Good Intentions

It all started on a Saturday morning when Miko, our cat, leapt from the bed and made a mad dash for the hallway just outside our bedroom door. I was half asleep, the sun had not yet come up, and since Miko regularly tears through the house with little or no discernable provocation, I didn’t give it much thought.

The next time I woke an hour or more had passed. I’d forgotten all about Miko and this time was aware only that my stomach needed breakfast. I pulled a sweatshirt on over my pajamas and headed toward the stairs.

I found Miko lying there, several steps below the landing, his tail switching rhythmically as he stared intently at an upside down piece of white cardboard. As soon as he saw me, he jumped up and began meowing, clearly wanting me to inspect his treasure. I picked up the white cardboard and turned it over to find a tiny, live mouse stuck to a thick layer of glue.

Sam had placed these glue traps around the house to catch spiders and bugs. It had never occurred to me we might catch a mouse. How long would it take a mouse to die in one of these traps? Would it starve to death? Or in this case, die of fright?

For most people, there would be no question about what to do next. Mice are rodents. They carry disease. They send people screaming onto the high safety of chairs and sofas.
I knew in an instant, knew in the core of my being, knew beyond a shadow of a doubt – what I would do next. I would save that little mouse. No matter what it took.

I carried the mouse down to the kitchen and assessed the situation. She was pretty well stuck to the glue on her entire right side. Only her front left leg was free and it swung widely in search of anything to grab hold of.

I looked for tools and found a pair of scissors as well as a knife, fork and spoon and a paper towel. Each would help me release the little mouse from the glue. I carried her out the back door and like a surgeon, set up my operating theater on top of the barbeque grill. I started with her tail, lifting first the tip and then sliding the paper towel beneath the freed portion to keep it from getting stuck again.

It didn’t take long before I realized it was too cold. It was only about 10 degrees outside and my fingers were already getting numb. Even if I could withstand the cold, I was sure the little mouse would die if I didn’t bring her back inside.

Sam would later refer to this as just one in a series of completely ludicrous choices made that morning, but we’ll get to that in a moment.

I moved my operation back inside, sat down at the kitchen table and resumed my work. I‘d gently lift a part of the mouse from the cardboard, use the scissors to snip the glue away, and then slide in a piece of paper towel. I kept lifting, snipping and sliding as I moved towards the mouse’s shoulders and head.

It was slow, tedious work. The glue was unforgiving and I was terrified I would cut the mouse as I tried to trim the glue away from her fur and from her legs, feet and tail. The little mouse was so scared, I could feel her heart racing inside her tiny, stuck body. I whispered soothing words to her. Assured her she was going to be ok. Promised her I wouldn’t hurt her. Encouraged her to hold on just a little longer. Praised her bravery.

My heart was swollen with compassion for this tiny, helpless little creature. I felt so powerful as I worked to save her. God-like even. I was sure if I could just save this little mouse, I would have started something. Surely there were more lives I could save. Human lives. Lives that were paralyzed by fear and suffering.

I kept working until all but her right shoulder and her head were free, and I realized I would have to decide where to release her. I couldn’t let her go outside. She would freeze to death. So I decided to let her go in the laundry room in the basement. It made sense to me, but later, as I tried to explain my rationale to Sam, he just looked at me as if I’d decided to turn lose thousands of cockroaches in our home.

I carried her down the stairs and settled us both onto the floor in front of the dryer. Miko paced outside the door, meowing, imploring me to let him in.

I thought about what would happen once she was free. I knew she would run away. But part of me hoped she would stay close for a moment, just to let me know she understood my good intentions, and was grateful to me for saving her. Perhaps we could exchange a meaningful look, this little mouse and me.

But she didn’t pause. The moment she was free, she stumbled away, dragging a leg and moving awkwardly. She headed straight for the door and slipped under it – directly into Miko’s waiting gaze.

I jumped from the floor and threw open the door, startling both cat and mouse. The mouse drug herself under the bookshelves as I scooped the cat into my arms and raced up the stairs with him.

Shit! Shit! Shit! This was not at all what I had planned. I held tight to Miko until I felt the mouse had had plenty of time to make her escape, and then I locked him in the guest bedroom. And then I sat down and cried. Small tears at first, but my sobs grew and soon I was struggling to catch my breath. I so desperately wanted to save that little mouse. I so desperately wanted to save the world.

Sam came in to see what was wrong. He was groggy with sleep, his hair messed. Why was I crying? What had happened? I explained it all to him, between sobs. He listened to me, first with disbelief, then anger.

“What were you thinking?” he implored. “What would you have done if that mouse had bitten you? Did you even think about that?” I hadn’t. Not really.

“And you let this mouse loose in our basement? In our BASEMENT?!!” Sam doesn’t get mad easily. It takes a lot to ignite his temper. But he was clearly pissed. I could tell he was biting his tongue, not wanting to tell me how completely, and utterly ridiculous he thought this was.

I felt helpless, and misunderstood. “What would you have done?” I asked.

“I would have thrown it in the trash outside, or maybe killed it, or something! For the love of God, it was a mouse Julie!”

I was trying to save a life. An innocent life. And I’d never felt as powerful as I had in freeing that little mouse. I’d felt invincible – ready to hop the first flight to Africa to end war and rid disease. I’d felt as clear about my purpose and as laser focused on the outcome as I could ever remember feeling.

Finally Sam softened. He knows this side of me and though he had a hard time seeing how it applied to a mouse, he was willing to try to accept it.

