In Which We Realize We're Moving Forward

This was, is, and always will be a place where Mr. J lives. As is my heart.

And this has been a place where we've previously said we're turning a corner, making progress, dreaming new dreams (see pretty much all of spring 2011).

We were wrong. We were so wrong, we were deluded. We were so deluded, we didn't realize we weren't headed up, but down. We were headed so far down, we hit rock bottom.

And it was hard. And painful. And humbling. But yeah, hard. Really, really hard. So hard that it scarred. So hard that it still hurts. But that's a good thing. Scars remind us of mistakes. Aches remind us that we never want to revisit that dark, deep hole.

That was about eight months ago.

You haven't heard from us because we've been climbing and scraping our way up out of that hole. And we still are, but there's a whole hell of a lot more daylight now.

We're gainfully employed, doing the kind of work we're supposed to do. We're creating again, letting our mind do what it likes to do best. We're writing again, letting our brain do what it was born to do.

And we've finally figured something out. We may have never stopped loving (and never will) Mr. J. But we did stop loving ourselves. And, we've got to keep living. Not just the whole, inhalation/exhalation, blood-pumping-to-the-brain thing. Actually living. Living. Living a life with purpose. With hope. With honor. With respect.

And with love.

Because now we're living for two.

And Your Patience, As Well

Miss me much? (breathe, breathe, breathe) I'm ba-a-a-a-ack.

Here we go again ...

Semi-Wordless "You-Wanna-Put-That-WHERE?!" Wednesday

March is colorectal cancer screening month. 

Speak with your doctors about when colonoscopy is right for you.

It's not particularly pretty, and it's not exactly easy; 
but, all in all, it's really pretty easy.

Do it.

Because

Up, Up and Away ...

"This one's for you, Uncle Jamie ..." - Caryn Conley Bowen
©2010 cliff bowen/halfglassistan

Sometimes truth just happens. It just happens and can be a beautiful accident. And it just sucks at the same time.


This unprompted photo of my nephew J.C. was taken last year on Halloween night in Atlanta. His mama, my baby sister Caryn, was 300-something miles away in South Carolina, fielding phone calls, fetching fast food, giving Nurse Tilly much needed breaks and — along with my big sister, Chrisie — basically making sure whatever was happening around me just happened. If without my knowing, at least without my worrying about it. Because in less than 24 hours, Mr. J would be — I choose to think — in the heavens where the above almost-two-years-old John Conley Bowen is looking. And, it must be noted, saluting with a Tootsie Pop, my favorite simile for describing Mr. J's personality. Hard outside. Soft inside. Meltable parts always much closer to the surface than he'd ever have you believe.


Caryn didn't caption this photo until a week later, November 8, what would have been Mr. J's 48th birthday. Mr. J did not like to celebrate his birthday, but as he was reminded every year, " ... you knew what you were getting into when you married me. Birthdays are not ignored in my world ..." Last year, it was celebrated on Facebook, where still-stunned friends and family posted simple messages.


Mr. J's death was surrounded by what I am choosing to call — instead of cruel coincidences or circumstance — beautiful accidents of truth. He died two days after our 11th wedding anniversary. He died the day after Halloween (Trust me, there's a story here and it's coming, too. Soonish.). He died on his father's birthday. He died on All Saint's Day. (I would have gone to light a candle for him for the rest of my days regardless. Way to go, baby, dying on a Holy Day. Now every year, you're gonna get that full-blown ritual of Mass that you dug so much.) He died a week before his own birthday. I choose — I very definitively choose — to see poetry rather than pity in these coincidences.


Except the truth that just sucks. My brilliant, beautiful nephew J.C. will only know his brilliant and beautiful Uncle Jamie through stories and pictures — as will so many of our Munchkins. And the eerie poetic quality of this undeniable circumstance of suckitude? When I had just turned three, my Aunt Betty Ann died of cancer. She was, as my beloved Uncle Ray has so often expressed without anyone contradicting him, "The best of them all," meaning my mother's siblings. That phrase repeated itself a year ago when my beloved brother-in-law Rob said many times of Mr. J, "He was the best of all of us," meaning his siblings.


I'm not equipped to pass judgment on either declaration. But I am all too familiar with the pangs of loving — deeply and desperately — someone you never knew. The blessing in Betty Ann's death ... Wait. What's that you say? Yes. Yes, more coincidences. ... Betty Ann left behind a teenaged daughter, Lynn. Who just happens to be my godmother. And as a too-early-widowed woman herself, she is also a guide, a comfort and everything I've needed a second mother to be. Lynn is also the mother of the mothers of many of my oft-mentioned Munchkin tribe who has given me so much joy over the past year — Mommies and Munchkins alike. And finally, no coincidence at all, her latest grandchild's name, James. Whose two-month birthday does just happen to be today.


