physical activity.  I felt great. 
 
Yoga exercise had become part of my routine at the completion of menopause, and I dashed to my car when finished so as not to be late for an appointment.  My cell phone rang loudly in my purse.     
 
“Your test can back inconclusive”  I heard the young doctor whisper in my ear as I absentmindedly weaved in and out of traffic.  I wasn’t really paying attention because I was always healthy, and never expected the results of any test to be anything but positive.
 
“Inconclusive” I asked non chalant.  “What does that mean, exactly?”
 
“It means that you have to come back.
 
There’s something there and we need to take another look.”
 
Another look.
 
It was then the reality of what she was saying to me began to make sense.
 

My breast.  There was something in my breast they needed to look at.   I had to go back.   I never had to go back before. 

I told no one.   Not my mother, not my children, not my husband.
 
Especially not my husband.
 
My appointment was scheduled as I listened to the traffic speed by, sitting in my car on the side of the road, wondering what to do next.
 
So I prayed.
 

My appointment was scheduled for the first Monday in August, nearly a month away. 

It was going to be a long summer.

I can do everything through him who gives me strength. (Philippians 4:13)

 
 

 

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I lead a fairly busy life due to the nature of my work. I enjoy getting up early and going to bed late, squeezing out as much life as I can from the hours I am allotted. I realize, however, that I am not a machine, and I do need to take some time for myself.  One of the guilty pleasures is coffee in the morning with my husband, before he heads out to live his life.

My workday morning ritual is fairly simple. After taking care of my morning hygiene, I walk to the kitchen, slippers flip flopping on my feet, to get the daily newspaper. I don’t attempt to even look at it, though, until I have started the best part of my morning.

Making the coffee.

Coffee has such a comforting effect on my senses. I can’t remember when I started to have this lustful relationship with it, but over the years, I know that I am in a panic when I can’t have it. It’s the closest thing to an addiction I can relate it to. My daughter and I have a laugh about the time I mistakenly bought decaffeinated coffee and had a headache for a week. She said I was the headache for a week.

One of my sons bought me a coffee grinder for Christmas and so I am finally able to buy the coffee beans whole and grind them myself, eliminating a lot of waste. I grind just enough and put in the drip basket. As I let the cold water run from the tap a moment, I glance at the front page of the paper, which has now been laid on the kitchen counter. The aroma of the coffee beans sitting out starts to work its magic on me, and I am able to sit and read just a few lines.

The water finally cold enough, I pour it in to the belly of the instant coffee machine and wait for the drip drip drip of this nectar of the gods.

This the moment to be savored, my brief moment of meditation and prayer. As I sit and wait for the silky dark liquid to emerge, I close my eyes, taking in all the smells and the feelings associated with this ancient concoction, discovered so long ago. My ancestors are tea drinkers, and I will honor that tradition in the evening. But right now, I am alone with the smells, memories and emotions connected to this brief interlude. Just me and the memories.

I think about my father, and how much he loved his morning coffee, accompanied by two soft boiled eggs. Although my mother never perfected the art of making it the way he liked it, she tried every morning. I think about when I was a young married woman with babies still sleeping, how I would make a pot much larger than this one, and cook it on the stove. The percolator would be silent, until suddenly the little glass bulb atop the pot would sputter, then erupting full of activity and bubbling to its completion. I think about where I am going now that my babies are gone and I am alone. I am not indulging in self pity, just thinking about what the next leg of my journey will look like. I have begun to understand that I am to take this trip unencumbered and without burdens.

So it begins. I pour my elixir into a special cup I use only on mornings such as these. A morning which leads into a day where I will not have time for another cup until lunch time. It’s larger than a regular cup so my senses can grasp on to as much of the emotions as they can. I fill it with the sugar and the cream, never having mastered the art of drinking it black.

The cup travels with me upstairs as I dress, as I apply my face paint to meet the challenges of the day. The mask complete, I begin the workday with a quick check of my office voice mail, and then a peek at the internet to view the news and favorite haunts. I gather my things together to head for the car.

Draining the last of the liquid in the cup, I am fortified to begin another day of discovery, fascination with the human spirit, aid in the suffering of others. There is no time to focus on myself, now. My time will be siphoned off, whether it be for family, friends, co-workers, strangers.

But I have been fulfilled, my belly starting to grumble now for some breakfast. Maybe it will be two soft boiled eggs with toast. Maybe just a cup of fruit. When I get to the diner I will have decided.

As I am about to leave my little house, so much smaller than the one I used to own, I turn around and glance back into the kitchen one last time to survey the coffee pot and its contents. I am overcome by a feeling that is wonderful and soothing, a remembrance of a feeling I had long ago as a child, a feeling I recognize and want to hold on to for just a moment longer.

Peace. I am at peace. Here on earth, my heavenly connection severed for the rest of the day. But I will take it with me as I travel through out the day, throughout the neighborhood, throughout my life.

Peace.  I hope you have a cup of it too.

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