May 8th is a tricky day for me. I think my favorite May 8th was in 2001. HH was 9 months old. We were living on a half-acre between Sunriver and LaPine, Oregon. I was unemployed, Mr. Blitch was recovering from a spine surgery (his second), and we were on the verge of bankruptcy.

Mr. Blitch was in his 4th year at Home Depot. Due to his long spinal recovery, he had been trained as a bookkeeper, and was working full-time days, starting at 0500. It was a half hour drive to the store in good weather, 45 minutes with ice or snow.

I was living my mother’s worst nightmare: breastfeeding, poverty stricken, gleefully hanging cloth diapers out to dry in the warm Central Oregon sunshine. I learned to bake that spring: I was determined to bake a cake for my son’s first birthday in August. Something my mother had not taught me to do.

I am a source of great embarrassment and disappointment to my mother. I completed a bachelor’s degree, with a minor in European Art History, no less. But I am the first woman in her line of the Oregon Applegates to not go on to complete a master’s degree. Many of my grandfather’s sisters had advanced degrees in the sciences: a mathematician, a WWII Women’s Airforce Pilot, a microbiologist.

Now that I am a nurse, she is proud of me, but the accomplishment came 20 years later than she would have preferred. And she does not care for my husband. He’s too tall. He likes to sing. Off key. He’s a Southerner. He likes to talk to strangers, and give hugs. Minor details. It’s complicated.

It is very, very, complicated.

Fortunately, despite my mother’s protests and concerns, Mr. Blitch has brought me much more than poverty and a barefoot pregnancy. He has taught me how to be kind to strangers, and receive kindness from strangers. He has taught me how to sing off key, and not give a rat’s ass who hears me.

He kept our mortgage paid, through years of debilitating pain. He has always put my needs  and desires, as well as those of our son, ahead of his own. And he has given me an extended family, that loves and supports me in a way that my mother cannot.

Included in that extended family, are Harrison’s “Aunties,” Joannie and Diane. It’s a rich, long history, dating back to Diane’s parents, who were mentors in the pottery world to Mr. Blitch long before I met him.

They are closer to Harrison, and more involved in his life than any of his biological family. And they, like Mr. Blitch, have embraced me, and nurtured me, and made me feel like there is hope when I feel utterly lost.

Today they made a trip to Portland, to spend Mother’s Day with us. With me. It was the fullest, best, most beautiful May 8th I’ve had since that first one in 2001.

My cold, shriveled, heart got some fresh blood pumped back into it today. Feeling loved, and truly blessed.

Happy May 8th.

April in the Blapplegate House got off to a lovely start. Harrison, aka Project Boy, has been hard at work in the woodcrafting studio he and Mr. Blitch have been sharing. We had a collection of ragtag succulents in plastic containers in the kitchen windowsill, and HH decided to whip up this wooden planter box. (Now I despise doing dishes just a little bit less, because I can gaze at his handiwork whilst I toil.)
*Note: Mr. Blitch does greater than 75% of the dishes, and most all of the cooking. I think we share an equal level of disdain for dishwashing.

April Fools Day marked some significant anniversaries for our family:

Shane celebrated (?) 19 years of employment with The Home Depot. Not part of our grand plans when we first met, but it has been good to us in many ways. It’s kept a roof over our heads, and enabled Shane to put me through nursing school, and brought many amazing friends into our lives.

I marked 6 months at my new job. The honeymoon ended with a lost bid for Spring Break with my kiddo, due to being the newbie with zero seniority. The 7th month rolled in with the spring rains of Portland, and an ever increasing workload.

And then, someone broke into my office. Is nothing sacred?

Which actually handed me what may be my best April Fools joke ever, on a delicious silver platter.
A Friday afternoon e-mail to my manager, after I had spent a tough morning on one campus, and then driven out to my main office east of Portland:
“OK, enough is enough.
After all that today, I get out to Gresham this afternoon, and find that the RadOnc staff has broken into my office.
See attached photo.
I’ll be filing a complaint for harassment with HR.”

The truly beautiful part, was that my manger had already left her office for the weekend, and read my e-mail from her phone, but was unable to open the attached photo.

Thanking my lucky stars that she has an excellent sense of humor. And yes, challenging as it is, I am still enamored with my new job.

