Learning Tenor

I sing in a choir at church, and I'm not going to lie or exaggerate here, but we are dang good. We only have two performances a year, and I'm okay with that because it takes a LOT of work to be good. It's not that we have the best talent because, here's more honesty, I'm not a great singer. And there aren't tryouts. Our director takes whoever he can get and miraculously turns us into a really REALLY great sounding choir. He's fantastic, and fine-tunes us in ways I'd have never thought of.

I love it.

I love it even though it is work. It's the end product that I love. I love how music can express a whole different level of emotion, almost regardless of the words. Don't get me wrong, the words are good; they're usually hymns, and we have often used the Tabernacle Choir at Temple Square's (formerly known as the Mormon Tabernacle Choir) arrangements. The surprise is that we can actually pull it off and sound like we are a mini-version of the TABCATS (used to be Mo-Tab).

The bigger surprise is that I'm now singing tenor. Usually second tenor even.

 But I'm an alto, right? 

Since writing that post seven years ago, my voice has lowered. Or maybe it's just my voice's comfort zone that has changed. Why? I have no idea. Maybe it's one of those part of "getting older" things, maybe it's too many medications (I love using that one as a catch-all for blame), or maybe I needed to be just one more step away from being girly. As if being a tomboy wasn't enough, I now sing the male voice part in songs.

And I have to read music more accurately because, previously, I was pretty good at figuring out an alto harmony without actually looking. But the tenor line often doesn't make sense to me; they're notes that my brain doesn't automatically choose as it follows the melody. I took about a total of three, mostly sporadic years of piano lessons by at least three different piano teachers, and I know that the tenor part exists, its where my left thumb would hit the keyboard, *duh*, but I never had to play that note by itself or figure out how it makes sense as part of a chord. It's an odd cookie trying to fit in, kind of like a red-headed step-child of the family (no offense to any red-heads or odd cookies, I LOVE red-heads and odd cookies). It belongs, but in a different way.

 And now here I am, having to pay attention to something I mostly ignored. It's a strange thing. Instead of having to just sing the part I've always sung, and words I'm already familiar with, I have to keep the hymnal open and actively read the music and words and project my voice with notes I'm unsure of until its already out there, good or bad.  All because my abilities have changed. I could barely ever sing soprano, unless in a mocking-falsetto (for those few people who have heard it, it's not pretty. That was a one-time performance of the Hawaiian wedding song and will never be repeated. Ever. For the good of humanity.) And now I struggle to reach the alto notes. So tenor line it is. I have enough breath for that, I'm comfortable in that range, and if you catch me during allergy season, I can even sing baritone and bass without too much trouble.

Then it dawns on me. This is a prototype of my life. 

I was never the star of the show, I was a supporting role. Now I'm not exactly sure how I fit in, but I have to trust that what is in front of me, is what I'm supposed to do. Still a supporting role, just a different one, one I never thought I would have. I'm still practice following the music, genuinely unsure if what is written is right because I have to look at each note differently. I have to pay attention to something I took for granted. I can't trust what I already know and what I'm used to because that isn't my role. I have to step out of my 'what I think I should do' and plunk forward to what I actually 'should do within my ability'. Tenor line is one that you'd probably miss if it disappeared, but you might not realize why the music doesn't sound quite right. It is subtle and, in a way, taken for granted.

I remember more than once, in more than one year, in more than one sport, more than one coach, telling me something along the lines of:

"You're good enough to make the team, but you probably won't get much playing time. You're a great contribution, a solid player, you play better than average, your stats are where they need to be in hitting/setting/serving/blocking/field goals/free throws/etc., you're a hard-worker. But what I want you on the team for is your enthusiasm, your spirit, and how you keep everyone else working hard and in good spirits."

If I ever started a game or match, it was because it was someone who was starting was sick. Or it was the last home game and the 8th graders start, or, since this pattern continued after moving to Arizona for high school, senior night. Well, hey that wasn't so bad, especially when I played in a basketball game my senior year WHEN I WAS A MANAGER, not a player, and still scored some points (and picked up a couple of fouls). Flu season was brutal that year, and coach knew I could play, not just take stats and cheer. 

