Because despite the tone of my last post, I really am trying to look at the bright side (the cup is way more than half full) I have to report that I have finally attained Nirvana.

In the form of Sweet Rice with Mango.

I am half tempted to get on a plane to the Isle of Man right this second and go grab my sweet mango-lovin’ boy and bring him back home with me for lunch tomorrow.

Except he’s got work to do.

So one of these days I might just have to grab YOU and we can head down to Spicy Thai for some masman and mango.

Thanks Katy for the gushing recommendation. We all concurred with your glowing review.

Thanks Mary and Richard for the excellent company.

Getting ready to welcome 2009 with good great food and friends feels just right to me.

Happy New Year!

People keep asking us how we’re doing. I’m never quite sure how exactly to answer that. My token response has been “We either being really blessed or we’re in denial.” I suspect it is a both–a lot of the blessed part and a little denial, too.

It’s like we just got called up to embark on a trip, but we don’t know the itinerary. We’re already on the plane. We’ve taken off for somewhere; but we’re stuck in a bit of a holding pattern as we approach the first layover. All we know is that it will be somewhere we’ve never been before. And we have no idea where the next leg of the journey will take us or what kind of ride it will be.

At least I’m in good company.

I’m sure I’m not the only one who gets more than a little uncomfortable with turbulence. But I don’t think Xanax would be the ticket for this ride.

*********

Today my friend Alice called me out of the blue. She didn’t know, of course. She just happened to be thinking about me.

Alice has been there before so I didn’t have to explain to her what I was feeling. What we’ve been through to this point. As I was filling her in on the what we know so far and what little we’ve been told about the next stop on our itinerary she said, “So the surgery is next week.”

It hit me.

The surgery is next week.

*********

Over the past couple of weeks I’ve noticed it when people have looked at us kind of quizzically, as if they would ask, “You seem fine–how can you be so normal?”

Normal is relative I guess.

What is normal for cancer survivors (first lesson–anyone battling cancer is called a survivor) and their families and friends?

Life goes on. Dishes and laundry. Work (well, for me anyway). Mouths to feed. Bills to pay. Whatever.

*********

The surgery is next week.

I still can’t quite wrap my head around that.

Thanks again for the many thoughts and prayers, well wishes and kindnesses. If I don’t return your comments, your calls or your e-mail messages right away, please know it is not out of a lack of gratitude.

(From the archives–it was the best I could do–but I still believe. Now more than ever. If reruns, aren’t your thing, though, go here to check out more thoughts on Santa from another Believer).

I.
The atomic clock indicates that for the fourth time this week (is it only Friday already? Nope. Now it’s Saturday) I’ve stayed up well past my bedtime. Tonight (this morning?) I’m half-heartedly trying to hide “the take” from a day of Christmas shopping with b. and I realize something. With the exception of my youngest, no one is interested enough that I really need to hide anything. I can just more or less put it away.

I realize part of the magic is gone. And I miss it.

Sure it’s easy to be lured away by the siren song of retail. It seems even harder these days to prevail against the onslaught of commercialism in order to help our children find the true spirit of Christmas. And of course its necessary to recognize our own abundance–at whatever relative state it is–and acknowledge its source and be grateful and give more of ourselves to those who are without.

But at the same time, Santa’s not the bad guy here. In the innocence of youth Santa is merely another messenger of goodness and giving. Of knowing your name and that even though you were an all-out tomboy who never played with dolls what you really, really wanted that year was the Crissy doll with adjustable hair. Of letting you know that who you are, how you feel and what you want (within reason) is OK. And hopes and wishes are something to be acknowledged and even granted once in awhile.

I miss the excitement in the air and the tangible anticipation of surprise and delight that seems to come so naturally to small children.

But I still believe.

II.
Last night my husband and I were driving home along University Avenue and I noticed the bouncy white ball at the tail of a Santa hat flapping up and down over the seatback of a shiny, red, top-down (yes, it was only about 19 degrees) convertible.

Could it be?

Was it really him?

I pleaded for more speed because I just had to see for myself…

As we pulled up in the left-turn lane I looked out my window and what to my wondering eyes did appear?

