The List

Weekend at a nudist camp. Barefoot waterskiing. Traveling to an unknown city with no itinerary. Singing torch songs at a San Francisco nightclub. Completing a half-marathon. Every year, starting with my 20th birthday, I make an effort to push my "comfort" limits. This tradition has given me some interesting, if not somewhat stupid, memories and my friends will occasionally ask me about these events. Recently though, age and reflection has caused me to have to "adjust" one of my recollections.

I used to think that my non-tandem skydive from 18,000 feet - the highest jump a human can make without having an oxygen tank (or so I was told at the time) - was a pretty good "pushing my comfort limits" thing to have done but I rarely included it in my list. The truth of the matter is that the memory was tainted by something I didn't do. I wasn't successful on the jump - I didn't do it "right". So every time I've reflected on that experience, I regret that I failed overall and I kinda write it off as a let-down. Most times I don't even include it in my "what I've done" list. But I need to start giving that jump more credit than I previously have done.

It turns out that my having failed the jump was the bigger story. Because while it is true that I jumped non-tandem from 18,000 feet off a plane flying over Hollister, it is also true that I did not pull my parachute.

The moment I deplaned, I started into an unplanned air ballet that probably looked kinda cool from the ground far below. My view was different because what I saw was sky ground sky ground sky ground and the two dive instructors that jumped with me couldn't get close enough to help me stop "flipping".

When ya' jump from 18,000 feet, the freefall is supposed to last for 90 seconds and you're supposed to pull your chute in-between 8,500 and 11,000 feet. During that freefall, you're supposed to watch your altimeter, continue to steer yourself towards the landing site and generally keep your wits about you. I was unable to do any of those things because I never evened out like I was supposed to have done. Finally, at about 12,000 feet, the videographer (who had also jumped), managed to get close enough to pull my chute for me.

So: Weekend at a nudist camp. Barefoot waterskiing. Traveling to an unknown city with no itinerary. Singing torch songs at a San Francisco nightclub. Completing a half-marathon. Freefalling from 18,000 feet and not deploying my parachute.

There. That's better.

Anyone else have a list?

What a boob ...

After my self-imposed "get over yourself and get your 5hit together" weekend, it was rather a let-down to have to start off my Monday with a hospital visit. I'd known for nearly a month that this was how I'd be starting my day, so it's not like it was a surprise or emergency visit. (When you're as grace-impaired as I am, hospital visits typically get filed under "e" for "emergency".) No, this was an appointment – a scheduled visit. Knowing that I will be turning 40 this year, recognizing that Cancer does marathon runs throughout my family, and figuring that I am owed a little good news for a change, I had my first mammogram.

So headsup – if you're a guy who is uncomfortable hearing about such things, or maybe you're just not a fan of boobs, you can leave now and I promise I won't be the least bit upset. I'll wait.
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Ok – we all alright now? Good.

So I arrive at the front desk to check in for my appt and am handed a form on a clipboard and told to have a seat. It's very early on a Monday morning, so I nicely ask "uh – you want me to fill out this form, right?" and realize that I will be the "dumb patient" this person talks about later when she is home. The form is basic enough – name, date, daytime phone number. Then the questions get a little more sinister. Recent surgery? Last mammogram? History of Cancer? I find myself taking a deep breath. I also realize that my hands are cold.

I'm escorted to a small changing room and given a gown to replace my top. Unlike most other hospital gowns, this one actually works. Then we head to the room and, for whatever reason, I'm officially nervous. Not because of the unknown aspect here … more like because of the familiar. This is JUST familiar enough for me to remember the first time I heard my name and "Cancer" in the same sentence.

I was alone that day, too. The difference then was that I WANTED to be alone. And after I heard what was going on inside my body – the internal war raging inside of my neck - I continued to want to be alone. After more than a year later, I owned up to what I'd gone through to my family and my friends. Some were surprised that I'd kept it to myself, some were angry and hurt, some stopped being friends with me because of it, and others just nodded and said "so you're ok now then, yes?" and we kept going.

