Welcome To My World

Hello and welcome to my blog.  The purpose of this page is to promote the various writing projects that I am undertaking as well as to share my reflections on life and my experiences.  It will serve in many facets, but will mainly  discuss my writing ventures.  I would very much like to show everyone that unlike on Facebook where I do a certain amount of censoring of my thoughts and ideas, that this is a place where I can really let loose and talk about the (sometimes) political or spiritual ideas that are important to me.  I have never been very good at keeping blogs, but this will be a change I hope.  My next few entries will probably be essays I have written and posted on Facebook during the past few years.

I would like to also put up some links to where I can be found online, specifically my links on Twitter and Archive of our own.  I have during the past couple of years dropped the facebook page, due to time restraints.  I have become slightly more active on twitter, but because 280 characters and no editing function is available there, I have a hard time keeping my thoughts straight.  Archive of our own is where some of my fan fiction can be found.  It is my sincere hope to get more of my older stories reformatted and up on that site in a meaningful fashion, but given the fact that I am now currently writing a book, I have limited time to work on fantasy stories.

Some useful links for me:

My twitter account:  https://twitter.com/FrauYvaJ

My fiction page at archive of our own. (Due to issues of cyberbullying and harassment, I am no longer on FanFiction.net):  http://archiveofourown.org/users/YvaJ  

(Edited September 20, 2018)

 

A HAM Radio Operator’s Observation

I have always believed in the notion that HAM radio is about acceptance, understanding and learning about our fellow human beings; our likes, our dislikes, and what this human experience really is about. The heart of HAM radio has never been about political discourse or religious ideologies. In fact, when I learned for my novice license back in 2018, I found out that we were not allowed to engage in poltical or religious discussions on the bands. This is one thing I have always loved about it. In the age of social media, the poltical / religious ideals of the participants have often become toxic and infused in intolerance. With HAM radio, we were always able to look beyond the things that made us different, and could look at where we had common ground with one another. Okay, grant it, most of the discussions were about what rigs we used, and how the weather was at our QTH (Location). Either that, or it was about sending and receiving 59’s and 001’s for contesting. To me, It has always been about obtaining local knowledge of a part of the world that I may perhaps never get to visit, while at the same time, discovering that there was a human being at the other end of that transmission who may not be all that different than me. It was about looking beyond the prejudices of where someone is from (or what their callsign prefix happens to be) and seeing something a little bit deeper.

I grew up in the US, but have never 100% agreed with the decisions of the leaders of that country. I imigrated to Germany in 1995 and have spent more than half of my life in Germany. Do I agree with everything that the German government does? No, I do not. I think the same holds true here. In fact, in this present day with regards to Russia and Ukraine, I will say that I support the Ukrainian people, and I support the Russian people. They are all inocent bystanders to the blood lust of a certain leader. That is all I will say about this horrible war. I support peace, I support negotiation and opening the channels for discussion and seeking out diplomatic solutions. However, when one is attacked and negotiations break down, then I feel that people do have the right to defend themselves from an aggressor.

The decision that QRZ dot com has made about removing UA callsigns from their databanks makes me very very sad, because it seems contrary to that spirit of talking and communicating, which is what the polticians should be doing!* While I can understand issues with trying to keep the peace on a website, I feel that the decision comes across as very short sighted, because not only does it harm the notion of HAM spirit, it serves as a reminder that people are always going to judge others based solely on where they are from as opposed to who they are as a people. Why should normal Russian people be forced to wear the virtual ‘scarlet letter’ because their leader is an insane murderer? Don’t people see the protests in the streets of Moscow and St. Petersburg? Don’t people realize that normal Russian people are victims in all of this as well? Do they really care or do they just want to run with this cultural snobbery because ‘everyone else is doing it’? That’s how it looks to me.

When I was 17 (that was a long time ago), I wrote a letter to the editor of the local newspaper. It was during the time that Gorbachev and Reagan were negotiating and much to my surprise, the letter was printed in the paper. Even back then, I was interested in Russian culture and my desire to travel to Russia was at the forefront of my thoughts and intentions. When I wrote to Mister Rogers back in 1991 just before my father passed. I told him about my wanting to go to Russia, to learn and understand this perceived ‘enemy’. I never lost that, not even after going to Moscow to study in 1992, in fact, this understanding was enhanced through that experience. When I became a HAM operator in 2018, that feeling was enhanced even further and I found myself talking to people from all around the world, and discovering that what I had felt as a child was actually accurate.

People argue constantly that Russia is not a ‘democracy’, but at the very same time they turn around and say ‘well, the people voted for this’. My question to them is which is it? I have a degree in Russian Studies, I don’t claim to be an expert, it’s just a fact. I have been to Russia, and what I found there was a peaceful loving people who care about their families, friends, and the world. Sure, I encountered racism and hate there, but I also see it in the US, especially in today’s world, I see it in Germany and perhaps in every other country in the world. I have never never seen callsigns in HAM radio outright removed. There have been wars in African and Asian countries and the callsigns from aggresing countries were not removed. Why is it that in this precise moment when communication and dialogue are so necessary that the powers that be on a website for HAM radio decide to close those channels? It makes no sense to me. We need communication, we need to sit down and talk. Without that, the conflict will continue.

*Since writing of this, the UA callsigns have been reinstated at QRZ dot com.

My Personal Doctor Who Theory

If you haven’t seen the episode ‘Fugitive of the Judoon’ yet, please stop reading right now.  There are a lot of spoilers here, and I don’t want to ruin the episode for you.

Okay, now then, there are some people who are getting up in arms about what happened last night on ‘Doctor Who’ and the more I think about it, the more I think that it’s a positively brilliant idea. Why I think this is going to take awhile because there are many pieces and issues to unpack.

Let me start off by saying that I do not believe that this ‘new’ Doctor is pre-Hartnell, nor do I think that it goes against canon, in fact, I think it parallels canon in an amazing way.  ‘How can that be?’ you ask, well stick with me while I try to unravel this whole thing.  This is strictly my opinion, if it has anything at all to do with what will happen in Doctor Who, I would be the first to claim ‘shock’ and ‘surprise’ at actually having made an accurate summation.

