April 22, 2011 ~ Day 134 The Nerd Family

This morning as I helped my oldest son get ready for school he asked me if there were going to be "only grownups" or "also kids" at his tap dancing recital which takes place tomorrow at a local theater.

"Probably a mix of both, buddy," I responded, "Our family will be there including your brother and sister, your uncles and your grandparents. So that would be both adults and kids."

Then, recognizing a look of consternation on his face I asked, "Why?"

"If there are kids there who watch me dance, they are going to think I am a nerd."

"Why do you say that honey?"

"They think I'm going to be doing BALLET or something."

"Well what would be wrong with that? Ballet is cool! And anyway, who are 'they'?"

He did not answer.

"Are you talking about kids from your school?" I asked. "Do kids from your school say things about your dancing?"

Thankfully he was straightforward. "Yes." He looked up at me. "Tim* and Felix* say that dancing is for nerds."

"Well honey," I took a deep breath. "I think that's great! We ARE Nerds. Our entire family: just a bunch of happy, successful nerds. I'm a nerd! Your dad is a nerd! We're all smart and dorky and funny and cool. We're totally nerds, and we love you like crazy. You are one of us!

Don't ever be ashamed of being who you are. It's awesome to be a nerd. In fact, a lot of times the kids that other people call 'nerds' are the ones who end up living amazing, extraordinary lives. Some day you may be accepting a huge award for your dancing and those boys who tease you right now will be jealous that you get to dance with all of the prettiest ladies."

"You're a NERD, mommy?" he asked, sounding more amused and less anxious.

"Oh boy, yes. I'm the biggest nerd ever. And your dad too! Just ask him."

We called his father into the room.

"Honey," I explained. "Our son tells me that he is being teased for his dancing and being called a nerd. I told him that we're ALL nerds here and proud of it. What do you think?"

"Definitely!" answered his dad. "Son, it's a great thing to be a nerd. I'm a huge nerd just like your mommy... I like computers and bicycles and all sorts of geeky things. I love my life and I'm happy just the way I am. Being a nerd is cool!"

By this point, our son was laughing and putting his shoes on for school.

"So we're all nerds?"

"Absolutely," we smiled. "We can't wait to see you dance on stage tomorrow. We're going to film the whole thing with our video camera. We'll be cheering for you the whole time. We're excited!"


Later in the morning, after my husband and son had left the house for work and school, I had the chance to reflect a little on what it is like to be a unique kid that doesn't fit easily into any box.

It's true what we told him: my husband and I *were* both huge nerds growing up. We both got made fun of over the course of many years for being too smart, too skinny, too awkward. We both went through an ugly duckling phase before losing the gawkiness and becoming comfortable within our own skin. This is something we recognized in each other when we first got together - a kindred spirit.

I think my husband is incredibly attractive and (kindly) he manages to think the same of me, but both of us had years of dating mishaps ~ often feeling quite undesired by the people we most yearned to be with. I keenly remember how frustrated I was with my own brain, wishing desperately to be "normal" like other girls. Just wanting to go on dates, have a boyfriend, party with my friends, have a life. Wondering how to speak differently so that I didn't scare people off, wondering how to pretend that I wasn't smart.

I hated being a nerd growing up, which is funny because now that I am 35 and losing some of my mental sharpness due to the aging process and my lyme disease induced brain fog, I really miss it.

I blend into the world just fine now, just another middle aged mommy with wrinkled clothes and wrinkling skin... and I miss the intense clarity that I once felt about everything. My mind used to slice through information like a sushi knife... now it sort of mushes its way forward like a potato masher.

From the vantage point of time, being a nerd has come to look like a really special and wonderful thing.

I'm so proud that I have a son who is 'different'. He is so creative, musical, artistic, sensitive. He reminds me very much of my own family of origin ~ with a few twists that are uniquely his own. I love that he is unabashedly himself, and I will do anything in my power not to let his spirit get quashed by a couple of "normal" hoodlums who don't understand him the way that we do.

All three of our children are bound to be big nerds... because look where they've sprung from! The fruit doesn't fall too far from its vine, and our babies are blessed and cursed in equal measure to be so similar to their parents.

I think it is a gift though that they have fallen into (or chosen?) a family that celebrates traits that are different.

My husband and I believe that the best way to help our children get through the painful jibes and bullying of childhood and adolescence is to help them OWN who they are. OWN IT and LOVE IT. In the end, all anyone wants (including bullies) is to be accepted and celebrated for who they are.

To my children, when you read this some day for yourselves - the meaning of today's post is clear. Nerds, dorks and geeks ~ all around the world ~ do amazing things every single day. YES, WE ARE NERDS - AND THAT'S AWESOME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It's a wonderful thing to be unique. Just hang in there and one day you'll wake up and feel genuinely glad that you weren't cut in the exact same shape as everyone else you know.

Those odd curves and rough edges that make you different from the rest of the world are also what make you truly special.

Your Nerd family loves you!












*Names changed to protect the privacy of the people in question

April 21, 2011 ~ Day 133 Struggling with My Ego

My ego is rearing its ugly head again. I hear it whispering to me, just the faintest sound.

This happens from time to time, and has done so consistently throughout the four years I have now been a stay-at-home mother.

"But you could BE someone!" it says. "You could DO so much."

Like a genie trapped in a golden lamp, something has rubbed against my side today and caused me to yearn a little bit for freedom.

People reading this blog - especially the ones it is intended for (my children) - know that I was a teacher for 10 years. I had an interesting career, a little bit 'out of the box'. Started teaching right out of college before I had a credential; was hired on by a prestigious local private school as an assistant teacher and then later asked to specialize in the teaching of writing.

