Merry Christmas from the Locklins

Merry Christmas from the Locklins

Please click the title above to read a humble holiday message from Lewis, Taylor, and Dee.

Thank you for reading my rantings this year. I hope to share more with you in 2013 and hope you will visit this site from time to time. I need to feel the love. Dee

Still Alive, Certainly Dumbfounded

I've been incommunicado for quite awhile, but the website hits continue. And for that I am thankful. My Russian pals continue to check in from time to time, but I must report that last month they were surpassed by readers from Bahrain. This blog may not be much, but at least it helps me learn geography.  

The past couple of months have not been a good time for this gal. Oh no, not at all. 

Don't get me wrong: I'm fortunate that I still have a roof over my head and toilet paper and such. Do you know that 2.5 billion earth inhabitants don't have access to toilets? This was the most interesting fact posted on Facebook today. 

I once went camping and held my business for three days, finally driving myself back to the nearest town to find a porcelain throne. My previous lives probably did not include pioneering.

I just learned that my Facebook friend, Bekah, is losing her battle with ovarian cancer. This was the hardest-to-hear fact posted on Facebook today. Bekah was diagnosed at Stage IV in September and her decline has been quite rapid., despite a valiant fight. All indications are that she is down to her final days. She is 14 years old. 

 At 14, I was drowning in the despair of unrequited love. The drama consumed me. I had never met or heard of anyone with cancer. 

At 14, my son had already lost two schoolmates to cancer. He is now almost 20 and more of his friends have fallen to the monster. Indeed, my own husband, my only son's father, battles Stage IV colon cancer each day. 

Lewis and I adopted a rescue dog last month - a white Spitz we named Lea. She brings joy to our empty nest and fills needs I was unaware existed. We dote on her as though she were a prodigal child. 

And each day I receive Facebook notices of multiple dogs that are slated to die in Atlanta's kill shelters. Dogs brought in by their owners after ten or so years of devotion, just because they are no longer convenient or easy to care for. I want to adopt them all, but keeping a roof over my head is difficult enough these days.

Life is more precious than we will ever understand. Bekah's life. The little beagle who will feel the pain of a heartstick in the morning. Toddlers in the Middle East. 

Dear readers, I am still alive despite my writing absence. But I'm certainly dumbfounded by life and the precariousness of who gets to live and who gets to die and who enjoys the luxury of toilet paper in the interim. 

I'll return soon, hopefully with a lighter heart. Life goes on and we all take care of our business the best we can. 

Poncho Sez "Adopt, Now!

As if I didn't have enough going on in my life, I now find myself miserable until I can adopt a dog in need. There are so many suffering, lonely animals out there. Giving just one of them a forever home is my new goal. Read my latest, related Patch article:

http://woodstock.patch.com/articles/local-mom-lobbies-hard-to-adopt-a-dog

Vestigial Molars and a Tale from Trinidad

Click this link to read everything you ever wanted to know about wisdom teeth and island dentists:

http://woodstock.patch.com/articles/the-age-of-wisdom

A special shout out to my new Latvian readers. Thanks for visiting my blog site!

Confessions of a Reluctant Wife

So I'm on Facebook this evening, viewing the steady stream of photos of my friends who are at the beach, the lake, and excellent restaurants. The highlight of my day? My husband-who-happens-to-have-cancer approached me as I sat in the den and shoved his right foot into my face. He then uttered these tender words, made all the more romantic by his Jeff Foxworthy Southern accent : "Hey baby, I need you to rub my feet."

Yes, he is a charmer.

His request was not unreasonable. After all, the chemotherapy zaps all moisture molecules from his body, making him appear a lot like The English Patient. And though he could rub himself down with the wheelbarrow full of moisturizers and ointments prescribed to help his skin, he prefers that the little woman take charge of the daily smearing of greasy substances.

Yes, I'm one lucky waaaafe (Again, think Jeff Foxworthy pronouncing W-I-F-E).

Me loves me husband and I'm here for the long haul, folks. We just celebrated our 23rd anniversary (Friendly exchange of cheap cards and a peck on the cheek. Read all about it by clicking here). And our cancer journey since October 2011 has brought us closer than chiggers from a blackberry patch. But golly-to-Gomer, we could both use a change of scenery.

My good friend Mary just posted the greatest thing on Facebook: "And God promised men that good and obedient wives would be found in all corners of the world. Then He made the world round...and laughed and laughed and laughed." Ain't it the truth?

I suppose I've been a good wife, overall. But it serves no purpose now to ponder my past performance. All I can do is strive to be the most loving, supportive partner at this time in which my husband most needs me.

Nevertheless, Dear Lord, do I have to rub his feet?

I have a couple of pet peeves. Well, more than a couple, but two that I'm willing to share at this time.

One pet peeve is that I detest making sandwiches for my family members. Don't ask me why, but I'll cook a standing rib roast or boil live lobsters before I'll make a sandwich for my son or husband. Perhaps it's because I am aware that one does not have to know how to cook in order to spread a dang sandwich and it's insulting that the males in my family feel comfortable raising their heads up from the couch and Golf Channel to yell "Hey, make me a samich, will ya?"

