REDONDOWRITER'S SACRED ORDINARY

The Anatomy of an Illness Through SoulCollage®

For the past seven months I have been challenged with what finally was diagnosed as an uracheal adinocarcinoma of the bladder. It has been a long journey because I have a hard time surrendering to God and I am susceptible to anxiety and depression on top of it all. But as of now, I've recuperated well and now it's a waiting game. Following are nine SoulCollage® cards made during the last months that have greatly helped me, along with a written journal, of what I call "The Anatomy of an Illness", and all the emotions related to diagnosis and treatment so far. We usually put our cards in suits and I am assuming these are all Committee cards because they are part of me. Admittedly, I am posting here for catharsis, but I'm also hoping that others who use SoulCollage® can use my process when they need healing. I will post each card in the succession they were made with a blurb below of "The I am the One Who" statements. I cannot begin to thank my doctors and health care professionals, family, friends and extended community who have helped me along the way. 

Time May Be Running Out – I am the one who began having blood in my urine in middle May but I didn’t feel ill. I did, however, start becoming very anxious as I intuitively knew something “not good” was up. My own family doctor orders blood work but there is no infection. I next go to Little Company of Mary Hospital for a CT uroscan. I am the one who begins to feel trapped inside my body and I have no control over what is going on. Neither does the doctor and we both find that the wheels of progress to specialists sometimes move slowly. I am very scared. My part-time work is a Godsend.

Frozen in Fear – I am the one who has had a lot of radiation in my life and resist more imaging, but the CT shows a blip at the dome of the bladder. It is assumed to be an uracheal remnant, something I had never even heard of before. The urachea usually disappears about the 20^th week of gestation and is part of the umbilicus. Whoever would have thought it would be so complicated to get a timely referral to an urologist? I revert to a frightened child who has no mother and I don’t even have the capacity to notice the sun filtering through the trees. A series of anxiety attacks plagues me when I'm alone and do too much thinking, but in public no one even knows anything is wrong. 

Lost Without a Compass – I am the one who asks for a different referral and I am able to get in finally to see an urologist who finds no infection and says cancer in the uracheal remnant is rare but.a cystoscopy is needed for diagnosis. Two more weeks pass and my friend Mary Lou goes with me to the cystoscopy done under local anesthetic in the office. The doc sees a tumor immediately and points it out on the monitor to both of us. There it is. Wow. Me, who is afraid of deep water, feels adrift without a paddle or rudder, at the mercy of cosmic roulette. My guardians try to comfort me, but I am too scared to listen and trust consistently. But, in my own inimitable style, I fake it until I make it. 

What Will Become of Me Now? I am the one who realizes that if I want to live, I have to surrender to the doctors and health care professionals. Many tests are scheduled before surgery. I'm off work for summer and I continue to feel like a child watching a movie of me careening out of control as an adult. Internally I wail out to my mom, who has been gone since 1968. I become a frequent user of Torrance Memorial Hospital. In August I am operated on with spinal anesthetic and the tumor is removed for biopsy. Anxious, so anxious. Now I’m with an oncologist again. I wanted badly to use a young local surgeon who graduated from the school I work at and that I knew when he was young.  The oncologist arranges it. My part-time job means so much to me. Will I be able to work anymore?

The Human Body is Miraculous. I am the one who begins to amass images of bodies in motion because I want to believe that though the tumor is now diagnosed as an adinocarcinoma, known to be aggressive, and with minimal research in place to support ongoing treatment, that I will somehow be OK. I am fortunate that it appears to be contained. I have survived breast cancer twice and I’m still here. I am counseled by the oncologist not to do Internet research. I do and I find that what I have can be very bad. I stop the research though every now and then I break that promise to myself and begin Googling outcomes.

Angry and Determined. I am the one who has to undergo an immediate colonoscopy because my type of cancer often starts in the bowel. Tough to get a scheduling. I also undergo a PET scan to see if any other areas of my body light up which determines the extent of the next surgery. No cancer in the bowel thank God but the PET shows two suspicious spots in the lung which have been picked up in other testing in the past few years. I am radiation damaged in the lungs from the earlier breast cancers and my pulmonologist agrees to wait until I’m healed from this bladder surgery to see what’s going on there. Up until now I’ve felt so helpless and finally I alternatively feel scared, angry and also tough as nails.

