For Every Season

I was thinking about Christmas today. I was looking at the "Catch of the Day" deals on Boden and started looking at girls' clothes for my nieces for Christmas and I realized, it's only mid-October, I don't need to be thinking about Christmas yet. But by that time it was too late and I was in the throes of twinkle lights and ringing bells and the smell of cinnamon almonds in malls. Ugly sweater parties and white elephant gifts and love and laughter and that little bit of heartbreak that comes with knowing someone is missing. And that feeling that takes over the earth, that one that can't really be described other than to say it feels like it's the holidays. I love that feeling, and even though it means another year has come and gone, and that I'm another year older with little to show for it, I'm actually excited for it to be the holiday season once again.

Now, as it is only mid-October, I'll enjoy the fall(ing) leaves and the weather that's finally making it feel like fall. Football and salted caramel hot chocolate from Starbucks and cranberries and pumpkin and that little holiday we call Thanksgiving. And I'll enjoy that since the surgery last week (and only now do I realize the most clever title for that blog post would have been "Surgery V: The Final CUT) and 6 days of recovery, things are looking up. My hand doesn't hurt all the time, in fact only some of my fingers are numb. I can get all the way through dialysis without need of pain killers or lessened time. I can type more than a sentence without needing to take a break because of forearm fatigue. Sure, I have a catheter in my leg but as it turns out, fem caths are a lot less bothersome to me than the ones they put in my chest.

I didn't really get to enjoy my summer, and I got a week of fall enjoyment in  Boston before the s*** hit the fan in September, now I can hopefully enjoy the rest of fall and the coming holiday season. It's weird to think it'll be here before we all know it. But days turn to weeks, and weeks turn to months, and seasons change and memories fade and suddenly you're 29, wondering where your youth has gone. (so dramatic, I know) You blink your eye and suddenly your little cousin is old enough to drink, your dad is getting ready to retire, your little brother is a father and you find yourself saying phrases like "When I was a teenager we didn't all have cell phones". And worst of all,  you find yourself writing dribble like this on your blog. It's kinda tough getting older, but it's tough when you're young too. ;) 

Surgery V: The Final Chapter (Hopefully)

It's my birthday week, and it's gearing up to be not-that-bad of a week. Maybe. As of 8 a.m. this morning it was going to be a normal, calm week. Then I went to have my stitches removed and now I'm having surgery #5 on my arm on Thursday. The blood flow to my right hand has been greatly diminished because the graft is "stealing" the blood from it, and it's getting worse every day so Dr. Sarfati is going to tie off and/or remove the graft so I can regain the full use of my right hand. Being right handed, this will be very beneficial to me. But it's also very bittersweet. It means that all these surgeries, all this pain and tribulation, all these scars were all for naught. Hopefully this will be the end of my vascular journey/nightmare and I can just get a kidney and get on with my life.

But this week is full of more than just surgery. Wednesday I finally meet with the transplant surgeon at IMC, an appointment that has been delayed twice because they've been doing transplants (a good sign!), AND it's the Season 6 premier of PSYCH, my favorite television show of all time. This is a big deal to me because I really do love "Psych" and it can get me laughing when nothing else can.
Shawn-"Gus, don't be both Ashlee Simpson albums."
Gus-"There were 3 Ashlee Simpson albums, Shawn."
S-"What? How is that possible?"
G-"There was 'Autobiography', 'I Am Me', and-"
S-"I can't do this with you right now."
hahaha oh Shawn and Gus, I wish  I lived in  your world. Friday I should be getting the new iPhone 4S for my birthday, assuming my dad can fight through the crowd and get to the AT&T store in the first 30 seconds they're open to get me one before they run out. It's my birthday present. I'm excited. Plus I already bought a kate spade iPhone 4 cover and I needs a phone to put it on. Saturday is my actual birthday and it will be filled with dialysis, Utah v. Pitt, napping, dinner, and probably more napping. Sunday is the family celebration for mine and Max's birthdays which will include two of my favorite things: Chocolate Rum Cake from Leslie's and cranberry salad.

Birthday weeks shouldn't include surgery, but what can you do? I'm looking forward to having a hand that doesn't feel like its wickedly asleep all the time. At least I'm praying that is the end result. Happy birthday to me.

You Are Punished

Read that title as if you're saying the word "punished" in the Shakespearean way. "Punish-ED" sounds so much more fierce and deplorable that just the American way. Let's think about that word for a second....