I'll cook delectable dinners and I'll keep the kitchen stocked with breakfast foods, snacks, and lunch items. But I'll sell my soul to Satan before slapping together turkey and cheese on the disgusting, pasty white bread my males prefer.

The other pet peeve? Feet. I don't like touching other people's feet. I barely handle touching my own. No one knows the roots of this quirk, not even me. But it is truly a labor of love when I medicate and bandage the bleeding cracks on my husband's feet. I know he could do this for himself. Yet I also know that my attention makes him feel loved and valued. He needs to feel loved and valued to fight the cancer monster. And he is loved and valued beyond measure.

Having said all this, I now shout loudly: We still need a break! 

If I don't see a beach soon, I may melt into something pasty and unrecognizable. I crave, for the first time in my life, a foo-foo drink laced with an orange slice and paper umbrella. Or at least a dry, slightly dirty martini with three olives and background jazz.

At this point, I'd settle for a bonfire and a six-pack of PBR with friends at a trailer park somewhere.
All I ask is that everyone wear shoes and bring their own sandwiches. I'll bring the fried pork skins.

Angry Squirrel Attacks My Cancer-Stricken Husband!

I am not smart enough to make this stuff up. Read all about critter justice here:

http://woodstock.patch.com/articles/angry-squirrel-lunges-at-cancer-patient#c

Musings From a Cluttered Life: Call Me Cassandra

Musings From a Cluttered Life: Call Me Cassandra: Cassandra was an interesting character from Greek mythology. The daughter of King Priam and Queen Hecuba, she was a real looker, though rate...

Call Me Cassandra

Cassandra was an interesting character from Greek mythology. The daughter of King Priam and Queen Hecuba, she was a real looker, though rated in her day as second in beauty to the spellbinding Helen of Troy. Perhaps perceptions of her beauty were tempered by the fact that she was considered...well, insane.

Apollo - the Greek god of all sorts of important things like light, truth, music and other stuff - recognized Cassandra as really pretty and bestowed upon her the gift of prophecy. However, in typical ancient Greek fashion, Apollo's gift became a curse. Cassandra eventually did something to aggravate the powerful god and he tweaked her gift of prophecy to ensure that no one on the planet would ever believe her predictions. 


Her predictions were, of course, not trivial things like guessing what the king would eat for breakfast or which goat would be slaughtered for the next bacchanal. Oh no; she foresaw the fall of Troy and other important events of the time. Nevertheless, everyone rolled their eyes at crazy Cassandra. 


This sums up nicely how I feel about my own life these days. No, I'm not the daughter of royalty and I no longer turn heads. But I have an uncanny sense of foreboding. And no one ever believes me.

Let's face it. For some of us, the glass is half empty for a reason. We know that doom and gloom is just around the corner and we wisely choose to prepare ourselves for the worst. And after years of being criticized and ignored for our powerful prognostication skills, we start to roll our own eyes, mumble a lot, and behave oddly in mixed company. Thus, we are considered more than a little peculiar by others.

My 15-year old mutt, who looks like a cross between a rat terrier and a turtle, took a tumble this weekend during an out-of-town trip and immediately began hobbling on three legs. Everyone said "Oh, he'll be okay." But this Cassandra knew better. Ignoring the chorus of protests, I carried my faithful pal to a nearby vet and immediately learned that he has the equivalent of a college athlete's ACL knee injury, but without the health insurance. We are back home now, and tomorrow I'll hock my jewelry to pay for the surgery. But I already know that the coffer will be more than half empty.

Before leaving town this weekend, I gave my 19-year old son - who is home from college for the summer - strict instructions to have no parties at the house. I emailed my friends and urged them to cruise by the house and call me immediately if they observed more than one car in our driveway. My pals responded with the email equivalent of multiple eye rolls. "Don't worry; everything will be fine."

Upon returning home, I spied predictable and ample evidence of at least a small gathering of messy teenagers. Do these goobers not know how to cover their tracks? The telltale sign was a dishwasher full of dirty kitchen items, placed in a dish-washing machine that has been broken and unused by me for six weeks. Plus, melted cheese trails lay atop my kitchen counters, snaking like the Chattahoochee River throughout the State of Georgia and beyond. And the final insult was a can of solid white albacore tuna in the refrigerator, partially contained in a sandwich baggie, the lid punctured and raggedly torn back with one of my professional chef knives.

Before we left for the weekend, I asked my husband-who-happens-to-have-cancer if he felt up to the weekend trip. And I believed him when he said yes, though this Cassandra had a foreboding sense of trouble. By Saturday afternoon, the Trojan Horse of chemo side effects invaded and he fell hard. He spent the rest of the weekend in a carport in 98 degree weather, bundled in a winter coat and two wool blankets.

What did Cassandra dream? I'm not sure, but in my dreams, the glass is always half full. My husband is cancer-free. My dog is young and healthy. My son is a monk.

And then I wake up.

Here's the thing. I see the glass as half empty because I'm a realist who knows that God never promised me a perfect life. I have learned that when I turn to Him in faith, He gives me strength to deal with anything that life brings my way. He does not take away the doom and gloom, but He gives me the wherewith-all to recognize that it's looming.

