day 19 of 31: we are the champions

(2.4) Number of miles we trekked

(5) Number of times I nearly slipped and fell

(1) Number of times I did slip and fall

(7) Number of times we stopped to rest

(1) Number of times my mother-in-law said she felt like she might faint

(1200) Number of feet to the top of the peak (elevation)

(3) Number of water bottles

(8) Number of times I wanted to turn around and go back

And yet somehow, I made it.

Here I am at the top, trying to fake a smile while hanging on for dear life.

day 13 of 31: three little monkeys

day 5 of 31: go ahead, take it!

I went to my parents house this morning for a haircut, and I left with:

- Sweepy bangs - like this. (Sorry that the photos are of Nicole Richie. Normally, I abhor anything with her or Paris Hilton or Lindsay Lohan, but I've got to admit - I'm lovin' the bangs/wide headband/low chignon combination.)
- A shiny new tea kettle.
- Pocky sticks!
- A stomach full of chorizo, beans, tortillas, seaweed and rice. I realize that that sounds ridiculously disgusting, but growing up in a Mexican-Korean household sort of desensitized me to the weird co-mingling of ethnic foods. I can still smell the dried squid roasting after a dinner of tacos and rice and calabacitas.
- Two of my dad's original paintings, circa 1975. They are so unbelievably awesome, I'm going to try to post photos of them soon. He did them when he was a young art student in the Bay Area, which means they are angsty and dreamy and modern.

Seeing as I arrived with only my cell phone, I sort of feel like I won the lottery.

day 1 of 31: yet again, but why?

I really hate to kick-off my first day of 31 posts on a low note, but for the sake of authenticity I figured I'd better just jump right in.

Over the weekend, Aaron's maternal grandfather was diagnosed with cancer. Doctors removed a two-inch portion of the tumor from his small intestine on Friday, and now we're all just waiting to find out what, if any, course of action should be taken. Unfortunately, early indications are that the cancer is already pretty advanced.

My brother-in-law told me yesterday, as I expressed my sadness at this news, "You know, we're all going die. It's going to happen to all of us, sometime."

Bluntly spoken, but his words didn't bother me. Aaron and I know that Grandpa is old; in fact, he has suffered some other ailments recently that caused us to think that his time here is coming to a close. Of course, we don't want him to die, but we expect it for a man of his age.

It's the cancer that is most upsetting.

You see, Aaron's family has dealt with more than their fair share of this angry, ugly, cell-mutation. His father, his grandmother and his aunt have all succumbed to the disease, and his mother is currently recovering from a bout with breast cancer last year. If you've ever been personally affected by the horrors of cancer, then you know that it is one of the most difficult, debilitating, and draining illnesses that one can have. It is emotionally wrenching to watch someone fight it.

Cancer. Again. I shake my head in disbelief. Why some, and not others? Why his family and not mine?

Even though my faith provides some comfort to the questions in my mind, I think, no, I know there are things that I will never, ever understand. It is hard to accept that, sometimes.

Aaron is subdued this week, probably trying to process what seems like the pinnacle of unfairness to his family, and probably trying to deal with the painful memories that this has no doubt brought to the surface.

Yesterday he said to me, "I could have handled anything else. I'm just so tired of dealing with cancer."

rock star

My brother's band, Downcast Fable, opened for the Christian bands Pillar and Disciple last night. It was their first time opening for such well-known, major label acts, and I'm so proud of them for doing an amazing job. I screamed so loudly during their set that my throat still feels a little scratchy this morning.

Also, have I mentioned that my brother is seriously the most rockin' drummer ever? This kid OWNS the stage - he plays so fast, so hard and with such passion that you can't help but be sucked into the excitement. Who would have thought that my introverted, easygoing little brother would turn out to be such a rock star?

thirty is the new twenty

And in my husband's case, this seems to be true. Does this look like the face of a thirty year old?

city of brotherly love

Brett, Aaron and Adam in Downtown Phoenix (They are all hams for the camera, so this was an easy picture to get.)

Brett and Adam, the eldest two of Aaron's five younger brothers, are staying with us this week. We've shown them the sights (Look! Another cactus!), had authentic Mexican and Korean meals, and had some awesome conversations. We also went to Jillian's where we discovered that I am a GAME GENIUS, beating Aaron at air hockey and Brett at WaveRunner jet skis.

