Category Archives: family

How the UPS man ruined Christmas

Reblogged from 2 years ago…

Setting: evening at our house. The front door is open because it’s stuffy inside the house from cooking dinner. GameBoy and CatGirl are sitting at their desk in the living room working on their homework. Christmas carols are playing on the stereo. Our brightly lit Christmas tree is visible from the front doorway. A guy in a brown uniform is walking up the pathway to our place.

UPS Guy: Ma’am? Your package broke open in the truck, the tape is undone on one side now. Can I bring it on in for you? It’s really big…

Me: Sure, put it right here in front of the bookcase.

UPS Guy: Someone’s sure lucky to be getting a —–.

Me: Shhhhh….(gesturing wildly towards the kids)

A deep intake of breath from one of the kids, a squeal of delight from the other.

UPS Guy: Uh oh.

this morning we realized that he’s almost as tall as me

I couldn’t be more proud! 🙂

Although GameBoy says he has no clue how he’ll play his cello well while wearing such a heavy suit (typically he wears a t-shirt and shorts), I expect he’ll do just fine in his big concert debut!

celebrating


goin’ swimmin, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

This weekend we celebrated CatGirl’s birthday with a wild slumber party (lots of tween girls, their giggles, their voracious appetites and their cameraphones documenting everything). All in all, it was a great experience, and even GameBoy says he doesn’t mind that the midnight truth or dare game included an speed hug dare(!) with the (hawt) sleeping older brother.

I had a moment to reflect on how our family parties have changed in the past few years. It used to be that when a birthday rolled around we’d go to the party store to pick theme party goods, including paper plates, napkins, cups, candles, invitations, etc. This year CatGirl sent out email invites to her friends and they used our everyday washable cloth napkins and dishes for their snacks and meals. I popped their popcorn on the stovetop (yum), baked the cake myself (and frosted it with help and advice from the birthday girl). We did buy a few large pizzas, but in doing so we patronized a favorite local business. As party favors CatGirl assembled friendship bracelet kits in each of the attendees favorite colors–with embroidery floss recycled from grandma’s abundant stash.

Photo: A favorite of CatGirl from when she was a toddler. See how she’s holding up her index fingers? She’s showing her ‘sucking fingers,’ which were both named “Aubergina.” Yes, CatGirl is quite a character and we love her so.

detente

In the midst of new cat/old cat tensions at chez pilgrim, Bobette has occupied the favorite comfy chair, offering her a bird’s eye view of the hallway. But Toby has crept, low, and without letting her collar bell sound…and managed to slide by B’s watchful eye and then stealthily crept under the table, around the wall, and made it to the cat perch in front of the back door (which is just 2 feet behind said comfy chair). B is oblivious.

With the sweet taste of victory, TobyJoy jingles her bell loudly and then marches around the corner of the chair in full view of Bobette. Toby has claimed her territory and she is proud.

B rolls over to take a nap, but doesn’t quite close her eyes completely…still watching TobyJoy lingering in the entranceway to the hall.

sick day

I attributed my fatigue from the past few days to having returned to my ‘work’ and arising earlier to get the kids off to school and for my Pasadena commute (ay, and we were rear-ended on Thursday, not an auspicious beginning to this new schoolyear–and I am feeling so so grateful that the neck pain I felt afterwards subsided quickly). Anyways, it turns out that both CatGirl and I have come down with some kind of cold/flu. As seems to always happen when my daughter gets ill, her fever is climbing.

Here is a repost from March 16 , in honor of the girl who’s been curled up in my arms this morning, feeling a bit too miserable to sleep:

Been spending most of today with CatGirl nesting on the couch with pillows and cozy blankies. She’s been intermittently running a high fever (102-104) for the past 24 hours.

With her head leaning on my shoulder and her lanky body curled into mine, I remember her baby days when she rarely wanted to lose touch. She was my little monkey, arms wrapped tightly around my neck. When I sat in a chair she would stand behind me, running her fingers through my hair (when she got a bit older she loved to give me ‘pretty hairdos’ with her rainbow-colored barrettes).

Now, with the flush of fever showing red on her cheeks and lips, my instinct is to hold her tight, to absorb the heat. Remembering a time when our bodies were joined–mine feeding hers, nurturing the small ball of tissue that would eventually grow into my bright and graceful girl.

Today I ache to add my strength to hers again. Because she feels so small and fragile in my arms.

Yatta!


Yatta!, originally uploaded by mind on fire.

We took the kids to the beach tonite. For one last sandy picnic before school begins.

I was feeling a bit chilled and weary, so I let the kids do all of the exploring and getting wet while I enjoyed the serenity of the waves from my chair…

Thanks for your good wishes for our anniversary, which we celebrated last night. We spent a quiet evening at home enjoying some garden pizza and John’s fabulous almond blancmange with basil coulis. The two of us then watched “Across the Universe” all snuggled up in bed together–singing along with the songs.

