A couple of weeks ago I had a very clear memory of Carlita. It was as if I had just seen her; the feeling of her was crisp and bold. I wish it could be like that every day. But I think part of the healing from the grief of losing her is that most of the time the memory of her is fuzzy and soft in my mind.
A couple of people asked me if I was going to write anything today - this anniversary of Carlita's death - in this deserted blog. It was good to come here and remember her and remember some of what I have come through. God is faithful. I haven't cried over Car for months...until today. But God has brought me a lot of healing over the last two years. I am thankful for that. Today is a difficult day, but the pain has been eased a great deal.
There is nobody like Carlita. No one can take her place in my life. She was unique and a delight. She was stronger than she thought she was. She was an encouragement to me.
Thanks God for sharing her with us for a while.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Happy Birthday Carlita
We had a birthday gathering at the Scothorn's house tonight to remember Carlita and to have something to do on what would have been her 40th birthday. It was good to talk about her with some other people and to have something to do with myself other than having a pity party by myself. I was very surprised at how many people remembered her birthday and came to be together. Carlita's mom (who "flies" south for the winter and so was not there) was doing something similar in Arizona with some of her friends. I guess she was going to take a birthday cake. We did not have a birthday cake, but Diane very thoughtfully made a lovely pie. A very Carlita-ish pie. I think if we had had a birthday cake, I would have just cried. It would just feel too morbid for me, no offense Caroline. I wish Caroline could have been there with us tonight. But of course the even bigger wish is that none of this had happened and we really were gathering to celebrate, with Carlita, her 40th birthday.
I tried to go to Carlita's grave site before the "party" but we got there just as they were closing the gates. I have only been there once but Micah and Maddie and Brian and Nathan and Hannah were all there with me. I would like to be able to go there and just be by myself sometime, but it is a long drive and just hasn't happened yet. The permanent marker is finally there, Aaron told me. He had them put on it in Spanish, "onward and upward." I guess it was a Spanish phrase that a friend of theirs used a lot that Carlita liked. She also enjoyed speaking in Spanish, so Aaron put it on the marker. Very good choice, in my opinion. Another thing Aaron has done well in the midst of all of this.
I tried to go to Carlita's grave site before the "party" but we got there just as they were closing the gates. I have only been there once but Micah and Maddie and Brian and Nathan and Hannah were all there with me. I would like to be able to go there and just be by myself sometime, but it is a long drive and just hasn't happened yet. The permanent marker is finally there, Aaron told me. He had them put on it in Spanish, "onward and upward." I guess it was a Spanish phrase that a friend of theirs used a lot that Carlita liked. She also enjoyed speaking in Spanish, so Aaron put it on the marker. Very good choice, in my opinion. Another thing Aaron has done well in the midst of all of this.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
MAMMOGRAM
That word elicits pictures in my mind of women telling their horror stories of how bad it hurt, or the ridiculous things the tech says to them while they are having it done. The word alone is enough to send shivers down the spine of any woman. Mammogram stories are kind of like birth stories. All gruesome and horrific with a touch of pride at how bad it was.
Well, I am here to tell you, that I had my first mammogram today(all normal, thank you, Jesus!), and it was a piece of cake, no problem, don't sweat it.
However the whole experience was a story worth telling, in my opinion.
I checked in at the "Breast Center" at Saint V's Hospital and sat down to wait to be called. Soon a tech came and called, "Miss Friesen!?!" I didn't mention that I have never been Miss Friesen, only Mrs. I followed her back and she showed me into a dressing room. This was not your ordinary dressing room that you would find at Macy's or Ross. This was a real room. A very small room, but a room nonetheless. Solid walls from floor to ceiling, with a solid wood door (oak, maybe?). In this room there was a shelf with spray crystal deodorant, wipes and Kleenex; a garbage was under the shelf; on the wall was a full length mirror; there was a built in bench with a cushion on it, next to the bench were two tall oak lockers. These lockers both had locks with keys hanging out of them and on the keys were those key rings that are like a telephone cord. The type you can put on your wrist so that you don't loose your keys. The mammogram tech said that I needed to undress from the waist up, put the gown on, tying it in the front and then she told me that I could either put my belongings in one of the lockers or that I could bring them with me.
I chose the locker.
Let me tell you, I loved that locker.
