Badass Book Angel

 This is my sister Metta.  She was a Librarian. Someone once referred to her as “The BookAngel”, but to me she was badass. A badass book angel Librarian.

But she was seriously born to be a badass anything.  First of all, she was a Junior.  Her name was Metta T. Lansdale, Jr. She was proud to remind any listener that that was her name; on her birth certificate.  

Perhaps being a badass was predetermined, because she wasn’t very  healthy as a child.  She had multiple food allergies- she once told me that all she remembered being able to eat as a child were green vegetables.  

She also had asthma.  Since I was born almost 5 years after her, I don’t remember this, but I was told she almost died several times before I was born. During the hot, humid Ohio summers, she spent a lot of time in her bedroom, the only room in our house with an air conditioner.

 She told me that once she stopped “worrying”, her asthma attacks greatly decreased in number. Badass.

Also, she loved bugs. She was a Girl Scout.  And in order to earn a particular badge, she created an awesome butterfly collection.  She loved grasshoppers and Praying Mantises and tomato worms and any other interesting insect.  I learned about cocoons and which worm would turn into which butterfly from my big sister.

 

She was a public school kid.  I, and my other sisters attended an all-girls (private) school once we reached high school age.  Having only recently discovered (in my 70s) that I have ADHD as well as a learning disability, the fact that she didn’t “get in” may have been as simple as not testing well, but as it’s too late to ask her now, I can only guess.  But I seriously remember a particular dinner table conversation during which my Father emphatically and forcefully told her how smart she was, and to “never *never* let me hear you say that again!” After she offhandedly commented that she was “dumb”.  

She went off the college got an English degree and came back home after graduation.  I was in high school and so glad to have her back.  She got a job at the Public Library downtown and clearly learned to love it as evidenced by more enthusiastic dinner table discussions.  

That job was a start of an over 50 (60?) year career. She went on grad school at the University of Michigan where she earned her Masters in Library Science. Then she spent the next decades working as a Librarian in and around southern Michigan, eventually retiring as the Library Director of a district with 4 libraries in beautiful northern Michigan. She would start her emails to me, “Greetings from Paradise!”

She retired, earlier that she would have liked to, when she was diagnosed with Brain Cancer at the age of 68.  She was cured, then the cancer returned as it sometimes does.  She was cured again.  

 Unfortunately, the third time was not the charm.  She passed away in 2022 at the age of 74.  

The only good thing about her cancer is that it brought her and her husband back together.  They had been divorced for 20 years and remarried in 2019. It was a joyful day!

 

The first Little Free Library I ever saw, was on a lovely street in Traverse City, Michigan near my sister’s condo.  After she died I established a Little Free Library outside my Condo in Omaha, in her honor.   My neighbors love it, and it gives me the opportunity to tell anyone who asks, about by badass sister. 

 

I miss my sister every single day. She was the closest of my sisters to me in age, and we had a true friendship.

The reason I felt compelled to write this 2 1/2 years after her death?

Today I found myself  looking at photo from National Geographic of a really interesting insect.   My first instinct was, “I’ve got to send this to Metta!”

Sometimes when I scroll through social media I’ll come across a post about other badass librarians and I want to hit “share”.

I want to talk to her.  I want to commiserate about the sad state of our country and how much I miss Obama…or Hillary. I want to hear her remind me that Librarians are the guardians of the First Amendment. (Badass!)

I want to hear her tell me about the new restaurant in town or the delicious meal her husband cooked for her. 

I want to hear her thoughts on whatever book she is reading, and her recommendations for movies to see.

I want to swim in the ocean again with her.  

Badass Book Angel. 

Be Demanding

 In around 1968 (ish), my mother received a new credit card from Bank of America.  It was actually called the “Bank Americard” and it came with a photo of the user.   Now this was before 1974 right?  Women were not yet “allowed” to have credit. But had my mother’s photo on it. And right below my mother’s photo, was my father’s name.   

I can still hear her saying,  “I’m not John Lansdale, I am MRS. John Lansdale!” 

My mother sent it back with a letter requesting “Mrs.”

They sent her a new card with no changes.   She sent it back again. Same.   She sent it back again. I think it was the 3rd card that finally came back with “Mrs.”

She would not have considered herself a feminist- she was working inside the rules of the day.  She wasn’t even asking for her own name.  Nope, she fought for her identity.  She fought for her title.   

