The Secret Marble- 14 June 2007

One little itch turned into a curious rub, which transformed into a slight state of panic. Within the outer perimeter of my left breast I discovered what felt like a marble rolling around. As a 27 year old woman the last thought one wants to contemplate is the concept of breast cancer.

Three years before my aunt, who is Thai, received the diagnosis of breast cancer at the age of thirty-six. Only been married to my uncle for a few years they began their matrimony with endless doctor visits and kemo therapy and natural remedies and excruciating pain. Finally, my aunt's treatment had been completed leaving her hairless, weaker, but a little bit wiser. There is not a moment of regret for the illness. The experience tightened the bond of my aunt and uncle's marriage learning a whole new appreciation for each other's love. My aunt also has a broaden perspective for the importance of life and love. The potential scare of loosing life helped her to cherish every waking moment. Though there is a five year window anticipating the renewal of the cancer cells, my aunt and uncle live each day to the fullest in love.

After much debate between my head and reason then searching for clinics that accepted new patients, I reluctantly conceded to receiving another opinion. Suddenly, I faced the possibility that my entire life might change at the sound of one word--- malignant. Going to school in pursuit of a nursing degree could be placed on hold. Kemo could become my lifestyle. Medication and frequent doctor visits would control my daily schedule. How in the world would I finance the struggle. Sure I have insurance, but would I want to work to keep it? Then there is being alone. The therapy sessions alone. Crying over the procedures alone. Would anyone want me after radiation treatment and hair loss and shriveled. I have decided it would be easier to die of the disease then try to fight for living. The repercussions I dread most.

For a week, I imagine how my life will be different. I question my character desiring to overcome the battle. Can I have children? Will I want to marry? Can I continue to becoming a nurse? Will I have the resilience for life as my aunt? I do not have the courage to answer these questions.

Monday morning arrived for my appointment with the nurse practitioner. While performing her exam if she finds any cause for alarm a second opinion plus a mammogram will need to be arranged. I find a woman's center that welcomes new patients. When I enter the waiting room I notice I am the only woman not pregnant. I feel odd and misplaced as I fill out my paper work. The women around me are looking forward to a new life full of joy and anticipation with the child to be. I sit in fear and anxiety should I hear the worst. Here amongst the soccer-mom types watching the View and Dr. Phil I huddle to myself knowing full well these women are nothing like me. The realization makes me feel uncomfortable and invisible to them.

"Catherine." To those unfamiliar with me I am always known by my first name. I slowly gather my possessions to follow the nurse to an exam room where there is an exam bed with stirrups. The nurse introduces herself then verifies my purpose for the visit. She asks me to remove my shirt and bra to be replaced with a gown. She walks out.

As I am removing my garments I look around the cold sterile room. Not much warmth to offer comfort to the needy. I complete my exchange then sit myself on the bed to wrestle with my thoughts as I wait. It seems as if the nurse prolongs my agony for hours before reentering the room. She apologizes for my wait as she washes her hands. She asks me to lay back to lift my arm on the same side of the breast she exams while she congratulates me for investigating the matter at such a young age. I am thinking, I better because if it can happen it can happen to me. It occurs to me I have not shaved my armpits in a while. Embarrassment seeps in. Her hands move around my breasts like I have no form and my breasts are actually mounds of bread dough to be mended and poked with no emotion or cause for care. When several minutes pass of this procedures the nurse states she is almost 99 percent sure the lump is benign. Most likely it is a form of a cyst created by too much consumption of caffeine and chocolate, so she says. I breathe a little easier. However, just to be sure, since I have taken the time thus far, it is wise to see a surgeon to do further tests on the content of the lump. I agree for her to make the arrangements. But what if the surgeon wants to remove it? What does that mean?

Just about a month passes until the next appointment. I have cut off just about all caffeine switching to decaf coffee. I consume very little chocolate making fruit my main sweet indulgence, like cherries and blueberries. I also drink more juices. For the last few weeks I rarely occupy any time to the thought of my it. After some internet research I convince myself the it is nothing. The lump is movable, smooth, and soft- indicating benign. The material I read of malignant cases are irregular in shape, well attached to the tissue, and hard in form. My mind feels at ease.

