Twenty-five years ago this moment I was doing my nails and fluffing up my 80s hair in preparation for my wedding.
The Back Story
Jim and I dated in high school. I was two years older, so I had to drive on all of our dates. He had a shiny new Toyota in the garage that he couldn’t drive until his 16th birthday. I looked forward to riding in it, but, alas, our relationship did not survive that long.
Years later, I was finishing my graduate audiology program at University of Memphis and Jim was fresh out of Rhodes College (he would want me to point out that he actually graduated from Southwestern at Memphis), working here in Memphis at his first job, writing credit union software. During the Thanksgiving holiday in 1983, he made an unexpected drop-in visit to my family home in Jonesboro. We chatted for an hour or two and agreed to meet for a drink at some undetermined time. A few weeks later, in need of a break from thesis writing and preparing for comprehensive exams, I spontaneously called him to take him up on that drink. We stayed for dinner, arranged a second date, a third, a fourth … and in June of 1986, in the driveway of my family’s lake house, he proposed. We were married on November 30, 1986 in a small chapel at Christ United Methodist Church. The chapel’s capacity was 75. We invited 150 people. So even though our wedding was the Sunday after Thanksgiving, the place was packed.
The Last 25 Years
These years have been filled with moments of uncontained joy, raucous laughter, inside jokes, crazy dreams and common goals. We’ve shared a chronically-messy home, countless tubes of toothpaste, 25 Christmas trees and what I estimate to be more than 20,000 meals. The peaks have been lofty, the valleys deep: the loss of our brand-new weddings rings in an armed robbery, career ups and downs, deaths of friends and family members, my diagnosis of breast cancer, unemployment and countless others that time and perspective have made less tragedy than minor setback.
When we were first married, Jim gave me a plaque with the following lines from a poem by Robert Browning.
Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in His hand
Who saith “A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!”
Most people quote the first two lines, but my favorite is, the last of life for which the first was made … This makes me think of a fine wine. For some of the finest wines, maturity brings a richer, more complex and multilayered flavor. The distinguishing tones — fruit, floral, earthy — become more noticeable even as they meld together to form a smooth, rich wine worthy of savoring.
Much like us. Rather than longing for youth, we choose to revel in the richness of these days. Of adult children who challenge and inspire as they become more friend than responsibility; of wisdom and perspective to treasure and appreciate more deeply the blessings entrusted to us. We’re fuller and richer for the struggles, the tears, the sacrifices — and for all of the moments of both the first and the last of life.
For the past few years, I’ve made a complete Thanksgiving dinner at our house before we celebrate with extended family. It’s the one time each year we get out the china, silver and Waterford crystal and eat by candlelight in the dining room. It takes all day to prepare the turkey, dressing, side dishes and pumpkin pie and it’s always been one of my favorite times of the holiday season.
This year was different. My work schedule didn’t allow the time to make the dinner, but we were not willing to give up the special family evening. So instead of making turkey and dressing, I made a reservation at one of our favorite east Memphis spots, The Grove Grill. They have this cozy private dining room that was perfect for the six of us: Jim and me, our girls and their long-time boyfriends.
Part of our tradition at the table is a time of sharing the things we’re thankful for, but this year the cliche, “I’m thankful for my family and friends” answers wouldn’t do. So as our appetizers were served, I gave notice: no generic answers this year. Instead we would express to each person, individually, the things we’re thankful for about them.
I thought the younger folks would roll their eyes at my corny suggestion; instead, everyone shared heartfelt and meaningful sentiments, laced with laughter and a few tears. Things we probably wouldn’t have said to one another without the prompting of corny old Mom.
Sometimes we don’t share those thoughts as readily as we should; we take for granted the ones we should treasure and appreciate the most.
Here’s a challenge for this holiday season: sit around a table with those you love. No TV, no cell phones, no distractions, just eye contact. Say the unsaid, share the thoughts that have remained unexpressed for the sake of pride or the fear of awkwardness. Above all gifts, let the warmth of love light your holiday season.