There is something so unwelcoming about going to the dentist or the doctor and you look around and there is not even a hook on the wall to hang a purse or a poofy winter coat. So you go to put the gown on and you try to put all of your stuff on the one chair in the room. As neatly as you try to stack things there on that pathetic chair (with underwear discreetly hidden under your pants) it usually all falls off in an unsightly mess on the floor.
Not at Saint V's Breast Center!
But wait! There is more! I haven't even told you about the gown yet!
Hospital gowns are made to be very unflattering. No matter how beautiful and healthy you are, a hospital gown will make you look pasty and like you suddenly gained 50 pounds. There is no way to be truly modest in one. There is always a gape somewhere and the material is so thin you don't need x-ray vision.
Not at Saint V's Breast Center!
The gown waiting on the bench in the dressing room was a blue mid thigh length robe. I must have seen 8-10 different women in these robes while I was there and we all looked respectable. They were even sort of flattering in a kimono sort of way.
So the nice woman tech came to get me. I walked down the hall feeling like a queen in my kimono with my key jangling at my wrist. She took me to a mammogram room and started asking me questions. I sort of freaked out as my doctor had said that I was to get an ultrasound and then if need be I would get a mamm. Well, this tech just dove right in for the mamm. At that point I was pitting out in my kimono because I was so nervous about having a mammogram. I was hoping that the ultrasound would be conclusive and that I would get to escape the mamm machine for at least 7 more years. She took me back to the waiting area while she got this all straightened out.
Now this was not the main waiting area, this was the waiting area for women in blue kimonos.
In this waiting room, there are four chairs sitting in a square facing each other. There are of course the magazines, but there is also a tv that was thankfully turned off. Right next to this sitting area is a coffee and tea bar where you can go and help yourself to whatever you would like to drink.
So I grabbed a magazine and plopped down in a chair in one of the four corners with three other women in the other chairs. We all sat there with our eyes glued to our magazines, pretending that we were just by ourselves or maybe waiting for a perm. But these chairs were set up in such a way that it looked like we were supposed to be having a great discussion with the other ladies, not sitting there pretending they didn't exist. I smiled at one lady and quickly looked away, not wanting anyone to see that I had broken protocol.
Pretty soon, I was taken back for the ultrasound. It showed nothing, so back to the waiting room until another tech came to get me for the mammogram. By that point, I had resigned myself to it and was very calm about it.
Something to know about me: I don't really like pain very much. I avoid it at all costs generally.
So, there I was, 33 years old, having my first mammogram.
And yes, it squeezed, but not bad. Yes, the tech acted like she was just pulling a book out of my chest to put it on the metal plate, but she was respectful with my book. Yes, after she had squeezed me in there and gone behind her protective shield, she told me to hold my breath which in the squeeziness was already being mostly held. But it doesn't take long and it didn't squeeze too hard.
First the mamm machine squeezed it like = then the tech made it do a little spin and she squeezed me in it again like .
When I was all done, back to that silly waiting room again. This time, an elderly woman came toddling in saying that she had left her cup of coffee there earlier. I pointed and said, "Here it is!" with a cheesy smile on my face, happy that someone had broken the silence. She sat down and we continued our silent magazine reading vigil.
Then, a different hospital person of some sort came and said, "Miss Friesen!?!" We went to my little dressing room and closed the door. There she told me that all was well (hoooray!) and that I don't need another mammogram until I am 40.
Something to look forward to!
Well, I am here to tell you, that I had my first mammogram today(all normal, thank you, Jesus!), and it was a piece of cake, no problem, don't sweat it.
However the whole experience was a story worth telling, in my opinion.
I checked in at the "Breast Center" at Saint V's Hospital and sat down to wait to be called. Soon a tech came and called, "Miss Friesen!?!" I didn't mention that I have never been Miss Friesen, only Mrs. I followed her back and she showed me into a dressing room. This was not your ordinary dressing room that you would find at Macy's or Ross. This was a real room. A very small room, but a room nonetheless. Solid walls from floor to ceiling, with a solid wood door (oak, maybe?). In this room there was a shelf with spray crystal deodorant, wipes and Kleenex; a garbage was under the shelf; on the wall was a full length mirror; there was a built in bench with a cushion on it, next to the bench were two tall oak lockers. These lockers both had locks with keys hanging out of them and on the keys were those key rings that are like a telephone cord. The type you can put on your wrist so that you don't loose your keys. The mammogram tech said that I needed to undress from the waist up, put the gown on, tying it in the front and then she told me that I could either put my belongings in one of the lockers or that I could bring them with me.
