This year just might be a bit better than the last...

Last night - birthday dessert!

Yesterday was the day. My actual birthday. What birthday month, birthday week, and birthday weekend had been leading up to. And we had no big plans. Church, maybe meatloaf (my favorite birthday meal growing up). We had to do a favor for an older neighbor in the afternoon so we had to stick close to home for a while. All fine, birthday celebration was almost over anyway...

Mom made me a birthday dishrag!

Of course it's Doris' cake!

But it wasn't. Last night I had one of those truly special evenings. It gets harder and harder to be excited about birthdays as we grow older. For one, we're growing older. For two, we have to fit it into every day life which is busy and tedious and full. For three, no one cares nearly as much about your birthday as you do (though I have some amazing family and friends who come close!). So this October Angela and I had been celebrating but just really by doing normal things and saying, "Birthday Month!" before and after. It's fine. It's good. It's life when you're about to turn 38.

Jamee is cheering me on!

But Saturday night I spent time talking to Angela and Andrew, eating cake, eating pie and playing cards. But mostly talking. And I've found that in reality, just spending time with people is the most important part of growing older. Whether it's new people or people we've known for ever, when people take time out of their own crazy worlds to focus on you and your stories, that's something to cherish, to celebrate. And it's oh so lovely. Oh so special.

Love from MI & Kerri, Rich & the boys!

Mom wants to make sure I'm stylin'!

New standup desk from Mom & Dad

From Mom & Dad!

And then Sunday came around. Lots of Facebook messages and texts and a Facetime with Mom and Dad to open such fun presents and then one offer to spend time with someone came in. My lovely friend Krista said if we had time, she'd love to have Angela and I come over and go swimming with her. I hemmed and hawed. It was overcast (yet still in the 80s). It wasn't what I was planning to do. It required a drive downtown. And then I stopped in my tracks. And I said YES.

Susie & Angela spoiled me!

One of the activities I love to do most in this world is swim. I love to be in the water. I love to float and kick and sit in it. I just love being in it. And someone had offered me a chance to do that yesterday, on my birthday. While also spending time with two of my favorite people. Of course I should say yes. And so I did.

Angela and I drove downtown and met Krista and we swam. We talked and we laughed and we floated and we swam. Then we sat for a long time in the cooling night air, with just the hint of fall in the air and the leaves, in the giant hot tub and shared our stories. And then Krista asked if we wanted to walk to this really good Mexican restaurant for dinner.

A handful of thoughts ran through my brain. It's Sunday night, Angela has to get up early tomorrow, we have dinner in the fridge at home, I shouldn't eat out after having splurged so much already this weekend, etcetera etcetera. And then I said YES.

Swim time!

We all showered at her place, put back on our bathing suits, and walked, damply, half a mile through the downtown night. We found the Border Grill, tucked away near a dark office building and I smiled as we were seated on the patio with it's paper lanterns strung above our tables and it's jazzy music and it's perfect temperature.

Card from Cedric & the gang!

And we ate. And we drank. And we laughed. And we talked about everything you could imagine. And Krista sang to me as the waiter brought over a little bowl of churro bites with a candle melted to the side.

Card from Cedric & the gang!

And then Krista said, wait, let's not go home just yet, I want to show you something. And off we went, three girls all dressed in damp skirts to this huge hotel right in the middle of LA. The Westin. We walked in and Krista led us to the glass elevator. We went straight up and Angela and I gasped at the beauty of Los Angeles at night all around us. And then we found another glass elevator on the other side of the building and did it again. And again. And again. We watched the skyline and the lights and talked about how Los Angeles doesn't look like this during the day, or really ever. Because well frankly, last night was one of those special nights where everything looks perfectly magical.

And as we walked back through the dark streets of downtown Los Angeles, three girls on an adventure, I couldn't help but think that this year just might be a bit better than the last...

Grief is love

I grew up knowing what grief was. Maybe not it's exact name but what the feeling was. How your heart hurt. How your soul ached. Grief surrounded us. And not in a horribly sad, black dress every day kind of way but in a we've lost people who are very important kind of way and it's okay to be sad and it's okay to think about them and it's okay to remember them and laugh about them. This became a part of me.

I have no memories of my own about my great grandpa Kenneth. As my mother tells the story, he knew he'd never live to see me be born although he knew I was on my way. Cancer sucked back then, and cancer sucks now. Those are the worst words I can say about cancer because in my house growing up sucks was a curse word. (No idea why really, since actual curse words were lobbied about quite frequently.) But his spirit was kept alive through photos and stories. So many stories.

Similarly I have no memories of my own of my Aunt Ginny. But I almost feel like I do because my Grandma MacDonald kept her memory alive so well with stories. Same goes for my Grandmother's father who died when she was 16. So many stories, so much to keep close.

When I wasn't yet three my mother gave birth to twin boys who didn't survive the day. I don't remember anything about that time but to this day I remember their birth date. I clean off their gravestone marker at the cemetery and I spent many a summer day trekking up the hill to water the flowers we planted. There and just above them, at my uncle's grave, an uncle who didn't survive the day he was born either.

We didn't really talk about the babies in my family but we didn't not talk about them either. Each year on their birth date I'd calculate their age and wonder what it would be like to have two little boys in the house. Or to have two brothers instead of one sister. As the years went on we mentioned them less but never forgot.

When I was not quite 10 my mother's father passed away. I have distinct memories from that day, from that week. Of knowing something so bad had happened. Of knowing that life would go on but never be the same.

We would go years without another death close to the family like that one. But the grief never went away. My grandmother would have a big family dinner in a restaurant around the time of my grandfather's death. We'd spend days planting flowers by his gravestone, watering the flowers at the babies' stones.

But then another grandfather passed away, my dad's dad, and I was older, in college, and I remember feeling the grief so differently, not completely yet, but knowing what it meant, at least in part.

When my Grandma MacDonald passed away I was a bonafide adult. At least that's what life tells me. And I will never forget the feelings that accompanied that death. That immediate sadness. That immediate emptiness. The moment of sitting there in the funeral home, listening to the pastor, holding hands with my sister and my two cousins, sobs racking my body. I'll never ever get that image from my brain. And I don't want to. I have to hold on to that. To that love. To that pain. To that hurt. To that grief. 

And then came the summer, three years ago, when all three of my remaining grandparents passed away within weeks and months of one another. I remember thinking I might never stop crying. I might never get a handle on things again. Life was so profoundly changed. Not like when I was a little girl and people would be sad for a while and then I'd not really notice the difference. I was so young, I couldn't pick up on the deep sadness that envelopes people when their loved ones pass. But I'm no longer so young.

The grief settled in and made a promise not to go away. It enveloped us and changed us. These were people, who as an adult, I had made a part of my daily life. These were people I called on a daily or weekly basis. These were people I thought of regularly. These were people I kept track of. I knew their schedules and their favorite candy bars and whether or not they'd be happy with the score of the game. I knew these people. These were my people. Not just family. My family. My every day support system.

And suddenly they were gone.

All at once.

Gone.

And then someone else passed away. And then someone else. And it felt like the world would never be the same again. Or okay again. Because, frankly, let's face it, it won't be. Ever. And we just have to deal with that.