And she won.  

It was a Small victory.  

~BUT~

Certain people, certain organizations, certain political parties, want to take us backward.  

We need to Learn my mother’s lesson If we want to move forward again.  If we want bodily autonomy we must do these three things:

Be persistent.  

Be insistent.  

Be demanding.    

Caveat: My mother may have been content with her small victory, but in 2024 we must follow her lead into the future and total victory.  

Tentative Diagnosis

 When I visited my granddaughter last year she told me she had been diagnosed with ADHD “and Gramma you have it too!” Her long elegant finger pointing directly at my heart. 

So that was a thing.  After months of thinking about it i decided to see about that.  So, fast forward and Today i visited with a Psychiatrist.   

Short answer, I probably don’t have ADHD.  But the nagging suspicion i have had for 40 years that i might have dyslexia …boom… could be the source of the many stops and starts in my life.   There will be some more involved testing and then… what?   So while this tentative diagnosis could explain much of my past, I don’t know what that means for my future  

Starting over

 It’s been awhile since i posted.  So long in fact, that i removed the link from my Instagram profile.   In the meantime i retired.  Looking for something to do I return to my rabble rousing days of the 1990s and have discovered an amazing group of women who were barely born back then.   So now I follow them into the future.  Stay tooned!! 

Christmas during the Pandemic

 Christmas Traditions — well any traditions really,  are fluid.  But it’s Christmas during a pandemic, so I’m hearing various people lament that we can’t do traditional Christmassy things this year.  Or the talking heads, scientists, and the like, asking us (the public) to avoid family gatherings to save lives.  

In my family too, we are not doing what we usually do - for the 2nd year.  Two Christmases ago we met, as we had for almost 20 years, at my house on Christmas Eve.  There were as many grandchildren, children, in laws, significant others, temporary or permanent spouses as we could cram in.  I roasted an annual standing rib roast that got bigger and bigger and better and better each year.  Bone in for the dogs, and plenty so that there would be leftovers to send home.  

As the day approached , my spouse would become jittery and nervous as he imagined the chaos to come, make innumerable last minute trips to the grocery store in case there wasn’t enough fruit or cool whip.   Once three o’clock arrived  the nervousness would seem to magically evaporate as he welcomed each grandchild and son in law.  The big tree would suddenly be surrounded by masses of packages and the house would fill with the laughter of children and cousins who hadn’t seen much of each other for the past year.  On our last one of these Christmas Eves, we welcomed two “fresh babies”, a grandchild and great grandchild born 6 weeks apart the previous spring.  What a joyful day.  

2 springs ago we downsized to a condo and moved the festivities to my sons house...  this time we were the visitors.  But I brought the Roast Beast. It was different,  but just as joyful. 

Then the pandemic hit. This year will be the quietest Christmas we’ve had in our married life. My daughter asked for the recipe for the Beast, and I made the “goop” that gets slathered on it — because that recipe is all in my head.  I’ll get the leftovers (I hope!). 

I’ll make a small side trip over to my oldest sons house to deliver a small gift, while masked.  I’ll miss hugging his teenaged kids, and sneaking smooches all around.  Ill make another side trip to my daughter’s (gotta pick up the leftovers!). But I won’t be able to hug her children.  

None of these traditions are anything like the well choreographed Christmases of my childhood...  Back then Santa brought the tree down the chimney with him.  We (my 4 older sisters and I) gathered in our parents bedroom until everyone was dressed and clean, then walked (no running!) down the stairs *after* Father had gone down the make sure Santa had arrived (i.e. turned on the lights on the tree), taking the LONG way around.  More choreography- stockings first, with the orange juice and sweet rolls.  The breakfast at the table and then, only then, could we start opening packages.  Talk about torture— but if I’m even remembering this correctly- it drew out the activities past noon and the afternoon could be spent playing with toys, reading new books, trying on new clothes.  

I was the youngest, so at least in my memory, each year was a little different until when we were all mostly grown, decorating the tree included wine, or a little Creme de Menth and Tia Maria. 

Ever changing, ever morphing traditions as we grew into adulthood, had children of our own, and gradually created our own, “new” traditions. 

  

This year will be different for most of us who celebrate it, on the planet.  Different does not necessarily mean difficult.   I am one of the lucky ones. I live with the person I love most in the world, and I got himself some of his favorite candy to put under our “tree”. 

