Snowy Day Memory

 I freely admit that, at least from inside a warm house, I love snowy days. Today, here in Kansas, where the wind is teasing and tossing about the snow that fell last night, I'm easily reminded of this scene from Hearts Unfold. It's not coincidence I chose the wild wonder of a snowstorm in which to introduce the hero of this "very special love story." Snow is mysterious, romantic, even dangerous--like the meeting of two strangers. A meeting that will forever change the direction of their lives.

Through the frost-rimmed window, she saw that the snowfall had slowed, though the wind still whipped the tree limbs and spun little white cyclones across the yard.  Beyond the barn, just where the land dropped away to the hillside, a moving shadow caught her eye.  A deer, or maybe a cow, strayed and lost in the storm?  Stepping to the door for a closer look, she tried to focus past the blowing snow.  The shadow moved steadily upward over the rise, until she saw what could only be a human figure, trudging slowly in the general direction of the house.  Head down, swaying slightly, as if unbalanced by the force of the wind, he—or at least she thought it must be a man—was dressed all in black, the windward side of his long overcoat etched with white, and his bared head capped with snow.  There seemed to be something odd about his stance, and then she realized one arm was crossed over his body, as if bracing the other to his side.  In what must have been only a few seconds, she tried to assess his size—not very tall; his possible intent—obviously seeking shelter; and where he could have come from.  He had to be coming from the road below, but why would anyone have walked up a steep wooded hillside in a blistering storm?

As she watched, scarcely drawing breath, it seemed he raised his head and gazed for a moment toward the house.  Then in a slow, graceful spiral, he sank to the ground, disappearing into the snow.  If she had not been watching his progress across the yard, she realized she would never have seen him from the house, once he’d fallen.  Blinking, she wondered for an instant if she might have only imagined him, if he had been a mirage in the featureless white of the landscape.  But the pounding of her pulse told her otherwise.

https://www.amazon.com/Hearts-Unfold-Miracle-Valley-Rise-ebook/dp/B006YDIXVK/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

While You're Busy Doing Other Things--The Final Diagnosis

It's February 19, 2019 and I'm posting this again with an update. It's worth repeating, if it reaches someone in the same situation I found myself two and a half years ago. It's also worth noting that the friend to whom this letter was written lost his mother to bladder cancer, which I didn't know at the time. His sharing of her experience was a poignant reminder of just how blessed I am. 
My update is this--my most recent diagnosis, as of last week, in fact, is "cancer free." There will still be check ups and tests, but at this point, I'm checking "bladder cancer" off my list of things I never expected to experience.  
I hope you'll read my original post. It may say something to you that you need to hear. 

Recently I was called to task by a dear friend after I mentioned in my Christmas letter that "my cancer was in remission." He asked if I'd mind telling him what kind of cancer and how it was being treated. Shamefaced that I had dropped the C-word so casually and left him hanging, I dashed off this letter. (And before you ask, my friend does not partake of social media and we really do maintain our relationship via good old fashioned letters sent through the US mail.) After thinking about it for a few days, I decided that by posting it here, it might speak to someone who needs to hear its message. 

Dear E----,

Sorry to have overlooked sharing the cancer episode, but just credit my abysmally sporadic letter writing. With all that was happening at the time, I kept putting it on the back burner, but thanks to a benevolent God and a couple of fine doctors, it didn’t take me out.

The story goes something like this. For at least three years before John’s fall, if not longer, I would occasionally see pink in the toilet. Since I’d had numerous bouts of hemorrhagic cystitis in the past, I just went to my doctor and got antibiotics, drank plenty of cranberry juice, and never gave it another thought. Google “blood in urine” and you get urinary tract infection, so even the web vindicated my complacency. Not to discredit a very nice man and a pretty decent GP, but the doc I was seeing at the time wasn’t inclined to push for tests or raise concerns unless the patient insisted, which I didn’t.

As you know, in June of ’15, John took his fall and life turned upside down. My health, which really seemed okay, probably due to constant adrenaline rushes, was my last concern. But the pink was more frequent, enough so that even in his condition, John made note of it. By the following June, several things came together to change the situation. John was finally able to spend an hour or two on his own without me, my doctor retired and a very energetic nurse practitioner became our primary provider, and I was passing sizable blood clots regularly. Suffice it to say, this young woman was more proactive than my former doc. She sent me post haste to a urologist, who had a scan done that day and scheduled a cystoscopy for the following week. Verdict—a largish polyp, possibly a tumor, which was removed two weeks later and proved to be malignant. It was very close to the point where the ureter from the right kidney opens to the bladder, so a temporary stint was put in to keep things flowing. I was not far from a toilet for the next six weeks, but otherwise there was nothing in my recovery that I could complain about. 