Specialized in the teaching of writing in multiple classrooms at different schools... altogether, led Writer's Workshops in about 23? 24? classrooms throughout the course of two years. Met a lot of dedicated teachers; met even more amazing children. Went through a heinous romantic breakup that left my ex at the school where we'd taught together (he's still there, 12 years later, along with his wife)... and me out on the street looking for a new job and a new life.

Did some exciting things! Got into graduate school at Harvard and UC Berkeley... chose Cal. Spent the 6 months leading up to my move working for a local university in my town and seeing as much live music as possible with my crew of phenomenal girlfriends. Moved to Berkeley. Adored my roommate. Hated the graduate program.

(Sooooo sorry to two of my dearest friends and consistent blog followers who are proud Cal alum, I'm sure I just wasn't there long enough to give it a real chance!)

Dropped out of grad school, moved to LA to "follow my dreams!" and spent four months trying to break into a career in A&R, otherwise known as the kickass job where you get to go to shows for work, find great bands, get them signed to your record label. Also a very high turnover job... you're only as good as the last band you've signed, meaning how many albums they've sold. Most of the A&R reps I became friends with back in those days got fired within three years of my meeting them.

Learned very fast that what my close band manager pal said was true: "Music business is like any other business. Profit is the bottom line. They don't care about artists in this town. You could be selling snowshoes!"

Hated that. Artists are my passion, business is not. Started thinking about a more fulfilling line of work.

Moved home. Went back to graduate school in my home town - loved the program. Co-managed a band on the side. Saw as much live music as possible. Supported art and artists wherever I could. Fell in love with one of them. Married him.

(Ironically, he has turned out to be a business guy - with me being the artist!)

Taught gifted underprivileged youth at two schools, one public and one public charter. Led some fantastic projects, won a few awards. Felt good about myself every time I looked in the mirror. Loved my work.

Had a baby.

LIFE TURNED ON ITS EAR.

I don't have to explain to any mother or father how much life changes when you have a kid. If you are reading this and you have children, then you know already. If you are reading this and you *don't* yet have kids, there is nothing I could say that would adequately explain it.

Here is just one brief example to illustrate my point:

It's nearly the end of winter term. Grade comments are due for all students. This means a thoughtful paragraph about each one, along with perceptive advice specific to each one. It is 3 in the morning. My baby has been crying for three hours. I am holding him on my lap in the bathroom, consoling him. I have the flu, and he probably does too. My computer is by my side, comments only half finished.

I have just thrown up in the bathtub. I am still holding the baby, who is still crying. The grade comments are only half done. I have to get up for work in the morning in three hours... and my school does not use substitute teachers because it does not believe in them. If I don't show up, my partner teacher will have to carry the burden of our entire student group for the entire day by himself.

There is no obvious solution. I begin to cry too... which makes the baby cry harder.

Something about this picture was not working.

After a lot of careful thought and financial analysis, my husband and I decided it might be time for me to become a stay-at-home mom. We were paying our nanny almost as much as my net salary. We thought we'd wait one more year and see what happened.

Here is what happened, just a few weeks later: We got pregnant again.

I gave notice.

Four years have passed. Three babies in total. I'm working my way back to equilibrium. I am still the same person inside - excited about life, optimistic, yearning to do something of substance in the world. I am also still a mother, and I always will be.

Today I read about a video project edited by one of my former seventh grade Humanities students (he's now a senior in high school)... it's up for a huge honor. His project (and thus the school) has been selected as one of the top five contenders for President Obama's high school commencement challenge. If they win, President Obama himself will come to the school to give their graduation address.

I am so proud!!! He has always been a phenomenally talented kid, and he has the nicest parents in the world. I knew five years ago that he would move mountains in his life and already, he has.

These are the gifts we receive as teachers, to come into contact for a brief window of time with incredible, thirsty minds who soak up all we have to give them before they move on to new learning with different teachers. We are granted for a brief time the opportunity to share our knowledge, compassion and world view with a variety of younger humans who will feed off of them and grow into adults of tremendous worth and substance.

It is a huge honor to be a teacher.
(Not all teachers look at it that way, unfortunately.)

When I read about projects like this, about amazing things that teachers are doing with students to effectively change the world, I feel my ego RISING UP!

I feel that pull back into a world of career success, of high aspirations. I feel the call to "Make Something Of Myself". I too want to be brilliant and amazing again, in the sense that I want to do something LARGE for the world. I want to help a lot of people in my time on this planet. I want my life to have mattered.

I look around.

Snapshot of our home: Wooden floor in need of sweeping strewn with toys, slippers, language learning materials, a solitary tap shoe. "Shoot," I think to myself. "I need to find that tap shoe before my son's recital this weekend!" I just mopped the kitchen floor but dishes are piled in the sink. I spent three hours this morning folding laundry, having washed 10 loads of it last night with my three children at a laundromat. (They had a blast. I left totally exhausted!)

Our bank account is dry. A high health insurance deductible is eating us alive. I'm just getting back to vibrance after two years of illness.

And then there are my children. The adorable, scruffy, creative, chaotic, fascinating, fractious bunch.

Does it matter to them, at all, that their mommy "used to BE somebody"?
Does it matter to them that I am at home with them? (I think it does.)
Does it matter to them that our house is never tidy and we have no money, if that is the tradeoff for having your mom pick you up at the end of every school day or take care of you all day when you are sick?

My ego begins to quiet down.

Of all the many things that I am - student, teacher, dreamer, writer, wife, mother - the most important one is mother.

What matters most now that I am a mother is clearly whatever is in the best interest of my own children. I'll keep checking their pulse on this issue, but for now, it is very clear that it is in their best interest to have me fully present in their day-to-day lives as the one who does all of the thankless chores that hold their lives together seamlessly.

I'll never forget my friend Shawn*, a nice guy who sat next to me in one of my graduate school classes. His own mother had been a teacher and he mentioned once in a small group session that he had actively resented his mother's students all throughout his childhood because he'd felt like she lavished all of her attention and love upon them, with him sort of shoved out of the way and watching from the sidelines.