And then last summer, in 2014, I went home and I saw Mom #2, Marilyn. I saw what cancer had done to her body, not to her spirit, never to her spirit, but to her physical being. I saw that she really was sick. She really was dying. And yet we all pretended it wasn't. Because that's what you do. You pretend it's going to be okay, because even if it's not, you have to believe it is. Because what else do you have.

I didn't say goodbye to her last summer. I thought about going to her house and walking up the porch, and petting Cyd hello, and wrapping my arms around her. I'm sure she thought about it too because she didn't come say goodbye to Angela and I. There were opportunities for both of us but we never took them. None of us. And I know why, at least for me. Because deep down I knew I wouldn't just be saying goodbye until Christmas. I'd be saying goodbye forever.

And I couldn't do that.

I believe in Heaven. I believe in my people smiling down on me when they aren't too busy doing awesome Heaven stuff up there. I believe in hope and I have faith and I have love in my heart. I do. But I also have grief. I have such profound sadness that strikes me at moments and it almost knocks me down because I'm not expecting it.

The grief over Marilyn has been that way. Knowing today, the day she died, was coming up over the past few weeks, even months, I had a keen sense that things were not okay. And I have come to terms with the fact that that is okay. Grief has no correct fashion. It takes no direct path. It doesn't happen and then end. It continues, just as life does. It reminds us hourly, daily, weekly, monthly, eventually yearly, that we had people in our lives we loved so much or who loved us so much that it hurts now that they are gone. And that is miraculous. That in all this world we are loved. And we love. And we hurt. And that's all life really is.

Some days I miss her handwriting on a bright envelope in my mailbox. Some days I miss the sound of her voice through the phone. Some days I miss the way she'd sit at my mom's kitchen table and talk for hours. Some days I miss just knowing she's there, in that little house, and that I can stop in and get a hug and shoot the breeze.

When we went home for Christmas in 2014 Marilyn taught Ang, Mom and I how to make rolls. Her mother's rolls. Eileen's rolls. She wrote out the recipe for us. She walked us through the process step by step. And she made us promise to practice. We haven't yet. It's been too hard. It's been too sad. But this fall, when the weather cools and there's spaghetti on the stove, we'll practice, Angela and I. We'll practice and we'll remember that day and we'll smile and we'll laugh and we'll probably cry a bit. Because grief is all of that. Grief is us. Grief is love.

January 2014

I have autoimmune issues...

That's a technical diagnosis. Apparently. I have autoimmune issues. No disease they've narrowed down yet. When I was younger it was simply arthritis. Grandma had it, Mom had it, so it's just a family heirloom passed down. My fingers ache. My feet ache. Sometimes just barely. Sometimes so slightly I barely notice and forget to worry about it. But sometimes? I can barely move a finger. Or think about anything but the burning pain in my hand. This can go on for hours or days or weeks. And then I can go long periods and not experience anything.

When I lived in Yuma and had my own health care insurance for the first time I made an appointment to see a rheumatologist. He did the tests and said I didn't have rheumatoid arthritis. We all breathed a sigh of relief. Rheumatoid is bad news, a scary disease. And yet? Mere aches and pains seemed more than I was experiencing. He prescribed a new drug, Lyrica, which I declined to take regularly since I didn't have pain regularly and I never made another appointment.

Fast forward to this year. Emergency room. Hospital. DVT. Pulmonary embolism. Gallstone. Kidney disease. Liver problems. So many more issues to deal with. And yet? No clear answers.

This spring I sat in my hematologist's office and listened as he read my test results out loud. He was flummoxed, which I took as a bad sign. The man has a PhD and an MD. He said I had lupus (an autoimmune disease) markers. But he didn't believe I had lupus. And he sent me back to my primary care doctor for followup. I sat in my car in the parking lot that morning and sobbed. I had no idea what lupus was other than the disease they never could quite diagnose correctly on the TV show House. That instilled no confidence in my prognosis.

At another doctor's appointment I was assured I didn't have lupus, even though I had lupus markers. Strange. I think so and I'm not a doctor. My doctor was again confused. I was again unimpressed. Then they moved on to possible kidney disease and now another new doctor is testing me for liver issues. So many issues, so little time to think about them all because frankly, I don't want to.

But I do, logically, know that I have medical problems. I have autoimmune problems. I've talked about this at length with the only constant health care provider I have, my acupuncturist Trace. She studies the blood work and test results. She knows how to treat my arthritis and she helps me deal with the other medical issues. She is working on the gallbladder. She's the one who diagnosed the gallstones, the pulmonary embolism and the DVT. I'm so thankful to have her in my corner.

But the autoimmune issues? The problem is that there is maybe no known disease to classify me under yet. The doctors and scientists haven't had the money or resources to investigate properly. So I can't be treated properly yet. One of Angela's doctors told us that medical scientists are making new discoveries every day and yet that still isn't fast enough. We don't know enough yet. But we can.

When I was sick this winter so many people reached out to me. One of those people was Barbara Ramm, a lovely woman I met at church. We bonded over making funeral cookies, she was organizing the luncheon and Angela and I were volunteering. This spring I learned that Barbara also has autoimmune issues - but hers has a name. She has relapsing polychondritis. Look it up, it's not good. But guess what? She's doing something about it. In a sea of so many medical issues being talked about and having awareness raised for and demanding our money and our contemplation, Barbara and her family are taking this issue on. They are creating the first annual Los Angeles Autoimmune Walk.

And Angela and I have decided to walk alongside them.

Because I have autoimmune issues.

Because people I love have autoimmune issues.

My Aunt Gloria has MS and has been in a wheelchair more of her life that she's been out of one. I will walk for her.

My dear little friend Abby who's just started school and this crazy life has celiacs disease. I will walk for her.

My mom and my sister have arthritis and will deal with it their whole lives. I will walk for them.

Who do you know that you can walk for? Or support with a donation? Or a few hours of your time on November 8th?

If you want to help, click here! If you want to pray for us, do it! It you want to share your story with me, come on over and chat! We can make a difference. We have to try.

Donald Jewelers is family

Sometime last year I heard the news, Donald's was closing. Instantly I thought, no. Can't be. They've been there my whole life. And yet? Today is their last day. I'm happy for the men who run the business, that they get to go out and enjoy retirement, but I'm sad for a part of my life in Michigan, on Grand River Avenue, to be gone.

Donald's has always been more than just a jewelry store for my family. Located right in the heart of downtown Howell, right next to the courthouse my mom worked at for my whole life, it's been a place where we've gone in good spirits, in the blazing hot summer, in the cold winter snow, always with a smile and a joyous occasion to celebrate.

Donald's sold my parents my first pair of pierced earrings when I was thirteen years old and allowed to get my ears pierced. Fourteen carat gold butterflies on a post that came in a silver velvet box. I still wear them. Donald's is where my sister and I got to go with our parents prior to our sixteenth birthdays. In our house you got a class ring or a birthstone ring. Angela and I chose wisely, we both still wear our birthstone rings regularly.

Donald's is where my parents and I took the golf and choir medals I'd won at high school competitions to be engraved. Never once did Buss (the younger Donald) charge us for those engravings. He always spent time talking about my accomplishments, asking questions, spending a few minutes connecting even though I'm sure he had mountains of work in the back of the shop to focus on.

Donald's is where grandma got my first watch, a small Timex. I wasn't with her, as it was a birthday gift, but she made sure to tell me that when I needed a new battery she would take me to Donald's and we'd get one.