Let me first go through the points as to why I think it does not date back to Hartnell, or even classic Who at all.

First of all, you have this surprising appearance of Jack Harkness!  What is the purpose of his coming back?  Don’t get me wrong, I love his sudden appearance in the show and can’t wait to find out why he’s actually there.  But, remember when he gave Graham, Ryan and Jaz the message for the Doctor?  He said something about ‘the Cybermen’. 

Now, the Cybermen and the Judoon were involved in some of the Tenth Doctor’s stories.  In fact, these monsters dated back to stories like ‘The Age of Steel’ and ‘Smith and Jones’.  The fact that these three figures played principle roles somewhere in the tenth Doctor’s history is pretty evident here.  But, when you consider that the Cybermen were a part of that alternate universe that Rose ended up in at the end of series 2, then suddenly things start to make sense.  At least they do to me.

At the end of the 4th series of the show, Rose and Ten Two ended up living out their days in this parallel universe.  Is it possible that this new Doctor could be a regeneration of ‘Ten Two’?  I think that after a time, this incarnation of the Doctor regenerated as Ruth.  I know that the Judoon said that Ruth was human.  If you recall, the Doctor said the same thing about ‘Ten Two’ back in the day.  So, perhaps that may explain why Ruth was living with a partner, and why she was trying to pass herself off as a human.  Ten Two was doing the very same thing, with regards to his relationship with Rose.

Another thing that I noticed about these two characters is that neither Ten Two nor Ruth had any aversion to violence.  Ten Two destroyed the Daleks and Ruth reacted violently towards the Judoon about halfway through the episode.  In fact, both the Tenth Doctor and the Thirteenth Doctor were pretty put out with the display of violence demonstrated by both of these characters.  They got downright upset about it.

In addition to this, how did this new character come to have a TARDIS in the first place?  It is not really known in canon, but there was a small scene that showed up on Youtube several years ago in which the Tenth Doctor gave a ‘chunk of TARDIS’ to Ten Two so that he could ‘grow his own’  and that he and Rose could ‘save the universe together’.  Russel T. Davies decided to cut that bit out, but it was filmed and released as an added bonus scene.  You can check it out on Youtube, as it is still there.   So, essentially that is probably a part of canon through in an indirect way.

With all these little Easter Eggs showing up in the episode has made me reflect back on the second Tenth Doctor and what ultimately happened to him.   It would explain a great deal about the sudden appearance of the second character of the Doctor and why she had a partner, was trying to blend in with humans and had a TARDIS.  Keep in mind in that alternate reality, Rose’s father was alive and Rose was a dog, so I think chances are, the history there happened in a very different way and the Doctor there could have regenerated into another character entirely.

This would also serve as an explanation as to why Thirteen did not know who Ruth was and vice versa.  Both of these characters, after Bad Wolf Bay were no longer on the same timeline, instead, they were both living out parallel existances with no contact with the other.  It would probably justify why they did not know each other.

So that’s my theory about this new Doctor.  I think that it’s a lot of fun to make assertions about the characters, but this is just me and like I said, if this character turns out to be who I think it is, then it would definitely be a first time I have ever guessed accurately.

 

The Little Herb Plant that Wanted to be a Tree

This is an original story I wrote well over 10 years ago.  If you wish to share it, please share the link, but do not copy it without giving credit to me as the writer.  I’m going out on a limb posting it, but I think it’s a pretty timely story.

The Little Herb Plant that Wanted to be a Tree
By Yvette Jessen

Far out in the eastern orient, where many varieties of plants grew, a young herb plant lived in a beautiful monastery overlooking a large mountain valley.  It grew from a seedling into a small plant practically overnight until the day that it began to take the form of a tiny, little tree, very small to the eye, but filled with a dream.  It was said that it wanted to grow up and become a tree, as large as those which lined the monastery wall, and surrounding the perimeters of the garden where it lived.

The little plant grew taller as the summer months drifted slowly by, the monks would watch over and take very good care of it.  Every day, they would bring water, and give its roots the nutrients to grow, but one day, it looked at the other plants and said, “I want to be a tree when I grow up.”

Of course, the other plants laughed and said.  “No, you cannot be a tree, you are nothing more than a tiny herb plant.”  Of course, this made the little herb plant very sad, because it somehow knew that it was destined for something more special than just growing in a garden and being one of a hundred or so herb plants.

It was in this garden that many people would visit, dignitaries of the church would regard the garden with captivation and joy.  Their visits would generally make the inhabitants of the monastery very proud, and the monks who kept the garden always watched over it and made sure that it would grow as it should.  It was a place of pride, love, and tranquility.

Every morning, a small girl would come into the garden and wander around.  Her father was hired by the monastery to help tend the grounds, so she was able to walk all around the garden undisturbed.  The Brothers in the monastery came to know her, and whenever they would see her, they would call her by name, “Hello Rose,” they would say, and the child would giggle and go about her daily rituals.

Yet, it happened that one day, she came into the garden and could hear soft cries from somewhere in the garden, yet she could not figure out from where these cries specifically emerged.  She became curious and looked around the area in apt contemplation, but she never could figure out from where it originated.

Staring in the distance where various monks were now working, the sun beating down on them, she approached slowly.  It had proven to be a beautiful sunny day, but yet the cries were still detectable to her and she asked herself, who would be crying on such a day as this?  Eventually, she looked at one of the monks and spoke to him, her voice soft, filled with innocence.

“I hear someone crying,” she said to the Brother who had stopped working momentarily, stood up, and began to listen.

After a few moments, he shook his head.  “I’m sorry, Rose, I don’t hear anything.”

She looked up at him.  “Maybe it’s because you’re too far away from the ground, Brother Johannes,” she said softly.  “Because I hear it and I know the sounds of someone crying when I hear them.”