I wasn’t at all surprised that it was cancer. I just felt grateful it hadn’t gone through the bladder wall or worse, because I was the one who ignored every message my body tried to send me. By the time I saw the new PCP, I was seriously anemic and, to be honest, could barely make it through each day, but I was still clinging to denial.

The urologist I was referred to is the kind of physician I immediately feel confident with, but when he suggested the most frequent follow-up treatment for bladder cancer, called BCG, I balked. This in very basic terms involves infusing the germ that causes tuberculosis into the bladder, which produces immunity against the cancer. Still worried I might have PFS—Physician’s Family Syndrome, whereby any member of a physician’s family will suffer any and all possible ill or side effects from any treatment of routine illness—which I had experienced when married to “my second husband the doctor,” I refused at first. The major side effect from the treatment is, of course, contracting TB. But during the next cystoscopy three months later,  more tumors had developed. I didn’t argue when the urologist said it was worth the risk. Having the lining of your bladder sliced and burned away in stages is no picnic! And more to the point, It was time I accepted that my life was worth risking even nasty, but treatable, side effects.

The treatments—six in all—went without incident and to date—last cysto in November—there’s no further sign of cancer.

So that’s the story. Bladder cancer and its treatment are not nearly as visible or dramatic as so many other types of cancer. If I hadn’t told anyone, no one would have been the wiser. But I did talk about it, and even post about it on FB, because my case was like so many others. We (women) put off addressing what doesn’t put us flat on our butts, especially when there are others with greater needs, until we put our lives in jeopardy. Ignoring symptoms is stupid! That’s what they’re for, to warn us that something’s not right. We both know of cases like mine that ended tragically. I will always have bladder cancer, but with the same kind of follow up, it shouldn’t be a problem. Many with other types of this insidious disease aren’t so fortunate. I know how blessed I am, in spite of my persistent denial, to be able to use the word "remission" with confidence.

My kind, compassionate urologist has retired as of this month, so I will have a new doc for my next cysto. I’m assured by everyone that he’s wonderful, trained at Mayo Clinic, and no doubt looks about 18. As long as he doesn’t rock my treatment boat, that’s fine. I’m just thankful that when I needed him, my original doctor was on hand to get me through this. Does it really take someone over 60 to understand the issues of caregiving and the limitations that come with age? That is a course I’d gladly teach to every med student in the country! 

For everyone reading this here on my blog, my closing is this. If you see yourself anywhere in my story, get yourself to a doctor, be honest with him/her, and get the testing and treatment you need. Life is precious. Don't let it slip away while you're busy doing other things. 

Love you! 

Karen

When Duty Called

There have been many in my family who served, back to the Revolutionary War, I'm told, all with their own stories. These are the pictures and stories I grew up with, of those closest to me.

  Serving in World War I--My grandfather Henry Rowlette, who never left Ft. Lee, VA in the year after he enlisted.

My great-uncle Levi Yeatts, my grandmother's youngest brother, who is buried in France.

Levi left behind his mother, ten brothers and sisters, and his fiance.

WWII Veterans--My uncle, Anthony Rowlette, who became a surgical nurse by the end of the war. He talked about serving on board the Queen Mary carrying troops to Europe, and bringing back the wounded, some of the same men, after D-Day.

My father, Guy White, Jr., who failed to meet the Navy's weight requirement and "hung around Washington, DC eating bananas" until he gained enough to enlist.

While I'm told my father would much have preferred a few combat tales to pass along, he never saw action while "floating around the Caribbean." Still, he was able to put his talents to work for his country. He not only chronicled the ship's travels, but photographed the entire crew and all of their adventures. (I still have many of the photos.) Of, course, his greatest service was painting this portrait of Buggs Bunny on the side of the ship!

Raise Your Glasses, Please!

Today is the twenty-sixth anniversary of the smartest choice I've ever made. Marrying John set my life on a path that, for the first time in my almost 40 years of twisting, turning, often jolting travel, felt absolutely right. I've decided that if there is no doubt about your choice of partner for a journey, there should never be doubts about where it leads you, regardless of the inevitable ups and downs. We've had plenty of those, still do, but I don't for a moment question the rightness of "us."

