Yesterday, one of the kindest men I know told me how he was cultivating a ruthless attitude. We looked at each other and then burst out laughing. This gracious man doesn’t have a ruthless cell in his body. The funny thing is…I’m trying to do the same. But mine doesn’t have to do with finding time to save the world like he is doing. I’m just trying to edit the damn story from 300 words to 100 words. Get outta my way you totally unruthless Golden Retrievers and give me a pen – I am going to be RUTHLESS today!

*Having or showing no pity or compassion for others; cruel (Vicnotes addendum; attitude needed to kill the unneeded adverbs, adjectives, prepositions, phrases, etc. Out you go!)

* Ruthless Rye IPA is also a new Sierra Nevada brew – delicious!

It’s a little weird just how intimate the “blood” connection may feel to someone who receives blood. Everyone has a little bit of a different take on it, which you would expect because we all perceive things through a personal lens. Some people who have received a blood transfusion wave it off as no big deal, some people are intrigued, others can’t even think about it because the thought scares them. Many don’t think about it because at the time they received blood, there were so many other things going on. Maybe they were unconscious after an accident, or had just given birth. Maybe they were dealing with a life-threatening illness or were puking after chemotherapy. People don’t get blood unless there’s a significant need and the need? Well…let’s just say whatever the need is can often just rock your world.

Whatever triggers a need for a blood transfusion may be relegated to a person’s recitations of major life milestones, much like graduation or a marriage. The need can divide your world into a “before” and an “after” as in “before the accident” or “before cancer” or “before my health went to hell in a handbasket” *

Before life changed.

After your world has been rocked, there may come moments when you stop to think about the blood of another person in you. Now you may get my previous use of the word “intimate” because someone else’s blood flowing in your veins is pretty damn intimate.

At first glance, it may feel too intimate.

This is a connection like no other.  I understand why people may not stop to think about it because this kind of intimacy is a little more than uncomfortable. When I tell people I work for a blood center and that I have received many units of blood, the reaction often is, “Ew…”

I, however, think it’s totally AMAZING.

Because I work with blood donors who don’t know the patients who will receive their gift, and because I work with blood recipients who don’t know the person whose blood they have received, I have the privilege to share their stories with each other. (My favorite thing about my job.) Invariably, the response on both ends is one of wonder and gratitude. A recipient is grateful that the blood was available and safe. A donor is grateful he or she has been able to help someone in need.

On January 7, 2012 I celebrated – yes celebrated – fifteen years since my world was rocked by a diagnosis of leukemia. So many blood transfusions. Hundreds. My first reaction to needing blood transfusions was fear. Arthur Ashe. HIV. AIDS. That fear was somehow transformed into a wonder and gratitude so strong that perhaps gratitude – along with good medical care – including blood transfusions, nasty chemo and even nastier radiation – and crazy good marrow from my brother and the undeniable notion of grace – denied a place for those nasty cancer cells to survive.

I want to say thank you to all the blood donors who helped save my life. Whose blood ran rampant in my own veins trying to keep me alive until my brother’s blood cells took over. This “thank you” is a nicety, a social convention I feel compelled to share  - you don’t know me and I don’t know you. We have an anonymous relationship in that we are unknown to each other by name.  I don’t know a thing about you – your names, where you live, what makes you swoon, what makes you laugh, what pisses you off. I don’t know your age, sex, gender, spiritual beliefs, political bent. I don’t know why you give blood. But I know you cared enough to give something no one else but another human can give. I know you helped me. Your giving gave me gifts far beyond the moment of my need. Fifteen more years of memories that rock my world in far better ways than the diagnosis of leukemia.

Thank you. Rock on.

