Le monde de fromage de Kate

The first time I saw it I was startled. The second time I was a unnerved yet mildly amused. However, the subsequent five billion times I’ve seen this Facebook ad, I have been gravely concerned.

Speechless. Yes, speechless momentarily.

Phew! THAT’S over. And now, WHAT IN THE HELL?

Are you a Mom? Are you making a piddling to middling amount of money? YOU ARE IN LUCK!!! Evidently, Mass Murderers Deranged Serial Killers Educational Society of America has a SCHOLARSHIP for YOU! Oh – wait – maybe not… But your own personal psycho-killer may help you get you a well-deserved PELL grant!

Why is this funny? (Or utterly CREEPY?) Because, it seems, this is no joke. Like I said, I’ve spotted it MYRIAD times.

IS IT JUST ME?

One year ago I knew my Beloved Grandma would die today. I recognized the signs. By evening, when everyone else had left for the day, I was dosing her with the appropriate medications hourly. I intended to do it all night if needed. It was not necessary.

I’m still second-guessing myself; I find so many things that I could have done better – I could have made my Grandma more comfortable AND comforted. I know must let it go, but the sound of a voice crying out in pain and confusion stays with you.

I sang to Grandma. I sang with more intensity than I think I’ve ever mustered; I sang with every fiber of my being. I wanted to sing the Pie Jesu from Fauré’s Requiem, but I couldn’t get my Mother’s voice out of my head. She sang it so beautifully at the funeral of Helen Ann Williams Pawlowski, one of the other dear Mother’s of my childhood. And she told my wonderful Pamela, who always was a sister, really, that she was not an orphan; she said she’d be her Mother, too. You cannot sing when you remember that.

So I played it for her. And then I started In Paridisum on a loop. But you always think there is more time. I’m glad I had leaned down close to her ear and touched her face and given her my thanks, all my love and told her to go to my Grandpa, for he had waited almost sixty years for her.

Though I didn’t know it until a few minutes later, I heard my Grandma’s last breath, just as I walked from the room to get doses of medication. When I went back into the room less than a minute later, I stood there with my hands full of syringes of liquid medication – just stood for few minutes at the side of her bed. I thought she might start breathing again (it happens) but she didn’t. I went and put the syringes down and came back to check her pulse. 11:55 p.m. January 6, 2009. Time of death.

I called my Mother. She was not surprised. I called hospice. I received, by some miracle, a call from my friend Grettir before anyone showed up. Bless him for having miraculous timing, compassion and patience when my life falls apart.

I had the privilege of helping the hospice nurse prepare my Grandma’s body for the Funeral Home. With reverential care she pulled the access needle from the port and removed the other tubes, we took off the cannula, she cleaned my Grandma while I helped move her body, and finally we put on a clean gown on her. She had to dispose of all the medications and she left. The funeral home gentlemen came and before they zipped up the home-made quilted shroud, and though I knew she was gone, I kissed my Grandma on her cool, smooth forehead.

I might protest at this juncture in some other entry that I had a point. I’m not sure that I do, unless it is to say that some moments in your life will never be forgotten. And many of these moments are ingrained on my psyche forever.

I had entries written in my head for my Grandma’s birthday (in JULY) and for other occasions, but they never made it to the page. Well, the title did. For when I was alone a year ago tonight – so alone – after they took my Grandma away and my Mom left, I didn’t know what do to. I had decided to stay with Lucy, her cat. That’s when I looked at her things. That’s when I laughed at some of the “collections” and cried at the beautiful letters written back and forth between she and my Grandfather.

I put on her anniversary band – ten diamonds in a band of white gold. She bought it herself on her Fiftieth Wedding Anniversary and it was the ring I remembered her wearing the most in the last decade. She was a little embarrassed that she’d purchased it for herself, but we all reassured her that my Grandpa would have wanted her to have it.

The ring is mine now. At some point after her Birthday, I started wearing it not just regularly, but night and day. My LIVESTRONG™ and other wristbands are a fixture as well unless I’m showering or the like. The most recent, a colo-rectal cancer wristband sent to me from Germany – a gift from my beloved Soul Sister, Henrike, was purchased in my Grandma’s honour.

