A Living Room Worth Living In

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I don’t know why I decided to decorate the living room. May I needed to add to the room as I was losing my hair. Maybe I was tired of looking at bare walls and naked windows. Maybe I needed something to take my mind off cancer and chemo. Maybe I needed to show myself and my girls that this is what living people do.

My sister, Rebecca, has a gift for interior design and she can sew. Both talents skipped me. Rebecca was only too happy to help and take charge. In the face of my battle with breast cancer, it gave her something to do. She didn’t like feeling helpless and that’s what watching me grapple with bi-weekly chemotherapy treatments did to most of my family. They could each take turns driving me to Dana Farber and sitting with me while I was poisoned with toxic drugs like Cytoxin and Taxol but nobody could take my infusions for me.

Rebecca and I met when our parents got married. I was nine and she was eleven. She came with mom and I came with dad. I remember the day we met. Dad had just moved me and my three brothers from our house on Cedar Hill Drive to the new multi-level house on Carmel Court. My new mom had already moved in with my two step-sisters and youngest step-brother. As I rode my bike around the cul-de-sac with my new best friend, Mary Howard, I saw a girl with long blonde hair holding my baby step-brother, Kenny, in her arms. I skidded to a stop in front of her.

“Hi!” my nine year old self said. “You must be Rebecca.” I waited for her to say ‘hi’ back. Instead, she pursed her lips together, which made her look like she had a beak, flipped her head back, turned, and walked away. Her blonde hair swished back and forth as she huffed her way inside the new house. We didn’t get off to a good start and growing up we didn’t like each other too much. Mostly, I stayed out of her way and mostly, she ignored me. It wasn’t easy growing up blended.

As adults we carved out a friendship. At some point in our late 30’s we became the sisters we never were as kids. Maybe it was the night in October she slept over at my new house. She had just found out her husband cheated on her and she was really (and I mean really) angry. When she arrived, I handed her a vodka cocktail and a carving knife. Three pumpkins awaited her slaughter.

_____

With cancer, it was my own body that was cheating on me – or at the very least, my cells were in full rebellion. Rebecca couldn’t hand me a vodka cocktail and a carving knife but she could bring me samples of paint and fabric swatches.

I didn’t agonize over my choice of colors or fabrics. Without knowing cost, I picked the most expensive paint. A Ralph Lauren brand, sage green, texturized with sand. The sand gave the paint dimension. Dimension made my living room vibrate with a welcomed aliveness.

Not one to stop at the most expensive paint ($35 a gallon!) I selected the most expensive silk fabric for my curtains, valances, and throw pillows. My choices made Rebecca happy. Not because they cost the most but because my selections were her favorites. After she packed the samples away, she gave me a hug and whispered, “you can tell we were raised by the same woman. We both have her taste for finer things.”

My mom lived 3,000 miles away. After she and dad divorced in 1990 she lived in England for awhile. That’s where she met her fourth husband. By the time I was diagnosed with breast cancer, mom had been living in her home state of Washington and was married to husband number five.

The woman I call my mom didn’t give birth to me. My father gifted her with me and my three brothers when he married her. I suddenly, in one fell swoop, went from being the oldest and only girl to being number 3 of 7. I now had two older sisters and another baby brother. As far as I’m concerned, my bio-illogical mother, Suzanne, gave up the honor of being called mom or mother the first time she beat on me. I distinctly remember three beatings (not spankings, beatings) and that’s three too many.

I often tell people that Suzanne is like a box of cereal: a fruit, a nut, and a flake. Dad divorced her in 1970 and by the grace of God was awarded full physical and legal custody of four children between the ages of 1 1/2 and 8 years. The State of California declared Suzanne unfit to raise rocks let alone children. I never saw Suzanne again (at least not until I chose to contact her when I was 28.) When dad remarried a month before I turned 9, I glommed onto my new mom. When I was 12, she adopted me and my three brothers and somewhere along the line, I adopted her taste in finer things.

___

The weekend after my fifth chemo treatment, Rebecca and her crew of helpers showed up to transform my living room. My brother-in-law, Brian, was in charge of installing new hardware for curtains and all things electrical. He was also responsible for moving heavy things. My daughter, Christina, and her friend, Molly, were in charge of taping and painting trim. My stepmom, Sharon (dad’s 4th wife), was in charge of her paintbrush and acting as Rebecca’s gopher. Me? I was in charge of laying down on the couch and watching my living room go from blah to WOW.