There's lessons I've learned here. I know I chose to stick around but the reasons I initially chose are no longer the reasons I'm still here. I'm trying to figure out why I am STILL here, and what I'm supposed to be doing. It will be 15 years this January with my official diagnosis of something "fatal and incurable", and most die from it within three years, and I'm still doing good. Part of the reason I haven't written is because I have been busy living it up, doing bucket list type things, traveling to see more and reconnect, and just doing things I want to. 

"When you cannot do what you've always done, you only do what matters most." --Robert D. Hales

More Than Dirty Laundry

Just over three years ago, this article came out on two sources.


I suppose I should probably address that. The author, Jason F. Wright, warned me of what could happen after he submitted it: people coming out of the woodwork to be both friend and foe; friendly remarks and trolling; people I already know looking at me funny now that they know what happened, and people who simply don't know what to say around me.


And he also said it would be a good time to keep up my blog.


Oopsie.


I kept hemming and hawing and procrastinating and here we are, three years later than I planned. One thing I know I am great at is procrastination; it’s practically a talent. I have some special skills (that I have decided are talents) like sleeping on planes and going on tangents. So before I go on another tangent, I'd like to start off by saying that it wasn't just a messy home and dirty laundry that made me want to stay. Dying of embarrassment, well, that wouldn't have been listed as a cause of death, even if it were true. The documentable reasons would just be a cover up.


And then recently, the story was run again, and it was a reminder that I STILL hadn't written anything for my blog, so seeing that I haven't died of neither documentable and expected causes nor embarrassment, I'm just going to explain a little further.


Those dearest to me already know that the messy home and dirty clothes was definitely a thought that crossed my mind.


But it was a person who was my first thought, and I didn't mention that to Jason for several reasons.


Mainly, it was to protect the person who was foremost in my heart and mind. I didn't want him to be dragged into the messy, semi-public eye, for him to be pressured in any way, shape, or form. Our relationship was new, less than six months along when I had that first heart catheter. Nevertheless it was intense and, as relationships are, messy. And they don't need any additional, avoidable complications. I mean, I went from being a [mostly] normal person to a [mostly] dead person. And all the ick that comes with that can be brutal in a relationship. And the fact that we are no longer together (we weren’t then, and still aren’t now) mattered; I didn't want to bother him with rekindling, in case he or someone we know would find the story and bug him.


(Side note: I'd be lying through my teeth if I didn't say I'd be game.)


But I wouldn't want to push him. He's dealt with and still deals with his own things as he is adulting too. Not only was he a gigantic portion of the reason I'm still here, but he continued to motivate me to stay alive through love, and he took care of me, and he has literally saved my life more than once. I could tell you about one of the dramatic times, like when I fell off a horse and blacked out and he was there and rescued me, or the every day hero moves like when he would carry me up the stairs when I didn't have the strength. The poor guy has had to drive me to the emergency room enough times, and tolerated me when I was too prideful to use the electric cart at the store and cried in the middle of the aisle.


Anyway, after all of the mess we’ve been through, and all he has done for me, I didn't want him to have to deal with more of any kind of mess from the Mikster.


But, in case he's reading…


Thank you for your role in my life.

Anniversaries and a New Years Resolution

Five years ago, I found myself sitting on my brother's couch, finally able to see their cute kids, Marley and Jake, after being in ICU for 25 days. I was enjoying hearing them play and was looking forward to a home-cooked meal for dinner.

Then I tried to get off the couch. The mind was willing but the flesh was so, SO weak. I couldn't get up. I didn't have the strength or coordination to lift my muscle-atrophied legs and arms; or place my walker in a way so that I wouldn't fall back over; or manage my oxygen tank, tubing, and the medicine pump that was hooked to my stomach.

I thought I had been doing so well.

I'd finally gotten to the point where I could walk around the nurses' station, twice. But to do that I'd started in a standing position, clinging to a cart that was already stable and flanked by my physical therapist and my nurse. The reality of just how frail I had become overwhelmed me.

How'd I get to this point?

And why me?

I didn't live the perfect life, by any means, but I hadn't lived a bad one. Generally speaking, I treated almost everyone the way I wanted to be treated, and I tried to be a good person. I'd even been athletic, whether it was carrying the gigantic U of A flag around the gym before game time or competing in different sports.

And now I couldn't get up off the couch.

Life's been a whirlwind since then. But the main thing I've done is recommitted to writing more about it. Recent (dismal) events and the factor of "you never know" has shown me there's more I need to say and do, especially since I've been given the time.

