Meltdown

I hate broccoli.

Every day, I choke it down like medicine.  It's because of an article I read years ago.  There's a chemical called "sulforaphane" present in broccoli that helps to reduce your chances of breast cancer.

I made up my mind, after giving birth to our sons, that I'd do any thing not to get breast cancer.  Even eat broccoli.  I've tried every way imaginable to make it more palatable - steamed it, dipped it, and smothered it with cheese.  It's still broccoli.  Finally, I bought a juicer.  Now I drink my broccoli.  It's absolutely vile, but it goes down a lot faster than munching it like a work horse.

I had a little meltdown last weekend, and that's what got me thinking about broccoli.  It started out with the furnace, which is on its last legs.  The furnace man told us it's time to replace it, and with the government rebate for new high efficiency furnaces, we could install a new one for just under 6,000 dollars.  He seemed to think that would make us happy.  What universe do furnace men come from?

I was sucking on a lollipop brooding about the furnace when I broke a tooth - a big back molar.  That pretty much did it.  I know I wrote last week that I was thankful for all my blessings.  But screw it.  Thanksgiving was over, my chest was coming off in two weeks, and I was sitting in a cold house with a broken tooth.

That's when I had a meltdown.  Sneaking to the back of the house, I curled up in an ancient recliner and cried big, blubbery, nose-dripping tears.  When my husband discovered me some time later and begged to know what in the world had happened, I said to him very rationally, "I'm never eating broccoli again!"

The next morning, however, the world righted itself just like it always does. My adored aunt Patty sent me a consoling email, wonderful Louise at Dr. Janda's office made an appointment for me to get my tooth fixed Monday afternoon, and my crazy sister-in-law Mary called me from Montrose, Colorado, and made me laugh.  That girl's so funny she could host her own late night talk show.  Then Peg Ley, my high school typing teacher and one of my dearest friends, accompanied me to Deb's house to take over a pot of John's chicken noodle soup and Peg's own delectable brownies.  At 85, Peg is the most beautiful woman alive, and even though she just lost her husband, she always thinks of everybody else, including me.

Deb looks wonderful.  Not even a week out of her surgery, she's staying on top of her pain medication and managing very well.  Brian and the girls are pampering her big time, and she seems contented and relieved.

Finally, I received an email from one of my former students yesterday.  Drew Kime, a six-foot beauty, graduated a year and a half ago with our younger son Tommy.  "You know, Mrs. Howard, I'm only 20," she wrote, "but I'd get rid of my boobs in a second.  My long legs get me all the attention, and you've still got that going for you!" 

Okay, okay.  I'm back to being thankful.  My tooth is fixed, John says we can crutch along on the old furnace for a while, and I am very much blessed with friends and family, young and old.  Just the same, I moved the juicer back to the dark recesses of the counter top.  Maybe I'll drag it out someday to make a fruit slushy.

But I'm never eating broccoli again.

Deb's Surgery

For three years, Julie Bombeck has been on a nationwide transplant list for a new pair of lungs.

A good friend to so many of us, including my sisters and me, Julie has battled Cystic Fibrosis for more than half her life. Just a few weeks ago, her own lungs deteriorated so rapidly that she was rushed to a Minneapolis transplant hospital in a last desperate hope that a donor might still come through.

Deb was worried about her. "I want you to promise," she said to me, "that if I don’t wake up from my surgery, you’ll make sure Julie gets my lungs."

I hate it when Deb talks like that. "You bet," I said, "and we’ll put your liver on ice just in case one of us should develop a drinking problem."

But miraculously, in the 11^th hour, Julie received her new lungs, and every single person in her hometown rejoiced and immediately filled out a donor card. Julie Bombeck is our hero.

So today, it wasn’t necessary for Deb to donate her lungs to anybody. But she would have. She would have parceled out every organ in her body like Christmas presents if she thought it would help somebody.

Deb’s husband Brian and their two younger daughters Brandi and Sydney were waiting with Deb in Surgery Prep when Mary, Terri and I arrived at 8 this morning. If Deb was fearful, she wasn’t showing it. We hugged her and told her we loved her, and it was only then that she choked back a few emotional tears.

But her husband Brian Durning, the biggest smart aleck I know with the possible exception of my own husband, refused to let any of us become weepy. "I hope you’re ready for a good time," he informed us with his gets-me-every-time poker face. "We’ll be playing Charades in the waiting room."