Elizabeth finished the Atlanta Marathon with an unofficial (as of now) time of 4:40. She’s exhausted and hurting all over and on her way back to Memphis. Congratulations, sweetheart, we’re so happy for you! Here’s what she had to say about it on Twitter.
LOVED IT. Great feeling to finish. Marathons are awesome. If you're athletic at all DO IT. Something I'll always love. Can't wait til next 1
Elizabeth with her medal from the St. Jude Marathon
Just a few minutes ago, I got off the phone with Elizabeth, my oldest daughter, who in 2009 ran her first marathon. She called me just before getting in the car with friends to travel to Atlanta to run her second.
It was a very cold morning in December of 2009 as we sat in AutoZone Park to watch her cross the finish line. We had been there with her since the start and had waved to her at several points along the way. As excited as we were to share this day with her, I was completely unprepared for its emotional impact.
When she crossed the finish line, the tears of joy came as we watched her accomplish a feat that only one to two percent of Americans can claim. I admired her discipline, her commitment and the courage she found to finish nearly half of the race with a badly-sprained ankle.
But most of all, I admired her. The baby with blonde curls whose first wobbly steps thrilled me as much as her 26th mile.
I wish I could be in Atlanta this Sunday to see her cross another finish line. But my heart and my prayers will be with her. Run fast, my girl! We’re proud of you, not for the steps you run, but just … because.
Unremarkable. It means ordinary, lacking distinction. Not something we generally consider a compliment.
But medical terms are strange. A test result that is negative is usually a good thing; positive means you have whatever awful thing they are testing you for. So unremarkable is a medical compliment. As in, the biopsy done during my surgery is unremarkable. Which means I do not have cancer.
Yesterday was my follow-up appointment and my first time out of the house since the surgery. I was excited to actually see something past the end of my driveway. Jim took off work and Sara Ann came along too. I did my hair, put on makeup and a clean t-shirt with my warmup pants and off we went.
I had looked forward to that appointment as the day the doctor would tell me I can drive again and medically clear me to get on with my life. Unfortunately, I still don’t feel like driving, leaving the house was so exhausting I needed a nap afterward and I’m still very slow and weak. The patience I wrote about last week? Um, I still need to work on that.
So here are a few observations from week two:
Facebook is really, really awesome if you want to live vicariously through your friends.
Having surgery during baseball season was an excellent decision on my part. The Cardinals regaining first place would further enhance my recovery, I’m sure.
Hulu is my new best friend, Hell’s Kitchen is awesome and people who work in restaurants don’t get nearly enough appreciation. Especially if there’s a British guy yelling, cursing and constantly berating them.
There really is no limit to the height that dirty dishes or dirty clothes can be piled. This theory has now officially been scientifically tested. I’d have photos if I weren’t so embarrassed by our slovenliness.
As crappy as some people can be, the really good ones make up for it. And I seem to be blessed with a ridiculous number of the amazing kind of folk. The kind who bring you fabulous dinners for three solid weeks so you don’t have to think about what you’ll eat. And the one awesome friend who showed up with a bottle of wine and a 20-pack of Diet Coke “to fill all my beverage needs.” And then there’s the one who showed up today with delicious soup, right at the time I started getting hungry for lunch — and another who brought dinner and sat down for a glass of wine and conversation.
And it all started with my mom, the long-retired nurse who still has all the skillz. She came from Jonesboro the night before surgery and stayed with me 24/7 in the hospital. She knew exactly where to put the pillow when I rolled over so it would support my back. She slept so lightly that every movement of mine or squeak of the hospital bed had her asking what I needed. And she knew that her car would be less bumpy on the ride home than my SUV. She did laundry, cleaned house, fluffed my pillow, fetched my meds and took care of me. Some things never change.
And after all these years, I still find it humbling, comforting and … remarkable.
I’m going to preface this by saying that sometimes I have weird dreams. And weird thoughts. So maybe this is one of them, but it’s a kind of a fun mental game I’ve been playing for quite some time.
A few weeks ago, on the way home from our last lake trip, I shared my mental exercise with my family over lunch. They thought I was nuts. They still do. And they are probably going to roll their eyes if they read this (I’m used to it).