‘Twas Santa.

I rolled down my window, waved my arms wildly and yelled out, “Happy Christmas!!!”

Santa waved and shouted back, then noticing my husband was driving he advised, “Now you make sure he’s helping with the housework.”

From his lips…

(I’m telling you…that Santa can still make a girl’s dreams come true!)

Merry Christmas to you and yours…

Love,

Despite my worthy goal of avoiding retail hell heck this season, I found myself at that seventh circle of heck, Wal-Mart, early this morning for a few odds and ends.

And that’s when I realized, my drivers license expires today.

Dang.

My sweet husband, who knows I am loathe to go within a ten-mile radius of the DMV, offered to drive me there in order to get that unpleasant piece of business over and done with while I was still legal and before it got too busy.

Bless him.

After we were done with the obligatory ugly mug shot, the clerk, with whom we had been visiting about some mutual acquaintances, inquired if Shane was my dad.

Yeah, baby.

Obviously we could have taken that either way–either he looks old or I appear quite young for my age.

In the best interest of both of us, I’m going with what’s behind Door # 2.

After we returned, my 13-year-old daughter looked at me and said, “Mom! Why didn’t you let me curl your hair? I could have made you look like a total babe. Then when you get pulled over the officer would take one look at your picture (that part cracked me up especially, because you know, the photo would speak so much louder than my actual present self) and say, “I’m going to let you off with a warning.”

Oh yeah, because it’s that easy. I’m so near babe-ness all it would take is a few curls and I’d be so there.

Yeah, baby.

I still hesitate every time I want to post about this latest turn in our lives. I’m fairly certain people do not come to the happy land of blog to read about heavy things. I promise I won’t darken your screen with my deepest thoughts and worries–I’m trying hard not to darken my own screen with them as it is. But I need to remember this is my blog–it’s about my life–and it needs to be what it is. Whatever that is.

Remember my good friend M?

Last night I asked our friend Lynda if she would make sure someone told M before church today so she wouldn’t find out over the pulpit. M’s been down the cancer road (if you haven’t already, go back and read her story) in one of the worst ways I’ve ever witnessed. I know she loves me and my family and I was worried about how she would take the news.

This morning her husband dropped by with his arm full of goodies and this note:

We are SO sorry you guys have to go through this.

Sometimes we are asked to walk down some really dark and scary paths, but thank goodness, you don’t have to walk it alone.

You have a bunch of people who love you and will help any way they can.

Heavenly Father and Jesus will be there for you too. They love you so much they will see you through this.

Just know you are in our hearts and prayers. I would LOVE to help any way I can.

Don’t know if this helps–my leukemia was about as bad as you can get. I should have been dead a bunch of times, but it wasn’t in God’s plans–so here I am, still kicking up dust in Provo.

Send you both a kiss and a hug.

Love,

M

I know Miss M (who is one of the best people to have ever kicked up dust in Provo) speaks the truth on all counts. We are feeling it in so many ways already. I hope you won’t get tired of hearing it, but thanks again for all of your love and prayers.

Shane waiting for the sun to come up (Finland 2006)

Besides getting our feet knocked out from under us and the very breath knocked right out of us as we both learned the news, one of the worst parts of this (of this what? there are no adequate words)…has been having to break the news to others. Nothing prepares you for it. Absolutely nothing.

Hopefully being able to share some good news (I don’t even have to wait for Relief Society to do it!), will compensate for that somehow.

The MRI indicated that the first surgeon removed the bulk of the tumor in the initial surgery.

For the first time in almost a week we felt we could breathe again.

That means three things:

One, they now just have to go in and remove the bone in which the tumor was growing and a safe margin of tissue around it.

Two, instead of a five-hour surgery in which they would have removed a lot of Shane’s facial structure, they predict to perform a much less drastic surgery around about an hour.

Three, they believe they can get it all. (So this last one may have been a little redundant, but I just needed to say it one more time.)

We’ll cross the next bridge–finding and meeting with an oncologist, considering possible radiation, and completing more tests in order to determine that it hasn’t metastasized to anywhere else–when we get to it.