Having Aaron's family here means so much to me. I often feel detached from them because we live so far apart, and I feel sad because I'm forced to try to build relationships via email and telephone. Which, as I can authoritatively attest to, can only take you so far (see: Aaron moves to Arizona).

I love being able to take them to the restaurants we frequent, show them the little apartment home we've made for ourselves, have them spend time with my family and just generally give them insight into our real life - the one we live in the 355 days out of the year that we aren't in Ohio.

There are selfish reasons, too. When we go to Ohio, I'm usually stressed out, cold, living out of a suitcase and sleeping on the floor - the perfect recipe for cranky Marisa. It's go-go-go from the start, and I rarely get a chance to relax and just be myself. Here, I'm in my comfort zone and can concentrate on having a good time with them.

And good times we've had...check out a few more pictures on flickr.

you're an adult now

My brother turns 18 today! Happy Birthday, Anthony! You can now vote, get a tattoo (but don't do that because Dad will have a heart attack), play the lottery (but don't do that because your odds of winning are like 1 in a billion), get married without parental consent (but don't do that because you're still way too young), buy cigarettes (but don't do that because smoking is disgusting and lung cancer KILLS), buy pornography (but don't do that because you're not a pervert), and get a credit card (but don't do that because the average American is $4,088 in debt).

So... erm... uh.... yes. Happy Birthday! You can vote!

analissa

In a few hours my cousin Analissa will have her gallbladder removed via laparoscopic surgery.

For her, this surgery is just another in a long line of procedures, treatments, medications, and hospitilizations. Medical problems have plagued her her entire life: severe asthma as a child, nerve damage due to a broken arm as a teenager, and most recently, kidney/gallbladder issues. I say "issues" because even the doctors themselves don't know exactly what is wrong.

Growing up together she was always sick and weak and hurting; I was healthy and strong. She was a regular in the emergency room; I have yet to see the inside of a hospital from a patient's perspective. She takes pain like a seasoned pro; I cried the other day when I cracked my toenail. Her college plans have been slowed down by her illnesses; I breezed through school in four years.

Clearly, Pain and Suffering are not equal opportunity employers.

So pray for her tonight. Not just for the surgery, but for her will and patience and resolve to endure yet again.

I often think about the kind of person it takes to deal with all she has been through. Could I handle it? Doubtful.

I hope that someday she discovers that she was the strong one, after all.

Joy

For teaching...

For talking...

For sheltering...

For holding on...

For letting go...

I love you!

a much-needed break

My mother-in-law came to visit us for a few days. Click on any picture to see more...

miracles

It has been a little over a month now since I got the news.

I was sitting in the passengers seat, chatting quietly with my boss and watching blurred strips of undeveloped desert whiz by. We had just spent the day at a meeting in Tucson; now we were driving the two-hour stretch back to Phoenix.

A missed call on my cell phone from my mother-in-law. Strange, I remember thinking. Not one for words or lengthy conversations, Marsha rarely calls her own children, let alone her daughter-in-law in Arizona.

Immediately, I called her back. And when her sad, tear-filled voice came on the line, I involuntarily braced myself.

"...Lump...Mammogram...Doctor...Breast Cancer...Surgery" is all I can remember now of our brief conversation.

Probably, it is all I heard.

I cried. Though completely recognizable, the words were wholly unfamiliar to me.

*****************************************************

The days and weeks that followed were propelled forward by her cancer. I remember them like a stream of consciousness - snippets of events, momentary impressions, fleeting thoughts:

Anxious. Telling Aaron will be the hardest thing I've ever had to say to him in our three and a half years of togetherness. Why was his cell phone off? His mother could have told him herself. I say the words, matter-of-fact. He is obviously shocked. Does she have insurance, he asked me. The first thing he thinks about is insurance? What is wrong with him? Defense mechanism, he tells me later. I don't want to worry until I have all the facts. But it feels good to worry, I think. An unwholesome comfort.

More bad news. The tumor is large, 3 centimeters already. The location of the tumor is troubling. It is by the blood vessels. A mastectomy is necessary. Mastectomy. And here I am worrying about the small pimple on my forehead. The cancer may have spread to her lymph nodes. Oh God, please have mercy on this family. Don't let it spread. The surgery is scheduled for Friday.