So. I've decided that every year, the November chapter of The Ballad of Uncle Jamie will be about happiness. About love. And I will think to myself about the way all of these independently unconnected dates and details are pressed into a imperfectly perfect tale.


November 1 marks the one-year anniversary of Mr. J's departure from this world. I'll be Atlanta for the week, receiving very much needed sister, parent, puppy and J.C. therapy. And the opening page of the story to come will be a sky filled with bright, free-flying symbols of weightless — and painless — shiny, happy messages to Mr. J.


I know, without a doubt, even though he's another place, he's with me. With all who love him. But when I think of him, when I talk to him, when I stop whatever I'm doing to just breathe, I look to the sky. So that's where the messages are headed.


With J.C.'s help, I'll be releasing 50 balloons — 49 for Mr. J's birthday that I still will never ignore — and truly one to grow on for Baby James. To them, I'll tie names, messages, anything that's light enough to float and from whomever would like them attached.


CatCon will be fielding and organizing any requests. (I know. I've already had to tell her three times: "No. Glitter.") Comment here on the blog. Click on the e-mail the author link below. Email me here. Post it on my half-glassed life's Facebook page.


As I've said before, here in Halfglassistan, we welcome all. And as we say here in South Carolina, "Y'all come." Bring on the love.

The Wonder That's Keeping The Stars Apart

Every child of the military knows where home is. Our mothers taught us that "home is wherever Daddy is."


That's been true all of my life and luckily, still is today. The SGM has been retired for decades now but just as Mom did for 30 years all over the world, she has maintained that one constant security for her children.


I've also been blessed to have the comfort and love of many others whose doors are open to me, providing not only safe haven — but also that undefinable, yet instantly recognizable essence that is home. Sisters. Cousins. Aunts. Friends. Even the familiar voices of faces I'd not seen since adolescence — one in Memphis, one in Phoenix and one in Kentucky — can reach through a cell phone and wrap me in a cloak of solace as surely as if they were tucking a blanket around me as I curled up on their couch.


But as safe — and perhaps much more importantly, loved — each of these make me feel, none has erased a singular longing.


I want to go home. My father holds me and tells me in his living room, "You are home."


I lie with my head in my big sister's lap, as she strokes my hair while I weep and long for home.


My baby sister holds me tight, both of us crying in her driveway. "You have so many homes. So many people who love you."


"No. I want my home." She holds me tighter.


I look at my godmother, who 15 years ago was also widowed in her early 40's. "I want to go home," I sob. Her shining eyes mirror mine.


And she says: " I know."


On a quiet November afternoon, in the home we had made, I peacefully held my husband in my arms as I waited for the gentlemen in the dapper suits to arrive. I calmly walked outside with them as they prepared to take him for one last ride. I kissed his beautiful face and watched as they closed the heavy black door. I turned to walk back inside, still determined and head held high. I summoned the same posture of dignity I'd tried to maintain throughout every challenge of the previous years.


I stood straight and tall until I recrossed the threshold of what was now just walls and floors, windows and doors. Just a house. Mocking me. I have no idea how many steps I took before I hit the floor. I have no idea how quickly, or how many, arms wrapped around me. How many I reached for and clutched.


In the moment, I had no idea where the grotesque sounds I heard were coming from. Sounds I'd never heard and hoped I never would again. I soon realized they were coming from me, and all too soon, realized I would hear them again. And again. And again as the months passed. Even if only in my mind as my mouth formed silent screams. It could have been at 3 p.m. and I was locked in the restroom in my office, hoping the running water would mask any gasp that escaped. More often, it was 3 a.m. and I couldn't stop long enough to catch my breath, much less think — or care — about what my neighbors might have thought if they heard. 


More days than I care to admit, at the end of the day, I'd pull my phone out as I walked to my car and punched 2 to tell Mr. J that I was on my way home.


But there was no home.


Because my best friend, my confidante, my cheerleader, my protector whose eyes and arms could erase fears in an instant and my playmate who could make me laugh and sing just as quickly was no longer there.


Over the past year, it's taken me a long time to realize that the same metaphor that marked the first twenty-odd years of my life is still true.


Now Jamie's heart equals home. And home is, was, and always will be where he is.


"... and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart. i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart.)"


And as long as I can keep sight of that wonder, I'm safe at home.


excerpt from i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart) ©1952 e.e. cummings 

Wordless Beginning-To-Turn-A-Corner Wednesday

(... and breathe X3, and repeat ...)

