And This Little Piggy Ran Wee Wee Wee! All The Way Back to Surgery!

AlrightAlrightAlright! Hope y’all aren’t eating anything right now cuz it’s about to get a little ew in here.

I’ve been walking around with my bellybutton sticking out for well over a year now, but my surgeon from Washington had gone in laparoscopically and told me that the mesh he’d previously installed for my hernias was holding fine so I should just chill. We moved to San Francisco, and with the Pandemic and applying to grad school, I kept putting off going to the doctor. Finally, the discomfort in my torso increased and I found a new family doctor who referred me to an endocrine surgeon, who sent me to have a CAT scan. Turns out I have not one, but three hernias, and much of my right abdominal wall is missing (hence, the recurring hernias). The endocrine surgeon said that she doubted she could just install another mesh because there wasn’t much muscle for the mesh to be attached to. She sent me to a plastic surgeon who specializes in complex hernia repair to consult with him about re-building my abdominal wall and working with her to repair my hernias. I met with him last week. By the time I finished telling him the back story of how I ended up in his office, beginning with my breast cancer diagnosis, he looked like a little kid in a candy store – I’m his unicorn patient. So many complications! So much fun! I had a flashback to my cancer surgeons when I told them I wanted them to simultaneously do a DIEP flap reconstruction during the bilateral mastectomy – they were practically jumping up and down with glee and anticipation, lol.

I was told that the muscle in my right abdominal wall resembled Swiss cheese. If they use synthetic mesh to repair, as had been used for previous hernias, it will only be a temporary fix due to my high hernia recurrence. Instead, I will have my abdominal wall reconstructed using a bioprosthetic porcine dermal mesh. Yup, you read that right. Pig tissue that has been decellularized and processed, so my body’s immune system will not reject it, will be implanted into my abdominal wall, and eventually my body will remodel it into my own abdominal tissue. I’m geeking out about becoming a human artificial coral reef, y’all. It’s just so science fiction-y! For temporary reinforcement, my surgeons will also add a second layer of absorbable mesh and then sew me up. Sadly, my BFF morphine pump may not play a role in my surgery this time around, because they would like to primarily rely on an epidural to paralyze my innards while I’m in hospital for the week following the surgery. Something about wanting my abdominal wall and the micro-stitches to be absolutely still after the trauma of surgeryblahblahblahdammit I will sorely miss my drugs.
So, I got the green light today – my team of surgeons have coordinated their calendars – and I will be celebrating my oldest daughter’s birthday on December 13th with a delicious dose of general anesthesia. We have plenty of time to light the candles, say the prayers, gather the chickens to be sacrificed, whatever tickles your fancy. Cross your fingers on the lucky 13th of December, send me good poop thoughts that week (cuz they will only let me leave the hospital if I can prove that my intestines are awake), and expect updates from me while I’m in there because I’ll be paralyzed (from the ribs down) but sober, so Markus needn’t be afraid I’ll write drug-infused FB posts and take away my phone this time around. After that, 2 weeks of healing on the couch where I’ll enjoy Christmas at home with my Lovies, my surgeons tell me I should be able to hobble to my school conference in January, and I should feel 100% myself within 2 months (i.e., mostly human, a little porcine).

I am now open to new nicknames – go ahead, throw them at me. Markus has been walking around saying “That’ll do, pig” and calling me “Babe,” but I prefer my old Bionic Woman label. Miss Piggy? Petunia? Finally, I might actually respond to “SuuuuuueY!” Also, I might have to quit eating one of my favorite foods, bacon, because…cannibalism…sigh.

So, there you have it. Hopefully this is the last surgery I’ll ever need for the rest of my life, sheesh. Now, you may return to your regularly scheduled programming. Uhbuhdee, uhbuhdee, uhbuhdee, that’s all Folks!

A Treppenhauer Year to Remember

When Emily was little, I always worried that her birthday would be overshadowed by all of the fuss leading into Christmas. While other families would throw up all of their Christmas decor as soon as Thanksgiving was over, I would wait. I waited until at least December 15th before we bought a tree, we waited to play Christmas music, and we waited until the birthday balloons started deflating before replacing birthday decorations with Christmas decorations. Maybe to make up for our shorter Christmas season, I decorated like a fiend. Every surface was festive – for our first Christmas in Hawaii I even sprayed all the windows of the house with snow-in-a-can and sprayed the tree with pine scent. Palm trees be damned – inside our little house it was Christmas in Narnia. Decorating the house was a frantic activity, but I fiercely protected the days leading up to Emmy’s birthday because I always wanted her to feel that it was her special time that she didn’t need to share with anyone or anything. On January 6th, we would pull down the tree and put all the decorations away, having had a brief but glorious season. And all the while I patted myself on the back for successfully pulling off yet another birthday celebration for Emily without any interference. I felt like Wonder Woman, pulling off the annual feat.

One December, when Emily was a teenager (I think – memories are blurring), long before her birthday, she asked me, “Why do we wait so long to decorate for Christmas? Other families get their tree at the beginning of the month and they get to enjoy Christmas for so much longer than we do.” I was shocked. I replied, “Honey! I thought your feelings would be hurt if we decorated for Christmas and then your birthday would get squished by the season. Wouldn’t that bother you?” Uh, nope. I still shake my head, when I remember this, wondering why I never thought to ask her opinion. The joy on her face when I told her it was totally up to her when we would start setting up for the holidays, it just lit up the room.

Last Christmas, for the first time, Markus and the kids set up the house for the season. To hear them as they opened up the dozen or so storage bins filled with all of the decor was a glorious din. I was in my study, my head in my books, but every exclamation was crystal clear, as they pulled out ornaments they made in kindergarten and all of the others we had collected over the years. Dried macaroni glued to a cardboard star, painted with gold, with Emily’s smiling 6-year-old face beaming out of the center. More dried macaroni glued to construction paper, signed by 5-year-old Simon. Little glass globes painted with polka dots and rainbow colors, signed by little Hanna. All precious.

One family tradition we had was to buy five new ornaments every year. My end goal was to have a big box of ornaments to give to each child when they became adults as they set out to decorate their own trees in their own homes. Last Christmas, I tried to convince Emily that it was high time we boxed up her ornaments so she could have them for her new home this year. She teared up and insisted that it was too soon – we were going to have more Christmases together and she wanted her ornaments all mixed up with the others on our tree.

Then came 2020. At the beginning of the pandemic, the five of us huddled together and stayed well. In April, with the threat of the Canadian border closing and separating Emily from her Love, we forced her to pack up the car and head for Banff. We knew it was the right thing because her heart yearned to spend the rest of her life with Andrew, but we also knew it would tear her heart in half to leave us behind. Adulting is painful. We comforted each other every month as the border closure was extended, vowing that we would have Christmas all together this year.

So we decorated early again this month, long before Emmy’s birthday. Markus went out and bought the tallest tree he could find. We opened up our dozen boxes of decor and filled the new apartment with Christmas cheer. And we hung up the cardboard star, the dried macaroni, the little hand-painted globes, and all of the rest of the family ornaments. All the while, Emily and Hanna were in our hearts.