"And I brought my game of LIFE," 23-year-old Brandi joked with a straight face uncannily like her father’s.

If you have to endure three hours in a cold waiting room while your sister undergoes a double mastectomy, be sure to do it with the Durning family. And throw in my stepmother while you’re at it.

Our stepmother Kris arrived shortly after Deb was wheeled into surgery. Kris would pretty much drive through an F-7 tornado if she thought we needed her, and we did. Between Brian and Brandi’s irreverent jokes and Kris’s appreciative laughter, the three hours passed with only minimal anxiety, and exactly at noon, Dr. Grange and Dr. Montag came striding through the double doors to deliver the good news.

"No sign of disease in the lymph nodes!" Dr. Grange said immediately. It was the news we were longing to hear, and once again, those two good doctors with their reassuring smiles became like saviors to us.

As we were hugging them and each other, our youngest sister Caroline arrived, and we trooped down to the hospital cafeteria to eat lunch until Deb was transferred to her own room.

"Caroline," Mary said in her very direct way, "have you made your appointment to have this surgery yet?"

She was halfway joking, but Caroline immediately bridled. "I’m not having a double mastectomy," she said shortly.

"Sure you are," Mary said confidently.

Caroline, at 42, is petite and drop dead gorgeous. Newly divorced with three children, she’s just entered the world of dating again, and the last thing she’s thinking about is getting rid of her breasts. Who could blame her? I felt sure she would be diligent about her breast health and would confront her family history in her own way, but Mary’s supreme confidence has always cracked me up.

However, before the two of them could engage in any kind of a spirited debate, a nurse arrived to inform us that Deb was in her hospital room and was ready to see her family. My brother-in-law Brian, who is as tender-hearted as he is ornery, instructed Brandi and 11-year-old Sydney to go first, and they rushed down the hallway.
In my mind’s eye, there are few things I’ve witnessed as lovely as the picture today of my loving nieces carefully embracing their mother. Even after three hours of grueling surgery, Deb smiled her beautiful smile and gazed with love at her girls.

"You look so good!" Kris said to her.

"Do I?" Deb said. "Would you say I’m radiant?" she joked.

She was. She was beautiful and radiant and heroic.

My little sister Deb lost her breasts today. She gave them up for the sake of her girls, much like she’d give up her lungs for Julie Bombeck. That’s the way she is.

It’s days like today that I realize what Deb means to me. A long, emotional 24 hours will do that to you. The day is finally over, and soon I will go to bed. But first I will drop to my knees to thank God for Deb, who is precious to me.

And for Mary.

And for Terri.

And for Caroline, who will fight like hell to keep her breasts.

Sleep well, my sisters.

Thanskgiving

Kenny has epilepsy.

I never in a million years thought I’d be so happy to know one of my boys suffered from such an affliction. The flip side, however, is that his seizures could have been caused by a brain tumor or liver failure.

I’ll take epilepsy any day.

“It means I’ll probably be taking medicine for the rest of my life,” Kenny said calmly on the phone yesterday, “but other than that, I can do anything I want.”

That’s the way life is.  It’s a series of trade-offs.  You’re diagnosed with epilepsy, but you don’t have a brain tumor.  You cut off your boobs, but you don’t get breast cancer.

The CallThatNeverComes came.  My surgery date is Dec. 16^th.  But I feel nothing but thankful today.  It’s like the old Biblical story of Jacob wrestling an angel.

“I will not let you go until you bless me!” Jacob told the angel. 

Sometimes, you have to wrestle an angel or two for the blessings in your life.

Tomorrow, everybody in my family, including my young stepbrother Nolan and his fiancée, and my youngest sister Caroline and her family, will be under one roof to celebrate Thanksgiving together.  We’re gathering a little earlier this year because Deb’s surgery is Tuesday.  We couldn’t possibly have Thanksgiving without Deb.  Who would organize the yearly Christmas gift draw?  So tomorrow evening, all 60 of us will descend upon my brother Tom’s house where he and his beautiful wife Sheryl will calmly deal with the masses.

My stepmother Kris is lugging over 20 pounds of mashed potatoes, my husband John will make his world famous stuffing, and Terri will bring the corn and macaroni casserole that I crave every Thanksgiving.  We will eat and laugh and thoroughly enjoy each other.  And I will be as thankful as I’ve ever been in my life.