Stick With Me

"Do you need a new mission?" she asked me.


"What? No," I answered. "I don't think I can focus right now."


"But that's what your obsessive mind does: Focuses."


"I know." You think I don't know this, I wondered? I said, "And now it's only focusing on this."


"Exactly."


She had a point.


So I told her she had a point.


I told her my immediate goal was to fix up my home. Make my home my home. I thought of the sharp pointed tips of staples, nails and tacks that would allow me to adorn my walls with pictures to be hung. Drapes to be draped. Pillows to be puffed. Sewn with my own two hands. With pins. And needles.


Pins and needles. Up my spine. (You say down? Good for you. Mine run up. Into my scalp, then make my hair feel like its growing. If it's a really good idea, my tummy clenches. Kinda like I'm gonna hurl. In a good way.)


But she had more than a point. She had the spinning wheel needle with the single drop of Sleeping (or in this case, Crying) Beauty's blood and I was a warrior princess dressed in college-rule-lined sheets of fresh paper. She had a point the equivalent of a bright shiny No. 2 pencil.


But I didn't realize that until later. Just like I didn't realize that I didn't need a new mission.


Well, hell.


I thought my story was about fighting cancer.


Turns out it was about living life.


Who knew?


And the above conversation was two months ago, during which I've been having a hell of a time with my mission — the first of which was to get this post (which I wrote the same day) up.


Turns out living life right now is a hell of a lot like treading water. I've gone under, swallowed chlorine (lots), lost a contact lens (or two) and even had my ass kicked by one hell of an undertow when I jumped headfirst into a wave.


So pardon me while I've taken my time figuring out that's all I've got right now — time.


Or is that I don't have nearly enough?


That's the beauty of being me, procrastiperfectionator extraordinaire. It may take time, but I always, somehow, eventually, often painfully, but ultimately joyfully, get the right answer.

11.8.62 - 11.1.10

I haven't been able to bring myself to do this until now,and am not entirely sure what prompted the action this night (early morning,actually). It all happened so fast and it seems as though the past almost-two months have been one long agonizing day.

But Halfglassistan carries on. Just with all flags at half-staff. And regular operations suspended indefinitely.

Never doubt that all glasses remain half-full. In fact, only half-full forevermore. But also never doubt that Mr. J left the best half remaining. 

I have plenty to say, just not the strength to turn any of it into coherent thought. And though my best muse may no longer be by my side, he is still with me.

And something tells me he'll let me know when the time is right.

Until then, I remain living on love. Living. On. Love.

Team Wedding

©1999 ccw/halfglassistan

The 11th anniversary of the Wedding Wedding, and the 13th anniversary of the day I fell in love with Mr. J are quickly approaching.

Snapped somewhere in that magic hour between a Friday as boyfriend and girlfriend and the Saturday in which we'd become husband and wife, that picture above is one of my favorites.

I look at our faces and see so much love and all of the hope and promise of a future stretching before us. And now, I still can look at that picture and see the very same thing.

If I had the chance to do it all again — I'd always choose to do it all again.

Because what Mr. J told me so many years ago has always held true.

We've lived on love, baby. We've lived on love.

Still Kind of A Big Deal Around Here

The following post is from one year ago today and was titled Kind of A Big Deal Around Here.

It still is.

Always will be.

And it's worth repeating.

Enjoy ... And LIVESTRONG.

©LAF

Today is LIVESTRONG Day.

Why today? It's a cancerversary. On October 2, 1996, Lance Armstrong was diagnosed with advanced testicular cancer, and before he knew whether he would survive, he started his foundation to fight cancer.

But the Lance Armstrong Foundation (LAF) does so much more than raise funds or awareness.
It helps people affected by cancer.

It inspires the will to fight — and the courage to keep going.

It keeps you fired up — and channeling your inner badass.

It makes you feel like you're part of something much bigger than yourself — and reminds you that you are never alone.

It reminds you to hang tough and keep believing that prayers will be answered.

It teaches you that "unity is strength, knowledge is power, and attitude is everything." 

It helps people affected by cancer. 

I know. 

And if you've been to Halfglassistan before, you know, too.

If you're new here, just click on those links above and see how a little yellow bracelet, a slogan, and everything they represent carried me and everyone I love through one hell of a year.

LIVESTRONG.

I Think This Is Where We Came In

Guess what?  

Halfglassistan was founded one year ago. One year ago, yesterday. Which is when some inspired message about how far this little land of my creation has come would have been appropriate.