That's what I feel is happening to me. I feel like I'm being punished for some grievous offense but I don't know what I've done to warrant such a penalty. The last few weeks have been rough. It started with a clotted graft, then some surgery that turned into the worst possible worst case scenario, a couple of incisions and a whole bunch of stitches, almost critical blood loss, a fem cath in my right leg, and numbness in three of five fingers that becomes so unbearably painful during dialysis I wonder if cutting off my hand isn't a better option.

So I think to myself as I'm lying in bed, or massaging my fingers in hopes of the numbness dissipating, or when I get winded walking from my bedroom to the living room: What did I do? And this is, of course, the entirely wrong way of looking at it. I should be grateful that things aren't worse. I should be, but that's kind of hard to grasp because to me, things really can't get any worse. Now I should knock on wood before lightning strikes me.

But I'm out of options for vascular access now that we know I have a condition that causes my veins to occlude after they suffer any trauma. I have no more major veins to sustain a catheter, other than the one that is already housing one in my leg. If my graft fails, that permanent femoral catheter is my dialysis access. End of story. I need a kidney. That's the answer to all of this. I just need a kidney that works and that will stay.
***
The silence in my heart is killing me. I can't find it, no matter how hard I try. It slipped through my hands like glitter falling to the floor and the sparkle has faded away. What once could have been great is now all but a memory served in bittersweet palates. "Never mind I'll find someone like you. I wish nothing but the best for you. Don't forget me, I beg, I remember you said- sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead" (ADELE). Maybe I'm writing this off too quickly, but silence is golden and incriminating, and I don't wait forever.
***
The two things that have gone right in the last two weeks were at least pretty spectacular. The UTES beat BYU in royal fashion 54-10, in Provo. That made up for the clotted graft and the 13 hour dialysis day on 9/17. Though I had tickets to the game and couldn't go due to the aforementioned problems. It was a great game. And the best part was Utah's team coming together and playing as one entity, all connected, all in sync, all with perfect, timely execution and kept the cougars and Jake Heaps' ego in check. One of my favorite moments was in the 4th quarter when Heaps got benched in favor of 2nd string QB Riley Nelson. He looked as if he might cry. And yet, his post game comments failed to reflect the awfulness of his, or his team's performance. It's alright though. "Ute fans remain classy. Smug, but classy." (Ted Miller, ESPN)

On Wednesday I went to the Taylor Swift concert with my mom. She is just amazing. Her show was spectacular, to say the least. It was what I needed, even if I couldn't stand up. Say what you will about Taylor Swift and the strength of her voice, her lyrics make up for any range or belt-ability that she might lack. I was very pleased that she sang all my favorite songs from her "Speak Now" album. This is the third time I've seen her show, and it gets better and better every time. She seems to love performing in Salt Lake, probably because we have more little girls per capita that can produce a severe cheer in an arena, so I'm hoping the next time she comes here my nieces will be big enough to take. They would love it. That show solidified Taylor was one of my all time favorite artists. She writes songs from the heart, that transcend generations and ethnicities and differences. If I can someday write something half as beautiful as "Last Kiss", I will be successful as a writer.

For now, I'm alive. I guess I've got that going for me.

Can't Blame a Girl for Trying

Some things that I write in this public space are purposefully ambiguous. Sometimes I don't want readers to know exactly what I'm thinking so I use the power of words to get it across in a less-than-obvious way. This isn't one of those times, and if the person this concerns reads it, maybe it'll cause him to rethink his strategy.

There's a guy I've been friends with for a few years. He's one of the best people I've known in any capacity and I think the world of him. I've resisted any sort of romantic inclinations towards him for several reasons- mainly he lived out of town and I personally think it's rather impossible to start a relationship when you live in different states. For the past year our relationship has developed and I found myself suppressing feeling I wasn't sure he was reciprocating. He'd make a point of visiting me every time he came to town and we started having frequent lengthy phone conversations, longer phone conversations than I've ever had with any of my best friends. Things he said to me were starting to make me believe maybe he wasn't being completely honest about his feeling for me- and really, who ever is? Especially in a situation like this where the two of you have been friends for a long time and no one wants to ruin a great friendship lest the other person doesn't feel the same way- but I was still trying to remain uninterested in anything more than a friendship. Then June happened.