However, there are days while getting dressed or in the shower I search for its existence. Just when I think it has disappeared I rediscover it. It! This seems a safe identification of its shape. It is neither good nor evil. It is not cruel enough to be a monster, yet still enough of a nuisance to be considered an irritation. Why not title it the marble since that is what it feels like.

Time moves on. Each day passes like the next. There are days of frustration, days of joy, and just average ordinary days. Then the 20th of June arrives. After dealing with scheduling conflicts with work I am able to make the doctor's appointment and to work on time.

I arrive at the doctor's office thirty minutes early to start all my paper work. The office is called a surgical group, which encourages me to believe I could be visiting a clinic that specializes in plastic surgery. Although, when I walk into the waiting room I am a little baffled. I bring the average age down to about 65. I feel childish feeling out my forms, like maybe I am actually in an infirmary surrounded by approaching death. The lobby is full of medication magazines. Montel is rounding up his show about spirit guides where then the Price is Right begins. I finish my medical history, which really amounts to nothing. I start filling out my financial aid forms for school.

"Catherine!" To her myself addressed as Catherine always catches me off guard. I am behind a corner that blocks the view from the entry door. "Catherine!" The nurse cannot see me. "I'm right here," I say sort of softly. The nurse neither hears me nor sees me. "Is there a Catherine here?" I am trying to quickly round up my things when I repeat myself. "Catherine!" This time in a much louder voice with a hint of annoyance, "I am coming," causing all eyes in the room to fall on me. An older nurse moves forward from around the corner to finally spot me. All my possessions are obtained and I follow the nurse through a long hall-way to an exam room.

Another nurse, she is much younger with a kind smile, meets us. I place my book bag and purse beside the exam bed then have a seat in a chair. My doctor rushes in. He does not appear to be very old, 40 tops. He seems rather surprised I am so young. He excuses himself and the younger nurse invites me to the adjoining restroom to change my top. Before preparing the ultrasound machine she hands me a folded paper towel. I unfold it to find it is really a paper towel jacket that opens loosely in the front. The nurses leave the room so I grab my camera to photograph myself in the restroom.

The doctor comes in again, but he does not see me. I confuse him. just when he is about to leave I reenter the exam room trying to conceal my camera. He invites me to sit in the chair to discuss the threat of breast cancer. I cross my arms around the blue paper towel jacket as an attempt to prevent exposure, which the actions makes me feel rather silly because I know it is inevitable I will be revealed soon.

I recognize the doctor is some what uncomfortable about discussing the topic of breast cancer or about discussing the issue with someone as young as myself. He tries to remain professional by offering eye contact, but his glances often fall to my knees. Above all he tries to assure me it is highly unlikely I have a cancerous lump at the age of 27. The doctor then signals me to the exam bed as he washes his hands. With a deep breath he asks me to raise my right arm as a basis for comparison since my marble is in the left breast.

At first the doctor seems reluctant carefully touching me as if he could violate me. A few seconds later he eases his conscience where I no longer have breasts on my chest, but instead I am play-dough. The doctor switches sides asking me to lift my left arm. He names off terms, which I assume are medical locations for the breast. Then he discovers my lump, I mean my marble. He becomes intrigued then I catch a hint of relief in his voice. He is most certain it is benign for how easily it moves around.

The doctor asks the nurse to turn off the lights while he grabs the ultrasound phone and lubricant. He then asks me have I ever been examined by an ultrasound before. I reply, "Yes, for my thumb." (When I severely cut my thumb on a table-saw the machine was used as an attempt to break up the scar tissue- it did not work.) First, the doctor concentrates on the area where my marble is located showing a highlight spot with white shadowing on the monitor. This is good. A star-shape with dark shadowing would indicate a tumor. The doctor repeats himself several times about my healthy tissue for a healthy breast. Then he explains because I am thin, or because I have small breasts, I can see my heart beat causing the tissue to tremor. Several shots are photographed of my ultrasound breast image. I am fascinated suddenly feeling myself become envious for a pregnant woman.

The doctor finishes his exam switching on the lights. He is 99.9% sure my marble is benign, but for assurance he can remove a specimen from the lump to send to pathology for testing to be absolutely certain. I agree. He places some kind of ointment on the breast then numbs the area by inserting a needle. A moment later with one hand he uses his knuckle to blockade the marble from disappearing while using his other hand to inject a surrenge into the marble. He pumps the needle up and down. "Do you hear the grinding sound," he asks. I listen closer. Then I hear it, like a pencil moving across sandpaper. He asks the nurse for a larger gauge surrenge . I cringe. I have been numbed, but that grinding sound makes me hurt. Plus, every time the doctor pushes down its like pressing into an empty cavity that reaches further placing pressure on my lung. Finally, he is done squeezing my juices into a small jar. He cleans my puncture of the blood then places on a round band aide.