Now if I could just get someone to listen to me.

(Note regarding the photo: I took this photo in May 2009 while touring the Louvre. The sculpture is Venus, not Cassandra. I can't find a photo of a Cassandra sculpture that is not copyrighted, and I am adamant about honoring copyrights. So use your imagination and pretend this is Cassandra. If no one believed you and you were standing around naked, you'd probably hide your privates too.)

To Doctors Deserving Some Thanks

My husband's oncologist was born in 1974, the year my divorced parents conspired to pawn me off to a rich aunt and uncle living in Minnesota because I was a bit of a 16-year old challenge. I do not know the background leading to Dr. G's birth, but I can say that my own Midwestern adventure turned out fairly well, and my parents were freed to pursue their own interests. 

My surely skewed teenage memory recalls my aunt and uncle as similar to the Dursleys of Harry Potter fame. Oh, they were well-intended. But they were as committed as the most fervent evangelists to taming a teen girl raised in Miami. They were convinced I brought to their heartland all the evils of a tropical and contemporary Sodom and Gomorrah. 

Our oncologist  is from Louisiana. He received his medical degree from Louisiana State University in NOLA. My Yankee friends can just hush now, because we really do have some swell medical schools in the South. Besides; he earned himself a fellowship at Harvard, which adds to his cred. And we knew from our first appointment that he is bona fide. Dr. G actually makes eye contact with us during office visits. He calls to check on Lewis after hours. And he recently chased me down in a hospital parking lot to deliver some good news about Lewis' cardiac functions. 

My Minnesota uncle was a physician. One of those small town general practitioners who may or may not exist anymore. He was a husband, father, uncle, and friend. But he was first and foremost a doctor to all who knew him. Indeed, his identity was inseparable from his vocation. I learned this during The-Year-of-Minnesota and it made a great impression on me at age 16. I learned that there are ministers and doctors and others who have been called to help and heal others. There are those who strive to make a difference. They strive to ease pain in their communities. They have a calling and are recognized and respected for their journey. 

My uncle was noted by author William A. Nolen, M.D. in his 1970 novel The Making of a Surgeon. Uncle Greg Olson and Dr. Nolen were long-time colleagues in the small Minnesota town of Litchfield. Nolen's book, admittedly dated, is an excellent chronicle of small town medicine. He praises the dedication and commitment of my uncle and his sacrifices to make a difference. 

I'm not sure if our oncologist will ever be chronicled for his really awesome skills. Lord knows, he knows his stuff and his bedside manner is wicked cool. He is truly the best of small town medicine and cutting edge expertise. Who knew these skills could co-exist? 

My husband's oncologist will deliver to us some very important news in the morning. After several weeks of aggressive chemotherapy, we will learn if my husband's five inoperable tumors have responded. I spent today praying and crying and pleading to God and all ancient deities for a positive report. I prayed to all my dead aunts, uncles, and the many others who went before me, begging for mercy and grace. 

Here's the thing. I know our oncologist will deliver the news, regardless of its severity, with grace and sensitivity. He will continue to guide my husband and I along this difficult journey. He will do this in an effort to ease pain. He is, first and foremost, a doctor, called to help others. 

Innocence Lost

On April 30 I predicted in my weekly Patch article that something amazing would happen. 

I predicted that some teen would leave my upcoming yard sale sporting a sequined disco pimp hat that I purchased in 1975. My mind pictured a happy high schooler, delighted with a yard sale treasure, his or her future bright and full of joy.

Little did I know how wrong I would be. 

On May 1, my 16-year old subdivision neighbor Andrew Messina was shot and killed in the doorway of his home by a SWAT sniper. He died following a single bullet to the torso, after a series of events that are still being sorted out. Andy's funeral took place this afternoon, just around the corner at the church where I worship.

I did not know Andy or his parents. I do not know all the details of what happened on May 1, though I have read volumes of public conjecture and less than articulate rants on Facebook and local news websites. The controversy is high, to say the least. Click here for a sample of the emotionally-laden dialogue in our community following the death of the teen. 

First characterized as a hostage situation, that no longer appears to be the case based on a listen to the 911 tape. It is also unclear whether the teen was threatening to harm others, kill himself, or both. Most disturbing, it is unclear whether Andy pointed a gun at SWAT negotiators or not. But the police stand firm in their position that standard procedures were followed and that public safety was at risk.

I refuse to conjecture. I wasn't there. But my alarm bells sounded loudly when I learned that Andy used Zoloft. 

The link between Zoloft and teen suicide has been debated for years, with strong arguments on both side of the fence. Yes, depressed teens are already at a higher risk of suicide, so the fact that some teens on Zoloft commit suicide seems logical. But the unique patterns surrounding teen suicidal behavior and Zoloft seem too prevalent to ignore. 

Yes, the FDA has issued a special warning about Zoloft use by children and teens. Prescriptions come with warning information and physicians routinely advise parents regarding risks. But teens on Zoloft are still dying. Andy is the second in my community of whom I am aware. 

Readers can find a range of information about the Zoloft controversy online. Here is a sample, though I am in no way endorsing the sponsors or vouching for the credibility of any of the sites. 

