Making a Splash

I think that Washington is a better-than-average place to live.   I don't say that casually because I've lived in lots of places that I really liked a lot.  Iowa, for example, was quite wonderful.  I loved the green rolling hills, the picturesque farms, and the golden corn fields,  but I can guarantee that you'll never see a splash like this in any body of water in Iowa.

This splash is beyond the capabilities of even the largest pool-side cannon-baller.  

Unless you have a relative that's roughly 9 tons.  

Then maybe they could compete.

Out on the water today, the challenge was where to focus my camera, because there were whales everywhere.  Mamas and babies were a big hit with our girls,

but the big males didn't need to rely on the cuteness factor.

They were just impressive.

Sea World just can't match this.

We went home tired but happy.  And so happy to call Washington home.

In the Genes

Yesterday Lyle turned forty and despite his mother's gentle reminders that he's not as young as he used to be, he celebrated the momentous day by running 26.2 miles.  His two youngest sisters actually bought plane tickets to fly to Seattle and join him in this suffer-fest.  (They descend from pioneer ancestors, that's the only thing I can attribute it to.)

Many months ago when I signed up to run the half marathon, I envisioned myself in top-notch physical shape, running as a birthday tribute to my husband.  Unfortunately, I didn't really envision the training.  Or if I did envision it, I certainly didn't do it.  So as I laced my running shoes at 4 AM, I knew it would not be pretty.  Not pretty at all. 

I was assigned corral number 32.  I felt the urge to moo.  Being in a corral was bad enough, but being in number 32 meant I would be crossing the starting line nearly an hour after Lyle way ahead in corral number 2.  In that case, he could conceivably finish before me, despite having run twice the distance.  That felt demoralizing, so the night before, I moved my start time up to corral 17.  Unfortunately, I was still in the Port-a-potty line when corral 17 began the race.  I believe it was corral 25 I jumped into and I saw the pacer for the 2:30 half marathon time.   Being that the woman was at least 65 years old, I thought maybe I could hang with her.  I did for a bit, but at mile four my body began sending subtle reminders that I hadn't really trained for any distance farther than house to mailbox.

So I quickly adjusted my goal (I think wishy-washy goal-making is the root of my problem) and decided that with walking breaks, I could finish in less than three hours and hopefully still make it back before Lyle.  That 2:30 group seemed a bit stuffy anyway.  There is no pacer for the three hour group.  What can I say, we're lone wolves.  

And so I finished, before the three hour mark and in time to meet Lyle, give him a kiss, and say happy birthday.  Then he told me he threw up in a garbage can on mile 24.  That was nice to hear. 

Lyle's brother-in-law took this picture of him somewhere along the course.  Lyle's smiling, so I believe it was before mile 24.  

Here,  I was swishing with water after the vomit revelation. 

My new haircut actually can look stylish, but like the rest of my body, 

my hair didn't quite know what to do with itself after about mile four.  

Lyle's sister, Laurel, however, can look quite lovely even after 26.2 miles.  

And Lyle's youngest sister, in the teal, looked strong coming into the finish.   This was her first marathon, only thirteen months after giving birth to a baby the size of a first grader.  (Did I mention the pioneer ancestors?)

And despite the blue lips, Lyle said he felt good.  I'm convinced that if he lived 150 years ago, he could have crossed the plains, cleared a forrest, built a cabin, and still had the time and energy to throw together a pizza oven.

From Seattle, we drove east to see three more of Lyle's sisters.  Lyle's local sister was due to have a baby July 18th, but she reasoned that it would be very convenient for everyone (since family was already flying in and all) to just have her water break a few weeks early.  With the arrival of the baby, two more sisters made the trek to Washington to help, and so it was a mini reunion, missing only Lyle's oldest sister and his younger brother.  

On Lyle's side, this is grandbaby number 29.  Despite being three weeks early, Olivia was a hefty 7 pounds 10 ounces.  She'll probably be almost ready for the next Rock and Roll Marathon.  She comes from healthy stock.

Thyme Crunch--1 year later

Last year at the end of June we were putting the finishing touches on our courtyard.  

The concrete "stones" had just been colored and sealed and 

I embarked on the most time/thyme consuming planting job I'd ever undertaken.

Now, a year later, I can honestly say it was worth it.  As I walked across the courtyard this morning, the scent was heavy in the air and the colors of the wooly thyme, creeping thyme, "little prince" thyme, and elfin thyme had that tapestry look I was hoping for.