My first novel is dedicated "to John, who makes me possible."  I'd lived decades locked in relationships that dictated my every step, because any independent ventures were in some way threatening to my partner. With John, I was free to be, even encouraged to be, whatever I believed I might be. He has never questioned my ability to do whatever I dared attempt, whether it be taking on a starring role in a play two weeks before opening night, or tearing apart and reconstructing a 1940's kitchen. He has far more confidence in me than I have. It's that confidence that finally made "me" possible.

When I started writing, and amazingly continued writing, my first novel, I had no idea it would ever become more than a little story I wrote to affirm the shaky belief that I did indeed "have a book in me." I wasn't even willing at first to share it with John, but eventually it became perversely vital to me that he read what I'd written. He did. At the appropriate points, he laughed, he sighed, and he wept. It was then that we both knew, without knowing how, that this story could do more than exist for a time merely taking up space in my hard drive. I'm certain that without his encouragement, his patience, and his 20-plus years experience as an editor, I would never have attempted to send my little book out into the world. He's made so many wonderful things possible through our years together, and my writing life definitely ranks near the top.

The book John made possible, Hearts Unfold, is currently free wherever ebooks are sold. We can't offer you all a glass of  champagne, but won't you join us in celebrating this special day by helping  yourself to, or sending your friends a copy? We'd be honored to have you share in a "toast" to one more year of "us."

https://www.amazon.com/Hearts-Unfold-Miracle-Valley-Rise-ebook/dp/B006YDIXVK/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/hearts-unfold-karen-welch/1124015694?ean=2940153094076
https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/x/id1127912900
https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/hearts-unfold-miracle-at-valley-rise-book-1
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/643753
https://www.instafreebie.com/book/28297

Take My Heart--and Other Broken Bits

The other day John called our pastor to give him an update on all of our various health issues. "The cat is the only member of the family who's well," he began with a slightly weary chuckle. These calls have been a regular form of communication for the past two years, thus the weariness of placing yet another one. Going on to fill in the current details, first his, then mine, and finishing with our cocker Raleigh's, he wrapped things up with gratitude for continuing prayers and all the many practical ways our little congregation has helped to keep us afloat.

I'm grateful, too, don't get me wrong. But the truth is, I'd rather not be in need of their gifts. I'm tired of being broken, not to mention broke. I'm sick of being sick, taking pills, seeing doctors, making appointments, taking tests, all at the expense of the life I'd love to be living. There was a time, a few years ago, when I regularly remarked at how healthy I was as I got older. I figured I'd put in my sick time in my twenties and thirties (that's a sad tale all its own.) Now I was able to enjoy doing most of the things I loved at the risk of nothing more than a few sore muscles. I actually anticipated being one of those tough old ladies, one like my grandmother, who at seventy could swing a grubbing hoe with zeal, can fruit and vegetables all day and then cook supper, and heft a load of wet laundry without so much as a grunt. Things are definitely not working out the way I expected.

After John's leg fractured in June of '15, my strength was put to the ultimate test. A non-ambulatory husband is more work than a newborn baby. Laundry, meals, baths, plus dressing changes, wobbly one-footed transfers, and restorative exercises, and don't forget the endless bills and paperwork, kept me steadily moving pretty much around the clock. Sure, I got tired, but who wouldn't? If I had a pain, I kept it too myself. I was prideful enough to insist I could handle things, mostly because who else, in all honesty, could or would?

I had a little secret, though, which I even tried to keep from myself. I was peeing pink. Whatever the cause, it wasn't going to be seen to until I could leave John for more than an hour, so why worry? That little secret turned out to be bladder cancer, and it was at that point, in June of '16, that I really started to fall apart. I went through a year of tests and treatments and at the moment, things look pretty good on that front. However . . .

I wonder now if I should have just kept some other things to myself. I know all too well that once you mention chest pain and profuse sweating to a doctor, they're not going to just let it ride. I'm having a cardiac cath  next week. And this nasty sinus infection that hasn't cleared up after two years of treatment? The ENT, who looks like he recently finished high school, predicts only surgery will do the trick. And sadly, I expect he's right. I'm not worried about myself, but I do fret over leaving John alone so much and not feeling up to taking care of him as I want to.