So day and night, I wear my Grandma’s ring. I sleep with the diamonds on, because I cannot forget one year ago tonight. Nor can I forget a a lifetime in which my beautiful Grandma was always, ALWAYS there for me. I will love you forever, Grandma.

A year ago today I was sitting with two hospice nurses in my Grandma’s bedroom. She was sitting on the edge of the hospital bed that had been delivered earlier (which the delivery man so kindly switched about with me AFTER the frame was put together so it faced the “right” direction). My mom was in Kansas. My uncle was on his way from Washington State.

One year ago today the nurses were asking her questions. She could answer some. I helped with others. She could scarcely make a mark on a piece of paper any more unless we gave her a marker instead of a pen; she was so frustrated.

One year ago today I wanted to be able to tell them there was no time. While the nurses were wonderful – knowledgeable, kind, honest, comforting – I sat wishing there had been time to say, “THERE IS NO TIME. She will not be alive by the time the musical thanatologist can be here. She may not make it to the day that she could have a bed bath. She won’t be able to speak – literally speak – to the counsellor. Ah well.

One year ago today is somewhat a blur, though some moments have stayed stayed with me with such clarity that I feel like it was yesterday. I remember rushing through the drive-through at Wendy’s because it’s so close to the condo and I’d only had coffee that day. I remember finding bedding for the hospital bed and thinking that I was making the bed in which she would die. I remember that the weather started out clear but SO cold. I helped the medical supply delivery man carry things up the stairs. He kept saying I needn’t help, but I said I didn’t mind. I needed to do something.

One year ago last night I had stayed at the hospital after Grandma was admitted after that endless day in the ER on January 2, 2009. That was after she’d been on the floor for possibly hours. I was supposed to take her to an appointment and she didn’t answer the phone to tell me when. I think I knew on some level that she was NOT just getting ready. I don’t think I didn’t wanted to call the paramedics again. I think I knew it was the end. I should have… I should have done many things. But I must lay that to rest. I know I must.

One year ago yesterday: All day in the ER. Scans, blood tests, more scans (some I kept saying, “she’s just had those”), more tests… Calls to her oncologist. The first time in my life I’d EVER seen my Grandmother confused (she was completely with it even when in renal failure months before that). And late that night, the doctor and intern asked me to come out and speak to them. Then they thought better of it. They came into the room and I stood across my Grandma’s bed from them while they explained that there was unusual and horrifically rapid metastasis from the lymph nodes (about which we knew) to her lungs and to her brain. I remembering covering my mouth with my hand; I don’t know why. What could I say?

One year ago last night the doctor and the intern said that her oncologist said that she could have part of the transfusion that had originally been planned for the day if she wanted it. It was established that it might make her feel a little better (and somehow they let me know that it was not cruelly life-sustaining). She said she’d take it. Then we waited, again, for another doctor to admit her. I had to step into the hall and called to tell my Mom that she had to come home right away to see her Mother before she wouldn’t know she was there.

One year ago last night SO many calls then and the next day in the halls of the hospital. One so that my meds could be brought so that I could stay with her that night. Many others to family, to her church, to ask my older sister which hospice she’d been researching. I was on the phone, huddled against the wall, weeping – I don’t know who I was talking to – and I remember one of the social workers (was it a nurse?) coming by, putting their hand on my shoulder for a moment, and walking on.

One year ago today this morning, the oncologist, wearing his University of Utah Hoodie, stood in the hall with me while they were x-raying an injury of her arm. The process was hurting her. And he just sensed what he could say to me. He said, slightly exasperated, “What are they going to do if it IS broken?” He told me that he was really surprised about the metastasis. He’d seen her on New Year’s Eve; she’d walked right into the office. He thought there MIGHT be spots on her lungs. He studied the films (which were a few weeks old) at length. But he also knew she had had pneumonia.

One year ago this morning he said, “She has a few days to a week.” “Probably closer to a few days, as she’s not eating [hadn't eaten in the ER and had only had a popsicle in that day].” Then he walked into her room, told her she looked horrible (which made her smile and almost laugh). He said, “Let’s get you out of this horrible place. We could radiate the brain tumor, but I don’t think it would give you much. I think you’re very, very tired and want to go home.” She nodded.

