Chicago or bust

I just shoved three days worth of clothes and toiletries into Esther-Faith's super tiny, pink, hello kitty suitcase and zipped it shut. I checked in for my flight not quite 24 hours in advance via the app that has been on my phone for just under 24 hours. I've selected all of Esther-Faith's outfits for the week and matched ties with suits and shirts for Tim. The cat has food for three days. I've set reminders on my phone to remind Tim to let the dog back into the house. I've meal planned for the week. My work laptop is charged and I have a book to read on the plane. 

I'm about ready to travel for the first time with cancer as my only companion. 

I'm a nervous traveler. Well, nervous seems like a mild description. I love to travel with my family, and I love to plan travel. But alone? Not so much. Even without the added layer of traveling with a pharmacy in my purse. I have all of my prescriptions in their original bottles in case the ATF (or is it TSA) folks decide to dump my purse out and find out why there are medicines for managing any combination of cancer side effects. 

I was supposed to be four weeks out from chemo when I took this trip--not two. Two weeks out means I'm still dealing with painful diarrhea, extreme nausea, and debilitating fatigue. 

And tomorrow, I'm getting on an airplane. To Chicago. Away from my family and my home and my people and my doctors and the cancer center and everything familiar. My hotel is 1.5 miles from the conference. I have to navigate an unfamiliar city. Find food. Use UBER for the first time. And work. Attend sessions and meetings and learn and whatever. 

People do this, right? People with cancer work and travel and manage? I mean, I know they do. But can I? Can I do this? Really, I won't know the answer until tomorrow. Until I get on a plane and fly to Chicago for a conference I'm excited to attend. Excited to learn. Excited to think about the future of my job and my career and what we can do for students at Ohio State. And see Yo Yo Ma perform. And Gwen Stefani. And meet folks from other universities trying to do what we're trying to do. 

But cancer. 

I'm a nervous traveler, and now I have an added layer. Cancer. Sometimes I'm still in denial that I'm Stage 3 breast cancer with a grade 3 tumor. Friday I went to see my counselor, and Friday night I googled all of it again--desperate to understand what it all means for me. And for my family. I fell asleep with "grade 3 tumor, stage 3 cancer" in my search bar, but I never hit enter. 

I don't know if I really want to know what it all means. I want to go to Chicago and learn as much as I can about implementing Marketing Cloud at Ohio State and I don't want to think about cancer. I don't want to think about what is coming the rest of this summer. I want to think about finding a restaurant that serves shrimp and grits so I can memorize the flavors and recreate it at home. I want to think about missing Tim so much that whatever is going on between us melts away before I get home. I want to think about finding just the right souvenir for Esther-Faith. 

But cancer. 

When I get home from Chicago, the next big thing on my calendar is vacation followed not 100 hours later by surgery that will change me. Change who I am. Change my body and how I feel about myself. Forever. 

I don't think I'm required to like this situation, and despite all of the pleas from the people I love to "be positive" and "fight like hell" and "kick the shit out of cancer," I think what I'm doing is what I'm supposed to be doing. I'm doing everything my doctors and nutritionists and physical therapists and psychologists and pharmacists tell me to do. But to me, fighting is actually just surviving this. I'm scared I won't. So, I work on my cookbook at ridiculous hours while cinnamon rolls rise, and I read all the books I love alternately with books by cancer survivors (I call them all that--even if they died). 

A couple of weeks ago I got to see Keely play soccer. She scored three times and she won the sportswomanship of the game award. She got a free snack from the concession stand. Gavin begged her to share. 

After the match Michele walked me to my car. We talked. Mostly, I talked. She listened. Then I cried. Then she held me. There are things I can't tell Tim, and Michele holds that space for me. She lets me share with her the things I'm feeling and the confusion and anger and the books I'm reading. And she reads them, too. No matter how painful or uncomfortable, she reads the books so that she can relate to where I am mentally and emotionally. It's a gift really. To have someone like that in my life. There is really no way I think I will be able to repay her for that gift. 

When I land in Chicago, I imagine I'll text Tim that I arrived safe. Then I will figure this out. I will navigate travel and work and cancer all at the same time. I will obsessively text to make sure Esther-Faith and the pets are all fed and in the house at the right time. I'll ask for photos to make sure outfits are all arranged the right way. I'll text Tim twice to remind him to shave his face and to give Esther-Faith a vegetable for dinner. Esther-Faith has asked to cook while I'm gone. I'm both happy and nervous about that. At 13, I was cooking full meals. I have no doubt that she will be able to do it, but I won't know until after I land in Chicago and Esther-Faith and Tim manage without me. 

I guess I'm hoping they'll be just fine. Maybe I shouldn't text reminders. Because really, I don't know if I'm going to survive this cancer thing, and I need them to be able to manage without me. Maybe I'll send Michele a list of all the things that I'm not going to text to Tim and Esther-Faith. Maybe I'll just relax and worry about finding the best shrimp and grits in Chicago. Maybe I'll just work and conference and cancer and survive. I'll fly to Chicago for three days and I'll fly home. The rest is coming no matter what. I just need to figure out how to travel with cancer. I need to endure the next couple of days. I need to trust and love and survive and trust again. 

