I posted a photo on Facebook that I’d found in a cache of photos in my desk drawer in my office. When you have worked for the same company for 37 years, you find things you probably shouldn’t have at work, but somehow those personal bits and pieces have found their way into your home away from home and lay as buried treasure waiting to be found on a spring cleaning spree. So there it was, this photo of my dad and me, posing sweetly for the Father Daughter dance at my Catholic all girls high school. I was in the 9th grade and painfully socially awkward with a confident sort of insecurity that I could put on a brave face and fake my way through just about anything. I desperately wanted to be normal, like I imagined every other girl at my school was.

My parents had divorced the summer between 6th and 7th grade, and when my mom officially moved out and my dad moved back into our tiny two bedroom, one bathroom house, I was in the school year of grade 7. So I was probably 11 or 12 given what month it was. When my mom left, she left four out of five of her young children, moving out in the middle of the day while we were at school, and taking everything to run a household. Towels, blankets, sheets and bedding, dishes and silverware. For some reason I’ve always thought to be nasty to my dad, she took it all. When we came home from school that day, the ladies of our parish had re-equipped our home with all the essentials, donated from other parish families, and we set about managing our day to day existence with our new motherless routine.

When this happened, my dad was all of 35 years old. He must have experienced the same awkwardness and anxiety, but also possessed the brave face and the insecure confidence to do the best he could. He, too, wanted a sense of normal.

We settled in to life with dad, in the same house, same school, same friends, and same Catholic community. Dad worked hard every day building roads for the county, worked overtime plowing snow in the winter, and coached our Catholic school’s football and baseball teams. It wasn’t always comfortable, but we made it work. When I started highschool, it was important to my dad that I go to Catholic High School, so he arranged a scholarship for me and a campus job cleaning classrooms after school. I had friends, but always seemed to be able to stay on the fringes of a friends group, getting close, but not too close. Looking back, I think I was afraid that the girls would discover I was not like them at all and they would reject me. But I kept my brave face.

I hadn’t intended to tell my dad about the Father Daughter dance. I didn’t think I had a dress that was pretty enough, and the social anxiety associated with mixing my family with school was overwhelming. But my dad caught wind of the event from one of the other fathers with a daughter at my school who lived in our parish. He asked me while the family was eating dinner, “So, what’s with this dance at your school? Are we going?” And so we were – going, and double father daughter dating with his friend who had spilled the beans.

As I’d learn to do many times since then, I gathered up my babysitting money and rode my bike to the tiny mall near our home. I bought what I thought was a suitable outfit and my dad and I had our night. We dined at a restaurant that was very popular in our neighborhood. I had steak, which was a treat beyond special, and we laughed and talked and proceeded to the dance. I don’t really remember if we had a great time or not. I just remember that my dad was there, that he cared, that he tried to bring normal to my highschool world, and that he did the best he could do. I adored my dad. He was far from perfect, but he gave me, and my siblings, everything he knew how to give. Every day, week after week, month after month, and year after year, he was there. Every day I think of him and appreciate him, and miss him terribly.

I’ve been reading tons of social media posts from friends, family, former classmates, and just people I know in general. They’re weighing in on the current Supreme Court Justice hearings. I have a lot of folks in my circle who are hash tagging #webelieveaccusers  My response to that is, “Oh really?” To hash tag #webelieveaccusers infers that we believe ALL accusers; the “ALL” has just been omitted from the statement. If you say you believe accusers, then by default you mean all. Here’s the thing, I believe some accusers, others I do not. Why? Because in the past, some accusers have lied. We do not live in an “all or nothing” world where the statements “All” and “None” and “Always” and “Never” can be tossed about with abandon, even though you see those words in lots of memes and online platitudes. Many people share the “all or nothing” platitudes and paint their world as being over here, or over there, but not in the middle, and not using the word “sometimes.” So if you’re being honest with yourself, you’d admit that you believe some accusers, and you believe some accused; but not really all, or not really none.

