Smile lines and a grand adventure

When I met Tim Henn, he was 20 years old. He wasn't the first young man I met with a receding hair line, but he was the first I met with smile lines. He wore his jeans like Axl Rose--tight and full of rips and tears. His hair was longer, thicker, and really wavy. But just as blonde as it is now. And he already had smile lines around his eyes.

Tim is going to make the happiest, jolliest looking old man.

And I want to be around for it.

The other day I noticed that in addition to those smile lines, he's developed a few worry lines on his forehead and between his eyes. He's still got the smile lines, and a whole lot more of them, but what we've experienced through the years is also starting to show on his face. And I wouldn't change any of it. I would still choose this adventure with him as the pilot.

I say pilot because he is almost always the one driving when we go places, but I navigate. I make sure he always knows what the speed limit is, whether or not I think he's going the right way, which lane I think he should be in... You know. The REALLY important stuff.

We're co-pilots, though. So many of these adventures we've been on have been instigated by one of us, and decided upon by both of us. He encourages my hobbies--writing, quilting, cooking, baking. And I encourage his--photography, guitar playing, smoking of the foods. We like the same music. We like to experiment in the kitchen. We are both mountain people. We like the same vacations (mostly... I'm not big on open bodies of water, but I watch). We have nearly all the same goals. We are madly in love with each other.

And I want this to keep going. To keep having a grand adventure with some side adventures with my Tim.

Cancer is making me scared that this grand adventure is going to be cut short. And before you lecture me about "you're never promised tomorrow." Yeah, I know that. So does he. He has experienced lots of that in his career. But we're still planning to have a long, fun-filled, grand adventure.

I want to watch his smile lines get longer and deeper. And I want to be around when he turns into that jolliest of old men. Teaching the grandbabies how to turn things on the lathe. Reading them books as they fall asleep. Taking the same vacations. Discovering the same new blues artists. Going to concerts. Trying new foods. Hiking new trails. Watching our kids grow and learn and discover and find a co-pilot on their own grand adventure.

Today I hate cancer because I saw the smile lines on Tim's face that I've been seeing for almost 25 years, and it made me wonder how many I have left.

Today I hate cancer because I didn't see a single smile on his face to make those lines deeper. I saw worry as I laid down for a nap. And concern when I couldn't finish my lunch. And stress when we realized we have seven days until the next cycle starts.

Today I hate cancer. Today I want the promise of smile lines. And the promise of seeing my Tim turn into the happiest, jolliest old man.

© 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.

I have cancer

On January 14, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

I wish there were an easier way to say that, but I haven't found it yet. The cancer hasn't been staged, although the tumor has been graded. For a while, I was calling it a "mass." But, it's a tumor. A big, fast-growing tumor.

I want to tell you I'm doing okay and that I've got the fight in me, but instead, I find myself lashing out at the people--mostly the PERSON--who means the most to me. Tim is a patient man, and I know he loves me. He loves me so much that he is putting up with my cancer anger by changing all the light bulbs in the house to LED and setting all the piles of stuff I'm obsessively purging in the garage in case I remember how much I love my books and t-shirts and shoes.

I am angry. I have plans--for retirement and a house in the mountains and quilts and to rock (eventual) grand babies to sleep. I was recently given a great opportunity at work to be in a team of REALLY smart and driven people that will completely change how we serve students at Ohio State. I want to serve on this team. I'm excited about the work and the people and the opportunities.

But cancer.

Both of the teams at work are amazing. Where I will be receiving treatment is minutes from both of my offices. I've had coworkers pledge to sit with me through chemo, learn Esther-Faith's medical stuff, handle some of my duties at work, go to meetings for me, and just hug me when I find myself crying at my desk. These people are amazing. When this is over, and I survive, I cannot wait to throw a party for these people. A big "thank you" charcuterie party with live music and specialty drinks. Maybe I'll make one up called "cancer sucks, but you don't" or something.

I have some really amazing people in my life. Near and far. And if you're reading this, you're probably one of them. I have a friend who is on this same road, just a little bit ahead of me, who sends me photos every couple of days of the mountain ranges she lives between--always with the subject line, "For your soul, while you wait." She knows how I feel about the mountains. She knows what my soul needs right now. She has given the best advice so far. When this is over, and I survive, I cannot wait to visit her on the other side of the country and take in the majesty of the place that she lives while we celebrate living and surviving.