I chose the locker.
Let me tell you, I loved that locker.
There is something so unwelcoming about going to the dentist or the doctor and you look around and there is not even a hook on the wall to hang a purse or a poofy winter coat. So you go to put the gown on and you try to put all of your stuff on the one chair in the room. As neatly as you try to stack things there on that pathetic chair (with underwear discreetly hidden under your pants) it usually all falls off in an unsightly mess on the floor.
Not at Saint V's Breast Center!
But wait! There is more! I haven't even told you about the gown yet!
Hospital gowns are made to be very unflattering. No matter how beautiful and healthy you are, a hospital gown will make you look pasty and like you suddenly gained 50 pounds. There is no way to be truly modest in one. There is always a gape somewhere and the material is so thin you don't need x-ray vision.
Not at Saint V's Breast Center!
The gown waiting on the bench in the dressing room was a blue mid thigh length robe. I must have seen 8-10 different women in these robes while I was there and we all looked respectable. They were even sort of flattering in a kimono sort of way.
So the nice woman tech came to get me. I walked down the hall feeling like a queen in my kimono with my key jangling at my wrist. She took me to a mammogram room and started asking me questions. I sort of freaked out as my doctor had said that I was to get an ultrasound and then if need be I would get a mamm. Well, this tech just dove right in for the mamm. At that point I was pitting out in my kimono because I was so nervous about having a mammogram. I was hoping that the ultrasound would be conclusive and that I would get to escape the mamm machine for at least 7 more years. She took me back to the waiting area while she got this all straightened out.
Now this was not the main waiting area, this was the waiting area for women in blue kimonos.
In this waiting room, there are four chairs sitting in a square facing each other. There are of course the magazines, but there is also a tv that was thankfully turned off. Right next to this sitting area is a coffee and tea bar where you can go and help yourself to whatever you would like to drink.
So I grabbed a magazine and plopped down in a chair in one of the four corners with three other women in the other chairs. We all sat there with our eyes glued to our magazines, pretending that we were just by ourselves or maybe waiting for a perm. But these chairs were set up in such a way that it looked like we were supposed to be having a great discussion with the other ladies, not sitting there pretending they didn't exist. I smiled at one lady and quickly looked away, not wanting anyone to see that I had broken protocol.
Pretty soon, I was taken back for the ultrasound. It showed nothing, so back to the waiting room until another tech came to get me for the mammogram. By that point, I had resigned myself to it and was very calm about it.
Something to know about me: I don't really like pain very much. I avoid it at all costs generally.
So, there I was, 33 years old, having my first mammogram.
And yes, it squeezed, but not bad. Yes, the tech acted like she was just pulling a book out of my chest to put it on the metal plate, but she was respectful with my book. Yes, after she had squeezed me in there and gone behind her protective shield, she told me to hold my breath which in the squeeziness was already being mostly held. But it doesn't take long and it didn't squeeze too hard.
First the mamm machine squeezed it like = then the tech made it do a little spin and she squeezed me in it again like .
When I was all done, back to that silly waiting room again. This time, an elderly woman came toddling in saying that she had left her cup of coffee there earlier. I pointed and said, "Here it is!" with a cheesy smile on my face, happy that someone had broken the silence. She sat down and we continued our silent magazine reading vigil.
Then, a different hospital person of some sort came and said, "Miss Friesen!?!" We went to my little dressing room and closed the door. There she told me that all was well (hoooray!) and that I don't need another mammogram until I am 40.
Something to look forward to!
Friday, January 2, 2009
It has been a year. A year ago today, I spoke to Carlita in the morning. She told me that her mother in law had convinced her that she needed to go see a doctor. She told me that she was having a very difficult time and feeling very depressed and the only friend that she had talked to all week was her neighbor Brandy. At the time, I thought this was strange as I had tried to get together with her and she told me that she wasn't feeling up for it. And I had called her and left a message, but she had gone to the beach and hadn't told me that. I remember feeling a little hurt that she didn't count my efforts when she said no one had been calling her. Later, when I found out she was having memory loss, this made more sense.
So, after talking with her for a while, I told her that I needed to let her go so that she could call her doctor to get an appointment.