As she continued to listen, she sighed and watched as the monk once more began to work.  He did not seem to believe her, so she began to walk alone through the garden and search for the one who was crying.  Either that or find someone who could hear the sounds as vividly as she could.

Across the garden she walked, through the various fruits, vegetables, and even through the vineyard where the grapes grew in outlined rows.  She could still hear the sound, but could not figure out where it came.  She could see that two monks were standing in the grapes and they were picking the ripened fruit and were literally engulfed in the silence that surrounded them.

Not wishing to disturb them, but wanting desperately to know if they could hear the crying as well, she slowly approached and spoke, her voice tiny.  “Can you hear that?  I heard someone crying and don’t know where it came from.”  The two monks closed their eyes and listened, but after a few moments, they opened them again, looked at her, and wordlessly shook their heads.

Rose released an unhappy sigh and left the two monks to their work.  As she made her way back through the garden in the direction to where she started, she lowered her head.

“How can I hear something when no one else can?”  She asked the stillness as she returned to the place where she had initially heard the cries.  As she reached the area, she could see that in the distance the monks were diligently working.

It was the monks who had taught her to concentrate on simple sounds and listen in the silence, but now she was confused.  How could she hear something that they clearly could not?  She wondered for several moments if she had truly heard what she thought she had heard.  “How can I hear it and no one else can?”  she whispered.

“Perhaps because you have not lost that part of yourself that believes in the things that grown ups do not,” the unhappy voice emerged, this time right beside her.  She began to look around, but instead of seeing another person, all she saw was a row of herb plants that were nearby.

“W-who said that?” she whispered.

“I did, I’m right here beside you,” the voice once more resonated in her ears, and it now sounded as though it was coming from a boy her age.  Her tiny ears were still detecting it, but yet, she was alone in the garden.

“I don’t see anyone, where are you?” she whispered as the breeze began to blow and the small voice was covered by the sounds of the wind rustling the distant trees.  She sat down on the ground, not really sure what to do next, and uncertain if she would ever figure out the answer to her question.

Eventually, the Abbot came outside and approached the confused child who was seated on the ground with her head bowed.  As soon as he reached her, he looked down at her through a pair of aged, but wise and gentle eyes.  It was said that the Abbot, although old in appearance, had a heart young and free.  He spoke rarely, but it was no secret that he, like the other monks, had grown fond of the child during the times when she had run free in the garden.

“Rose, what has you troubled?”  he asked; his voice emerging in a kind and grandfatherly sort of way.

“I heard someone crying and then I couldn’t find them,” the little girl answered as she looked up at him.

In response to these words, the Abbot, closed his eyes and nodded after a few moments had passed.  “Yes, I hear it, too,” he whispered.  “It carries itself in the wind, but it is always said that the prayers of large and small can be heard in the stillness of the garden.  That is if one truly listens.”

“You can hear it?” the little girl asked with obvious relief when she saw that the Abbot was nodding.  “Everybody else said they couldn’t.”

“But, I do, and I think that I know from where it is coming.”  He sat down next to the child on the ground and pointed towards the herb plant that was planted in the earth before them.  “The source is right here.”

The child looked down at the small plant and shook her head.  “But plants don’t talk,” she objected as she turned and faced the Abbot.

The man shook his head and began to speak.  “Don’t be so quick to answer with logic.  The sounds of crying were heard, and no one else could hear them but you and me.  The little herb plant is unhappy.”  He looked down at the plant and began to address it.  “Why are you so unhappy, little one?” he asked patiently.  “Are you not contented here with us or is there something that you need that we can try to get for you?”

The little plant’s cries grew louder upon hearing these words and Rose shrank back.  “You were right, it is crying,” she said.  In her voice was unhidden surprise but also etched in her words were traces of excitement.  “But I don’t understand.”

The Abbot smiled down at her, but nodded.  “Wait, and let it answer, that is what it needs to speak honestly and find its peace.”

The little plant continued to cry loudly.  “I am very happy here, but…I…I have a wish that will never be realized.  I want to be a tree, and not a small, insignificant herb plant.”

As it spoke, it continued to cry and Rose looked at the Abbot.  “Can’t we help it?”

“No, little one, not so much with actions, but the words we say might help,” the Abbot answered, his attention suddenly on the plant.  “We cannot make you into something that you are not.  You see, my little friend, God made you what you are because He has a very special plan in mind for you.  You look as you look and are as you are because God knows the impact you can have on the world.  It is quite the same with all of His children; you were created for a divine purpose.  You don’t yet know what that purpose is, because you are sitting in the middle of a large garden with other herb plants, but when you one day discover it, then you will no longer have any reason to feel sad.  When that day comes, you will feel happy and it will be a special time for you.  Of that, I am almost certain.”  As he spoke, he gently stroked the top of the plant, his aged fingers bringing comfort to the herb plant.  “Being a tree is a wonderful dream for a young herb plant, but it cannot happen, as that is not what you are.  Maybe one day, you will see that being what you are is also very special.”

Rose sat and listened as the Abbot spoke comfort to the small plant and moments later, she looked at him.  “So it’s the same with me, right?” she asked innocently.

“Of course,” he nodded.  “Even you will grow, like this plant, and you will find out what reason God has for sending you to this world.”

Rose smiled.  “May I take care of it until it finds out?  I’m curious as to what will happen in its future.”

The Abbot smiled and nodded.  “If that is your wish, but I have an idea for our little friend here, as well.”

The child looked at him and shook her head.  “What’s your idea?”

The Abbot’s eyes shone brightly as he responded to her question.  “I have a window in my study that is without any green whatsoever, and I miss that.  Would you like to come and live with me, little herb plant?  Together, we can learn a great deal from one another and you can grow in the window and stare out at the mountains in the distance.”

Rose looked at the Abbot.  “Maybe it would be lonely away from others of its kind,” she said softly.

In response to this suggestion, the little herb plant had grown unusually silent, its contemplations now on the Abbot’s offer.  After several moments, it spoke, its voice filled with joy.  “I think I would like that, I would be without others like me, but I would also be among friends.”