My family. Parents and step parents and siblings. You know, growing up I could not imagine that my siblings would still mean so much to me. And then marrying into an amazing family, how much those siblings would mean so much to me. But they do. It's like I have this tribe of younger and older siblings--and by extension, spouses--who somehow know when I'm in the depths.

My sister-in-law checks in every couple of days to see how I'm doing. She has leveraged her network to put me in contact with others who have walked this journey and can provide support and counsel. My brother-in-law, who lives 1324 miles (19 hours and 33 minutes) away, texts every couple of days with a simple, "I'm praying for you," or an "I love you." My brother can be counted on for highly inappropriate messages or to exchange zillow listings in the mountains.

And my sister was with me when I got the phone call. She held me as I sobbed into her hair. She didn't tell me it was going to be okay or give me any bumper sticker advice. She just held me when I didn't think I could possibly stand.

My in-laws ("in-loves," I've been known to call them) are also waiting for what they can do to help--even though they have their own surgeries and recoveries to think about. They have called on their close friends to be there for them, and us, as we head down this road. They call and text with encouragement or tears, but they always seem to know when we need them. 

When this is over, and I survive, I cannot wait to have a huge family get-together and make everyone their favorite thing. Ladyfingers or chicken marsala or spicy feta dip or blue cheese portobello scalloped potatoes or vanilla pie or pancakes or whatever. I'll cook and bake for days for these people. DAYS.

Neither of my sons could process the news. Both kept saying, "WHAT?!" into the phone. I wanted to reach through the miles and just hold them like I did when they were little and something was scary.

Within 12 hours, Isaiah had already talked to his boss and is standing at the ready. His boss told him, "Do what you need to do: Family first." Isaiah said that whenever it gets really hard--because he knows it might--call him and he would come down and drive Esther-Faith to her things and help Tim with whatever. He said he would move into the guest bedroom for as long as needed. This child. My heart. We've been through the fire, he and I, but what a beautiful and tender relationship has been left in the heat of that sometimes excruciating flame.

If you know Tim, you know he's a fixer. Your car won't run? He'll help you get it started. You need to build a wall in your house? He'll be right there. You need to move at a moment's notice? He's got your back. But this? He can't fix this. It's overwhelming him and and he is scared. He can't even say the words "Karin has cancer" out loud yet. He just can't.

Esther-Faith has made it clear that she chooses life--no matter how aggressive we have to be--LIFE is her choice. But Tim, he's having a hard time. Part of it is my cancer anger. And my cancer fear. And my cancer purging. And my cancer depression. And my cancer talk. But mostly, it's my cancer. So, he loses himself in the things he can control. Shoveling snow. Changing light bulbs. Learning "Pride and Joy" on his stratocaster. Setting aside the things I think I want to throw away in case I change my mind later. And taking photos. He is going to document all of this through the lens of his Nikon. He's a good photographer, and it is going to help him cope by documenting this journey.

Tim is keeping a list of people who say, "let me know if you need anything" because he plans to make good on that promise. If you say that to him, know that he is writing your name on a list in his phone, and he will call you later. Maybe not next week or the one after. But he will call when he needs the help. He still has a demanding job (that he loves), and he is going to need help. Honestly though, he's not good at asking.

We meet with a host of doctors and surgeons in the next week. Then we will know what stage this cancer is. We will have a treatment plan. We will have picked our poison. We will know more than we know now. I think both of us will feel better once we have a plan. But that plan will combat the cancer, and that's what we can't change: I HAVE CANCER.

I have cancer.

© 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.

From the archives

I've been live-streaming the World Cup matches while I work, and it reminded me of the many conversations I've had over the years with my boys about football vs. futbol. And I remembered a conversation I had with Isaac five years ago. And because I'm missing him something fierce as he finds his way on this journey called life, I thought I'd post something from the archives.

Isaac is still awesome.

Soccer/futbol is still awesome.

Enjoy.

-----

It's a tough line to walk. And there is no good answer. Especially because I have athletically gifted children who play both.

As Isaac and I settled in to watch the Mexico vs. Costa Rica World Cup Qualifying match, Isaac shared with me something that happened at basketball practice today.

"I think I might try football next year."

I looked at him. Stunned.

He did a lot of soul searching before deciding on soccer for the coming year. A lot. More than a 13-year-old boy should have to do. But he did it. Thought about it. Talked to Tim about it. His school friends were pressuring him to try out for the middle school football team. The middle school doesn't have a soccer team. Isaac has really come into his own on the pitch this spring. He's grown into his body. Grown into his legs. Just grown.

