Le monde de fromage de Kate

Okay, he didn’t directly cause me to turn on the waterworks, but it is, without question, his fault. It was, after all, an item I found through his “Check It” that precipitated my tears.

As usual, I have some ’splainin’ to do. Periodically, I visit The Art of Blogging Without Blogging to see Western Dave’s photos – sometimes lovely, sometimes whimsical, sometimes bizarre… Then I take a look at his “Check It” list. The title inspires me, despite my status as “Whitest Woman in the World,” to sing (just in my mind – never fear – only a half-crazy impulse) “Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch CHECK IT OUT! Wha-wha-wha-wha What’s it all about?” Inexcusable, I realize.

Last week or so a tidbit about Mister Rogers caught my eye. Thursday, March 20th would have been Mister Rogers’ eightieth birthday. Western Dave linked to the following announcement about wearing one’s favourite sweater that day. Please watch it; it’s Mr. McFeely after all (and just so you know, HE’S NOT REALLY OLD. I’d rather not admit MY age when I learned about that). Here’s some additional information concerning the event:

In honor of what would have been Mister Rogers’ 80th birthday on March 20, Mr. McFeely — aka David Newell, the public relations director for Family Communications, Inc. (the nonprofit company founded in 1971 by Fred Rogers) — has a special request.

“We’re asking everyone (including members of the media) everywhere (from Pittsburgh to Paris) to wear their favorite sweater on that day,” he asks. “It doesn’t have to have a zipper down the front like the one Mister Rogers wore on the program, it just has to be special to you.”

Sweater Day is part of Pittsburgh’s 250th anniversary celebration and the first-ever “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?” Days March 15 — 20.

“We wanted to recognize Fred in a way that would reflect his deep appreciation of what it means to be a caring neighbor,” explains FCI’s Margy Whitmer.

As a result, “‘Won’t You Be My Neighbor?” Days was born as a means of promoting neighborliness throughout Fred Rogers’ own backyard — Southwestern Pennsylvania region.

Throughout WYBMND more than 30 organizations have signed up to participate.

For more information about Sweater Day and “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?” Days visit www.misterrogers.org.

This project supported in part by Pittsburgh 250 Community Connections and The Sprout Fund.”

After watching Mr. McFeely, I watched Mister Rogers in couple of videos. The footage of him testifying in front of Congress in 1969 is just amazing. With a gentle spirit but perfect candor – and in less than ten minutes – he prevented a grant for the Corporation of Public Broadcasting from being cut in half. Quintessential Fred Rogers. Kind, honest and compassionate to everyone he encountered.

Some people don’t get it. His genuine and unparalleled sincerity was and is so rare; perhaps that’s why some people just can’t buy it. They should watch this:

Sitting alone in the middle of the night, only part-way through a minute and twenty-five seconds of film, I found tears streaming down my face. This is the section that hit me the hardest:

I’m just so proud of all of you who have grown up with us. And I know how tough it is some days to look with hope and confidence on the months and years ahead. But I would like to tell you what I often told you when you were much younger: I like you just the way you are.

I like you just the way you are.

Ha ha ha…

Okay, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAREST FATHER!!! (It was technically yesterday, March 7th.) Wow. It’s the big sixty-five, which, of course, in birthday math, is only ONE. And I like how we’ll always be the same birthday age. One is a lovely age. Too bad it’s the loneliest number.

I’m also thrilled that you’ve decided to “officially” retire at sixty-five, rather than your original plan of seventy (INSANITY). I wish your impetus for making that decision could be different.

Mind you, I know the Brigham Young University Professor secret – BYU PROFESSORS DON’T REALLY RETIRE. They take the nice “retirement” present, enjoy the party and the roast, get a kick out of the “Emeritus” title, and keep working as long as humanly possible. I swear there are professors rattling around that campus who are at least two hundred and sixty-five years old. I’m not kidding. It’s a little unnerving – vaguely reminiscent of the walking dead (the well-read walking dead?). I’m quite certain that I added “walking dead” to the caveat section of my list, oh so many years back, that helped me choose to go to the University of Utah.

By the way, you don’t fool me with all your “organizing the garage into a better workshop” twaddle. Nope. Cold turkey is NOT your thing.

My fondest hope, my Birthday wish for you, is that when the time comes, you will take more time to fish, more time to wind-up the grandkids, more time to scream “WooHoo” at football games on TV, more time for the mountains – maybe even some time to get to some wonderful beaches.