Then I got to play a delectable 2nd April Fools joke on my manager. It was almost too much  fun.

I’ve been volunteering for Home Health Hospice via Providence Hospital for over a decade. I started doing home respite care when I was trying to get into nursing school, and have stayed on in a limited role over the years. Mostly what I do now, is volunteer a Saturday four times a year. I help train incoming respite volunteers for a collaborative community training session for Providence, Kaiser, and my new employer, Legacy Health.
When I showed up for my Spring Saturday volunteer gig, I found out that they were in a huge pinch: the RN who was signed up for the paid portion of the training had called in sick at the last minute. And viola! From now on, I’m in the paid rotation for the quarterly trainings. It’s only $50, and I’d still do it for free in a heartbeat. It’s a feel-good thing. It’s given me much more than I’ve given it over the years, but hey. 50 smackeroos are nothing to sneeze at.

So of course, I couldn’t resist the temptation when I saw my manager the following Monday morning to tell her that I had been offered, and accepted, a paid position with Legacy Hospice. (Again, thanking Lucky Stars. A manager who can take a joke, and enjoys a good laugh, is worth their weight in gold.) 

Meanwhile, I’ve been battling a Crohn’s flare. And weight gain. And fatigue. And a short fuse. And did I mention fatigue? It’s hideous. It’s like a hangover with no party.

So I carry on. I visit my hens every morning before I leave for work. I take delight in my son’s new discovery of classic horror films. I thank my husband for his kindness and hard work. I ask him, as I have since we were wed 18 years ago, “Do you keep me?”
He shakes his head, and smiles, and always replies, “Yes, I keep you.”

Alternate Blog Title:
Upper Decker Flopper Stoppers. 

The “Blog Fodder” file pile is rapidly growing in my mind and in my backpack, purse, desk, and car.

I have at least 4 partially jotted down bits of texts. Some on paper bags, some on the backs of tardy bills, some in my calendar/address book. (Yes, that is correct. I still carry around a paper calendar everywhere I go. It is who I am, and how I function.)

Today on my commute home, as I was digging out the broken underwire from my brassiere, I thought, OK: a mini blog. Tonight deserves a mini-blog.

It was going to be along these lines:

Along with the many frustrations of weight gain, ill fitting clothing has emerged as a somewhat serious problem. Working as an Oncology Nurse Navigator, I am expected to wear some semblance of career casual business attire. As the seasons change, and my body ebbs and flows in interesting directions, dressing appropriately for my work day poses a daily challenge.

I have been known to swing into a Fred Meyer’s right as they open at 0700 for a blouse that I can move my arms in, larger underwear for the expanding bum, and yesterday, a new bra.

And often, driving between one, two, sometimes even three campuses for early morning meetings, my car becomes an enormous laundry/gym bag. There are flip flops, running shoes, Dansko clogs. Cowgirl boots for when I want that extra inch of height, or I’m feeling sassy.

There is dirty laundry, clean underwear, a beach towel, and a swim suit (for that day that never comes when I’m going to get off work on time and go to the gym on the way home).

This morning, I was driving out to the hospital extra early: a patient was being checked in for a lumpectomy. I knew I had other conflicting appointments later in the day, and that I needed to arrive to campus early if I was going to be able to wish her well in person.

On the drive in, I realized my bra was quite ill-fitting. This in and of itself is not exciting news. But as I gave it a little yank, trying to adjust in into place, the underwire snapped, poking me in the breast right under my seatbelt.

Super uncomfortable? Yes. But something I could really stop to do something about given that I was on my way to visit a breast cancer patient? No. I think not.

Then, at the end of the day, came this text from my husband:

Perspective. Every day brings me new perspective.

There was a sleeping sick mama, and a teenage boy gleefully collecting the eggs that had magically appeared in the night, and a sleeping papa in the basement (hiding from the germs of the sleeping sick mama), and then there was a very loud noise.
A big *BOOM* that filled the tiny house with a terrible burning oil and metal smell.
Rest in Peace, Blapplegate Family Furnace.