This realization begs the great question, “What makes me believe some and not others?” The answer probably lies in your world view, and what side, what team you identify with…and whom you love or hate the most. Many of the #webelieveaccusers are die-hard Trump haters. They hate the President, and their hatred colors their world view and opinion on how they sort out good, bad, truth, lies, and what means justify the ends. The #maga folks love the President and will support him, regardless of other factors. Do you see what the driving forces are here? Emotions. Love. Hate. Not analysis, not fact, not moderation, but out of control emotion. Here’s the other crazy – and I mean CRAZY – thing I see. People think that because they believe something, it ‘becomes’ true. That’s not true.

I can have the most sincerely held beliefs, and hold onto those beliefs for years. But the truth has nothing to do with me or my beliefs. That goes for you, too. I might sound callous when I say that in relation to the truth, I really don’t care what you believe. And just because a whole bunch of people believe the same as you, that doesn’t make that belief any closer to being true. Truth is not subject to a popular vote.

I’m frustrated by people in my life that seem to be basing their statements on their emotions, or a perception of shared experiences, hatred of the ‘other side’ or a conglomerate of feelings all bundled up into a basis for a belief. I’d ask everyone to make efforts to step away from emotions, from love, or from hatred, and study the facts objectively. Trust me, I know that’s hard to do.

In the end, though, with whatever conclusions we make, assumptions we embrace, or opinions we hold dear to ourselves, and mold into beliefs; the truth is completely independent of it all. The truth, out there, as its own entity, is completely separate from us. Whether we will “know” the truth or not, rest assured it exists and it doesn’t care what we believe about it.

Over twelve years ago, I used to “try” to compete in triathlon. I was a weak swimmer, at best; but thought I could fake my way through the swim portion of a race to get to the good part; biking and running. Along with many other lies I told myself, that simply wasn’t true. I couldn’t fake my way through anything, and on the occasions I did “try” doing a race, I had huge, enormous melt downs in the swim which included anxiety, panic, wheezing, inability to swim with my face in the water, calling for the kayak to rescue me, did I mention panic? Why could I swim pretty well in the pool but fail so miserably in the lake? So I quit. And I didn’t feel bad about quitting, either. I told myself swimming just wasn’t my gig, and I let it go.

Fast forward to 2018. My son convinced me to register for the Arizona Ironman 70.3. I registered months in advance, and determined that I would be successful in the swim and engaged a swim coach. I started swimming three days a week. I’ve been working reasonably hard. I’ve been training for months, but I hadn’t done an open water swim – until last night.

The water temperature was 84 degrees, so there were no wetsuits allowed in the event, but I consoled myself with the fact that I wouldn’t have to brave cold water. And the water was really warm, with some strangely mysterious hot spots. The prevailing advice that I received was to “START OUT SLOW.” I thought I did. I thought I was good. I had what I thought was an acceptable amount of training and confidence. Until I fell apart. It was still very early in the swim when this happened. I started to wheeze and panic. I wanted to quit. I wanted to quit so much! But I got to the first buoy and hung on to it for a few minutes. Then I got to the second and did the same thing. The distance to the next buoy was longer, and I couldn’t exactly see the far-away buoy, but just knew it was down-lake somewhere. I had no practice sighting in the lake. I swam way off course. What should have been a 750 meter swim ended up being 1300 yards, according to my Apple Watch. (That’s actually kind of funny.)

While out there on the long side without a buoy in close range, the fear really set in. I called for a kayak – which didn’t come. I swam a bit more and called again, “I need help!!” Still no kayak came, but a voice called out, “do you need help?” I can’t remember the cuss words I used, but I was not kind in my response. In that moment, it was solely, and completely all about me. I didn’t care about how many other participants were in the event or the safety of anyone else. I wanted that kayak and I wanted it right in that moment and I was angry that I wasn’t getting the attention I thought I deserved. The kayak did come over and I hung on for a few minutes and calmed my crazy down from  fear factor code red. So cut to the chase – I finished. I settled down and had a decent swim for the last 600 yards or so, although I went zig-zaggy off course.