Donald's is where I accompanied my dad, year after year, to watch as he picked out just the perfect piece of jewelry for my mom for Christmas. Laid out there under the glass were always beautiful necklaces and fancy rings and lovely pins. Dad would pick something out, Mr. Yax (the older Donald) would wrap it up and we'd leave knowing Mom would be happy on December 25th.

Donald's is where I took old pieces, passed down to me, and had them fixed up, shined up, and was always surprised that Buss or Mr. Yax never charged more than a few dollars for this labor-intensive job. We'd shoot the breeze, and after I'd moved out to L.A., I'd listen as Buss told me stories that would work as scripts. He always has an idea or two to share, many I've written down and will someday claim as my own!

Donald's is where I took my grandmother's diamond ring after her funeral. It was now mine, the two-diamonds on the gold band that her father had given her when she was just barely sixteen. I'd intended to have it reset, something more modern. Buss took so much time with me and my mom, he found books and catalogs of settings, websites he e-mailed to me after I'd come back to L.A., wanting to make sure I found just the perfect setting to remember grandma with. And ultimately? He's the one who convinced me, not through specific words, but through his heart and his careful prodding, that maybe the ring was perfect as it was. It's solid, it's beautiful, it's timeless. And so? After months of talk and planning and him even drawing out a few settings on scratch paper for me, I didn't change a thing. And Buss seemed to think that was just fine. And it's a ring I wear every single day now.

In July Angela and I made some cookies and took two plates down to Donald's. Mr. Yax was off on a clock call, something I'm sure he'll continue doing forever despite his retirement. But when we walked in and saw the mostly empty glass cases, we knew an era was ending. We thanked Buss for what he has meant to our family, to our town, and to us. His family, including his mom, has been a source of joy in so many of our family's important moments and I love that about our Howell community. No matter how far I've gone or how long I've been there, people like Donald and Mr. Yax were always there to welcome me back and remind me of what makes a village.

I'll miss Donald's. But mostly I'll miss visiting with Bussy and Mr. Yax and gazing upon the jewels in those glass cases and wondering about what's next. For all of us.

We all have a story to tell...

When I first moved to Los Angeles I was in film school and I was in class several nights a week. When I wasn't in class I was tracking down movies in theaters across the city I had to watch and critique before my next class. There wasn't a lot of time for other pursuits. That first year of film school, my first in Los Angeles, I watched something like 100 movies. Both in theaters and at home. That's in addition to my normal television favorites, writing two feature length scripts, reading every script and book I could get my hands on, having an internship, teaching, and just the general business of living. So I didn't have a lot of time to get to events. But since finishing film school officially at UCLA I've tried to see film and television events around town as a way to continue my education, something that's very important to me. I make it a priority to listen to podcasts (mostly Scriptnotes which is a never miss, but sometimes Marc Maron and Kevin Pollock, occasionally KCRW's The Treatment, etc.), watch live streams of Q&As, and so on. I also try to get to Writers Guild events and every year, Prime/Cuts which is the Emmy panel featuring nominated television editors.

It's true, I'm not an editor. I have absolutely no experience or training in editing. I know it happens on a computer. I know it's important. I know that some day, God willing, I'll be asked to step into the editing booth and give my two-cents on how the cut looks. But for now? I'm a sponge wanting to learn. Also? One of my favorite showrunners, Shawn Ryan, hosts the panel most years. And I'm all for hearing him chat for an afternoon.

So yesterday Angela and I went off in search of the Skirball Center and Prime/Cuts. And we spent a few hours listening to how these seven editors do their job, how they contribute creatively to some of the best television out there, and how they see what they do as really another draft, another way of writing the script. In the words of Mr. Ryan, "Editing really is the closest you can get to writing without putting pen to paper."

And while the editors talked about their personal experiences and their work environments and how they coordinate with the writers and directors, I kept thinking about the fact that there were only two women on the panel. And wouldn't it be something if some day, there were five women on the panel and only two men. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm glad there were two women up there. But still...a few more couldn't be found? Maybe not...

When Mr. Ryan opened up the floor for audience questions I waited a minute or two and then finally stood up. I wasn't sure how I was going to phrase my question but it came out anyway. I said I wanted to ask the two women on the panel how being a female has impacted their careers. Whether or not they feel they've missed out on opportunities because they are women. And if there's a similar problem with women getting work in editing rooms as there is with women getting work in writing rooms.

I sat back down in the front row and watched as the first female panelist, Cate Haight, picked up her microphone and spoke directly at me. She said, yes, there's a problem. The editors guild is 75% male. That's a problem. She talked for a few minutes about how important women's points of view are in the process and though she had never directly experienced not getting a job because of her gender, she suspected others had. Then the second woman on the panel, Kate Amend, chimed in and echoed the sentiments and stated that she'd gone into documentary work because it seemed easier for a woman to get work in that world.

The panel went on for a while longer, we heard some funny stories, and then it was over. As Angela and I turned to leave, a young woman bounded down the steps and stated, "You're the one who asked the question about gender. Thank you. I have a story..."

She proceeded to tell us the experience she had recently of being interviewed for a job on a hit show, being almost 100% sure she had gotten the job, and then being taken into the editing room to meet everyone. She said immediately she knew the job wasn't hers anymore. The room was taken aback by her, a woman, in the sea of male faces staring back at her. She talked about how she just can't seem to catch a break in the male-dominated industry and she's hopeful if we keep talking about the issue, it'll change. I promised her it would, and that with more women writers and more women creators, hopefully we'll see a shift toward equality. We exchanged cards and I'm hopeful one day we'll work together.

Angela and I said goodbye and headed toward the restrooms. But before we could get a few stairs down, another woman, this time older, and a different race, grabbed us and said she was so glad I'd asked that question, that I'd spoken up. She's not an editor, her husband is, but she's a playwright and a vocal feminist and she said we need to stand up and make a change. We chatted for a few minutes and she wished me luck.

In the span of twenty minutes I'd met two very different women, and heard two very different, yet similar, stories. I'd heard that while there's so much excitement and promise in this industry, and in this world, there's still so much left to change, left to make better. And I want to be a part of that. I want to be the change I wish to see in the world. I really truly do. I want to make a difference. To help women know that we can do everything. We can make the decisions. We can be involved.

We all have stories. We all want to tell our stories. Sometimes that happens in writing. Sometimes that happens in editing. And sometimes that happens with each other on the steps, after we've stood up, hands shaking, and been just a little bit brave. Sometimes we need to stick our necks out and remember that the worst thing that can happen is really probably not so bad after all. And that even the final draft of something I write will be changed a million times along that way, even after I think it's finished. Much like life.

This very moment

I've gone through the last few weeks, actually the last month or so, thinking soon it will be fall. Soon things will be back to normal. Soon I'll be back in a routine. Soon I'll feel better. Soon I'll have more time. Soon. Soon. Soon.

The thing though? Soon is now.

I've had to spend some time recently coming to grips with the fact that this is life. There is no, oh I'll wait for this job or that event. I'll figure it out when I reach this milestone. Nope. That's not how it works. How it works is this is today. There are things that need to be done today. There are things that should be done today. There are things that could be done today. Likely, a small percentage of that will happen. I'll check Twitter too many times and I'll realize that I've been lying in bed for an extra hour instead of the extra ten minutes I promised myself.