I love you!

Well, t’would be if the whole InterWeb read it, right?

Dearest Monkey Cats,

I can’t tell how sorry I am that I let you down. Literally, because of tears and snot and the pills haven’t kicked in yet. And when they do, I won’t have the ability to articulately tell you how contrite, remorseful, penitent and ashamed I am that I let down those who I wanted to support the most, and I will no doubt wander off the topic (WHAT? ME WANDER OFF THE TOPIC? THE EARTH IS OFF ITS AXIS!!!! DOGS AND CATS – aren’t they cute?) – ah – yes, that’s it – I would start talking about how the earth is REALLY an oblate spheroid and WHY DO I KNOW THAT?? Also, purple sea urchins and their scientific name – WHY DO I REMEMBER THAT????? – it’s Strongylocentrotus purpuratus

So I won’t go into the whys and whats and wherefores. You know them anyway as far as they can be understood. Just know this:

• I’m so PROUD you made it to regionals with the trio and two solos (was it more?); that’s so amazing! And that was in SPITE of anything I did!
• I believe if all is fair in the World (well, it isn’t, but I hope for you and for today it is) that you will make it to State competition most certainly despite me.
• Bless you for being so sweet and kind about my ultimate flake-i-tude. You are such wonderful young ladies (and I get to say that ’cause I’m old). I refrained from saying you are “sweet spirits,” though it’s true.
• Which reminds me, thank you for keeping an old lady vaguely in touch with the popular culture of today! It makes me happy. YOU guys make me happy. I can’t keep up with you, but that comes with being old and decrepit.

So there you have it. I love you!

Most Fondly and Repentantly,
CHA Kate (well – CAKE)

P.S. No matter what, I think I should get to take credit for the lack of “Adam and Eve” in any performance you ever do. May I take small comfort from that?

P.P.S. Oh – also, despite the stress and whatnot, Nessa, I’ve no doubt that whoever played the Fauré for you did not massacre the certain passages that I do (though I slaughter it WITH a poised demeanor, a certain flair, and – seemingly against all odds – a straight face. I didn’t go to University for NUTHIN’).

Wow.

Evidently that’s a more frightening picture than I had originally thought. I believe I can HEAR people averting their eyes.

Fair enough.

If you know me, you’ve probably heard me say that I’m The Whitest Woman in The World (with the exception of Faith Partee*). I should add that it’s with the exception (WARNING: Over-sharing ahead) of the times that my OLD HORMONES cause flushy-red-face-weirdness. But never mind that. I am, usually, The Whitest Woman in The World (except, though I’ve not seen her in years, I trust, Faith Partee). Ah – but then – look at THIS:

Yes. That’s me. Un-retouched. Okay – I did darken the white spots in my pupils because I think the image is creepy enough. I know, I know, I have rules (self-imposed) about showing my image on my blog that I’ve only broken maybe twice in over five years. Moreover, for going on half a decade I’ve strongly maintained that I did NOT want to memorialize this era in my life in pictures including me at all. And, as many of you know, I hate pictures of myself PERIOD. That is, in part, because I am not photogenic – no I am NOT; any picture with my eyes open is a small miracle in and of itself.

But I’ve given up. Don’t get me wrong – THIS IS NOT OPEN SEASON FOR PICTURES OF KATE. And I can only write this because my Father will not read this. He has no sense of “personal space” whatsoever when it comes to taking pictures.

So what changed my mind? Well, first, I thought – WHO REALLY CARES. Secondly, I saw a surreptitious shot my Father had taken on Christmas morning and I had, I kid you not, a moment of, “Who is that Lady?” before I realized it was ME. And I do think that despite anything and everything, one SHOULD recognize one’s self in a photograph.

But let me back up a little. AH, the magnanimous spirit of the Holiday season. My Dad had a new camera. And though it was three billion times easier to use than his previous expensive model (which he somehow broke), he still didn’t quite get it. On Christmas Even, I believe, I walked into the office and he BEGGED me to let him take a picture. I believe he bandied about the word “festive” regarding my appearance (sheesh). I rolled my eyes and said, “FINE,” and let him go at it, despite the frizzed/smushed, snowed-on hair and whatnot.

Then I saw the picture and wondered if I should be so laissez-faire about my new photography policy. Remember how I’m The Whitest Woman in The World (with the exception of Faith Partee)? Well, if one is to take this picture seriously, I beat Faith Partee hands down.