The weekends after a chemo treatment were the worst. I had what is known as dose dense therapy – chemo every two weeks rather than three. I needed eight treatments so the upside was that I’d suffer this for sixteen weeks rather than twenty-four. On the downside I felt like shit most of the time.

Chemo made me feel queasy. Zofram kept nausea at bay but I always felt green around the gills. The Neulasta shot 24 hours after chemo was the worst. The drug triggered my stems cells to become white blood cells and these cells would congregate in my joints. No one warned me how painful this would be and there wasn’t a lot I could do for the pain. Except take Decadron, a steroidal wonder drug. At least it kept me from feeling like I was dying and it made me crave bread. I blamed Decadron for my 15 pound weight gain durning chemo. So much for my cancer weight loss plan.

___

I couldn’t wait to see what the very expensive Ralph Lauren paint would look like on my walls.

“Ready, Peg?” my sister began rolling out the paint.

“Ready,” I replied. But no sooner had I said that when the smell of paint assaulted my queasy pain riddled body. I bolted from the couch, through the kitchen, and outside to my screened in porch (minus the comfortable deck furniture because I sold it when I moved.) I sat on one of two cheap plastic chairs and gulped in air. Rebecca ran out after me.

“You ok?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”  Here hands were on my shoulders. Her blue eyes bored into mine.

“The smell,” I began.

“Ah! The paint.”

“Awful.”

“At least you’re not painting.”  Rebecca was satisfied that I was ok. I stayed outside while she and my daughter and our stepmom spent the afternoon making my living room worthy of living in.

My House…In The Middle of The Street…

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(Note to readers…I am in yet another writing class. I don’t think I’ll ever stop taking them. I adore my instructors and love how they push me to write from the edge without falling over the cliff. For my blogging aspiring writers, I strongly recommend www.writers.com and any writing class taught by Laurie Wagner, Gretchen Clark, and Marc Olmsted)

I’m reading “Under The Tuscan Sun” (again) by Frances Mayes. I love the way she writes and when I need a trip back to Tuscany, next to plane tickets, she’s my first choice. But these words, “by remembering rooms in houses we’ve lived in, we learn to abide (nice word) within ourselves,” triggered something in me. I knew I had to start writing about my house, this house I bought in 2003, which was supposed to be temporary. But here I am…still living in it, abiding in it.

Because my book (or whatever it is) is turning out to be a collection of essays that reflect on divorce, post divorce life, finding love again, and blending two families, I thought a series of essays on my house, this place where I have finally found my center, is only too appropriate (thanks to Frances Mayes) This is the first one.

****

Wherever I Go, There I Am, Part One (Or Scenes From a Life)

As I unpacked my kitchen, I thought I’d be relieved. I thought I’d feel happy. I thought the weight of all that had happened in the house before this house would evaporate as soon as I moved. I thought moving one town over and six miles down the road would make the hurt go away. I thought if I got rid of most everything we shared I could purge the last two years, the worst two years of our marriage, from my life. Instead, as I unwrapped my dinner plates and soup bowls, tears fell down my face. I might as well have been unpacking the heart break, the anger, and the bitterness of my divorce.

There’s this saying, “wherever you go, there you are.” I don’t know who said it. It sounds like something Winnie-the-Pooh would say to Piglet as they walked through the Hundred Acre Wood. But there I was, in a new house. A new house that I desperately was hoping would be my etch-a-sketch. I could simply shake it up and down, erase the past, and start with a clean slate.

But there was no clean slate. I packed up the toxic emotions, the bitterness from being cheated on, the out of breath feeling of watching my ex-husband walk out on me and our daughters along with the pots and pans.

Wherever I went, there I was. I couldn’t escape from myself.

Before I moved, I decided to sell or giveaway almost everything. I gave 300 science fiction and fantasy books to my brother, Michael. I gave a TV, VCR, and all my Disney movies on tape to my brother, Chris. I gave my bedroom furniture to my cousin’s son, Nate. He drove 175 miles from Burlington, VT to Hampstead, NH just to pick up stuff that I would have rather torched, demolished, and made splinters out of.

What I didn’t give away (or break), I sold. I sold my two over-sized faux leather reading chairs to my ex-husband. One hundred dollars, thank you very much. I sold my deck furniture to strangers. Even now, ten years later, I wish I would have kept the deck furniture. It held no tortured mangled memories. I sold off the knick knacks, junk from the garage, and other reminders of my marriage that crashed and burned beyond any salvation.