This Thanksgiving, it occurs to me that I’m not only thankful for my family, but I’m thankful for those special women in my life who have wrestled blessings from angels.

My lovely friend Lisa Willman is a breast cancer survivor, and she’s never looked back.  In our growing community, she’s the woman who keeps our town progressive as she organizes hundreds of volunteers to man our Events Center for the State Fair and the state volleyball tournament.  If that’s not enough, she and my other friend, Julie Pfeifer, co-founded our town’s GRACE (Grand Island Area Cancer Endowment) Foundation that raises hundreds of thousands of dollars each year to help women with breast cancer.

Julie, like my sister Terri, is the beautiful mother of six kids.  She was one of the first people I turned to after Terri’s diagnosis.  A five-year breast cancer survivor, Julie underwent a double mastectomy, treatment and breast reconstruction and has been so comforting and informative.

Jane Kittridge, in her 70’s, is one of the most striking women I’ve ever known.  Ten years ago, she elected to have breast reconstruction after a double mastectomy for cancer.  “Don’t be afraid of this,” she looked my sisters and me straight in the eyes dispensing motherly encouragement.  “And when you’re my age and everybody else’s boobs are down to THERE,” her eyes twinkled, “you’ll be upright and perky!”

Donna Northup is like a second mother to me.  The mother of nine, she was diagnosed with breast cancer in her 60’s, but her deep faith carried her through and has inspired me for 25 years.

And, of course, there’s my sister Terri.  “This mastectomy and reconstruction stuff is no big deal at all!” she promises. I’ve been a little crazy lately, but I know full well I’d be a disastrous mess without my beautiful little sister showing me the way.  Terri makes Deb and Mary and me brave.  She’s wrestled her angel to the ground, and she helps us believe we can wrestle ours, too.

Finally, I will think of Mom this Thanksgiving Day.  Mom didn’t win the battle against breast cancer, but she wrestled for the ultimate gift – Heaven.  It’s because of Mom that her daughters will survive.  We will see our children grow to adulthood.  We will be there for weddings and grandchildren and old age. 

But I know Mom’s been with us for those special events, too.  She and Dad are both with us, and their presence is strongly felt in all our lives.  I have no doubt they will be with us for our Thanksgiving celebration – enjoying the laughter and the stories, caring for us, loving us. They will stick close to my sisters and me as we complete this journey together.

And they will help us wrestle our angels.

Happy Thanksgiving!

A Slippery Slope

In one week, I broke three toothbrushes right in half.  One after the other.

Brushing my teeth is one of those mundane tasks that allows my mind to fixate on things like seizures and mastectomies.

“You broke three toothbrushes?” John’s eyes were wide with amazement.  “I don’t think I could even break one.”

My husband is 6 ft. 7 in. tall and 260 pounds.

“Oh, I think you probably could,” I snapped at him.

Poor John.  He’s just as fearful for Kenny’s health as I am, and he’s worried about my sisters and me.  John adores my sisters.  He teases them unmercifully, but when Terri was diagnosed with breast cancer, he rose from his bed in the middle of the night to read in the living room.  That’s a sure sign he’s stewing.  Usually, John goes to bed every night, folds his hands across his chest like a corpse, and doesn’t stir until morning.

It’s entirely unfair for me to get so irritable with him.  One night when we were watching the news together, I “sshhhh!”ed him, and he didn’t say a word.  The very next night, he sat in his recliner whistling tunelessly while I tried to read the paper.  I glared at him over the top of my reading glasses.

“What are you, 11?”

He stopped abruptly and left the room.  I felt terrible.  If you knew my husband, you’d drop dead in amazement that I’d dare to either “sshhh” him or snipe at his whistling.  You just don’t do that to John Howard.

The fact that he didn’t immediately put me in my place was disturbing.  I apologized – isn’t that what I specialize in these days? – and he accepted my apology graciously enough.

It’s difficult to describe my husband without giving the impression that he’s an old curmudgeon.  Frankly, he’s the most sarcastic, cynical, yet intelligent person I’ve ever known.  He would have been a great lawyer.  Whenever we argue, I always think I know what I’m talking about.  Five minutes later, however, I’m backed into a corner with not one intelligible word to say for myself.  I hate it when he does that.