One of the hardest parts about growing up in our family is that our birthday celebrations are so joyful and full of love that when birthdays roll around in adulthood, there are pangs of homesickness that pierce through, no matter where you are. As the oldest, Emily has had to experience more of this than the younger ones, although Hanna and Simon both had their share in this awful year.

Today is Emily’s birthday. She knows that this Christmas won’t go as planned. She will remain in Banff with Andrew and his family, Hanna will be in Idaho with her Kristian and his family, and Simon, Markus and I will be here in San Francisco. Her heart is still torn, but she knows that in doing this, we will all be healthy enough to see each other in 2021. This year, on her birthday, she and Hanna are giving me the gift of safety. A priceless gift that I will always be grateful for.

In the Age of Pandemic what is age, except the perseverance and wisdom that comes from learning through experience? You might say that survival in 2020 is random – that only lucky people are spared from Covid-19 – but I know that it takes much more to survive and thrive. It takes willpower, patience, sacrifice, and hope. Add a sprinkling of good humor, a large dose of love, an appetite for knowledge, simmer for 28 years, and you have our lovely Emily. To give Emily and Andrew someone to share their hearts with, we helped them adopt their new furry baby girl, Roxanne, today. This is a birthday to remember. On this day, our darling Emmy was born, I’m a furbaby grandma for the 5th time as we welcome Roxanne Treppenhauer into the family, and we are Treppenhauer Strong in the face of a pandemic. Never before have we been further apart geographically, but closer together in our hearts. Happy Birthday, Emily! We love you forever, we like you for always, as long as we’re living, our baby you’ll be.

She’s 22, Holy Smokes!

Holy Smokes! The Assassin is now my lucky number-years old! Her day of birth was all about timing – so much unexpected timing. She was due on Halloween.  However, on the afternoon of the 17th, I got a phone call from my mom in Taiwan, telling me that her cancer had metastasized. My knee-jerk reaction was to tell her that she should come live with us (we lived in Monterey) so I could take her to Stanford for her treatments. Around midnight, Markus returned home from his job at Pacific’s Edge in Highlands Inn, having just enjoyed a big juicy burger with fresh onions. He crawled into bed and gave me a big, oniony kiss goodnight, and my waters broke. It could have been the earlier bad news, it could have been his breath, or maybe it was Hanna knowing she had to pop out because Nai-Nai would be there in a couple of weeks and would need my full attention. Unprepared, we scrambled to pack an overnight bag and drove out to the Community Hospital of the Monterey Peninsula.

The nurses checked me out in the maternity ward and announced that I wasn’t in full labor yet, but they generously gave me a room to wait it out. I was instructed to walk around to get things going. My contractions were meh but just enough to keep me awake. Finally, later that morning, they started a Pitocin drip to get the contractions kick-started. As the hours wore on and the contractions started getting more intense, they asked if I was interested in some pain relief, and I was like, “HELL YEAH!” They called for the anesthesiologist, but he was nowhere to be found, bah. I tried visualization to distract myself from the pain, envisioning myself on a lovely green mountain top, with a bubbling stream next to me…but I was starving by then, and visions of a juicy grilled steak kept popping up and interrupting my peaceful meditation. Then they went to call my obstetrician and discovered that he was on his annual fishing trip (Hanna wasn’t due for another two weeks), bah. Then, Markus started looking at the clock nervously, and I (tired, hungry, and in pain), yelled “WHAT! Are you in a hurry to go somewhere?!” His reply? “Ummmm, the 49ers have a game at 1 pm …do you think you can have the baby before that?” He was oh-so-lucky that I was on a nice Demerol drip at that point, so I laughed instead of hurting him.  

Every time the nurses went to check my cervix, it stubbornly showed little dilation, no matter how intense my contractions were. They would pat my shoulder and tell me that it would be hours, yet, until the baby came. Ha. They didn’t know my Hanna. All of a sudden, in the course of 20 minutes, I needed to push. The nurses just patted me some more and suggested I just needed to poop. Rolling my eyes, I shuffled over to the bathroom with Markus, where we promptly discovered that, no, it was not a poop that needed to be pushed out. Incredulous, the nurse helped me back to bed and rechecked me. Yup, full dilation. Since they hadn’t expected this, there was a huge kerfuffle about finding an OB/GYN who could sub for my doctor, and they told me that I wasn’t allowed to push until they found him/her. “Do your Lamaze breathing!” So, I’m in tremendous pain, the Demerol was useless at that point, and they still couldn’t find the anesthesiologist. Markus (still darting nervous eyes at the clock) allowed me to squeeze his hands to the breaking point. We found that if he also squeezed the sides of my head between his hands, there was some pain relief. Still, the pain felt unbearable. Then, while in the midst of huffing and puffing alongside me, in his attempt to be my Lamaze coach, Markus turned white and fell down on the floor. The nurses (I lost count how many were in the room at that point) rushed over to him, pulled the smelling salts down that was taped to the wall by my bed, and revived him. They settled him into a chair next to me and gently teased him, “Sir, you don’t need to do the actual Lamaze breathing; your wife does.” At that point, a tiny Asian man showed up at the doorway to my room and quietly asked, “Is there anyone here who needs an epidural?” I raised my hand, “ME ME ME!” The nurses told me that it didn’t make a lot of sense to get one at that point because the baby was well on its way, but I was like, “NOW NOW NOW!” So, the little man climbed up on the bed (he was that small) and stood over me while I hunched over in full labor so he could puncture my spine. He had terrible aim, so he had to try three times – he may have been nervous because of my “TRY AGAIN, OW, TRY AGAIN” while I was panting and Markus was squeezing my head while hissing “heee heeee heee HOOOOOO” to coach me…the scene was chaos. After the little man left, as I lay there praying for the epidural to miraculously work faster than it normally should have, Markus was desperate to give me some relief. He asked me, “tell me what you want, anything, to get you through this?” I replied, “A big juicy steak dinner, please!” Markus and the nurses giggled at me, not knowing I was totally serious.

The nurses found an OB/GYN who could deliver the baby, but she was a recent transfer to California and hadn’t yet gotten her California license to practice. Hence, she had to be on the phone with a licensed OB/GYN while she was delivering the baby. It was so odd to see her with the phone in the crook of her neck, nodding and saying, “Okay, yes, alright” in between her looking up at me and telling me when to push. Of course, it turned out that the nurses were correct about the epidural. I totally felt the Ring of Fire when Hanna’s head crowned, and I pushed that lovely baby out without any pain relief. The doctor’s face fell a little bit when she said, “oh, I’m sorry, I’m going to have to do a bit of stitching where you tore…” and then the epidural kicked in –  ahhhh, the bliss of numbness. They handed me my beautiful baby while Markus looked on, still white and queasy from fainting. Then, we looked up at the clock and burst out laughing. Hanna was born at 12:50 pm, just in time to watch the 49ers. 