It’s a miraculous shot, I must say. It erases my eyebrows to some extent AND my under-eye luggage (I can’t complain about that). Any semblance of colour in my lips – gone… Odd contour shadows about the outside of my face… Oh -but I want everyone to know that despite all my flaws, I do NOT have jowls. Rather, my jawline does not extend forward into a logical, strong conclusion. Instead, I have this pointy little chin THAT I AM NOT AFRAID TO USE. Perhaps it’s to match my pointy tongue… (not FORKED – pointy). But my very favourite thing is that my Father has bestowed open me Owen Wilson’s nose. HOW? I couldn’t tell you. In real life, if you must know, my nose resembles a little potato. Yes, my Father is always funniest when he does not intend it.

So there it is. What the hell.

*Faith, if you should, by some miracle, happen to read this, I mean no offense when I say that you are The Whitest Woman in The World. In fact, I would vote you the head of the Flawless Victorian Complexion Society and would be deliriously happy to be a member (with breaks for when I’m oddly flushy).

Happy Valenslime and All That Jazz

It’s late, yes, but EXTRA festive to make up for its tardiness. Besides, if I’d posted an entry ON Valentine’s Day that would have not been in keeping with my whole boycotting posture. Bah HumCupid.

The item contained herein needs a back story (yeah, yeah – everything I DO needs a back story, I know…). Over the holidays, My Baby Brother and his Lovely Wife WITH VERY FORCEFUL KINDNESS helped sort through my impressive quantity of crap precious belongings so we could make room to empty my storage unit and put my furniture in the basement (a process which also involved the grinding off of lock with a titanium hasp – I will no doubt locate the combination in its “safe” place any day now). This process wrought many an interesting (or sweet or utterly horrific) discovery. Ask Grettir; he received a couple of the most special “finds.” (This, however, must be a story for another time.) We found fascinating things that belonged to my siblings, my Parents, my Grandparents (DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT TELL GRANDMA LEE THAT ANYTHING BELONGING TO HER OR HER PARENTS WAS TOUCHED as she has plenty to freak out about at this moment) and my great-grandparents.

One “treasure chest” belonging to my Father yielded some interesting “art” by young Shirleen and Kate. The “chest,” in and of itself, was pretty cool; it was an army surplus foot locker that had been painted (a slightly different green than “army” green, I believe). Evidently this was the only piece of furniture my Father brought to my Parents’ marriage. Well – he did construct some very fashionable brick and board bookcases…

Some of the creative masterpieces were not, unfortunately, signed. I put them on the refrigerator anyway. We also found this:

However, “Guess Who Sent This Valentine!” indeed! It is well within the Kate and Shirleen era (you can tell by the rampant penchant for using that stupid, ubiquitous gift-wrap yarn to make bows for EVERYTHING – we wore it, we wrapped with it, we probably used lengths of the stuff as jump ropes).

Then there’s the kitten. All throughout my childhood I desperately wanted a kitten. My Father, unfortunately, professed a “deathly” allergy to the creatures. Talk about hyperbole. We’re ALL allergic to felines, actually, but NO ONE in the family cannot deal with the situation. In fact, I believe that my allergies to my Kitten Children have lessened significantly over time.

Anyhoo, the über-pink-super-kitty thematic elements make me lean towards the possibility that I gave this Valentine to my Father. Let’s turn it over and see if there are any other clues:

Ah. “TV” gave this touching greeting to my Dad. The priorities of the young (even decades ago).

This leads me to believe that Shirleen was the author of this affectionate message. First of all, I’m guessing she might have been able to spell better than I at this point (or at least write letters when prompted). Moreover, the lovely lady pictured in the television seems to have the correct (or nearly accurate) number of digits on the displayed hand.

I believe I was still at the stage where each of the “hands” in my drawings consisted of a ball. This ball was appended with – oh – two dozen or so (I get the impression the number of appendages was according to whim) additional “balls” that represented fingers (interestingly, not necessarily the same number per “hand”).

In addition, the rendering of the television and the character inside is quite impressive. And examine the casters and the KNOBS – sheer genius. Shirleen still is a far superior artist to me (always has been).

Lastly, if I’d prepared this card, it would have said something to the effect of:

Most doting and warm greetings to my Most Beloved Father on this, the occasion of Cupid’s yearly spree. From your most adoring daughter, Kathryn. XOXOXOXOXOXO

Consequently, I believe Shirleen is to blame responsible for this one. You’ll have to tell me what you think, my most esteemed elder Sister.