But most of the time, I’m crazy about him, and so are his legions of students from the last 34 years.  John is the best teacher I’ve ever known in my life.  He’s a voracious reader and a student of history, and he knows how to communicate his passion.  The kids love his wicked humor, and when they come back from their first year of college, they never fail to thank him for their thorough background in history.

“You were the best history teacher I ever had,” his former students tell him again and again. 

Some people are afraid of him.  Truthfully, I guess we’re all a little afraid of him.  But underneath his big cynical roar is a sympathetic heart of gold.  His students know that about him, and our boys and I certainly know it.

The trouble was, with all these distressing events falling on top of us, John was being too nice, and he was especially careful of every word he spoke to me.  I understood.  When your wife is about to go under the knife to have her breasts taken off, you’re pretty much walking a slippery slope.  It’s a mistake for him to say, “This operation is no big deal at all,” because what your wife hears is, “Your boobs were never that great anyway.”  On the flip side, if he tells her, “This is very difficult, but we’ll deal with it somehow,” he might as well say, “I only hope that I’m still attracted to you.”

Instead, John tried the sensitive approach.  He hugged me and promised to support my decision all the way.  “If this operation will enhance the quality of your life and enable you to be worry free, that’s all I care about,” he said soothingly.

“Yeah, yeah,” I thought.  “But will you still want to have sex?”

John was so sensitive, in fact, I knew it was killing him.  It sure as heck was killing me.  For 26 years, he’d teased me about my cooking, my sleep habits, my endless budgets, and my remarkable lack of memory.  But he hadn’t cracked a joke in weeks.  He was treating me with kid gloves, and I could literally see his tongue bite back one of his scathing remarks.  It was positively unnatural.

Thankfully, it didn’t last forever.  After a particularly exhausting week at school, we roused ourselves to attend the last home football game of the season.  Sitting almost in the front row of the stadium, we cheered on our beloved Crusaders.  As tired as we were, we both brightened when Julie Chapman Hamik, a favorite former student of ours, bounced over to visit.

“How’s Terri?” she said as soon as she plopped herself down for a good chat.  Julie and her siblings had gone to school with my younger siblings, and she was genuinely interested in Terri’s health.

“She’s good!” I said, and then informed her about Deb’s situation and our collective decision to have surgery.

“No kidding!” Julie gasped.  “You know what?  I’d do the very same thing,” she said.  Julie’s always been a little mother hen.  “In fact, I’d get rid of any part that might ever give me trouble!” she laughed.

“Oh, Cathy’s already done that,” John said, referring to my hysterectomy years ago.  “Yeah, I started out with a wife,” he said with his old sarcasm, “and I’m ending up with my college roommate.”

Julie and I stared at him.  A fleeting look of uncertainty flashed across his face.  In all our married life, I’d never seen John Howard uncertain about any thing. 

Julie and I exploded.  I laughed so hard I had a coughing spasm.  My lord, it felt good to laugh.  It was a huge release from all the worry that had been weighing me down for so long.  All through the fourth quarter of the game, I snorted like a kid in church and struggled in vain to recover my dignity.

“Please!” John pretended to be shocked.  “Get a grip on yourself!”

There are as many different ways for good husbands to comfort their scared wives as there are husbands themselves.  Some send roses, some give their wives jewelry, and the real romantics even write poetry.

My husband is mean to me.

When he teases me about my cooking or does his dead-on impression of the way I discipline the cats, he makes me laugh until my stomach aches.

And I know that what he’s really telling me is that he loves me.

And that he thinks I’m a tiny bit insane.

Over the Edge

I’ve been a little snappish lately. 

“Snappish” sounds so much nicer than “bitchy”.

Between waiting for Kenny’s test results and for the CallThatNeverComes for my surgery date, I’m irritable and impatient.

Last week, I asked three students to sit out in the hall.  Three.  I apologized to one of them immediately, a sweet eighth grade girl who’s never given me an ounce of trouble.

“I’m sorry, Rachel,” I said.  “I’m a little out of sorts, and I took it out on you.”

She reached out to hug me.  “That’s okay, Mrs. Howard.  I know you have a lot going on just now.”

My throat tightened. Nothing can choke me up like a child’s forgiveness.