He was coming to town for a relative's wedding and invited me to go. So I did. He introduced me to his family, we danced, sampled brownies, generally had a good time. And as I left I knew I couldn't fight it anymore- I was legitimately interested in this man. So I froze, naturally, because I didn't know how to react to my own feelings or what to do next, especially considering he didn't live in close proximity to me. Then he decided to move back. So now I just had to bide my time for 2 months until he came back to Salt Lake. In the meantime we continued on our "best friends forever" path, I think we both were mostly covering up what we really wanted from each other, both just waiting until August and we could see each other face to face.

He moved back to Utah. I saw him the day after he got in town, and both nights the next weekend, and again before I left for Boston. But suddenly everything changed. Without warning or notice, he's unreachable, and it's been weeks since we've talked- and for our relationship that's a big deal- and despite my best efforts I can't get him to talk to me. And it's even more frustrating because I haven't the faintest idea why. The most perplexing part is that I thought we were better friends than this, it always seemed to me we were beyond being petty and repugnant. It seems I was wrong.

Now it's almost 5 a.m., I've been awake since 3, and anyone who knows me well knows it takes a lot for me to lose sleep over something. And I'm filled with regret. Regret that I haven't ever told him that I think he's wonderful and he makes me happy, and I'd be pretty lucky if he felt the same way. And that we've had a fantastic friendship but we could be so much better together. All I want is a chance to tell him, so he will know and I can feel like I've done everything I can do to make this into something more. And if he doesn't want it then I'll know, and I can move on. You can't blame a girl for trying.

I Left My Heart in Boston

My blog has been a real downer the last little while, and for that I don't apologize. Life isn't always sunshine and optimism, and if you believe that you're kidding yourself. That also doesn't mean that negativity needs to rule your psyche, it just means that sometimes things are hard, and it's fine if you want to vent about it on your blog.

Despite all the dialysis drama that's been happening lately, I got myself out of town last week and went to Boston to visit my brother and sister-in-law and nephew, also known as Tim, Corinne, and Thomas. I was pretty psyched because I'd never been to Boston before and I love the East Coast (I believe I'm meant to live on a coast, either West or East, none of this enclosed mountain valley crap for me) plus I could use a break from everything that had been going on. My parents and I flew to Boston on the 2nd, and Tim met us at the airport. We immediately picked up our rental car and proceeded to Tim and Corinne's house in Waltham.

I find that I never miss the mountains when on vacation. As a general rule I try to vacation in places that don't have tall mountain peaks. Driving down the Mass Pike I discovered this was still true. I love a good skyline, and even though it may seem unnatural, I love a skyline that's all buildings way more than nature.

Whilst in Boston we did all the usual things: Freedom Trail (sort of. Naturally it was raining on the day we were going to walk it so we became pretty picky about our stops), Old North Church, Mike's Pastry in the North End for pretty amazing cannoli, Legal Sea Food's, Fenway for a Sox game (witnessed a grand slam, the one thing that can make baseball interesting for a minute or two), Harvard, Boston Common and the Public Gardens.

I love America. And I love history, so it was pretty neat (That is neat!) to see the Old State House where the Declaration of Independence was first read to the people of Boston, and sort of see where the Boston Massacre took place. It happened right outside the Old State House, and it turned out to be a giant misunderstanding over a wig bill. We couldn't really see the spot because it was under construction. I didn't think there would really be blood on the cobblestone anyway. We ate lunch at Quincy Market and gazed at Fanueil Hall, sat in the enclosed (and still used) pews of the Old North Church, went to Harvard Square where I saw with mine own eyes the ivy covered walls of excellence, pomp, and academia.

We had the best seafood. Really, I don't know if it can be beat. Fresh, huge lobster at Woodman's of Essex, and of course fried clams, since that is where fried clams came into being. The most amazing calamari you've ever had at Legal Sea Food's, as well as amazing everything else at Legal. English pub food at John Brewer's, and who knew that Boston was such a pizza city? There were a lot of options if you wanted pizza. I did not, however, have a Fenway Frank at Fenway Park. Instead Tim and I had Fenway Fried Dough and Cokes, just what one needs to make baseball great.

Went shopping on Newbury Street- where it cost more to park for 2 hours than I spent at H&M- and in the Prudential Center and Copley Place. Visited Gloucester and Salem and Cape Ann on Labor Day and bought a lobster sucker at the Woodman's gift shop, where one can purchase a "Woodman's of Essex" shirt for your dog.