One year ago today, because of some blessed miracle, bureaucracy took a back seat. The necessary equipment was arranged for delivery. It was acknowledged that I could stay the nights with her, so the hospice team was contacted and scheduled to arrive. I barely had time to get back to her condo and figure out where to put the equipment before she was transported home.

One year ago today my Beloved Grandmother came home to die. And one year ago today I promised her she would not be alone.

It has been, speaking precisely, an age and a half plus a freckle past a hair since I posted a “Fact of the Day.” Oh, I still get them. But they repeat. And repeat. Or they come through while I’m in the midst of the very important things I do… you know – those things I do… And thus I do not always read them. But today, I was treated to this:

The word “Taiwanese” means “suckled by goats.”

There’s something inherently funny about the phrase “suckled by goats.” Is, too! Okay, to ME then. ENJOY!

In short, please wear yellow and think pink!  Do the first in support of the important cancer awareness, recognition, fund-raising and remembrance activities taking place all around the World for LIVESTRONG™ Day.  The second I’ll talk about tomorrow (in the meantime, please visit the Pink for October website).

As for my LIVESTRONG™ Day activity, I am, even at this late (early) hour not certain I can make it happen.  I will post more information later today.  BUT, never fear, there’s always someone who’s on the ball.  If you visit the LIVESTRONG™ DAY 2009 page you can find an activity in your area in which you can participate.

Lastly, please make a difference with this quick and painless activity: Sign the “Healthcare Reform Now” petition.  Together we can encourage Congress to pass life-saving health insurance measures that would protect cancer survivors and others.  As a special bonus, you can try and find ME (or, rather, a portion thereof) in the photograph on that page (and, evidently, a number of others – I’m the LIVESTRONG™ “Find Waldo,” it seems).

Today is the United Nation’s 27th Annual International Day of Peace. I want to join the World in hoping for PEACE: Peace from War and despair, Peace from political bickering and strife, Peace from illness and suffering – perhaps even Peace of Mind.

I have always loved “A Gaelic Blessing” by John Rutter. It seems like a good “poem” for today:

Deep peace of the running wave to you.

Deep peace of the flowing air to you.

Deep peace of the quiet earth to you.

Deep peace of the shining stars to you.

Deep peace of the gentle night to you.

Moon and stars pour their healing light on you.

Deep peace of Love,
of Love,
The light of the world to you.

Deep peace of Love to you.*

Please also take a look at Peace One Day. Lastly, take a moment to read a lovely poem by Seamus Heaney entitled “Doubletake.” (Thanks to Chari Olmedo for sharing this today!)

*Yes, I must confess that this is the “Unitarianized” version of the song. I sang it that way for many years; old habits die hard.

Last night I ran – yes ran – into a tree. With my head. It knocked me off my feet.

Call me lazy (really – go right ahead if you must – I’ll just lie here and take it), but I think this says it all:

Last month when I started the Tour de France, I asked you to join me in signing the World Cancer Declaration. Your response has been staggering —you and more than 100,000 others added your names to this urgent global push to fight cancer.

In three days, the LIVESTRONG Global Cancer Summit here in Dublin will come to a close. It’s an incredibly rare opportunity to urge some of the most powerful people in the world to commit the time, energy and resources needed to make a world without cancer a reality. And we can do just that if we add 10,000 more signatures to the Declaration before the Summit ends on Wednesday.

Will you ask your friends and family to help us add 10,000 commitments by Wednesday night? It only takes a moment and every name counts:

http://www.livestrongaction.org/campaigns/spread_the_word

Cancer affects all of us. By 2010, cancer is projected to become the leading cause of death worldwide, yet the fight against cancer lacks urgency and focus. That is why we must take matters into our own hands and force cancer onto the global agenda.

The LIVESTRONG Global Cancer Summit in Dublin will do just that by bringing governments, communities and survivors from all over the world together pushing for new commitments to stem the growing impact of cancer around the globe. Closing this commitment gap is a critical step towards a world without cancer.

We have just three more days to make the World Cancer Declaration as powerful as possible. Every additional name we add will lend weight to our cause; every single new voice adds urgency to our fight. I know we can reach our goal if each and every one of us asks someone close to join the fight.