Wake Up

A friend of mine just had a stroke.  She was surrounded by people when it happened and got to the hospital fast.    With Rehab and therapy, it appears she's going to be okay --Phew!

Everyone I have ever known who has had a stroke was quite elderly (not elderly like me at 63, but over 80), or was very unhealthy.  My aunt had one in her forties, but she was a very heavy drinker and had already been hospitalized for Cirrhosis of the Liver.

However, it got me thinking...  this woman is about my age, actually about 6 months younger than I am, (and thinner) and seemed pretty healthy.


So check this out, it's important:
https://www.goredforwomen.org/about-heart-disease/symptoms_of_heart_disease_in_women/symptoms-of-a-stroke/

What is true in this article is that some of us women, maybe most of us, don't want to be a bother.

So my vision is a little blurry, it's early morning, I'm just a little tired.  

You might not even notice that your arm's a little weak.   

Or maybe you think it's a caffeine headache. 

Here's another lesson - my friend is such a tough cookie that she was awake and aware (maybe a little confused, but still...) all the way to the hospital.  She actually told her daughter she thought everyone was overreacting. Seriously!

In fact,  until tests (CAT scan?  MRI?) were performed, it was assumed she had a minor stroke.  Guess what... it was not minor.  It was not big.  It was massive.  My friend is very, very lucky.  So are her daughters, and her beautiful grandchildren.

So back to my musings:
Before menopause, I learned to be in touch with my body's rhythms, my cycles, my little monthly changes.

Since menopause, I haven't been paying that much attention.  I don't have that little monthly reminder to check myself out.  Life just sort of rolls along.  I've been fine with that; I've been blissfully fine with that.  In fact,  if it wasn't for the annual postcard I receive from my physician to suggest I make an appointment for a mammogram, I'd barely notice that a year has gone by!   Geez.

I know I entered the Crone stage years ago, but it doesn't relieve me of my duty to myself.  It's long past time to wake up.  It's time to start listening to what my body is telling me.

Lots of lessons here, but I guess the most important one is to Pay Attention to your best friend, the one who is with you until the end of your life, your body.  If it's strong and healthy, young or old, wrinkly or smooth.

Listen.

Right Time

Today

Take a Breath.

Haiku for Strength

Why build a mountain

When tiny steps will do?

Calm your hurried feet.

Just Sayin'

On January 14th I wrote this poem:

January Thaw

You break my heart each year
Like a lover who, afraid of commitment,
after making love,
Gets up and dresses in the dark.

I have become wise,

after so many betrayals;

I no longer trust you.

Here is a photo I posted on Instagram this morning:

Just Sayin'

Chocolate and Vanilla

I used to call these Sweet Babies my chocolate & vanilla ice-cream cones. They are brothers in blood and love, sons of my body and my heart. They grew up in the same house for most of their lives. yet they were treated differently by others simply because one is "chocolate" and one is "vanilla".  As they grew up it became apparent that one was automatically treated with respect and openness, and the other, with suspicion and wariness. Yet they both have tattoos, and other marks of their generation; and they are both charming and bright.

My daughter, whom I met when she was 13, is also blonde and beautiful.  She and her husband are lucky enough to be burdened with many of  the "first world problems" working parents of three beautiful children often are.  Lack of time.  Finding babysitters.  Lack of money.  Stuff like that. 

We think of this country as "first world", but right now there are places, neighborhoods, right down the street from us, that are more dangerous than some of the places we call "third world".  It's embarrassing, frankly, to wonder what our neighbors across the planet must think of us.   

My father used to tell us how lucky we were, that we live in the greatest country in the world.  He was a member of the "greatest generation" and he believed in what he said.   My mother, who was an early twentieth century Southerner through and through, treated everyone with respect, even those whom she believed, mistakenly, were put on this planet to serve her.  That was hard to write. My mother did hold the beliefs of her time, but I also remember her expressing her disgust at the firehoses and dogs of the early 1960s.  Today there are neighborhoods all over this country where the actions of  the police make those firehoses and dogs look tame in comparison.

My heart breaks every time I hear of someone's human child being gunned down on the street.  That most of the time that child seems to be "chocolate" is loathsome; disgusting.  Murdered children are murdered children.  No matter the age of the child, he or she is someone's baby, and a parent mourns.

Let us try every day to remember that we are human brothers and sisters, if not in love, surely in the blood we share.  