So I offer to you:
Let’s say you were being held against your will in an undisclosed location and had the opportunity to speak to your family in the presence of your captors. What would you say that is so out of character for you that your family would know you were in deep trouble?
For me:
I sure wish I had a cold beer (I hate beer).
Boy, do I need a good, hot cup of coffee (hate coffee too).
Ugh. All they are playing here is Simon & Garfunkel and it’s driving me crazy. Those guys can’t sing at all.
Just saw the most awesome ad set in Comic Sans and Papyrus.
I’m dying for that new Dell laptop (that one would have Jim sending the people in the white coats to carry me away).
You get the idea.
Some other favorites:
Jim: I’m craving broccoli. Ha.
Sara Ann (19-year-old daughter): My favorite word is crusty.
Elizabeth (22-year-old daughter): Sports are boring.
Ethan (Sara Ann’s boyfriend): I’m craving licorice and bell peppers.
JP (Elizabeth’s boyfriend): Sports are boring.
You get the idea. If you know these folks at all, you’d know that Jim despises broccoli, Sara Ann can’t stand the word crusty, Elizabeth and JP are sports fanatics and Ethan feels about licorice and bell peppers the way Jim does about broccoli.
I realize this has absolutely no value to anyone, but, please, I’m recovering from surgery, ok? Gimme a break.
So … how would I know if you were in trouble? Hit me up in the comments.
A good support system is a must. But it’s crucial to actually let them help. I don’t like being physically dependent on others and I feel guilty imposing. But family, friendship and community mean that sometimes we carry one another for a while and sometimes we let our loved ones carry us.
Mental rest is important too. My body is aching, tired and hurting. And my mind is as well. I had great ambitions for all the reading I’d do, but it’s hard to concentrate. Maybe it’s the anesthesia, the pain, the disruption in my schedule, but it’s hard to focus. I’m so glad that few people have need for anything my addled brain cells can put together right now.
Whatever you do, never Google a health issue. A couple of nights ago, I felt chilled and achy and started poking around on the Internet to see if that’s normal. Next thing I knew I was sure a trip back to the hospital was imminent and pictured myself in a post-op-complication-induced coma. Chances are if I’d read the instructions from the doctor I’d have been less freaked out. (Update: I’m ok. Probably just tired.)
Time. It does just take time for body and mind to heal. It’s funny how speed-obsessed we get. My DVR-addicted mind gets restless during a 30-second ad on Hulu or a TV commercial. I want my Web pages to load fast or I’m gone. Click. But beyond the common-sense things I can do to speed recovery, there’s no fast-forward button. Time to work on patience.
Stay connected. A lot of folks would probably tell me this is a good time to unplug. And honestly, I have to some extent. But I’d have missed so many sweet words and thoughts from friends that have given me needed encouragement and support. Letting go of connections now would be isolating and depressing for me. And the asynchronous nature of social media allows me to take it what I can handle and ignore the rest.
Freshen up. Find new interests. I’ve recently rediscovered my affinity for photography. Don’t ask me about F-stops and shutter speeds. I’ll relearn what I used to know about that stuff soon. For now, I’ve subscribed to some new sites with interesting and artistic photos and have been paying more attention to Instagram on the iPhone (where my user name is bethgsanders). Even a new TV show or two can be a breath of fresh air for the mind.
No doubt about it, I am getting better every day. I just wish I were getting more patient.
A hysterectomy is no minor procedure. Like anything involving an abdominal incision, it’s one of the biggies. So when I realized that’s the direction we were going, I made plans to live it up with my family and a few friends before being out of commission for several weeks.
And we did. Beginning with WordCamp Fayetteville. Jim’s and my trip to northwest Arkansas was great. The next weekend we enjoyed one last trip to Greers Ferry Lake with the kids and extended family. And last weekend — my last one before surgery — we enjoyed dinner with long-time friends on Friday night and left early Saturday morning for St. Louis, for what was my first Cardinal game in probably about 40 years.