It's been a long year, I keep telling myself that. I keep thinking about all that has happened in my life, how each day seems so short and so mundane but in reality, things add up, things are complicated. Life is messy. And some days all we can do is make it to the end and pray to God we get a few hours in front of the television lying on the couch, zoned out.

Last week I had a panic attack. I hadn't had one in quite some time. Well, maybe I had one in Michigan when I thought about boarding a plane and coming back to LA but I'm not sure. But last week it really happened. I was home alone in the morning. I had my ear buds in, I was rocking out to my favorite screenwriting podcast, and I was cleaning the house. I was cooking. I was doing a million things at once which is how a lot of my weekdays are spent. Don't be fooled. A script never gets written here straight through on Abbey Place. There will be plenty of distractions and events that hold it up.

But this day I was going full out. I was feeling good and I went into the bathroom where I keep my blood thinners and I noted that my little seven-day pill box was empty. I filled it up. I went to the kitchen. I did ten other things. Then I realized I couldn't remember if I'd taken one of my pills. Okay. No big deal, right? Except? It's kind of a big deal. My hematologist explicitly told me at my first visit never to stop taking my medicine unless a doctor told me to. Not to miss a day. And here I was, not sure if I had or hadn't taken it.

Sure, I could take a second (maybe first?) pill. But upon finding the pill manufacturer's website I learned that's a really bad idea. Like if you take two doses you need to go to the hospital bad. So I couldn't do that.

So instead? I sat on the bed and I cried. I cried big ugly sobs. And then I talked to Angela and my Dad (who takes the same medication and who apparently forgets to take his all the time and is still alive) and I wiped my eyes and I followed my Dad's advice: Forget about it.

See, there are only so many things we can worry about. There are only so many things we can do. Some days we'll feel like a million bucks. We'll look great, our hair will lay just so, we'll get our 10,000 steps in and our Fitbit will produce that computer smiley face we all crave. And then some days? We'll barely make it to the end. We'll feel like failures because we spent all day "writing" and we have a half of a legal pad page to show for it. Or we'll forget to get the chicken out for dinner and it's still frozen at seven o'clock. Or we'll get so angry we honestly never think we'll feel happy again. This, all of it, is life. I've been reminding myself of that weekly, daily, hourly. This is what we didn't sign up for but got anyway.

And those people who appear to have it better than us? I seriously question that. We all have shit we have to deal with. We all have to make it to tomorrow, next week, the end of the semester, or just through the next meal. We all have to make ourselves workout and eat better and read the news and not cry too much because there's nothing we can do about those kids coming out of Syria. We all have to try each and every day to be happy. To be healthy. To be love. No, not loved. To be love. To be light.

I want that for my life. I want to share my spirit, my voice, my heart, my love. I want to make it through the day and not be glad it's over but be glad it happened. I want that. So much.

And so today, and tomorrow, and the next day, I'll work on it. And it'll happen. Soon enough. Because soon is now. This very moment.

Loving Los Angeles

Los Angeles and I have a strong love hate relationship. I feel this is true not only for Los Angeles and me but for me and many other things. Me and writing. Me and exercise. Me and parts of my body. Me and driving. Me and so many parts of life. But recently, the hatred part of my relationship has grown stronger. When I left Michigan in July, after almost six weeks there, I was heartbroken. When I got back to Los Angeles just a few short hours later I was angry. It's hot. It's now humid to boot. It's so busy. The roads are congested. I hate all the restaurants. It's so expensive. I never see anything green. And on and on and on.

And then, a few days after being back home, I started to settle down. I started to remember that Los Angeles isn't so bad. I still like seeing the Hollywood sign when I drive north in my neighborhood. I still like the palm trees when the sun goes down and sits behind them for a few moments each evening. I have friends here. I might be moving back to the love side of things.

This weekend definitely helped our relationship. Angela and I ran a lot of errands and each time we ventured out, traffic was light. Stores were full but not busting. People seemed less on edge. Nothing like a holiday to clear out half the population and make things bearable. And then Monday Angela and I ventured downtown to our friend Krista's apartment building to go swimming. She has a glorious, huge pool right there in the middle of the city. And low and behold! Green grass in tiny patches surrounding it. By the time we headed out last night, the sun was setting and we were chilly. It was glorious.

But the night wasn't over. We had noticed something on our way downtown but we were going the wrong direction to slow too much to gawk. So on our way back home we slowed and circled the park. MacArthur Park. A place I would never really venture on a normal day. It's in the heart of a neighborhood that's not my own, one I fight traffic to get through when going other places. But yesterday we stopped. We found the last parking spot in the little lot to west of the park and we got out, still wet from the pool but giddy like kids. This is what we saw:

An art installation, right there in the middle of the city. In the midst of the trash filled lake. In the midst of the dirt covered hills. In the midst of the homeless encampments and soccer games and chess matches and cotton candy salesmen and people napping in the sun. An art installation.

We hadn't heard about it but that's because it had just gone up on Saturday and they were finishing it all weekend. Thousands of giant beach balls, hand-painted principally by schoolchildren, filling the lake. Just floating there in the water, under the setting sun. Brightening up the neighborhood.

The park was full, it normally is, but it was so cool to see so many people focused inward on the lake. Parents taking pictures of kids on the edge. A little boy explaining why the fish ball with the green fins is his favorite. So many people just soaking it in. Beautiful. Los Angeles, I'm on to you. You're wooing me again.

So we ended a long, tiring weekend of work around the house with a smile. A smile from a city that I've called home for over seven years. A city that is every single day smiling back at me.

Watering the geraniums

I have been back in Los Angeles for over two weeks. It seems like I never left. And it seems like I just got here late last night. But it's been more than two weeks now. I've checked off things from the to do list that haven't gotten done since January. I've cleared out most of the email and real mail. I've met up with friends and reconnected with my desk. I've helped Angela get back into school-mode and I've plugged in the new AC unit in the bedroom. But last night the winds picked up and we didn't need it. Didn't need even a fan to sleep and I thought, for one glorious moment, maybe Los Angeles isn't so bad after all.

Leaving Michigan in July was hard. It's always hard. I have to say goodbye to family and friends who are actually family and I have to leave the comfort of my childhood home where there's central AC (or central heat in the winter). I have to leave bonfires in the yard and walks at the lake. I have to leave flowerbeds and garden hoses and evenings in the swing and it's just plain hard. This year was even worse though. It's been a really long year. A really long few years. Home was a splash of color different this summer, as it has been each time we've trekked back recently. But now I'm different too. And well, that Tuesday night before I boarded the plane in Detroit, I wasn't sure I was gonna make it onto the plane. But I did. And then I hated LA for a week, or two, once I got here.

But the summer in Michigan. It was glorious. It was perfect. It was imperfect. It was sunshine and rain. It was digging in the dirt. It was mosquito bites. It was perfect. It was also different. Mom #2 wasn't there, in the lawn chair by the fire, as she always was. And that was really hard. Really hard. I thought a lot about her this summer, and about my grandparents too. We planted geraniums at two cemeteries this summer, to honor and remember all of them. And in case you don't know, geraniums take a lot of love. You have to water them and pluck off their dead flowers and well, that's it. But they like water. And when they get that love, they go crazy.