I spent a lot of time hanging out with Tim, Corinne, and Thomas, staying up to watch TCU get beat by Baylor with Tim, talking sports and inadvertently showing Thomas his first football game, a right that was supposed to be reserved for a BYU game. The game I watched with him was not a BYU game. We celebrated Tim's birthday and the big news they shared with us. Took Thomas to the beach for the first time. He was not crazy about the temperature of the Atlantic. Also took Thomas for his first T-ride. He was less than thrilled.

When the week was over and it was time to go, I worked real hard to not cry, or let anyone see that I was ruining my makeup with tears. Saying "so long" to Tim on Newbury Street was sad. I'd forgotten how much fun we have together, and how well we get along and bond over sports. Biding farewell to Corinne and Thomas an hour later in Waltham was just as hard. It was nice to be able to connect with Corinne on a level we've previously failed to achieve, and Thomas- that darling, sweet boy was the light of my life for the week I spend in Boston and it broke my heart to have to say goodbye to him. Even now, writing about it, I'm blinking back tears.

When we boarded the plane and waited for takeoff, I put in my ears and listened to "Leaving on a Jet Plane". I texted Tim and quoted lyrics from the song: "I'm leaving on a jet plane, don't know when I'll be back again. Oh [guys] I hate to go." Those lyrics epitomized what I was feeling. I wasn't ready to come back to Salt Lake. I didn't want to. I wanted to go downtown and find a tiny apartment and fly by the seat of my pants in the city. I felt like I belonged in Boston, like it was where I was meant to be, and leaving it to go back to a place I seem to barely tolerate left me feeling empty and "so lonesome I could die". But I know I'm not meant to stay here, and I really think I'll make it to Boston when the time is right.

In sum, it was an amazing trip. Sincerest thanks to my parents for taking me and paying for pretty much everything and for buying me that Red Sox sweatshirt I really wanted. And to Tim and Corinne and Thomas for letting me stay with them and for showing me the glories of Massachusetts and pumpkin donuts at Dunkin'. It was a nice reprieve from my current state of being. Boston, I'll be back.

Trying to Keep Calm and Carry On

I have a lot of turmoil inside of me, a lot of things I want to write about but can't seem to find the words. It's been a pretty shitty couple of weeks (excuse my language but that is the only word that will suffice at present) and though great things are coming up, and some great things have happened recently, I feel in crisis. I am coming to the end of my rope with this kidney saga. Dialysis for 20 months is bleeding me dry- literally and figuratively- and the new graft in my arm is not helping me feel better about it. I do pretty well considering my situation, but I am struggling right now. I just need a kidney, that's what it boils down to, but I don't seem to have anyone on my side at transplant to fight for that to happen. I know a transplant isn't easy- I've been there before- but it was better than life on dialysis. And I know life isn't easy. It isn't supposed to be that way or it wouldn't be considered a test. I've had a pretty rough adult life, and I'm ready for a break. Please, can I have a break?

My saving grace at this point is the people I surround myself with. I have such a loving and caring family who would go to the ends of the earth and back for me if I needed it. I couldn't ask for a person in my life better than my sister Liz. I know she'd have given her kidney to me 19 months ago if she was still a match. I hold her in the highest esteem and am so proud to call her my sister. My very best friends Stephanie, Mehgan, Lacey, and Jamey never cease to amaze me with their support and love. Even though I don't see most of them as much as I'd like, they do wonders for me and I can't believe how lucky I am to have them in my life. There is another person, who has come into my life more recently. And though I'm not sure where our friendship will take us, when I close my eyes, all I see is infinite possibility through the sparks.

Saltwater Tears

Caution: This is a diatribe, a soapbox I'm standing on, a harangue, if you will.

Today I was "reactivated" on the kidney transplant waiting list. I should be ecstatic, right? Nope. I'm mad. I'm mad for several reasons. A) I shouldn't have been listed as "inactive" in the first place and B) it took 35 days for the University Transplant program to reactivate me after my nephrologist recommended I be reactivated. Why? That is an excellent question.

Mid-way through June I received a call from my dialysis NP saying I needed to go directly to the ER because my blood cultures showed I had an infection. I needed to have my dialysis catheter pulled and be started on antibiotics right away. It felt like one of those Monopoly situations- "PROCEED directly to JAIL. DO NOT pass GO. DO NOT collect $200".