* From Phrases.org/uk: This phrase likely originated in the US and means “deteriorating rapidly” – Hollywood gives us guillotined heads – decapitated – collected in a basket but more likely it was going to hell in a handcart or wheelbarrow then shifted into a nicely alliterative phrase with “handbasket”

So many things in my life now feel…nebulous. There are lots of things I am very sure about like sleeping in on Saturday. THAT, I’m sure of. A good book. Sip of hot coffee with just the right amount of half-and-half, nixo on the fat-free milk in the coffee. Uh-uh. I’m sure of the serious stuff like loving God, my husband, my daughters, my friends, my family. That’s solid. But the other stuff? Nebulous. I focus for a bit then notice someone either moved my cheese or maybe even took my cheese (so what am I to do now?) or my little girls are now adults (where do I fit in their lives now?) or notice I want to stuff a 24-hour day with 48 hours of activities and choosing seems hard. Yet, fun to have ideas! Frustrating to feel as if I don’t have time. Yes, I know I make my choices. Still…I’m restless. It could be that I just don’t want to clean my house or file the truckload of paper laying around the office that isn’t really an office but is pretending for the moment. It could be I’m ready to throw out some old to usher in some new but haven’t figured out the throwing out part yet. It feels like I’m on the cusp of a lot of transitions that I have not fully embraced because really, I haven’t even figured them out yet. But I feel them hovering. So yeah…nebulous. For the moment.

*Unclear, vague, or ill-defined.

“Good morning, cohorts!” I sometimes sing out to my team of work colleagues. One usually snorts cheerfully, another may sing back, or just wave an arm above a cubicle edge. Usually, they are good-natured about my cheerfulness, as annoying as it may be on any given morning. (I understand that as I often annoy myself.) Sometimes, I slip into my seat not wanting to bug them, busy as everyone is. But banding together to do what we do – communications and marketing – for a greater good does bring to mind visions of warriors, allegiances, community, and pursuit of common goals. It’s a good group…a cohort!

* a group of warriors or a group of individuals sharing something in common (age, statistical factor, group membership, demographics, etc)

I’m here to warn you of a nefarious plot perpetuated by auto fuel pump manufacturers in collusion with oil companies. How many times in recent months have you noticed that when you try to stop the gas pump on a nice even number, say $30.50 or maybe even $25.00, the gas pump gives a Pekingese hiccup giving you a tiny bit more?

Someone knows there are millions of people obsessed with a nice even number. By setting a pump algorithm to add just one or two more cents to any attempted total price ending with .00 or .50, knowing the “fueler” will add a bit more pressure on the pump to get to an even number, fuel companies can generate millions more because screwing us every holiday season and summer month is simply not enough.

Um…I guess it could be my reflexes are just getting slower but I’m going with the nefarious plot.

Brilliant idea but it pisses me off. Nefarious!

* Word Fav: nefarious = flagrantly wicked or evil

House cleaning is not one of my favorite tasks. I like a clean house but don’t like cleaning when there’s so much else to do: Read! Run! Meet a friend! Nap! Watch a movie! Write! But at times, cleaning is necessary. Before a holiday is one of those times.

Thanksgiving, guests and mother-in-law. ‘Nuff said.

I embrace the Thanksgiving holiday, perhaps more than any. There is never a day I am not thankful for the gift of life. It so easily could have been otherwise.

So as I sprawled out under the table, bucket, scrub brush in the hand, I was not surprised the chair leg spoke to me and I in turn spoke to it. The chair leg pretty much said one thing: Thanks for cleaning me! I feel like I just had a hot shower!

But my messages – reminders, I guess – were a bit different. And though I addressed my remarks to the chair leg, they were really to One far greater. Along the lines of:

Thank you for knees that actually work – I can get up and down from the floor without pressing the Med-Alert button

Thank you for eyes that see. What they are seeing is sort of gross but never mind about that.

Thank you for arms and shoulders that can stretch to clean up the baseboards while I’m down here…and the grout. Baseboards and molding brings to mind more than one thing and yes, it’s disgusting.

Thank you for bleach that cleans and disinfects, perhaps keeping me from a cold that everyone else seems to have.

Thanks for ears that hear the great music making the cleaning tasks less onerous. Even under the table, I try to dance.