So this summer we planted four pots at two different cemeteries on different sides of town. Once I got the route and the routine down it took just 30 minutes to take care of all four pots. But those 30 minutes several times a week, they were important to me. They were a reminder, a way to connect, they were my chance to mourn and grieve and love and celebrate. Some days there were tears as I walked back to the car after emptying the water from my milk jug (the best way to water, as Grandma MacDonald always said). Some days there was laughter as the mosquitoes chased us away. Some days there was silence. Some days there was frustration. But every day? A chance to reflect.

Because like it or not, summer still goes on, despite what happens in our lives. And this summer was no different. Even thought Mom #2 wasn't there, Jack, the littlest grandneighbor, still wanted to put the solar-powered turtle lights in the garden and check to make sure they were working. Even though that's what he and Mom #2 did last year. He had no idea the rush of pain and love and happiness that would bring to several of us. So we did it and we smiled and laughed and watched as he petted the turtles.

Even though Mom #2 wasn't there we still lit the bonfire and roasted the marshmallows and petted Cyd the one-eyed, three-legged dog when Ben brought him over. Even though Mom #2 wasn't there we slapped on our patriotic-colored shirts and ate too much and played bocce ball and played with sparklers on the 4th of July. Life moves quickly and you have to join in, there's really no choice. You just do it.

It was a good summer. A perfect summer. Sure there were rainy days, sure there were storms but the sun shone so much and the flowers bloomed so brilliantly and the grass was so green it made up for it all. There were Faygo slurpees and ice cream birthday cakes and French macaroons and crafts and projects and rides on country roads and movies and baseball games. There was fishing and golf and water balloon fights and jumping on the trampoline and giggles and uncontrollable laughter and most of all? Love.

And even though I'm not watering them every day anymore, or deheading them, or commenting that grandpa's pot seems to be blooming the most, the geraniums will stay with me. The routine has not been forgotten. The reflection has not been lost. Because even though life moves on, we can take a moment to look back. At everything. To smile. To cry. To remember. To celebrate. To love.

On the inside and on the outside...

Monday I spent most of the workday hours immersed in the world I'm creating of my newest script. I wrote scenes about people who are emotional. They are also people who are flawed and scared and excited and happy and pissed off beyond belief. (My latest characters are mafia so that stands to reason.) And I wrote and I wrote and I wrote.

I wrote in the silence. I could hear birds and I could hear traffic through the window screens but mostly I could hear silence. Outside. Inside? I could hear the fights. The dying. The shots fired. The police cars. The music blaring. The world around my characters. The world of Detroit I am creating.

Then Monday night I got a work phone call. It was good news. Not even news. It was an update. A good update. A courtesy call about a project. It was fine. I was all business on the call, not expecting to hear anything about this project at this particular time as it's literally been eight months since I last heard about this project. I took some notes. And then the caller asked if this was a good time to talk, if I was good. I responded "yes" and "yes". And then I got off the call.

Afterwards, as I processed that call, I thought about what I had said. What he had said. Had I sounded mean? Rude? Angela, who heard my end as she was in the same room, said no. I sounded fine. Professional. Good.

But I still couldn't let it go. Should I have jumped for joy? Been more expressive? Even more conversational? Granted this really was just a business call but still. I second guessed myself all evening long.

And then yesterday morning I read the notes from a speech Jill Solloway, a wonderful writer and director, gave to new female filmmakers. And I sat with what I read for a long time. I often try to censor myself in this business. Be very professional and stoic and what I think an adult should act like. But in reality? I'm far from that. If you know me, you know I'm an intensely emotional person. I tear up at commercials on television. I cry over Facebook memes. I am my father's daughter. And I love that about myself. I feel things so much. I am conscious of others and their feelings and I feel all of that so deeply. In Solloway's speech she said this,

Toss out all the rules you’ve been told about “How to Make it.” Forget every rule you’ve ever heard. You know how they used to tell women IF YOU HAVE TO CRY, GO TO YOUR CAR. Or go to the bathroom? On my set, I say, IF YOU CAN’T CRY YOU’RE A LIABILITY. If you can’t cry, you can’t feel—and if you can’t feel, you’d better not be holding my camera.

I thought about this a lot yesterday. I thought about it in the context of my first job after grad school. I was the communications director for a grant-funded nonprofit (which has long been out of business). I was doing a job that was way out of my league. In fact, it was a job that a staff should have been doing. A well-trained staff. Instead it was me, in a tiny office, trying to do it all alone and I couldn't handle it. I literally did not have enough hours in the day to do everything required of me. And before they could fire me, I quit. I quit and I cried while I did it. And I was so ashamed that I cried. But I couldn't help myself. I was so emotionally involved in my job that it affected me that deeply.

Looking back on that day now, I think, yes, I needed to cry! Yes, I should have been crying! It was a horrible day. It was a horrible experience and that was my emotion on that day. I embrace that now. Because I don't want to lose that part of me. That part of me is me, it is what makes me the writer and the person I am.

I love that Solloway celebrates that. Being emotional. Feeling. Art, and life, should be emotional ventures. They have to be. If not, they aren't full, they aren't realized, they aren't real.

When I got off the phone Monday night I was full of emotion. I felt very excited but in that nervous, anxiety-riddled way. I thought I might throw up. (I didn't, it wasn't that kind of news really, not at all, I am being very dramatic for affect here.) What I did do was walk around full of energy for a couple of hours, spouting off things to Angela like, "I'm so nervous!" and "Argh!" So very helpful. So very expressive.

But I keep thinking about what if I had been more emotional on that phone call. If I had said more, acted differently. Not much would have probably changed, certainly not with the outcome of the call or the update. But I might have felt differently after. Instead of sharing all of my emotions with Angela, I might have included my advocate on the other end of the call. Told him that I really was good, and not so good. But alas, I did not. Something I'll conside for next time.

But the idea of emotions - of showing them, of experiencing them - is something that I'll keep working on. Especially in business. Especially in this business I'm in. I love television shows and movies that make me laugh and make me cry and make me angry all at once. I love when I get caught off guard and feel that surprise. I love when I feel anything. And I want that for my art. For my work. For my employment. For my life.

Just this weekend Angela and I were watching the E! show The Royals. It's a soap opera set in the British monarchy. It's DVR junk food. And I love it. And I don't. We were watching on Saturday and I kept making snide comments toward the television, I kept yelling and being sarcastic back to the characters and finally Angela asked if I wanted to quit watching. I yelled, "NO!" I was having too much fun, sharing my emotions during the viewing process. And I want to have more of that in this entertainment business. I want to make more of that. See more of that. Be more of that.

Solloway also said,

You CAN cry at work—in fact, you must cry at work. In fact, if you’re going to make a movie, do me a favor and think of it as “bring your tears to work day.” You can own the energy of the set by embodying the idea that everyone is safe; no one is going to get yelled at; that we’re lucky to be called upon to make art together.

I love that. I love the idea of that. I want to see more of that. Be more of that. Experience more of that. I want to be that change in not just my business but also in the world. But as Solloway says, "the only way things will change will be when we’re all wilder, louder, riskier, sillier, unexpectedly overflowing with surprise."

Here's to being all of those things and more, on the inside and on the outside. 

Hooray for today!

Twelve days ago I was pulling up to an apartment building in Santa Monica, mentally preparing myself to give a two-hour MacBook tutorial to a retired writer friend when Angela texted me these words:

I just totally took a weird fall down the stairs.

