Flat and Proud

"Why are you having breast implants?" The nurse stood at my bedside after my surgery.

I was struggling with the issue since I had initially agreed to have the implants and was still in shock after my double mastectomy.

"I've been wondering that myself," I responded.

I was lying in the hospital bed, feeling alone and confused about taking the implant option. I was still groggy and relying on input from the "experts". Initially I was diagnosed with cancer in my left breast and had agreed to an implant since I was giving public presentations at that time and did not want to be lopsided. During the surgery they discovered cancer in my other breast which resulted in a double mastectomy.

I will always be grateful to that nurse who stood at my bedside and asked that question. She was the only one who challenged my original decision. All other medical or cancer personnel involved encouraged the breast implants, and later, after my decision not to have it, directed me to a store to order "falsies" to enhance my image.

After leaving the hospital and checking out the limitations and discomfort of plastic surgery, my husband and I drove to the suggested store that offered medical supplies for any restorations and was measured for the falsies. I was horrified to learn the cost.

"Medicare will cover everything," I was told.

"So what?  I was going to research this further, especially after another customer stood at the desk requesting a replacement item and was told, "We can't give you one of those. You have to purchase the entire box and Medicare will cover the cost."

My research began and I found inexpensive inserts at Sears. They were not covered by Medicare but I would not be bloating the system by ordering the very expensive inserts from the restorative store. During further investigation I learned about mastectomy swimming suits from Lands End that were far less expensive than those I could order from the store.

I paid out of pocket for everything and felt then, and still do, that I made the right decisions. Within a short time I abandoned the falsies and went flat and proud! Breasts do not define who I am.

Today the CBS Sunday morning show was dedicated to cancer. It covered issues such as research, cures and causes. One segment was of special interest to me. It was the one dealing with women choosing to go flat. So I am not alone. There are other women out there who have made the same choices that I did six years ago.

To make me even more certain, I have since learned that implant surgery is not a "one shot remedy". It is a lifetime of returns to the surgeon with many complications.

I did make the right decision to go flat. I am still me, minus some parts, and I wish I knew the name of that nurse who quietly stood by my hospital bedside and asked me the question that helped save me years of regret.

Whoever and wherever you are, Thank you!

The Worst of Times

The first fear that I can recall is the one of being dragged under the bed by the "bogeyman". After my mother closed the bedroom door I panicked that I would be forced under the bed and be lost forever.

The other major fear of my childhood was a recurring dream that I was falling. One day I was told to let myself fall, and I did. After that that dream never returned.

Then there were the scary Grimm fairy tales and the most vivid was the fear I felt deep in the pit of my stomach when those ugly monkeys came flying over during the movie of the Wizard of Oz.

Fears will always be a part of who we are as a human being. It is when those fears cause us to make rash decisions or be frozen in panic that fear conquers us. After I faced my fear of falling, falling, falling, that fear vanished forever.

It was during World War II and the leader of our country said those famous words, "We have nothing to fear but fear itself." That quote comes back to me when I start reacting to the panic shouted by the media, our leaders and our friends and neighbors.

Those wiser than myself have said it best. During this time of fear I want to remember.

Fear may always be a part of who we are, but it is in facing our fears that we can continue to reason, to act and to make the best decisions for ourselves, our environment and the rest of humanity.

Giving vs Taking

Wealth? No
Fame? No
Indulgence? No

None of the above are a path to happiness. In time all of them turn sour unless they are used to help or encourage others on their journey through life. If you search through religious or philosophical beliefs through time, they all conclude with the same message of hope: "love others as yourself."

In a strange way it seems if one loves oneself, that love flows out to those who share time and space in this world. Today even the health gurus are spreading the word that not only exercise and a healthy diet are crucial to a long and vigorous life, but social connections are as important.

Living solitary loses its luster. Connecting with others and giving of time to the needs of others brings a happiness in return to the giver that cannot be reached through wealth, fame or self-indulgence. Ask a volunteer. They know about giving and its rewards.

Giving brings so much more in return than self medicating through drugs or self absorption. Yet in today's world we have become addicted to instant gratification through our smart phones or the internet.