I am told the results will take a few days to be received then reviewed, but I should call the beginning of the following week for my outcome. The doctor shakes my hand assuring me I have nothing to worry about. He makes his exit leaving me bruised and partially naked. I feel somewhat abandoned. I redress, take a few more pictures, pay my bill, then leave for work. Nothing seemed very important as I carried that attitude on my face for the remainder of the day.

For the rest of the week I give little thought to my marble. I consume myself with my job trying to complete each work day. My breast is sore from the puncture having a greenish/purple bruise to show for it. With all my many bruises from time's past this is the first for my breast. The marble also feels swollen and tender.

Monday comes. I decide not to call just in case the result are not in yet. Tuesday comes. I call. The secretary takes my name and number informing me a nurse will call me with the results. The call is not returned. Wednesday comes. I call again. The secretary apologizes. She promises to make sure my file is reviewed and will have the nurse call me as soon as possible. I wait. Should I be concerned or is this typical routine for doctor offices to prolong any and every news whether good or bad? Or is someone holding out on me for fear of the diagnosis that must be revealed?

I must have been distracted from the phone when I noticed I missed a call. I check my voice mail. It is from my doctor. "Hi, Catherine. The needle aspiration did not show any cancer cells. Sometimes you are not adequately getting a good sample and so I always recommend you still follow up to be sure you are not with an enlarged tumorous cells. Just to be sure have a follow up scheduled in a few months." Then its over. Its a strange message to leave me. I am in the clear, but I should still have the fear in the back of my mind. Why could he not say, "You are golden. Enjoy your life and have lots of babies," or something to that regard to assure me my life is normal.

If the doctor told me I actually did have a malignant lump I think I would have remained calm. There has been such a slow progression that there would be acceptance instead of shock. I do not want to demean anyone's illness or disabilities or pain, but as a human we find ways to cope. The initial state of shock declares ideas of the impossible. However, through life as a living creature our adaptability is endless. The unexpected death of a loved one, the surprise of any amputating accident, the unbelievable diagnosis of a life-threatening disease, the life changing acknowledgment of an event or circumstance. It all alters the way we think or feel determining what the next step must be. I know now after the tests and the exams and the prayers and the advice and the love that I can overcome the worst of news. I always have. There is one thing I know of God- He will not place me through a trial I cannot over come without Him. Breast cancer- with whatever result forms- is included.

George Muller, founder an orphanage in England and dedicated man or prayer, said as a reaction to his wife's death, "the times of my darling wife are in Your hands. You will do the very best thing for her and for me, whether in life or death. If it may be raise yet up again my precious wife, You are able to do it, though she is so ill; but however You deal with me, only help me to continue to be perfectly satisfied with Your holy will."

Through this obstacle I have come to realize it is not death I fear, but living my life to the fullest capacity. Am I willing to perform what seems impossible? Do I believe my life is some leaf flapping in the wind? Or am I courageous to trust there is direction and purpose for my decisions with guidance to follow righteously? I am not perfect. I do not have all the answers, but I know I am safer in the hands of the One who formed me for there is nothing to fear. "We rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our suffering, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us because God has poured out his love into our hearts." (Romans 5:2-5)

When I allow things like work or loneliness or confusion or physical challenges to burden me I must remember my life is also blessed by great and small.

"Our desire, therefore, is not that we might be without trials of faith, but that the Lord graciously would be pleased to support us in the trial, that we might not dishonour Him by distrust." -George Muller

CAPTURING SPRING-MAY 6TH, 2007

For the past three days Boone, NC has been submerged in gray clouds, rain, and dense fog. When Sunday morning awoke the clouds rolled on revealing blue skies still exit. The sun was permitted to shine summoning the birds to sing and dance. As the fog faded away the mountains exposed what once was stagnate unimpressive isolation now became budded with life of lush greenness.