Shawn was probably about 26 years old when he told us this story, but you could tell that it still hurt him a little. (Interesting that he too had chosen to be an educator!)

I don't want to be that mom. I don't want to be the mom whose kids feel abandoned and alone because she is so busy giving back to the rest of the world that she doesn't have time for them.

That said, I have HUGE admiration for working mothers and I know so many that balance their lives beautifully. Well adjusted children. Peaceful homes. Retirement savings. They are strong female role models for their daughters and sons, showing clearly that it is possible to have both and do both.

The question then, is this: Is it possible for ME to do both, knowing my own personality. I give 180% to everything I do. Can I be the mother I want to be, if I am already giving my 180% to a job?

With small children at home, the answer is probably no. I tried it for the first 18 months of my oldest son's life and it did not work out well. I am not as superhuman as I want to be. My child got shafted. He didn't know me or feel the radiance or constancy of my love for him. The effects on our relationship linger to this day.

The other day that same son brought home a math "test". This is only the second test he has ever taken, and he was very proud of it. "WOW!!!" I exclaimed when he handed it to me at pickup time. "You know what is SO GREAT about this test? It shows me that you are really understanding math, and math can be so helpful in life!"

"Mommy," he answered very seriously. "I want to be a math genius."

"My son, the math genius!" I smiled, and hugged him warmly. "I believe you are capable of doing anything in the world, my love. I am so proud of you."

My heart began to glow in a different way - not over some personal success that I had achieved but over HIS unique achievement. He is feeling safe and loved in our new community, and beginning to thrive. I have played an important part in that.

The manual tasks I complete on a daily basis are giving my three children a springboard from which to dive into the world and find their own magic in it.

Don't get me wrong... I think the work being done at my former village of schools is life-changing, inspiring, beautiful. I would LOVE to be part of something like that again. I hope that someday both my career AND my family will be flourishing.

But in the end, if I had choose between being honored by the President of the United States vs. working hard (and thanklessly) every day to give my kids the support and guidance they need to find their own solid footing in life... there is no competition.

Presidents stick around for only 4 to 8 years. My children will matter to me eternally.

April 20, 2011 ~ Day 132 Romance of the Vine

Recently I've been writing content about wineries in the Valle de Guadalupe (northern Baja California) for my husband's company. I adore writing about vineyards, for me there is something gorgeous about the *idea* of wine which represents the absolute height of romance.

This is ironic, as anyone who knows me well would know, because I don't drink at all.

My abstinence from the bottle isn't due to alcoholism or deeply held convictions. As it turns out, a particular combination of genetics, internal organs and medication make it impossible for me to enjoy a glass of wine, beer or liquor.

This is slightly disappointing actually, for someone who grew up poring over descriptions of absinthe in Hemingway novels. I will never actually know the taste of that 'magical' green liquid which once inspired so many writers, artists and musicians.

As a teenager and even into my young twenties, I dreamt that someday I would own a winery in some sunny European country - France, Italy, Spain. One of those gorgeous spots. I read Frances Mayes' "Under The Tuscan Sun" and decided that after my first career (lawyer? politician? journalist?) I too would move to Europe to 'start again' and purchase myself a parcel of land.

I planned to buy a vineyard, rehabilitate it and then open a small restaurant that would serve only two options per meal- a vegetarian entree and a meat entree... along with outstanding wine. My philosophy was that if you could get the food to be delicious enough, dinner guests wouldn't NEED 10 menu options to choose from... they would be happy with two.

"We'll have fresh loaves of bread, a well stocked cellar and large portions," I told my friends. "And I will retire there on that vineyard and live out my days in peace and prosperity."

It was a nice dream!

In actuality, I found my true calling as one of our country's legion of underpaid but extremely fulfilled teachers... my tax bracket therefore remained a bit below what would be required to purchase a vineyard in Italy.

Also, thanks to the inherited liver condition that I only learned out about in 2007 and now the doxycycline that I'll be taking for at least a few years, wine tasting is a thing of the past for me ~ which probably means that my yearning to open a restaurant attached to a vineyard is moot as well.

Finding out about the inherited liver problem explained a lot. Growing up, I never understood why I could drink the same amount of alcohol as my friends and get ridiculously ill while they felt perfectly fine. I never made it to the bottom of a single Newcastle without paying for it hard the next day.

For whatever reason, sake didn't hurt me the way beer and red wine did. I could even do mixed drinks for a time, but that ended on the night not long after my husband and I began dating when I consumed four of my signature Cape Cods (cranberry, vodka, ice) and ended up greeting my dinner again ~ and again ~ all over the interior of his car.

That evening really stands out in my memory because

(a) It was the last time I ever got drunk,
(b) I had alcohol poisoning so severe I had to call my mother the next morning to come and take care of me ~ I was vomiting green bile,
(c) I vividly remember laying on the ground looking up at the stars (after vomiting for like the sixth time) feeling like I was the only person left in the world,
(d) A (sleazy?) man from an upstairs apartment who had been watching me came down and broke my reverie to ask if I wanted to come up to his place. Ewwwwwww.

I remember praying hard as I told him "My boyfriend is going to be here at any moment to get me," and thankfully, my boyfriend (now husband) DID come to rescue me.

I didn't ever want to be that vulnerable or ill again... and I definitely did NOT want to make a jackass of myself in front of the guy I loved... so I decided to mainly stop drinking. Since that late Fall evening in 2002 I have rarely had more than a sip of wine here or there.

Now that I'm on doxycycline for lyme disease I literally *can't* drink without really messing up my liver, so in a way it makes things easier. I don't have to make a judgment call every single time someone offers me a beer or a glass of wine about how sick I'm willing to be later that night or the next morning. It's a lot easier now to say "No thanks, but please go ahead without me!" without feeling ambivalent.