I sent a sad emoji and texted No!!!! and told her to keep me posted. She said she was just taking a moment to breathe and she'd be ok. Famous last words.

Just two hours later, as I made my way back to my car, I got another text.

I am finishing up something here and then I am going to the dr. I am ok. Just need to get an x-ray.

No biggie. Just an x-ray. Sure. Okay. Fine. No biggie, I was just in Santa Monica. A mere 11 miles away.

An hour and fifteen minutes later I pulled up to the front of the middle school and found Angela sitting outside. Oy, Los Angeles.

So off we went. First to get lunch. Because as we learned from our ER trip in January, it might be a long time before your next meal when you enter a health care facility. Then we headed to the first address on the Workman's Comp listing of approved urgent cares. (And even though Angela has an amazing team of doctors and insurance through Cedars-Sinai, we couldn't go to any of those places...sigh.) I got Angela in the building. I circled the five story parking garage twice. I complained to the parking attendant. I got her to move a cone so I could park and run in. And then found Angela coming back out. They wouldn't see her. Not Workman's Comp anymore. Ugh.

So, off we went, to the westside of Los Angeles. Miles and miles from the school and the best hospitals in the world. And we found the second urgent care. And this time? There was a parking space right out back and they saw her within thirty minutes. They did an x-ray, determined she had a sprain, and sent her home with a boot and crutches and instructions to rest, ice, compress, and elevate.

And so she did. For almost a week. Memorial Day weekend was spent in the house, watching baseball games, reading books, playing Pandemic (thank goodness for Amazon Prime and two-day delivery!), making good food and doing not much else.

Being a caregiver is hard work. I know this because I've seen so many of the people in my life do this work. My parents took care of their parents for years. Then they and Angela took care of me all winter. It takes time and energy and focus and determination. You are responsible for someone else. And I was for the last twelve days.

We managed just fine. There were no broken bones. There were no concussions (she hit her head on the fall, as well as jarred her wrist). Hers was not a life threatening injury. But it took work, and patience, on both of our parts. Being a patient is hard work. Letting others do for you is difficult for so many of us. We have to be vulnerable and be honest and be scared out loud. We have to let others get us things and do what we want to do for ourselves. The bed rest thing? Not so fun after two or three days.

But we survived. And thrived. Angela rested. Our acupuncturist said being on leave agreed with her body. I was reminded, again, that I really can work in any circumstance. Having a nice quite block of time is great when I'm behind the computer but I can also multitask and sneak in moments here and there. And this weekend, we managed to get to the Tigers' game in Anaheim we'd been so looking forward to. Instead of driving down and back, we stayed at a little hotel near the stadium. We took a Lyft to the main gates and a cab home. We propped Angela's leg up and drove home early Saturday morning after she'd rested. We tucked the crutches into the spot behind our seats on the first base line and thought nothing of them for hours. And we decided if Miguel Cabrera can play baseball on a broken ankle, we can probably survive all of this.

And today, Angela headed back to work. She has only three days left with her kiddos before school ends for the year. She could have stayed home another week, the doctor gave her the option. But that's not who Angela is. She's the Cabrera of teachers. She has been dying a little inside each time she gets reports of her children missing her or needing her and not being able to help. Yesterday, she read me a very sweet email from one of her boys. He asked if she was healing and hoped she'd be back soon. She was so happy to respond to him that yes, she would. And yes, she'd print his essay out for him.

So the saying goes, wanna make God laugh? Make plans. I had very different plans for the last twelve days. But today? None of that matters. What matters is today. Today we are on the other side. We are both stronger and more rested and ready to move forward. And hooray for that!

(Not) Out of the Woods

This morning as I drove down Wilshire Boulevard, listening to Taylor Swift belt out her tune "Out of the Woods" on the radio, I thought about how different this drive had been just a few weeks ago. How much life has once again changed over the course of such a short amount of time.

I'm out of the woods. I sang along with Taylor and rejoiced in the fact that I am. And yet...I'm not. It's a continuing work, me and my life. Me and my health. Continuing and ever changing and always exciting, though not always in the good way. This morning I was driving home from the doctor's office, and two lab appointments. I have been struggling to get information on some of my symptoms and I pressed my doctor for an appointment. I've been having lots of tests and not getting lots of answers. In that way, I'm still way deep in the woods. But the good news? The good news is great. Angela's doctor sent her to her very own hematologist who told her that my blood disease is not genetic. So she doesn't have to get tested or worry about blood clots from that. That was very good news.

But me? Well, I went today expecting to get some blood test results. The answer? Inconclusive for the most part. The lab did not draw enough blood. Even though I specifically asked if they drew enough blood on that Saturday morning. I asked because weeks before I had to go back two days in a row to give more blood when they realized they were short. Alas, the lab and I are in a fight today. But...the doctor still doesn't see markers of autoimmune disease which is a very big plus. He'll have the tests run again and hopefully the rest of the blood panel will confirm that I don't have anything to worry about there right now.

The other reason I was at the doctor this morning? Two weeks ago I had an ultrasound. That ultrasound showed what Trace feared, I have a gallbladder issue. Specifically? A gallstone that is over three centimeters big. So...the pain I've been having since December? Likely that is at least part of the culprit. So while this is a huge bummer, and literally, a pain in my side, it's also an answer. And I'm a person who likes answers. Who likes information. And we're already trying to solve this problem.

I have a referral to a surgeon. I'll make the appointment and hear him out. But last week I started herbs to help shrink/move the gallstone. Trace is confident we can help me become pain free. At least until I get a chance to get better insurance and find doctors I am more happy with. So that's the plan. And knowing I have a plan helps a lot. I don't want surgery but I do know if it's necessary we'll figure it out when the time comes.

Having a gallbladder issue also means they ruled out a muscle tear which is very good news. I can exercise and golf and not worry about breaking any other part of that muscle. Again, out of the woods there.

So it's Monday. I have some information. I have a plan. I'm ready to tackle whatever comes next, whether it's in the woods or not. Here goes...

The beginning of the beginning

Four days ago I searched through my iTunes and found my Eminem folder. I turned the volume up on my laptop and hit random. 'Till I Collapse blasted out of the speakers and everything else in the world fell away. I picked up a stack of big blue index cards and started taking notes.

I found my way quickly to Wikipedia. (Don't tell my students but I love Wikipedia. I love how I can research one topic and three hours and twelve pages later find myself reading about the largest walled prison in the United States!) I found my way to mafia and mob postings. To old stories of Detroit. To gangsters new and recently jailed. I wound my way over to Amazon and ordered a large fold-out map of metro Detroit. I read about horse race tracks and arson statistics. About HIV infection rates and women owned businesses in lower Michigan. I read and I read and I took notes faster than my hand wanted me to.

And then yesterday, I looked at all the blue notecards. Some written in black ink, some written in blue ink. I looked at the pieces of white paper with pink and black notes scrawled on them. I looked at everything and I declared in my brain that I had no idea what the heck I was doing. I didn't have a main character. I didn't have a story. I didn't really have anything except a pretty good grasp of the mob in Detroit and how rough Detroit's got it right now. So I made a sandwich and I stewed. I thought and I thought and I decided to write down some names.

I sat at my desk with my black pen and I scribbled out the names of these women I want to get to know. Names that sound interesting and strong and perfectly ordinary. I scribbled and I made up their ages and I made them daughters and best friends and third wives and I added a father and a boyfriend to the mix. I had one page with some names on it. And a spark. A spark that the main character might do this because of this. And there it was. On that piece of previously stark white blank paper.