For the past months spring's arrival suffered denial from entering the High Country. Her persistence had finally redeemed entrance. The Dogwoods and the Azaleas and the red buds and the Rhoadendras and the Phlox and the daisies and the Hydrangeas and the Tulips proved their brilliance by resilience. The opportunity for renewal arrived.

After much patience not to mention frustration from being haggled I finally received my Christmas present from my parents. I had been given a Nikon D70 digital SLR camera by my mother and father's kind generosity, however I was under the impression I could find a camera for the same price but contain more megapixels. Thus, I had my eye on the Nikon D80- 5 mgpx verses 10.2 mgpx. I "Googled" (strange how a proper noun can now be used as a verb) the D80 camera finding a variety of price ranges. I soon learned the expression, If it is too good to be true it probably is to be very correct. I dealt with many New York camera companies acting in dishonesty scares of truth offering terrible customer service. I ordered the camera from three different companies only to cancel each time because of the discovered scam. In the end, thanks to a nice tax refund, I made up for the difference in cost to buy the D80 from a reputable company.

Just las week I was at last handed the long awaited gift. Never regretting the decision my difficulty was well worth the endured wait. I have been trigger happy ever since.

This new camera I hope will bring new opportunities for work to me. I have discovered that my camera eye has become lazy and less focused. However, I am beginning to exercise myself once again with the hope of gaining the sense for good composition. The realm of digital photography no doubt I have tried to fight for the simple principle although I definitely recognize the convenience. The acknowledge fact is that I no longer have access to darkrooms or large scale printers has been a major factor of my productivity, or lack of. I see this digital gift as an opportunity to avoid the latter excuses reuniting myself with my love for creativity. Though my ambition is meager I now have the choice to overcome lack of motivation to explore new options. I find myself building up with excitement.

As the signs of spring finally appear- leaves showing off in fullness, saturated blue skies contrasting deep clouds- I am most intrigued by the newness I can capture. Having a new dog along side my already adorable old dog makes for "awhhhhhhhh" moments as well. I am most impressed with the speed and the colors I am able to capture as well. Clarity as I have never known apart from extremely low film speeds. I am most impressed with what I am capable of producing right before my eyes instantaneously.

What will Spring be able to capture next?

New Addition

A common occurrence within my life seems to be the unexpected. I like the surprises and sometimes I can even enjoy the misfortunes in the journey more than others along the way. This particular unexpected surprise has been enjoyable as well as good training ground for my patience. When a coworker named Peggy came to me with excitement having the perfect dog for me I could not help but be intrigued.

I love my dear little dachshund, Tsali. She has been my dearest companion these last five years offering unconditional faithful affection. We have been through many transitions and tears and joy and expeditions and adventures together. However, Tsali loves constant attention which I cannot offer because of work. Not until I moved in with my sister and her dog, Stella, did I realize Tsali likes having a four-legged friend nearby behaving much better. Well, my sister is on the road much of the time with Stella by her side leaving Tsali to herself again. Also, since I know my sister and I will not be roommates much longer I have been in search for Tsali's perfect friend.

What dog would be best for Tsali?

Though I adore Stella her rat terrier tendencies can often be overwhelming for myself and Tsali. My other roommate has a Canon/Spitz mix. Iko, a wonderful medium-size black and white pleased with anyone makes for a good companion that even Tsali appreciates. However, Iko is larger with higher energy possessing a lot of fur. The shedding would be a problem for me and I must admit though I have always considered myself a "big dog" person my personality has adapted for Tsali. Smaller dogs are easier to manage and more convenient for travel.

Peggy came to work a few hours before she was due to clock-in to show me my "perfect dog." I rushed out to Peggy's vehicle to my possible match. What Peggy pulled out caught me off guard. The dog, Peggy called Brownie, looked as if she could be mixed with yorkshire, dachshund, rat terrier breed then threw in the body of a cat, the mouth of a monkey, the ears of a fox not to mention it was like a crazy hair stylist grabbed hold of her hair to add splashes of bleached highlights through out her coat. (Just kidding). Apart from the strange appearance we seemed to make a connection. Her loving personality could not deter her from being unattractive. Her soft brown looked straight through me. All I knew to was, "It will depend how Tsali likes her." With that we arranged a date "Brownie" could stay with me to make better acquaintance with Tsali

My sister was willing to pick "Brownie up for me. All three dogs had time to interact before I came home from work. The first matter of business was to give her a name. I wanted to her a hebrew of greek name for the meaning "hope." Greek is not the prettiest of languages and hope in hebrew is pronounced "tiqwah." I went through the hebrew dictionary trying to find something workable. In the meantime, Maury called her Samantha. It was also apparent that Samantha/Brownie/Tiqwah needed to be potty trained. She made no hesitation to relieve herself on our floors. Since, there were already two dogs and myself name's beginning with the s-sound Samantha could not stick. Out of frustration to find a name that sounded well to me I called her Mariah, in hebrew spelled Moriah, meaning bitterness.