The Abbot smiled and nodded as he turned to speak to the little girl.  “Rose, please go to Brother Franz and ask him for a shovel, a flower pot, and some water and nutrients for our little friend here,” the Abbot said to the small child and she jumped up and ran to fulfill his request.

After a few moments, she returned and extended the objects to the Abbot.  She sat down on the ground next to him as he gently began to dig in the earth around the herb plant.

She watched him as he carefully removed the plant from its place in the garden and replanted it in the small pot.  Next, fresh earth was placed around its roots, and while Rose carefully held the fragile plant, the Abbot applied the soil.  Within minutes, the two of them had completed this special task.  “Now, you get a few nutrients, and after a little time, you’ll be as good as new, my little friend.”

The small plant looked around at that moment and could see that the other herb plants were eying it with envy, and it spoke to them.  “This is my path, I chose it, and you can all choose your paths as well.”

The Abbot and Rose got to their feet and the little girl picked up the pot with the small herb plant in it and carried it with the Abbot to his study.  There she placed the pot on a sunny windowsill and smiled.  “So, here we are, in your new home.”

The little herb plant happily looked out a window.  “I’m a tree!” It proclaimed excitedly as it looked way out in the distance.  Rose looked at the Abbot and the man nodded, as the little herb plant’s exuberant cries continued.  “I can see over the tops of the tallest trees, I can see the heavens, and the sun.  I’m a tree, I’m a tree…”

Rose smiled and looked out the window of the Abbot’s study, and sure enough, from the windowsill, she could see the treetops as well as the roofs of the houses below in the small town.  After a few moments, she looked at the Abbot.  “The herb plant is happy.”

The man nodded.  “Yes, because it followed its path and found the answers it sought.  It’s not always a matter of physically being taller, Rose, it is sometimes a matter of feeling taller and understanding that feeling taller is often of far more significance, especially when the point of view changes.”

Rose nodded, for the first time in her young life, she fully understood, but she looked at the Abbot. “It’s going to be alright, isn’t it?”