Tomorrow is very festive SUPER n’ FAT TUESDAY!!!

If you’re voting in the Primary Election tomorrow, please consider a essential and largely forgotten issue in this race for a new President: THE WAR ON CANCER, THE NUMBER ONE CAUSE OF DEATH FOR AMERICANS UNDER AGE EIGHTY-FIVE that has received an obscene lack of coverage.

This year, the Lance Armstrong Foundation sponsored the LIVESTRONG™ Presidential Cancer Forum on August 27 and 28, 2007, inviting all Democratic and Republican Candidates to share their views on cancer and related healthcare issues. Six candidates responded (and not to show any personal bias, but four Democrats accepted the invitation and only two Republicans did. Hmm). If you’d like to see video or read transcripts of what the candidates said (even though only a few of these candidates are left in the race) as well as commentary on the forum, visit the LAF’s Presidential Cancer Forum Page. At the very least, I do think it gives a sense of prevalent attitudes for each of the major parties concerning this topic.

So celebrate SUPER FAT TUESDAY! Sin, beads, politics – it’s all good.

I’d thought I’d celebrate this day with the following prose:

Remember when everyone was buying domesticated groundhogs and then they got Monkey Pox? That was a fun time.

Then I thought about it. Groundhogs as pets. Big, unwieldy groundhogs as pets. Ah, wait – PRAIRIE DOGS! It was prairie dogs with the Monkey Pox. Hmmm.

You know – tibbles – a summary of bits and pieces – catching up with the highlights from a time period in which I’ve been either too lazy, busy, crazed or tied up by kidnappers to update my blog for my faithful reader(s). They are like stringettes. Individual stringettes… Simpson’s Individual Stringettes – for attaching notes to pigeon’s legs, DESTROYING HOUSEHOLD PESTS…. NO, no, no – I shan’t go down that road, I shall not. Tying up very small parcels…

Mock all you want; this phrase will be sweeping the nation before you can say…uhm..before you can say – “SIMPSON’S INDIVIDUAL STRINGETTES!” Ah, but where to start.

Well, on December 22, 2007, my darling niephew (that all-encompassing phrase “niephew” will sweep the Nation, too – I have no doubt) Anders turned three AND truly beautiful baby Moses Giles Samuelson-Lynn was born (who doesn’t look ANYTHING like Winston Churchill or Chairman Mao, as babies often do at first).

In January, hearty congratulations to lovely Niephew Sarah who officially graduated (with excellent test scores, indeed). There was even a ceremony with two dozen or so other “non-traditional” students. My faux Niephew, Tyler, was even one of the speakers (it was awesome – he gave a completely extemporaneous graduation speech – I think the sweeping hand gestures made it). They gave them diplomas and tassels, but had I known their would NOT be caps and gowns (even LEIF got a cap and gown to graduate from St. Marguerite’s kindergarten) I’d have loaned her mine (from my University graduation – yes, I had to BUY it – I could rant about how stupid that is – but she could have been the first high school graduate with a Phi Kappa Phi ribbon on their ensemble).

This past Tuesday I took Grandma Lee (SHHHHHHHH – DON’T TELL HER – REMEMBER: EVERYTHING I SAY ABOUT GRANDMA IS A SECRET FROM HER) to get her chemo pump attached and for her first radiation treatment. She had an Implantable Venous Access Port (a “Super” or “Power Port) put in last week and tattoos and other preparations for her radiation. I think it’s a great delivery system for her. They’ve been able to give her iron infusions through it and blood samples. And when she’s not hooked to her chemo pump she can even shower because the port is under the skin.

The chemo pump is amazing. Over the course of a week it dispenses a gradual dose of chemotherapy (in her case FU5) in a small machine that you carry around in a fanny pack (alright you Brits – STOP LAUGHING – “Bum Bag”). This lessens possible side effects and makes her simultaneous treatments (chemo and radiation) so much easier. They just refill it every week and flush out her port.