ABC

Citizens Commission on Human Rights International

Agonist.org

Zoloft Suicide Lawsuits

EMedTV

By the way, I have only mentioned Zoloft in this blog post, but I understand the controversy extends to other SSRI (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor) drugs prescribed for depression. 

I'm in no position to judge the police and their handling of the incident. And all 

the perfect parenting in the world cannot fully control the teen with depression or behavioral issues. Frankly, parents of these teens don't have many places to which to turn for help. Our families feel forced to hide the issues (listen to Andrew's mother on the 911 tape pleading for silent police support in order to avoid embarrassment). Our communities shun behavioral and emotional matters. They are simply not socially acceptable. And, given events in Woodstock, GA on May 1, our police's standard procedures may lack contingencies for teens experiencing an episode of severe emotional distress. I'm no law enforcement expert, but the use of rubber bullets to end a standoff is not unheard of. 

Dear reader, I confess that I'm not sure what compelled me to write this post. 

I do know Andy Messina's parents must be experiencing an unbearable level of pain. And a 16-year old no longer faces the possibility of a future in this world that is bright and full of joy. Thus, I suppose I write to express condolences to the Messina family. I write with sadness in my heart knowing a mom and dad sit nearby, mourning the loss of their son and wondering w

hat else they could have done to save him.

An Extraordinary Yard Sale Adventure

Shame on me for disappearing from my own blog. It's just that stuff seems to happen to eat up one's time, even if one is a retiree.

Take this weekend.

My husband-who-happens-to-have-cancer and I decided to offer our treasured junk during this weekend's two-day neighborhood yard sale. The event occurs each spring and fall, and involves families in our subdivision toting all their dust collectors, broken stuff, and faded clothing out to their garage or driveway. Then other neighbors drive around for two days rummaging through all the stuff and haggling over the difference between 25 or 50 cents for a 1960's picture frame that's missing the glass.

The sale began today, but we've been preparing for what seems like, well, the torturous eternity that constitutes a presidential campaign. Slowly wading our way through our three-story home, one room and closet at a time, we transferred forklifts full of discards to the garage over the past months. Then we spent this week blowing the spider webs and dog hair off everything that had sat in the garage. Oh we had covered and carefully bagged everything when we took it out. But garages have their own unique atmospheric conditions. Sort of like the dusty conditions of Mars, exacerbated by solar tides.


Anyway, we spent last night setting up as well as we could displays of our treasured junk. Hard to do without long tables and colorful tablecloths, but we did our best. We spread raggedy sheets on the garage floor and set out our wares, leaving ample room for hoards of buyers to walk throughout the displays. It wasn't Macy's, but it worked.

As we set up last night, the early birds arrived. Mostly men in pickup trucks looking for tools and electronics. They were greatly disappointed with my offerings, so started checking out the lawn equipment and other items in our garage that were not for sale. And they did their best to make us feel guilty for not selling stuff like our very own, very needed lawnmower for two dollars. Or finding fault with our not-for-sale tools and telling us how foolish we were for not letting us take items like the dented and dusty yard blower off our hands.

Today brought similar bargaining techniques:

"How much you want for that rug?"

"You mean the handmade oriental wool rug I bought for $300?  It's priced at $10.

"I'm not sure about the color. I'll give you $5."

"Go to Macy's, and good luck."

Here is my favorite exchange of the day:

"What's the price on this shirt"

"You mean the brand new Ralph Lauren polo shirt that still has the $98 price tag on it and has never been worn? $3."

"Will you take $2?"

"No."

And the fool actually walked away.

Tomorrow should bring more fun. My big ticket item is the tanning bed, that I will bring out in the morning. The first goober who tries to low ball me may be treated to a demo. I'll set the dial for the equivalent of Martian solar tides.

Musings From a Cluttered Life: Stockpiling Ravioli and Dreaming of the Black Sea

Musings From a Cluttered Life: Stockpiling Ravioli and Dreaming of the Black Sea: I decided to start all new blog posts at about six o'clock in the evening. That way, I can tell my family that I'm busy writing important st...

Stockpiling Ravioli and Dreaming of the Black Sea

I decided to start all new blog posts at about six o'clock in the evening. That way, I can tell my family that I'm busy writing important stuff and cannot possibly stop to cook dinner.

The strategy has advantages.

First, I get out of dinner duty, which recently became an impossible task. Think about it. How does one prepare a meal that appeals to both a husband-who-happens-to-have-cancer-and-no-appetite and a 19-year old who will eat about three foods, none of which offer any nutrition.

Thankfully, the pantry is well-stocked these days with cans of Chef Boyardee ravioli. Previously considered a repulsive option by this foodie, canned ravioli is now my salvation. My two guys love the stuff, and as long as I keep some lettuce in the fridge for salad, I have minimally fulfilled my obligation as the family nutritional fairy.

Another advantage to my six o'clock blogging strategy is that I might actually sit down and write. Drive-by blogging serves no one well. Sort of like fast food. Quick bites, no substance. Too many nights go by in which I find myself craving the keyboard but chained to the kitchen. Not just cooking, but putting up leftovers and washing piles of dishes. I did not train my boys right. Not at all.