I went to the hospital despite feeling fine, failing to present with any symptoms, and having just returned home from lunch with friends and a badger encounter in downtown Salt Lake City. At the hospital I sat around until the next day, when the doctors treating me finally put a plan into action. I had a TEE done (of which I was told everything looked just fine on my heart) then some dialysis and finally the feared catheter pulled. Some more blood cultures were drawn to determine my fate: if they came back positive I'd have a temp cath placed, negative I'd have a perm cath placed. I was to report back to out-patient surgery first thing Monday morning.

The cultures were negative. A new permanent catheter was placed, but, my Vascular Surgeon Dr. Sarfati said, it is not a viable long term option. A vascular mapping of my left arm was done to determine if I had any veins that would work for a fistula. There was one vein the doc thought would work. It would take 2 surgeries and 3-4 months for the fistula to be usable. I'd been resisting getting a fistula for 18 month, knowing the poor state of my veins would more than likely not allow for a successful fistula.

But I was running out of options, so I gave in.

Mid-way through July Dr. Sarfati performed the first fistula placement surgery. It did not go well. In fact, the whole thing turned into a debacle and the only thing I left with was a scar on my elbow and 2 kilos of fluid in my blood. Neither the vein or artery in my arm would sustain a fistula. Yep, I told ya so.

The day before this surgery my nephrologist determined I was done with my antibiotic treatments and could be reactivated on the transplant list. It had been a month since the "infection" had presented itself and Doug had so willingly placed me inactive on all the lists. The brass in the transplant program were not convinced (Heaven forbid I should actually get a kidney) and so as is their MO, placed several more hoops for me to jump through before they could feel okay about placing me back on the list. I needed to go see an infectious disease specialist who, without knowing me, my case, or my history, would have the final say in when I could be reactivated.

Naturally she only works Mondays, so it was several weeks before I could get in to see her. August 1st was the magical day I would see Sarfati to map my right arm for a possible fistula placement and see Dr. Hanson about my phony infection. Dr. Hanson spent 1/2 an hour with me and determined that protocol said 6 weeks, not 4, of antibiotics were needed so I needed 2 more weeks of treatment and more blood cultures before I could be considered cured.

This was bullshit. Nothing about me ever follows protocol and it certainly isn't going to start now. All the blood cultures I'd had drawn for the last 6 weeks came back negative. I'd had almost 7 straight weeks of the antibiotic already. Let's do another TEE and draw blood cultures today. I'll march right down to the lab. Nope. Sometimes "clumps of platelets can form on the valves of the heart and look like an infection". So wait a sec, this "infection" for which I've never had a symptom and has caused me months of pain and 2 surgeries could have been platelets??? REALLY? Fine, then let's do blood cultures today. Nope. Protocol says.... really. It didn't matter what I said to Dr. Hanson. Protocol was what mattered to her. Patient cases aren't individual in her office, someone once came up with a little something called "protocol" and hence it has become the law. I repeat, bullshit.

But that was the word and I had no choice but to do 2 more weeks of antibiotic and more blood cultures. If everything came back negative, I could be relisted. Well the cultures did come back negative, just like I said they would. And for reasons unknown to me, it takes 6 days for a blood culture to be determined truly negative, whereas only 2 for it to be positive. It only takes me about a second to turn negative. After missing 3 months of the paired donor exchange matching and 2 months of possible cadaver matches, I'm active on the list again. Yippee.

In the meantime, Sarfati mapped my right arm and decided to place a graft in my forearm. Of course this couldn't be done until I finished the loathsome antibiotics. So on Tuesday last I had my third surgery in 2 months for dialysis access. It was a success, so far, but my right arm is about the size and temperature of a turkey leg, with a purple-ish hue that runs from wrist to bicep and 2 incisions in between. I can feel. and see, the graft underneath my skin. I can only imagine what it will look like when the swelling goes away. It's a damn miracle that I can even type right now because the pain and swelling have been prohibiting me for a week. I am not left handed.

After I got off the phone with my transplant coordinator this afternoon I laid in my bed and cried. Not tears of joy, but big saltwater tears of frustration. I generally have a pretty good attitude about my life situation, but this has been a cruel, cruel summer and I felt sorry for myself. The pain in my arm, the missed opportunities, the scars on my chest, the frustration over the seeming incompetence of the entire University Transplant Program were overwhelming. I feel like I'm being punished for something. But I don't know what. And I don't know why. And I don't know how to rectify the situation.