Will you ask a friend or family member to join us before Wednesday night? It only takes a moment and will make a big difference:

http://www.livestrongaction.org/campaigns/spread_the_word

LIVESTRONG,

Lance and the LIVESTRONG Action Team

P.S. From August 24–26, individuals from all parts of the world are uniting in Dublin, Ireland, for one goal—a world without cancer. Visit our blog for the latest updates from the LIVESTRONG Global Cancer Summit.

How can you argue with that?

Just a quick PSA from The Lance Armstrong Foundation:

Pre-order the LIVESTRONG Guidebook today.

The LIVESTRONG Guidebook is hot off the press. And you have an exclusive chance to pre-order this valuable resource for free this week only.

The LIVESTRONG Guidebook helps guide survivors through the cancer experience from the moment of diagnosis, during cancer treatment and after treatment.

Guidebooks should ship within the next four to six weeks. Future orders will include additional charges, such as shipping and handling. So pre-order the LIVESTRONG Guidebook for free today.

Offer expires August 9, 2009. And if you are feeling sassy, you may use THIS LINK instead of the one above.

I’m realizing that I’m shamefully out of the loop and need to check and see if the LIVESTRONG™ Guidebook replaces the lovely and information-packed LIVESTRONG™ Notebook (of which I have about three billion that I meant to give to anyone who needed or wanted them) or if it is different entirely. I’ll let you know. In the meantime, consider this a very belated announcement, indeed, that if you would like a LIVESTRONG™ Notebook or some LIVESTRONG™ wristbands (or any other information concerning The Lance Armstrong Foundation), please let me know.

A wee bit ago (okay, last September), I asked you to support the LIVESTRONG™ Global Cancer Initiative. Now, with more urgency, I’d like to make the same request. Please consider the following message from Lance Armstrong:

I returned to cycling this year for one reason: to fight for the 28 million people affected by cancer worldwide.

We are making tremendous progress in this fight, but there’s still so much to be done. By next year cancer will be the #1 killer in the world and yet most of the world’s leaders lack any real plan to fight back.

During my 20-day ride in the Tour I’m calling on leaders around the world to make major commitments to fight cancer worldwide – but I can’t do it alone.

As a first step, will you join me and sign the World Cancer Declaration – a major global push to pressure the world’s leaders to act now on cancer?

http://livestrongaction.org/campaigns/commit-fight-cancer

As an added incentive, a donor has pledged to give $30,000 if we can collect 30,000 signatures before the end of the Tour.

I’ll send these signatures to world leaders after the Tour de France and pressure them to make cancer a priority in their own countries. It’s our best chance to push for better treatment, more funding for cancer research and access to care for everyone around the world.

Without your commitment, these leaders won’t pay attention. Will you sign the declaration then ask your friends and family to do the same?

Do it for family or friends. Do it for strangers. Do it for those who have fought and won and those who we have lost to this insidious disease. Do it for yourself or for your children. Do it for the World.

I have a list far too long of people to whom I could dedicate this declaration. Today, I choose two survivors:

The Bride dances with her Father-in-Law.

It’s not the most transcendentally beautiful wedding shot, but that is SUCH a “Sarah” expression that I went with it anyway. What we’ve really got in the image is Sarah dancing with her new Father-in-Law. I’ve written ad nauseum about Sarah’s cancer journey – like this. Dennis is another story. Dennis has thyroid cancer (well, technically, I believe they’re to the point that they will say he “HAD” thyroid cancer). He had surgery (and complications) during the wedding planning phase, at the insistence of medical officials. He put off, however, the next phase of the treatment (during which the patient becomes radioactive – literally) until after Robert and Sarah’s wedding (and a close cousin’s wedding a week after their wedding) so he wouldn’t miss anything. He was exhausted; he felt horrible, but he still was there for them.

So please – PRETTY PLEASE – go to the LIVESTRONG™ Action Page and sign the declaration and dedicate your signature to someone who is or was there for you. It will only take a moment, but the impact could last a lifetime. THANK YOU!

P.S. BONUS! My thigh is in the main picture on that webpage. Seriously. My left thigh, my Summit badge and a small portion of my shirt.

UPDATE, November 12, 2009: I apologize, but my thigh, et al. are no longer a part of the aforementioned page. On the landing page you will, however, see a bit of my “Back-East” Hair and LIVESTRONG™ hand. A different viewpoint of my ultra-powerful LIVESTRONG™ hand is also on the page to which you click through.