Know that I began my six o'clock blogging schedule this evening. Thirty seconds into my keyboard pecking, here comes Big Man, insisting that I go out on the deck to look at the first yellow finch of the season. By the time I get out there, the bird has flown to Tennessee. Returning to the blog, I'm quickly pulled away because it is important to the Big Man that I hear his opinion on the current case before the Supreme Court. This urgent matter cannot possibly wait.

Finally back at the keyboard, Little Man texts me from afar and says he needs two turkey sandwiches assembled ASAP because he is doing a drive-by before heading to the mall to spend the rest of my bank funds on clothes. I inform Little Man that I'm busy writing important stuff and can't possibly stop to feed him. However, there is plenty of ravioli in the pantry that he can heat in the microwave. And clean lettuce for a salad, to boot.

This news was not well-received.

I will continue with my new strategy for a few more evenings. Like Pavlov's dogs, my two guys will surely respond to my behavior change techniques. Eons ago, I was well-versed in all aspects of behavior modification. A manipulative, denigrating practice? Well, yes, but who cares when writing important stuff is at stake.

The real question tonight is How are my Russian friends?  (Как мои русские друзья?)  I miss your visits. And, by the way, you visit my blog, but so far it is a one way conversation.  (Вы посетите мой блог, но до сих пор это один из способов разговор.). Talk to me, please! (Поговори со мной, пожалуйста!).  


Big Man and I have thought about taking a vacation. It's important to do so sooner than later, as the side effects of his chemotherapy become more severe over time. I've decided we should visit a birch forest or a barley field in Russia! Oh, to experience the Trans-Siberian Railway, a cruise along the Volga River, a seaside resort along the Black Sea. 


Geopolitics mean nothing to me, particularly since I became the wife of a good man with Stage IV cancer. But even before the cancer monster, I found renewal by experiencing different cultures, climates, and cuisine. And renewal is something I need right now.


The emergence of Spring in Atlanta has brought me hope. Indeed, I wrote about it in this week's Patch column:  http://woodstock.patch.com/articles/one-fine-spring-day. But given my level of stress and Big Man's increasingly dependent behavior, I'd say it is time for a change of scenery, if only for a few days.


Given time and budgets, our scenery change will most likely occur about 25 miles away for an overnight with a romantic meal at the local Cracker Barrel restaurant. But I can still dream of the Black Sea, no?


After all, dreams enable me to write about the important stuff. 




[Disclaimer: This is a photo from the south of Spain, but the scenery is similar to a picture I once saw of the Black Sea coast in summer. Send me a better photo if you have one.]

Confession of a Bad, Bad Blogger Who Looks to the Russians for Salvation

Forgive me readers, for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last post.

Surely I am a very bad blogger who does not deserve readers. But keep reading anyway. Perhaps you can lead me to redemption.

Know that the only reason I am back tonight is because -- wouldn't you know it -- I checked traffic on this site and MY RUSSIAN READERS ARE STILL HERE! Despite my absence this past two weeks, my loyal friends from the other side of the globe still checked in and, finding nothing new, at least perused previous posts. And for that, I am forever grateful. After all; who needs fickle fans with attention deficits? Bring on patient readers who understand the ebb and flow of blog posts.

Methinks my faraway friends best understand the tidal nature of my life right now. The challenges of supporting my husband with late-stage, inoperable cancer; gingerly guiding an only son as he experiences his first year at college; managing my own auto-immune disease, which strikes unpredictably and without mercy. All lifelines are welcome, including the attention of faraway readers with whom my words seem to resonate. Thankfully, the human experience transcends geography.

Catching my breath between waves is somewhat easier these days. The previous shock after learning of my husband's condition has been tempered by a routine of doctors appointments and maintaining daily logs of chemo side effects, vital signs, and changes in bodily functions. It is a labor of love.

My hope is to maintain an interesting voice while honoring my family's very personal journey. Prior to the cancer monster, my voice used to prattle on about all sorts of topics that resonated with readers and reflected shared experiences. That voice is not lost, but it is having a hard time surfacing these days.

Hang in there, readers. I am still here. And I need for your to be here as well. Stated simply, I need you.

Please leave a comment. What draws you to this blog? What can I write for you?

Blessings, Dee

The Simple Art of Conversation

I'm in an ill mood and that yields grumpy writing. Here is one of many things on my mind:

Today's writers are required to be bad ass bloggers, meaning that they only need to have a modicum of writing skills. In our postmodern word, literary competency has become less important than the ability to talk techie in one's sleep. I estimate that the average blogger spends 10% time writing and 90% time designing, tweeting, pinning, etc., ad nauseum. 

Sort of like musicians. Once MTV pushed the broadcast button and aired Video Killed the Radio Star, singing took a back seat to visual appeal. It's always about image and occasionally about substance. 

I doubt I will ever end up on Google's list of hot trends or be offered a blog spot by Huffington Post. I lack edginess and anger. At 54, I'm simply not sexy and sell-able. Fortunately, my ego is well-defined and I can handle this lack of celebrity. And, I do have a modest following of readers in RUSSIA! This continues to astound and humble me. 