Thank you, chair leg, for doing your part holding up this simple piece of furniture – a chair – upright and stable, and serving our family for over 20 years – Taylor Woodcraft. Awesome.

 Thank you for the smell of Simple Green that cuts the smell of bleach. And vanilla candles that just smell good. And what’s to come in just a few days that will smell so good, my olfactory senses will bow in sheer gratitude if a sense could actually bow but you know what I mean.

Thank you for my delightful dogs whose fur/hair is on every leg down here.

 Thank you for a place to live, food to eat, a full table surrounded by friends and family.

The chair leg didn’t have to say anything else. It was clean and mute once again. I finished my tasks and the house will look nice for the six hours it will take before the dirt and dust return, the dog hair gathers and it’s once again a mess.

But a clean house isn’t that important.

Thank you, Lord, for family and health, shelter and food.

And every once in a while, a clean house.

There is a reason why I run 12-minute miles…

I GET DISTRACTED!

I run on a trail at a beautiful place.

Folsom Lake changes with the seasons.

The water is receding – more sand!

There’s odd fall foliage this time of year.

Clouds roll in on this November day

Obsessed fishermen don’t care about the season – just about the fish

I run into such interesting people and animals on the trail – everyone has a story

I even passed a horse! (Okay, it’s good to have a goal. I wanted to pass this horse even if it was doing a 15 minute mile…)

People tend to have a couple of dogs

Or three

Maybe even four

So I run 12-minute miles. I get distracted!

My hubby says using the phrase “yard beautification” instead of the term “yard work” is just his little mind trick for feeling a little better about spending an incredibly gorgeous Sunday working in the yard.

“Just a few hours,” we assure each other.

“It needs to be done,” we agree.

I grab the rake; such a quaint tool.

I remember all those fall afternoons growing up in New York, raking…and raking…and raking. Many piles throughout the yard, all neatly maintained by a child. Until my dad would drop down to each little pile with his cigarette, lighting each pile, admonishing us “be careful” and “don’t burn down the house”– such a responsibility! So today, magnanimously I offer,

“How about I rake up those redwood droppings?”

Done. Cute little pile. No fire.

“Hey, the front area really needs to be addressed. Do you think you can get all those volunteer saplings out of the agapanthus plants?” Sure, no problem! Yard beautification!

Oh my. Have you seen the roof lately? Winter and rains are a comin’. We better get the roof blown off and clear those gutters! Another tool!

“Try not to break the tiles while you’re up there.” Okay! Just hold that ladder a bit while I get up there. Move away now. I don’t want to blow all this stuff on your head! Crack. There’s one tile. Oops. Dang. Another. Snap. Maybe if I just walk in the…oops. Let me just blow these few leaves…well, maybe more than a few…oh crap how many trees do we have in this yard?

“Hey, I can’t really get this part of the roof. Can you just clip some of those straggly branches?” Sure!

“Well those branches are a little thick.” Another tool? Sure!

Wow. Effective.

“Maybe just that one branch over there? You see it? Yeah. That one…okay, maybe six.”

“I can’t see anymore. Maybe we should stop.” Okay.

Time for our rewards. After workout treats.

“Let’s go see if Pittsburgh won.” Okay. (They did!)

Yard beautification. I can go with that. Especially since I’m going into work tomorrow and hubby needs to figure out how to get rid of all those yard beautification mountains in the driveway, currently viewable via Google Earth.

We have a visitor for a few months. Her name is Breea. (Yes, that’s Breea with two ees.)  She has very curly hair and prefers my side of the bed, probably because I’m shorter than the other guy so there’s more room. She claims the lap of my hubby on the couch and has confused the other two canines in the house. Who does this princess think she is? (Exactly!) But being Golden Retrievers, their gentle protest manifests itself in lying down, then sleeping. The occasional stealth of Breea’s squeaky toy. The home situation is quite calm, even with three.