And I think about people who have it a lot worse than I do... about my old boss whose husband was shot 4 times in a mall with a sawed off shot gun and now lives life in a wheelchair. Her entire life was shattered in a second, everything changed, everything became difficult. And about Bethany Hamilton who, at age 14, lost her left arm to a shark on the eve of her professional surfing career. She got back on the board.

I feel defeated right now, even though I'm back on the list and the swelling and pain in my arm are slowly subsiding. I feel beaten. I need to figure out how to get back on the board.

Term of Affection

Why did you call me chérie?

Was it because my situation became very real to you after that cold day in July, the one I knew was coming but nobody listened to me? No, what did I know, just a twit with an attitude who'd been to the rodeo once or twice before. Did it become hard to ignore after that day, so you used pronouns you probably shouldn't have, lumping you and me into a singular category where one of us really doesn't belong? Was it the realization that I am running out of time, and you are, therefore, running out of time to make any of this happen, make any of this work? Did you say it because you're lonely? Because I'm lonely? And if we let ourselves, we could help each other, but getting to that point is going to be tricky. It requires crossing a chasm we've never dared to face, one so deep that if we fall, we won't make it back out. One that could ruin all we've worked to establish. Loneliness is making my sorry heart bleed.

Why do you call me chérie?

Is it because your demeanor was different, non-challant, casual, cordial? Were you covering up for something you didn't say, or did actually speak out loud? Is it your way of letting me down gently so the mess can be avoided, heading me off at the pass before I plummet into dangerous tides? Are you worried about my eternity, because I seem so clean and free and void of sin, with the innocence of youth and the grandeur of an unknown future? Are you afraid you'll soil me, take away what you think I possess when you're not really sure if I do, or that you don't? Convictions do not run cold in me. I am stronger than I look, more brutal than one might think. I do not delight in folly, nor do I allow emotion to dictate my thought.

Did you use that word as a term of affection? Were you attempting to show what I cannot see? Was the repeat usage a reaffirmation or a redundancy, something you forgot had escaped your lips just days before? I fear the first time may have been a mistake, as your behavior afterword would suggest, but the second time has yet to tell, I don't know what to make of it. You seemed so natural, so at home in the word, in the loaded meaning that could continue from dusk till dawn, only in the dark of night, ribbons of idiosyncrasy, looking at the moon, gazing at the stars, with a memory foam arm and tired, tired eyes.

It was a term of affection, otherwise it wouldn't have been uttered twice. But the mystery lies in the context. Therein is the real question. If I could go back to when we were sixteen and make myself notice you, would things be different now?

About A Boy Who's a Friend

Something got me thinking about you tonight, so I looked up your blog. Not much was new, but what was new made me miss you. And my mind wandered and I realized: I miss talks in the car and walks up the street, dinner at Ruth's and nothing ever complete. Redbox movies, chocolate chip cookies, guitar solos, fairytale songs in hospital rooms, annoyed looks at paper basketball. Promises to finish it later, promises fulfilled, plays with British accents, English nerd geek-outs. Salads at Lambs Cafe, Unblock Me, freezing rain and charcoal skies behind your frame as you broke away to talk with me for only a second. Play reading and play writing and play watching. A Poem about Peter Pan, eggs benedict and homemade danish. Married student housing and lame songs about Provo love, then a real song and real great, real big voices singing about love in the real world. Spring rain on my shoulders walking to the car. That night at the old Children's hospital with Bob and those others and the movie we watched after. Writing papers for EarAmLit, Noodles after the final, explanations, insight, kindness, friendship, non-committal, benevolence, patience, expectations, revelations, hope. Barnes and Noble, and you laughing at my armful of books and indecision. Slurpees and hot chocolate and nonchalance. Spanish and French dueling it out. Brett Dennen's "Heaven" and "How to Train Your Dragon" on the day Zack was born. Your sister and banana nut muffins and all those nights and days I hoped you'd come around.

Three years worth of sporadic memories crammed into one long paragraph... your heartbreaking disappointment at the absence of mile-high biscuits, you walking me home when it was just down the block, calling me when I needed it the most though you couldn't have known... Thinking about you everytime I listen to Kate Voegele. I hope you come back from Provo soon.

Thunderstorms inside. Thunderstorms outside.