Just in case you’re wondering, yes, the game played in my hospital room while I nursed Hanna for the first time. They lost (as they should have, for interrupting MY game day). Did I get my steak dinner reward? No. I got Jell-O – and not even lime Jell-O. Sigh. But I did get to have the most beautiful baby girl, one who has continued to provide me with unexpected delight over the past 22 years. She was kind enough, at two weeks old, to peacefully put up with being dragged back and forth to chemo sessions with my mom, slept peacefully through hours of waiting at different oncology appointments, and waited to have her bouts of colic until after my dad moved out to take over my mom’s care. She even put up with catching chickenpox from her big sister when she was two weeks old, sporting one big pockmark in the middle of her forehead.

Maybe all of that early life excitement helped to form her strong personality. Perhaps that’s why her hair stood up straight for the first six months of her life unless it was soaking wet. All I know is that she has grown up to be the strongest woman, with the toughest “can-do” determination of anyone I know. She knows her mind, and she will stop at nothing to achieve what she sets out to do. We should have known she would turn out this way when she started cutting her own hair at the age of three…no matter what we said and no matter where we hid the scissors…

I will leave you with a small home-video of that time period. Hanna’s best big sister, Emily, was the camera-man, and we were camping for the first time in Yosemite. Hanna’s bright light shone, even then (along with her little sidekick, Simon). HOLY SMOKES, Hanna! Happy Birthday! We love you forever, we like you for always, as long as we’re living, our baby you’ll be.

Birthday Survivor

What a contrast this day is to the same day 20 years ago! Simon’s day of birth couldn’t have been more perfectly planned or organized. His two sisters took us by surprise by arriving a few weeks early, but Simon seemed pretty happy hanging out in the womb until the last minute. So we were scheduled to have labor induced. I had time to leisurely pack my bag, shower, and even put on makeup. The girls made adorable artwork to hang on the walls by the hospital bed so they could cheer me up during the birth. I still have the crayoned happy-faced sun drawing from Emily, with “HAPPY LABER!” (sic) scrawled across the top. Markus and I checked into the maternity ward of the Community Hospital of the Monterey Peninsula (CHOMP) – no waiting required. It felt like checking into a hotel. I even posed for a pre-birth photo, looking happy and relaxed, knowing my baby boy was only hours away from joining us. The nurses were calm and soothing, gave me delicious drugs to ease the pain, and when the time came for my epidural, the anesthesiologist was right there to administer it. Markus didn’t faint this time around, because he was a pro labor coach by then, and Simon came into this world like a sunrise on a beautiful morning.

We had a few hiccups in the beginning, because Simon was unexpectedly born with syndactyly and ectrodactyly in his left hand. His index finger and thumb were fused, his middle and ring fingers were missing, and his pinky was missing its middle joint. Twenty years ago, there was scant information about the condition, so the first doctor to pop into our hospital room was a slick car salesman-like plastic surgeon from Carmel. “Nah, that’s not a problem, folks! I can just snip off a few toes and transplant them on his hands! Piece of cake!” *record scratch* Markus and I looked at each other with horror and politely declined his assistance. After our initial shock of learning about Simon’s condition, the doctor who delivered Simon referred us to the Medical Genetics department at the University of California San Francisco. Because Simon’s condition was unilateral, there was a lower risk of systemic abnormalities compared to bilateral conditions, but they wanted to check him from head to toe and inside and out. I think by then, he was about two months old – a roly-poly bundle of giggles and smiles. It’s funny – Markus and I had lost our initial alarm about Simon’s hand by then, and although we were concerned about his medical condition, all we could worry about that day was the fact that he hadn’t pooped in a couple of days. Sure enough, after charming every medical professional on the genetics team at UCSF, Simon had a diaper explosion. It was one of those overflowing diapers, so Markus and I were horrified, but the giant grin on Simon’s face made everyone around him laugh while we scurried to clean up the mess. At the end of a long day, the team pronounced him perfectly healthy and we drove back to Monterey with a big sigh of relief. 

When Simon was three months old, we were referred to the top hand surgeon in San Francisco, with the hope that he could advise us with how to best proceed with helping Simon have more functionality in his hand in the future. Would he be able to tie his shoes? Was there a miracle surgery out there to reconstruct his left hand to look like his right hand?  After examining the happy little baby, the doctor sat us down and said the most important thing to us that anyone has ever said to us before or since. He told us that even though Simon’s hand is different than other people’s hands, he will grow up knowing only his hand as it exists and will learn to do things his own special way. Therefore, he wasn’t the one that would need to adjust his attitude toward his special hand; we had to adjust our attitudes. The doctor told us that when Simon grew to be an adult, if he wanted to seek out new technology or innovative surgeries to change his hand, he could make his own decision. He told us to wait and see how Simon developed – he said we would be surprised by how innovative a person with a physical disability can be to adapt to adversity. The wise doctor was not wrong. Simon has led a blessed life, finding ways to overcome obstacles and thrive.

I’ve read about blind people whose sense of smell, hearing, and touch appears to be amplified in the face of their disability. In a similar way, Simon possesses an amplified level of compassion, optimism, and good humor. However, in this, his 20th year, he has been tested in awful ways. He was rolling along in his Freshman year at a school he picked specifically because they offered him a scholarship to throw javelin for their Track team. Because of the Pandemic, the season was canceled, with no great hope for a season in his Sophomore year. Classes were moved online, the border to Canada, where his girlfriend lived, was closed, and he ended up having to move home to self-isolate with us. Then his best furry friend since Kindergarten, Hercules, died suddenly. His girlfriend had no choice but to return to her home in Sweden after her Canadian visa expired. And just when we thought it couldn’t get worse, in June, my nephew died from a drug overdose. Death, grief, heartbreak. We almost didn’t think Simon would be able to regain any sense of well-being, but he slowly pulled himself up. 

We thought the unplanned chaos would come to an end this Fall, as he went in with five guys from school to rent a house close to the university. The plan was for them to all work out together and Simon to train for the hoped-for Track season in the Spring, while attending online classes. That plan was enough to ease some of the pain of his parents picking up and moving down to California. He was so excited to start the school year and to have companionship at his house. It all came to a screeching halt in the first week of living there. Simon didn’t know his housemates very well and started worrying when the consecutive days of all-night parties at the house revealed more than just beer. His housemates were into drugs. When he found that out, he tried keeping to himself in his room. One night a drug dealer came over with a gun. There was a confrontation, the dealer left and returned with friends, and they ended up fighting with Simon’s housemates in the street outside of the house. Understandably freaked out, Simon left the house to wait at a safe distance and saw a cop car approach the large group of young white men. Then, he watched white privilege in action, as the cops did not even get out of their car, and eventually drove away.  Later, he heard one of his housemates say he was going to go out to buy a gun and go after the guys they had been fighting. Knowing that there was nowhere for that situation to go but downhill, and fearing for his life, Simon hopped into his car and drove all the way to Seattle to stay with Hanna, our second daughter. Exhausted, but finally feeling safe after several sleepless nights, he fell into a deep sleep for hours. When he woke up, he told Hanna everything. Not wanting to worry us, they called our oldest daughter, Emily, who lives in Canada now. Together, the three of them talked it out until Simon could figure out what to do next. Feeling stronger, Simon finally called us and told us what had happened. All of this took place just last week.