I've been officially diagnosed with my illness for eleven years. Most people with pulmonary hypertension die within three. The doctors didn't think I'd make it through the first weekend. 

I have more to say, and I plan on saying it. That's my New Year's Resolution.

Ugly Plans For Laughs

I want to be cremated. This has been my wish since my early adult years, for several reasons. First, I've never been one to stay in one spot. Anyone who knows anything about me can verify knows that. When people ask where I'm at nowadays, I usually respond with a variation of "loosely based in Tucson." Because, when I'm feeling well, I travel as much as I possibly can. Dead or alive, I don't want to stay put. Second, I have a travel bucket list, and I'm hoping my friends will complete my travel list with my ashes. I haven't been to Africa or Asia, and maybe they can use my death as a reason to see those two continents. I also haven't been to Antarctica, but it's too expensive to go see some penguins, a few other extremophiles, and snow.

Third, I don't want anyone to cry at my grave. I've seen people mourning at graves and I don't want that. AT ALL. Especially my mom. She's shed enough tears. Hopefully, I'll have done enough in my life to qualify for my version of heaven–one with mango trees and my hunka-hunka burning love. I know it's there. And I hope people realize I'm there, laughing and building rainbows and haunting and practical joking my living friends. Laughter through tears, because crying causes headaches, and it's uglier, messier, and snottier than laughing. That's not my style. The only reason I would change my mind would be if that aforementioned hunka shows up. I don't want to be buried next to anyone else. That would be the only person I would want to be settled next to, the reason I would sit still and not travel. I'd stop traveling and settle down now if the right man showed up and changed my last name. The deceased in my family have all been married and buried or cremated and they're all over the place, and buried next to their spouses–with the exception of an older brother who is buried on top of grandparents in Kauai. Everyone else in my family are with their spouses. And since mine hasn't shown up, yep, cremate me, take me to Africa and Asia. Divvy me up and let's go. A couple of last adventures with good friends. That's my planned exit. Or fireworks. Maybe fireworks.

The People in My Neighborhood

"When disappointment and discouragement strike--and they will--you remember and never forget that if our eyes could be opened we would see horses and chariots of fire as far as the eye can see riding at reckless speed go come to our protection.  They will always be there, these armies of heaven, in defense of Abraham's seed."   --Jeffrey R. Holland

I know angels.  I know more than I ever imagined. 

I never imagined the outpouring of love from the people who want to help.

Since the reality check of the extended ICU stay and (forced) decision to stop working and admitting disability, the generosities and opening of hearts have been astounding.  And even though I am not really surprised, I am both filled with gratitude and amazement that I know these kinds of people.

A sample of examples?  Sure.  From shelter to transportation, friends I call family have volunteered their home for me.  I still am getting offers of spare bedrooms.  When it was discovered I didn't have a vehicle, a friend handed the keys to his jeep over without thought and I used it for over six months.  Before I left Phoenix, my home was burglarized and amongst the things that were stolen, my laptop was one of them.  A used laptop was given to me as if it was no big deal.

There have been more than one instance that cash  or gift cards have found its way into my purse/wallet/pocket/mailbox, usually just in the nick of time when I am wondering how I will be paying for prescriptions or doctor's copays.  (I still haven't been approved for my disability, but that's another nightmare.)  Many times I know the giver, more often I do not, and every once in a while, I recognize handwriting even though they want no credit for their generosity.  I'm still trying to figure out who sent me one of those cool get well baskets when I was in the hospital.  It arrived and no one looked, they just opened it so we could enjoy all the goodies.

And that's just the material needs.

Only every once in a while do you get the opportunity to have one of those cool, straight out of the John Hughes/Cameron Crowe movie moments and mine happened in the hospital.  Except I didn't react so cooly.  I had to have a power port put in place, a usually minor procedure, but knowing I'm a terrible surgical candidate, there's always that slight fear of dying because of some complication.  Anyway, my mom couldn't be there but I was already an inpatient so it was just going to suck it up and pretend it didn't bother me that no one other than the nursing staff would be there when I woke up.  But then when they were wheeling me back, it was a Ferris Bueller moment when the bus moved and there he was waiting for Sloane, or like when Jake Ryan was waiting for Samantha after everyone else left for the wedding reception.  Not that I hadn't already survived the procedure, but it was just one of those cool moments in life.  And instead of playing it cool, I squealed my friend's name like the still stoned from anesthesia idiot, three octaves higher than I thought I could squeak. She knew I would be nervous.  She showed up. 
 