I called their house, later in the day, to find out if she had gotten in to see the doctor, but she wasn't home.
Later that night, after my kids were in bed, so it must have been after 8pm, Aaron called from Providence Hospital. He told me that Carlita had a brain tumor.
Typing that last sentence, stops me in my tracks. What else is there to say? My dearest friend has been gone for over 5 months now. Are there days when I don't think about her? I doubt it. I still find myself reaching for the phone to call her, thinking that there is something I want to tell her.
Aaron left her voice on their voice mail until a week or two ago. Now they have gone to cell phones. Whenever I would call their house, I would brace myself to hear her voice say, "You've reached Aaron and Carlita. Please leave us a message." It was torture to hear it and yet I wanted to at the same time.
Last week I called and instead of hearing Carlita's voice, I heard the chime and the message that says, "This number has been disconnected. Calls are now being taken at....." I broke down and cried that her voice was not there any longer and was sure that I would never hear her sweet voice again. I sat there weeping at the dinner table. Missing my friend. Missing her voice. Missing her. Missing her. Missing her.
A day or two later, I called Maddie on her cell phone, which is Carlita's old cell phone. I got voice mail and there was a different version of Carlita's voice. Taking me so much by surprise. I did not think I would hear her voice again and yet there it was on the cell phone. I cried again.
Really, I am not crying that much in general these days. Usually, I think of Carlita, see the pain coming and I turn and walk peacefully away from it. But not these times. There have been a lot of reminders of her in the last couple of weeks.
For years we went to their house on Christmas morning or Christmas Eve morning and had breakfast with them and a couple of other friends. Last year, Carlita was not up for it and so we didn't have it. I am somewhat glad now as this year did not have to be the first year to miss that with them. But there are a lot of other firsts coming up. Like today. The first anniversary of her diagnosis. Anniversary seems to cheery a word.
We got our new 2009 calendar and I went through and transferred all the birthdays and anniversaries over to it from the 2008 calendar. The 2008 was full of days with Carlita's name on them. Unfortunately, most of the days that I was supposed to see her had to be cancelled or changed, usually because I had a cold. I had lots of them last year. Like 8. I wish that I had not been sick so much so that I could have seen her more. But at the same time, I feel fortunate to have had the times with her that I did. I am so grateful for my friendship with her and for her presence in my life. God blessed me with a wonderful friend in Carlita. He has also given me much more, in other friendships, relationships and with my lovely husband and funny children.
So, after talking with her for a while, I told her that I needed to let her go so that she could call her doctor to get an appointment.
I called their house, later in the day, to find out if she had gotten in to see the doctor, but she wasn't home.
Later that night, after my kids were in bed, so it must have been after 8pm, Aaron called from Providence Hospital. He told me that Carlita had a brain tumor.
Typing that last sentence, stops me in my tracks. What else is there to say? My dearest friend has been gone for over 5 months now. Are there days when I don't think about her? I doubt it. I still find myself reaching for the phone to call her, thinking that there is something I want to tell her.
Aaron left her voice on their voice mail until a week or two ago. Now they have gone to cell phones. Whenever I would call their house, I would brace myself to hear her voice say, "You've reached Aaron and Carlita. Please leave us a message." It was torture to hear it and yet I wanted to at the same time.
Last week I called and instead of hearing Carlita's voice, I heard the chime and the message that says, "This number has been disconnected. Calls are now being taken at....." I broke down and cried that her voice was not there any longer and was sure that I would never hear her sweet voice again. I sat there weeping at the dinner table. Missing my friend. Missing her voice. Missing her. Missing her. Missing her.
A day or two later, I called Maddie on her cell phone, which is Carlita's old cell phone. I got voice mail and there was a different version of Carlita's voice. Taking me so much by surprise. I did not think I would hear her voice again and yet there it was on the cell phone. I cried again.
Really, I am not crying that much in general these days. Usually, I think of Carlita, see the pain coming and I turn and walk peacefully away from it. But not these times. There have been a lot of reminders of her in the last couple of weeks.
For years we went to their house on Christmas morning or Christmas Eve morning and had breakfast with them and a couple of other friends. Last year, Carlita was not up for it and so we didn't have it. I am somewhat glad now as this year did not have to be the first year to miss that with them. But there are a lot of other firsts coming up. Like today. The first anniversary of her diagnosis. Anniversary seems to cheery a word.