So when the police stop a driver who is on the cell phone he/she responds with "I know this is dangerous while driving, but I just had to find out who was texting me."

Or, "I couldn't wait until I saw the doctor. I had to take the drug for instant pain relief or a flight from the real world."

Or, "I just have to answer my phone even though we are together in a restaurant. After all, the world will fall apart without my instant response."

Or, "I know you called me first, but I have call waiting and the one who called me after you is more important than you, so I will call you back."

And on and on it goes. Life gets faster, colder and less connected. It is all about me, me, me! There is no room for you. Yes, the internet is a great way to connect with others in a casual sense and if face-to-face is impossible, but real, heartfelt connections come through a direct eye-ball, hand shake, hug, look at my expression relationship.

Giving of me to you through my time and caring, be it over food, in the steam room, on the steps of the post office, over the back yard fence, it does not matter. What matters is me to you directly, with patience and love.

Hey world, I must remind myself, "love me and love you. Enough of I, I, I and more of you, you, you! In this sped up world in which I often get stuck, please nudge me toward taking time for both me and for you."

The Blue Blanket

In times of disasters people come to the aid of those affected. If you have experienced first-hand a tornado, a flood, an earthquake or fire, you will have been surrounded by assistance, be it financial, caring words of comfort and support, the use of another's home or vehicle, nourishment or supplies.

Thoughtfulness comes flooding in and helps ease the shock of the sudden change to one's life. The stresses of the event are somewhat softened by the generosity of others. Then there is time, the healer that takes its time.

Nine years after the uprooting wildfire that changed our lives forever, few scars remain. Life goes on and the wounds smoothed over with ever-changing events and just living life. The help, cards, notes, gifts and financial assistance received have dimmed, along with the pain, as the passage of time has continued to fill in the scars.

But today, and each day as I make our bed, I fold the blue blanket over the sheets and remember my friend, Dorothy, who sent that cozy blanket through the mail to our temporary residence. I have used it daily since that horrific fire. It has been a comfort through the seasons and the permanent move to our new home. Each morning as I make the bed I remember Dorothy and her mindful gift since it is still being used after all of these years, be it as a cover for warmth, or easily folded down during the heat of summer.

Dorothy writes several times a year, now through the ease of emails. I follow the adventures of her encounters with our former co-workers and their on-going lives, her volunteer work in the Twin Cities, her difficult move with her husband from their home of many years to an apartment, her children and grandchildren and the more recent death of her husband.

Contact has been lost with many of my former colleagues, but I remain kept in the loop through Dorothy and her regular newsy emails in addition to her annual Christmas letters. I am grateful for her continual connections and as I make the bed each morning I feel the softness of her thoughtful gift of the blue blanket.

Time Out

Nature has its way. When I don't listen to my own body I get knocked down by a bug. Now I must take time to rest, heal and maybe, just maybe, catch up on reading material put off for over three years. The funny thing is that I really enjoy being involved in many volunteer activities. I have a difficult time saying "no" to requests, but now I have to slow down, take a breather, let myself heal and live "the virtue of selfishness".

If I don't take care of myself first, then nothing else of use will follow. I have known this for years. I have preached it to others. When will I listen to my own advice? You would thing in my mature years I would be living in the correct order...self first, then others. It is as they tell the parents on the airplanes, "If the oxygen mask comes down you put it on yourself first before your child or you may not live to take care of your child." It makes sense!

Now, for this time, and hopefully for all time, I will remember to heed this advice from many far wiser than I. At this moment I may be too miserable to catch up on reading, but I will rest, do the liquid thing and chicken soup. Life will go on without me. It always has and always will.

Later.......

Time May Heal

For years after the devastating Alabaugh Fire of 2007 in which we lost most of our possessions and home, Bob and I stopped going to auctions. In my first book, A (not so) Simple Life, I wrote a chapter about auctions and my addictions to them. Bob and I had furnished much of our house with antiques purchased at auctions. Attending them had been a refreshing break for Bob from his work of building our retirement home.