Chaos. How do you wrangle it and make it your bitch? You call on the Assassin. Hanna, who earned that nickname as a young girl for a variety of reasons, rose to the occasion like the kickass woman I knew she would grow up to be. She welcomed Simon into her tiny studio apartment, and they have been the best roommates to each other for a week, now. This is Simon’s first birthday away from home, so she secretly told all of us to join a family Facetime early this morning, so we could sing our usually wake-up birthday song to him. She stayed up late last night to artfully wrap the presents we sent in several of her long-sleeved tee shirts. This morning, we all sang to him and watched him unwrap his presents. Then she took him out to breakfast and birthday gift shopping for some shoes. When they returned home, balloons and presents from Emily were waiting for him.

I have never, in my life, been prouder of my children. I don’t know about you, but I always used to worry about what would happen if my husband and I died at the same time. You know, flying in an airplane, or *cough cough* driving on a two-day car trip from Seattle to San Francisco, through wildfire-devasted countryside… Who would hold them up and support them during their grief? How would they respond to the traumatic event? Last week, I witnessed what would happen. My children would gather in close and support each other. They would openly love each other and hold each other up. I’ve had a glimpse of the future and I feel so relieved.

So this has been a horrible, chaotic year, all the way through. But that ends today. Today, my beautifully strong young son turned 20 years old. And the Treppenhauers are taking back control of the year. We are all going to return it to the beautiful, soothing, joyful day that Simon entered the world. It started with Hanna and Emily holding him close immediately following the craziness of last week. It continued with our lovely virtual family gathering this morning. It will be finalized by Markus flying out to help him move out of his room at the house, followed by a long drive to San Francisco, where he will finish the school quarter in a home void of drugs and guns. He has a new plan to start next quarter by renting a house with an actual friend – one he knows and trusts. His positive attitude is back in force. The wise doctor was spot on in predicting Simon’s future adaptability. Simon was so smart to steer clear of the dangerous situation he was living in. Sometimes the bravest thing a person can do is to walk away from danger, risking the loss of friendships in favor of Life. He spent so much of the year persevering in the face of adversity but saw the wisdom in accepting help when the burden became too heavy. And that is where our family shines – sharing the burden. We are stronger together and are always there for each other. Happy Birthday, Simon the Survivor. We love you and can’t wait to see you again and welcome you Home. 

A Snack-Sized Lesson Learned


In my critical thinking class, part of the assignment each unit is to write a blog post. For me, that’s like throwing a candy bar at a chocaholic. Woohoo! This is my first post. We studied how critical thinking could be used to help overcome cognitive biases. The professor took it easy on us for our first assignment. The paper we were assigned to write had to include three types of cognitive biases, and three real-world examples of them. The paper had to be written in a formal and scholarly tone, strict APA style, etc. So imagine me trying to tell personal stories in a formal and scholarly tone – pure torture, haha. Anyway, our blog posts are a way for us to de-brief, share our thoughts about the unit, etc. Thank goodness we can drop the scholarly tone… Here is my Psy501 Unit 1 Blog Post:

While writing for the assignment in this unit, I found myself struggling to keep a formal, scholarly tone. I was writing about personal stories to illustrate the cognitive biases, and as many of us do when re-telling stories, I naturally wrote with humor – the memories were funny because of how ridiculous they seemed. How could these people not see their biases affecting their behavior and decisions? After writing at least 15 pages (there were lots of details – and I talk/write too much), I realized I had to go back and edit the curse words, my descriptions, and the overall tone of the paper (e.g. I actually Googled “scholarly term for bum butt rear-end. It’s “buttocks” in case you ever need that for a research paper, haha). I ended up having to chop off large chunks of the paper, but I’m glad I honed the stories down to the important points. I was embarrassed to notice, in the process of editing, that my tone in the stories was very judgmental. “Oh, look at me, noticing how many people in my life are so ignorant to their own biases.” Thinking about ways to rewrite the stories in a more formal way made me slow down to examine my own behavior during the events that took place in the stories. It’s almost as if the delete button and the rewriting process caused me to re-process the events. I found myself questioning my past actions and wondering what I could have done or said to help remedy those situations.

One of the cognitive biases I wrote about was the bandwagon effect. The short version: In the early 2000s, while my oldest daughter was in high school, low-rise jeans became all the rage. Women everywhere wanted to be like the emaciated celebrities they saw in the magazines and walk around with their thongs in view and their butts hanging out. The thing is unless you had no backside and no bodyfat, they were so unflattering. Muffin tops – that’s where I first started hearing that term. Watching women waddle around, hitching up their pants every few yards in vain attempts to keep the pants from falling down only came second to the scary sight of healthy women with backsides sitting down. Plumbers had nuthin’ on them. So, these pants were uncomfortable and unflattering, but for some curious reason, teenage girls THRONGED to stores to buy them. My daughter was one of those teens who wanted desperately to wear low-rise jeans. Moms out there might be able to imagine my reaction. No. Way. She ended up getting around me not buying them for her, by saving up her babysitting money and buying them for herself. Then she spent two years waddling, tugging up her pants, and exposing WAY too much when she sat down. Today, she’s 27 and we laugh about it. She wonders what she was thinking. Whenever I ask her exactly what she WAS thinking, she can only come up with saying that everyone else was doing it…Bandwagon effect at its best.

So, it took me quite a while to re-write a decent version of the story that I could submit in the paper. I had a header titled “solutions” where I wrote how my daughter could have written a list, perhaps, with one side showing all the reasons she thought it was a good idea to have the pants, and on the other side, an equal number of carefully thought-out reasons opposing the idea. I wrote that it’s possible that the time it would take her to do that might slow down her thinking and cause her to re-examine her decision through reflection. I did NOT have her do that back then. I remember I just put my foot down and said there was no way she would wear them, telling her all the things I mentioned above. Many arguments, much crying, bad feelings all around.  While I wrote the “solution” section in my paper, it hit me: I should have done the very same thing I was proposing. I should have slowed MY thinking, used critical thinking skills, and made a similar list of my own. Only, my list should have included a section listing all the possible group decisions that my daughter could have made in lieu of bad fashion choices. I mean, in retrospect, having a teen who wants to jump on the bandwagon of poor fashion choices is harmless.  The bandwagon effect’s pull is strong –especially in teens. She could very well have chosen to join harmful group activities, like smoking, underage drinking, or drugs. Heck, there was a daycare at her high school, and it was a very Hawaiian thing for families to just take in the babies while the teens continued their activities without using birth control. So many things. So many possible scary bandwagons. Instead, back then, I went with my gut, using intuition, jumping to the decision to fight her on this harmless decision.