To combat the growing stress, I walk long miles every day and say my Rosary.  And in the middle of the school day, I shut my classroom door during my free period and savor the silence.  But last Tuesday, Mr. Schumann, the assistant principal, strode into my classroom and said, “Say…,” and I knew I wouldn’t be enjoying my free period that day.

The band teacher had gone home sick, he explained.  Could I cover her eighth grade band class?  It had been one of those days already.  The sixth graders weren’t catching on to adverbs at all, and the repair shop had called with the news that the van needed new struts and shocks.  Little things piling up on big things.

“Yeah, I can cover it,” I said to Mr. Schumann.  How could I not help him out?  He was always so good to me.

Subbing is not a dream job, and subbing for band class is a nightmare, plain and simple.  “I really don’t want to do this today,” I groaned, as I trudged down to the band room sixth period.

To my surprise, the room was dark, and the door was locked.  “Dang!” I hissed.  I’d left my keys all the way back in my classroom.

Just then, through the glass pane of the door, I saw a small head pop up from inside to grin maniacally at me.

Just like that, I was furious.  “Listen, you little twerp!  Let me in right now,” I yelled through the closed door, “or so help me God, I’ll beat the crap outta you.”

The door opened immediately.  Bueller is a very small boy, and he stared at me with huge eyes.  The lights exploded to life, and one by one, 26 eighth graders wriggled silently out of their hiding places behind the piano, the drum set and from the instrument closets.  The shock on their faces mirrored my own.  I felt as if I rose above my body to survey the scene.  Had I really called Bueller a twerp?  Not only that, I said “crap”, a word I thoroughly despise, and had threatened to beat it out of a kid.  Not in 34 years had I ever talked to a student like that.

“We were just trying to scare you,” Denny, a nice boy, spoke timidly for the group.  “We thought you would think it was funny.”

The silence was agonizing.

“Get your jackets,” I said abruptly. “We’re going outside.”

It took two seconds for the words to penetrate, then they whooped with joy.  I took them out to the football field, instructed them to do any thing they wanted, but to stay inside the fence where I could see them.  Then I got on the track and walked.

Pounding the asphalt, I circled the track again and again.  And I prayed.

“God, forgive me,” I pleaded.  What was wrong with me?  Bueller could be a little pill sometimes, but he hadn’t deserved that.  He was probably sensitive about his size, and I had called him a twerp.  Possibly, I had destroyed his already damaged self-esteem.

I walked and walked and prayed and prayed.  The October sun shone bright, and a mild breeze whistled softly through the trees.  The kids were having so much fun laughing and playing.  There is nothing so pleasant, I thought, as the sound of kids playing outside.  After a few miles, my perspective was better.  It was time to go.  I called the kids and sent them reluctantly back to the school building.  But first I had to find Bueller.

A girl screamed.  There was Bueller trying to poke a sand burr into the back of her neck.  It’s always easy to find that kid.

“Bueller!” I called.  He turned instantly and dropped the sand burr.  Busted.  I read the expression in his face.  He walked slowly over to me.

“Listen, Bueller,” I started hesitantly.  “I want to tell you I’m really sorry for what happened inside.  I was so wrong.”

Astonishment, followed by relief, flooded his face.  A reprieve!

Then confusion.  “Huh?” He was puzzled.  “Sorry for what?”

For a second, I thought he was kidding.  But then I sighed.  Bueller could never remember a single thing that happened 30 minutes ago.  He lived strictly in the moment.

“Never mind,” I ruffled his hair.  “Go on in.”

In gleeful abandon, he skipped – yes, skipped – to catch up with his classmates.  Blowing past Levi, a boy twice his size, he screamed “She-ZAAAM!” in his ear.  Levi jumped and painfully covered his ear.  Enraged, he went after Bueller, who skillfully crumpled to the ground on all fours to send L sprawling and tripping into the dirt.

Bueller darted back up, laughing maliciously, then ran to make a mighty leap into a huge puddle that a small eighth grade girl had just carefully skirted.  The splash drenched her, and Bueller, running backwards, laughed demonically.  “Ha! Ha!  Watch your step!”

I breathed long and exhaled slowly.

Little twerp.  I oughtta beat the crap outta that kid.

Kenny

Don’t ever tempt the fates by complaining that you can’t handle “one more thing!”  Life always decides you can.