Yeah, don't scroll back. It's not there. 

That's what happens when your fearless leader is a procrastiperfectionator. Or is happily absorbed in her new job. Or is too busy transcribing all the ideas that came to her on her beach trip. Or is working on the next step in world domination improvements to this little spot on your mental map. Or is just too focused forward to spend too terribly much time navel-gazing about the precise progression of the past 360-odd days.

A little looking back is appropriate, though. Especially when I see that one year ago on this day, the first Sunday in June, I wrote about National Cancer Survivors Day. At the time, I already knew Mr. J and I were survivors. But to what degree? And of what exactly? That was all still a big, huge, scary unknown, less than two weeks into chemotherapy. 

Now, rereading those words today, I remember how we faced it with a single-minded determination. And I can't improve on the message, so I won't try.

But I will add this: Mr. J had his latest round of post-chemo bloodwork this past week. All clear. So amen and thank you, again, dear universe. And, uh, cancer? Take that.

From June 7, 2009: (and yes, it still means you)

Happy National Cancer Survivors Day 

(Yes, This Means You!)

Today is National Cancer Survivors Day. What's that you say? You didn't get your Cancer Cards out on time? You don't know any Cancer Carols? You didn't hang your Cancer Stocking last night or find gifts under your Cancer Tree this morning? 


'Fess up. You didn't know it was National Cancer Survivors Day. Neither did I. You probably don't think it applies to you, either. Neither did I. 


We were both wrong.

"The National Cancer Survivors Day Foundation defines a 'survivor' as anyone living with a history of cancer -- from the moment of diagnosis through the remainder of life."

If you are one of the millions of people who has ever heard the "C" word as a label for anything growing on or in your body, I hate to burst your bubble, but it needs to be done: You. Are. A. Cancer. Survivor.


And if you're someone who actually uses the phrase the "C" word, you probably also think there's cancer and cancer. Cancer is cancer is cancer. Stick with me, please. Because while it is simple, I am not naive enough to think it is that simple. Cancer is a complex animal with many levels of invasion, treatment and survival. Hell, why else do all those terms stage, grade, spread, size and myriad other qualifiers exist? The depths of that, though, are a topic for another day.


Today, cancer is cancer is cancer. Cancer is learning about that funky mole you just had scooped out. Cancer is learning that those funky cells somewhere inside you need to be removed before they grow. Cancer is learning that the funky pain that won't go away isn't going to go away. 


A survivor starts paying attention and isn't scared to have tests. A survivor isn't afraid to have surgery that removes vulnerable tissues or organs. A survivor accepts that life as it once was will never be again, but there is still life.


Survivors talk about cancer. And that's how we live with it.

Somebody First Had To Wake-N-Bake To Make This Possible

"being a grown-up rules!" (c)2002-2010 natalie dee (whom i am so loving lately)

Wordless "Hey-Baby-I'm-So-Proud-Of-You"-Flowers Wednesday

image ©2010 ccw/halfglassistan

Under Pressure

(cue David Bowie and Queen here)

This is my one hundredth and ninety-ninth post. Or 199th, depending on how (melo)dramatic you're feeling. Whatever shall I write for the oh-so-monumental two hundredth (200th) post?


Should I be inspiring (or at least as inspiring as I aspire to be)? Should I be sentimental (or as sappy as I can tend to be)? Should I be retrospective, introspective (or at the very least, somewhat circumspect)?


Should I celebrate my awesomeness (or should I exercise a little restraint)? Should I celebrate all those who have recognized said awesomeness by bestowing awards and recognition on Halfglassistan, and whose acknowledgement is sorely overdue (or should I continue to feel guilty — forgive me, Dame, Belle and Laura — for not having composed the perfect appropriate response yet)?


Should I stop shoulding all over myself? (And, thank you, Stuart Smalley for that kind reminder.)


Or — before I get all worked up about how I've procrastinated considering this monumental topic until now — should I check my figures? And realize that I've composed 199 drafts. And published 179 posts.


Oh. Well. Whew! That gives me 20 more posts to continue procrastinating figure this thing out.


Or finally figure math out. Whichever comes first. Hmm.


Carry on.

When I Was Seventeen ...

Me, circa 1985-86 — a lifetime ago.

... it was a very strange year. 


And — one I've been revisiting this past week. I do it every year at this time, but 2010 marks 25 years of time's passage.


It is amazing to me how parts (both good and bad) of that 17-year-old girl still are inside me. 


And I like it that way. She keeps me honest. And she keeps me strong. Stronger than she ever knew was possible.