The funny but great thing is that I probably love wine more now than I did when I could actually drink it. I appreciate it more robustly - enjoying it not just for its flavor or the sudden burst of 'liquid confidence' I always got from drinking; but instead for the passion I have learned that winemakers feel for their land and vines.

It takes immense skill to give grapes the perfect mixture of sweetness and acidity ~ and then to blend different varietals into something delicious. The time-honored process of harvesting, fermenting and aging each wine is both a work of genius and an act filled with love and sacrifice.

I'll never forget watching "I Love Lucy" as a child and seeing Lucille Ball stomping grapes with her feet in a giant vat. "That looks like fun!" I thought, and I hoped someday I would be asked to stomp some grapes too!

I love the amazing histories that invariably come with each winery. In my writing about wineries I have found that inevitably there is a fascinating story that goes along with the vintner, the land or the grapes. For example, one owner might have walked away from a lucrative banking career to grow grapes; his neighbor may have decided to dedicate her life to the soil when her child passed away. The stories seem warm and personal, revealing a deep connection between the farmer and the land.

Last year Roger Ebert wrote a cookbook called "The Pot and How to Use It: The Mystery and Romance of the Rice Cooker". He stated in an interview that he has vivid memories of food and can remember the taste of certain things with total clarity. He still loves to cook, even though he can no longer eat by mouth since undergoing surgery for thyroid cancer. Ebert loves the thought of food and the memory of its flavor just as much now as he ever did.

I totally understand this. It is exactly the same way that I feel about drinking white wine, specifically sauvignon blanc and pinot grigio.

I admire the sinewy neck of each bottle and each carefully designed label. I enjoy reading about the different "hints", "undertones" and "bouquets" of various kinds of wood, berries and spices in each type of wine. I love driving along roads that border vineyards, admiring the neat yet voluptuous rows of vines ~ curling and waving, never quite conforming to order. I celebrate the season of harvest and the excitement of opening up a properly aged bottle. I smile to hear my husband exclaim over the flavor of a particular wine, when he finds one that he really likes.

Wine is sometimes called poetry in a bottle. I believe that its poetic melody can be heard even by a non-drinker like me. Perhaps I am lucky! I get to appreciate its simple elegance without ever suffering from a hangover.

Fifteen or so years ago a good friend of mine gave me a copy of "On the Road" by Jack Kerouac and wrote on its dedication page that a particular phrase had reminded him of me: "Soon it got dusk, a grapy dusk, a purple dusk over tangerine groves and long melon fields; the sun the color of pressed grapes, slashed with burgandy red, the fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries."

I can't think of a nicer compliment.

April 19, 2011 ~ Day 131 A Warrior, Racing For Her Life

I met someone today that I admire more than I know how to express, a person who truly represents the meaning of life to me. With her permission, I will tell here the little I know of her amazing, courageous story.

Jennifer was the 34 year old mother of three children when she was diagnosed with systemic scleroderma, a rare autoimmune disease that involves tightening and hardening of skin and connective tissue.

Localized scleroderma involves the skin but typically does not significantly affect lifespan, while systemic scleroderma - the kind Jennifer was diagnosed with - also harms internal organs including the esophagus and digestive tract, kidneys, heart and lungs.

The prognosis for this form of scleroderma (SD) is not very good... folks with the CREST variety are typically quoted 12 years while those with diffuse SD are given 2-5. There is no cure for scleroderma.

As with most autoimmune diseases, traditional Western medicine has not determined "why" scleroderma happens or how to cure it. Descriptions of this disease may date all the way back to ancient Greek mythology, when the gods "turned people into stone" out of anger or jealousy.

Married to Jack and passionate about life, Jennifer wasn't about to take this kind of prognosis laying down. On her own she did a lot of research and discovered the Road Back Foundation and work of Dr. Thomas McPherson Brown who first isolated a bacteria without a cell wall called 'mycoplasma' in the joint fluid of rheumatoid arthritis patients.

Dr. Brown discovered that he could put his rheumatoid arthritis patients AND systemic scleroderma patients into permanent remission from their chronic, progressive autoimmune diseases using the same treatment... low-dose antibiotics given over several years.

During his career at the Veteran's Administration, George Washington University Medical School and ultimate position as Director of the Arthritis Institute at the National Hospital just outside of Washington, DC, Dr. Brown helped over 10,000 sufferers from autoimmune disease.

Followers of Dr. Brown's work believe that autoimmune disease is triggered by an infectious cause coupled with genetics, diet and environmental exposure to toxins. As described before in this blog, I myself believe in this theory and am currently on an antibiotic protocol for my autoimmune problems (triggered by lyme disease). My own bloodwork has come up positive for mycoplasma pneumoniae, borrelia burgdorferi and babesia microti... along with a healthy dose of group B strep. Lovely.

~

Jennifer faced stiff opposition from her doctor and rheumatologist when she mentioned Dr. Brown's protocol, since this antibiotic treatment was not widely known or accepted in the field. Still, she and her husband thought it made sense and decided to give it a try.

She found a rheumatologist who had personally trained with Dr. Brown and felt comfortable with the antibiotic protocol. Soon her treatment was under way.

A little more than three years later she says, "All my Scleroderma symptoms have gradually disappeared until I can't tell if I even have the disease anymore," although her scleroderma antibody blood test called the anti-Scl-70 continues to show that she is *very* positive.

Jennifer is considered by rheumatologists to be in complete remission. Her skin looks supple and one would never guess by looking at her that she contends with such an intense disease.

You might think that this is the end of my story about Jennifer ~ wouldn't it be plenty? Plenty to admire about such a brave, forward-thinking woman. After all, she has already fought for her life and won!

Yet, it is only the beginning.

~

A few months ago in December 2010, Jennifer learned that she has a new mountain to conquer: Cancer.