Trapped but Hopeful. I am the one who entered the hospital on September 9 for the bladder resection. My parish priest came the morning of the surgery as well as several people in my family. The surgeon is a friend of my priest and all wish me well in a prayer circle in the admitting area of the hospital. I am embarrassed and grateful. The surgeons robotically remove the tumor, part of my bladder, the urachea, the belly button itself and report they got good margins. I have 5 small scars and one larger one on my belly and I tolerate general anesthesia well. I am in the hospital four days and go home where my daughter takes off work and oversees my care for a week. I am bedridden with a catheter for 10 days but nurses and PT people visit 3 times a week and the pain is manageable. I learned to use a walker, a cane, and my first shower with daughter at hand was absolutely heavenly. I keep telling myself that butterflies come from chrysalis.

A Roll of the Dice. I am the one who did not have to have her entire bladder removed and I am grateful. There will be frequent testing after this, which I dread, but I know that the key to recovery is my faith, trust in the doctors and professionals who will oversee my care, and the ongoing support of family and friends. But, the cynic in me knows these kinds of things are like a roll of the dice. I have a 50/50 chance of no recurrence. For now, no radiation, no chemo, just tests and more tests. Thank God for Medicare and my Blue Cross supplement. Thank God for the excellent health care where I live. I am philosophical about aging and death and now, at age 78, I finally “get it” that living a day at a time with gratitude is really the only logical way to live. But what I know intellectually doesn’t always translate into reality.

Fractured. I am the one who has lived with a lot of anxiety since this health challenge was diagnosed but I’m also the one who just keeps on keeping on. Though I hide it well, I am often unfocused, fractured and it's hard to concentrate because of the fear of the unknown. I also pray and meditate and write affirmations in my journal. I am at back at work part-time, adjusting to my smaller bladder challenges, and I know that I am very fortunate compared to what could have happened. I recently got another PET scan and in two weeks will have my first cystoscopy post-surgery. This test will be done every 3 months from now on. I will need to consult with the pulmonologist about my lung blips in January the oncologist says, but I feel good, look good, and I am looking forward to 2016. Though very vulnerable right now, I keep reminding myself that I am a Streur, tough as nails. I have productively functioned throughout all this and for the first time in my life, I'm cutting myself more slack when fatigue and anxiety hit. 

 

Our Lady of Sorrows SoulCollage®: Day 2 of Twelve Days of Mary

Today I introduce you to a SoulCollage® card I call Our Lady of Sorrows as part of Rebecca Brooks Twelve Days of Mary Love 2015.  Part of the process of SoulCollage® is to write what they call "I am the one who" statements to personalize each card we create. I am the one who is crying for you over the recent losses of your friend Orma and nephew Bud. You've internalized these deaths resulting in high anxiety and you wish you could just cry yourself. Intellectually you know that death is part of the circle of life, but you remain in denial. Closure will come when their memorials are held later this month.

You can also ask a question of the card inSoulCollage® . So, I tell Our Lady, "I am carrying these losses heavily although gathering and scanning  photos for the memorials has helped me remember so many happy memories. I don't take most deaths of family and friends this hard. What else can I do to deal with the grief and celebrate their lives?" Continue the scanning, your journal writing, minimize the phone calls back and forth regarding death and burial details, and how about making an art journal page for each of your loved ones? The tears will eventually come. 

Saying a Final Goodbye to Sister Virginia

For those of you who have known me for a while, you may remember that I'm the baby sister of five sisters, if one can call a 77-year-old a baby. On Sunday night at 7:45 p.m. my dear sister Virginia Annette Streur Estrada, passed away quietly  in Las Vegas after bravely fighting Parkinsons Disease for several years. Her daughter Rose was there with her holding her hand when she unexpectedly took her last breath. My nephew called about 45 minutes later and even though she's been in hospice the last eight months at Tender Loving Care, a phenomenal skilled nursing center, you are never ready for that call. Now there are only two sisters left.

I had gone to Las Vegas for a weekend in July to help celebrate Virginia's 87th birthday and she was conscious then, although very frail. I will hold these last memories of her in my heart, but the really happy memories are bubbling up and I've been free-writing in my journal. It's those I want to remember. Virginia was 11 when I was born and in our little house in Inglewood, CA, she and I shared a bed until we moved to Sunland in 1943. She married young and she and my brother-in-law Salvador had three sons and a daughter and I grew up being more like an older sibling to her kids--and she a kind of surrogate mom to me. I spent a lot of time with them in Lennox and later in Reseda. I lived with them the last year before I married in 1958. 