‪#‎thecurse‬ 
The Curse Lives On.
I will not say “worst spring break ever” because The Curse is real. The Curse is mighty. I don’t want to tempt or challenge The Curse.
So,
No one died. The house did not burn down. Warm spring weather is on the way, so we have a long season to figure out what to do about the oil tank (WHICH WE JUST REFILLED LAST WEEK!!) 
We still have a home.
I feel well enough that I think I can go to work as scheduled tomorrow, for an important quarterly Breast-Prostate-Lung cancer meeting.
My boy is growing up with two parents who love each other, and support each other through quite literally, Sickness & Health, Richer, Poorer, etc.

My work and my patients constantly provide me with much needed perspective: this week has been a *Cluster* of frustration and disappointment, and yet, I can still keep putting colored pieces of paper with happy thoughts and words of gratitude into my jar.

The funny thing, if we can call it that, is that this episode plays into a battle I’ve been having with my home and the other inhabitants of said home.

At age 46, and on constant immunosuppressive therapy that throws my body permanently out of whack, I’ve been entering into *Peri-menopause* over the last year or so.

This is no fun. No fun whatsoever, for anyone involved.

We live in a teeny 1930s SE Portland home, which normally I bitch about due to the lack of a dishwasher. This year though, our son is a sophomore in high school, and we’ve entered into a new phase of uncomfortably-crowded home life.

Worst are the weekday mornings, when the large man-child is taking longer showers, wanting more grooming time in general, and also wanting to turn up the heater on cold mornings.

Typical mornings involve us fighting for the shower, and me getting so overheated after my shower, that even with the window flung wide open, I’m sweating so much I can’t get my clothes on.

The ancient oil furnace blows hot oil, like a Fire-Fucking-Breathing Dragon.

(Photo of a dragon my son made in the basement a few years ago… a prescient creation.)

This blog was originally going to have one of three possible titles:

* The spider in my gym shorts, or
* The Unexpected Visitor in my Asscrack, or
* Charlotte, Take Your Web Elsewhere 
… or somesuch.

The heat in the mornings, paired with a 30+ weight gain, started to become too much for me. I had taken to packing my lunch while Harrison was in the shower, gathering up my work things by the door, and taking a quick shower with the bathroom window open.
I would still be sweating, running around the house trying to get myself out the door, screaming, “It’s a fucking INFERNO in here.”
And often, “You two are trying to kill me!”

I would throw on a tank top over whatever pants or skirt I had uncomfortably pulled over my sweaty lower side, and throw extra, slightly more professional clothes to put on after I had cooled off on the drive to my office at the hospital.

This got to the point where it was simply not working anymore, so I rejoined a gym that is only about a half mile from our house.

For the first few weeks it was great: a quick bit of exercise to work on the weight problem, unlimited water (as hot or cold as I wanted), AND clean towels that someone else had to wash.

And yet, somehow, the other aspects of my fatigue, and stress, and general lack of organization, led to a new problem: I was gradually turning my car into a 2nd home… a 2nd home for clothing, that is.

There were gym shoes, and flip flops for the gym shower, and work clothes, and “cool down clothes” and well, you get the idea.

Some days I would walk to the gym, and then quickly swap out gym clothes for nice work clothes in our basement, and other days I would be in a rush to get to an 0700 meeting, so I’d just do my best to pack for the day, and throw unlimited options for both gym and work into my car.

And then, came The Day of The Spider.

I woke up early, gave the dog a spin around the block in my pajamas (don’t judge), and then drove to the gym. I threw on some running shorts in the dressing room, and hopped on the treadmill.

I had just started running when I felt it: a little pinch between my butt cheeks.

Odd, I thought to myself, and kept running. For a moment. Then, again, a distinct movement. In. My. Asscrack.

I turned off the treadmill, and ran to the bathroom. I’ll spare you the details. Other than to say that ever since I read Barbara Kingsolver’s Prodigal Summer in 2000 when I was pregnant with my son, I have tried very hard to live in harmony with all creatures, and not kill spiders.

I have actually come a long way with spiders, overcoming my terror of them, and even learning how to gently collect them with a cup and a piece of paper and move them from our house to my husband’s garden.

So, perhaps you can imagine my horror: sweaty, needing to get to work, in a 24-Hour Fitness bathroom with my shorts down around my ankles and a squished spider on a fragment of cheap toilet paper.

It just really was not ok. No part of that was ok.

Now, here it is, Easter. I’ve spent the last weekend of my son’s spring break lying in bed, intermittently febrile, then cold and shaky from a nasty virus. And then our Dragon in the basement does this.