Old Busch Stadium sometime in the 60s or 70s.
This was a particular thrill for me, as my daddy, who passed away suddenly in 1993, raised me on Cardinal baseball. Watching the games on TV and listening on the radio in the era of Lou Brock, Bob Gibson and the 1968 World Series was a family ritual and Daddy’s comments and insights taught me more than most girls knew about the game.
As I write this, I’ve begun the slow recovery from surgery and am making progress, but it helps to remember this time last week, when we were at the ballpark after a late lunch in Downtown St. Louis with a dear high school friend and fellow Cardinal fan. We got to the stadium early to walk around and see it from every angle. I wanted to see the somewhat-controversial statue of Stan Musial, the smaller statues of former Cardinal greats and just soak in the atmosphere. Pretty much all of Downtown St. Louis decks out in red for game day and lots of folks get there early, as we did, to watch batting practice.
Catcher Yadier Molina (left) and Manager Tony LaRussa (right) in the dugout
After watching the tail end of Cardinal batting practice, we headed for the Stadium Store, to spend the dollars I had earmarked for t-shirts and souvenirs for everyone. We took our bags full of gear and headed for our seats to settle in for the game.
Jim had rented us a Nikon D7000 with a telephoto lens for the trip; I told him I wanted to be able to shoot Albert Pujols’ nostrils. Not really, but I did want to be able to zoom in close. And it was awesome. I started snapping as soon as players and coaches started filtering into the dugout and got really excited watching Yadier Molina strap on his gear for the game and seeing Manager Tony LaRussa emerge from the clubhouse. Sadly, the game was not ours to win, and wasn’t even a decent contest, but I did get an awesome shot of Albert at bat.
And this awesome shot of me with my girls and their boyfriends sitting on the Cardinal dugout.
Win or lose, I’ll always love my Cardinals, just like Daddy raised me to do. I’m so glad we had this time for me to share it with my girls like he did with me — we all agreed it would be a great family tradition to continue into another generation.
And it’s an awesome way to take my mind off this icky surgery …
I’m having major surgery this coming Monday. A hysterectomy, to be exact.
Not too long ago, I had a minor procedure that involved a biopsy and they found some abnormal cells. Not cancer, but precancerous. For any cancer survivor, the word precancerous is actually code for Cut. It. Out. Of. Me. Now.
So I may not be blogging, writing, geeking out, tweeting, Plussing (is that what we’re calling it?) or Facebooking for a week or so. Or I might. It depends on which is more painful: the pressure of an electronic device on a fresh abdominal incision or the horrifying prospect of tech withdrawal (I’m predicting the latter).
My phone and iPad will go with me to the hospital, as they did last time. After all, it’s difficult to freak out when your mind is focused on 38 Down in The New York Times Thursday crossword puzzle. Or level 5-7 of Angry Birds, which I still can’t beat, dangit. And I think there’s wifi, which means there will probably also be tweets. At least until they take my phone away. This is cool because it gives my family something to laugh at me about so they won’t worry so much.
I won’t say I’m looking forward to it, but I’m not really scared either. I’m anxious in the same way we all are when we get a shot — you know that moment just before the nurse jabs the needle in? That, but worse — this is going to freakin’ hurt a lot. And I really don’t like pain meds because they make me itch.
I know I’ll be frustrated at all the things I can’t do. I’ll miss going to church. And tech coffee. And driving for a couple of weeks.
Even so, I’m blessed far beyond what I deserve by a community of awesome friends and family. I know right now that there will be people praying for me Monday morning and four very dear colleagues have already offered to bring me dinner in the coming weeks. I have an incredible online community as well, made up of folks I’d never have met without these here Interwebs.
I’m convinced that something good will come of this, as one of my favorite Bible verses promises:
And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. Romans 8:28 (NIV)
Emphasis mine. In all things. Not just good things and fun things, but painful things too. Surgery will hurt in the short term but it will make me healthier in the long run. So it’s all good.
For those of you who are so inclined, please pray for me and for my family. If you’re not the praying sort, your good thoughts will do nicely, thanks.