The surgery will take place on January 8th. (We’ll all be fasting for Shane on January 4th, in case any of you would like to join include him in your fasts that day.)

Our collective prayers are being answered already. Thank you!

I realize a mere “thank you” is not enough to express the deep appreciation we’ve felt as so many dear friends have rallied around us. But please know we have both been so touched and blessed by your love and support. So thanks again.

Shane and the kids on Thanksgiving Day 2008

Shane sitting in the sauna of Jean Sibelius (Finland 2006)

Late last night I was cradling the heated bag of lavender my friend Lynda lovingly stitched together for me (and like a hundred other people) with her arthritis-ridden hands last Christmas and the words came to me, “some comfort here.”

I’ve found it in a hundred places over *these past few days:

…in the simple act of raising my quavering voice and faith in constant prayer and pleading.

…in the voice of a doctor who called us at home on a Friday afternoon and told me three times what a great guy my husband is and reassured me he is determined to do everything he can for him and insisted that we call him any time with questions or concerns.

…in a quiet bed and breakfast in Manti that had been booked in advance in order for us to celebrate our anniversary–long before either of us could ever have imagined–but which ended up being the perfect place of refuge from the world and giving us a few hours to process the news and to prepare for what lay ahead.

…in the big fluffy flakes of the first significant snow of the season that flew into my intentionally opened car window and landed on my nose and my lashes.

…in assurances from family and friends who immediately turned to prayer and fasting upon hearing the news.

…in a circle of men–fathers, brothers, sons–united to give a beautiful priesthood blessing.

…in the grief-stricken eyes of so many of our dearly loved family and friends whose unspoken messages were simply, “You will not walk this path alone.”

…in a steady stream of hugs, phone calls and e-mails proffering prayers and services and food both for the table as well as for the soul.

…in the tender voices of family members who simply wished they were closer, some who are dropping everything to come right now because they can’t stand being so far away.

…in the response of Shane’s colleagues–who are more like family, really–as they united in prayer, added our names to prayer rolls everywhere and worked to plan a special temple day after school dismisses on Friday.

…in those who are picking up the pieces for us…willingly and lovingly taking on our Christmas shopping because it’s not at all done and time is running out and taking home our laundry because the washing machine stopped working yesterday morning.

…in the voice of our young missionary–half a world away–who assured us, “No matter what happens, everything will be OK.” and shared with us the many ways he had been blessed that day since hearing the news via a phone call from the mission president.

…in writing the words to that far-away son, “I know God lives and loves us and he has a plan for us.”

…in moments of sleep, that eluded us at first, but now come out of sheer exhaustion. It’s the only time I can rest from thinking about it all…

*on the eve of our anniversary we were shocked and saddened to learn that my husband Shane has bone cancer in his face (some of you may know that I take cancer rather personally). Long story short, we now know more than we ever wanted to about things such as chondro sarcoma, resection, reconstruction, radiation and risks of metastasizing…and we have only just begun. MRI yesterday. Results tomorrow (please help me be strong). Surgery in January. We are praying for a miracle–that the tumor will be contained in an operable area and that the team of surgeons will be able remove it all and with a safe margin. If you would please join your faith and prayers with ours to that effect we would most appreciate it. (I hesitated to blog about this, but we need all the prayers and good faith we can gather and I need to be a witness to the fact that there is goodness and mercy even in the hardest of times.)

I can no longer select or put up a Christmas tree without thinking of my grandfather, who is the subject of one of my favorite Christmas tree stories ever (revised from the archives, Dec. 2007):

Grandpa Jacobs was born in 1909. He grew up in a very large and not-so-well off of-pioneer-stock family. He also lived through the depression. And, as if that weren’t enough, he has some Scottish blood running through his veins as well. I have never met anyone as frugal as my grandparents.

Grandpa was so thrifty that after all his kids moved away from home he refused to waste perfectly good money on a dead tree anymore.

Once the kids left, Grandpa and Grandma just kept Christmas–as well as one could, anyway–without a Christmas tree.

But one year my uncle and his family decided sort of last minute to spend Christmas with them. I mean Christmas Eve day last minute. So Grandma insisted Grandpa go out and find a tree for the grandkids to enjoy.