It's monsoon season in Utah. I didn't know we had one, but apparently we do because it's been monsooning everyday for like a week. That does not a monsoon season make, but usually it's hot and dry here in July. Personally I like it. It's a relief to not have the heat, or the sun. It's reflective and brings me to introspection.

I've been on a bit of a Jane Austen binge lately. Having only read Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, not really the classic Austen, I never really understood her writing MO until I found myself watching the movies of all her books except for Northanger Abbey, as there isn't a movie of that book yet. I also watched Becoming Jane, which really started this whole Jane Austen journey. And I realized something that was very profound to me: Jane Austen had a sad life in love. She never married, had a proposal by an oaf that she declined, and died at age 42, alone. Yet all the characters in her novels find love and happiness with rich, handsome men who love them with every ounce of their souls. And hearts. And minds. And estates in the grand English countryside.

In Becoming Jane, a fictionalized "true story" if ever there was one, Jane tells her sister Cassandra that she is giving her characters- coincidentally she's writing Pride and Prejudice at the time- magnificent happiness, so grand it's practically unfathomable. This got me to thinking about myself and my life as a writer. I prefer non-fiction for the pure fact that I know it actually happened to someone. It was a real person's struggle, someone's pain and loss and heartache, it was true love and real feelings and overwhelming joy. It happened. It meant something to someone. It was genuine, not made up.

(DISCLAIMER: I have written fiction, have read loads of fiction, taken classes on fiction, and it takes immense talent, emotion, and genuine thought and feeling to write it. I also know from experience that fiction oft times comes from true life experiences. So I'm not trying to knock fiction. Hopefully you'll fully grasp my meanderings in a moment or two.)

I realized that I didn't want to write books about the life I wish I'd had, or the life I hope I'll have. Even though hope is a wonder asset, too much of it can lead to heartbreak, just like writing the life I want to happen for myself will. It's okay to hope, but I feel I have to draw the line at creating impossible fantasies for myself. In one of my all time favorite movies, You've Got Mail- and this is not the forum to discuss the grammatical errors in the title of said film- the heroine, one Kathleen Kelly says "So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book when, shouldn't it be the other way around?"

I want to be successful like Jane Austen. I want my books to become canonical. I want to write the book I have planned now, maybe something in epistolary format, publish my chapbook of poetry from that class I took, perhaps research and write a historical diddy about England during the second World War. But I don't want to write a life that isn't mine. I don't think my heart could handle it when it turned out to be false. I want a great love for myself, not for someone else, not for someone I'm writing, wishing it was me. I don't want my life to be something I read in a book once. It should be the other way around.

The Sharp Knife of a Short Life

The post-graduation boredom has set in. At least the result is improving my vocabulary.

I've been reading "The Complete Works of Sherlock Holmes", mostly at work because I finish what I need to do for the day each day by about 9 am. With 9 more hours to go, I get a lot of reading done. I've begun using words like "conundrum" and "spry" and "constitution" in regards to one's health and body, not the governing document of the United States. It makes me feel like I'm putting my English degree to good use, even though it's the writings of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle that is really causing this improvement.

Other things that are going on.... Not. Much.

Seriously.

All this free time has given me ample opportunity to reflect upon my life. This is not where I'm going to get philosophical, but just quote movies or songs that sum up what I'm thinking. The quote that surmises it the best is from "You've Got Mail"- the title of which should have really been "You Have Mail" but that's besides the point- when our heroin Kathleen Kelly says "I lead a small life. Good, but small." That's how I feel about my life lately. I've done a lot of things, been many places, tried many different varieties of bread pudding, but I lead a small life. Not that I want to lead a grand life, but I want more than a secretarial position and an Avenues apartment. I want to live in New York City, or on the California Coast, or, ideally, in a London flat that's a tube stop or two away from Kensington Park and the Westminster Bridge and Harrod's on Brompton Road. I want to work for Penguin and write a book and make a name and career for myself. Those are things I don't feel like I can do in the stifling valley in which I now live.