I told about seven or eight folks that this appointment was coming up for me. I admitted that I was nervous … scared even … about it. And, while I consider myself a pretty good friend, a caring sister, an upfront daughter, no one asked if I wanted company. No one called me later to ask how things had gone. It may seem silly to you that I noticed this, but I will risk being called "silly".

It's now 12:50pm the next day. I've officially talked with everyone who knew this appointment was yesterday. I freely admit that we all have our lives, our families, our jobs, our tasks and our plans and schedules. I know that this was high ONLY on my radar. And I'm ok that no one has asked me how things went. But I'll tell ya' two things:
(1) My dearest friend Karin will have her first mammogram this year too and I will be calling her to arrange for lunch after her appointment.
(2) If I get crappy news next week, I'm sure as hell gonna tell people and ask for help.

She’s A Little Runaway

I had a self-created massively crappy end to my Thursday at work and, as I drove home while kicking myself (a difficult task in a stick-shift), I decided that an immediate change of scenery was not only called for but mandatory. For everyone concerned, especially me.

It used to be much easier for me to run away. I'd call up the college student tenants living in my rental home and tell them to clear out of the pool house for the weekend. Mostly this was my way of telling the boys that I was going be on the property for a bit because they never really used the pool house at all. I kept about a weeks worth of clothing locked up there so I could, quite literally, drive away from work on a Friday and not have to make any stops until I arrived, save for getting more fuel. It was incredibly freeing, having this option at my whim and, while Scott and Tim would likely disagree, I don't think I took advantage of it as frequently as I should have. Knowing that hindsight is 20-20, I rather wish I'd never sold the home in the first place.

Even 'tho I haven't been a landlord in well over a year now, my last batch of tenants and I still keep in touch. I've encouraged them to use me as a reference (should they need it) because they were really GREAT tenants. In fact, when I told them I'd be selling the home at the end of their school year, they voluntarily spent their free weekends helping me on "around the home" tasks (re-bricking the patio, changing out the planting beds, updating the kitchen, etc.). They've all graduated now, and are employed – not necessarily in their chosen field but they seem happy, just the same. Three of the four still live together in fact, and are now looking to go in together on their own home. It probably won't be in the same neighborhood that they were in (even in this market, prices in that zip code are impossible for first-timers), but I'm sure they'll figure out something. I still refer to them as "good kids", 'tho not to their faces.

Anyway, now it's more difficult to run away – what with no destination to call my own – but when one is creative (and I'm NOTHING if not creative), the "where" is only a minor detail, right up there with the "how". Lately, as you've no doubt gathered, my life has been far more about the "why". For me, the "why" was because I was no longer any fun for myself or anyone else. Having figured that out, I grabbed a few things from home, gave my neighbor a heads-up, plugged in my iPod, and figured Jake was the "how" and he'd decide the "where" for me.

My "run away" weekend was much like my "at home" weekend would have been – quiet, contemplative and, for the most part, alone. I decided to leave my laptop behind ('tho I'll confess I did borrow one for about 15 minutes on Friday), and spent the bulk of my time doing "guilty pleasure" things – freezing my butt off sitting on a rainy beach, having an afternoon snack in a small café on a busy street while people-watching, and allowing two professionals cover my body in oil and use a few hours to work out tight areas in muscles I didn't know I even had. (One of these professionals was, in fact, one of the aforementioned "good kids", which wasn't as problematic as I thought it'd be.)

It was a pretty wonderful few days and it awakened me to the idea … fact, actually … that my making myself miserable over things I don't necessarily control isn't just a stupid use of my time and energy, but it's hurting my already deeply-battered heart. If all I want to do is run away from myself, why would I ask anyone else to want to spend their time with me? I can't wish that on anyone.

So, during my run away weekend, it seems that I finally ran smack into the truth. Yes, there's still a lot of hurdles left on the track ahead of me, but it's ok for me to decide which ones I want to clear and which ones I'm just gonna kick down. I don't have to kill myself in the process. And I'll be damned if I'll let anyone else do so.

"No one heard a single word she said. They should have seen it in your eyes - what was going around your heart. Ooh, she's a little runaway …"