My sister Donna died in 1998, also of Parkinsons complications, and my eldest sister June died in 2002 of cancer. My sister Betty and I (she is 90) are the two sisters left. Childlike as I am, I pictured my parents and sisters and Virginia's husband Sal waiting at the end of the tunnel you hear about in death experiences.

Yesterday, at a monthly SoulCollage®  group, I made this community suit card in honor of Virginia.

I am the one who is very sad and dualistically relieved that my youngest sister to me died quietly on Sunday night. My nephews and niece are now in the process of finalizing funeral plans in Las Vegas, probably mid-next week. We are all relieved to avoid the Labor Day zoo that Las Vegas will be this weekend. My sis totally made her final plans before she became too ill to do so and that's a reminder that that is the one thing I haven't done in my own will and trust. I am the one who my sis loved unconditionally and though she had personality issues with many other people, it was rare for us to clash. I am the one who was able to do a short oral history with her when we traveled together with our late sister June in the late 1990s--and I look forward to finding that file and gathering photos and memories. I am the one who wanted to surround Virginia with flowers; Sal was the avid gardener, but my sister enjoyed them--and even had iris bulbs in her yard from our mom's originals. She was named, by the way, after Virginia Park, Michigan where my parents lived with my four sisters before they moved to California in the early 1930s. 

The Annual Christmas Newsletter via Sacred Ordinary Blog

We all know about those Christmas newsletters telling mostly the good stuff and avoiding the unpleasant stuff. Well, here's mine for anyone who is interested. I personally love these holiday updates and though we don't send Christmas cards and letters as much as we used to, I so look forward to those I receive. I can remember the days when the kids were growing up and every year the card featured them and the newsletter was full of our busy lives. But when the nest is empty, you fill your lives with different things and most of them pretty routine. But you know what has changed as I grow older? I am overflowing with gratitude. My life didn't follow the pattern I had imagined, but what a wonderful life I have, even with its challenges. I hope you feel the same. Merry Christmas to all and happy holidays to those who celebrate different ways.

A Virgin a Day: Advent 8, A Cherished Hummel Figurine

This repaired Hummel figurine is very special to me. She belonged to my late mother-in-law and I have cherished her since 1973 when Blessed Mary Shreffler passed. Unfortunately, several years ago the woman who helps me clean knocked her over and her head fell off and her halo broke. I was so sad but also very accepting because life is like that: peaks and valleys. For a while I kept her in the closet and then one day I made up my mind that a glued-back Mary was better than a hidden Mary. I used E6000 to repair her and then put tiny rose buds on the broken places. Today she stands in front of an angel vase from a long-ago estate sale and it stands in front of another hot pink Mexican hand painted chest I keep my meds in in the bathroom. I move Our Lady from room to room and in different scenarios. Since I decorated the house yesterday I think I will move her today down to the mantel over the fireplace where other Marys are. 

Thank you, Rebecca, for hosting us at Twelve Days of Mary. Immaculate Conception today, then you go to San Miguel de Allende, and on Dec. 12 you celebrate Our Lady of Guadalupe. Twelve days of Mary indeed. 

Monday Mornings With Mary: Mother Emily and Mother Frances

Each Monday is Rebecca's Mornings With Mary and this is my offering today. I hope you can take the time to visit everyone who posts today. 

When I think of Mary, Jesus's mother, my mind goes to all the great works of art depicting her in all her forms. But, Mary is synonymous (for me personally) with madonna, mother and child, the archetype of all mothers and children, and the divine feminine. I'm certainly not equating my own late mom (five daughters) or me with any kind of divinity, but I definitely think of us both with the classical universal terms of maiden, mother and crone. Below are two photos in our mother period. One is of my mom with me as a baby. The other is me with my firstborn. 

I was the youngest daughter, born to my parents' great surprise when they were 40. The photo is dated, in my mother Emily's handwriting, as Feb. 13, 1938. I am six months old and this is our front porch in Hawthorne, CA. That's my mom's sister Sylvia in the background. Don't you love mom's housedress and the shoes with the socks? 

This is me with my firstborn son, Joseph Michael and the date in my handwriting is Oct. 4, 1962. He is three months old and he turned 50 last summer. Following him were Christy, now 49, and Tony, now 46. When I look back at my personal greatest accomplishments it is being mom to the three of them. 