Moriah is absolutely a warm and loving dog. Peggy had rescued her from a abusive family that was hoping she would "get lost." Considering her early mistreatment and trauma and lack of affection she shows no signs of difficulty. Thanks to the example of my dog and my sister's Moriah is quickly understanding the outdoors are used for her restroom. Tsali walks along side Moriah to assist my commands. Stella shows Moriah how to play and execute tug-of-war. Moriah warmly walks up to any stranger anticipating a belly rub. She likes to chew on sticks and pine cones, but is not destructive. I am never concerned about her wondering away, yet she is always ready for an adventure. Moriah loves hikes trying to stay in the lead and is proving to be quite the jumper from rock to rock. Though she is a full-on puppy- rather clumsy and spastic when she becomes excited- she is also a mature puppy saving her energy for outside and compliant to my instruction. She is a quick learner that I believe helps by having other good dogs to watch.

Tsali has not become the best of buds with Moriah, but she did not instantly like Stella either. I am aware it will take plenty of time for the two to be completely excepting of each other. I am also utterly confident this is the best companion for Tsali. As I step further into school demanding more book hours as well as working full time quality time for Tsali will be limited. It is my hope that being apart of a pack will make my absence more endurable.

I hate to separate myself from Tsali wishing I could have a job where she could join, but that option has not opened up. Besides, I enjoy watching Moriah experience life for the first time as a nuance. Her reactions to all new experiences are priceless. I am her haven from the world she knew. Moriah is my appreciation for the life that is ever changing always bringing new surprised and gifts along the journey.

Winters Last Stand

The wonders of the unpredictable weather astounds me watching as seasons become unrecognizable. Just last week I was romping in shorts and a tank top while local college girls modeled newly acquired bikinis and guys exercised shirtless. Purchasing a cold milkshake became a frequent antidote to sooth a hot throat. Even my dog, Tsali, could be caught panting from the sun's unrelenting heat. One week later, or more preciously, four days from experiencing 75ºF temperatures, it is now 20 degrees with the wind chill factor being 15ºF while thick wet snow blankets the High Country of North Carolina whispering rumors of 4-8 inches to fall. Once the mornings were filled with chirping birds. Now the silence of wind fills the air.

A conversation made earlier with my mother explains this is merely Dogwood Winter, but thats for Middle Tennessee. Here we are experiencing a blizzard. I know I will cause some head shakes with this comment, but all this snow during the week the UN is discussing the dangers of Global Warming I find rather ironic. Just so I can add my two cents since I am the one who has control of my words here- Is it possible the Earth goes through natural cycles, like the Ice Age. Last winter Russia suffered from record breaking cold temperatures. This winter while the majority of the Rocky Mountain Range was left neglected of its usual snow coverage the mountains of New Mexico relished the best ski season in years.

However, apart from the strange weather patterns, it seem particularly symbolic that so much beauty, so much growth entered by spring can be completely smothered by the unyielding weight of coldness.

I turn looking around to see this pattern evolving within several aspects of life, particularly my own. By the mere day to day routine of life if one is not equipped or prepared an unforeseen storm could collapse the soul: The factors of growing old. Allowing materialism to dictate decisions. Insincere faithfulness in relationships. Lack of character to overcome trials. Desire of power and control. Unmotivated steps to more forward. Distracted emotions deterring from truth. Selfishness preventing vision beyond a nose.

The snow clouds roll in to burry the growing life no longer seen, no longer acknowledged. THe blossoms once vibrant and pure are now choked by coldness, defeat, and fear. When the snow finally melts. All that remains is withered, discolored, and an unrecognizable mess. If only preparation had been made to cover the blooms. However, nature will carry on, time will pass, seasons will travel, and spring will arrive again for another opportunity of renewal.