This unit has taught me a lot. I had previously learned about cognitive bias and thought I was self-aware and was good about avoiding most of the influences, but I had never taken the time to examine myself carefully and thoughtfully, using a different perspective. I’m not comfortable doing it, but now I’m going to do my best to slow down in the heat of the moment and step out of myself to re-examine what I’m thinking. Always growing, always learning.

See what I mean about talking too much? J

Not a Fairy Tale

Marriage is not a fairy tale. You start out full of hope – he makes you laugh. You think your love will conquer all, that love is all you need, and you’ll live happily ever after. You are wrong.

Within your first year he still makes you laugh, but you realize those little things you found annoying but bearable, like dirty underwear on the floor or the toilet seat up when you sit down to pee, are not so bearable while your bum is falling into the ice-cold toilet bowl in the middle of the night. By the seventh year, your young children are pulling you both in all directions and demanding your time; and while you have joy and laughter, you’re both sleep-deprived and short-tempered at times. By the 10th year, most of the time you two spend in bed involves less sex, less laughter, and more arguing and snoring. One of you might begin thinking it would be much easier to start a new life, away from the sight of dirty dishes and piles of laundry, the sound of nagging, and the feeling that the love has weakened and perhaps this is how it will be for the rest of your life…maybe you should leave. If you’re lucky, you’ll hesitate for a day. If you’re luckier, you’ll remember the laughter and hold off for a few weeks. If you’re luckiest, you’ll decide to work through the hard times and seek out professional help to repair and rebuild. There will be tears. There will be arguments. The children will hear you raise your voices and will see you cry. You might wonder if things will ever go back to the way they were. They won’t.

But accepting that things will never be the same may become the beginning of something new. One night, out on a date assigned by the marriage counselor, instead of realizing that you’re looking across the table at a stranger and getting a sinking feeling in your heart, you might realize you’re sitting across the table from a stranger and feel a quickening in your heart – who is this person and what are they thinking? What are their interests and what do they dream about? Do your interests and dreams align? You’ll find new things to make you smile and eventually laugh. Since this person is new to you, you’ll search for novel ways to entertain him. He will do the same. Because you’re both strangers, you’ll be polite. You’ll speak carefully and try to be considerate of his feelings. Sometimes you’ll remember sad times or past anger and it will boil over into confrontation, but you’ll both want to hold on to the new pleasure in your new lives, so you will start over. A year will pass and the new you will feel more secure. Your children will see you holding hands and having conversations. They will see you supporting each other and working to keep the family healthy.

By the 15th year, just when things are going great, your marital issues might take a back burner to the emerging teenager issues in your children. After butting heads with teenaged fury, you might turn to each other and find strength and solidarity. More importantly, he still finds ways to make you laugh and you hope that this stage will eventually pass. You both realize that you must take great care to nurture your relationship so you can both see this through and come out on the other side still holding hands.

Three months before your 18th wedding anniversary, you might find a lump in your breast. Suddenly you’re faced with losing everything. You look back and recognize that every moment you spent with him, even the painful ones, were precious. You feel desperate to live so you can have more of those moments. So, you fight. You fight crippling fear. And he is there next to you, holding your hand, making you laugh, helping you fight through the pain. He is with you as you both fight for your life. And when you have no more strength or hope, he gives you his. Each surgery becomes less fearful. Each time you wake up in a hospital, he is there with a cool cloth for your forehead and kisses for the rest of you. He reassures you that you’re beautiful inside and out, no matter what happens to your body. And he can’t help himself – he makes you laugh. You laugh until your stitches hurt, you laugh through your tears, and you laugh until you are healed.

In the second decade of your marriage, you could find yourself embarking on a new journey. You’ve given half of your life to your children and it’s time to take care of yourself. Your dream is big, and you know there will be sacrifices. You go back to school. You begin to feel a sense of déjà vu as dinners fall by the wayside and laundry starts piling up. The arguing begins and you wonder if maybe this time around things may not end well. You remember his unhappiness earlier in the marriage, when times were tough and he wanted to escape, and you’re filled with dread. What you don’t remember is that he’s not the same man you married. Time has changed him into a man who wants what’s best for you and the decades have forged in him a strength of character that would make sure your dreams come true. To your delight, he rolls up his sleeves and folds the laundry. Every time you turn around there are fresh flowers in a vase on your desk and handwritten loving post-its stuck on your computer. To your amazement, he’s a fantastic chef and he brings you your dinner while you are studying at your desk, many times accompanied by glasses of champagne. And to your astonishment, he considers it reasonable to contemplate a time in the near future when you will attend graduate school in a different town when you might have to drive several hours just to steal a weekend with each other. His exciting plans to sneak away from the house and race through the night have you giggling like you’ve just started dating.

Marriage is not a fairy tale. You start out full of hope – he makes you laugh. You think your love will conquer all, that love is all you need, and you’ll live happily ever after. You’re wrong. The prince doesn’t wake the princess with a simple kiss, he shakes her awake and she’s grumpy and she might have bad breath and she doesn’t know his name and they have to take time to get to know each other and maybe just maybe they have a chance to truly fall into genuine love. Even then, they don’t immediately go riding off into the sunset without a care in the world. First, they must fight through a wall of thorns, side-by-side, bleeding and crying. Love doesn’t fight thorns. Willpower, grit, and patience get you through that. There might be dragons to slay and fire to fight. Love doesn’t help you fight dragons, courage does. What love does is fuel all of that willpower, grit, patience, and courage. Love is not the How, it’s the Why. Only after all of that, scarred and older, do the prince and princess have a chance for a ride into the sunset and a happy ending. Marriage isn’t a simple fairy tale, it’s an epic legend.

Happy 23rd Anniversary, Markus. I love you!

Just a Spoonful of Sugar

It’s been a while since I’ve had a chance to sit down and write. What better time than when procrastinating the night before a midterm?

The dreaded Shitty Anniversary has come and gone, of Valentine’s day in 2014 when I discovered a lump in my right breast. It’s a private scary anniversary that I usually don’t share with anyone else because it was just my lump (remember we named it Barnard? HA) and me in the shower alone, that morning, and there really isn’t anything to celebrate. I mean, I guess I could buy myself some chocolates, or better yet, cheese to mark the occasion…

Funny thing, though, this year I actually forgot. Do you know how buzzingly amazing that feels, to realize that I accidentally sailed through the day without a dark thought in my head? In fact, I was just coming off an all-nighter, heading to bed at 5am after working on a research proposal for one of my classes, when I bumped into my furry man who had an armful of red roses and a sweet arts and craft project he had made with his own hands (and his hands bore proof of his battle with the glue-gun – just covered in dried strings of glue). I was woozy from sleep-deprivation and so bowled over with love that I didn’t take the usual moment to link Valentine’s Day with Doomsday 2014. And for the rest of the day, I was either sleeping or running around for my night class; just too busy to think about anything else.fullsizeoutput_76fe Maybe because we decided to celebrate our romantic dinner that weekend due to work and school or maybe because life seems so full and busy now that I don’t have the time to ruminate…whatever the reason, I never connected my bad memory to my new reality this year. That is, I didn’t connect them until tonight.