I'm glad she grew up, and I wish she could meet who she grew up to be. She'd ask where her two children are (twins, boy and a girl), is her S-class Benz being detailed, why is she not working for the Trib — and, wait! what the hell happened to the Trib?! What the hell happened to all the newspapers?!


Over a cup of coffee — two sugars, cream (still) — I'd tell her all about the last quarter-century. To which, she'd probably say, "Damn, we're old."


To which I'd shake my head, smile, and say: "Nope. Not at all. We're here. We're still here."

Abstract Threats Too Noble To Neglect

"... Yes, my guard stood hard when abstract threats
Too noble to neglect
Deceived me into thinking
I had something to protect
Good and bad, I define these terms
Quite clear, no doubt, somehow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now."


"MY BACK PAGES" LYRICS ©1964 BOB DYLAN

Daylights, Sunsets, Midnights and Cups of Coffee

Apparently, there are 525,600 minutes in a year.


This information is in no way attributed to my questionable poor non-existent math skills. Rather, my love of musical theater brought this little gem of chronology into my knowledge base. (Thank you, Jonathan Larson)


Five thousand. Twenty-five hundred. Six hundred. The number seems even larger when written out. Then you add the word minutes, and it seems to shrink again. Minutes seem to give that number the power to fly — fly by, as if when one, two and three of those 525,600 units were just yesterday. Yet they also seem a lifetime ago.


One year ago today, Mr. J was with Dr. C and his miracle hands. 


Life as we knew it was ending, and Team Wedding 2.0 went live.


It's been one hell of a launch. Thanks for being part of it.


"SEASONS OF LOVE" LYRICS ©1996 JONATHAN LARSON

Of Exhalation and Exhilaration

"Breathe. Breathe. Breathe."

Of all the advice I received over the course of the past week as to how to make it through yesterday, that is the only one I could remember.

"Breathe. Breathe. Breathe."

I couldn't always remember how to do it. Which could have been a problem. But those words would pop into my head:

"Breathe. Breathe. Breathe."

And I would.

"Breathe. Breathe. Breathe."

Earnest meditations would form on my lips, only to fade into nonsense thoughts. Prayers I have recited with fervent faith — prayers with words that I know as well as I know my own name — were stumbling around inside of me, unfinished.

"Breathe. Breathe. Breathe."

Yesterday was Mr. J's second post-chemo scan. Scan one was conducted about a month after treatment ended, in order to give his body time to begin to recover from the poisonous drip, and it was all-clear. Which was a relief. Because if any little cancer buggers had managed to grow while those hideous chemicals were killing off every other cell — well, that'd be more than scary.

So. Team Wedding made a promise. We would not live scan-to-scan. We would not live in constant fear about what rogue cells may have escaped Samuel L. Chemo. We would be grateful, hopeful — and keep looking forward.

That didn't mean we weren't — and aren't — wary. We'd be foolish not to be. Germs were not — and still are not — our friend. And to those of you who can't understand this, I have one word for you:


POISON. P-O-I-S-O-N. Poy-suhn.


When you have it pumped into your bloodstream for four months, and when you have to have a good bit of that bloodstream replaced with transfusions, or — when you have to stand aside and watch it all happen helplessly — then you can talk to me about being overprotective. We'll compare notes.

Vigilance aside, TW did a bang-up job on the positivity over the better part of the last four months. (QUICK NOTE: I have been thinking that Mr. J was six months post-chemo because this was the second "every-three-month" scan. That error — sadly — says much more about the sorry state of my math skills than it does about my state of mind.)

Until this past week. Knowing we were getting ready for the big one. Knowing that Samuel L. Chemo had pretty much left the building. Knowing that whatever little rogue buggers that were run off while Samuel L. was menacing through Mr. J's bloodstream might just come out of hiding.

And knowing that if they were to show up, the most likely time would be now.

To not worry about that? That's one big, honking, super-dee-duper dose of unwavering positivity. And to those of you who can harness that? I really do want to compare notes with you.

"Breathe. Breathe. Breathe."

I did. We did. And we waited. And we heard those beautiful, beautiful words again: All. Clear.

"Breathe. Breathe. Breathe."

I tried. I really, really, really did try. But instead, I cried. I cried. And I cried some more. Then I laughed. And I yelled. And I danced. And I sat in the bright Carolina sunshine, looked to the sky and said — over and over and over and over again:

"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

(Almost)Wordless Happy-First-Birthday Wednesday

One year ago today, John Conley Bowen joined us. 

In no particular order (because it's more fun that way), a year in the life of JC:

I love you so much, sweet boy.

Happy Birthday.