Grandpa was reluctant, but he went anyway, sure that so close to Christmas the trees ought to have been marked down substantially. But he wasn’t counting on encountering a tree salesman as stubborn as he was.

Grandpa selected a nice tree from the deserted lot and offered the tree guy half of the marked price.

Even at that late hour, the tree guy insisted the tree was only available at the full marked price.

“Well, what do you do with the trees you don’t sell?” Grandpa asked.

“We split them down the middle and chop them up for the wood,” the stubborn tree guy replied.

Of course Grandpa thought he could reason with the man. He explained how most people had already purchased their trees that year. He waved his arm at the empty lot and insisted that surely the business was better off having some money for the tree than nothing at all. Grandpa stood firm on his offer of half price for the tree.

The man took Grandpa’s money, grabbed the tree, split it down the middle and gave Grandpa exactly what he’d paid for. Half a tree.

And do you know what my grandfather did?

He took that tree home, turned the split side to the wall and leaned it up against the corner and told my dear grandmother to decorate it as if there were nothing at all unusual about decorating half a Christmas tree.

When my aunt and uncle arrived with their young children in tow there may have been a bit of winking and giggling, but they pretended not to notice the leaning tree of Grandpa and they didn’t say a word.

(Yikes–that’s a really long time for someone to have put up with me!)

I’m responding to Queen’s hubby tag. Here goes:

What is your husband’s name? Mr. R

How long did you date? We met in spring of 1983. We became friends over a blanket we were saving for 4th of July fireworks at Kiwanis Park. We started dating in early 1984. I left on a mission in early 1986 and we got engaged soon after I stopped being weird upon returning from my mission in fall of 1987. We were engaged for only eight weeks.

How old is he? Closer to 50 than I am. We’re old!

Who eats sweets? I’m more salty than sweet, but he’ll eat eat either. He’ll eat just about anything, in fact.

Who said “I love you” first? He wrote “I love you” in the ocean-washed sand on the Oregon coast. My reply, “Me too.” (Huh?)

Who is taller? He is.

Who can sing better? It’s probable he thinks he can’t sing, but he can. He sang for the President of Finland during the Olympics. That’s something.

Who is smarter? He would probably tell you I am, but he is smart. He managed to earn straight A’s while getting his master’s degree and simultaneously holding down two jobs, a calling and being the father of four kids. That’s something.

Who does the laundry? Me. *sigh*

Who pays the bills? Me.

Who sleeps on the right side of the bed? Me (because you know me, I like to be right).

Who mows the lawn? He does. He takes out the trash, too. I think I’ll keep him.

Who cooks dinner? Me. If I’m home. Or unless venison or fish is on the menu.

Who drives? Mostly him when we’re together.

Who is the first to admit they are wrong? That’s tough.

Who kissed who first? Him.

Who asked who out first? He wrote me a “Roses are Red” poem to ask me out. It read, “Roses are red, violets are blue, I would die for a date with you.” He proposed in the same way.

Who wears the pants? We both do. (And he only wears a skirt on special occasions. Like the Halloween when his third graders got to vote on what costume he would wear and he got to be Malibu Barbie.)

There is a lot of independence and trust in our relationship in that way, which works for me.

Mr. R with one of his students

It’s probably about time I announced the winner of last month’s haiku contest.

But first, kudos to one of my loyal readers who followed the links and submitted an entry to the Macworld contest.

And won.

Way to go!

I didn’t realize how hard it would be for a novice like me to be the judge. I couldn’t decide if I should go with a sympathy vote (Emily), blatant kissing up (Sue), or a really great haiku (Johnna). La Yen got points for writing about pillow screaming; Cabesh for making me see salami in my soap; and Angela for the line about the haiku gauntlet.

I feel like Drew Carey now. You all got points for playing.

But in the end I’m going to go with sentiment.

Baby ’soldier crawls’
His sweet face finds mine and smiles
Laundry has to wait

Gerb wins for reminding me about the good old days.

Congratulations, Gerb. If you’ll e-mail me your mailing address at henfeatherzATgmailDOTcom I’ll quiz you about your favorite candy bar and give you a choice of soap and send you your prize.