Flying to Ohio. I get nervous on the takeoffs and landings. How great is our God, sings Chris Tomlin from my iPod. I clutch Aaron's hand and tell him that everything is going to be alright. He sleeps, how can he sleep at a time like this? Arrival. Would you like an upgrade on your rental car? It's only $30 dollars, the salesman says. Why not? Why not, I shrug in agreement. We must be too tired to care.

Turning onto the street where she lives. Here we are again, only this time there are no Christmas presents. Thump, thump, thump, up the porch steps. She appears, her face drawn. They share a long embrace, mother and son. It is disturbing to see a parent look so sad. The world upside down.The house is quiet, the late-afternoon sun filtering in through sheer ivory drapes. The house feels pensive, worried, fearful. The house has taken on our personalities, I think. We talk.

The night before surgery. Normal sibling banter is subdued. She says good night and goes to bed early. I wonder what she's doing - is she looking at her breasts? What would I do on the night before I lost my breast? I would cry all night. I would look in the mirror over and over to remember my shape. Maybe I would take a picture. I would touch them. I would grieve. I would beg God to let me remain unchanged. What is normal during something like this? She's alone right now. My heart aches for her.

Morning. Everyone is surprisingly upbeat and resolute. The ride to the hospital is short. Tests. More tests. We file into her holding room, right before surgery. Her Pastor reads from scripture and we pray. Heads bowed, we surround her bed. We lift her up, away from the cancer and away from the surgery. I am lifted, too. We watch and wave as she is wheeled away.

Waiting. Six of us kids handling what seems like a very adult situation.
I wish my own mom were here. Lots of visitors. Every so often, Brahms lullaby plays over the loudspeakers, signaling the birth of a new baby. A celebration of life. The view from the waiting room is a cemetery. A reminder of mortality. It is the cemetery where Marsha's first husband, Aaron's father, is buried. He died of cancer years ago. Is this some sick joke? How cruel and ironic and unnecessary.

The moment of supreme tension arrives. I feel nauseous with anticipation. My stupid weak stomach. The surgeon took his chair and faced us.

"The surgery went very well. The cancer has not spread."

And just like that, the myriad of emotions that had defined the preceding weeks had been reduced to just one:

Joy.

************************************************

Some people say that everything in life is a miracle. Babies, flowers, email and ice cream. I tend to agree.

I don't think of miracles in overly-religious, highly-cosmic terms. In fact, I like Wikipedia's simplified definition best: a miracle is an intervention by God in the universe.

Marsha's cancer should have spread. Her family history, the location of the tumor and its large size dictated that it would. But it didn't.

With mercy and grace, God intervened.

He intervenes everyday. He is calling me to see the large and small. Much like beauty, miracles are signs that point us to Him. They are markers on the road of life that challenge me to believe and accept that in our every moment, He is actively, dynamically and vibrantly present.

tired but happy

Yup, that about sums it up.

For those of you who prayed for my mom-in-law Marsha, a great big thanks from the bottom of my heart. She underwent a mastectomy last Friday, and fortunately we were able to fly out to be with her before, during, and after the whole ordeal.

The surgery was very successful and her doctor was fairly certain that the cancer had not spread to her lymph nodes. It was the best news we could have received, under the circumstances!

More thoughts on all that later. I haven't really had a spare minute to reflect, which is driving me crazy because I have tons of stuff knocking around in my mind. Clank, clank, bang, bang. I'd better get it out soon.

The past few weeks have been stressful, to say the least. Things have been crazy at work, too. Right now I'm in Sedona for a work thing (yes, that is the technical term) and I worked 14 hours today. I'm not used to this overtime stuff.It's past midnight, I can barely keep my eyes open. Why am I blogging, anyway? I'm tired. I go home tomorrow, can't wait. Did I mention I was tired?

and I am trusting Him

Years ago, I memorized these words of comfort from Psalm 91:

Those who live in the shelter of the Most High
will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty.

This I declare of the LORD: He alone is my refuge, my place of safety;
he is my God, and I am trusting him...

He will shield you with his wings. He will shelter you with his feathers.
His faithful promises are your armor and protection.

Do not be afraid of the terrors of the night, nor fear the dangers of the day,
nor dread the plague that stalks in darkness, nor the disaster that strikes at midday...

For he orders his angels to protect you wherever you go...

The LORD says, "I will rescue those who love me.
I will protect those who trust in my name.