I’m taking a health psychology class and every week we cover health issues that have some kind of psychosocial aspect to the preventative, treatment, and post-treatment sides of care. Last week we studied substance abuse and addiction and I didn’t really feel a connection, even though I was a child of two chain-smoking parents for 18 years. Cigarette smoking makes me angry and being a hostage to second-hand smoke didn’t do much to contribute constructively to my discussion that week. This week we are studying cancer and other chronic life-threatening illnesses. My assignment tonight? I posted it below. It’s an informal assignment posted to our discussion board online, so we are free to personalize. The page numbers in parentheses are references to our text, please excuse them. Writing this little post for class brought back some bad memories that brought a lump to my throat. The difference this year is that the bad memories feel so far away as to be almost blurred by time. I’m so glad I took the time to record what I was feeling as I lived through that journey – it’s good for me to re-read it sometimes to remind myself that I’ve still got that strength within me. GANBARU, Friends. And I give thanks for the sweet return of the true meaning of Valentine’s day.


Chapter 11, Question 3: Use what you have learned in this chapter to write a checklist about positive ways in which people have learned how to cope with cancer. This checklist could be a valuable resource for someone you know (or even for yourself) one day.

  • Be your own best advocate and strengthen yourself with knowledge. Read about your specific cancer, making sure to use your critical thinking and using .gov, .org, reputable websites for information.  (Links to an external site.)and  (Links to an external site.)are both excellent sources of information and have links to support groups and forums where you can meet others in similar situations. As a supplement to your local support system, this can be a great way to pass the time when you are up all night worrying about what’s next (p.340).
  • Be informed about your treatment options and don’t be afraid to ask your doctors and nurses to explain anything you don’t understand. If you learn as much as you can before doctor visits, discussing treatment plans won’t feel as overwhelming and you will feel less helpless and more in control (p. 339). Cancer might have control of part of you, but you have control of choosing many different ways to kick its ass.
  • If you have many friends and members of your family offering their “thoughts and prayers” and asking you what they can do to help, swallow your pride and honestly tell them what you need, even if it’s help picking up the kids from school or lugging heavy baskets of laundry in your house. If you’re lucky, your social support will include genuine people who just need you to tell them what you need – sometimes that is simply the comfort of having them come with you to your doctor appointments. If you have a significant other, include that person from the very beginning of your journey – be honest about how you feel while remembering they may be as, if not more, scared as you are. You’ll be stronger if you can lean on each other (p.340).
  • If your cancer treatments do not include mental health therapy, ask for referrals to a therapist who is experienced with helping recently diagnosed patients with traumatic diseases. Your emotional intelligence is a major factor in your survival (p. 336). If you aren’t already self-aware and able to regulate your emotions in a healthy manner, it is important that you find an expert who can help you learn. If they offer guided imagery and mindfulness-based stress-reduction strategies, take them up on their offer – they can go a long way towards improving your quality of life (p. 341).
  • Don’t forget to eat well and to be as physically active as you are able. Your body is fighting its biggest battle and it needs the fuel and the strength to win. The protein, fruits, and vegetables will help you heal after surgery and the exercise will keep your heart strong while helping to combat depression and anxiety (p. 178). But remember, as well, that your body also needs rest to fight and heal. Don’t be embarrassed to admit you might need to nap or that you are tired and would like to just sit and do what makes you happy.
  • There are going to be many times when you will feel overwhelmed and anxious. The American Cancer Society has a hotline open 24/7, manned with supportive people who can find resources for you and help you cope. 1-800-227-2345
  • Not everyone has friends and family who live close by. It can be some of the more tiring parts of dealing with cancer, trying to field all the well-wishing phone calls and emails asking for updates on your progress. I kept in touch with mine by blogging my journey ( (Links to an external site.)). As I faced the unknown,  fought through the ugly realities of several surgeries, and even when I passed the danger and found good health, my writing helped me. It can be cathartic, pouring out fear or grief (p.342). After a short time, I began to find things to laugh about on the journey, and my stories became lighter and more hopeful. In the end, seven of my friends reached out to me separately, to let me know that through reading my story they were compelled to go in for their own mammograms. Four of them found very early stage breast cancer or DCIS (early stage growth that can possibly develop into carcinoma) and only had to have minimally invasive treatments to beat their cancer. Helping myself ended up spreading awareness and helping others – it made me feel stronger and encouraged me to continue pushing forward. This kept my attitude positive and may have helped me increase my post-traumatic growth (p. 338).

Birthday Assassin


October 18, 2018

0-20 in the blink of an eye. This year’s birthday theme has to be Friends and Family; the Assassin has learned so much about both during her adventures over the past 365 days.

Previously, we saw our hero as a tiny baby with a shock of thick black hair that stood straight up like a troll doll. It was a message from the Universe that we cluelessly ignored – the message was, “Look out, World! You think her hair stands out? Wait until you meet her personality!” I have vivid memories of a fierce little toddler, making mud pies in the back of her Cozy Coupe, while chatting with her imaginary friends Bigaloo and Tigaloo. If one were so stupid as to brush off her friends with impunity, such as forget to set places for them at the dinner table, Hanna would roar and demand that they be included. One summer while we were visiting family in Germany, Opa made a terrible mistake. He found 2-year-old Hanna playing in the cellar, chattering away, opening cupboard doors and peeking inside them. He tut-tutted, shut the doors of the cupboard, and was about to shoo Hanna upstairs when the siren went off.  Hanna’s howling brought me running downstairs, only to discover Hanna stomping her feet, gesturing wildly, and exclaiming to Opa, “Bigaloo and Tigaloo are stuck inside! Open the doors, OPEN THE DOORS!” That day, Opa learned that nobody messes with Hanna’s friends, NOBODY, hoo boy!

Today, that wild child is a member of the Alpha Phi sorority at UW. Her sorority sisters are her best friends; they are her Bigaloos and Tigaloos. Their friendship gave her the courage in her Freshman year, to face the other 47,391 students at her giant school, even though she was a small-town girl who had mostly attended schools with populations of just a few hundred students. She and her circle of friends have not only survived into their Junior year of college, they have CONQUORED those years. And unlike imaginary friends, these friends are there for Hanna when she needs them.  When she thought she could swing from the rafters in their vacation home this March and found out she was wrong and ended up with a dislocated, broken shoulder 6 hours from home in Oregon, it was a sorority sister who drove her the several hours to the airport so she could fly home for her surgery. After her surgery, when she was laid up on the couch in pain, her sorority sisters drove out from the city to cheer her up and give her a care package full of chocolate. During the following 6 weeks Hanna had to attend classes with an immobilized right arm. She was miserable because not only could she not write with her dominant hand, she also couldn’t use it to do basic things like wash up or put on makeup; she felt helpless and embarrassed. Once again, her sorority sisters pulled through, helping her with everything; even drawing on her eyeliner.