The beginning.

I headed off to an appointment. I sat in the waiting room and I read a novel. And I thought about my characters. My women. And I decided that the name I'd given my leader wasn't her name at all. So I sent myself an email with two options. And then I went about my night.

This morning after I'd paid the bills and graded the paragraphs and read all of Facebook and the Los Angeles Times and finally, after I'd made myself jasmine rice and veggies for lunch, I sat back down with my names. And then I made a new chart. And then I made some more cards. And I wrote out the log line, well scribbled down a bunch of words that fit in that category. And then before I knew it I was hand writing two pages of a very clear start to the show. To the pilot episode.

The beginning.

All of a sudden I have this woman who is doing things. Feeling things. Experiencing things. Needing to make a choice. She's backed into a corner. She's thrust into the middle of a shitstorm. And so? I need to follow her. I need to figure out what path she's taking and what turns she's making. And to me, that's how it all begins. With a character. With an idea. With a spark.

It's the beginning of the beginning and I couldn't be more terrified. Or excited.

Hawaii!

The bag Grandma MacDonald brought home from her Hawaiian vacation years ago made it's return with us!

We've been back from Hawaii for almost three weeks now. And yet? I still wake up most mornings dreaming of the sound of the waves from the beach and thinking about how much I want to go snorkeling again.

It was one of the best vacations ever. And that's coming from the girl who went to Europe less than a year ago.

We were a little cautious in our trek. I wasn't sure what to expect with the blood clots and the leg issues. But all in all? It worked out wonderfully. Flying caused no problems. Not a one. I sat on the aisle, went to the bathroom every hour or so and moved around, stretched, wiggled, even watched movies and didn't feel too stressed. Going over there was definitely more anxiety but once we were on the ground in Honolulu I didn't give it another thought. The extra blood thinner did it's job and we were on vacation!

Our first full day on the island we drove up to the North Shore and found Turtle Bay. Angela and I rented snorkels and rain be damned, jumped into the Pacific! It was a bay protected by a jut of rocks and feeling confident Jaws couldn't reach us easily, we taught ourselves to snorkel. It was seriously one of the coolest things I have ever done in my life. In fact, some day, I want to go scuba diving now! We snorkeled for hours, we gawked at the fish, chased the bright yellow one around the ocean floor to see where he'd go next, and just floated. The only downside? A week of incredible sunburn on my hands. But...I learned where to apply extra sunscreen next time!

The following day we headed to Pearl Harbor where we ended up walking over six miles. Not bad for a day's work but that night I experienced the wrath of the blood clots. A swollen leg and foot, a sandal that no longer fit, and panic. But, my awesome family got me back to our lovely hotel room and I slept all night just fine. We cancelled our trip to Diamondhead to go hiking the next day and I'm pretty sure I was the only one who was bummed about that. Instead we rented beach chairs and umbrellas and spent all day right in front of our hotel. A day we'd repeat several times it was that perfect.

The view from our hotel room balcony

On the trip we also saw humpback whales, a sea turtle, ate shave ice, had fresh Hawaiian fish, experienced poi, learned to hula dance, and learned to make leis. We golfed and went on a morning cruise, watched the sun rise and set almost every day, and counted six rainbows in one afternoon.

Seriously. Best vacation ever.

The week was so great that there are plans to go back. There are plans to try some of that hiking we (okay, I) missed out on. To play more golf. To see more whales. To snorkel along other reefs. To eat more pineapple and shave ice. To enjoy more of the beautiful island.

Mahalo, Oahu. Mahalo.

Post-traumatic growth

The last few months have been extraordinarily long and yet, somehow, incredibly short. I've spent so much time resting and recuperating that it seems the world has gone on and left me behind. I started the year with a list of items to do, big and small. Take the car to the shop for the recall notice, sort and clean the reusable grocery bags, find a new job, write a new script, return a ripped contact to Costco. None of it has happened.

Instead, I've watched entire series of television shows. I've read more books than I've read in the past two years combined. I've learned to take naps and not wake up in too much of a bad mood. I've practiced asking for help and letting others see me when I feel most vulnerable. I've changed. A bit.

And I think that's normal. I think it would be weird if I had gone through all of this, a life threatening, a life changing experience, and stayed exactly the same. My body is no longer the same and neither is my brain. Or my heart. Or my soul.

A few weeks into all of this my friend Krista, who sends the best e-mails, they're like old-fashioned letters and I love that, sent me a link to a TED talk by Jane McGonigal. Jane is a game designer who experienced a concussion and turned her healing and recovery process into a game that saved her life. She needed the game to keep her sanity and to ensure her healing. Here's just one quote from her talk:

The game was helping us experience what scientists call post-traumatic growth, which is not something we usually hear about. We usually hear about post-traumatic stress disorder. But scientists now know that a traumatic event doesn't doom us to suffer indefinitely. Instead, we can use it as a springboard to unleash our best qualities and lead happier lives.

I love the idea of post-traumatic growth. I don't think it diminishes the idea of post-traumatic stress at all. I think instead, it supplements it and makes our experiences that much fuller. Back in January I almost died. I didn't realize it then. The doctors didn't even realize it then. But now they do. Now I do. And it's terrifying. You know what else is terrifying?

Being told when I went to the hematologist on Monday morning that I have a blood disorder. That I'll be on blood thinners, medicine, for the rest of my life. That I may also have an autoimmune disease that I'll need further testing to suss out. That I now face an existence that includes doctors and drugs and a change in lifestyle. That I will always be at an extreme risk for DVTs. Again.

And yes, I sat there in that doctor's office Monday morning in stunned silence. I noticed a few minutes into the appointment that I'd quit taking the notes I always write furiously. I sat there and I listened and much of what he said bounced right off me. As he left the room, my doctor patted my arm and said, it's okay, you'll be okay. I wasn't sure I believed him.

I got to my car and I sat there for a moment. I cried. I felt so alone in the world. I tried calling a few family members but everyone was out of range, literally and figuratively. I wasn't sure what to do next. So I drove home. I drove home in shock. And then I talked to Angela. And then to Trace. And then a friend texted and asked if I had time to talk. She didn't know what the last two hours had been but God's timing is always just exactly that way, isn't it?

And then? Well, I thought about Jane and her TED talk. I thought about the healing game she's created called Superbetter. And I thought about that thing called post-traumatic growth. I thought about how none of what I'd just learned or heard was a death sentence. I thought about how I was at my doctor's office for a hematology appointment and not an oncology appointment (he's also an oncologist). I thought about how amazing life really is and how all of this, some how, some way, must be a part of my bigger picture.

I thought about how less than two months ago I couldn't move my leg. I could hardly walk. And I'm now walking over a mile a day. I thought about how I couldn't breathe without pain. And now? I have a twinge now and then but pretty much all I can't do right now comfortably is get on the floor, and really who needs to get on the floor anyway. And how I was having panic attacks every few days. And now? It's been over two weeks since my last one.

PROGRESS.

I have a quote above my desk by Virginia Woolf that says, "Arrange whatever pieces come your way." It's one of my favorite reminders in life. It's a reminder to continue focusing on all of the pieces and how they form me. To deal with them, one by one, as they come in, and to not let one piece sink me. A reminder that just as these new pieces of sickness and disease entered my life, other pieces will come too - hopefully better pieces - but ultimately, they'll all come and I'll have to arrange them in the best way for me. To create the best me. Growth. The best me. All good things.