The Abbot smiled and nodded.  “Yes, because it had the courage to come to a new place.”  He reached over and brushed the top branches of the plant with his fingertips.

~~~~~

In the days and months to come, the Abbot found a newfound joy with the herb plant in his windowsill, as well as the daily visits from the little girl.

One day during the short, cold days of winter, the Abbot waited for Rose to come, and when she did not knock at his door and several hours had passed, he became worried about her.  He looked down at his watch and then out the window all the while waiting, but, the little girl never showed up.

Eventually, he spoke to the herb plant.  “I shall go and ask about her.  I’m worried, but I will return.”

Where could she be? The herb plant asked himself once the Abbot had grabbed his coat and left the office.

After some time had passed, he returned and closed the door; his eyes were filled with sadness as he seated himself in front of the window and looked down at the little plant.  “Where’s Rose?” it eventually asked.

He shook his head.  “She’s very sick, my friend, and there is only one thing can help her.  As you know, it has started to snow outside again, the other herb plants are in what one would call hibernation, and we haven’t the herbs that we need, which can help her.”

“But I’m here,” the plant said and began to move its leaves around as a way to get the Abbot’s attention.  “Can I not help her?  Take some of my leaves, as many as you need, I will offer them freely.”

The Abbot nodded.  “It would give Rose some strength to overcome the illness.”

“Then I will give them to her,” the small plant affirmed.  “Just so she will feel better.”

The Abbot nodded and very gently, he removed some of the leaves from the plant, and smiled.  “I’m so glad that you are a little herb plant, and not a tree.  A tree couldn’t help Rose, but you, a small miracle from God, can.”  He carefully took the leaves that he had cut and put them in a small bag.  “We will go to the child, together.” He picked up the plant, carried it to the door, and smiled before exiting.  “From this day on, your name will be Herbert.”

Herbert began to sway its remaining leaves happily and with the Abbot carefully carrying him across the monastery grounds, they reached the separate house where a number of the employees lived.

As soon as the Abbot had reached the door that led into one of the apartment houses, he knocked, and the girl’s father met him at the door.  “Did you come to see my little girl?”

The Abbot smiled and nodded.  “We both did,” he offered freely as he came into the front hall of the apartment.  “We can use these leaves to make her a tea, and then she will feel much better,” he said smiling as he held up the bag with the leaves inside.  “It’s a gift from Herbert.”  He said as he motioned towards the plant.

The girl’s father looked at the Abbot with surprise.  “The plant’s name is Herbert?”

The Abbot nodded.  “Yes, of course; everything has a name.  God gives every creature and living thing a name, and this plant’s name is Herbert.”  He extended the small bag to the child’s father.  “Use this to make a tea, and then Rose will feel better very soon.”

The girl’s father did as suggested and once the tea was finished, he brought the cup out of the kitchen and extended it to the Abbot.  “You must give it to her, as it is the gift from you and your plant,” he said and the Abbot accepted the cup with his free hand and carried both the tea and Herbert into the little girl’s room and smiled gently at her as she sat up in bed.

“Hello, little one,” he offered and put the cup and Herbert on the bedside table.

“Hi,” the child coughed but looked bravely up at him.  “Sorry I couldn’t come today, but I don’t feel very good, and Daddy said I had to stay home.”

“This is why I came to visit you instead, and I brought you a little gift,” the Abbot said smiling as he carefully sat down on the edge of the bed.  “Actually, it is from our friend, Herbert, the herb plant.”

He reached over to the table, took the cup, and extended it to the little girl.  She accepted it and took a hesitant sip.  Upon tasting the warm liquid, she looked over at the plant.  “This came from you, didn’t it?” She asked, but before either the Abbot or Herbert could respond, she continued.  “Didn’t it hurt?” She asked innocently, her free hand reaching over and touching some of the plant’s remaining leaves.

“No,” the plant said simply.  “It’s part of my path, and had I been a tree, I couldn’t have done anything to help you.”

“So now you’re happy that you’re not a tree?” the little girl asked shyly as she continued to sip the tea.

“Yes, I’m grateful for what I am,” Herbert said and as an added affirmation, it began to sway its leaves happily.

The End.

End of Summer Random Thoughts

 

Today, as I sit here practically coughing up a lung, I have taken some moments to really think about these past couple of years.  The summer holidays have gone by like a blur.  I barely remember what I was doing during the first week of it, but I do remember where I was two years ago today.   Five and a half weeks ago we started our six week long summer holiday.  I was probably working on bears at the time, but to remember anything else is a hazy to-do list that I probably did not even get started on.

The time I could have spent working on my book was pretty wasted, but I suppose considering that my husband was at home, the quality time we shared far outweighs that.  I intend to get back to the book after school reconvenes and I have some alone time to work on it.  There is still so much that I want to put into it, and a few things that I want to take out, although at the time I wrote them out, they seemed pertinent.  Anymore they are nothing more than grievances that no longer are applicable to my world view.

It leaves me to ponder what had actually happened to all of the things that I wanted to do during the throws of chemotherapy that I have yet to accomplish.  What is it about finishing all of that that has made me embrace life more fully, or have I unknowingly and casually slipped back into a state of being pre-2017 cancer diagnosis?

I have always believed that I am far more than just a medical statistic.  I have overcome a great deal during the past two years, but alas my friend Lydia was not so lucky.  She sadly succumbed to illness during the first week of July and I miss her terribly.   There have been days that I wish I could pick up the phone, call her, and tell her the latest.  Of course, the harsh truth is she is no longer with us.  There is a terrible hole left, but there is also her encouragement that remains in my heart that says ‘write that bloody book, Yvette, get your story out there because it is important.’

In the short span of time, we became dear friends; we laughed, cried, and had fun with one another.  The bond we shared was instantaneous and although she had turned 80 the year we met and I was the ‘baby chick’ at 46 we bonded during those days we were laid up in the hospital.   I remember how I would drink more water than a camel and every time I went down the hall to fill my water container, she would laugh.  I later told her that being laid up gave me something akin to cabin fever and water was a good excuse to get me out of that damn bed.  I think it came as a surprise to everyone in the ward that I was out of bed and meandering around on my own four hours after surgery.  I am sure that there were a few nurses there who thought the pair of us simply incorrigible and they probably concluded that it was a mistake to room us together. No, it was not a mistake, it was a blessing.

Lydia was a person who emanated courage that would put all to shame.   People say I am brave, but I can only shake my head.  I’m not all that brave; I just did what had to be done.  Then again, overcoming these obstacles was a pretty astonishing thing, and the way I did it was entirely through the support and help of my friends.  Lydia’s legacy in my life will be that I finish that book and put it out in the ether.  I only hope to have it completed and submitted to a publisher before my 50^th birthday.

It is my sincere wish that I could make a name for myself writing novels and fiction, not necessarily writing about myself, as is the case with my ‘cancer journey’.  In truth, I do not consider myself all that interesting a person.  I have many hobbies; writing, clogging, HAM radio, and singing.  How I longed to sing when I was younger, but now my aspirations have shifted to writing.  Solos and acknowledgement for my singing is no longer important to me.  The notion of accomplishment at the expense of others has never been my cup of tea.  If I am going to accomplish anything in life, I want it to be on my own merits, not on the back of someone else.