At 37 years old, Jennifer was told that she suffered from follicular lymphoma, a common type of Non-Hodgkin's lymphoma - a cancer from lymphocytes which are a type of white blood cell. This carries a slightly better outlook than diffuse systemic scleroderma, with a median survival rate of 10 years from diagnosis.

Once again, Jennifer was told: "There is no cure".

Jennifer and her husband Jack are fighters... and even more, they are researchers. They posted a sign on their bedroom door, "We Are At War!" and began to search for alternative treatments for the lymphoma, given the poor overall success rate of radiation and chemotherapy for this kind of cancer and her outstanding prior success with 'alternative' medicines. (Funny that one would call an antibiotic an alternative medicine!!!)

They have discovered mind-blowing, amazing research being conducted in Japan and Europe on an immune booster/cancer killer being used abroad as treatment ~ not only for cancer but also for HIV and autoimmune disease. This treatment is called GcMAF.

GcMAF is something our bodies produce naturally. In a normal 'healthy' person, the GcMAF sends macrophages out into our bloodstream to scour the blood for malignancies and eliminate them. Malignant cells (like cancers) send forth an enzyme called Nagalase to neutralize the GcMAF that we make, so that our macrophages never receive the call to battle. In this way, cancer suppresses the immune system and grows unchecked.

In 2008, Dr. Nobuto Yamamoto published this study showing a CURE for prostate cancer by activating the body's own immune system with injections of GcMAF made outside of the human body. Sixteen prostate cancer patients who were shown by CT scan to have significant amounts of metastasized tumor cells in the prostate, but who did not have signs of tumor lesions in other organs, received GcMAF exclusively through intramuscular injection once per week.

Their progress was checked by the measurement of Nagalase activity in their blood, since Nagalase is secreted by cancerous cells. After 14 to 25 weekly administrations of GcMAF, all 16 patients had very low Nagalase levels in their blood - equivalent to healthy controls - indicating that the patients were ALL tumor free.

Here is the kicker: No recurrence occurred over 7 years of follow-up.

Success with GcMAF has been reported by patients with many different types of cancers, along with other diseases that attack the immune system including HIV, Lupus, MS, Fibromyalgia and Parkinson's disease.

Other researchers are beginning to take their cue from Dr. Yamamoto's work, and GcMAF can be purchased from a few sources around the world - some in Europe, one in Israel. There is actually a long history of research around GcMAF - surprising that it is not more well known. (I could suggest pharmaceutical industry coverup, but I really don't know enough yet to understand why.) What I do know is that people have gone from dying to 'normal' and healthy using GcMAF - at least according to published research.

The most profound part of the way GcMAF works is that because it is YOUR BODY'S OWN IMMUNE SYSTEM that defeats the cancer, it is very unlikely to recur. Like with building immunity to any other illness - say, the chicken pox - your immune system remembers how to defeat that particular problem.

~

When Jennifer and Jack discovered GcMAF and analyzed the extensive research, they believed they had found the essential ingredient to add to her healing protocol.

She has now begun GcMAF therapy and to chronicle her journey with the new 'plan of attack' she is also writing a blog called "Cancer Will Not Win". I have read the blog from cover to cover and find her to be an incredible human being... so strong, so motivated, so courageous. Jennifer isn't just hoping for remission. That feisty lady is gunning for a CURE.

She is legendary in my book.

Only three months after undergoing open abdominal surgery and after just being diagnosed with cancer - WITH a PICC line in her right arm - Jennifer ran the Shamrock half-marathon (13.1 miles) in March, 2011.

"Almost everyone I knew thought I shouldn't run that race..." she shares on her site.

"The only ones who took me seriously were the ones who really know me... Running is what keeps me grounded, running is what keeps me going. Everyone should have something that keeps them going and helps them focus on the task at hand.

Whether you run or walk or do aerobics or Yoga you should do something, especially if you're sick. Exercise really helps boost the immune system. When I was out there in the cold running the Shamrock half marathon I couldn't think of anywhere else I would rather be and that is what running is for me."

I asked Jennifer if I could retell her story on my Year of Meaning blog because we can all use a little hope now and then! and I wanted to share her amazing journey toward wellness with my own children, family and friends.

I'm no longer worried that Jennifer's three children will lose their mother far too soon. I'm confident that her kids will feel even more strongly ten years from now that their mother is a heroic warrior who has shown them by example them how to HEAL, LIVE and THRIVE.

That girl's gonna be running marathons at 60! I truly believe it.

April 18, 2011 ~ Day 130 Rolling With It

Today when I arrived to pick my son up from school I learned that one of his classmates has a MRSA infection, and the entire classroom (including my son) was potentially exposed last week.

Allow me to reiterate. I learned this today at PICKUP (why not drop-off????) when I was handed a letter. The teacher said, "Oh, I wasn't able to give you this last week, I think your son was absent on Friday?" I raised my eyebrows because my son was definitely NOT absent last Friday. "Anyway, here it is," she said.

"What is it regarding?" I asked.

"Oh, nothing really - just a virus that has been circulating around the classroom."

"Oh really, a virus? Which one?"

"MRSA."

Of course, MRSA is not a virus but a bacteria, so her ignorance alone left me feeling hesitant about their ability to handle the situation... and sort of reinforced my sense that they don't really know what they're doing at that school.

I actually DO know a lot about bacteria thanks to my odyssey with lyme and the more recent spider bite... so I promptly replied, "Well then, my son will likely miss the next few days because he has several open scrapes on his elbows and knees and we can't risk that kind of bacterial infection."

The teacher looked at me quizzically, no doubt mentally confirming her suspicion that I am a crazed overprotective mama.

Later, the school secretary told me over the telephone that they didn't think the MRSA was a big deal because so far no other child had "come down with it" and also, "We have no idea how long we've had this here anyway - the child may have been carrying it for a while". Not very encouraging words.