I wish she felt better, but the size of the tumor is substantial (it’s a “bulky” mass that’s probably been growing and bleeding for a long time) and it compromises the walls of the colon. Since her lymph nodes are involved as well, one of the specialists said it was important to shrink the tumor before they did any surgery. He was also so concerned about a possible bowel blockage that he inserted a stent to keep her colon open. I’d no idea that you could do that. I’d make a joke in poor taste that she was jealous of my Dad’s two stents and had to get a bigger one and put it in an – uhm – unexpected location, but it’s not really funny; she’s incredibly uncomfortable. We believe she’s probably in pain as well, but she won’t cop to anything but “discomfort.” Hopefully when the tumor shrinks she’ll get some relief. Three radiation treatments down, twenty-two to go: You hang in there,
Grandma! (shhhhhh)

Which brings up an important reminder: NEVER, EVER FORGET THAT ANYTHING I WRITE OR SAY ABOUT GRANDMA LEE MUST NEVER GET BACK TO HER EVER. EVER EVER.

Today – mmm – yesterday, technically, as we are the medical havoc and ruination family, Shirleen had eye surgery. Well, tear duct surgery, to be more specific (up through her nose). She has an unusual condition (WHAT – Shirleen has an unusual condition?) that causes her left tear duct to run constantly and squirt arbitrarily. They were not able to find a non-surgical solution (flushing it out and whatnot), so after they scanned to make sure there was nothing in her eye orbit that might even be connected to her brain (or something like that) she helped schedule her own surgery (since she works in the hospital in that department). She even threatened to get off the table in a surgical gown and go to work if they made her wait or something.

Anyhoo, the surgery was quick and successful (even though the doctor had to repair a deformed nasal turbinator – ?). Unfortunately, in recovery her nose started to hemorrhage. And why? Because if some sort of freakish thing can happen to Shirleen during a medical and/or dental procedure it likely will. They successfully stopped the bleeding; this process evidently involved something called a “nose torpedo.” She’s still wearing it, from what I understand. OH, ALAS, FOR YOUR SCHNOZ TO BE BETTER VERY SOON, SHIRLEEN! Oh – and anyone who wants is welcome to pass that along – go crazy.

And my dear Monkey Cats, your Crazy Heathen Aunt Cake Kate hasn’t forgotten you. How could she? YOU HAUNT HER DREAMS! Ha ha. In a GOOD way? It was Solo and Ensemble Competition time again on Wednesday. No prevaricating blossoms of any kind this year; we had placid Ernest Charles trio, Clouds, this time. They did a very lovely job, and I don’t think I made the “bell-like” chords sprinkled throughout the piece entirely TOO cacophonous (in performance). My principal goal for me was to NOT repeat the rubber-chicken-moment debacle of last year’s competition.

I also played for M.C. Nessa’s solo. She sang a lovely Fauré piece that I massacred when I played it for M.C. Amy’s audition for Chamber Choir last year (they took her in spite of my über-dissonant additions). I was very proud of her because she introduced herself DECLARATIVELY and CONFIDENTLY (AMEN), sang lovely French and, most importantly, kept going and was poised when she forgot some lyrics. A lesson for ALL PERFORMERS. Oh – and with MY Monkey Cats there’s never an “Adam and Eve” pose in sight.

I even got to do an almost completely unrehearsed performance of Bist Du Bei Mir with a euphonium player. “Little King,” a wee freshman, was abandoned by his accompanist a couple of hours before the competition, so I agreed that I’d probably be better than nothing (M.C. Amy would have certainly played it better, but she was already accompanying seven thousand people and singing with another five hundred or something very, very close to that). It was a very creative performance that sounded nothing like Lady of Spain. And I’ve no doubt that he will learn some semblance of tempo with a little more experience. The tone was nice… Oh – and Adam Keith owes me $15. I’ll take that in small cash bills. (?)

We found my entirely too grown-up Niephew Will ACTUALLY FILLING OUT PERFORMANCE REVIEWS. He became an honorary Monkey Cat for the evening, did the “Money Dance” at arbitrary moments throughout the afternoon/evening (he’s on the Junior Varsity Ballroom Dance Team – that’s really all the explanation I can dream up). We deviated from tradition with a Jamba Juice break, but we did end up with the requisite Taco Bell feast. We waxed nostalgic about past Taco Bell feasts, talked about their plans after high school (They are graduating! My baby Monkey Cats are Graduating. Monkey Kittens?) and they confirmed that I am, indeed, very, very old. You’ve just gotta love them. Hugs and Kisses, Monkey Cats!

Last week my Grandma Lee was diagnosed with colon cancer.

