krysti.net

Because I get a second chance at life, I choose to do things differently.  Have you ever thought about what you would change in your life if you could go back in time?  I do often.  I look back and wish I had lived the life I’m trying to live now.

Here are some things I would have done instead:

1)

Okay, I have to leave that blank, and I’ll tell you why.

It is the past in my life, the stupid things I might have said or might have done that made me who I am today.

I cannot look back any longer.  I cannot be nostalgic of a past of which I am not always proud.

I would not be able to re-invent my life and be on this exciting  journey if I did not have those mistakes from which to learn.

So, in this moment, I will tell you what I am doing now.

I am learning to play Bass guitar.  I am going to poetry readings. I am publishing an art/literary magazine for children. I am learning Yoga, and I am proud that my 8 year old has called me the Yoga Diva!

That’s me!

I can remember, as a little girl, seeing the rays of the sun through the clouds.  I thought it was God.

My only exposure to church, as a child, was my grandmother.  She took me to a Baptist Sunday school once.  The teacher told all of us (8 year olds) that there was no Santa, no Easter Bunny and if babies die, they go to hell because they haven’t accepted Jesus into their hearts.

I told Mammaw what the scary man said and she never took me there again.

Fast forward my life 8 years, the hormones were raging and there were very cute guys in my friend’s church youth group.  I found Jesus that year….I think, or maybe just a crush?

I started to believe what the church taught me.  I started to read a list of Do’s and Don’ts.  I began to seperate good versus bad.  That guy is bad because he’s homosexual.  That guy is good because he is not.

I lost myself in religion.

And when bad things began to happen, someone told me I didn’t have enough faith.  Someone else told me that we don’t know why there’s bad in this world.  And someone else told me to wait until heaven for things to get good again.

My mom became “saved” when I was in high school.  She loved to go to church.  She was so excited about teaching Sunday school and reading the many versions of the bible.

She had her highlighters and her bible bag and then one day she came home crying.

“Mom, what’s wrong?”  I asked.

“Pastor Jon talked about how we should always be in prayer.  I don’t understand how I can be talking to God all the time when I have to work and do other things.  He made me feel like I was a bad christian.”

My mom would have loved to have been a pastor, or a pastor’s wife, spending all day in prayer.  She got sick, very quickly after that.  She needed a heart transplant and died waiting.

“She must have lost her faith in God’s healing powers,” a neighbor explained.

My dad, my brother and I knew they were wrong.

And when I got cancer, the “healing powers of God” played like a broken record in my life.

“God healed you Krysti!”  a friend said.

That’s great–I guess, so why me and not my mom?  Why me and not the children in Africa?  Why me and not all of the other people who die every day from something?

Is God this great puppeteer?  Are we supposed to pray that he pulls our strings?

I just can’t believe that.  I do believe, that my cancer was a gift.  And if I am healed, it is a healing from a feeling of entitlement. Who am I to believe in God and expect all of these miraculous, magical blessings?  Who am I to believe that if someone doesn’t believe in God, they are destined for death.

I am  thankful for something to believe in.  I believe in a power greater than anything in this universe.  A power that is not selective in people’s answered prayers, a power that does not see good or bad, but demonstrates a universal and unconditional love.

I believe in a cycle of life that includes a death of which I am no longer afraid.

May the lessons of this cycle inspire future generations.

I am at peace with my faith, with my convictions, with my prayers.

I am “healed”.  I am whole.

Things my boys think are funny:

Farting, burping, pictures of toilets, the word ‘toilet’, the word ‘butt’, the word ‘underwear’,  arm farting.

Things I think are funny again:

Farting, burping, watching my kids laugh at toilets and butts, watching my kids laugh at each other in their underwear, listening to my kids arm fart.

I always hated that word, ‘Fart’, but I have been forced to face down that demon with my sons.  The word ‘Toot’ just isn’t  as effective when discussing flatulence with friends.

A conversation from the backseat drifted to our ears:

Iain:

“You know King Tutankhanem was rich!”

Liam:

“Oh, King Mootenkan?”

Iain:

“Yeah, he was a boy king, he was almost my age.”

Liam:

“What’s he doing now?”