I'll be honest and say that I wanted to snap into the phone, "Not a big deal? Do you HAVE children of your own? MRSA is a very big deal!" Just last week in fact I received a heartbreaking email from the president of our local Slow Food group describing the sudden death of his 19 year old son, injured on the job at work, from a staph infection that infiltrated the site of the injury. The young man was dead within days of being injured. Just shockingly sad.

I told the school secretary that our pediatrician thought my son should stay home until the scrapes on his arms and legs were healed, to reduce potential blood borne exposure to the staph bacteria.

She sounded soooooooooo annoyed with me as she sighed and asked, "So will he be out for the rest of the week, then?"

"Well, would you like me to call you every day and let you know how his cuts are healing?" I responded (laughing internally) ~ "I'd be happy to do that. Or would you rather he just return when he is ready?"

"Oh, just have him return whenever he is ready," she hurriedly replied. I'm quite sure she does NOT want to be hearing from our family more than necessary.

So there you have it, my carefully planned week of work and preparation for brothers in town now involves watching a second child (while continuing to pay his school for the privilege). Almost like Spring Break part II.

A year ago this added pressure might have brought me to my knees, but I'm feeling so much better - so energetic and enthusiastic. I feel like I can take on the extra boy with ease, and perhaps it will even work out well for us. My brothers will be in town later this week and they will love to see him!

After scrubbing the little guy from top to toe - especially under his fingernails! - and throwing his clothes into the a hot wash, I spent the next few hours researching preschools.

I've been very disappointed with his new school so far, for many reasons. Our son has fallen far behind where he was just two months ago academically at the old school. It has been painful to watch our elder son soar academically and the little one lose a tremendous amount of ground, thanks to our move.

He has forgotten all of the phonetic sounds and science content knowledge that he'd learned before February. When I ask him about it he tells me, "Oh mommy, that was a LONG time ago. I don't remember!" Considering the amount of money we are paying to send him to school there, it has been frustrating to watch.

My husband and I had already discussed his not going back next Fall. This MRSA experience functioned as the kick in the pants I needed to get off my laurels and really look into other schools.

I asked other mommies at kindergarten pickup if they could recommend a local preschool, and finally the kindergarten teacher herself gave me a strong suggestion for a new school that we're currently looking into. It costs almost $150 less per month and is apparently well known around the city for its academic excellence.

So, in a weird way, MRSA has done us a favor. It has got me looking in earnest for a new situation which might turn out to be a huge improvement.

I feel really guilty and badly though, for taking him away from a school he loved and three "best friends" to bring him to a new school where he is also adapting and making new friends... only to move him again in the Fall.

He may be only three, but is he resilient enough to switch schools so many times? I wonder how this moving around may affect his intellectual development and social confidence. For example, he has been practicing songs for a Mother's Day performance for about four weeks now... would it scar him to miss that show and never perform the songs live with his class?

This is a part of motherhood which is so tough to navigate. I rarely fully know if I am making the right choices for my kids until after the fact. This new house, neighborhood, babysitter (yay!!!) and school for my eldest boy are all RIGHT! but I didn't know it with certainty until we'd already made the move. I thought the new preschool would be great, and I was totally mistaken.

In the vein of 'rolling with it' though, I realize that the situation at hand presents wonderful opportunities for me to teach my son how to roll with life's many surprises and changes. My nurse-cousin also lovingly reminds me that this unexpected situation offers us the chance to reinforce to all three of our children the importance of good hand washing... a skill that will benefit them forever.

Crisis = opportunity.

Somehow there is a link from this experience to the next blessing, whatever awaits us. I look forward to sharing good news soon!

April 17, 2011 ~ Day 129 A Man From Nebraska

Somewhere out there, my father is looking down on me today. Or maybe he's right here by my side. Either way, I'm thinking of him and I believe that he can sense my thoughts and love.

Our house was feeling a little bit too chaotic earlier this evening and, recognizing this, my husband encouraged me to take a break and go find some peace and quiet.

I grabbed my laptop computer and a novel, put the keys in the ignition of the truck and turned it on - but I had no real idea of where to go.

I've been tired this afternoon and less decisive than usual, so I decided just to let the car lead. I know that sounds odd, but somehow I knew that it would take me wherever I needed to be.

For about fifteen minutes I wound around various main streets and side streets, toward the oceanfront and then way from it. I passed through areas we haven't really explored yet since moving into this new part of town. Without the kids in the car I was able to notice more of my surroundings and saw a lot of little places I'd like to try out someday - a reasonable looking hair salon, a burger joint, a small corner market.

Finally I looked up and realized that without meaning to, I'd headed to the street where my parents lived together when they were first married in 1974. Amazing to think that was nearly 40 years ago now.

Today would have been my father's 85th birthday, had he lived long enough to see and celebrate it.

It feels important then, to be here on this road overlooking the beach he loved so well - near to the home where he married my mother that sunny December day long ago. They married in their back yard surrounded by their children and dogs, two once-broken romantics daring to believe that *this time* marriage would last.

I'm so glad for them both that it did.

If my dad was sitting here in the truck with me I wonder what he would say about their life in this neighborhood. How did it feel to combine families like that? To become the step-father to two pre-teens? To dive into such a full life after enduring multiple previous heartbreaks?

I imagine that he would tell me, "It was hard… but your mother was worth it, and your brother and sister became my kids too."

I've got an inkling that my parents were happy here on this street, in this neighborhood, because this is the place where my mother fell pregnant with me, completely out of left field. Surprise!

In a way, I've journeyed this evening to a place that was special for my father... and also for me! This is the spot where I first became a twinkle in my mother's eye, so to speak.

~

That said, it's mainly my fault that my family moved away from this area in 1975.