Then came the fire that wiped out that very special "off the grid" house and Bob lost all enthusiasm for auctions. When I would coax him with an ad announcing one he would say, "I lost patience for them". And, indeed, if we did go to one on occasion, we left within a few minutes.

Last week there was an auction two blocks from our house. The sign outside was difficult to ignore as we passed it every day. On the day of the event we stopped for a few minutes, and, to no surprise, we left after a brief scan of the items. I had business to attend to and when I came home later Bob was not there.

It was late when he came home. He hitched the trailer to the car and disappeared again. A short time later he returned. The trailer was filled with several items, one of which was a lawn mower. It was obvious that he had gone back to the auction.

The next day Bob was out mowing the lawn. It looked especially nice. "Why did you get a lawn mower?" I asked. "You already have two."

It turned out that this was a special mower and quite new. It not only mowed, but it mulched the leaves and grass. No more raking and the mulch was good for the grass! As usual, Bob had looked for some deals and had managed to snag a few. Some of his auction patience had returned. Shock after any trauma has long-term effects, but, in time, some of the small joys in life do return. I have seen it in both of us, and for that I am grateful.

In the Steam Room

Steam filled the room, blurring the face of the man who came in and sat down next to me. As always, the intimacy in the steam room encourages conversation between strangers and friends alike. It flows out as swiftly as the sweat pouring out of the heated up bodies.

I grew up with Finnish saunas in the north woods of Minnesota. Saturday saunas were standard among cabin owners, Finnish or not. With those saunas the wood was heated for about eight hours before pouring water over the rocks, unlike the steam rooms at our Plunge health club, which creates heat almost instantly, without the time consuming effort of pouring water over heated rocks. A user need spend no effort on heat preparation, allowing the entire time for enjoying the relaxing heat and the conversation.

The beginning words are casual...weather and water. These topics are usually followed by who, where, etc. The man who had just seated himself next to me said he came from Colorado and was living at the Dom. Oh, a veteran, and the topic slid to our domiciliary on the hill of which we are so proud. He was a patient in one of the programs.

"How did you happen to come to our VA?" I asked.

"My counselor at Fort Collins told me that I should come to the Hot Springs VA, and I am happy that I did. It is a great facility."

I warmed at his words. I have heard these so often in the past few years. "I could not make it through the program at other VA's. I came here and it is the best program. I believe I will make it here."

Yes, it is hard to believe that our VA has been going through so many cuts over the past years. The slow bleed has drained the Dom of many counselors and doctors, but those who remain manage, somehow, to maintain the excellence our VA has always shown for many years in treating the physcal and emotionl needs of countless veterans from many states beginning with the Civil War veterans and up to the present retuning soldiers from Iraq and Afghanistan.

"They know me by name. They do not treat me like a number as is done in the larger VA hospitals. Here I receive respect and treatment tailored to my needs."

I hear this high praise almost every time I talk to a veteran, but it is in the steam room, sauna or the hot tubs where veterans join me in healing and sharing. Our health club at Evans Plunge heals more than aching bodies.

A Conversation with the Mother of a Firefighter

"Tell me," said the grieving mother, "Do you still smell the smoke?"

"Not any more", I answered her, "but I did for a year or so."

This conversation occured a few months after the wildfire of 2011 that burned not far from our town of Hot Springs. Our community was still smarting from memories of the Alabaugh Fire of 7-7-7, when three young Hot Spring's men, all best friends, who worked for South Dakota Wildland Suppression, were notified of a wildfire in the area where they were patrolling. They answered the call and arrived to find an Edgemont Volunteer fire truck at the scene. Another fire truck from the Forest Service arrived later. The fire was located in a valley with one narrow dirt road as access. A spot fire erupted and the three young men volunteered to go in and put it out. Not long after they entered the valley the wind came up suddenly and they were surrounded by flames. Their truck got stuck and then died. Their "May-day" calls went unanswered.