And thankfully a year later, there's still little red shoes clicking across the courtyard, 

but now Cholita would like you know that she's moved onto "high heels".

And there's still the same blankie, looking worse for the wear.  We're pretty much down to batting.

Last year, the fountain wasn't in yet and the whole place looked like a construction zone.

This year the fountain is in, although rarely running.  I've decided I almost prefer the birdbath effect.  Besides, did I mention how loud it is?

It's still loud.

But not quite as loud as this little one.

Now if weeds would just cease to exist, I'd almost call it perfect.

Time Served

Last weekend our family took our seats in the lovely Admiral theater for our youngest daughter's first dance recital.  I'd already dropped Cholita off in the big room backstage.  She was wearing a sequined red halter-style leotard that she deemed "immodest, but pretty" (a worrisome statement from my four year-old).  

I knew her dance would be right after intermission, so in the dim light of the theater, I scanned our program to see how many numbers we had before the break.  I turned the page.  I turned another page.  There were a lot.  A whole, whole lot.  My teenage son was already sulking and my husband was doing that foot shake thing he does when he feels antsy. 

But I still didn't see "Puttin' on the Ritz", Cholita's dance.  Then I saw it.  NO, they can't be serious!  There were TWO intermissions and Cholita's class was scheduled after the second, with about a gazillion dances between now and then.  I hadn't even given the poor girl dinner before we'd left.  Realizing that Cholita would be waiting a very long time, I slipped out to be with her in the kids' waiting area.  Nearly FOUR hours later, we were STILL there.  By that point, our poor Cholita had rubbed off her makeup, worked her hair into a sweaty frenzy, and tossed her tutu and gloves onto the cracker-strewn floor.  It was chaos back there, with numerous ballerinas in full-out tantrum mode, tutus a-flying.  During those long hours, I struck up a conversation with another mom.   She shared with me the story of her difficult and courageous childhood spent in a refugee camp in Cambodia.  I admire this woman as someone who could obviously handle hard things, but even she looked ready to blow a gasket after about the three hour mark.

When it was FINALLY Cholita's turn, I slipped back into the theater.  Lyle was fidgeting like a horse in the starting blocks and Bruder was near comatose.  Even my girls had a glazed over look in their eyes.

But our Cholita was wonderful.  During her two minutes on stage, she shook her little hiney in her immodest but pretty costume and made us proud.  Next year, we've agreed that the boys will stay home.  They've served their time.

What is it about my kids and the color red?

At least with Cholita it's just shoes.

As of today, we are now the owners of a "teenager car". 

Do these two look responsible?  

Granted, Lucy has a while until her learner's permit.  Sixteen months to be exact, which now that I think about is pretty much right around the corner.  (Hopefully she has a growth spurt before then so she can adequately reach the clutch.)

Because for reasons known only to those of the male persuasion, a stick shift is where it's at.

Lyle drove a stick shift when we first met.  A cute little two-door black Nissan Sentra.  That Sentra was our only car for years.  A two-door car with two car seats in the back. Car seats for the teenagers pictured above-- one who's now driving and the other who will be in driver's ed before I have time to hyperventilate about the whole thing.

So tonight they took their new (ten year-old) car out for a spin.
 Lyle says (with some pride) that our son is a natural.

I think I'll go inside now and sing "Sunrise, Sunset".

"Wow--and I'm not even a mother!"

Breakfast in bed for our birthday girl.

She was quite shocked as she thought this was a privilege afforded only to 

Mamas on their special day in May.

 Ahh, this is the life--waking up to german pancakes swimming in a delectable peach topping.

What could possibly ruin this scene of birthday decadence?

Apparently a photographer who's snapping pictures first thing in the morning
as you try to hold your robe closed to maintain modesty....

......well, some people find that annoying.
Go figure.

At any rate, Happy Birthday Morning to our sweet Rose!

So that's what she's been doing in the pantry: What I Found in Cholita's Backpack

Various homemade trail mixes.

All neatly packaged.

All heavy on the baking chips and M&M's.

Some with a spattering of nuts,

you know, for health's sake.

A little something to warm your belly.

And accessories. 

We mustn't forget the accessories.

 Because even deep in the wilderness, you want to look your best.

So she's ready.

Bag packed.

By the door.

Set to go.

Too bad the camping trip's a month away.