Iain:

“He’s a mummy now.”

Liam:

“Like on Scooby Doo?”

Iain:

“Yeah, except he doesn’t walk around and stuff and besides, the mummies aren’t real on Scooby Doo, they have masks and there’s like old men behind the masks.”

Liam:

“Yeah, but King Mootenkom is old too.”

Iain:

“No, he’s a mummy, mummies don’t get old.”

Liam:

“Yes they do, they rot.”

Iain:

“Yeah, that’s true, but their money doesn’t rot–it’s still good!”

Liam:

“Mommy, do you know when the radio makes those scary warning beeps?”

Me:

“You mean when the National Weather Service comes on?”

Liam:

“Yeah, like:  rrrhu, rrrhu, rrrhu, eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” (in a very long and drawn out way)

Me:

“Yes honey, what about them?”

Liam:

“Well, I don’t like it, it always scares me.  Why do the radio people do that?”

Me:

“So that they can get everyone’s attention.  There is something happening in the weather that people need to know so that they can be safe.”

Liam:

“Well I think they should play music instead of the beeps.”

Me:

“Really?  What kind of music?”

Liam:

“Old McDonald Had a Farm!”

Old McDonald Had a Farm

E-I-E-I-O

Put the cows up in the barn

Here comes the tornado!

http://www.petertork.com/

Check out the link above.  If you have ACC, you have a new friend.

I am too young to remember Peter Tork in his day.  It wasn’t until the mid 1980’s, when I was in middle school, that MTV began to show re-runs of The Monkees .

In 8th grade,  I was fascinated by The Monkees.  I loved watching their re-runs after school and my dad (remember the dj?) had a couple of their albums.

I started to memorize ‘Daydream Believer’ and my friends and I would link arm in arm and do that funny walk by crossing our feet.

The Monkees had new fame and actually re-grouped for a reunion tour.

I wanted to see them in concert, and so, for my 13th birthday, my dad bought me tickets for me and a friend.

I remember taking a friend from my cheerleading squad, and we went and danced and screamed for The Monkees on stage.

We were far enough away to not notice their age, and were transported to the 60s in our adolescent minds.

I have returned to those memories with the realization that Peter Tork has been recently diagnosed with the same cancer, ACC (Adenoid Cystic Carcinoma).

I have now been cosmically connected to another soul who is suffering, surviving and healing.

Peter’s site is inspiring and I hope you will encourage and support his fight for research for rare cancer.

“HOPE ON!” Peter, “HOPE ON!”

For my many friends who have written to me and have posted your own stories on my ACC site, just letting you know, that I’m still alive.

Since 2007, I have had to take a step back from everything cancer.  My need to keep moving has been healing for me.  I have taken a couple of years to reflect and evaluate where to go from here.

After all of the surgeries, the treatments, the depression and the physical toll my body has taken, the time has come to re-create my life.

Being a survivor of fear and disease has caused my eyes to see different lights.  My political, religious and social views have all changed because of cancer.  And in my opinion, for the better.

I can’t help but shake my head at so much ignorance of the world around me.  I can’t help but be sad for my friends and family who live the daily grind with their eyes half-closed.

Cancer was a gift, and  I will not take for granted the lessons it has taught me.

I ended my cancer blog as a beginning survivor, January of 2007.

I am starting this blog as a beginner of my new life.

I have survived, I have healed, I will move on and continue to learn.

If you are a survivor, take this journey with me.

There is a direct link to my cancer site for any information you may need. Post a story of your own or  if you have any questions regarding your own search about your treatments, feel free to e-mail me at krysti@krysti.net.

What?!  What did the title of this blog post say?  We just don’t talk about things like that!

Actually, my sexual healing began long ago.

I’m referring to Marvin Gaye.

My dad was a dj.  A well-known disc jockey in the 60’s and 70’s and  I grew up listening to Led Zeppelin and Jimi Hendrix.  We have photos of them in our family albums.

My dad would run the concerts and introduce the bands and interview these guys back stage.

Most weekends,  my mom would take us to the station to see dad working his late shifts.  I loved watching him and sometimes got to go in the room with him as long as I was quiet.  I got used to watching the light and waiting for it to turn back off so that I could talk.