Maybe that is why my writing has achieved minimal success; I have not pushed my stories and novels as much as I could have.  Maybe one fine day, I will dust off my novel ‘The Vows of Silence’ and self publish it.  A voice in the back of my head constantly asks, ‘why would anyone want to read a novel about monks in a monastery?’  I gave it to an editor several years back, she never finished it or got back to me on it, so I ultimately dropped the project, although it is as close to completion as I could have made it.

Now’s the time for me to get back into my writing and put some extra effort into finishing all those incomplete stories that I started and never finished.  I have lots of ideas; I am just not finding the time to work on them.  I guess I really need to finish the journey first and then I can focus on all the other stuff.  Maybe this autumn, along with getting my Advanced HAM radio license, I can finish some of these stories.  I also hope to continue writing my thoughts here.  Of course, like the to-do list that I started at the beginning of the summer, I ponder if the writing intentions will reap anything.

Only time will tell…

 

 

My thoughts on the College Admissions Scam

I have absolutely no pity or empathy for the people caught up in the scandal.  I am hopeful that I will be able to explain my feelings here as to why I cannot see any good in the parties involved.  In fact, the emergence of this news has brought back some pretty painful memories for me that I would have preferred to bury so that no one would ever hear about them again.

When I was a kid, soon after my parents divorced, I had gone through elementary school being teased and tormented.  When I got into Junior High, the bullying got worse, so much so that I was often out sick with stomach pains.  Kids would prank call my family’s home and harass me.  Once my mother actually talked to one of these kids only to come back to me and ask ‘what are you doing that is making these kids tease you?’

What I did not have the heart to tell her was that one of the reasons I was being teased was because of my clothing.  I was almost always dressed in my cousin’s old hand-me-downs and if I had something new, it always came from discount retailers.  The nickname that followed me around was ‘the K-Mart Kid’.  Because we attended school in a more affluent district, my classmates were considerably more well off than I was.  They could afford the boutique clothes and would come to school dressed in the latest styles and fashions, whereas I had to settle for outdated clothes.  I remember dressing in one of the outfits that I had gotten from my cousin at a family event and when she saw me, she commented that the outfit used to be hers.

That was humiliating to say the least.  People wondered why I was so sensitive and always cried when I was a kid.  Chances are they did not see how much the hurtful words devastated me and made me feel less than human.

Aside from that, I was getting tripped or beat up just about every day during and after school.  One of the neighbour boys always seemed to delight in that practice.  I remember that as though it was yesterday even though it was some 40 years ago.  Each day I would get off the bus, break into a run to get to the front door before the guy would reach me.  Of course, he was faster than me and when he caught me, he’d beat me up for no good reason at all.  He always found a reason to, in his words, ‘get me’.  Later, he would apologize to me, but the apology never held any significance because the very next day the abuse would commence.  I heard later that as an adult, he actually went and apologized to my sister for beating the crap out of me everyday, but he never had the balls to come to me directly and tell me that what he did was wrong.  To this day, I have never gotten so much as an apology him.  Would I forgive him?  I honestly don’t know.  The scars run pretty deep.

One does not forget the bullying and snobbery that one was once subjected to and although the memories do eventually fade, they never completely go away.  It is case in point to the fact that this scandal coming out has reminded me of how I was treated as a child and how the rich and popular kids never grew tired of demonstrating that they were always better than me.  It did not change too terribly much as I got older, I just found that I was more interested in hanging around with other kids who were considered outcasts as opposed to trying to build myself up and be accepted in a crowd of rich snobs.

The fact that the parents who are caught up in this scam did what they did shows the level of how much privilege rich people actually do have as well as what they can get away with.  Just as with the boy who bullied me, I honestly do not believe that there will ever be any repercussions to this. There is that notion that there is a law for one group of people, and a separate law for another group of people.  Suddenly, the whole premise of the 1980’s film ‘Pretty in Pink’ becomes encased in more reality than in fiction.  In other words, I will believe that they get what they deserve when the legal system actually offers up the same repercussions as it would if the defendants had been poor or could not afford top-notch representation.

I do not hate rich or wealthy people, I do not hate anyone, but I do see the overwhelming parallels to the privileged kids that I encountered during my youth and the kids of these celebrities that I am seeing today in the news.

In all honesty, the only difference I really can see is a generational one.

In Memorium Peter Tork

The only word that comes to mind at this moment is ‘shattered’.

Peter Tork was more than just a musician in a band, he was my hero; a person who embodied the capability to overcome obstacles, no matter how challenging they may have appeared.  He taught me on a personal level about finding forgiveness and reconciling with my past, and ironically I was only 16-years-old when he did it.

At 15, I became a Monkees fan and while I went through phases where I liked other groups and singers, the Monkees would shine way above and beyond them.  They remain my favourite some thirty plus years later.

As an awkward teenager, I began to watch their show in 1986, when the band had gotten back together for their 20^th anniversary tour.  I wanted so badly to see the concert when it came to Houston, but I wasn’t allowed to go.  I bought their tapes, which I proceeded to wear out by overplaying them.  I, like many teenagers wrote letters to them and for my efforts, received glossy pictures with their signatures stamped on them.  Some of these I still have.  But, something happened when I was 16-years-old.  I wrote a letter to Peter Tork.

I told him about something that I never really talked about at school or God forbid, to my family.  I confided in him that my father was an alcoholic and that he had walked out on us when I was 12-years-old.  I told him about how I felt, and that while I was angry with my father, I was also scared for him.  This may sound very much like the incoherent ramblings of a 16-year-old kid, but Peter took this in stride and while the Monkees were touring, he sat down and wrote me a letter.

In his letter, he talked about AA and Alanon.  I had always thought that these groups were only for alcoholics, but he told me that they were not, that they also provided services and help for family members and friends of alcoholics.  He urged me to call them and to talk to them and he said that ‘they will help you more than you think possible, I know because they have me’.  I memorized every word in that letter and I took it to heart that someone as famous as Peter Tork would sit down and write me a letter.  That must have meant that I mattered.

Let’s face it, I was just a kid and he reached out to me.  The difference that he made at that moment, I carried into adulthood.  People ask me why I feel the way that I do, I am hopeful that this will put these questions to rest once and for all.  I went to Alanon and talked to groups of people about my father.  I found solace in the notion that he loved me, but that because of his condition or ‘illness’, he was unable to show it.  I reconciled with the notion that just because my father left did not mean that I was responsible or that I had done something wrong that made him walk out.

Now some may say that these thoughts are ‘silly’ or ‘ridiculous’, but these were the thoughts that were going through my mind at the time.  They are real, and they are normal for kids to have.  Peter acknowledged that when he wrote and he made me feel as though my thoughts and ideas about my father held some sort of validity.