I only kept the things I didn’t attach my ex-husband to. The hutch I had made. The south western hand made bench I picked up in Albuquerque. The Polish pottery, (which is still my everyday plates, bowls, and mugs) I bought when I lived in Germany and traveled to Poland. I planned to keep my kitchen table, but it broke during the move. I kept a futton for my living room, but once my new furniture arrived, I gave it to my youngest step-brother so he could finish decking out his new attic pad.

The leather couch I loved was too big for my living room. My ex offered to take it so I gave it to him. When he loaded it into the back of his Chevy Blazer, his back windshield shattered. I made zero on the transaction but the $500 it cost it him to replace the windshield was priceless.

I resisted making my new house a home. I resisted making it permanent. I convinced myself it was a temporary resting place until my youngest daughter, Christina, graduated from high school. We moved in when she was a sophomore. I only needed to stick it out for three years.

My oldest daughter, Jessica, is an old soul. Either that or she’s just tapped into intuitive energy. No matter how much I tried to hide my heart, my unhappiness, or my resistance to establish roots, she dimed me out. “Mum,” she said, “this isn’t temporary. We live here. At least hang some pictures.”

So I did. And I bought new furniture – a kitchen table, a new bedroom set (French provincial, something the ex never in a million years would have allowed), new bookshelves, area rugs, and new pretty things.

Three months after my daughters and I moved into the three bedroom, two bath, 1,638 square foot cape style house, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. Wherever I go, there I am. What else in God’s name was I supposed to learn?

A Weekend Respite

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Richard and I spent the weekend away. It was his drill weekend, so although he was working, we were both at the same marriage retreat – Strong Bonds. We stayed at the Sheraton in Portsmouth, NH. Nice hotel, with a spa. So of course I booked myself a rose petal milk bath followed by an 80 minute Balinese massage. Heaven.

While he spent most of the conference making sure the attendees were taken care of, the equipment was set up, and the food arrived on time, I sat in the back. Sometimes I paid attention, like when we watched Mark Gungor’s “Laugh Your Way To A Better Marriage.” But I spent most of my time writing in my journal or reading “Under The Tuscan Sun” (again) by Frances Mays.

I’m working on my book, a joint effort with my friend, Teresa Thompson – and between the two of us, it really is turning out to be more of a collection of essays that reflect on love lost, love found, and blending families (and the trials, tribulations, and victories that come with it) We’re both excited in how it’s turning out and how our own writing is kicking it up a notch.

I’m fully over the February Crud. I heard from friends that their crud lasted 2-3 weeks. Mine? Five Days. I’m pretty sure my daily shakes and smart energy drinks played a part in my quick recovery because quite frankly, I don’t have 2-3 weeks to be The Walking Dead, (which by the way is my favorite show and I’m so excited new episodes begin airing tonight!)

I hope you had a fabulous weekend! Care to share? Just leave a comment!

 

Are You Making Your Milestones?

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Birthdays, anniversaries, kindergarten, first grade, middle school, high school graduation. All important life milestones. We celebrate.

But so are the personal milestones. For me it was getting certified to teach yoga and earn my first degree black belt in Thai Kickboxing. I achieved both in the same year.

These days, with my focus on my own personal fitness, I achieved my first milestone.

On January 3, 2012 I started the Body By Vi 90 Day Challenge.

January 3, 2012 - 169lbs, 38", 38", 44" :-(

This is me 30 days later

Day 30 - 163lbs, 37," 33 1/2," 41" :-)

I went shopping on Sunday – Chico’s and JC Penny. I didn’t even look at size 12. Everything I tried on in a 10 fit. I probably shouldn’t have cleaned out the sales rack because I’m not stopping at a size 10.

I went home and as I was making space for my new clothes, I noticed two dresses with tags still attached. One of the dresses I bought to go to Key West last year. It didn’t fit. I couldn’t button it across my stomach. Guess what I can do?

It BUTTONS All the Way Up!

And this dress…I love this dress. When I ordered it (a size 12), I couldn’t get it to zip all the way up. Frustrated. I almost sent it back. But I love this dress. I tried it on and guess what I can do?

It Zips All the Way Up!

My size 12′s are too big. Size 10 fits comfortably. I can’t wait to say hello to Size 8 again. I said goodbye to 6lbs of unwanted weight and I kicked 10 total inches of unhealthy fat to the curb. I’m more determined than ever to rock the 90 Day Challenge.

Who wants to join me?