So here’s to spring. And tax returns. And hopefully a repair that doesn’t completely destroy us financially. And open windows. And spiders steering clear of my gym shorts.

(Photo of more HH artwork. This one made for some visiting younger kiddos last summer.)

There will be more, lots more, written about clean undergarments later. But for today, I offer this:

That awesome feeling when you’re ON TIME to the early morning hospital admin meeting: your hair is still wet from the shower, but you know you’ve nailed this! You brushed your teeth, put deodorant on, AND you have not just a pair of underwear on, but CLEAN underwear!
You plop down next to some guy that you just met at yesterday’s early morning meeting, but cannot for the life of you remember his name.
Then, there:  Across the table. A woman who is in her 50s, but not drenched in sweat (so she must be done with menopause).
Her hair is not only clean, but styled. Her makeup expertly applied, she’s wearing a smart, fitted, business suit. And. A single strand of pearls.
You, are wearing a long black skirt with a comfortable, forgiving, waistband. It flows to your ankles to cover the hairy German-peasant-woman sturdy little legs that need a shave or a wax.
You also realize, glancing down, that your comfortable black Dansko clogs have little bits of mud, grass, and hay from the chicken coop on them.
But dammit, you made it! You are on time, and you’re sitting at the grownup table.
Clean underwear and all!

Things were pretty calm the other night at The Blapplegate house. Please keep this in context: the travel bag from last month’s trip was (and is) still on the floor by the bed, the taxes haven’t been tended to, there are two fabric models of Mt. Vesuvius in the basement: one of clean laundry, one of soiled. The chicken coop needs tending to, there are all kinds of wonderful, Farmers Market delights festering in the fridge because some crazy woman keeps going to the Portland State Saturday Market and purchasing bouquets of kale and colorful radishes and cauliflower the size of NBA basketballs.
Then that same woman remembers she needs to do laundry, and look at tax prep, and start studying for her Oncology Nursing Certification…. and then she realizes she’s on the verge of screaming at her poor octogenarian father, or her 99.3% perfect teenage son, or, worst of all, her husband who is practically some kind of saint. So she decides she needs to tend to some self care, and drags her rapidly expanding hind end out for some fresh air and a jog, and then she decides to go sit in the incredibly loving warmth of her Quaker Meeting group.
At which point, it has magically become Sunday night again, which is this women’s personal version of Bill Murray’s Groundhog day.

And thus, she ends up blithely ignoring her amazing collection of locally farmed Superfoods. She just eats a few hard boiled eggs, and Goliath-sized handfuls of nuts and raisins. And cheese. She eats obscene amounts of cheese. And her horrible dietary habits don’t wreak havoc on her GI system, because she takes a daily low-dose chemo for her Crohn’s disease, and it lets her stress eat and abuse her intestines.
Then there comes a day where the exquisitely beautiful produce in the fridge has turned a corner, and it becomes better suited for chicken food than human food. So suddenly this good-hearted chicken-loving lunatic decides to whip up a quick and colorful, gourmet meal for her hens, rather than for her family.

Now, the slightly odd little woman is temporarily transported back into her Happy Place: humming in the kitchen, preparing a nutritious treat for her beloved birds… An Instagram photo is snapped, and posted, cheerfully proclaiming, “Turmeric!” ~ “Apples!” ~ “Urban Chicken Whisperer!”
Then out into to Pacific Northwest blogosphere it goes, merrily landing in the break room of her husband’s workplace.
“… Mr. Blitch… Did your wife happen to cook you breakfast before you left for work this morning?”
“… Um, no. No, she did not… Why do you ask?”
(Snicker, Snicker) “Well, apparently she’s making quite a feast for those hens of hers. Lucky birds!”

So within that context, in that general place of relative calm, I turned to Mr. Blitch later that night and asked, “Which term to you prefer: Unhinged, or Unglued?”

An odd, concerned look is followed by the careful question, “Well, to describe a thing? A structure? Or….”

“No,” I reply, calmly and honestly. “A person. Me. My behavior last week when I became so furious with someone in a public forum that I completely… I don’t know, became unraveled, I suppose. Perhaps unfurled.”

“Oh, well in that case: Unhinged. Definitely unhinged.”