Yesterday was father's day but I like to think of every day as being fathers and mothers day. 

Old Friends Mel and Jo Celebrate Their 55th Wedding Anniversary

Yesterday I attended another memory-making event--the family gathering celebrating the 55th anniversary of my old friends Mel and Jo. Their family and ours bought houses in a new tract in North Torrance, CA in 1966. At the time they had their four young kids and my husband I had two kids. In 1967 we adopted a third, Tony, as a newborn and not only does our own family remember that momentous day when we brought him home with Joe and Christy riding shotgun in the back seat of the car, Mel, Jo and their family were the first ones to welcome us home with the new baby. We raised our kids together to adulthood--and the stories we could tell (and often do)! Suzy, Mel and Jo's eldest, remembers babysitting Tony when he was an infant. The celebration yesterday was at Suzy's home. 

When I look at the faces of friends I knew since we were young, the years simply slip away--and we all just are who we are. 

These are Mel and Jo's children--Steve, Tracy, Suzy and Shari. Each of them have two adult children. It was so much fun yesterday reminiscing. Tracy and my daughter Christy were particularly close, but both our families--and several others--were often blended as one big family. Those truly were the good old days. 

And here I am with Mel and Jo. So many people were hugging Mel and Jo that their leis began to fall apart. We spent almost as much time in each other's houses in the olden days as we did in our own. 

This photo I "borrowed" from Mel and Jo's son-in-law Corey's Facebook today. I'm still glowing from this party yesterday. Most of these people are Mel and Jo's family with just a handful of "old" (some of us very old) friends sprinkled in. 

Thank you so much for sharing your special day with me. Tomorrow I'm going to hunt for a few photos of us when we were all young. 

As Psalm 128:6 says, "May you live to see your children's children-- peace be on Israel." Peace is indeed ours; we have lived to see our children's children. You can't ask for much more in life. 

 

Who Should Sophia the Art Mannikin Marry This Year?

Sophia the art mannikin is dressed again (5th time?) for her June wedding. This year she has yet another vintage wedding gown, late 70s or early 80s if I were to guess. I got it at a thrift shop as the tags were still on it: $10. Such a deal! 

When Sophia finally leaves my house of mirth and madness (how many elders do you know who dress mannikins?), she says she will not marry again. Me, one of the larger cynics of happily-ever-after, is the one that magically holds on to the fairy tale wedding idea by dressing her each year. 

Counting my own wedding dress, which she has worn once, she has five of the symbol of the virgin maiden dresses; next year will be a 60 year old one I'm saving for last. Yes, six times married will be quite enough for Sophia, she says. She wants to settle down permanently. The question I always ask myself is why do wedding dresses end up in thrift shops and garage sales?  If I'm at a garage sale, I'll ask the seller and wow, sometimes I get some pretty angry accounts of why. At estate sales, it is usually grandma's gown and the family just doesn't collect like I do. What do you do with old wedding gowns? Bury them ceremonially like you would a flag? 

If I were better at PhotoShop, I'd layer a potential groom in the photo, but I'm not. Nor am I sure who that groom would be if I had my druthers. It's easy to choose a sexy actor or even a character from fiction or film. But, since I long ago gave up the notion of remarrying, I'm curious who you would choose if you could pick a groom for her? Just curious. By the way, she says looks are not important and neither is wealth, although if he comes with humor, intellect, gentleness, compassion, curiosity, and belief in something greater than himself, it would be OK. She would also like to be loved unconditionally, but doesn't mind a lively exchange of ideas. She says if the right man (or woman) comes along, she will also commit herself until death (or sale to a high-end retail store) parts them. 

Look at that high neck. My own wedding dress had a high neck but the beautiful fashions you see these days aren't afraid to show skin and décolletage. As often as not, they are form fitting. Because I do play around on Polyvore, I'm blown away by some of the gorgeous wedding dresses of today. 

So, who do you think Sophia should marry this year? 

Family Day at School for Henry and Fritz

What a delightful morning we had at the annual family day celebration at the school where my grandsons Henry and Fritz go--and where I work. Henry is in third grade and Fritz is in second, at least for a few more weeks. Here are some photos to enjoy for those who know my family. It is so great being a grandparent--six times, ages 26 down to 4. When I was parenting my own three kids, I was so involved that I often didn't appreciate "the drama of daily life" like I wish I had. As a grandparent I can. 