When I got home last night and played the movie back in my head, I acknowledged that I wasn’t a very nice person out there in that lake. I was selfish, rude, angry, intolerant, and completely consumed with myself. My ego told me that everyone was there to serve me. That’s when I made the connection between fear and ego. All consuming ego activated all consuming fear. I didn’t like myself very much in that realization. So this is what I’m thinking. In order to get rid of the fear, I need to get rid of the ego.

I must:

1. Really DO start really slow
2. Get over myself
3. Enjoy the moment
4. Love the lake
5. Create a calming mantra or song
6. Be kind to the people around me

Having said that, I’m doing another open water swim in two days, so I’ll have a chance to put the points above into practice. I’m not quitting this time.

It’s almost two weeks since I had Mohs Surgery for basal cell carcinoma. Not the big, scary deal you might think – in office procedure using local anesthesia – consuming a few hours of a Thursday morning. The surgery took two rounds of cutting, with a long wait in between each session to examine the tissue removed to make sure all the cancer cells were eradicated. My son provided good company and conversation while waiting. After the tech gave the ‘all clear’ sign, the doctor stitched up my forehead and sent me home with a compression bandage. I’m pretty sure I said, “Don’t taze me bro” to the doctor as he was zapping the incision with a cauterizing device. He laughed. I’m pretty sure I also commented, “Snitches get stitches.”

After the local anesthesia wore off, I had a whopper of a headache and was glad I took the $9 prescription for 6 tablets of Tylenol with Codeine. I took three that first day. Friday, the day after, was a sleep a bunch and rest day. By Saturday I was feeling good and down to a tape strip covering the stitched up incision. Note on stitches: Why do they use the blackest thread possible to stitch up a lady’s forehead? I’ve covered the incision with a bandaid for two weeks just to hide the stitch tracks on my face. Tomorrow, the stitches come out, and having taken heed of the advice of the nurse and kept this thing liberally covered with polysporin, it looks like the scarring will be minimal.

Lessons Learned?

• Fear of facing a challenge is usually worse than the actual challenge
• Be a beast when it’s time to be a beast, but rest when it’s time to rest
• Have anything weird going on with your body checked by a doctor – seriously – don’t procrastinate with your health
• Don’t let a skin cut or abrasion scab over if you don’t want a scar. Keep it soft with polysporin and keep it out of the sun
• Bandaid brand bandaids really are better than generic store brand
• Bangs are great cammoflauge
• Snitches get stitches

Sometimes, life is a challenge. Not the ‘one big challenge’ but several small challenges that simply wear us down. I’m asking myself, in the frequent conversations with me and myself, “How do I respond to these challenges?”

Scenario: For several months I had a small bump on my forehead – right in the middle, front and center – where a bike helmet would rub, or a cap or visor band would, too. I thought it was a zit, or an irritation, but it didn’t go away, and it started to get bigger. Frugal me didn’t want to spend $25 to see my primary care physician, but after about five months, I did. He referred me to a dermatologist who collected another $50 co-pay and $90 more for a biopsy.

After walking around for another week looking like I took a rock hit to the dome, I received the call. Basal cell carcinoma. OK. I live in the desert southwest. Anyone who lives here long enough is probably going to have a BCC spot. It’s really not a big deal. Really. But it’s still sort of weird. Still feels kind of scary. Still have to have surgery to get it all removed. On my face.

So each little thought is a grain of sand: how much is this going to cost, will they cure it, are there more spots, is my face going to be a mess, will it hurt, how much time off work will I miss, how much time will I have to take off from training, I just spent $145 to register for El Tour de Tucson, will I be able to train enough to ride well, will I get stitches, will I get headaches, what if it comes back again? Before I know it, my head is pounding and I feel the grains of sand filling up the space behind my eyes, the pressure seeking release, but no tears. Just that ‘my face must surely be showing this’ can’t cry, don’t know if I want to cry, maybe I should cry countenance. No current resolution. To be continued.