By late October, Deb’s surgery had been scheduled for November 23^rd.  Mary had decided, because of her insurance deductible, to wait for her operation until after the first of the year. 

But I was getting antsy.  I didn’t want to sit around for weeks and months to think about having a double mastectomy.  Dr. Grange and Dr. Montag, however, were having scheduling conflicts.  “We’ll call you as soon as we figure it out,” Dr. Grange’s office assured me.

There was nothing to do but wait.

One afternoon at school, just before Halloween, my husband John strode through my classroom door.  Something was wrong. I could tell by the way his lower lip quivered, and, in a flash, I knew it was one of our boys.

“It’s Kenny,” he said.  “Regis University just called.  He’s had a seizure.”

The words were like a physical blow.  “Where?  When?” I babbled.

“Just a little while ago,” John was trying to be calm for my sake, I knew.  “He’s in an ambulance, and they’re taking him to Denver General.”

I was all for abandoning our students that second, jumping in the car, and making a hell bent trip to Denver.  But John was more practical.  “I’ll call my brother Dave, and you wait for a call from the hospital.”

In my mind, the word “seizure” meant death.  I feared for my oldest boy in that moment as I’ve never feared before.  Both our sons had endured surgical procedures and a few health scares, but there’d never been any thing like this.

Kenny had graduated from Denver’s Regis University a year before and had landed a job in their alumni department.  He, like our younger son Tommy, was an athlete.  He had played college basketball just as now Tommy played college football.  I had always worried about sports injuries, but Kenny was a working stiff now.  He was supposed to be safe.

John located his brother Dave who worked in Denver. “I’ll get right to the hospital,” Dave said, without another word. 

Moments later, Kenny’s boss Penny called.  “I’m almost at the hospital,” she said, “and I’m meeting Katie there.”  Katie was Kenny’s girlfriend.  Penny explained that Kenny had slumped over his desk when a co-worker noticed that he was convulsing.  The co-worker and another young woman in the office had somehow managed to lower Kenny’s 6 foot 10 inch frame to the floor only to watch helplessly as he suffered a full blown seizure.

Katie called next, and she’d been crying.  “We haven’t seen him yet,” she said, “but I’ll call you as soon as we do.”

I sat at the desk in my empty classroom while John left to deal with the administrators to find substitute teachers for us.  We would leave for Denver as soon as possible.

“Oh Lord,” I prayed with my head in my hands.  “Please don’t take Kenny from us.”

The phone rang again.  “Mom?”  It was Kenny.  The sound of my son’s voice was a benediction.  He had just fought his way out of a fog, he realized, to discover he was in a strange hospital, but that his uncle and his girlfriend were nearby.  He remembered nothing, he said, but a couple of brief moments in the elevator and in the ambulance.

“Kenny,” I asked, “how have you been feeling?  Did you have any kind of warning at all?”

For the last few weeks, he confided, he’d been having little episodes – mostly in front of his computer screen.  He’d suddenly experience a feeling of de’ja’vous  and struggle to remember some elusive dream before he snapped out of it.

“We’ll be there as soon as we can,” I assured him.

The drive to Denver was endless.  But I was comforted by the fact that Katie would keep an eagle eye on Kenny.  John and I were quiet for most of the six hours in the car.  Silently, I thanked God that Kenny was alive.  I thanked him for the good husband who sat beside me, for his unfailing dependability and for the way he made me laugh every day of my life.  I thanked him for Tommy, who was back in his Omaha dormitory room worrying about his older brother, and for all our family members and friends.  We were so rich.

“What’s a couple of boobs?” I said to God.  He’d given me the best of every thing.

It was a joy to see Kenny.  The seizure had left him with a crooked back, a kink in his neck, and a swollen tongue that mangled his speech, but he rose to greet us with his familiar sweet smile. 

I hugged him close, all 6 feet, ten inches of him, and John gripped his shoulders.

Our boy.

“Cat scan was normal!” Kenny pronounced.  He was scheduled to visit a neurologist in a few days and would undergo several additional tests.  But for now, at least, he seemed healthy enough.

For two days, I savored the sight of my oldest son.  I did all the things I never got to do since he’d grown up and moved away.  I rubbed his sore back with liniment, smoothed the cowlick on the crown of his head, and reached out to hug him whenever I felt like it.