Breea is very sweet and very confused. Her family is separated for awhile while Dad is getting a bone marrow transplant at Stanford. Mom is with Dad. The four kids spend half the week with friends getting home-schooled and half the week with Grandpa and Grandma who live across the street from us. Breea gets to see her kids occasionally and doesn’t quite understand why they keep leaving without her. She’ll get used to it over time and before she knows it, everyone will be together again.

A decision to leave

It’s one of the very hard things about leaving home for medical treatment for a disease that will just as soon kill you if you stand around waiting. We are not talking about an appendectomy here, although I suppose a busted appendix can kill you too. As a patient, you absolutely want to be in the best place possible and of course, one covered by your insurance.  This may be your one shot at a future so that may mean temporarily leaving home. It’s a very hard decision to leave the place that offers you a different – but very real – type of healing. But this is what many people face each day. Once the critical decision is made as to where one will seek treatment, scores more arrive: job details, health insurance approvals, a place to live near the medical center, kids cared for (school! sports! piano lessons!) the yard, the utilities, paper delivery and fridge emptying, packing, cleaning, and all the myriad details of leaving home for an extended period of time.

Finally, you get to one more emotional decision. The pets. Your four-footed pals.  They are family, too. What shall you do? This is where I cracked up for a wee bit when facing my own marrow transplant far from home. Who will care for our three pets that we love? I need to emphasize this more. We love our pets a whole lot than some people love their children. (Don’t judge. It’s just who we are. And our pets do not travel to the mall in purses because they are not accessories. They are friends, confidants, exercise buddies, therapists, medicine, comedy and more.)

Our pet care was more complicated than sweet Breea. We had big Bodie, the 105-pound Labrador with a commanding bass bark (think James Earl Jones) that could scare even He Who Must Not Be Named Voldemort . The neighbors alternately loved him and reprimanded him for barking so loudly. A quick “Bodie! SHUT UP!” was generally successful. Bodie could easily pull your shoulder out on a walk should another dog on leash be out for a leisurely stroll nearby. Bodie also periodically ate large chunks of our house. You can see how getting someone to care for Bodie might have been challenging.

Lucy, another Golden Retriever sweetheart , was gently neurotic. Pretty easy to care for unless she decided to swim after ducks. Halfway across the lake…

And Millie, the ancient cat, was just…well, the kind word might be simply weird. She pretty much disliked people so no cute, cuddly cat scenario there.

I wept when I thought about leaving my pets. It was a safe thing to weep about since I could not bear to think too closely about leaving my girls without a mom if I were not to survive. That weeping, once started, would be hard to turn off. So instead, I cried about my dogs and cat. And tried to make a plan. Flyers, ads, many phone calls and many tears later, the situation was neatly resolved when generous neighbors offered to help care for our pets over several months. To this day, more than 12 years later, I am still so grateful – and in awe – for such a special kindness.

When we heard Breea needed a home until her family is back together, we jumped at the chance. A sweet opportunity to help in a way we totally understand.

Good girl, Breea. Don’t worry. Your family will be back together soon. Until then, move a little over to the right at the foot of the bed. My foot just fell asleep.

It’s almost October and I sit here amazed, once again, at how fast the summer flies. I love summer. The heat, the sweat, the scorching sun, starry evenings, long lit days, the feeling of endless time, endless days. (Mosquitos? Not so much.)

Summer, in its typical form, showed up about three weeks ago with a few 100-degree days and doesn’t seem to be exiting quickly. Unusual for inland northern California. Truly, I’m sad when summer runs its course, with changing light and shifting temperatures heralding autumn’s arrival. I’m a summer child in many ways. Not only was I born in August but summer is when I feel most alive.

I will hold onto summer moments as the season changes, grateful for special moments each season offers.

summer runs…

happy dogs and the oh-not-so-sweet-scent of wet dogs…

birthday hikes…

with the dogs

amazing nature…

As fall approaches…goodbye snakes!

What’s next?

We’ll see!