You know that dream where you’re naked in front of a room full of people?
Yeah, I do too. A few nights ago. Even in the dream, I wasn’t really naked in the literal sense. But it was that feeling.
I often have weird dreams. Usually I can’t tell whether they mean anything or not. But this dream just has to mean something.
So, the dream.
I had been chosen to be on a reality show. Somehow my somnolent mind conflated Cake Boss, Cupcake Wars and maybe a little bit of Iron Chef into one very big deal of a TV show competition. One that I was very excited about the possibility of winning on national television.
We were to bake and decorate a fabulous cake, the theme of which was not revealed beforehand. That’s the Iron Chef part. The theme of my cake was New York. Not bad. I still have a mental picture from the dream of how I wanted it to look. Maybe I’ll bake it someday. But probably not.
First, I had trouble finding the studio where the show was taped. You know that feeling of panic, where you’re late for something important and you don’t know where you’re supposed to be? Yeah, that.
Then, when I got there, I was unprepared. Everyone else had it all together, but I was a mess. I had none of the decorations, no ingredients, no clue how to proceed. And no idea how to bake a cake without a recipe. Everyone else was rocking along and I felt the time slipping away, headed toward my eventual abject, miserable and very public failure.
I woke up, panicked, at the point in the dream where I was lost in a building and unable to find my way back to the studio after shopping for edible sliver glitter (do they even make such a thing?) for the skyscrapers that were to go on my cake.
It was one of those dreams that’s disturbing even after you wake up and realize it was a dream. It’s easy to figure that maybe I don’t have as much confidence in my abilities as I should. That a lot of times I get to the party and realize I have worn exactly the wrong thing. That I’m scared of falling short, of being exposed for what I can’t do and don’t know — naked in front of the room.
One of these days I’m going to try to bake a New York cake, complete with 3D skyscrapers and silver glitter. But don’t hold your breath.
As much as I love writing, there is writing, and there is … writing. I was asked to write an obituary for my beloved 95-year-old grandmother, who passed away a few days ago. I consider it an honor to have known her, to have loved her and to offer this final tribute.
I wish I’d had more time to find the words that would do justice to her memory, but words aren’t enough anyway. Here’s my effort:
Virginia R. Dohogne, 95, of Jonesboro, died Friday morning, January 28, 2011, at NEA Baptist Hospital in Jonesboro. She died peacefully, surrounded by loved ones, who celebrate a long life well-lived and a legacy of love, grace and dignity.
Born in Cape Girardeau, Missouri, Mrs. Dohogne lived much of her life in Paragould before moving to St. Bernards Village in Jonesboro 11 years ago. She was a homemaker and a member of Blessed Sacrament Church. Mrs. Dohogne was a member of the Arkansas Methodist Hospital Auxiliary while living in Paragould.
She was preceded in death by her husband, Linus E. Dohogne, her brother, Robert C. Ranney, and by her son-in-law, Dr. James Gramling.
Survivors include one daughter, Martha Gramling of Jonesboro; one daughter-in-law and son, Sallie and Ranney and Dohogne of St. Louis; five grandchildren, Beth Sanders, Sara VanScoy, James F. Gramling, Jr., Carrie Croy and Greg Dohogne; and seven great-grandchildren: Elizabeth Sanders, Will VanScoy, Sara Ann Sanders, Joseph VanScoy, Sam Vancoy and twins Madeline and Annabel Gramling.
She was wise through age and experience, yet blessed with a youthful spirit that resisted the indignities of advancing years. An expert bridge player with a colorful, coordinated fashion sense well into her nineties, her sharp mind, sense of humor and compassionate concern for others made her a blessing to all. She led a full and active earthly life filled with loving friends and family who miss her profoundly, yet are comforted in the confidence of eternal life.
I’m a fan of tradition, especially at Christmas. Some of our traditions are warm, loving and spiritual. And some are downright … um, quirky.