Five children felt like A LOT of children to my folks at the time, and they were anxious to find a large enough house to accommodate us all. They purchased a four bedroom place just a few beach towns away, where they stayed and built a sturdy life. My mother lives there to this day, still nurturing the trees that they planted together.

I didn't grow up in this neighborhood where my folks lived for the first year of their nearly 35 year marriage… but sitting here now in the truck in the peaceful eventide, I can see why they were so happy here. There are birds singing from tall trees at dusk on a hill overlooking the vast Pacific. It's nice.

I know that my Dad must have felt really proud while living here, like he'd made it and was finally living the California dream. Since his stint in the Navy during World War II and Korea, my father had hoped to return to this beautiful beach town to live and work by the seashore.

It took thirty years and living in three other states to get here but at the age of 49 he had finally done it ~ earned the tenured faculty position at our local University, found the beautiful Hollywood starlet to marry, chosen a home and begun to fully live, surrounded by a cheerful menagerie of loving wife, four children and their many pets.

My dad called himself a late bloomer but actually, now that I'm 35, I think he was a survivor - someone to admire. He'd managed to spring back from a devastating divorce where he'd lost everything including his best friend (who ran off with Dad's wife, so I'm told). After a bitter, protracted struggle he was granted custody of my brothers and ultimately he did his very best as a single dad.

I don't think any of us would argue that his 'best' was perfect, but he loved us and we loved him. We still do. That says something about the kind of man he was.

In the late '60s and early '70s Dad managed to earn his doctorate in music and become a professor, which was truly impressive for someone also working full time as a music teacher to support the two sons that he was raising on his own.

The older I get, the more I appreciate how many fine qualities my father possessed. As a teenager I saw only the things I had problems with, like his paranoia and overprotection of me.

Now that I'm a parent, I feel sad about all of the raging fights I had with him while growing up. "You promised that she would be a comfort to me in my old age," he would gently tease my mother. "How old, exactly, do I have to be?"

Here are some of the MANY amazing things I see now about my father that I did not appreciate twenty years ago. He was...

-Chivalrous to a fault.
-Treated my mother like a queen
-Honest, steady, loyal
-A dependable provider who went the extra mile to take care of us financially, working three jobs for most of my childhood
-Intelligent
-A true artist - pursued his dreams and built a life around his deepest love: performing classical music
-Passionate about Prokofiev and Grieg!
-Athletic
-LOVED the beach. Loved boogie boarding, ocean swimming with flippers, collecting shells, bird watching and whale sighting
-Uber-liberal
-The kind of guy who really talking over the merits of European vs. Japanese cars with our local mechanic
-Loved to watch football with the sound off while practicing his violin
-A man of enormous privacy
-Innovative and driven to create
-Funny. He had a tremendous sense of humor, and loved reading humor writing and satire
-A huge fan of Woody Allen, Rodney Dangerfield, Art Buchwald and Ted Koppel
-Cried when Magic Johnson announced he was HIV+. Dad was a huge sports fan. Magic was his hero
-An optimist. He used to tell me that someday our 'ship would come in'... right on the beach in front of our house, loaded with treasure. I now know that my dad himself was the real treasure
-Respectful
-Generous
-Proud of his children
-Proud of his Nebraska roots

It's not easy to support a large family on a single salary while staying true to your artistic vision. I give my dad so much credit for working as hard as he did. He worked for two universities, gave private lessons on evenings and weekends and most of our summer 'vacations' were road trips to different college towns where he led music workshops. He was a devoted musician and a dedicated provider. Dad took good care of us.

I'm not sure if all of my father's dreams came true before he died. I do believe though that he was happy that he'd married my mother and that he was still adoringly devoted to her until the end, even in the throes of his disease.

We don't choose our parents, and there were honestly a lot of years in my early life where I wondered why my father was old enough to be my grandfather. I longed for a young, strong dad who could teach me how to camp and fish and hike and do things that I had only read about in books.

They say that God doesn't always give us what we want; but somehow we are given what we need. Now that I've grown up, I can see that Dad was the father I needed - someone uniquely capable of understanding me, since I turned out to be so insanely similar to him... from my temperament and hobbies right down to my bony feet!

I thank God every day for giving me such a wonderful father. I remember all of his qualities and know now how lucky I was to have such a complex, brilliant, interesting and artistic parent.

Happy Birthday, Dad. Wherever you are, I love you!

April 16, 2011 ~ Day 128 Mommy's Little Angel

Yesterday afternoon I put my daughter down for a nap. About an hour later I happened to be passing through the hallway near to her room and heard stirrings. "Wow, I guess she's up already," I thought, and went to get her.

To my surprise when I came into her room, she was seated in the middle of a sea of now-opened colorful plastic eggs which had been given to her elder brothers by their grandmother a week ago. She had cracked open nearly every egg and the floor around her was littered with silver foil wrappers. Apparently she had known something that I did not... these eggs contained chocolate and peppermint candies.

"Oh honey," I exclaimed. "Did you eat all of your brothers' Easter candy from grandma?"

She giggled and gave me a big, chocolatey grin.

I bent down and began to put the plastic egg shells back into the bag from whence they'd come, counting wrappers as I went. All told, I counted twelve.

"Sweet girl," I sighed. "Did you really just eat twelve chocolate candies?"

Just then her biggest brother came into the room, took one look at the mess on the ground, and began to cry.

"Can you please tell your brother that you're sorry you ate all of his special candy?"

She looked us both right in the eye and grinned. "Nope."

Thinking she might not have understood me, I asked again. "Honey, please say sorry."

"Nope." She giggled uproariously.

Hmmmmmmm......

So this is Life with Sister lately and as adorable as she is, I think our road is wending uphill.


My daughter is 23 months old, just about ready to hit the twos. With the sons, the twos were actually very easy compared to the threes and fours. However, I think little girls may be different. I know for a fact that girls acquire language in two parts of the brain while boys acquire it in only one part; so maybe she's just a little precocious.