Could you all check on them for me? Make sure Tim's tie matches his suit and shirt? Make sure Esther-Faith has lunch and she sets the timer for her procedure? Make sure it isn't steak and potatoes every night? Make sure there are veggies? Make sure Tim doesn't forget that we have pets? And remind him that he likes the pets? Make sure they're okay while I'm gone? I'm planning and hoping to be here for years to come, but just in case, will you check on them for me? 

I'm going to Chicago by myself--with cancer as my only companion--for a couple of days. And I can't figure out if it is a test run or a metaphor or just a conference and all will be fine. Because cancer has changed me and changed how I think and how I relate and how I love. It has changed me. I am changed.

© 2006-2019 Karin Shirey Henn, all rights reserved. 
Copyright notice: All content, including writings, artwork, photographs, or videos, posted on this blog is original to Karin Shirey Henn and the HennHouse unless otherwise stated and may not be reproduced without permission.

Spice cake

Sitting in the kitchen with a cup of hot coffee, savoring a piece of perfectly moist spice cake with perfectly sweet buttercream frosting, I looked across the island and watched my Tim take another bite of his cake. I tentatively asked him, "How does it taste?"

"It tastes like love," he replied, cutting another bite off with his fork.

I looked down at my half-eaten piece of cake and agreed. It does taste like love.

Twenty years ago, I made a five tier wedding cake in a crowded, rented apartment with broken air conditioning, and delivered it to La Scala for my wedding reception. I had a lot of decorating help from friends and family. Three flavors. Vanilla, chocolate, and the top layer was spice. I have remade the spice cake once a year every year since--and not always on our anniversary. Sometimes in rounds that I'll stack and decorate with fancy flowers, sometimes in cupcakes so we can eat on the go, sometimes without frosting, but most of the time in a simple 9x12 cake pan.

It didn't matter what we were going through or how busy we were, we could at least count on spice cake for our anniversary. For the first two years, I made the cake in a rented oven in a rented house. The next 17 spice cakes were made in our home on Rainswept. And today, for our 20th anniversary, I made a spice cake in our new home.

And it tasted like love.

Twenty years worth of experiences and joy and adventures and heartache. Twenty years of life and change and fear and faith. Twenty years of happiness and sorrow. Twenty years of love.

I look at Tim knowing full well that the years have aged him, but still seeing the sweet, funny boy I fell head over heels in love with during my freshman year of college. I don't know what he sees when he looks at me, but I know what I see in his eyes--I see love.

The same love I saw when he handed the pastor the umbrella during our soggy, outdoor wedding ceremony, grabbed me, and dipped me into the pouring rain for our first married kiss. Sometimes, I can still feel those raindrops hitting my face as I laughed into that kiss.

The same love I saw when we stood before a judge and promised to do everything we could to raise two precious boys who were entrusted to our care. And all the love, over all the years, that he poured into those boys. And the love I still see in his eyes when we talk about them.

The same love I saw not one year later when he leaned over the operating table, looked deep into my terrified eyes, and calmly told me we have a daughter. And he gave her the name Esther-Faith. And all the love and protection and FUN he continues to pour into her life.

The same love I saw this morning when he cut the spice cake into much too big pieces, put them on hand-painted thrift store china plates, and sat across from me on the morning of our 20th wedding anniversary for a stolen moment and a piece of spice cake and a taste like love.

-----

Spice Cake

2 cups of flour
1 1/2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
1/4 tsp ground nutmeg
1/4 tsp ground cloves
1/4 tsp ground ginger
1/4 cup butter
1/4 cup shortening
1 1/2 cups sugar
1/2 tsp vanilla
2 eggs
1 1/4 cups buttermilk

• Preheat oven to 350 F.
• Grease and flour pan(s). 
• Stir together flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and ginger.
• Using a mixer, beat butter and shortening on high for 30 seconds.
• Add sugar and vanilla. Beat until combined.
• Add eggs one at a time, mixing well after each.
• Add dry ingredients and buttermilk alternately until well combined.
• Pour into prepared pan(s).
• Bake for 30 to 40 minutes depending on your pan(s)--until toothpick comes out clean.
• Let cake cool completely, and frost.
• Buttercream frosting: Cream together one cup of shortening, 1 tsp of vanilla, 2 TBSP of cold water, and a pinch of salt. Add 4 cups of powdered sugar until creamy. Add additional water if necessary. 

© 2006-2018 Karin Shirey Henn, all rights reserved. 
Copyright notice: All content, including writings, artwork, photographs, or videos, posted on this blog is original to Karin Shirey Henn and the HennHouse unless otherwise stated and may not be reproduced without permission.

Christmas Eve 2016

Gonna throw up some photos of our last Christmas on Rainswept. These are old, but I was telling my sister today that these are some of my favorite memories of that house--especially rolling out the Santa Lucia rolls on the island with the kids gathered around laughing and learning and loving.

I don't miss that house. We're making great memories in the new house, but I have to share some of these photos.

© 2006-2017 Karin Shirey Henn, all rights reserved. 
Copyright notice: All content, including writings, artwork, photographs, or videos, posted on this blog is original to Karin Shirey Henn and the HennHouse unless otherwise stated and may not be reproduced without permission.