Keep reading my blog posts if you want. I may not be edgy, but I am always available for the simple art of conversation. 

Life and Death in Paris

I found a jump drive with photos from a 2008 afternoon spent at Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris with my young friend, Allison. My little camera tried, but could not capture the hues and history of this remarkable place. Perhaps it was the photographer's fault. Through the following collage of photos and quotes, I share with you some poignant images from a most memorable afternoon. 

"It may have been in pieces, but I gave you the best of me."

JIM MORRISON

"Simplicity is the highest goal,

achievable when you have overcome all difficulties" 

FREDERIC CHOPIN

Motherless Blogger Kept Afloat by Russians

I'm rather waterlogged. After all, my sweet husband was hospitalized three times for a total of fifteen days in January. I tried hard to keep up with the blog, but my Wonder Woman skills assessed my life, got overwhelmed by the heavy tides, and made a quick exit.

At least the utility bills got paid on time and that is quite a feat these days, given the frenzy of - well - cardiogenic shock, life-threatening potassium levels, and bouts with little stuff like neuropathy.

I did manage to steal a few minutes and check this blog site tonight. What a joy to find that my Russian readers continued to check in, despite several days of silence on my end. I'm serious, folks. The fact that people on the other side of the globe visit my meager site when I am unable to provide content, is about the most uplifting thing I've felt in weeks. How very humbling. 

Tomorrow is my dear mother's birthday. She passed in 2008, at the age of 86, and my heart still skips more than one beat when I think of her. She absolutely sparkled. Indeed, her glow intimidated most people, particularly during those decades when the shine of a woman was supposed to be a reflection of a man. Anything outside of that norm signaled an aberrance that unsettled both those who mattered to my mother, and those who did not. 

Every day, I feel the influence of my mother in my life. Don't we all? Most of what I learned from her was amazing, but I confess that life as the daughter of a woman with an independent yet bullied spirit was not always easy. 

I'm quite certain that my mother is with me now as I do my best to help my husband battle the cancer monster. My own Wonder Woman skills may have fled, but my mother is here - in sparkling armor - making sure I stay afloat. 

On My Knees for the Right Reasons

Not so many days ago I fell to my knees beside my husband's hospital bed, crying uncontrollably and begging God to take me if he needed a sacrifice, but to spare my husband who did not deserve to suffer from Stage IV cancer and sudden heart failure brought on by his first round of chemotherapy.

Tonight? I'm ready to punch my sweetie in the nose. He recovered - thanks to zillions of prayers and the grace of God - but he is annoying me beyond belief this evening as I try to steal an hour of peace and quiet. 

That is the beauty of being married for almost 23 years. My love for him quickly shoos away away those few moments of irritation. Indeed, my perturbed state reflects the joy I feel after my dear husband was spared by a merciful God from a life-threatening cardiac event. And God's plan did not include whisking me away yet, either. 

When I began this blog, I assumed I'd prattle on about retirement, parenting a college freshman, pursuing freelance writing after a 32 year career held captive by a lot of soul-sucking fools. But recent posts have leaned toward my husband's illness and its effect on our family. Sorry. That's my current voice. I simply can't find the other voices that made up the rhythms and routines of my life before the cancer monster impaled my spouse and brought us to our knees.

So this evening finds me reflecting on my recent pleas to God and concluding that bargaining with Him is never a good idea. It's presumptuous, at the very least. God's plans serve a higher purpose than we can possibly understand, and to think that we can negotiate our way out of those plans is absurd.

The night I offered my life in exchange for my husband's, I did so in the belief that he is the better person, more deserving of a long life and the gift of additional years to steward our son, our grandchildren, our legacy. But that's up to God, not me. My job is to stay humble, patient, and on my knees thanking the Lord for comfort and strength.

You see, God already assured us that He will provide comfort when needed and give us the strength we need to deal with whatever comes our way. So asking Him for these things isn't as important as acknowledging His workings in our lives and thanking Him repeatedly for those much needed gifts. Or at least that's how I see it.

My beloved husband is stretched out on the couch with our mutant dog and cunning cat. Our college freshman son just dropped off about fourteen loads of laundry from his dorm room, and that is just fine. My gal pals Lynne and Jean took me out earlier this evening for a most scrumptious Italian dinner.

Yes, there are blessings large and small for which to be thankful. I am learning to live life day at a time, with humility. Indeed, life feels peaceful as I ready for bed tonight. God will surely hear my gratitude as I drop to my knees in prayer before lying down next to my husband, placing my hand near his still-beating heart, and whispering my love for him before we both drift into a tranquil sleep and dream of life, love, and legacy. 

A Wicked Woman Finds Comfort

My husband's heart seems to be holding its own after last week's life-threatening reaction to his first round of chemotherapy. So we're pretty much back to our routine of puttering around the house and enjoying each other's company.

But there is no rest for this wicked woman. All hell has broken loose in every other area of our family's life. Our college freshman son finally confessed his sorry grades from last semester. He is back in school as of last week, majoring in Social Life. And after paying a zillion dollars in end-of year expenses last month (property taxes, car tags, homeowner's association fees, car repairs, eyeglasses for husband and son, and more), I just got hit with several more unexpected bills (additional car repairs, new tires, hospital co-pays, and more). The dishwasher is broken and our refrigerator gasps more fervently each day. 