Several years later, when I was 19-years-old and sitting in my apartment, the phone rang and I picked it up.  On the other end was my grandmother.  She had called to tell me that my father had finally stopped drinking and that he was getting the help that he needed.  My heart rejoiced and although I knew that it would be hard for him those first months of recovery, I was grateful to her for letting me know.  She gave me his number and told me that I could call him.  The idea that I could now reconcile with him was at the forefront of my consciousness.  I was nervous when I picked up the phone, but something urged me onward and I made that call.

We talked for a while about life and what we were doing, I gave him my new address and he gave me his.  I knew that one phone call would not reconcile the years of hurt that had passed, but I told him that we should stay in touch and over time, our relationship would ultimately heal.

As we worked through our differences, the year passed uneventfully.  In January 1991, the phone rang again.  It was my grandmother again and she told me that my father had been taken to the hospital and that they had found a tumour on one of his lungs.  She said that she did not know if it was benign or malignant but would let me know once the doctors had examined it more closely.  It turned out to be malignant and my father was immediately put on chemotherapy and radiation.

The last time we spoke was in April 1991.  My father was getting sicker and my grandmother had said that she was not sure how much time he had left.  The cancer had debilitated him to such a degree that he was put into hospice care.  It was only a matter of time.  The last time I was able to call him will be a day I never forgot.  He told me he loved me, those were the last words he ever said to me and it meant so much.  Today, I have the small guest book from his memorial service, but that is the only physical object that I possess as a means of remembering my father.

I believe wholeheartedly that Peter Tork enabled me to find that closure with my father.  Through his words, I found peace with him.  When my father died in June 1991, I grieved his passing, not out of guilt or the belief that I had not done enough; I grieved the person that I loved and lost.

In 1995, some three and a half years after my father’s death, I wrote to Peter again.  I had so much to tell him and there were many words that I wanted to say to him but did not know how to put those thoughts to paper.  I told him about my father’s passing and that I was about to get married.  Much to my absolute surprise, Peter wrote me again saying that he was very happy (he underlined the word ‘very’ in the letter) that he had done some good.  He did far more than just ‘some good’.  He saved my relationship with my father.  He understood how families could fall to bits because of one person’s condition.  The most ironic thing about that letter was that it was postmarked on March 23, 1995, the day Sven and I got married.

It is my belief that Peter now knows the whole story, although I wish with all my heart that I could have met him face to face and told him how thankful I really am for what he did for me. It is so hard to imagine this world without him and the amazing impact that he has left on it, not just musically, but as a compassionate, understanding and loving human being.

May he truly rest in peace and entertain the angels in Heaven.  Namasté Peter!

The Last Time We Shop at Netto

Down the street from where we live, in a practical distance, is a Netto supermarket.  It opened last November on the Virchowstraße, here in Rüsselsheim and during the last six months, we have frequented this store.  Now some of you may remember Netto as being the supermarket chain here in Germany that had the advert about the cats.  It was a sweet advertisement, but it makes me wish that some other chain had thought of the idea instead because what we experienced at the local Netto store was seriously off putting, and not just for the store in our neighborhood, but for all Netto stores.

As we came inside on June 22, 2018, the first thing I noticed was a man clad entirely in black, looking a bit like a Stormtrooper at the entrance/exit of the small supermarket.  I had seen this man in the past, but I never made eye contact with him or engaged him in dialogue.  He was intimidating to say the least, so avoidance was how I handled myself as we entered the store.  Now grant it, security people are a norm in a lot of stores, but this store is a small local place with not a lot of square footage.  In the past, I had only seen security guards posted at large department stores, and generally it was during the holidays, not just a casual Friday afternoon in June.  Even with that in mind, these individuals would say ‘hello’ to the customers or engage them in dialogue.  This man would simply stand there, his arms crossed over his chest and say absolutely nothing.

Normally what would happen when we shop is I would go through the store and select the items that we need and my husband would go and thumb through the newspapers and magazines.  We have never had a problem with this until the day in question.  As I finished getting the items that we wanted to buy, I went over to the newspaper stand, which is right near the checkout.  As I approached, this man was now standing next to the newsstand and I walked over and stood next to my husband.  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked no one in particular, but I could tell by my husband’s body language that something was not right.

‘This doesn’t involve you,’ the man in black retorted.

I was too stunned to respond, but I took my husband’s hand and waited for him to enlighten me on what was going on.  He turned and looked at me and said ‘he is demanding that I buy this newspaper.’

‘Excuse me?’  I asked barely able to believe what I was hearing.  I mean, the newspaper costs 1€, it was undamaged and my husband had casually returned it to the stack on the shelf.  I couldn’t believe that the guy was making a fuss over something that costs less than three bread rolls at the local bakery.  But, there he was, basically looming over us and demanding that we buy the newspaper.

We backed away from the news stand and started to walk back into the recesses of the store to speak to the manager.  The manager turned out to be on the side of the man in black and he said that we had to buy the newspaper, too.

We later discovered that what these two men were doing was against the law.  Using intimidation tactics is a punishable offense, but neither of them seemed to care.  Additionally, they cannot force a customer to buy a product unless said product was damaged in some form or fashion.  In other words, people are actually allowed to thumb through newspapers and read bits in them without buying them as long as they do not fold or damage the item in question.

I finally said ‘Fine, if that’s the way these people are going play then we won’t buy anything else here.’  The manager came back with some retort like, ‘we can survive without your patronage’.  I muttered something to the effect of telling all my friends about this shabby service.  The guy still did not care.  We had, in the past on average spent 100€ a month at that store.

At any rate my husband and I began to return the items I had found to the shelves, all the while the manager was doggedly following us around to make certain that we returned the items to the ‘right locations’.  It felt rather like we were being criminalized for trying to stand up for ourselves against a couple of bullies, who think they had some sort of power over us.

I will be very honest here and say that, as a woman, I felt intimidated and threatened by these two men.  To add even more insult to injury, we were expected to show the contents of our shopping trolley before we left the store. This after the man had followed us through the store like a bloodhound until we were ready to leave.

Needless to say, it will be a cold day in hell before I ever step foot in another Netto grocery store…cute commercials be hanged.  I have also decided to cancel my Deutschland Card, and wrote a review on the Netto Facebook page.  Who knows how long that will be there before someone takes it down?  I am hopeful that this man, and the store he represents, has underestimated the power of social media.

A Break from the Everyday

I have been away from the page for sometime now and thought it would be a good idea to update anyone interested on what has been going on for the last six-seven months.  On July 25, 2017 I posted my last blog entry and since then have not been back here, the reason, I decided right after the breast cancer diagnosis that I was going to write a book.  I wanted to do a something that would enable other women who receive similiar diagnosis that life does not end with a life changing diagnosis, but it can get better.

The idea of writing the book is still with me and I am now on to my second journal, which is rather a surprise considering that I am simultaneously typing everything into the computer as I go.