 One of those times I was going to have to check into the hospital, I was still waiting at my doctor's office as he called to make sure I had a bed waiting, I posted on Facebook something about having to check in again.  Before I was even fully registered and had my ID band, I had a visitor.  I hadn't even gotten to my room yet and she found me at registration.  She said she just happened to be in the neighborhood.

Then there are people who are inspired to show up right when I need them.  Its been a tough couple of months and the stories I could tell you of friends who have showed up to advocate for me and make things happen as far as my care goes.  And just in the nick of time.  Its been humbling to watch these people just step up and write letters, or fill out paperwork for me when I just can't do it anymore.  People who show up with deviled eggs because they know I love them or flowers, bringing me groceries or prepared meals, just waltzing in and doing my dishes or taking out the trash as its been hard just to stand on my feet .Or as simple and lovely as just showing up and seeing my swollen feet and giving me a foot rub.  That was a great day.  Service and compassion has not been skimped on when it comes to my neighborhood.  What's strange is that I haven't had to ask for hardly any help, these people have just thought of me and acted upon their instincts and inspiration.  I can think of more than once where I have had a thought of, "Homemade soup sounds really good" or "I wish someone would come give me a foot rub", and well, you already know two women showed up and did it.  Within minutes of wondering how I was going to make it to a doctor's appointment because my ankles were swollen and I knew I might have trouble driving my stick shift, a text was received and a ride was offered.  Within MINUTES.

I am truly blessed.

In Case of Emergency and Day to Day Life

I recently had my fifth right heart catheterization and this one was, emotionally, the toughest.

I had my mom or my best friend there the first two times, and those are the two people I can be 100% vulnerable around.  And I needed that.  The next two times, I was already checked into the hospital, so I was already set in case something bad happened.  But this time I forgot to plan who was going to drive me to the hospital.  I hate inconveniencing people, but there's the added burden of deciding who you would want there if things go bad.  And my mom and best friend have both moved out of state.  They'd be there for me as soon as they could, but it would take at least six hours.

I'm fortunate to have a plethora of great friends who would happily volunteer to be my emergency contact, but who do I choose to inconvenience?  Who could deal with my everything?  Who do I want to see me in my worst possible state should that happen?  Who could I trust to make decisions to follow through with what I would want to let me go?  Its gotten pretty ugly recently, especially when I think about some of the responses from my friends when they've visited, and their tears.  The last thing I want to do is scar someone.

But, all that said, I survived, and so I can put off the decision of who to list yet again.  If something were to happen, my best friend is still listed as my emergency contact, and if you were to ask me under pressure or anesthesia, his is the only number I could tell you; its the only number I've bothered to memorize thanks to speed dial and smart phones.

Which gets me thinking about things that single people have to think about.  Who would be your 'person when carefully planned out?  Married people of course have their built in answer.  Single people not so much.  I sit here thinking, hmm, who would be able to stomach the ugliness of what I might have to go through to get well, or who would I authorize to make the decisions necessary that I could trust would follow through with what I would want?  Of course there's that, and then there's the other end of the spectrum, the, who will be there every day if something were to go wrong.  The hold my hair back when I'm vomiting moments, help me do laundry when I can't get out of bed, the creature comforts that were a given from family when you were little and you didn't have to think about who was going to take care of you.  Who would I allow to see my vulnerability?

So what about you?  Who would be the person when, under pressure, you contact first?

But, I'm an Alto...

Don't laugh, but I used to sing. I used to sing and loved to sing and harmonize. I sang voluntarily, and not just in the shower or car with the windows rolled up. Not as a soloist mind you, but in a choir. And I miss it. Well, I miss being able to breathe deeply, you know, the deep cleansing breaths that fill your belly...but being able to take that breath and turn it into notes that may or may not be right on key. Hey, I never said I was a pro.

At one point I could sing second soprano, which is a little bit higher on the scale but still not really in the headlining soprano range. I clearly wasn't caught up in the technicalities of singing, I just enjoyed being a part of something that created a nice end product. I used to claim first chair as a trumpeter, which often maintains the melody, but when listening to a band or orchestra or any kind of music, I would focus on hearing the other parts by supporting instruments. I mean, its not like a cello can't do a solo, its just not as common, just like oboes, clarinets, violas, and french horns are usually not featured. However, if they're not there, you might or might not know that they were the instruments missing but you might recognize that the overall sound is not complete.