The Incredible Shrinking Brain Tumor

Last May I wrote these words, “My sister is dying”.  It was going to be a blog entry, but I put it away; I  didn’t want to write it.  She had just told me she had about a year — give or take a couple of months on either side.  Then she told me that she felt better and more relaxed than she had in months.

There had been several months of wondering what was wrong.  Why was she so tired?  Why was she stumbling?  Did she have a stroke?  Nope; apparently not.   A week in the hospital.  An MRI six weeks prior that showed a shadow.  But… too soon to tell, so a second MRI was scheduled for a month hence.  Then the shadow was larger… much larger. 

It appeared to be a brain tumor…  resting right up against the brain stem… on the inside.  So if you took a string and ran it in one ear and out the other, tumor would be right in the middle of that string.  A biopsy is sort of a last resort — because, as the Dr. advised, the biopsy needle would have to go through several layers of brain to get to it.  And the risk of damage is pretty high.

She was listing to the right, stumbling frequently, and using a cane, its purpose to keep her moving in a straight line.  She was tired, so tired.  The doc prescribed a specific type of steroid designed to target inflammation in the brain.  After a few sleepless nights, it started to help!  At least the symptoms were abating.

One week later, she met with an Oncologist who talked about Radiation and Chemotherapy.

After this meeting, she took a drive down to Ann Arbor for a second opinion at the University of Michigan.  That doctor said, "yes, it looks like a Glioma." [FYI:  Google and The American Brain Tumor Association® says:  “Glioma” is a general term used to describe any tumor that arises from the supportive (“gluey”) tissue of the brain. This tissue, called “glia,” helps to keep the neurons in place and functioning well.]  BUT — (sometimes “BUT” is a good word…) it also could be Lymphoma, which would be better, more treatable.

Long story short:  Glioma: bad.  Lymphoma: good. 

There is a bit of cognitive dissonance in looking at a diagnosis of Lymphoma as good news.  Everything is relative.  There was also cognitive dissonance in listening to my sister cheerfully tell me that, after a little spell of “weepiness” she’s feeling better than she has in a long time.

There followed batteries of tests designed to positively diagnose Lymphoma.  No need to go into details, some were not particularly fun, but for the most part she was able to take medically induced naps throughout.

She took a Medical Leave from work and started on her new project…  preparing for cancer treatment.  Wig - Check!   Caretakers - Check!  Local source for anti nausea medication - Check!

Last Will & Testament - Check!  Medical & Durable Powers of Attorney - Check!

My sister knows how to get things done.  She knows how to delegate, how to lead.  That last thing on the list above, the health directive…  I would like to say that any of us over 50 should have on hand… really no matter what our age, should probably do.  Remember poor Terri Schiavo http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terri_Schiavo_case.  Sorry to digress, but it’s important.

Meanwhile, in my sister’s world, the months went by.  A second MRI was done.  The Radiologist recommended another six-week wait to do a third MRI.  Huh?  Apparently the Steroid had done its job so well that the tumor had still not grown back to its original size.  It was too small to do the biopsy.

More weeks of waiting.  My sister was getting a little antsy; a little bored.  The symptoms were not really returning to the extent they had been, and she was getting a little frustrated having to be driven around.  I was visiting her for a two-week stint during which I expected to do some care taking.  I was a cook, a driver.  But, other than being a little tired, she was really feeling okay.  Not listing to one side, not bumping into things.  She fell a couple of times and had a little trouble getting up. But mostly it was waiting.  Who looks forward to chemotherapy?  But really, the sooner it starts the sooner its over, right? 

Then finally, the third MRI.  It was on a Friday in mid-July.  Monday she met with the Radiologist.  She was, we were, those of us who love her, nervous for the “reading”.  I was at work, with my phone on to receive the text of the results.  I was about to make airline reservations for another visit, this time to do some actual care taking, as the chemo would surely be in full swing by that time.  The text arrives.  “You Do Not Need to Visit…. do not make those reservations.”  What?  Huh? 

I called back without listening to the voice-mail.  She said, calmly, “….  the tumor seems to have disappeared…. completely.”

She is driving again.  The hated cane is in its resting place, resting.  She is going back to work, starting Monday.

Life is full of mysteries.  There is currently no answer to what happened in my sister’s brain.  I can tell you for sure that I am grateful for this mystery.  I have forgiven this tumor for its existence, and I am grateful for its disappearance.