Picture above taken by John just before a big wave came up behind the kids and soaked their backsides. Aren’t they adorable! 🙂

Timing…is everything

notre dame

I got married at age 21, had my first baby when I was nearly 23, and my second at age 25. It’s not a timetable that I’d necessarily recommend. Because we had our kids young and were also committed to having me stay at home to raise them, we were also strapped financially–living on one income in fairly expensive region of the country.

Most of my same-age colleagues are now in the early years of childrearing. Their kids are babies, toddlers, and in preschool. My kids are teenagers and have a good amount of independence. I was chatting with one of these friends recently and she was telling me how smart I was to have my kids so young. Because she’s in the position of wanting another baby, but realizing that because she’s in her forties it’s just not worth the health risks for her to get pregnant again.

There are pros and cons to starting a family young–I am well aware of research studies that show that children of young parents don’t do as well in school, that divorces are more likely for young marriages, etc. There’s also a twinge of jealousy that I have when I see my friends’ carefree 20s–John & I had to “grow up” very young to take on the responsibilities of parenting (John especially bore the burden of having to work full-time to be the ‘provider’ for our young family).

Knowing what I know now, I think I would probably have waited a few years between my wedding and the birth of my son. But at the same time, it seems like it’s all worked out just fine anyways.

Picture above is of my cool kids in front of Notre Dame cathedral in Paris, taken about 4 years ago. One of our biggest joys as a family is traveling together–and we’ve learned how to do so somewhat economically (backpacking through Europe or wherever else we are able to go).

on fathers and stones

o captain

In a few days I’ll mark the 14th anniversary of my father’s death from pancreatic cancer. Dad has been on my mind a lot today, as I’ve been mourning for two friends who’ve just lost their fathers.

If you were to say that I’ve never forgiven God for taking my father, you would probably be right. My most vivid memory of that time was sitting at Dad’s bedside and realizing that neither I nor anyone else could prevent his demise (and cursing God for not answering my prayers and for letting my father suffer the indignity of slowly wasting away as the cancer ate through his abdomen). I was relieved when Dad finally took his last breath–not because I wanted him to go, but because the suffering was so acute. I couldn’t believe how fragile his shoulders felt in my arms as I embraced his body one last time.

I wrote this poem about Dad a few years ago, and originally posted it here on February 11, 2007:

Seeing Stones

“Every man who lived on the earth,” Joseph said to them, “was entitled to a seer stone, and should have one, but they are kept from them in consequence of their wickedness, and most of those who do find one make evil use of it.” (Brigham Young’s journal, as quoted in Latter-day Millennial Star, 26:118,119)

It was the nights when Dad would have kidney stones that he would call me in
To sit at his bedside to pray.
I was the family healer, set apart in my patriarchal blessing when I was twelve
To have the power to be healed and to heal others on their behalf

I would sit and hold Dad’s hand and ask God
and he would breathe deep and say
“Thanks Jan, the pain–it’s better now”

But how when it got so bad and the doctors didn’t know why because the stones, they couldn’t see them
I fasted and prayed my healing prayer
And the answer
A time to die
And then the MRI, it showed cancer. Pancreatic. Uncurable.

***

Dad’s college buddy, Dave, he called today.
I’d run in to him at Sunstone, recognized him from the funeral
Asked him for stories about Dad
Dave said Dad was curious about seer stones. That a girl brought her family’s stone to their Institute class.
Dave put it in his black felt hat and they had tried to see.

I asked Dave about Dad’s testimony. Did he always believe?
He told me of Dad’s mission to the Western States. Dad was dark and could pass for native
Went to a kiva ceremony and had a manifestation–a Navajo blanket the veil, drawn back and the heavens opened.
That after that he wondered but never wavered.

I am angry now that I didn’t know this Dad.
He never told me the dream stories that Dave tells now.
Premonitions, knowing, seeing.

***

When I was young Dad stopped at all of the rock shops along the summer route to Utah. I liked the rose crystals, bright pyrite, peacock ores.
Dad looked, too, but I don’t know what caught his eye.

Dave says the seer stones give a psychological closeness to the Spirit, remove earthly barriers
I see myself, a rock-gatherer
They roll on the floor of my car, mark the bagua of my home, circle the herbs in my garden.
I see myself, a healer

Without
the power to be healed
Pondering my Father’s stones
Lacking vision

~Jana, 6/2005

In a revelation from god, Joseph Smith reveals how those who attain glory in the afterlife will receive a seer stone of their own: Then the white stone mentioned in Revelation 2:17, will become a Urim and Thummim to each individual who receives one, whereby things pertaining to a higher order of kingdoms will be made known. And a white stone is given to each of those who come into the celestial kingdom, whereon is a new name written, which no man knoweth save he that receiveth it. The new name is the key word. (Doctrine and Covenants 130:10-11)

Pilgrimclassic: Worship

Originally posted 9/22/2005:

Last night CatGirl spread her homework around on the living room floor. She sprawled her body out in the middle of textbooks, papers, pencils/pens, erasers, etc. As she tapped her toes together while doing math problems, well, it rivaled the most beautiful painting in the Louvre. To see her wholly absorbed in the moment as her pencil moved across the paper, to have her look up at me every once in awhile and confirm a math question. To see the small ringlet curls that had escaped her ponytail, and the way they framed her face.