My husband-who-happens-to-have-cancer-and-now-also-heart-problems is on a low sodium diet. Thus, neither one of us has tasted salt for several days. Understand that we are both salt addicts. It's like heroin to us, so imagine our irritability as we withdraw. Not to mention my frustration over the fact that my skinny husband needs to gain weight, but he can no longer eat his favorite comfort foods. And, because all hell done broke loose on the Locklin family, he now has chemotherapy-induced mouth sores that make it difficult to chew. So my rail-thin husband gets to sip applesauce and yogurt through a straw for sustenance. 

My mother-in-law recently sent us a cheery greeting card and a hand-written message that took my breath away. This from a woman whose son has Stage IV incurable cancer and whose daughter was recently diagnosed with a tumor on her pancreas that, though benign, warrants chemotherapy for safe measure. And my in-law's beloved Jack Russell, Daisy, died while they were visiting their son in the hospital last week. 

My in-laws, married for about 60 years, are the most resilient people I know. They are the rocks against which I brace myself when the waves crash and pummel my family. 

And right now the waves refuse to cease. Before we can catch our breath, the next one arrives and pounds us, relentlessly and unmercifully. Most days I can fight them, but today felt like the day the surf would finally swallow me whole. Like plankton gathered by a whale making its way through the vast ocean. Sucked in completely and without forethought. 

Then I stumbled upon my mother-in-law's greeting card. Her hand-written message spoke of using her son's situation to bring honor and glory to God. She assured us that, whatever comes, we can have a song in our hearts because God did not promise to keep us from trouble, but He did promise to be with us every step of the way. 

I understand and believe God's promise to be with us throughout this journey and to give us the strength we need during difficult times. What struck me was the notion that we must work hard to share with others our first-hand knowledge that God has provided, and will continue to provide, comfort and strength even as the waves pound. That message must become the song in our hearts - a song that brings Him honor and glory. 

  

My Christian friends will quickly understand this perspective. But I hope that my non-Christian friends recognize in my mother-in-law's message a call to always remember that the world is bigger than our individual struggles. And that singing to the world our songs of love and acceptance is our most precious gift to others.   

I was in the hospital room when my husband's blood pressure plummeted to a level that could not be detected by two doctors and two nurses simultaneously working on him. I felt and saw his skin - as cold as an iced tea glass and as pale as newsprint. I saw the baffled look in the doctors' faces as my beloved was rushed to the Intensive Care Unit. In the end, the medical personnel were great, but it was the power of prayer that saved my Lewis. Maybe it would help you to hear it this way: Prayer guided some very perplexed physicians toward a series of decisions that resolved Lewis' complex and deteriorating cardiac problems.

The waves crash, but I'm belting out a song from my heart. It is a song of hope and love. I sing it not only for my family, but for yours, as a gift of reminder. Remember to hold your loved ones tight, let them know what they mean to you, and tell them that they are not alone in this world. 

All Hell Done Broke Loose Again, But I Do Have Palmetto Berries

I've been away for a few days. But upon returning to my blog site, I'm thankful to find that my Russian readers did not abandon me. Indeed, their hits represent about 99% of my traffic this week. Perhaps I should move to Moscow or St. Petersburg or some place where I have a true fan base (at least 15) and can escape my current reality.

Because my current reality is really difficult. But it is my family's reality, so I will not abandon it, despite my fantasy to wake up oblivious in Siberia.

Yes, our reality is one that causes most people to shrink in fear, grasp for words, and thank their wooden countertops that it is not their life (don't worry; we know this and we do not blame you).

Current reality is that my husband has Stage IV incurable colon cancer. We were led to believe there was hope for remission, given aggressive chemotherapy. So we began chemo last week, and 24 hours later, my husband lay in a hospital bed fighting for his life as a result of heart damage caused by the poisonous drugs.

Please do not misunderstand me. I am not - in any way - blaming the oncologist or regretting the decision to proceed with chemotherapy. Given the advance stage of his cancer, chemotherapy was - and is - the right path. Chemotherapy has risks, and we were well aware of them.

Alternative treatments? As much as I love green tea and wild mushrooms from the far corners of the earth, there is simply not enough evidence to convince me that alternative approaches, alone, will cure my life partner. And in the absence of convincing data, I will continue to pursue with a vengeance the evidence-based chemotherapies while simultaneously shoving raw vegetables, vinegar, grapefruit juice, Siberian chaga mushrooms, and other alternatives down his throat.

But for now, the issue of what kind of ginseng root and palmetto berries I procure for Lewis seems something of a moot point. Our immediate task is to keep is blood pressure far above the undetectable level to which it recently dropped. And to help his heart pump more efficiently than its current level of 25 (an ejection fraction, with 60 being the goal). Diet is certainly critical, and I have scoured the Internet and grocery stores for recipes and ingredients necessary for low sodium meals for a thin man who does not need to lose weight. A challenge, but we're getting there.

