I think everyone would agree that the United States is not the same country now as it was the day before September 11th, 2001. However, it is the only one I know. You see I was two weeks into my new life in the US when 9-11 happened.
Like everyone, I will never forget where I was when the attacks happened. I phoned my friend to see if she wanted to go get breakfast before chapel and I remember her saying, "we're being bombed, our country is being bombed!" I had no idea what she was talking about but rushed to join her and her roommate to watch the footage. I saw it unfold, the second plane hitting, the towers falling. These images, that day, I will never forget.
United in horror and grief with my American friends, mourning together, processing together, we were one and the same. It didn't matter that I was a Canadian and this was not my country. Tragedy and loss are universal languages. So is fear.
In the days following the attack the patriotism was palpable. Americans responded to this attack on their country - their way of life. They rallied around their love of country, raised flags and shouted USA! People came together in unprecedented ways and set aside their differences in the light of their collective grief. It was a beautiful and heartening thing to watch.
It was an interesting time to be a newcomer, a foreigner, an immigrant. I was both bonded to and separated from my American friends. The tragedy of September 11th crystalized the human bonds that transcend nationality and the patriotism that excludes.
I had just finished International Student Orientation when 9-11 happened. At the time I thought it was absurd, but I get it now.
What I watched with horror that day was an attack on the United States, not on 'my' country. I may have been in the US, but I wasn't an American. And ten years later the same holds true.
Yesterday I remembered and I mourned. September 11th was an American tragedy, just as it was a universal one. It changed everything: the country, the world, me. Foreigner though I am.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Of fleas and failure
We have fleas.
Yes, fleas. As in the jumping bugs that live on cats and dogs. As in fleas that bite. As in disgusting. In our apartment. We have fleas.
A week ago I picked a flea off my baby girl. Fleas?!? In MY apartment?! Where did they come from? How did this happen? (Answer: a stray cat gained entry into our building). I couldn't sleep, I wouldn't set Anna down, I didn't know what to do. I was absolutely paralyzed. I just wanted to flee (ha) to my sisters in Vancouver, but I was terrified that somehow I would infest her house too.
Our sense of urgency combined with the exterminators unavailability caused us to tackle the fleas ourselves. We spent hours dousing our entire apartment with (completely benign and safe to humans and pets) powder, moving furniture, sweeping, vacuuming, etc. It was a tremendous amount of work and it will take a couple weeks to fully, completely, eradicate every last one. Until then I spend an hour each morning cleaning our floors since Anna spends her days crawling over every last inch of them. And although there is nary a trace of fleas, I remain paranoid - and itchy.
Somehow these little critters have managed to make me feel like a failure. I feel so dirty, so helpless, so gross. I have failed as a mother, wife and house-keeper.
I am slowly gathering my wits together.
We are not dirty people. It is not our fault. Anna is not going to contract some awful disease. I am not a bad mother. It will be OK. I am not a failure. I must accept that this time I am simply a victim.
They are just fleas. They will not hurt us. But my pride - my pride is a different story.
Yes, fleas. As in the jumping bugs that live on cats and dogs. As in fleas that bite. As in disgusting. In our apartment. We have fleas.
A week ago I picked a flea off my baby girl. Fleas?!? In MY apartment?! Where did they come from? How did this happen? (Answer: a stray cat gained entry into our building). I couldn't sleep, I wouldn't set Anna down, I didn't know what to do. I was absolutely paralyzed. I just wanted to flee (ha) to my sisters in Vancouver, but I was terrified that somehow I would infest her house too.
Our sense of urgency combined with the exterminators unavailability caused us to tackle the fleas ourselves. We spent hours dousing our entire apartment with (completely benign and safe to humans and pets) powder, moving furniture, sweeping, vacuuming, etc. It was a tremendous amount of work and it will take a couple weeks to fully, completely, eradicate every last one. Until then I spend an hour each morning cleaning our floors since Anna spends her days crawling over every last inch of them. And although there is nary a trace of fleas, I remain paranoid - and itchy.
Somehow these little critters have managed to make me feel like a failure. I feel so dirty, so helpless, so gross. I have failed as a mother, wife and house-keeper.
I am slowly gathering my wits together.
We are not dirty people. It is not our fault. Anna is not going to contract some awful disease. I am not a bad mother. It will be OK. I am not a failure. I must accept that this time I am simply a victim.
They are just fleas. They will not hurt us. But my pride - my pride is a different story.
In her words...
An update on my mom in her own words because I can't say it any better.