John, GameBoy and CatGirl can always capture my complete attention. To me they are the most disarmingly beautiful creatures. Perhaps it is sacrilege to say that I worship them. But I do. I devote most of my life in serving and loving these three people. They are my trinity.

It brings to mind a quotation from Mormon apostle Jeffrey Holland that I heard a lot this summer. He said “Heaven just wouldn’t be heaven without my wife and children there.” I agree with him wholeheartedly. But I can also say that, for me, every day is heaven. Because every day I mingle with deity.

what has to be done

I have a ritual that for my twice-daily dressings. It involves the expected hand-washing, opening of sterile wrappers, cleaning and laying out of tweezers and scissors, a dousing of the affected area with saline. Then I start to breathe.

In my yoga practice my teacher taught us to send energy through our bodies by imagining a furnace sitting at the base of our spine. With each breath in we stoke the fire of that engine, make it burn hotter and brighter, and as it enlarges and warmth shoots down our legs and arms–creating arcs of energy that spit out of our finger and toe tips. While I am doing a dressing change and I breathe this way I am less interested in shooting sparks out my fingers bit–rather, I imagine a pinwheel of fire in my belly that sends its light to my leg. The light warms and soothes the tissue, preparing for the moment when I have to grab the tip of the gauze that’s packed into the wound and pull. It doesn’t come easily–it is packed in with pressure and cemented by blood and slubs of new tissue. And that’s exactly the point–the pull debrides the wound, “cleans it,” keeps it open. For me it is a horror to hurt myself that way–to rip open a sore that is doing its best to heal closed. To tug at the tissue that is so raw and tender from months of inflammation feels counterintuitive from my deepest fibre. I find that it’s only when I breathe my special way that I can make my hand do what has to be done.

As I performed my ritual this morning, my mind stuck for a moment on how “this has to be done.” In my case it has to be done in order for my surgery to be effective. But I let that thought expand and enlarge as I thought of other times in my life that I am doing what “has to be done.” I thought of my life as an amputee, how much of that is simply finding ways of doing what “has to be done.” Walking with a prosthesis, ignoring the stares of passersby, standing unselfconsciously in front of a classroom–not easy things, but to me they are not courageous, heroic or unusual. They are a means to an end. I have little choice in the matter. Like the gauze that must be pulled, I cannot change my physical difference. It is what “has to be done” for me to move through my daily life.

And of course we all do things every day that “have to be done.” It occurred to me in that moment of gauze pulling that my situation is no way unique. It is what makes me just like you. You have lots of things you have to do, things that bring a twinge of discomfort and frustration– even outright pain. But they are “what has to be done.”

Although I didn’t articulate it in this way when I first began blogging, I would say that most of my online writing (at least on my personal site), is my attempt at making peace with the “what has to be done” of my life. A big part of that is writing about my disability. Because it’s so often difficult to experience the pity of complete strangers, I need to discuss what that feels like. I need to tell the story of what happens when a one-legged woman walks into an athletic facility or is harassed by TSA employees at the airport.

Last night as I was hobbling across the living room in frustration–trying to walk on my fake leg and my wounded leg and taking one big leap to the sofa because I just wanted to get off of both of my feet as fast as possible, my daughter came over to comfort me. She expressed her sympathy at hard it must be for me to walk right now. I was angry and tired and hurting. I looked up at her standing over me and suggested that her life might be a whole lot better if she’d been born to a Mom with two good legs. A Mom who could be outside playing and running and not one who had to ask for help each time she needed to use the toilet.

CatGirl, with all of her young wisdom said, “I only know what I have. I don’t know what it’s like to have a Mom like that. I only know what it’s like to have a Mom like you. So I only want you to be my Mom.”

I think CatGirl understands a lot about “what has to be done”–maybe more than I do. She knows that you only know what you’ve experienced and that’s that. So “what has to be done” for her is to be gentle with her Mom when she’s healing, to refill my water cup, to not complain as she trails alongside me through clinics and hospitals. She hears me scream and cry when I’m hurting and she takes in in stride. This afternoon she patiently helped me clean off all of the adhesive residue that was still stuck to my arms from my latest round of IVs–knowing that I couldn’t reach the goop on the backs of my arms myself. It was “what had to be done” for her Mom.

I think I’m still learning “what has to be done,” and that’s why I keep blogging. I’ve got to write to make sense of my place in this world, to understand the madness and beauty and arbitrariness of it all. And I also feel like someday after I’m gone (let’s say in 30 or 40 years from now) CatGirl might be facing something as painful as having to debride her own wounds, and maybe she’ll look back on this blog–these thousands of words that I’ve written here over the years–and something here will strengthen her to face the realities of her life. To do what “has to be done.”