Ginseng root and palmetto berries may very well be a part of the answer, not just for fighting the cancer but also for strengthening my sweetie's heart. This journey is teaching us a lot, and I'm doing my best to keep an open mind.

This ain't the most entertaining blog, but it let's you know where I've been. To my Russian pals - your visits to my blog are a godsend. Я благодарю вас.  

Who's Afraid of Margaret Atwood?

I'm hyperactive tonight. Nervous about my husband's first round of chemo in the morning, I suppose. Oh, the books I could write about our journey with Stage IV colon cancer. And we haven't even started treatment.

Anyway, I turned tonight to Facebook and Twitter for distraction. Facebook is great for light interaction with family and friends, but Twitter demands a different attention. And I have yet to understand how it all works. I follow a few people, but not many. My life is cluttered enough and tangential noise from unknown others is something I invite only in increments.

But I do follow those with writing interests, and writers, including Margaret Atwood - an author who has influenced my life in many ways. I love her works, of course. And I love that she seems to have successfully negotiated the academic community. My 23-year journey through that wretched abyss ended in early retirement due to post-traumatic stress. But that is another series of blog posts.

Margaret Atwood is an active Twitter user, and actually interacts with followers. Unfortunately, she and other literate twitterers Tweet in phrases and symbols that are as indecipherable to me as Egyptian hieroglyphics.

Maybe I'm slow, but it has become apparent that I not only have to write compelling stuff, but that I also must develop razor-edge social networking skills. Not just the language, but the culture, attitude, and tech aptitude of a 21-year old MIT grad student.

Believe me, I'm up to the task. Margaret did it, and so can I.

Perhaps she said it best in The Handmaid's Tale: "Don't let the bastards grind you down."

At Least the Russians Like Me

I'm pouting. Just can't help it.

I spent all day writing, including work on a blog piece that I thought was quite catchy. Like a fool, I asked my 18-year old to read the piece and he concluded that I sounded like a very sick woman. And he didn't mean physically.

Just what I wanted to hear.

Most moms would have ignored the critique, rationalizing that a teenager is in no position to judge the quality or potential popularity of a blog post. But all it took was one snub to make me feel like a complete failure. So I deleted it. Click. Gone.

In truth, my son's was not the first snub. The editor of a local magazine, for which I'm a monthly columnist,  rejected an earlier version last month. I was convinced she simply didn't get my particular form of humor. But it is her magazine, so I shrugged my shoulders and moved on to other projects. No hard feelings here. It happens.

Nevertheless, my mind kept returning to this particular piece. I was convinced it had merit. Thus, I retrieved it, revised it, and reviewed it with my son.

Two strikes and I declared myself out. No need to invite the pain of strike three.

As a writer, I have more than one voice. Maybe it would be better to hone just one of them, but my muse doesn't lead me in that direction. Often my pieces are inspired by what is happening in my life at any particular time. And that means I write about a range of topics. The tone of my pieces vary from sentimental to lightly humorous to sarcastic.

My husband is battling Stage IV cancer. My son is behaving like a careless college freshman. I deal daily with a roller coaster of an auto-immune disease that makes me feel twenty years past my real age. We face huge financial challenges despite meteoric careers and having done all the right planning for the past quarter of a century.

Yes, my writing might be a tad caustic right now.

I started a blog because I wanted a place to say or shout out whatever was on my mind. No editors, no obligations to advertisers, no accountability to anyone. After a 32 year career, the pressures and politics of which nearly killed me, AND the onslaught of health issues and associated chaos -- the blog was my forum for unfettered expression.

But this rebel soon learned that expression doesn't mean much if there is no one to hear the shout. Without readers, I'm talking to myself. And if I don't build a truly interactive online community, then my blog is merely a one way conversation. Who wants that?

Perhaps I finally understand the blogging phenomenon. It's not about blasting messages. It's about inspiring community dialogue.

Unfortunately, I have yet to master the techniques for reaching others interested in dialogue about my writing topics. And I may eventually learn that there are only a handful out there for whom my words inspire a response. After all, there are a whole lot of us out there blogging around the clock, hoping to be heard. Sort of like ham radio operators (are they still around?).

I'm just tickled that 17 people in RUSSIA have visited my blog site. RUSSIA!! That is very cool. I know about my Russian pals because my blog host site gives me statistics about views. I don't know who visits me, but I know what country they're from.

(Seasoned bloggers are rolling their eyeballs about now, because geography is a moot point in the virtual world. But they need to understand - I'm truly fascinated that my 17 Russian readers even found my humble blog. So quit snarking.)

Perhaps the Russians heard that I enjoy an occasional vodka. After all, a mellow cocktail knows no geopolitical boundaries. And my new pals may also face health challenges, or deal with really annoying teenagers. Just like me.

Evolutionary Roots of Teenage Behavior

Do you have an annoying teenager? Then here is a must-read. Finally, an explanation to their behaviors!

http://woodstock.patch.com/articles/learn-the-evolutionary-roots-of-teenage-behavior

Hey, if you like the piece, be sure to click "Recommend" at the top of the ARTICLE. My Patch editor will smile a lot and keep publishing my rantings. Thanks!!  Dee