Grandma, Henry, Fritz, Aunt Christy, daddy Tony. 

Is it possible that Fritz might be the next Jackson Pollock? 

This is Henry's recycled, fantasy animal in the science lab. 

Fritz shows Aunt Christy and dad his Kid Pix project. 

And here's is one of Henry's poems, a portrait in words. 

I know I'm a doting grandma, and probably boring you all, but at my age, I can revel in pretty much anything I want--and the lives of my grandkids are darned important. 

Lewis Richmond: Aging as a Spiritual Practice

Both of my living sisters, 86 and 88, are fading and because I'm an elder myself, 75 this year, I'm often helping out with my aging friends and family. Two of my sisters have already died. I've been the primary person responsible for three relatives that have passed, but I was younger then. The magnitude of what was happening didn't paralyze me. I go to funerals often and sometimes it takes a lot of mental discipline not to project and wonder how my own life will end. I've been writing about it a lot in my journals lately. Maybe some of this explains my fascination with all things Day of the Dead. 

My sis Betty in Washington has been in and out of crisis for a month and her daughters live in California. Trying to stay on top of things on the phone and computer has become a full-time job for my nieces.

Another good friend was just hospitalized again two days ago. I wrote in my journal that night, "Do I have the courage to grow old?" (Like we have a choice one way or another?) The sentences that followed were that it is time again to seriously re-acquaint myself spiritually with aging and what lies ahead for me. One niece flies to Washington tomorrow to help out while Betty is moved to the assisted living wing of her retirement inn. The other niece and her husband fly up on Sunday. I was blessed to spend quality time with Betty in August and I am very grateful for that.

With a heavy heart yesterday, I Googled spirituality and aging and did come up immediately with four of my favorite writers on the subject: Rabbi Zalman M. Schachter-Shalomi From Age-ing to Sage-ing; Sister Joan Chittister's The Gift of Years; Angeles Arrien's Second Half of Life, Opening the Eight Gates of Wisdom; Fr. Richard Rohr’s book, Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life. I own all these books and/or tapes and know their content well.

But, a new book came up: Lewis Richmond, Aging as a Spiritual Practice, A Contemplative Guide to Growing Older and Wiser. I love synchronicity. I checked the Palos Verdes Library District catalog and the book was in and I am in the midst of reading it. It is very powerful stuff for me to re-orient myself to my own aging process. I don't retain information like I used to so I'm reading it very slowly with yellow stickies all over the place. 

Lewis Richmond is a Buddhist teacher and the national bestselling author of several books and this new one presents a user’s guide to aging well and making every year fulfilling and transformative. I am in the second chapter now and very impressed. Following is what it says on the book jacket:

On the road that anyone fortunate enough to have lived this long must take, the first truth of aging is also the first truth of Buddhist teaching: Everything changes. In Aging as a Spiritual Practice, Buddhist priest and meditation teacher Lewis Richmond helps us understand how the transformation can bring new possibilities, fresh beginnings, a wealth of appreciation and a depth of gratitude that profoundly affects how our lives proceed.

Richmond offers an inner roadmap for aging, acknowledging the fear, anger, and sorrow many people experience when they must confront the indignities of their aging bodies and the unknowns associated with mortality, as well as explaining the four key stages of aging:

• Lightning Strikes (the moment we truly wake up to our aging)
• Coming to Terms (comparing ourselves now to how we once were)
• Adaptation (letting go of who we were and embracing who we are)
• Appreciation (acknowledging that “This is my life, I have no other”)

Regardless of whether you are enjoying growing old, hating it, or in denial, each chapter is filled with relatable anecdotes, includingRichmond’s own experience of illness, aging, and transformation. Guided meditations and contemplative reflections help us to see that while we can’t escape life’s essential problems, we can change our understanding about them and enjoy the process.

Incorporating illuminating facts from scientific researchers, doctors, and psychologists on aging’s various challenges and rewards;Richmondexplores the tandem of maintaining a healthy body and healthy relationships infused with an active spiritual life. Using this information, we can pay attention to our own experience of aging through the lens of our emotions, and adapt accordingly, inspiring opportunities for a joy that transcends age.

Admittedly, lightning struck at least a decade ago, but I am only now coming to terms and adaptation. I will admit that so far I have remained extremely grateful for my life. 

So, prayers for my sis Betty, please, and may we all have peace and purpose as we age.