It never failed, every weekend, Marvin Gaye’s ‘Sexual Healing’ was the number one request from the college in town.  I grew up hearing that song and never really cared about its meaning.

As I start to re-invent my life, post cancer, it becomes quite clear that sexual healing is important.  I’m not just talking about sex.  I’m talking about being a woman.  Feeling like a woman.  Loving myself the way I am, physically.

Having babies have caused stretch marks and droopy boobs.  The cancer has caused weight gain and a large scar down the middle of those droopy boobs.  It has taken its toll on my self-esteem.

However, my husband, the wonderful man that he is, has been able to recognize that I needed some ’sexual healing’.

“Krysti”, he said one night, “I love your stretch marks because they represent the life you gave to our children, I love your cancer scar because it represents the life you are still living with me and I love your weight gain because now you look like one of those goddesses in a painting.”

Yes ladies, he’s mine!

It was shirts versus skins today.

The coach had to explain to the team that half of them had to take their shirts off.

The giggles and surprise on their faces.

My 8 year old can barely take his shirt off, he’s laughing at the thought.

I couldn’t help but delight in a rite of passage for guys.  Shirts versus skins.  Something we girls just don’t do.

And there they were, the skins, my son included, a huddle of 8 and 9 year old half-naked boys…..arm farting.

The elbows were pumping wildly, the coach completely lost their focus.

Arm farting is yet another male rite of passage, and I must confess, my son is pretty darn good at it.

Am I the only mother who was “arm-farted” Happy Birthday last year?  So proud.

CLICK HERE TO WATCH MY SPECIAL BIRTHDAY GIFT!

I am evolving.  Every day, I am slowly coming out of chrysalis.  My wings wet and my dreams the wind that quickly dries them and prepares me for my flight.

And even though, I have a new outlook on my new life, cancer is still there.  That grim reaper, taking a nap in the back of my mind.  I don’t like to talk about my cancer, for fear of waking him.

There are days I find myself preparing for death.  I even wrote about my life in a nutshell, if you really want to know:

I was born in Maryland, raised in Virginia.

I spent my first 9 years in Williamsburg surrounded by history and learning that people outside of Williamsburg do not wear hoop skirts, buckled shoes and tri-corn hats.

We moved to Richmond when I was 10.  As a child, it simply meant going from Busch Gardens theme park to Kings Dominion.

I went to high school and graduated with a boyfriend and a trip to France for the first time.

The trip was probably wasted missing the boyfriend.  Which is why I tell my children don’t let dating get in the way of your life experiences.

But later, in college, I went back to study in France.

It was then, I started to listen.

I listened on the Parisian subways, as the gypsies begged for money.

I gave them every coin I had.

I listened on the Seine, watching a violinist play.

I dropped every coin I had into his case.

I listened to my heart pound out the desires of wanting that life.

I promised myself,  next time I come….next time.

I was going to follow the music that played for me and the poetry that whispered my dreams.  I was going to travel the world, maybe  to Africa and hug orphaned children.

And yet, I graduated from college with another boyfriend who would later become my husband.

Instead, love caused me to follow someone else’s dreams.

We married, moved to Michigan, had a baby, moved back to Virginia, had another baby, I got Cancer.

I cannot tell you the details of that past sentence.  It was all a blur.  I don’t remember because I stopped listening.

Cancer crept into my heart and deafened the sounds.

But, as my children grow, I realize I can use their eyes and see the world in a whole new way.  I can hear their hearts pounding out those lost dreams.

As my health came again, I stood up to cancer and told him to FUCK  OFF!

He has not returned and I will not let him.

As the music played, I realized how truly in love I was with my husband.

We are 2 double ‘AA’ batteries in a machine that needs both to work.  If one is missing, nothing plays.  I need him and I hope he needs me.

I am a poet, a writer, a dreamer, a wife, a mother, a survivor.

I am whole again.  Love has brought me full circle and the blackness has been ripped away.

Can you see the light beaming from my eyes?

It will shine on in my children and grandchildren and generations of dreamers to come.

This is my life.

It has a happy ending.