Fresh on the news feed this Sunday morning was a link to this article about using the Ketogenic Diet to combat cancer:

I first learned about the ketogenic diet a few years ago when I saw the 1997 film, “First Do No Harm.” This was a powerful film directed by Jim Abrahams, featuring Meryl Streep, Allison Janney, and Fred Ward. This story was brought to light largely in part due to the fact that Jim Abrahams’ son, Charlie,  developed a severe seizure disorder at the age of 2 that did not respond to medications.

In the initial forward to the book “Ketogenic Diets: Treatments for Epilepsy and Other Disorders,” by John M. Freeman, Abrahams wrote about the search for help for his son:

“… thousands of seizures and countless medications later, when physicians were unable to help, Abrahams searched on his own and found reference to the ketogenic diet program at Johns Hopkins…. within one week of starting on the diet, Charlie’s seizures were completely controlled, his EEG returned to normal, his development resumed, and he no longer suffered the side effects of medication.”

Dr. Freeman was an American pediatric neurologist specializing in epilepsy. He is best known for bringing the previously abandoned ketogenic diet back as a treatment for pediatric epilepsy. The diet is a carefully managed high-fat diet that reduces the incidence of seizures in children during and after its use.

When I first saw the Meryl Streep film (…First Do No Harm) about the Abrahams family story, I was well into my initial SCD journey. I had been following SCD strictly for over a year; my Crohn’s was in complete clinical remission, and I was completely off all my medications.
I was a 100% believer in FOOD First, FOOD as MEDICINE, etc.

But to get back to today, and the current conversation about this new trend in cancer treatment, using the ketogenic diet…. (deep breath inserted here)…

Cancer does not equal IBD. Cancer does not equal Epilepsy. Cancer is the Uber disease process. Really, a whole out-of-control, Donald Trump style Bad Seed, the Honey Badger of all disease processes.

I am always, always, the first to say that I think we (“we” being patients, and medical researchers and providers), need to look at *Food as Medicine.*

Now, I’m going to say, that when someone is in the midst of health crisis, the single most insensitive, alienating, and harmful thing you can do, is ask them if they’ve tried (insert: A,B,C).

When I was working 12 hour night shifts on the Bone Marrow Transplant unit, I had a patient in tears: A 50+ year old man who was 2 weeks into his chemotherapy transplant preparatory regimen, he had gotten an email from a cousin asking if he had heard about/tried something along the lines of a ketogenic diet.

Seriously, this man was inpatient, on isolation precautions, he had been getting chemo basically round the clock for 2 weeks. His white blood cell counts were down to one nano-notch above zero, and some genius who read some article on NPR, or Web MB, or Dr. Kale’s Cancer Cures webpage (I made that last one up), was asking is he had thought of trying giving up sugar.

I think saying that to a cancer patient would be somewhat akin to me asking my young friend who recently had their colon removed due to advanced, life threatening, medication refractory Crohn’s disease progression, if they had “heard of SCD.” As in, “Hi, so sorry about your colostomy,  would you like me to teach you how to make your own yogurt? I think it could really help your IBD.”
No. Just no.And then to the question, have I heard of this (ketogenic diet) for cancer treatment?
Yes, of course I have. That is part of my job as an oncology nurse navigator: I need to stay apprised of both the most current changes & advancements in Evidence~Based practice, and any upcoming trends and research. I’m the person that fields all those questions from my patients.

And yes, this (ketogenic diet), has come up recently as part of that role. I have a patient, they have an advanced cancer. They have “done their own research” an decided to put themselves on the ketogenic diet.

They had also read (one of my *favorite*) books, “The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer,” by Siddhartha Mukherjee. So, they felt that they had a pretty good handle on what had caused their cancer, and how best to treat it. (Gulp).

So, again: as both a Crohn’s patient, and as an oncology nurse, I am all about integrative medicine, Food as Medicine, Mindfulness, acupuncture, all those really, really, good things.

But, here is what this patient, and many like them, are up against specifically in regard to the ketogenic diet:

If the cancer is already advanced enough that surveillance is not appropriate, and treatment must be started to ensure the best chances for survival, there are going to be some practical, and logistical, obstacles to adhering to this diet.