Papa, we may lose the crop

It's a good thing we're not farmers,

dependent on the vagaries of weather,

because this Spring would have cooked our goose.

Take, as an example, our lovely climbing hydrangea,

my pride and joy.

In the above photo, it was in a state of perfect health.

That all changed overnight.

An unexpected frost hit, 

and here is the outcome.

Sad, so, so Sad.

But I think it will make it.

Lyle's kiwi vine, however,

which looked so promising just a few short weeks ago...

Well, it's seen better days.

Papa, I think we've lost the crop.

Last time I checked, though,
Albertsons sells kiwis.

World Hepatitis Awareness Day

What a difference a year makes.  Last year, on Hepatitis Awareness Day, I wrote here about my youngest daughter's struggle with the Hepatitis B virus.

This year, she's in a different place.  A blessedly different place.

The Hepatitis B Foundation, a group of truly amazing people, have asked me to share Cholita's story for their newsletter.   As I wrote this, I thought of the incredible journey Cholita has taken in her short 4 years on this planet.  And while I'm overjoyed that her disease status has changed, I can't help but feel sadness that her story is so unique.  I will never forget the wonderful people I've met through my daughter's disease, and will continue to pray for the researchers who are working so hard to find a cure to this tenacious virus.

A giant syringe, born of cardboard tubes and late-night ingenuity, hung from the ceiling in the basement of my husband’s dental office.  It swung and twirled as our four year-old daughter hit it with a baseball bat.  Needles had become as much a part of her life as playing at the park or peanut butter sandwiches.  For the past year, she’d had a blood draw every Wednesday, a PEG interferon shot every Friday and numerous shots of a drug called Neupogen to counteract some of PEG’s neutrophil-zapping side effects.   She’d just had her very last injection and smashing apart a candy-filled syringe, with friends and family cheering her on, seemed appropriate.

Our little girl was born in China, a four and half pound baby found at the front gate of the Guiping Orphanage.  The nannies described her as “active and restless” and said that when she was hungry she “screamed loudly and kicked at her crib”.  Although the word “feisty” wasn’t specifically used in her paperwork, I think a mandarin equivalent was tossed around by the nannies in reference to this new little resident.  Her feistiness helped her to gain weight in a crowded orphanage and to accept and whole-heartedly embrace her new life in America.

Before we met her in China, we spent many late nights reading about hepatitis.  We knew my husband’s father had had hepatitis, many years before when he was a young surgeon with the Public Health Service.  He was stuck with a needle and later became very ill.  The doctors didn’t even call it Hepatitis B at the time, but by the misleading moniker of “non-infectious hepatitis”.  As most adults are prone to do, my father-in-law quickly cleared the infection.  From our reading, however, we knew that the chance of that happening for this baby girl in China was very slim.

We met her on a steamy day in a third floor conference room in Nanning’s Lottery Hotel.   Yes, she was skinny, and yes, she needed a bath, but she was otherwise very healthy and strong.  I almost wondered if her initial tests were wrong.  Blood work at home in the United States confirmed that there was no mistake.  Her Hepatitis B viral load was over 1 billion and her liver enzymes elevated.  She was too young to start treatment, so we watched and waited.  Her biopsy at age 2 showed liver damage and we discussed our treatment choices.  Since there are only 2 options for young children, Lamivudine and Intron-A, it was a short conversation.  I knew people who’d had success with both, but I didn’t want to use either one of them; I wanted to try PEG interferon.  I had great confidence in our doctor.  I knew she was one of the top pediatric GI’s in the nation and one of the most experienced in treating children with Hep B.  The only question I had for her was, “Do you think you can use PEG safely?”  She said yes, and we started the long process of getting the insurance company to pay for a drug not currently FDA-approved for use in pediatrics.

By the time our daughter was three, after an initial rejection from our insurance company and then a successful appeal, we were ready to start.  Four hours after our daughter’s first PEG injection, she abruptly doubled over and yelled, “My body hurts!”  She was feverish and miserable.  I doubted our decision and wondered if we could finish a full year.  Mercifully, as the doctor had told us would most likely happen, her side effects quickly went away.  Despite being more tired than usual and more prone to nose-bleeds, she was just our active, happy little girl.     