The surgery went off without any problems and the weeks that followed were filled to capacity with lots of ups and downs.  I started chemotherapy on September 14 and had my 16th and final treatment on February 22.  Yes, I lost my hair, but now it is slowly growing back (with emphasis on slowly).  The side-effects of the chemo were present but not really as drastic as I had always thought, in fact, I was able to go clogging every single week between September and February and did not miss a single training.  The support that I received from the other dancers in our club was a massive help to me and it enabled me to get through the therapy without any major issues.

The clogging has been an absolute Godsend.  In fact, I am grateful to be a part of a club where I have been given not only flowers after getting out of the hospital, but was given a massive amount of encouragement throughout the entire ordeal.

As chemo came to an end, I began to feel like myself again.  Although I was not sad during the chemo, I did feel as though a great many changes were happening to me that I was not certain I could contend with.  The main one being weight gain.  After effortlessly trying to lose weight back in 2016 and then seeing the weight quickly coming back made me depressed and anxious.  I did not want to go back to being what I was before that fateful day in January 2016 when I had decided that enough was enough and I needed to lose the weight that I had gained.  It was seriously bringing me down and making me feel more and more depressed.

I felt as though everything that was happening to me was completely out of my control.  The weight was not only making me feel ugly, but that along with a marine style hairdo was throwing me into a virtual tailspin, which has taken a good deal of effort to get out of.  I know that if I had not lost the weight when I did, then I would be tipping the scales at close to 100 kilograms and that was not something I really wanted or needed.  Now that it is behind me, the main objective that I have is to lose the weight again and get back down to 70 kilograms.

As I write this down, I realize that in some respects the words and thoughts are scattered, but they are the way I feel and I am finding that determination and courage have become my mantras throughout the entire ordeal.  I believe wholeheartedly that God does not give me anything that He/She knows I cannot handle, and I know that I am not defined by how much I weigh, but if this journey has taught me anything, it is that I am the decider of my fate, and when I am determined to do something for myself, there is nothing that can hold me back.

 

Courage Comes From Within

July 25, 2017 will probably be a day that will embrace change and understanding in my life.  What it represents is perhaps the internal knowing that I am spirit at the core of my being and that whatever will come, divine order will prevail.  However, what I want to talk about does not just embody a diagnosis of breast cancer, but a way to dig deep inside myself and discovering that I have more courage than I ever thought was possible.

The courage is emerging in such magical and wonderful ways, which makes me strangely grateful for this particular obstacle.  Let me try and clarify what I mean before you write me off as being completely bonkers.  I am trying to see this in many different ways, in positive ways.  It is true that one can take this sort of situation, view it negatively instead of making the best out of it.  This is not a death knell, it’s an obsticle that must be overcome, nothing more. The doctors and nurses who will care for me in the coming weeks will insure that all is well, so it is imperative for me to believe that all is, in fact, well.

Yes, it is scary, and has been in the back of my mind since June 25 when I discovered the lump on the side of my right breast.  The immediate thought, whether I wanted to admit it or not was cancer and while I kept hoping and insisting online that it was a cyst, and even misunderstood the doctor on the 24th when he said that it had not ruptured during the biopsy, I thought he had said it looks like a cyst.  So, great was my shock when he compassionately and kindly said that it was cancer, but with German efficiency, he got me booked into surgery before I had even stepped into the room.  He took into account that we had planned a trip to London and didn’t want to ruin that for us.  Of course,  I reacted as most patients would, I cried, said I was scared, and reached for the hand of my husband who was sitting next to me.  I am grateful for his presence, but I’m also grateful to Dr. Steiner who will perform the operation and has my complete and unshakable trust.

For the longest time, I have been pretty cowardly about expressing my views about the healthcare that I am receiving and today, as I look upon social media, talk to friends, and acquaintances about the diagnosis, I am blessed by the support of friends and strangers alike.  I am grateful for the prayers and moral support that I have been given; whether it comes from friends on Facebook, Burning Skies Cosplay members, folks on Twitter, clogging club, choir, or fellow Bernie Sanders supporters, I am grateful to you all for holding me in the light as I make this journey into the unknown.

Even with that said, there are some things that I can say with absolute honesty and openness that I had never before been able to say.  I have been following the healthcare debate in the US and I am appalled and disgusted at the extent politicians will go to deny people of something that is a fundamental right here in Germany.  I spoke to a woman yesterday who had family members move to the US and start a lucrative business only to be filing for bankrupcy because of a medical diagnosis.  Am I glad I left the US when I did?  Yes, I am.  Would I ever move back?  No, I wouldn’t.  This has confirmed for me that leaving was the best decision I had ever made, even if it left me at odds with others.  Why should I go broke like my friend’s relatives did for the sake of patriotism?

People have been arguing about this debate for a long time and one of the things that it has made clear to me is how people are using the tragic case of Charlie Gard as political fodder to argue their biased points of view.  Why they are doing this goes beyond reason.  First of all, it’s cruel to use a single circumstance to argue against a system that could save countless lives.   I would say that the doctors know far more about this child’s situation than what emotional people get from reading a tabloid.  I think the medical community in the UK has been given a bad rap because this child’s situation has been used as fodder by conservatives to argue against single payer when countless lives here in Europe have been saved because of early detection and sound treatments for conditions ranging across the board.  It’s this argument that escapes me, it’s like poisoning an apple tree because one of the fruit has a worm in it.

I use the tree analogy not accidentally, the apple tree was historically referred to as the tree of life.  Well, life goes far beyond the womb of a woman giving birth to a child.  It is about the care and preservation of human life at all stages.  Why force a woman to give birth to a child only to abandon said woman as soon as the baby is born?  Why force children in schools to go hungry because their parents are poor or working class families?  Why walk around considering those who receive the help they desperately need to be moochers and deadbeats because they don’t live as others think they should?  The hypocrisy is vast and it’s heartbreaking…far more heartbreaking than a cancer diagnosis that can be treated because it was caught at its early stages.

The reality for me is this. Before when I was considered healthy I did not have the courage to raise these questions.  As valid and true as they are, I was scared of how people would react to me.  Now that I am looking fear in the face and laughing at it, I can say what I really think about a vast number of issues without being afraid.  If people don’t like what I say, or they decide that they don’t like me anymore for saying what I think, then maybe they never liked me to begin with and I am better off without them.

So, if this is what finding courage is about, then I am here and ready to face whatever comes.  Last week, Rev. Tim Lytle said that we are all heroes.  I needed to hear that particular lesson, because as the events of this week have unfolded, I truly believe that I am a hero and I am stepping into the unknown.  Only this time, I know that I am not alone; I have a great deal of prayerful support, and friends who have my back.  I will survive and maybe after my time in the hospital, I will be able to say, I am a cancer survivor and hold my head up high and know that that is the truth.