I watch in agony the mistakes made increasing my desire to shout in panic, "Don't you see what you are doing to yourself?!" Then the snow storm like a velvet curtain falls before me. The curtain is drawn back by a cranking pulley to reveal an icy mirror. I step forward for a closer look and there I am staring back in shame. I have made the same mistakes. I have made the same poor decisions. I am crying because I did not learn from others' experiences and no one has learned from mine. I am helpless, powerless, without control standing in the bitter cold exposed as a fraud. My head hangs low. I can see no more.

The winter curtain sweeps to a close removing the dense anguish that stung my soul. The deep snow disappears to pronounce the mountains and blue sky and sun. Hope has risen bringing a new morning within reach. The snow melts unveiling what once stood bold. As the winds summon the warmth from the South. As the sun rises higher in power and comfort- I feel opportunities for new days. Hope for second chances. A path cleared to move forward.

Shapes of Love

When I first decided to write on the topic of love I had intended to discuss the difficulties of seeking romantic relationships, particularly my failures at dating. I seem to have been dating the guys for the wrong reasons. Instead though, I need to to take a few steps back to understand and grasp what and where love is.

If you can get past the fact that the movie How to Make an American Quilt is a chick flick it actually offers some very insightful realistic perspectives of love. Through the individual stories for the search of true love the characters learn love can mold into other forms: the unbreakable bond of sisters, the cherished passion for a daughter, the remembrance of a stranger/friend/soulmate, and a love missed in one's self.

I like the idea of love. I like the idea of growing old with someone. I like the idea of making and sharing memories. I like the idea of always having assurance to love and hold someone. I like the idea of experiencing a moment together and elbowing him in the gut to confirm the appreciated sight. However, I am also realizing the older I become the more accustomed I am to my single independent ways. On the other hand, the more I spend my life single the more I feel alone. Yet, the list I stated above does not mean to be restricted to one individual.

I am noticing I need to be comfortable with my singleness to truly grab hold of who I am and what I need rather than adapt for someone's needs and wants because I am too weak and insecure to be myself. A moment in time to focus on priorities of what has been given to me and to who I need to be thankful.

But just to play the Devil's advocate, is it possible we are all immature towards love leading to marriage through the courting process? Is it possible that true undeniable love cannot be accomplished until at least 50 years of marriage? Because by then you have proven the vows "through sickness and in health." By then it has been demonstrated the bond glued by love is so strong not even the concept of divorce can taint it.

No matter how much I may think I am ready for the leaps and bounds of matrimony I continue to prove I am not. Therefore, my love must be distributed equally to establish what I need to be securely to prevent concentration on one selfishly.

The faces of love I see: from a overly patient sister, to the prayerful supporting parents, to the laughter of a friend, to the cherished memories of distant friends, to the unconditional attention of a dog, to the desire of photography and communication, to the pleasure of a song that moves my soul, to a stranger that offers compassionate wisdom, to the willing listening ear, to the thrill and excitement of kayaking, to the generosity of a fellow comrade, to the growing remorseful soul, to the sovereign God who makes it all possible.

I can be at peace with this because there are so many signs of love. The intimate are by far the best, but also come at a price. So if someone has been found worth the expense grab on and never let go. Until then, grow, understand, seek, be curious, and live. Live for the moments that bring the most love-a fulfilled life.

I looked into the room and I see her staring into worlds unknown. I do not know her and she does not know me. We have been apart of each other's lives for years, but have missed the essence. She is lying peacefully sleeping eternally. I have seen her in this state before. I have seen her many times sleeping within death's grasp, but now she is owned by endless slumber.

Grandma and I have a history together. Within the last few years not memories of love or kindness or of the grandparent-kind. Our history will always bring memories of sadness, melancholy, and frustration. I love my Grandma because of what we were, because of what we had, because of what we shared. However, with age and maturity our situations have changed. I am no longer the little granddaughter that would spend hours in awe sifting through her enormous collection of QVC jewelry. I am no longer the granddaughter that could be occupied searching through her yard sale findings. I am no longer the granddaughter hidden away in a ditch or under a tree by the powers of a pink sheet she gave me. I am no longer the granddaughter whose affections could be bought with materialism.