Throughout Hanna’s life, we in the family found that she required a certain amount of time to herself; she didn’t really enjoy all the squishing hugs and kisses we throw around in our house. She played with us to a point, then she would need to chill out on her own. We knew she loved us, but we had to respect her independence and her differences. This year, however, has been a year of glorious affection from Hanna. She has come out of her shell and jumped right into the Treppenhauer way of PDA. She chats with Emily more now than she has in all previous years combined, showing us that she understands the big difference between sister and SISTER, and when all three kids are together, the house is filled with laughter from morning to night. The year has been filled with family vacations, a Father/Daughter trip to San Francisco, and more time at home than the previous two years combined. Perhaps it is a sign of her advancing age, perhaps it was the pain and urgency of her broken shoulder; whatever the reason, I am over the moon to have the extra hugs and kisses and the frequent visits from school.

This year has been a crash course in Living for the Assassin. She learned that school can be really difficult, but if she works hard and has flexible coping strategies she can excel. She learned that rafters are not for gymnastic stunts if one is not a gymnast. She learned that friendship is not only about having fun during the good times, that it is also about being there for each other during the bad times. And somewhere along the way, she learned that her family is her rock; that we are Love and Friendship and everything in-between.

And Hanna isn’t the only one getting schooled this year. In this busy house (all five of us are attending college!) we have learned that while school and work might dominate our lives, our family is precious and worth the difficulty of having to squeeze time together out of our hectic schedules.  I always thought I would see less of my children when they went away to school; it used to make me feel a little bit sad and lonely.  Tonight, we will have all five members of our family under one roof, for the first time all together on Hanna’s birthday since 2011. Tonight, we celebrate 20 years with Johanna Charlotte Treppenhauer – This year is not only the Chinese Year of the Dog, it is also the Year of the Assassin! Happy Birthday, Hanna, we love you and are so proud of you!



Nature is 17

September 9, 2017

Today is one of the 3 days in the year when all bad thoughts leave me.  In almost 50 years of living, I have naturally accumulated a fair amount of bitterness and regret, but on this day I am always awash with joy.  On this day, I get to enjoy the fruits of my labor; literally.  Our not-so-little boy turns 17 today, and celebrating birthdays is one of my favorite parts of this job. It’s the time of year that gives me the fuel to zoom through the year ahead.

You hear it all the time, “Parenting is a thankless job.”  When they are young, you will follow one kid to pick up the mess, and have another kid following you, making even more of a mess behind you. When they are potty training, you find yourself asking every 15 minutes “Do you need to pee? How about now? How about now?  Ah shit, you already peed in your pants, eh?” And you wash the wet sheets, pants, undies, chair, carseat, etc., over and over and over… When they start Kindergarten, you let them go with your heart in your throat, frantically wondering if they will remember what you taught them; to listen to the teacher, to play nicely with others, and to try not to pee in their pants. You pick them up after school, and then you begin the many years of Homework Hell.  “Do you have homework?” “Don’t forget to do your homework.”  “Do your homework before you go out with your friends.” “I don’t care what time it is now; you need to finish your homework!” “You say you forgot your homework on the kitchen table?  I’ll bring it to school for you…*sigh*” And there will never be enough food in the world to fill their bottomless stomachs. The Hungry Caterpillar ain’t got nuthin’ on growing children.  At least the caterpillar couldn’t whine, “I’m HUNNGGRRRYYYY!” all day long. In between meals, there are life lessons you try to teach every day; you try to teach them about honesty, integrity, loyalty; you encourage them to do their best, to be creative, to have fun, to not give up. You hope these things stick, but you don’t have x-ray vision, so you don’t know.

Then, seemingly overnight, they spin a Teenage Chrysalis, waking up with dark moods and melancholy, filtering the world through the walls of their hormone-filled cocoon.  There are times when no amount of logic will penetrate, everything you do is wrong, and it seems as if all the love you offer is unwanted. You look in the mirror and wonder why you chose to stay at home to endlessly cook and clean for kids who seem not to care. You feel like you are talking to zombies when you do your best to teach them how to make good choices, how to be responsible, and how to be kind.  Even after you send them off to college, you occasionally hear news of crazy times and behavior that makes you cringe and wonder if they ever listened to you at all.

As a full-time Stay-at-Home Mom, there are still many days when I hiss to myself, “And I do this to myself…FOR FREEEEE?!” Where are our paychecks? Where is my 401K and who will match it for me?  Every two weeks, most of you get some cold hard cash for your efforts in the workplace. Over the past 24 years, I have been given pee on the floor, vomit in my hands, chunks of self-cut hair, bubblegum stuck under tables, and dried boogers stuck on walls.  Try buying a nice pair of shoes with that.

But this job does have great benefits.  When they were young and I threw up my hands, fed up with the never-ending need for cleaning, only then did I notice that the kids were playing together, laughing great big belly laughs that made me grin. When little Simon was potty training, he ran around naked all day, stuttering and lisping, “NO C-C-C-C-CLOTHETH!  I AM NATURE! Nature d-dd-doethn’t need no clotheth!”  And when I woke up in the middle of every night to carry him to the bathroom so his little bladder wouldn’t wet the sheets, his head would lay heavily on my shoulder and he would sleepily whisper, “I luh-yoo Mama.” In Kindergarten, I had extra fear and anxiety – would the other kids tease him about his special (Ectrodactyly) hand? Would he be sad because he could never swing on the monkey bars like the other kids?  Instead, ever-sunny Simon came home and crowed, “BEST FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL EVER!” And Homework Hell?  Ok, I admit it –  I’m still suffering in it.  Nobody is perfect, eh? But this year, he seems to have a new resolve to try harder and hasn’t repeated his usual lines from the last year (“school is boring – what am I going to need the memorized Table of Elements for in my real life?!”). He is still my Hungry Caterpillar – never NOT hungry – very Hobbit-like with his second breakfasts, and suppers following dinners. He keeps track of his macronutrients and avoids trans fats and sugar like a mature adult, but his weakness for Nutella betrays the little kid inside. He is a body-building machine, but isn’t such a fanatic that he would say no to a spam musubi. Simon couldn’t avoid spinning and living in the dreaded Teen Chrysalis for the past couple of years, with its dark package of moodiness and short temper; but he wouldn’t be human otherwise. It’s part of his differentiating and it is the actual Pain in Growing Pains. Having survived 2 other teens, we know the light at the end of the tunnel is fast approaching so we will indulge him every now and then. Even now, he is already more thoughtful and self-reflective…quicker to apologize and slower to anger.