So one of those times I was not exactly on key. Yeah. That was in front of people. With a microphone. I was doing a super short duet, the intro part to a song called, "Oh, that I were an angel". And the soprano was missing, so the director told me just to sing the part.

It had been ingrained in me to follow the tune of the main instrument, and so I always had. I knew my notes, I knew how to read them, but without a soprano to follow, I couldn't hit the right notes to save my life. I needed a soprano to sing the melody before I could harmonize with the alto part. I embarrassingly voice-fished for my part, bouncing between what I knew was the melody but was ever so slightly too high out of my range and what I should have been singing. It sounded more like yodeling.

Bad yodeling.

My point?

I can function on my own. I know enough to get by. But I'm an alto. I do so much better not taking the lead role, I'm way better at a supporting role. I don't want to take the spotlight. I'm not the flashy bright colors you see at first, I'm more of the undertones-type of person. Part of my problem is that even when there's just a melody, my brain automatically fishes for the harmony.

I'm somewhat of a closeted hopeless romantic. I'm still looking for that great love, my partner in crime in life, someone to share my miseries, accomplishments, and my baked treats. There was a time not that long ago when a man sang, "So you had a bad day" when I had a bad day. I have been serenaded on my answering machine, and still have the answering machine's microcassette to prove it. There was a time when I was bold enough to actually use my pointy finger at a hottie and tell him to introduce himself because I needed to know such good-lookingness. There was a time when I could to dig up a cute date the same day I had to be at a wedding (and he showed up in a flashy new red convertible and a new suit!). I love that a man once burned his finger while melting chocolate to make me homemade brownies from scratch. Once a gentleman answered his phone "Be still my beating heart!!" when I called. I once dated a man who wrote me a handwritten note at least three or four times a week and left them on my pillow or on my car's steering wheel the entire six months we were dating. One man baked tiny cookies and spelled out "I love you". One man I went out with didn't have much money so he would pick me wildflowers. No, I'm NOT making this up. When I was first sick with pulmonary hypertension, there was one who would carry me up the stairs, and give me piggy back rides on demand, and coached me while driving those handicapped carts at Target.

Being alone and being lonely are two different things, I certainly recognize that. And another truth I acknowledge and have ALWAYS proclaimed is that it is better to wish to married than wish to be single. But I have known what it is like to be loved, and miss it. I know what great love is, I know what its like to be treated well. Sometimes I wish I could be one of those women who can claim to be a whole person without a partner and it doesn't matter because they have their job/career/religion/family/friends/money/experiences/hobbies/DVD or DVR collection/pets/knitting needles/crochet hooks and yarn that make up the difference. But I have also experienced falling asleep in someone's arms during one of my favorite action movies not because of exhaustion or the movie was bad but simply because it was my most peaceful place to be and I always feel safe with him. And then waking up after the credits are rolling and just being so happy that having him as a pillow wasn't a dream; just being next to that 'him' made me smile. Not because neither he nor I were perfect, but because I know he was perfect for me. I've been that silly 'sentimental schmuck' that can't stop smiling just knowing there might be an upcoming possibility that I could see him. These glimpses of what I have had makes searching for what I want, well, it certainly sets the bar high. But when you've had a taste of the really REALLY good chocolate straight from Belgium, its hard to go back to the cheaper, drug-store variety. Factor in the, 'gee, when do I tell him I've got this rare terminal disease' part, on the first or second date? and its daunting to think of who's going to want me. Ugh. Don't get me wrong, I am so so SO grateful for the people already in my life, but you know how when a baby falls asleep on your chest and its the best peaceful feeling? Its intoxicating. There's nothing like being with your best friend who can morph to become that great love. I can't settle for less than what I've already experienced. Not that I am ever going to pull the 'you come here, I need to know you' move with my pointy finger again unless I'm uber compelled and feeling bold and just THAT confident again, but that knowledge of, "yes, he IS the love of your life" affirmation that many of you already know.
 

I'm still looking for my lead singer. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2pMM4iwC-ag (A classic.  Just for fun.)