Sweat Does a Body Good

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When my friend, Teresa, asked me to join her for a Bikram Hot Yoga class I said “yes” before I remembered how hot it really gets during class. It wasn’t until I opened the door to the yoga room that I remembered. At first I was greeted by the distinct odor of sweaty feet. Yes, that eau de funky smell is an intrinsic part of every Bikram yoga studio I’ve ever been in. And I’ve only been in two. But don’t worry. You get used to the smell pretty quickly. Well, at least I did.

After I got past the stink, I remembered how the heat grows on you. I breathed it in and let it linger inside and out. It tickled my skin and flushed my face.  Two thoughts raced through my mind. “What am I doing here?” and “Why isn’t that man in front of me wearing a shirt?”

I looked around the heated room. More people were showing up and saving their spots with their yoga mats. Teresa was smart – we got there early so we could snag the spot closest to the wall. I only had to contend with one person next to me instead of two. I do the same thing in my regular yoga class as well. It makes me wonder how yogic is being a creature of habit?

Where was I? Oh yes. I was looking around the room. I couldn’t help but notice the other half dressed people. Men with no shirts. Girls in yoga bathing suits. Maybe I’m old. Maybe I’m fat. Maybe I’m closed minded but for Pete’s sake, put a shirt on. I don’t want to see your belly button.

Half way through class I wished, oh how I wished, that I wore a yoga bathing suit. I was dying in my capris sweat pants and I soaked through my tank top. I didn’t care if the girl next to me had to look at my flabby belly. I was hotter than hot and dripping rivers of sweat onto my mat. Note to self: Next time wear less clothing.

What exactly did I get out of this class? Why would anyone put themselves through 90 minutes of yoga in 105 degree heat?  After I got over myself and my internal crotchetiness I remembered how much I loved doing hot yoga. It gives you that feeling of being wrung out and cleansed from the inside out. My muscles were lengthened and strengthened. My spine was flexed and twisted to release toxins and stress. I felt stronger, taller, and completely blissed out.

When class was over and I was laying in shavansana, I didn’t have to remember how good hot yoga felt. I got to experience it all over again for the first time.

My Word for 2012 – FITNESS

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I stopped making New Year Resolutions years ago. As soon as I make them, I break them. Resolutions, in my mind, are too big, too rigid, too heavy. Like once I make a resolution I’m stuck with the pink elephant sitting on my lap.

A couple of years ago I adopted a word for the new year ahead. Last year my word was focus. Looking back at 2011, I think I did a fine job of focusing on what I wanted to accomplish so that I wouldn’t go bonkers while my husband was deployed. This year my word is

FITNESS

Life happens. I got older. I got fatter. I got (ahem) lazy. Richard came home from deployment and I was no longer eating salad in a bag. He loves to cook. I love to eat. We have a love-love relationship. Except my metabolism came to a screeching halt. My energy went south for vacation (and forgot to take me along.) I became a slug.

Too make matters worse, my boobs are woefully, pathetically, and embarrassingly lopsided. Most of you know that when I had breast cancer I surrendered my left breast. In its place is a lovely little implant. And right now, compared to my right breast it is teeny, oh so teeny tiny. I want my matching set back!

The new year approached, I knew what I had to do and the word Fitness chose me. Not just physical fitness but mental fitness, emotional fitness, and spiritual fitness. You could say I want to be well rounded.

To cover all my bases, I’ve implemented the following changes (and one reason I’m writing this post now as opposed to January 1, is because once in a row doesn’t count)

I’m on the 90 Day Fitness challenge at the dojo.

I’m on the 90 Day Body By Vi Challenge (super cool, super good!)

I’m on my yoga mat every single morning for 30 minutes BEFORE I go to work

I’m at the dojo 3 times a week for Muay Thai Kickboxing

I’ve eliminated coffee and alcohol from my diet. (And let me just add right here that I already notice a HUGE difference in how I feel. For now, no more Chianti or Malbec and good-bye Melita European Dark Roast. Hello green tea and lemon water…

I already feel skinnier :-)

I want to look good. I want to feel good. I wish there was there was a slugbegone spray mist I could simply squirt on myself but this Fitness thing is all about being unlazy in all my habits.

In an effort to be honest, I started the year off weighing 169 lbs or 172 lbs depending on which scale I stood on, and my measurements are super wonky – 38, 38, 44. My goal is to be 135 lbs, 36, 26, 36. Once I reach that, I’ll reassess.

If you’d like to learn more about the Body By Vi Challenge, if you’d like to join me with a Challenge of your own, I invite you to check out my page. After five days of using the Visalus products, I’m so impressed that I signed on as a distributor. I’ll be posting my results every two weeks. With photos and everything.