We got our new 2009 calendar and I went through and transferred all the birthdays and anniversaries over to it from the 2008 calendar. The 2008 was full of days with Carlita's name on them. Unfortunately, most of the days that I was supposed to see her had to be cancelled or changed, usually because I had a cold. I had lots of them last year. Like 8. I wish that I had not been sick so much so that I could have seen her more. But at the same time, I feel fortunate to have had the times with her that I did. I am so grateful for my friendship with her and for her presence in my life. God blessed me with a wonderful friend in Carlita. He has also given me much more, in other friendships, relationships and with my lovely husband and funny children.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Blogspot
I always say the name "blogspot" as if it is the spot for a blog, blog spot. But, what if it is really a pot for blogs? Blogs pot. What if?
I don't think I would be here, do you?
And, did you know, that the spellcheck for blogspot, highlights the word "blogspot" and tells you that it is misspelled and that you should change it to either "blog spot" or "blogs pot"?
It is true. Try it yourself.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Milestones II
Well, that whole not crying at church thing lasted only one week.
Saturday, September 6th, at 7:10 am, my brother-in-law, Tim Fadel, passed away after battling cancer for 4 years. He was 31.
The next day at church, I did cry some, but mainly I felt as if I was in shock. It seemed ridiculous to lose 2 people in less than 2 months.
But then, this last Sunday, our pastor was on a roll reading a collection of probably 20 different verses that are either about the dead in Christ or comfort for those who mourn, etc, and I was sitting there just sobbing. I don't think I have ever cried so hard, sobbed, in church before. Usually, the tears just quietly run down my face, but not this time.
Beth (Brian's sister) is hurting and so are her kids. Beth came to my house today and we spent a few hours together. It was a good time and I was very encouraged by it. We talked a little about Tim's memorial service that was held last Friday. There were around 400 people who came to it. She said that she was surprised at how many people flew to get to the memorial. There were tons of Portland Christian people from lots of different graduating classes. Aaron Scothorn was there too. It was good to see him but I bet it must have been difficult for him to attend.
The memorial was actually a "celebration of life" so there was a slide show of pictures of Tim. He had planned out the whole service before he passed away. He picked the pictures to show, he asked Brian to read a poem that Brian had written about Tim and his skydiving experience last fall, Tim did a video introduction, and he asked his uncle to speak. So, since Tim planned it, there was a lot of humor in the service.
Brian and Beth have both told me that it seemed like Tim would just go on forever being sick. It seemed he would never actually pass away. It was a year ago that he was told his cancer was terminal. In December, he was told that he could pass away any day. In May (?) he was told that he wouldn't make it through the summer. Well, he did. Just barely.
Saturday, September 6th, at 7:10 am, my brother-in-law, Tim Fadel, passed away after battling cancer for 4 years. He was 31.
The next day at church, I did cry some, but mainly I felt as if I was in shock. It seemed ridiculous to lose 2 people in less than 2 months.
But then, this last Sunday, our pastor was on a roll reading a collection of probably 20 different verses that are either about the dead in Christ or comfort for those who mourn, etc, and I was sitting there just sobbing. I don't think I have ever cried so hard, sobbed, in church before. Usually, the tears just quietly run down my face, but not this time.
Beth (Brian's sister) is hurting and so are her kids. Beth came to my house today and we spent a few hours together. It was a good time and I was very encouraged by it. We talked a little about Tim's memorial service that was held last Friday. There were around 400 people who came to it. She said that she was surprised at how many people flew to get to the memorial. There were tons of Portland Christian people from lots of different graduating classes. Aaron Scothorn was there too. It was good to see him but I bet it must have been difficult for him to attend.
The memorial was actually a "celebration of life" so there was a slide show of pictures of Tim. He had planned out the whole service before he passed away. He picked the pictures to show, he asked Brian to read a poem that Brian had written about Tim and his skydiving experience last fall, Tim did a video introduction, and he asked his uncle to speak. So, since Tim planned it, there was a lot of humor in the service.
Brian and Beth have both told me that it seemed like Tim would just go on forever being sick. It seemed he would never actually pass away. It was a year ago that he was told his cancer was terminal. In December, he was told that he could pass away any day. In May (?) he was told that he wouldn't make it through the summer. Well, he did. Just barely.
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