Enough about me. Recently, we noticed John having what looked a lot like TIA's and discovered he has a "smallish" cerebral aneurysm. Since his mother died with one, and his brother had one treated, we're certainly not ignoring that! Neurologists are as scarce as fresh seafood out here in the heartland, but we finally got an appointment with one in November. Meanwhile, I'm watching him like a hawk does a newly mowed field. He says he's not worried at all about himself, but he does admit to worrying about me. We're even on that front.

Of course, along with all of the above mentioned ailments come the bills--for every test, every unseen doctor who reads the results of said tests, every doctor's visit to get the order for the test and hear the test results. That's before the bills for the actual treatments, which would make my heart race even if it's perfectly healthy. Thank heaven for all the generous souls whose gifts at least keep us in groceries and more. Those gifts are more than money, they are love. They remind us that, worthy or not, we are cared for.

I so long to go back to becoming a tough old lady. My hope is that repairing all these broken bits will give us the time to do things we still want and even need to do. I even hold out hope of becoming a writer again some day. While we accept we'll never have money to spend the way we used to, money is nothing compared to days and nights spent together doing what we love. If you're one of those praying for us, just ask for that--time together to watch the garden grow, time to listen to the music, to read the books, and just be.

Small Town Inspired

In the real world, small towns are love 'em or leave 'em kinds of places. In fiction, they are often  airbrushed with rainbow colors of innocence or brutalized in darker shades of prejudice or worse. It's no secret that I grew up in a small town--well, to be honest, a small village--situated on land first granted to my ancestors by the King of England in the 1720's. I've since lived in towns with populations of 1,000 to 10,000, and the dynamic is pretty much the same, regardless of the number of souls within the city limits. Unique to small towns are treasures such as unsolicited support in hard times, shared celebration and grief, life long friendships, time honored feuds, and mutually respected secrets.

I keep in touch with a childhood friend who unequivocally declares the years he and his family spent in our little village are the foundation for his life. "Everything I needed to know I learned there." I agree that the lessons were simple and straightforward, possibly purified by memory and softened in the haze of experience by now. While his memories are idyllic, mine include the bumps and bruises of living where everyone not only knew your name, but those of the skeletons in your family closet, the transgressions of your ancestors, as well as your daily business.

My friend's family were not "from there." They came from a nearby city and eventually returned there. While they were welcomed and accepted  during the years they spent with us, they never experienced the deeply rooted ties of those who shared DNA with the generations who pioneered, timbered, plowed, and constructed everything in sight. My friend enjoyed the benefits of a close-knit community without the obligations history passed down to some of us.

I eventually left what I saw as the confines of that little village, only to find myself in similar places time after time. Of course, in those places I wasn't one of the "original settlers" but I clearly recognized the inner workings of a small town. As happens with experience and age, I came to appreciate the value of those deep roots, despite their obligations. All of those benefits my friend had enjoyed came into focus for me, too. Sadly, I can't go back to apologize to my village for my lack of proper respect. It barely exists today and bears little resemblance to the place where I grew up.

Instead, without setting out to do so, I memorialized my small town experiences when I started writing Hearts Unfold. Once I saw what I was doing, folding the best of my memories into Emily's story, I wondered if anyone would believe a single, small community could possess so many sterling qualities. But the memories were truth, from the town fathers at the coffee shop to the postmistress who passed on the latest news along with the daily mail. I hadn't fabricated the "courthouse" or the characters who populated the surrounding farmlands.They were carefully preserved in a benevolent corner of my mind.

Stani gently brushed a windblown strand of hair from her cheek.  “You really love it here, don't you?  You positively light up when you talk about it.”

Emily blushed, turning to lead him further along the street.  “I know it's all very ordinary, but yes, I love it.  When I was a little girl, I would come into town with Pop.  Everywhere we went everybody knew us and seemed to genuinely care about us.  It made me feel important when someone asked how my mother was doing, or how the garden was coming along.  Now that I'm back, everybody makes me feel included, like a part of the community.”  She swept her hand through the air, taking in the four blocks of the square and all of the shop fronts.  “These people are my family, although I'm not related to any one of them.  From Mr. Harris at the bank, to Katie Malone at the flower shop, to Mr. Brown at the market, to Martha Jean at the boutique, I know I can count on every one of them to be there if I need anything.”--Hearts Unfold 

Like Emily, I was raised by a small town. As a fatherless child, the daughter of one of the founding family's daughters, I was gathered to the collective bosom of my village. If at times I felt more smothered than cherished, I know now that was not the intention. They, like Emily's neighbors, recognized a need and were called to address it. Unlike Emily, I can't go back, and probably wouldn't chose to if I could. Still, there's no doubt growing up in the secure embrace of a small town inspired not only my writing, but much of what is best in me. Thankfully, my village lives on in the memory of those of us who grew up there, not only as inspiration for written word, but also for life well lived.