Lenten Devotion #4

Written for the Hollywood UMC booklet

Jeremiah 31:31-34

The days are surely coming, says the Lord, when I will make a new covenant with the house of Israel and the house of Judah…

Spring came early this year. At least the feeling of spring. Here in Los Angeles we were above 70 degrees in January and we haven’t calmed down since. Flowers bloomed, birds sang, kids played outside and short shorts never went into hiding. 

Spring brings with it a feeling of renewal, a feeling of refreshment. We get to start clean, wipe the slate, imagine what’s to come. Anticipation is one of the best feelings in the world. What’s next? What might be? 

God adds to that anticipation in this passage. He’s making a new covenant with us, His people, now. Right now. He’s bringing us into His arms and He’s promising that spring is here. Everything is new. Everything is possible.

Lent and Easter are a chance to wipe the slate clean, again. It might have felt like summer back on New Years’ Day and we might have made resolutions that seem so far away now but we mustn’t worry. We can begin fresh with God, every day, every moment. We can make a new covenant with Him like He makes with us. To release our sins and move on, to know Him, to write our love for Him on our hearts. God’s love is steadfast and forever new. He promises that. 

Dear Lord, 
Thank you for your new covenant. Thank you for writing your love for us on our hearts. Let us remember it is there, always. Amen.

Aloha!

Two weeks from today I'll be stepping into the Hawaiian sun, specifically the sun on Waikiki Beach. It's been a whirlwind few months since I found out we were going. January first seems like ages ago, when we started looking at flights and hotels. When we bought the tour books and started making reservations.

These last two months we've all been holding our breath a little. One of the first things I asked the doctor the morning I woke up in the hospital, was can I fly? Can I go to Hawaii in March? He said without wavering, of course! And take me with you!

The next doctor wavered. He said, flying isn't a good idea. I decided to ignore him. The third doctor? The hematologist and blood clot specialist? He said flying, especially a relatively normal length flight (I disagree that the nearly six hour flight to Hawaii is normal length but still) like the one we'll take should be fine. He'll up my blood thinners around the travel dates. He said no compression socks or any other measures since I still have the clots in my legs. He said to do all the good stuff like wiggling and walking and moving. Even more than just moving my feet, because your hips can get blood clots too. So I'll walk. I'll move. I'll wiggle. And I'll go to Hawaii with Mom, Dad and Angela in 14 days.

These last couple of weeks have been crunch time. We booked our flights (Delta direct to Honolulu) and hotel room (Outrigger Waikiki Beach Resort) in January but nothing else. So last week Angela and I got busy. And then I found out that our resort has a wonderful concierge service and that Nicole could help with anything! So things have been a breeze.

We've arranged a car for the first half of the week we're there to drive to the North Shore, Diamondhead, Pearl Harbor, etc. We've booked Angela and my Dad 18 holes at Ko Olina Golf Club (I'm bugged big time to miss golfing in Hawaii but healing is still happening!). And while Ang and Dad are hitting the links, Mom and I will take a whale watching breakfast cruise. We've booked our tour at Pearl Harbor. We've arranged to attend a lu'au our last night on the island. And we've planned lots and lots of time to sit at the beach, to swim, to eat, to relax.

So we're going to Hawaii! Ahhhh! It's really unbelievable. I'm feeling so much better than I was just two months ago, I'm so thankful for that and the healing that continues. Mom and Dad will come out the week of the 23rd, driving, and then we'll all fly out together. So, aloha!

It's All Good

I'm not a very patient person. And yet? I play golf. I write novels and screenplays. I cook. I cross-stitch. I am a Christian.

All things that require extreme patience. And all things that can drive me mad.

I've done several things lately that have required me to increase my patience and increase my faith. That have required me to reach deep down inside of myself and see what I'm made of.

Me on my first solo walk

The first? I walked 25 minutes, up one small hill along the way, to Angela's school last Friday night. It was my first walk of any length by myself. It scared me. It gave me confidence. It also required patience because I had to walk slowly. I had to breath slowly. I had to remind myself that it's all good. (That's my new motto - see the hedgehogs above. Angela got those for me my first week out of the hospital and they stare at me all day, watching over me and reminding me that because I can see them I'm alive and it really is all good.)

The view on my first solo walk

The second thing that required patience? Waiting to drive. Before last Wednesday I hadn't driven in 49 days. An eternity for someone who's used to jumping in the car to run errand after errand, to take herself places, to be independent. But I did it. I drove to the grocery store by myself. Then two days later I drove to my friend Krista's apartment building. And there? I went swimming. I walked in the water for almost two hours. I swam and talked and pretended that life was back to normal. It was glorious. (It was also 94 degrees in March, and yeah, there's no such thing as global warming.) And then I spent most of the weekend on the couch.

Me & Krista at her pool

Patience.

My leg told me that a trip to the grocery store alone, a trip to Krista's alone, and a trip to the mall with Angela was a little too much all in a four day span. I spent almost 48 hours back on bed rest. Mom and Angela monitored my leg (in person and via FaceTime). And you know what? With some patience, I survived. I realized that this will not be the last time this happens. I realized that I will be dealing with this new medical condition for a while. My new hematologist says I'm on blood thinners for life now. But, I also realized as I walked into the hematologist/oncologist's office that I was blessed to be there for a blood issue and not for a cancer issue.

Life is still different. I still get angry. I still get upset. I still have an occasional panic attack. (Three medical professionals, including two MDs, have told me these are expected. I've been given suggestions of what to do to calm myself and ride through them. It works. They suck but I also know that life is valleys and hills. Again, that patience thing creeping in.) I still wish this hadn't happened. And yet? I'm still alive. There's a reason I'm still alive. And I'm still recovering. I've learned to be patient with myself. I'm not working yet (I start teaching again the day after Easter.) and I get to be gentle with myself. I get to take care of myself. And I'm trying. Very hard. As hard as these little guys are trying to eat us out of house and home. (Note to all - get a hummingbird feeder and you will need a lot of hummingbird food.)

Lenten Devotion #3

Written for the Hollywood UMC booklet

 

1 Corinthians 1:22-25

 For God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength.

It’s hard to grasp this idea, that God is bigger than we will ever be. That God is stronger than we will ever be. That God is smarter than we will ever be. And yet? It’s comforting. 

I’m still fortunate to have my parents alive and a part of my life. I still call my mom when I get sick or my dad when I have a question about the furnace. I am smaller, younger than them. I am not smarter. I am not stronger. I will never be. Not in my eyes. And just as I am comforted by my parents, I am comforted by my God. By the fact that He is and always will be, so much more than me. So much better. So much stronger. So much more.

There is nothing God cannot handle. Nothing He cannot figure out. Nothing He cannot do. Nothing He cannot arrange. NOTHING. ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. He is so much more than we can even fathom.

There is immense comfort in knowing this. Immense relief as well. We are taken care of by a father who is literally the best at everything. No matter what happens to us, or what we do, God is more. He always will be. And He’s on our side. Even if you can’t call your own parents anymore, you can always call on Him.

Dear Lord,

Help us when we ask and when we don’t. Thank you for your love. You are amazing. Amen.