The days that I spent with Grandma in her old age allow me to see how she truly was and what she truly was not. I saw her frailty and I saw her weakness. I saw her complacency and I saw her fear. It was in those days that I spent with her that I lost my respect for her because of what she could not be, because of what she could not understand, because of why she could not be strong.

After hours of driving through my least desired countryside of cornfields and bleak vastness I finally arrive to Union City, TN, a town I have never had fondness for always sneaks upon me. West Tennessee known for its delicious BBQ and fried catfish and wonderful sweat corn has struck me as being the armpit of Tennessee compared to the rest of the state. No uniqueness or fascinating beauty to be admired. No cascading streams or rolling hills. No mystic mountains or overgrown forests. Merely flatness of the most annoying kind because nothing ever changed. Whether is the spring or winter the landscape has always seemed the same.

Being raised on vacations spent in the mountains on the rivers one can understand Union City did not hold any allure to me. In fact, I felt sorry for the kids who had to grow up there, but I felt pride for my father who escaped to live in far richer parts of the country.

"We picked them up at the river," was Grandma's most over used explanation for her visiting granddaughters. To visit Grandaddy and Grandma one of my parents would meet half way to Union City, most often near the Tennessee River off Interstate 40. However, as Grandaddy got older the rendezvous moved closer and closer to Union City. I would spend a week or two going to the nursing home where Grandma volunteered or meeting a neighborhood kid I had nothing in common with or visiting a strange smelling neighbor or attending church or shopping where Grandma graced me with gifts or going to the city playground. When I grew older I lost my patience with the town searching for excuses not to go. As a teenager Union City was hardly the happening place and I became more reclusive towards my grandparents.

Grandaddy passed away when I was sixteen, tens years to the month before Grandma's passing. Since that time Grandma's health had slowly deteriorated. Not long after Grandaddy's death Grandma was diagnosed with Parkinson's. She was able to spend the first five years alone, but with no one to cook for my plump grandma soon lost many pounds. Parkinson's was playing its toll on Grandma's driving and she was not able to care for herself easily. Since none of her children lived close and Grandma refused to leave Union City it was decided to place her in an assistant living home where my father frequently visited her.

Early in the spring of 2003 it was decided by my aunt, uncle, and father that it was best to sell Grandma's house. Because I was in between jobs, they asked me if I would be willing to sell all her possessions by way of yard sale. I agreed.

With a hint of resistance tugging with past memories I drove to Union City in preparation of the yard sale. First I had to organize the items to sell, then with Grandma's help and approval we priced the selections. The following was a complete disaster. Realization gripped Grandma when she finally understood everyone wanted to barter for her life's possessions. She fought for each item that was desired accusing me of selling things too cheap. Hysteria possessed Grandma. She was becoming the crazy woman down the street. I was the money hungry granddaughter. Finally, a neighbor agreed to return Grandma to the assistant home and there was peace. Within three days I sold 50 years of memories for a little more than eight hundred dollars. For Grandma my actions were never forgotten and never forgiven.

A few months later Grandma had an urinary infection causing her to constantly seek the restroom. On two separate occasion during the action she slipped and broke each arm. Until the family could make arrangement for evening supervision I was asked to attend her any way that I could. During the three nights I stayed in Union City I received little sleep. At night averaging every 20 minutes Grandma pursued the toilet for relief requiring myself to assist for a success assent and descent. By chance I had fallen asleep I was quickly awoken by the wailing, blood curling shouting that would disturbed the deepest of sleepers. I would try my best to calm Grandma attempting every method possible to sooth her. I would read scripture from the Bible to offer as strength. I struggled to remember old hymns that I thought she would enjoy to provide peace. However, my most faithful tool was the voice of Eddy Arnold, her beloved boyfriend heard on the radio across the country during the 1950s. Every time she heard his voice she stopped the crying to sing along. Because I did not have the patience nor the kindness that summer tainted my view of how I viewed my Grandma from there on.

Not long after Grandma's injury dementia overtook her mind where she had to be moved to a nursing home in Nashville so Dad could take better care of her affairs. Though Grandma's memory was crisp dementia dominated her personality for periods sometimes creating unrecognizable sentences with wailing and total stubbornness. Every visit I made I could tell she still had resentment towards me for selling her life and being apart of her most physically painful occurrence. I was remembered with distain.