1) There is not adequate, science-based evidence to have brought this into the accepted main stream of oncology medical practice. Your cancer team most likely will either not be familiar with this theory, and/or have specific reasons to object to its use.

2) We are all trained to be considerate of cultural, spiritual belief systems and practices. It is our job to get to know you, and learn what is important to you as a patient. And along with that, we need to practice within our Science-based frame, and ensure you have the education you need if you make choices that may not match well with certain aspects of the treatment you have chosen.

3) Steroids. Steroids pretty much trump the ketogenic diet. And here is why:

If you elect to have Chemotherapy and/or Radiation Therapy, there will likely be a time when you need to take steroids.

There are 3 primary reasons why they are prescribed:

a) They are used as a component of treatment to help destroy cancer cells, and to make chemotherapy more effective.
b) They can help reduce allergic reactions to certain chemotherapy agents.
c) They are often used in low doses as anti-nausea medications, and to help increase appetite.

So, one might ask, “OK, what’s the problem, in relation to the ketogenic diet?”

Steroids have many, many, unpleasant side effects. One of the big ones, is that they raise blood sugar levels. In fact, some cancer patients, who have never had any history of diabetes, end up needing to be on insulin for a while to manage their blood sugar levels while they are on steroid therapy.

In the ketogenic diet, the core, main premise, is that the cells do not have sugars to “feed” them. The very definition of ketoacidosis, is that it is a state where the body cannot use glucose (sugar) as a fuel source, and has no other choice but to use fats (lipids) as a fuel source instead. The goals for blood sugar range while following the ketogenic diet, are impossible to maintain while taking steroids.

My patient who was following  the ketogenic diet, realized that this would be an insurmountable problem, at least for the short term. In the end, they opted for surgery and Chemo/RT, and plan on returning to their Keto Diet when they are no longer on steroids.

It’s a hard call. One that every patient needs to make on their own. That being said, if you choose to go to a licensed, board certified Oncologist, you can’t do it part-way. You can choose to say ‘no’ to their treatment, of course. But please don’t let your “own” research, or the current trends that are not yet part of the Evidence-Based Practice protocols, put you even further at risk.

Life lessons:
#1) When you have a choice, please choose to NOT behave like a tool. Like a Douchetrumpet.

For example: Last night (St. Freaking Valentine’s Day) I came out of a women’s restroom in the Alaska Airlines terminal at SFO.
(*note: Airline terminal = inside the boundaries of a cleared security area)
There was a young woman, I’m guessing mid-twenties, passed out on the floor next to a drinking fountain.
Passed out. Not bleeding, not vomiting, but nonetheless, passed out.
I quickly glanced around, and most people were walking by, at the most just glancing at her.
A few people stood a few yards away, just looking at her.
¿Really?
Yes. Really.
The questions are simple:
Miss, can you hear me?
(Yes)
Ok, good, are you ok? What can I do to help you?
What’s your name? Is there someone here with you that I can get?
Turns out this sweet pea had just come off a long flight, losing it from both ends.
Her boyfriend was just down a short way, waiting for her with their luggage.
He had no way of knowing she had gotten so sick in the bathroom and had passed out as she was trying to walk back to find him.
Basic humanity is so simple.
What in the world are people afraid of?
A scared young girl, all she needed was a simple gesture of humanity. Nothing fancy.
Seriously.

My dear childhood friend who I had just been visiting in Berkeley, who just happens to be the daughter of a nurse and is herself a brilliant Nurse Practitioner, was teasing me and quipped, “nurse=busybody.”
But she is a actually a bleeding heart who has been taking strays into her heart (myself as a 12 year old, for starters), for years. Not too long ago, she insisted on adopting, sight-unseen, a three legged puppy who’s stressed out mother had chewed off one of his hind legs. So I’m calling her bluff.
The metaphors and symbolism of that act in and of itself, will have to wait for another blog.
Both acts actually: the overwhelmed mother  chewing off her puppy’s leg, and Anne’s immediate reaction to want to adopt and care for said puppy.
And, as I clarified for Anne, I didn’t even offer up any of my Ativan to this woman, so there. Don’t go labelling me a martyr.

#2) There is no Rule #2.
If you are a human person over the age of, let’s say 7 or 8, you should not require instructions, or even suggestions, for a #2 rule.