              

As I watched her hit the pinata during her End of PEG Party, I thought how glad I was that we didn’t have the results back yet.  The last time we’d checked her Hepatitis B viral load, it was still well into the millions and the doctor didn’t seem optimistic; but we  agreed that despite her lack-luster response, we’d see it through to the end.  I’d accepted that the treatment wasn’t working, but felt strongly that her courage through the year was worth celebrating, with or without positive results.  

A few days later, I went to the hospital to pick up her lab sheet. The fax machine hummed and the secretary handed me the paper.  I’d planned to wait until I was alone in my car to read it, but I only got a few steps away from the nurse’s desk.  Next to HBV DNA Viral Load, instead of a number so high I always had to count the zeros, there was no number at all.  Undetectable.   I gasped and I think maybe I sat down in the hallway, literally floored.  The whole thing’s a blur.  I do know that I’ve never been more pleasantly stunned in my life.  When we saw our GI doctor, she danced.

Three months later, we tested our daughter’s surface antigen.  Negative.  More celebration.  And then we tested for surface antibodies.  I got the results just before Mother’s Day.  The lab report said, “consistent with immunity,” a truly wonderful phrase and the best Mother’s Day gift I’ve ever received.  

Last year I wrote a letter for my daughter that was published here in the B Informed Newsletter.  I had written the article on Hepatitis Awareness Day, when my daughter was in week 14 of her treatment.   I said that for her, everyday is Hepatitis Awareness Day.  Now, considering her new status, maybe I was wrong.  As she grows older, I doubt that she’ll remember her biopsy, or her liver ultrasounds, or her PEG interferon shots. She’ll still be monitored, but for the most part, if she speaks of hepatitis at all, it will be in the past tense.  So my prayer for Hepatitis Awareness Day 2010 is that someday her case will not be unique; that for everyone, Hepatitis B will cease to loom large in their lives and when we speak of it, it will be in the past tense.

A Shocking Massage, a Sweet Girl

For the large part of every weekday, it's just me and Cholita holding down the fort.  Yesterday was my birthday and I think she felt the weight of the whole family on her tiny little shoulders to make my day special.  The girl literally wore herself out.  She sang songs, she presented me with several interestingly wrapped gifts (one of Lyle's ties, some dental floss, a candle, numerous cards....),  and she showered me with hugs and kisses.  But her big surprise, the one she's been planning for days, happened that evening.

While Lyle was busy cooking my birthday dinner, she whispered in my ear that she'd opened a spa, conveniently located in my bathroom.  Before I could respond, she sprinted upstairs so she'd be ready to greet me properly.  "And come quick!" she yelled from the landing, "or your water will get cold!"

Upon my arrival at the spa, the tiny drill sergeant had morphed into a serene, rather pompous character with a slight British accent.  "Welcome to the Sweetpea Spa," she said with a dramatic sweep of her arm.  "Follow me please."  In the bathroom tub, she'd placed a large plastic container, filled with warm water.  "Soak your feet, dear," she said.  I rolled up my jeans and did as I was told.  Then she got out a towel and gave each foot a thorough, ticklish rubbing.

From there, she moved me to the toenail painting station where each toenail and accompanying toe was painted with either green or pink paint.

"Oh no!" she yelled mid-way through, breaking with character.

"Don't worry,"  I assured her, "I think my toes look just...."

She interrupted me.  Apparently my pedicure was not the issue.  "I forgot to have you take your clothes off and put on a robe!"  She threw up her hands like all was lost.

Reassured that I really wanted to keep my clothes on anyway, she reverted back to Euro-Cho mode and offered me magazines and a drink.  She's all about the experience.

After my toe painting, I was ushered into the closet where she'd created a soothing massage center, compete with pillows and mood lighting.  I laid down on my back (lest I muss my polish), and closed my eyes.  I thought I'd get a relaxing head rub.  What happened next truly took my breath away.

With cleaver hands, she rapidly hacked my stomach, a technique I'm sure she's seen on backs, but is a little shocking to the internal organs.  Blunt Shiatsu knives, that's what she had going.  And have I mentioned that she's surprisingly strong?

"Oh, my dear, is that too hard?" she asked as I sputtered and gasped.

"Hmm, maybe a little," I managed to say, curled into the fetal position.

"Lay down, honey.  Let's try this again...."

From there she moved onto the relaxing head rub that I'd envisioned.  With the wonderful smells wafting from downstairs, and my baby girl attending to my every need, it was a truly fantastic, wonderfully breathtaking birthday.