To acknowledge this does not pain me because the grandma I once knew had died with my grandaddy. The woman half blind and angry and confused I will not remember. I do not know her nor did I wish to. Old age leaked weakness and bitterness. I want to remember her for her smiles and love.

The door to the outside opened exposing us all to a great light. As if Grandma was floating the pallbearers released her to the blinding brightness. Gloom had overtaken Union City creating the perfect environment for a death. Rain became heavy as we carefully tip-toed to avoid mud at the cemetery. A short prayer was spoken and then it was over. We did not watch the vault sealed. We did not watch the body descend. We merely walked away in the rain.

Later that day I returned to the grave site. The tent and chairs had disappeared. The coffin that had been rained upon ealier was missing. All that was left behind was a mound of dirt with a few flower arrangements lying on top and the stone containing a birth date and death date to eternalize her life.

The last few times I visited Grandma at the nursing home I often came upon a living corpse. To awaken her from her trance the best method was to play her Eddie Arnold tapes. Suddenly, as if receiving air for the first time Grandma would beam mimicking the singer's favorite notes like a wolf howling in agreement to the moon. As much as I could tell, during her last days Eddie Arnold was her only source of joy sweeping peace across her soul.

Death does not scare me nor does it grieve me particularly when it involves my grandparents because I know there is a better place for them to rest and not grow old. Grandma was not an affectionate woman never uttering the words, "I love you," to me, but I never doubted her love. She just had her own way of demonstrating her love. I demonstrated mine by wearing a black dress to the funeral I found in her attic stuffed away in a trunk. I like to think she once wore it and I commemorate her image in some way. Like, I represent the elegance everyone would love in her.

Grandma's funeral was rather unemotional and brief. This is not how I want my last memories of her to be. I make a memory for myself: I imagine myself sitting beside her grave right before they lower her body. From among the sky a voice announces Eddie Arnold as his crooning echoes though the countryside turning into a high-pitch yodeling. Then I can imagine Grandma's eyes pop open in excitement. Eddie Arnold continues to sing encouraging Grandma to pucker her lips and join the harmony. The body begins to descend all while the two are mesmerized by song. The music of their souls are collaborating in death. I can see Grandma smiling as the sounds grow fainter. As the earth is being filled the music continues to a barely audible humming. Eddie Arnold beckons my grandma deeper and deeper below to an endless sleep that now comforts her.

Questions & doubts-January 4, 2007

In these passing days I wonder who I am and what I am trying to accomplish. I appear to be determined to upset my life. I have made so many mistakes and I seem talented about making many more. I am skilled at traveling the wrong direction. Rarely am I desperate enough to choose the correct coarse. I allow myself to be deceived to later pine over my poor decisions.

Is it possible I made the wrong choice? Was the other option what was intended for me? Or did I just choose the worst of two evils? I would like to think the later. I moved to hastily. Or actually, I was just curious then the next thing I know I have allowed snowballing to take place. It is out-of-control now.

The question that hangs now like a strangled elephant-do I have the courage to reverse or eradicate my downfall? Do I have the motivation and the morality to remain firm to what I believe? Will I remain patient to my direction for what God wants to do for me? Do I believe in truth? Do I believe in God's will and never ending love for me? I must or I have nothing to hope for.

I Want You to Know-JANUARY 2, 2007

I want to tell I will take you back. I want to tell you I am not ready to advance too fast. I want to tell you I am not physically attracted to you. I want to tell to grow up. I want to tell you to quit throwing your life away. I want to tell you I enjoy our commodity. I want to tell you prove your manhood to me. I want to tell you about my faith. I want to tell you to spare yourself from me. I want to tell you we need to travel and never stop. I want to tell you I have to move forward and you cannot follow. I want to tell you, "I wish you well during all your future discoveries." I want to tell you, "Make me more important in your eyes." I want to tell you live for yourself more than for just me. I want to tell you what we have will not work well.

I ask that you treat me like a queen. I ask that you make me equal to you. I ask that you forgive me for not being what you need me to be.

I desire for your strong embrace. I desire for you to devour me. I desire for you to respect my space.

I wish our faith would grow deepening into one another. I wish you could understand my commitment to my God. I wish I could help you find what you are searching.

I cannot satisfy all. Nor can you complete me. I love you with what I have. Anything more I cannot promise. My heart is torn between too many affections. I am sorry that my love is not large enough. Let me assure you our memories are apart of my self.