When they call on me, I will answer; I will be with them in trouble.
I will rescue them and honor them.

I will satisfy them with a long life and give them my salvation."

Tonight, with a heavy heart, I seek solace in these truths once again.

Today we found out that my mother-in-law, Marsha, has breast cancer. The news came suddenly and unexpectedly; both Aaron and I are still floundering in a state of shock and disbelief. We will know more details on Monday, but it looks as though surgery will be scheduled for sometime next week and we will most likely fly to Ohio to be with her.

Please pray for our family - for understanding and peace for the three younger boys who may be scared and confused, for strength and comfort for the four older siblings who have already endured the pain of losing a parent to cancer.

And of course, for Marsha - that she would truly draw near to God, trusting in His faithfulness and lovingkindness, finding rest in the shelter of His beautiful shadow.

brother

I was a few weeks shy of my seventh birthday when my brother appeared.

He caused quite a commotion in utero, as babies often do. Mom held her stomach tightly, instructing my Dad to drive slower as her contractions became more intense. And then, go faster! she’d say, as they would taper off. Back and forth it went like this, I remember. Go slow! Fast! No, slow!

I was dropped off at my cousin’s house, and I remember standing in the driveway in my pajamas, waving to my anxious parents as they sped away to the hospital.

My memories of that night have slowly faded from Technicolor to a fuzzy black and white. The details are sketchy and when I do stop to think about them I feel as though I’m floating above and outside of the world, looking down on people and places that are slipping further and further away from view.

But I remember it now as the first time I was clearly aware of him.

He was born in the morning, and they nicknamed him "Yoda" because his chubby face and pointy ears were reminiscent of the little green guy from the movie. Which I suppose was somewhat prophetic if you consider his current obsession with Star Wars.

My early memories of him and I are fragile, my recollection limited by my youth then and my age now. I remember that baby brother was a source of amusement to me; I delighted in watching him shake and shimmy in his diaper, dancing to the noise he emitted from the harmonica between his lips.

When he got older, I discovered that our stereotypical birth order personality types worked nicely to my advantage. He was easy to boss around, a walking talking toy that was eager to please and would pretty much do anything I asked. We played made-up games and generally got along pretty well, as well as a 6-year old and a 13-year old could.

The seven-year gap between us became evident when I went to high school. Our lives diverged sharply, and my memories of him are overwhelmed by memories of my own personal teenage angst.

He turned seventeen last week, a handsome guy with a wide smile that he doesn’t use often enough. The tallest in our immediate family, he is soft-spoken and has a funny laugh. He is kind and generous, easygoing and patient. He is very much the opposite of me.

As I watched him interact with his friends, I found myself wishing that I had taken more time to get to know him - his thoughts and feelings and hopes and dreams - when we were growing up. I found myself wishing for something less like my dimly lit memories and more like a living, breathing friendship.

A few days shy of my twenty-fourth birthday, and I am clearly aware of him again. Only this time, I think I'll do something about it.

thanksgiving

Click on the photo for more Thanksgiving pictures!

"There's nothing wrong with Ohio"

Our recent trip to Ohio was a blast. We flew up there for a few days to surprise my mother-in-law at her surprise 50th birthday party. Aaron and I, along with his sister and brothers, had been planning the party for months and it was, if I may say so myself, a huge success! She was completely bowled over. More than 80 people showed up, the weather was picture-perfect, and the planning/logistics went off without a hitch.

Speaking of surprises, who knew the Buckeye state had such redeeming qualities? Every time I've visited, I've been greeted with gray skies, followed by a blizzard of snow or a freezing rain. I was under the impression that winter was their only season. I moan and groan when Aaron tells me we're going for a visit. But, I can admit when I'm wrong (not really, but it sounds good here) and I was completely taken by the lush green trees, the fertile soil that produces zucchini the size of my thigh (see photo), and the ability to sit outside for more than 5 minutes without getting heat exhaustion. I saw my first tiny acorn, my first fireflies, and first "helicopter" leaves. I even saw my first apple tree!

With the exception of a very eye-opening drive through Amish country, the rest of our trip was somewhat uneventful in comparison to the excitement of the surprise party. We left on an early morning flight, and as I walked toward the rental car I noticed it was covered in dew. Another first.

Dare I say it? I was more than a little sad to say good-bye to my new friend, Ohio.