As is often the case, the symptoms that became the most acute and were the blatantly obvious did not point right away to the ultimate diagnosis. Initially, it looked like congestive heart failure, especially since she has respiratory problems that are, for the most part, untreated (they can either cause congestive heart failure over time or be a result thereof). When some of the blood tests came back from her initial visit, it was determined that her hematocrit was obscenely low (about half of what is normal – worse than Sarah’s before they diagnosed her Hodgkin’s – and you don’t want to tell your Grandma that she looks positively corpse-like). She was given an infusion, but that didn’t bring her hematocrit up enough. It was then thought that perhaps she had bleeding ulcers. She was given upper and lower g.i. tests including a long-overdue colonoscopy (she’d had polyps the last time she’d had one – fifteen years ago).

Her stomach was fine. Unfortunately, the doctor could immediately tell that she had a cancerous mass in her colon. He did think that the area (about four inches of her colon, I think) could be excised and her intestines reconnected. However, now the tumor (I’m crossing my fingers for just one) needs to be tested and staged, and she is having a number of other diagnostics to pinpoint and hopefully rule out spread of the disease. Today she also started on a series of iron infusions that the oncologist hopes will bring up her hematocrit.

Now you may ask why I said, “Secretly.” Well, the truth of the matter is that she would be completely horrified if she knew I was doing this. And it’s not just because of her personality and propensity for anxiety (in MY FAMILY – how could that BE?). She is “of a generation” where you don’t say “cancer” except, perhaps, in a whisper. Her sister, for instance, whose husband, my Uncle Ron, died this summer, did not want to talk about the “cancer” aspect of his illness. To someone like me (and my cousins) this doesn’t make sense. His illness WAS cancer. And I believe in speaking about it.

I believe this so strongly, in fact, that I volunteered a number of months ago to be the “leader” of the LIVESTRONG™ Local Army in Utah. I haven’t done anything to advertise, “get going” with a word-of-mouth campaign or organized any events – these are my responsibilities. Well, there’s nothing like a wake-up call like this.

And now I will present two wholly antithetical requests for today:

• DO NOT TELL GRANDMA LEE THAT I POSTED ANYTHING ON THE INTERNET ABOUT HER CONDITION. BBo, Tracy, Family, PLEASE don’t say anything. I don’t want her to be so angry at me that she will not accept my help. You may wonder why I’m wantonly disregarding her obsessive need for privacy. Call me a big fat hypocrite (I TRIPLE-dog-dare you), but I believe that what she does not know (in THIS case) will not hurt her. That’s the antithetical part.
• And why? BECAUSE WHAT YOU DON’T KNOW CAN HURT YOU. A colonoscopy of one of the best cancer defenses we have currently. Part of my responsibility of a LIVESTRONG™ Day Delegate last year was to help convey important messages to our Legislators. One of the requests we made was for parity in diagnostic testing (like legislation that is already in place to help with mammograms and PAP testing – I’ll discuss some serious complications with these laws another time), such as colonoscopies and PSA testing.

  My Father, for instance, could have colon cancer in addition to his (prostate) bone cancer. They excised two (or was it three?) pre-cancerous polyps during his colonoscopy a few years back. I even saw the pictures.

  So indeed, that’s the important message here (and I do not care if it’s redundant – and I assure you that you’ll hear it AGAIN even if I have to resort to graffiti): Do the preventive testing that is prescribed at the appropriate age. Well – start with getting check-ups IN GENERAL. And do consider your family history. Some cancers have a larger genetically inheritable component than others. For instance, my brothers should have PSA tests YOUNG, and my Dad’s brothers should NOT ever miss them, because my Father has his initial Stage II prostate cancer in his mid-forties. Moreover, my Father’s Father had prostate cancer (though it was not the cause of his death).

  Now, since my Grandmother has colon cancer and my Father had pre-cancerous polyps, some schools of thought would say that my siblings and I should start having colonscopies at age forty instead of fifty. As it is, since my Grandmother had a polyp at her last colonoscopy, they told my Mother that she needs her next colonoscopy in five years instead of ten (the same goes for my Father, because of his polyps).

So that’s it for now. I shall be enlisting your help (almost literally “enlisting,” come of think of it). And you shan’t turn me down, because I AM YOUR LEADER! Okay, I’m your leader if you’re in Utah, but if you think I won’t sic the leaders from States on you (and most of them have regional leaders in their States, so it will be easier to get you), you are sadly mistaken.

I love you, Grandma! And we are all there for you (even though we might not mention why or how).