He went back and forth between football and soccer. And let's review, he also has plans to play basketball in the winter and run track in the spring. He's gifted athletically, and really, his path is his own. He can write on it whatever he chooses.

This year, he chose soccer. He explained it to his dad this way, "I'm good at football, and I'm good at soccer. But I LOVE soccer."

So, soccer it is.

He tried out for an elite team and made it. I paid the money required to secure his spot on the team. He tried on the new uniforms. And he had a LOT of fun at try outs.

"Instead of soccer?" I asked. "No," he said. "Of course not. I mean AND football."

Now I know that will make for a very busy fall. Rushing to practices and games all over the city. And honestly, I was surprised. He really seemed at peace with his decision and my shy boy was even starting to make friends with some of the kids on the soccer team.

"Why?" I wanted to know.

"Well," he started to explain. "The football coach asked me today if I was playing football. I told him no, that I was playing soccer. He laughed and said that soccer is for girls."

I asked what he said to the coach. "I told him so what. Boys play, too." To which the coach threatened, "Well, you won't play football at all then."

At this point, I had to ask him to repeat the conversation to me.

And now, I'm vacillating between angry and furious.

First of all, are you freaking kidding me?! This is an educator. A coach. Someone that young, impressionable boys are supposed to look up to. Instead of saying, "Oh, where?" Or asking what team he's on. Or asking him how it's going. He said, "Soccer is for girls."

I don't really curse all that much.

I can't even tell you what words are tumbling around in my head right now. This is a family blog.

I'm upset.

That one statement did two things:

1. Told my son that boys are better than girls.
2. Told my son that he is no good.

1. Boys are better than girls.
The way he said it and what he said diminished the athletic ability of girls in the eyes of my son. That coach basically told my son that boys are better than girls. That girls' sports are insignificant. That girls are insignificant. His attitude and language perpetuates a stereotype that girls are inferior athletes. That girls are inferior.

I'm not disputing that girls and boys are different, but let's get real here. Female athletes ARE NOT less important or less talented than male athletes! Male, female, whatever. It's not WHAT you play, but HOW you play. And I'm telling you now,  I want my boys to grow up respecting ALL athletes and all sports and all competitions in all nations.

How does that coach--who is also a teacher--treat the girls in his class? Like they are inferior to the boys because they don't play football? Or because they aren't a boy? I shudder at the thought of what those girls have to endure at the hands of this so-called educator.

2. My son is no good.
Let's stop there for a minute. Mainly because I need to take a breath. A minute to re-process. Because frankly, I'm still FURIOUS. And I'm struggling with what I should do. I don't think anyone who spouts opinions like that should be educating children. Because seriously, that's not education. That's not teaching him anything. That's tearing him down. He's already shy. He's already struggled with this decision.

And just to be clear, my son is AWESOME.

He's a tiny bit more than awesome.

For quite a few reasons. NONE of them because he's a boy. And certainly, being a boy doesn't make him BETTER than the girls.

When Isaac repeated the conversation to me, he added some editorial comments. Like, "I don't care. Fine. I don't need to play football. It's his loss--I can be useful. And besides, girl athletes are just like boys. They work just as hard. And in soccer, girls are more aggressive. I like how the girls play. They push each other more."

So, I'm on that line. Between hating American football because of the knuckleheads like this coach who think it is better than everything else. And loving REAL FOOTBALL (soccer) even more. Because my son loves it, and because it has taught him hard work, perseverance, self control, patience, determination, and so much more.

I love my awesome son. I love how much he has grown and matured in the last year. I love his response to the coach and his editorial comments. I love how he volunteers at his sister's Miracle League baseball and TOP Soccer games. I love how he thinks hard work is the real reward. I love that he is a boy. That he combs his hair more than I EVER did at 13. That he worries about outfits and texting and pimples and soccer and legos. He is freaking awesome. No matter what any middle school football coach has to say.

© 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.

Happening today...

If you don't have plans this evening, and you want to see some pretty good dancing, I know a couple of the dancers and can arrange a meet-and-greet after the show.

Upper Arlington High School

6 p.m.

Tickets available at the door for $12

Esther-Faith... poise and grace.

Esther-Faith... just stunning.

My neice AJ being amazing.

© 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.