"Today is exactly the 6 week post-op mark for me! Tomorrow is 3 weeks since discharge. I know my INR, Warfarin dose, dates for follow-up surgeons' appointments and many more related issues by date and number. But one thing I'll never be able to quantify is the number of prayers offered on my behalf. But I can qualify it - God has done "abundantly more than I could ask or think." And - I can't thank Him - or all of you who prayed and supported me in so many wonderful ways - enough!
The surgery had the best possible outcome and now I've been recovering very well. In fact, so well that (in my words to a friend who inquired how I was): "either very well or very crazy." That referred to our decision to indulge a fond wish of mine to attend my nephew, Matt Josephson's, wedding in Atlanta, GA this weekend. We fly there Thursday then on Sunday head to Cape Cod gratefully accepting the invitation from Dean and Jill Lundgren to further recuperate at their wonderful vacation home.
The doctors may deal with tumours (via radio frequency ablation) on the remaining 40% of my liver later this fall but they have no concern regarding urgency. As they expected, I've had none of my preop symptoms recur.
In so many ways I've been encouraged and touched and taken care of. What a gift your friendship and support has been. The words thank-you don't even seem to convey as much as I wish but please accept them from me, from the bottom of my heart - which I believe is in the same place as before.
Love and blessings,
Joan
"Today is exactly the 6 week post-op mark for me! Tomorrow is 3 weeks since discharge. I know my INR, Warfarin dose, dates for follow-up surgeons' appointments and many more related issues by date and number. But one thing I'll never be able to quantify is the number of prayers offered on my behalf. But I can qualify it - God has done "abundantly more than I could ask or think." And - I can't thank Him - or all of you who prayed and supported me in so many wonderful ways - enough!
The surgery had the best possible outcome and now I've been recovering very well. In fact, so well that (in my words to a friend who inquired how I was): "either very well or very crazy." That referred to our decision to indulge a fond wish of mine to attend my nephew, Matt Josephson's, wedding in Atlanta, GA this weekend. We fly there Thursday then on Sunday head to Cape Cod gratefully accepting the invitation from Dean and Jill Lundgren to further recuperate at their wonderful vacation home.
The doctors may deal with tumours (via radio frequency ablation) on the remaining 40% of my liver later this fall but they have no concern regarding urgency. As they expected, I've had none of my preop symptoms recur.
In so many ways I've been encouraged and touched and taken care of. What a gift your friendship and support has been. The words thank-you don't even seem to convey as much as I wish but please accept them from me, from the bottom of my heart - which I believe is in the same place as before.
Love and blessings,
Joan
Monday, July 18, 2011
Bittersweet
Our year in Boise is over. It was a great year, it was a horrible year, it marked our lives indelibly. We survived the adventure. We loved it. We are a little worse for the wear.
This last year has been turbulent and life-changing. It was lonely and painful. We moved to the most remote metropolitan area in the country where we knew no one, had a baby, and learned that my dear mom has incurable cancer.
This last year has been turbulent and life-changing. It was beautiful and joyous. We turned co-workers into friends, made sweet memories with visiting family, gave birth to our precious Anna, and fell in love with an underrated and beautiful state.
In one short year, we experienced incomparable joy, deep love, profound sadness and paralyzing grief. We moved to Boise tentative and excited. We had the whole adventure ahead of us; we were pregnant and hopeful. I look back and realize how different I was then; how carefree I was.
I am not the same person who moved to Boise a year ago. I left a lot of me behind.
But I've learned that if allowed the bad will indelibly taint the good, and this I will not allow. Nor will I cheat myself by glossing over the pain. So I grapple earnestly with all my mixed feelings, all the joy and sorrow, happiness and tears that this year brought. I can't make sense of it all, and I can't fix it. I simply strive to accept it for what it was: both bitter and sweet.
Shauna Niequist writes in her book, Bittersweet, "...is the idea that in all things there is both something broken and something beautiful, that there is a sliver of lightness on even the darkest of nights, a shadow of hope in every heartbreak, and that rejoicing is no less rich when it contains a splinter of sadness."
And to this I say, Amen.
This last year has been turbulent and life-changing. It was lonely and painful. We moved to the most remote metropolitan area in the country where we knew no one, had a baby, and learned that my dear mom has incurable cancer.
This last year has been turbulent and life-changing. It was beautiful and joyous. We turned co-workers into friends, made sweet memories with visiting family, gave birth to our precious Anna, and fell in love with an underrated and beautiful state.