Kenny, Katie, John and I hooked up with Uncle Dave and drove to Greeley to visit Grandma Howard in her new assisted living facility.  “Did you get your encephalitis shots, you two?” she wagged a finger at Kenny and Katie.  They looked at each other.

“I think you mean meningitis shots, Mom,” John gently corrected her.

“Oh, that’s right!” Grandma smacked her forehead.  “Don’t either of you even THINK about getting meningitis!”

We busted Grandma out of the nursing home and took her to a restaurant where we met John’s other brother Cliff.  Kenny regaled his uncles with hospital stories, Katie’s eyes lit up when she spied the chocolate shake she ordered, and Grandma told us all about a particularly disgruntled resident who nevertheless turned on the charm for any male within a 10-foot range.

I sat contentedly in the middle of the food and laughter wishing Tommy, our younger son, could have been there with us.

The next day, it was time for us to go home to Nebraska.  “Call us as soon as you hear any thing about your test results, Kenny!” I hugged him.

“I will, Mom, and let me know about your surgery date,” he hugged me hard.  We promised each other we’d get through November and December and that 2011 would be nothing less than a banner year.

But the New Year seemed an eternity away, and I was scared.

Why was my son having seizures?

Deb

I’ll tell you something about my sister Deb.  When she was a teenager, she was evil.  Evil incarnate.

One afternoon in high school, she dropped by the gym to collect Mary, Terri and Caroline, who had just finished a rigorous basketball practice.  Sweaty, tired and famished, my three little sisters fell into the back seat of the car. 

Suddenly, however, their heads shot up.  On Deb’s lap was a carton of delectable chocolate-covered donuts.  The three little girls glanced quickly at each other.  You had to play it cool with Deb, they knew.  Pretending nonchalance, they sat back in their seats to bide their time and wait Deb out.

As she pulled the car out of the school’s circle drive to head home, Deb popped a donut in her mouth.  “Oh my lord,” she rolled her eyes in orgasmic pleasure.  But Mary, Terri and Caroline remained indifferent to her ecstacy.

Deb stuffed another donut in her mouth.  “SO fresh,” she murmured.

Finally, Terri asked timidly, “Will you be eating all the donuts?”  She was careful to keep any hint of sarcasm out of her voice.

“Yes,” Deb said shortly, her mouth full of donut.  “All of them.”

Instantly, Terri was filled with rage.  “You know what?” she spat out.  But Mary and Caroline shot her a warning look.

“What?” Deb’s chocolate smeared mouth smiled innocently at her in the rear view mirror.

With difficulty, Terri regained her composure.  “I’m not really hungry anyway,” she shrugged.

After demolishing the fourth donut, however, Deb appeared to have reached her limit.  The three little girls watched intently as she brushed off her fingers and neatly closed the carton of donuts.

Hope was alive.

Deb sighed with satisfaction, picked up the carton with the remaining eight donuts, and casually tossed it all out the car window.

She still howls about that story.  Deb’s always believed she’s the funniest person alive.  But over the years, she’s actually experienced remorse from time to time for the terrible things she used to do in high school.

“Oh, I wish I’d been nicer to my classmates,” she moans, or “Why didn’t I study harder in school?” or “I should never have set off those firecrackers in the boys’ locker room.”

No, Deb isn’t evil any more.  She wouldn’t be classified as a saint, exactly, but she’s dang close.  Deb is such a good person, you could pretty much liken her transformation to the conversion of St. Paul.

In our own enormous, sprawling, generational family, Deb is the rock.  She’s the one who reminds everybody to send Uncle Carl a birthday card, who arranges the Christmas gift draw, and who plans the Thanksgiving menu.  She’s the first person everybody calls for sympathy, for advice, and for bucking up.  She’s as lovely inside as she is out, and we utterly depend on her.

The news that her biopsy revealed atypical hyperplasia and that surgery would be required sent us into a tailspin.  I had the same queasy feeling in my stomach I used to get when I was a kid and Mom got the flu.

Deb was the strong one.  Nothing was allowed to happen to her. 

“I’m fine!” she convinced us all.  “This isn’t bad news, really.”

That’s the thing about Deb.  She always makes the rest of us brave.  She forces us to do the right thing, and she manages to turn the whole lopsided world upright again.  She gives us hope.

But, lordie, she was an awful teenager.