I recently had a long and revealing talk with my sister. In my own words, I had a conundrum I needed to speak with her about in private. I've been feeling rather inadequate lately in some regards that I won't discuss here, and my mind was a-wrestle with issues I couldn't quite solve. Liz, being the wise and brilliant and beautiful older sister she is, helped me realize that no, I'm not like most the girls that surround me here. I don't have aspirations of being a stay at home mom- not that there is anything wrong with that. Don't get me wrong, I have the utmost respect for stay at home moms because they raise the future leaders of the world and it is probably the hardest profession/job that a woman could ever come across. At this point in my life, I don't have that desire. I sort of felt by not wanting this I was somehow letting down my future, but she showed me that I'm not letting anyone or anything down; every path is different, and maybe that isn't in mine. There are a lot of ways to mother, and a lot of different people/things that need to be mothered. And I started to feel better, and less inadequate, and my mind started to settle.

There is a phone call I need to make that I'm afraid to make. And it might take some time to actually dial the number. But when I do, my life may get a little less small, and my future might open up a little more. The beginning might be something beautiful and worth waiting for, and even though some people won't understand, at least for a while, I'll be able to honestly say, it was the right thing for me and I know without a doubt I'll be happy. Then I'll go make some bread pudding, because mine cannot be beat.

Graduation

1. 

Today my last grade was posted. I passed all my classes, even math (B-!) which means I have officially finished my undergraduate career and the University can now mail me my diploma. Boy that took a long time.

Graduation was fantastic. I walked in the College of Social Work convocation on the 5th because I work in the CSW and they all have a lot invested in me. My roommates and parents came to the convocation, and the Masters cohort I've been the assistant for for the last 3 years was graduating too. I walked across the stage of Kingsbury Hall as Ruth Geertisen-McKane read my name a degree and a loud cheer- louder than I was expecting- went through the Hall. Norma handed me my diploma holder and I posed for a picture with Dean Mather and Norma. Jennifer waited at the end of the stage and gave me hug.

As I sat in Kingsbury listening to the speakers talk about social work and the profession, all things not particularly relevant to me, I realized that I finally made it. I'm not an exceptionally emotional person, it takes a lot for me to cry, but there were more than a few times that I had to blink back tears during the convocation. I was finally graduating, 10 years after graduating from high school, a kidney transplant, broken back, failed pancreas transplant, rejected kidney, and nearly a year and a half of dialysis, I was graduating from college. All on my own.

After Dean Mather told us we were "now all social workers", the convocation ended. I managed to find Mehgan and Lacey, and eventually we found my parents and went to Little America for dessert. Commencement was the next day, as was my college's convocation which I elected not to walk in after all. But commencement, that was a different story.

Because of my family's affinity for being early to things, we arrived at the Jon M. Huntsman center about 7:15 a.m. Graduates didn't need to be there until, at earliest. 7:30. But we got a sweet, sweet partking spot right next to the arena, and had time to meander around the perimeter of the the JMHC and enjoy the warm May morning and the beautiful campus below us (corny, yes, but this place means a lot to me!). Because of our earliness I was in the front of one of the Bachelors degrees lines. Jenny and Katelyn found me in line so I had some friends to enjoy commencement with.

Finally 8:20 arrived and we began our procession into the arena, through the tunnel. One of the greatest moments of my life was the moment we walked onto the floor of the Huntsman Center, with the Wind Ensemble playing graduation music and people in the stands; the stage set up for graduation and seats on the floor for graduate level and distinction students. We marched across the floor in our caps and gowns and were seated in the stands, I was on the second row from the floor across from the stage. Then the faculty and University Trustees and distinguished guests marched in with Michael K. Young and commencement began.

Mitch Albom (Tuesdays with Morrie, The Five People You'll Meet in Heaven) was the commencement speaker and he was fabulous. I couldn't have wished for a better speaker than Mitch, and my mother, who attended Tim's commencement at BYU last year said in not so many words that this one was MUCH better. Then President Young, in his last Utah commencement, conferred upon the Masters and Ph.D candidates their degrees, then conferred upon the Bachelors candidates their degrees, and we were graduated. I turned my tassel (again) and was Sarah Rosalie Jackman, B.A.

Katelyn, Jenny, and I walked up the stairs to the concourse and as I walked through the doors out of the arena I threw up my hands and yelled "College graduates!! Yeeeaahh!!!) in a fashion more Hollywood-esque than I like to admit. But it felt good, and as I walked through the Huntsman Center concourse and ran in to fellow graduates whom I've known throughout my experience at Utah, I realized that it doesn't get any better than this for a college student. This day, the hour and a half of commencement, the hour of waiting for the processional to start, the five minutes of marching, and the "recessional" around the arena and out into the world, figuratively and literally, really doesn't get much better.