In one short year, we experienced incomparable joy, deep love, profound sadness and paralyzing grief. We moved to Boise tentative and excited. We had the whole adventure ahead of us; we were pregnant and hopeful. I look back and realize how different I was then; how carefree I was.
I am not the same person who moved to Boise a year ago. I left a lot of me behind.
But I've learned that if allowed the bad will indelibly taint the good, and this I will not allow. Nor will I cheat myself by glossing over the pain. So I grapple earnestly with all my mixed feelings, all the joy and sorrow, happiness and tears that this year brought. I can't make sense of it all, and I can't fix it. I simply strive to accept it for what it was: both bitter and sweet.
Shauna Niequist writes in her book, Bittersweet, "...is the idea that in all things there is both something broken and something beautiful, that there is a sliver of lightness on even the darkest of nights, a shadow of hope in every heartbreak, and that rejoicing is no less rich when it contains a splinter of sadness."
And to this I say, Amen.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Disoriented
We're back in Seattle. Our year in Boise is behind us. We moved for the 3rd time in 2 years into our 4th apartment in 3 states in our 5 years of marriage. Whew.
I feel like we still live in Boise and that we never did. In many ways we're picking up right where we left off. At the same time, I keep thinking that I'll turn the corner and be at our old place. It's a little odd. In my head we live in some hybrid Seattle/Boise/Chicago town as evidenced by what I typed when changing our address the other day:
908 Dexter St (not our real address)
Boise, ID
60625
Yep. Disoriented.
I feel like we still live in Boise and that we never did. In many ways we're picking up right where we left off. At the same time, I keep thinking that I'll turn the corner and be at our old place. It's a little odd. In my head we live in some hybrid Seattle/Boise/Chicago town as evidenced by what I typed when changing our address the other day:
908 Dexter St (not our real address)
Boise, ID
60625
Yep. Disoriented.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Red Fish Lake
We drove 8 hours roundtrip on Father's Day just to see some mountains.
All year we'd been planning on taking a trip up to Stanley to see the Sawtooth mountains, and we were running out of time. So, despite forecasted thundershowers, and a growing to-do list we decided around noon to make the trek.
We arrived in Stanley and realized that there wasn't all that much to do in a town of <500. We came for the views, but weren't sure where we were supposed to enjoy them from. The answer? Red Fish Lake.
It may be heaven, or perhaps it was just a dream, but I tell you this for sure: it was perfect. Words can't describe the idyllic scene, or more importantly the laid-back, heart-warming atmosphere. On paper it wasn't very different from a dozen other mountains lakes I've visited. But paper doesn't do magic justice.
Happy first Father's Day, Adam. I think it was a good one.
All year we'd been planning on taking a trip up to Stanley to see the Sawtooth mountains, and we were running out of time. So, despite forecasted thundershowers, and a growing to-do list we decided around noon to make the trek.
We arrived in Stanley and realized that there wasn't all that much to do in a town of <500. We came for the views, but weren't sure where we were supposed to enjoy them from. The answer? Red Fish Lake.
It may be heaven, or perhaps it was just a dream, but I tell you this for sure: it was perfect. Words can't describe the idyllic scene, or more importantly the laid-back, heart-warming atmosphere. On paper it wasn't very different from a dozen other mountains lakes I've visited. But paper doesn't do magic justice.
Happy first Father's Day, Adam. I think it was a good one.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
cancer
This post is a long time coming. I've written and rewritten it in my head so many times, so many nights. I can't find the right words. There are no good words. Only the worst word: cancer.
My mom has cancer.
It's a rare, slow-moving and incurable cancer. Carcinoid. It originated in her 'mid-gut' and has since spread to her liver. The tumours make her violently ill with severe stomach cramps and vomitting. She has been to the Emergency Room a dozen times since the beginning of March. She will be having surgery to remove half her liver, a chunk of her intestines and who knows what else sometime in the next couple months. She has been told that they can never get all the cancer. She has been told that they have made more advances in treating these neuroendocrine cancers in the last three years than in the twenty before that. She has been told that she can reasonably expect 10 good years.
My mom has cancer.
We are still reeling. NOT. MY. MOM.
And we hope.
So we pray. We pray for a miracle of healing. We pray for a tremendously successful surgery. We pray for a cure. We pray for strength and peace and courage for her and for dad. We pray for many, many more years together. We pray for hope. We pray for peace. We pray for peace. We pray for peace.
My mom has cancer.
Please pray for healing.
Please pray for peace.
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