There is no reason why a thinking, human person, should not be aware that they have a choice in their behavior in every single interaction with every single human person they encounter.

A kid on the playground, a vendor at the food cart, the next-door neighbor, the person putting gas in your car. (*Side note: In the state of Oregon, it is literally, and bewilderingly against the law to gas up one’s own automobile. Absurd, but true.)

There is never, ever, a legitimate reason to make the choice to behave like a doorknob.

In this particular instance, where this airline traveler was most likely having the most unpleasant Valentine’s Day in her personal history of ever, behaving like a decent human did not require much. My skills as a BSN were not required. No code cart, not even an emesis bag. She just needed to not have hundreds of strangers pass her by as she lay passed out on the airport floor. She just needed someone to choose to not be a selfish asshole.

Next time I pass out in a public place (because it has happened before, and could easily happen again), I hope someone will do more than pass me by or stare at me from a safe distance.

I usually have a clear theme, or clear pathway of thought, when I sit down to write.
Today symbolizes many things for me, and thoughts and emotions are swirling.
So.
I will.
Just write.

Super Bowl Sunday.

One year ago today, my Dad and I drove up to Portland from Marin County, CA, for the last time.
We sold the home he had purchased when I was wee and he came back to Oregon; his first time living here since the 1960s.

This is us tossing out his last bottle of Vodka. He rarely drinks anyway, but it was a gift from Nadia, his Russian Love.

And below, is him at The Olive Pit, my favorite destination on car trips to and from Oregon.

Today was also a celebration of friendship; a farewell gathering for a dear friend who is moving out of state.

With this celebration, came a wonderful reminder: celebrate people while they are still with you.

Tell friends you love them.

Open your heart, and let emotions flow. Be present while you are with people. Take some photos, but then put the phone down, so you can be in the moment when a bunch of toddlers is meeting your chickens for the first time. When your friend’s kiddo falls in the pile of dog poo you missed when you were picking up the yard.

Feminism

Super Bowl Sunday actually is not an entirely irrelevant day to think about Feminism.

I’ve long had issue with the role of women in major sports… The whole cheerleader thing, for instance. But I will not waste writing, not wind, on the subject. You are either with me or not. There is no in between on this subject for me.

So, Gloria.
G.L.O.R.I.A.

I have long idolized Gloria Steinem. Right up there with the early suffragettes and the great women writers of the last century.

This is the Ms. Steinem I think of when I think of her:

But this week, I am so very sad to say, she went straight from Hero to Hag in my book.

Like every Democrat, like every woman, like every Feminist, I struggle with my thoughts about Hillary Clinton’s run for presidency.

But to say, as Ms. Steinem did recently, that young women support Bernie Sanders “to meet boys?” Really now?

Hero. To. Hag.

“When you’re young, you’re thinking, ‘Where are the boys?’ The boys are with Bernie.”

So off target. Just sloppy, and dismissive. Patronizing and out of touch.

Picking and Choosing.

Which brings me to my final tangent of thought for the evening.

There are so many important things occurring right now. So many worthy causes to fundraise for, and fight for, and advocate for. So many cruel atrocities that need to be brought to light and fought against.

How does one decide which organization to donate to, or devote Saturdays for volunteering for? How do we continue to nurture and feed our own souls while we’re trying to nurture our kids, spouses, parents?

A sane person learns how to prioritize. How to make sure we don’t reach burnout, or spread ourselves too thin.

A sane person. Which I am striving to become, but do not claim to be, just as of yet.

This weekend I very nearly turned my son down when he was requesting to spend time with me. Honestly: my 15 year old son sheepishly asked me to give up the personal time I had set aside for myself, and asked me to spend the day with him.

Thank goodness I realized what would be important perhaps not so much at that moment, but a decade or so from now when he and I look back.

And in the end, that other thing, the thing that is important to me, yes, but need not rule my life, that thing when rejoined later, turned out to not be what I was hoping it would be anyway.

Something I do, that is supposed to enrich my life and bring joy to me, is often disappointing, and soul sucking.

My son, on the other hand, is never a soul suck. He’s my gift from the great beyond. He’s the Easy in a life that has been pretty hard.

It is challenging to know how best to prioritize, how best to Pick and Choose. But I have never, ever, been disappointed when I have chosen him.