One way or another, it looks like her special variety of TWO is about to take our breath away.

Within the last week or two, she has figured out that if you drag a chair or stepstool over to a high surface (e.g. counter top, mantle, bookcase, dresser) you can double your own height and ability to reach dangerous things.

This has led us to such delightful moments as disarming her from both a pair of scissors and a steak knife (cutting block has been moved and is now well hidden from her view and reach), retrieving her Daddy's eye drops quickly before she drank them, rescuing her from the lid of the grand piano where she'd been trying to reach a toy, and perhaps more than anything discovering her (almost daily) mid-theft with sizable quantities of food in her grubby little palms. Lots and lots of sneaky snacks. The girl is clearly led by her stomach. She could probably eat eight meals a day.

She's also begun to copy some of her brothers' less desirable moves... like hitting them when she is angry. Or shoving them back when they hurt her.

I'm working hard to curtail this behavior in all of the children, but I have to admit that when it comes to her, there is a small part of me very proud and glad that she's no "mild-mannered wallflower" as my mother would say. Far from it!

This delicate, once-premature daughter sees nothing wrong with standing up for herself around the guys, whether with her words or her fists. I prefer words but, given all of the bad things that have the potential to befall women in their lives, I want to raise a female that is fearless and strong, willing and able to defend herself if or when the need ever arises. So, while it is crucial that we teach her how to resolve problems through communication and nonviolent action... I want her to know that sometimes nice girls DO fight back.

Whenever my mother or sister see her they say she is a mini-me. I don't see it, I think she looks just like her dad's side of the family. Either way, she is elfishly cute but very sturdy, with the most adorable pot belly. She's extremely tall for her age (95th percentile at last check) with wispy curling hair and a 100watt smile.

As her personality continues to emerge, I find myself loving her even more than I already did.

It's easy to feel a surge of warmth and affection for a precious, vulnerable little baby. She's always been a sweet thing, and especially with her rough start into the world my husband and I have always harbored a very soft spot for her in our hearts.

However she's grown a lot in the last two years and I find that this spunky little girl is really lighting me up with her intelligent, enthusiastic, loving, naughty ways. She'll comfort any owie... "Mama, ooo OK? Mama OK. Mama OK," and runs to give hugs and kisses to the injured. She's becoming a dedicated artist and will sit with crayons for hours quietly working on paper after paper.

She routinely eats dirt in the back yard, sand at the beach, and any other mineral-filled item she can source from the yard or house when we're not looking.

She carries her "babies" around the house and has taken to cuddling with one particular blue blanket, something her brothers never did. She tries to help clean and cook and is constantly underfoot whenever I am in the kitchen, wanting to participate. I'm really hoping to get her a play kitchen for her 2nd birthday, she seems much more into domestic play than her brothers were.

If we come upon a group of adults when entering or exiting our car in a parking lot, walking into a store, waiting to pick up my son from school - anywhere - she will make eye contact with one of them, smile hugely, wave and say "Hi!" until they smile back and talk to her. She announces her presence wherever she goes.

All in all, having a daughter is putting a totally new spin on parenting - or at least a unique variation on the theme.

I want the best in life for all of my children. By this I mean, I want them to grow up stable, balanced, self-reliant human beings who can take care of themselves and find joy in the process. My hopes for them are vast, but not in a materialistic way. I hope that they will be healthy, capable of loving and receiving love, responsible, kind, compassionate, humble and honest. I pray that my children grow to have integrity, and that they live according to the philosophy that all people everywhere are born equal and deserving of respect.

There are just a few things though that I want for my daughter, which differ from my hopes for the boys.

Whether she turns out to be a tomboy or a frilly little princess or some wonderful cross between the two, I hope that my daughter will learn how to communicate clearly and warmly - even confidently. Women need to be able to speak for themselves in this world, and to speak for other women and children who cannot.

I hope she'll inherit my mother's fiscal sensibility, my grandmother's work ethic, my husband's mother's genius in the kitchen, my sister's love of crafts, my other grandmother's love of music. I hope she'll inherit my own lust for life.

I pray that she becomes a good and caring friend - loyal and reliable - someone that reaches out to others and is there for them. I pray this because I want her to benefit from the deep joy of friendship between women, which is one of life's greatest treasures. There are a few women I've come across in my lifetime that for whatever reason, other women don't like so much... a woman who would actively go after another man's husband, for example. It would make me very sad if my daughter ended up scorned by other women, deprived of their nurturing, loyalty and love.

I've benefited too much in the last 35 years from my profound relationships with other women not to wish that joy for my own daughter. I love my husband vastly but he doesn't fill the place in my heart uniquely reserved for the friends who have laughed, danced, cooked, traveled, chatted, inspired, supported, connected with and comforted me throughout most of my life.

There is a special role that only women can fill in another woman's life. I think my Mother's group leader hit it on the head yesterday when she asked a room full of 45 women from their early 20s to late 60s "Who here wishes they had someone to mother them?" Nearly every hand in the room went up!

Women uniquely nurture other women in a way that is not instinctive to men. It isn't better, it's just different. I hope she will get the chance to experience real friendship and camaraderie with other women.

People tell me that one day, my daughter and I will be the best of friends. I don't know if this is true, and I don't think it is fair for anyone to place that kind of expectation on her. So far my daughter evidences a strong attachment to her daddy, and I think that's pretty wonderful. She's lucky to have a gentle, loyal, loving father to look up to - and he's lucky to have such a sparkly, affectionate little girl.

Whether we end up the kind of mom and daughter that spend a lot of time together or she ends up calling me once a year on Christmas, I am so proud of my daughter! She has a strong, independent spirit and a mouth full of chocolate. May life in all of its unpredictability keep her zesty spirit and innate kindness intact.

The world can use a vibrant, welcoming personality like hers.