Candlelight and Carol service at the church we grew up in
Mass family sleepover on Christmas Eve at my mom’s; all the kids (loosely defined these days, as we have a 22-year-old) camp out on the floor of my mom’s room
The Christmas morning line; no one can come out of my mom’s room until all cameras are charged, ready and trained on the door where the kids will soon burst through to see what Santa has brought.
Christmas lunch, gourmet-style at my sister’s. Free-range turkey, smoked salmon, exotic cheeses, enough appetizers for a Food Network special; an amazing spread
Baking Christmas cookies; actually mostly just icing and decorating the cookies.
My sister and I shop for stocking stuffers for my mom. Among the essentials each year is the trashiest pair of thong underwear we can find. Tassels, feathers … the more outrageous the better. She rolls her eyes and acts horrified, but we think secretly she kind of likes it.
Some of these traditions are recent, some are long-standing; the thong began as a joke to make my mom laugh instead of cry because she missed my daddy at Christmas. The Christmas cookies and church service we’ve done all my life. But the one family Christmas tradition I miss the most is my daddy’s Christmas prayer.
When my daddy prayed, as we stood in a circle holding hands, he always began by thanking God for the gift of family and he always ended the prayer by talking about the Cross. And in between he reminded us all of the real meaning of love and the real meaning of Christmas. He was thoughtful, wise and eloquent and there was rarely a prayer that did not move us to tears.
I miss crying at my daddy’s prayers.
But new traditions have taken root; yesterday we went to the mall so my one-year-old nieces could sit on Santa’s lap. It’s been more than 10 years since I’ve done the mall Santa. Today we’ll all visit my grandmother in the hospital at various times and take her a plate of food. We’ll still do the thong shopping, but now my sister and I take my grown daughters (18 and 22) with us.
Our family celebration of Christmas has always rightfully begun with the candlelight and carol service. Like all human tradition, the service changes from year to year but the Reason and the focus remain the same. Time and circumstance may change the way we mark this day, but the birth of Christ marks us anew each year.
The kingdom of this world
Is become the kingdom of our Lord,
And of His Christ, and of His Christ;
And He shall reign for ever and ever,
For ever and ever, forever and ever.
Hallelujah!
This countdown is getting serious. She leaves in One. Week.
What do you do the last week before your last child leaves for college?
It’s busy for her as she says goodbye to her friends, packs and cleans her trash pitdumping zone room. Busy for me as I plan the send-off dinner, try to enjoy every minute with her without smothering her to death and cry. A lot.
In some ways, the anticipation has been worse than the actual event. At least it seems so now — ask me again next week after she leaves.
She’s ready.
My dining room is full of dorm and her room is full of boxes and suitcases.
She’s excited about the challenge and ready to prepare for her future.
Over the weekend I got to hear her share insights on faith that were deep, thoughtful and meaningful, which gives me such peace.
I’m ready.
Yes, it’s hard. Hard as crap. But my Daddy taught me that few worthwhile things are easy. So that means this is very worthwhile.
I’ve got lots of exciting projects of my own to work on and that is going to be so much fun.
I can’t wait to watch how she’s going to use her gifts, talents and passions to work for good in the world.
At this point, I’ve either prepared her for adulthood or I have failed, so, in a way, the pressure is off. Now I get to just enjoy her last week at home. And try not to cry. Much.
Years later, I was finishing my graduate audiology program at University of Memphis and Jim was fresh out of Rhodes College (he would want me to point out that he actually graduated from Southwestern at Memphis), working here in Memphis at his first job, writing credit union software. During the Thanksgiving holiday in 1983, he made an unexpected drop-in visit to my family home in Jonesboro. We chatted for an hour or two and agreed to meet for a drink at some undetermined time. A few weeks later, in need of a break from thesis writing and preparing for comprehensive exams, I spontaneously called him to take him up on that drink. We stayed for dinner, arranged a second date, a third, a fourth … and in June of 1986, in the driveway of my family’s lake house, he proposed. We were married on November 30, 1986 in a small chapel at Christ United Methodist Church. The chapel’s capacity was 75. We invited 150 people. So even though our wedding was the Sunday after Thanksgiving, the place was packed.