We’ve tried to teach him everything he needs to become what we have always wished for our children: to be a kind person who stands up for those who cannot do for themselves, and a thoughtful person who tries his best to contribute Good to the world.  Lofty goals for a little boy. I still don’t have x-ray vision, so I still don’t know if all of our lessons truly stuck.  But when he came home to tell us about a bully hitting another boy last year, and how he pulled that bully off of the boy and stuck up for the boy, I thought, “Loyalty-CHECK. Kindness-CHECK” When we spent this summer trying to tempt him to come away and vacation in fun places with us, and he responded with, “Aw, I wish, but I don’t want to let the coaches down. They want us to go to workouts every day – I can’t be a slacker” I thought, “Honesty-CHECK. Integrity-CHECK. Trying his best-CHECK.” When Simon loves, he loves big.  He loves being a linebacker, he loves throwing the javelin, he loves anything that makes him laugh, he loves his friends, and he loves his family.  He’s a hulking 6 feet tall and never hesitates to stoop down and give his short little parents hugs and kisses, no matter where we are.  His voice is an octave lower now, but he is still not afraid to holler, “I LOVE YOU!” even if he’s on a busy street or surrounded by other kids at school.

So there you have it. The pay sucks, there’s no health insurance, and the last of the benefits is 2 years away from heading off to college. Sniff.  Today, however, the fruit of my labor woke up with a big smile on his face from helping his team win the varsity football game last night.  He will sit at the Birthday Breakfast Table, inhale his requested Eggs Benedict breakfast, and be thankful to open his birthday gifts. Since it is just the 2 of us for this birthday this year, he will be sad without the rest of the family to celebrate with him; but because he is my sunny Simon, he will make the best of it and try to make me laugh.  Did I actually complain about no paycheck in this career of mine?  PAYcheck?!  I don’t need no stinkin’ Paycheck! I also don’t really need x-ray vision – I have 3 loving, grown children, who are living proof that I did my job well.  Happy 17thBirthday, Nature!  And don’t forget that I luh-yoo too, Simon.


Emmy’s Glue

December 13, 2018

You know Elmer’s Glue? We have Emmy’s Glue. When our family gets fractured, when we struggle to like each other, Emily reminds us that we are one. She is the only person I know who truly loves unconditionally.  If you have a heart, she has room in her heart for you.

Most kids grow up and escape to college, relieved to have the freedom that comes with living away from home. Emily left home with great reluctance, so terribly homesick. Maybe it was because the five of us had to pick up and move every few years of our lives, but the kids grew up best friends. Even though Emily is six years older than Hanna and eight years older than Simon, they are bound fast together. Emily wished so desperately for a sister and brothers when she was in preschool. She would beg every day, telling us that she met her two brothers and one sister as they all stood in line up in Heaven, waiting to come down to become our family.  She would tell us, “Hurry up, they’ve been waiting a long time!” When we finally had Hanna and Simon, it was like Christmas had come early for her. They couldn’t have asked for a better big sister. I like to think that even though we may have had children without the nudging of our cute little kindergartener, they may not have been these particular ones. After all, these ones were hand-picked by Emily up in Heaven. We didn’t know we needed it, but she gave our family new life.

Life has been tough at times, teaching Emmy strength while she struggled. She has had her heart broken by a boy, she has lost pieces of her heart when good friends have died, and she has had to tackle things in her twenties that most people won’t face until their sixties. How many of you got a call in the summer of your 22ndyear, telling you to drop your job and leave your boyfriend behind, so you could move home and help your mom recover from cancer? How many of you, facing the first Easter with your little brother and sister alone, worrying about your mom having surgery, managed to arrange the most amazing Easter egg hunt ever? Before the kids woke up, she had tied an end of yarn to each of them and they had to follow their lengths of yarn allllll over the house and garden to finally come upon their Easter baskets. They all described it to me later in the week, and I can just picture the spiderweb of colored yarn, crisscrossing through the house. She kept them busy and entertained, so there was no time to worry about me – pure genius.

When Emily went back to school that Fall, she realized that she really had enjoyed living at home.  Unfortunately, we moved to the Seattle area shortly after that, leaving her to finish university in Canada. We tried to fly her home or go out to visit her as often as we could, but goodbyes just got harder for her. Her birthday mornings boiled down to Facetime calls from us, singing Happy Birthday to her, and gifts and flowers sent via When it was time for our birthdays, we would Facetime her into our breakfast celebrations and she would look on with longing. Whenever she visited, I could see that every moment was precious to her. Things as simple as walking the dog or having a family dinner were special events for her that she experienced and stored in her heart to remember on a lonely day in Calgary. When she was home, we all laughed more, loved more, and were reminded of how we shouldn’t take each other for granted. Every time we brought her to the airport to fly back to Calgary, she melted into tears to have to say goodbye again. We started telling her to stay.

Finally, when the flights home started becoming a monthly appointment, we started nagging her to move to Seattle the way she nagged us to have babies…” You’re gonna LOVE it!” “I promise to help!” “This is going to be so much FUN!” She finally gave in, transferred to Gonzaga University graduate school, and Markus drove her home to us with her two cats in tow on September 29th. She found a full-time job using her compassion and communication skills at the family-owned funeral home across the street and is acing her master’s program at Gonzaga. She walks home every day for lunch, and I love hearing her cheerful voice sing out, “I’m home!” when she walks in the door.

This morning, our whole family woke her up by singing Happy Birthday in-person. We brought her down to the breakfast celebration table and she ate homemade carrot cake decorated by Hanna. She unwrapped all her presents, ate Germany eggs, and drank lots of coffee to try to wake up. Then, she had to run to work. It was a hard day at work because she helped to conduct a viewing for a local boy who was Hanna’s age. Her compassion and empathy provide comfort to many, and the one thing that keeps her strong is her knowledge that she has us. She can afford to give away love, because she knows she will come home and be replenished.

Her Master’s thesis is shaping up to be something along the lines of the extent our society denies death and subsequently fears death. She believes death is a normal part of our journey and that it should be approached with peace, not fear. Using proper communication and leaning away from the sensationalized images of death from the media, we should be able to lift the stigma of death and change its taboo status. At the end of every work day, she comes into my office to sit down and share stories of what she experienced. Seeing dead people in-person is a shock and takes time to adjust to. She is doing an admirable job. It is such a pleasure to have lovely long conversations with this well-spoken, thoughtful young woman.

Finally, tonight, we all sat down to a delicious fondue feast prepared by Hanna and Markus and listened to Simon’s shocking work story. Forget dead people. He works at Gold’s Gym and today he helped thwart a robbery by a small group of young guys who have been committing a string of robberies at other Gold’s Gyms in the surrounding area. As we all exclaimed our shock and we broke out into chatter about how brave Simon was, I looked around and was struck by how brave we all are. There was a threat of a school shooting in our neighborhood just yesterday. There was an emailed threat at Hanna’s university today. There was a young man in a casket at Emily’s work, who died from fentanyl-laced drugs, leaving his family to grieve forever.

The world is fracturing. While we aren’t paying attention, we are growing more distant, it is becoming easier to say harsh things to one-another without empathy, and groups of people are shutting out others just because they are different. We all could use some Emmy’s Glue. Smile at a stranger, say hello when you walk into a room, hug the people you love and tell them you love them before you say goodbye.

Happy Birthday to our sweet Emily – we thank you for keeping our family stuck together. I’m so sorry I’m a few hours late. I l-o-v-e-y-o-u, my E-m-i-l-y!


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