The Years of Seven

Numbers are not my thing. I don't have a lucky--or unlucky--number. I'm pathetic with phone numbers, house numbers, even birth and anniversary dates. I'm a word person. From grade school on, I chose to nurture my vocabulary and leave the numbers to fend for themselves.

There is one major exception--the dreaded seventh year of every decade--The Year of Seven. Now, I know how that sounds, but I categorically deny being the least bit superstitious. I love black cats and have been owned by several in my lifetime. I'm blessed with the lack of inches that allows me to walk under ladders without even noticing them. On rainy days,  I leave my open umbrella to dry in the foyer. I frankly don't have the nature or the time to indulge in superstition. But these years of seven aren't about superstition. Instead, they are about a a very real story about grief and loss. Yes, you can argue that there is all of that in other years. But over time these particular years earned a badge of mystical significance in my life, first through my mother and then for myself. I hope the story speaks for itself.

In 1947 my mother's fiance drowned at a party celebrating her birthday and their upcoming marriage. His death resulted in a very different life than the one she was looking forward to. She eventually married a brilliant young school teacher, gave birth to a daughter, and fought tooth and nail for the happy ever after that was never to be.

In 1957 my father committed suicide. It's fair to say, my mother never stopped grieving for him,
never lived fully without him, and never stopped reliving their time together. His death was the defining moment of her life.

In 1967 my maternal grandfather, a wise and gentle man who saved this fatherless child when her five year-old world imploded, died unexpectedly two days after Christmas.

At this point you can see the pattern, but you might also say this rule of seven was more about my mother than about me. You wouldn't be wrong. For years, I tried to lay it at her door. Hard things happened every year. But even I was impressed with the fact that the hardest things, the kind that change the color of our worlds forever, seemed to strike in the seventh years of each decade.

Then came 1977. I was a young, but dedicated, wife with two small children by this time. Short version--the marriage ended when my husband literally drove off into the sunset without a word of explanation or farewell. I ended up hospitalized for months with a major bipolar breakdown.  That was the year I embraced the truth of what many might call coincidence.

That said, 1987 was just one more year in the horror story of my second marriage. It might have been worse. It certainly wasn't better.

On Valentine's Day of 1997, my dearest friend died of cancer. I was blessed by her invitation to share her journey toward eternity, to sit by her, read to her, plan her memorial, and make sure all her pet projects were brought to a satisfactory end. I remember '97 as the year I cried almost daily, often at something we'd laughed at; the year I started talking to the familiar angel perched on my shoulder.

In 2007 my mother passed to her well deserved reward, exactly fifty years and twenty days after my father left her. If I'd never believed the seventh years held a special place in our lives, that would have confirmed it for me. I remember early that year, as she grew weaker and, between the two of us, we accepted that her fight was almost over, she stopped talking about my father. I sensed that she was thinking of him and that her thoughts were private. I knew she was hoping he'd waited for her.

Was I hoping during the past ten years that just maybe the cycle had ended? After 2015, when our lives were changed so drastically with John's fall, I couldn't imagine '17 topping it. Not that I was challenging fate. More like asking for a pass for this decade. Or forever. 

It's now 2017. Maybe it's just coincidence that I've been diagnosed with cancer?  Not the worst diagnosis, specifically bladder cancer, but one I hoped would never be entered in my medical history. Juggling all I have to do and want to do with surgery, treatments, and tests seems to be asking a lot, just when I've begun to realize I'm not as young and strong as I once was.

Whatever I think about these symbolic seventh years, I certainly do not expect the worst. Much like what I recall as the Black Hole of '77, I intend to fight my way out of this and survive. I have a husband I adore who needs me, literally, every hour of the day. I have family, friends, my old house, and my garden, to spend time with and care for. I have stories to tell, and possibly new ventures to undertake. Most of all, I have my God, who has held me close and carried me forward in the worst of times. I know I have nothing to fear and everything to look forward to beyond this seventh year.

This detour may be unknown and certainly unwelcome, but I'm looking forward to new things to learn and new people to meet along the way. I hope you'll join me.