A call finally came through from a Forest Service firefighter that there was a narrow window of opportunity for escape, and they should run NOW!  The mother of the youngest of the three firefighters told me that her son, with no hesitation, somehow managed to run through the wall of flames and escape with only a burned hand, to have his "second chance" in life. How many men, barely out of boyhood, go through such a traumatic life and death experience? Her son turned in his gear and said he will never fight fire again. His best friend died in the inferno and the other one was severely burned. How was it that he came through this incident almost unscathed, only to face the gut wrenching guilt, sorrow and bewilderment that may haunt him for a lifetime? Or, in time, hopefully, it may help him develop into a man of greater compassion, with an awareness of the brevity of life, appreciation for that life and the lives of those around him.

His father was one of the volunteer firefighters who rescued my husband and me from the out-of-control Alabaugh Fire. His life has always been one of dedication to others as told in his chapter of "Cascade of Flames", titled, "Reluctant Heroes." His son, however, looked on firefighting as a summer job between his semesters at college. That summer job turned out to be a life changing event for him and, even though he turned in his gear, that incident of the summer of 2011 will surely make its mark on his maturity and perhaps influence what he does with the rest of his life.

His mother, who told me the story, is still feeling grief and sorrow over her son's friend. Her fear, which was so overwhelming on the long drive to the hospital the day of the fire, turned into relief when she saw that her son was alive with no permanent physical scars. She went to work at the VA the day after the fire. Some were surprised that she did, but others understood. After work she went to her church down the street from work. She sat in the empty chapel and sobbed and sobbed. Her tears were mixed with gratitude, sorrow, anger and confusion. She finds comfort in her faith, and some relief in retelling the story. She wonders how many times she will need to tell the story to feel better. I suggested that she keeps talking about it as long as she feels the need. I know for me that my tears and talking helped me through my trials in life, including our losses in the Alabaugh Fire. Even though there may be scars, healing does happen, as I said before, in its own time.

The father is a great support to his son. He has spent many years as a volunteer firefighter and first responder, dealing with accidents, fire, injury and death. His experiences, understanding and compassion are there, to encompass and comfort his son as he works through his shock.

The son told his mother that he still smells the smoke and she wonders, as a mother would, how long it will last. The son told his mother that he feels that God has given him a second chance in life. The mother knows first hand, with a wrenching jolt after this trauma, that they all have another chance. What a remarkable gift!

Wildfire Revisited

It is fire season once again in the Southern Black Hills. In 2007 we had major fires all over the Hills, the largest disaster being the Alabaugh Fire of 7-7-7. The stories of many firefighters and landowners were recorded for history in "Cascade of Flames", researched and written by this author.

Last month we experienced another tragedy in our small community. During a wildfire in the county five  young firefighters were suddenly surrounded by flames. One received severe burns, several escaped through 100 foot flames with lesser injuries and one firefighter from Hot Springs, who worked for the State of South Dakota, was killed in the flames.

Memories lingered from the out-of-control inferno of four years ago. For some of us it was as if a recently healed injury was re-opened, with memories of smoke, flames and fear seeping into places we thought had healed. In an earlier blog I wrote that it takes three years to heal, and, for the most part, that was true for me. But what I realized abruptly during this episode was that memories can remain forever, less painful, to be sure, but re-emerging for a brief time as a reminder that we may all share, in one way or another, in the sorrow of others.

It Takes Three Years

Many people told us after the fire that it would take a year to fully recover emotionally from such a disaster.

These are the things that I noticed. It took about six months until both of us could read again. We had no TV but we spent our evenings watching movies. I have never seen so many movies before or after the fire as I did during that time span. In January after the fire I began to read the newspapers and some articles in magazines. It was then that I continued my interviews for "Cascade of Flames" and began to write again. After that I know that the healing continued because my nightmares lessened and my thoughts were less focused on smoke and fire.

The year passed and we were busy moving on with our lives. The next revelation came to me three years after the fire. I began to take a greater interest in travel, and the world outside, and resumed conducting my presentations. My husband, Bob, began once again (on a much smaller scale) to renew his interest in two of his former hobbies. He purchased a motorcycle (used and in need of his mechanical expertise) and he began to collect black powder guns. Healing does take its own time.