The rest of the day passed without event. I poked around downstairs, but found the little mouse nowhere and was sure she'd slipped back into the walls where she would be safe and could recover.

But the next afternoon she reappeared. I’d told Katherine about the mouse, hoping for understanding. And although she understood, she was none to pleased at the idea of a mouse in our house.

I wasn’t home, but it happened like this. Katherine walked into the living room to watch TV, and from the corner of her eye saw something scurry under a floor pillow. Miko was nearby and as she looked closely, she saw he was at full attention. She knew instantly what it was and at the exact moment her brain registered the information, her mouth and lungs began screaming. And screaming. And screaming.

Sam came running, and with a quick survey of the room, he too, knew what had happened.

Sam and Katherine both told me this story as soon as I returned home, but I waited several hours before I gathered enough courage to ask for the details.

“How do you think she got up the stairs and into the living room?” I asked.

“Miko probably carried it up in his mouth,” Sam answered.

I glared at my cat. I hated him.

“How did she look?”

“Bad. Pretty bad. It was still alive, but just barely. It was probably in shock. I think its legs were probably broken.”

I waited a full day before asking the next logical question.

“What did you do with her?” My heart was in my throat as I asked.

“I put it in a paper bag, and then shook it out of the bag into the wood pile. I thought that would be the best place for it. It really was in pretty bad shape.”

I breathed out relief. And I cried. And I hugged Sam.

“Thank you,” I sighed.

I spent the next several days thinking about that little mouse, and my desire to save her. It was entirely likely that in my efforts to save her, I had really just prolonged her suffering. What if I’d just killed her like Sam said? I couldn’t even imagine how, but if I had, I would've saved her from an additional 30 hours of suffering and torment.

My intentions had been so true, and yet I was afraid,… so wrong.

I thought of all the things we do as individuals to try to help make the world a better place. I thought of all the programs we put into place to correct social and economic imbalances. I thought of all the policies our country has adopted towards 3rd world countries, of all the times we’ve chosen sides, or backed some politician or foreign army, all the while thinking it was the right decision. And I thought of how wrong all of this so often turns out to be. Just like with my little mouse.

The End of the World

Today was my first day back at the office. It was exhausting. I now know that I much prefer working from home. Unfortunately, I think I’ll have to have additional body parts removed in order to justify a bedroom office, so for now I guess I’ll stick with the original plan.

Anyway, Sam and I followed each other home from work tonight, like we do most nights. We never leave at a set time, yet as soon as one of us gets in the car we call the other and invariably discover we’re just a block apart on the Traffic Way. We’ll leave the office anywhere between 5:45pm to 7:30m, it’s never planned. But somehow we each reach our final point of exhaustion and decide to head home with in minutes of one another.

I pulled into the driveway just behind Sam this evening. I always make him stay on the phone with me until we’re in the driveway because I’m so happy to talk with him at the end of the day. Tonight, I watched him get out of the car and then, clicking off my phone, I turned to gather up my things. When I looked again – he was gone. I’d only turned away for a second, but he was no where to be seen.

It was amazingly quiet in that moment and the sky was deepening to the color of rain. For a split second I wondered if he’d been caught up in the rapture. He’s such a really good person – of course he would go.

I don’t believe in the rapture and for saying that I am sure I’ll be left behind. In fact I don’t believe in a lot of things I was taught to believe as a kid. Most of the time it feels incredibly liberating. Occasionally it scares the hell out of me.

I found Sam inspecting our newly planted flowers at the front of the house and was relieved to know the end of the world hadn’t begun. I told him what I’d thought and we laughed about it and he said we could just call my Mom if we were ever unsure. If she answered the phone, we could rest assured that the other person was probably just taking an extra long time at the grocery store.

I wished I didn’t have to go back to work this week. I would much rather be here at home. But at least it’s not the end of the world.

This Alice in Wonderland Feeling

It’s been 3 days since my surgery and I am recovering well. I’m sore of course and still easily tired, but it’s all manageable. There’s something new to occupy my mind tonight however. Surgical menopause.

It’s strange, but the entire time I was trying to decide whether or not to have a hysterectomy, I completely ignored the very strong possibility that I would end up with an oophorectomy. I know. I didn’t know what that meant either until just a few weeks ago. It refers to the surgical removal of your ovaries. It turns out this is a really big deal, because your ovaries produce your hormones and your hormones basically determine whether or not you will be able to get out of bed and face the world on any given day.

It’s not really that I ignored it. It’s just that I decided to focus on one issue at a time, and so I focused on the hysterectomy question first. I assumed I would face the surgical menopause question if and when it presented itself. It has presented itself and today it has my full attention.

My doctor said I would begin experiencing hot flashes by Sunday. I’ve yet to have one, but my emotions have swung all over the place and I’ve been having the strangest sense of proportion. Almost hallucinogenic. Off and on today I’ve felt much too big, and then much too small in relation to the things around me. I thought I might give it a few days without replacement hormones, just to see what it was like, but this first day alone has been enough to erase that notion. I feel like I’m walking around in an Alice in Wonderland body and am not thinking it is all that much fun.

Tonight I’ve been surfing the web trying to soak up as much as I can about the effects of and treatments for surgical menopause.. It’s overwhelming, but thank God for the internet. I’m not sure what women did before it. I just found a blog called “A Survivor’s Guide to Surgical Menopause” and the entire thing is done in pink. I’m not really into pink, but I nearly cried (for the 10th time today) after realizing that it contained the “let’s start at the beginning” information I’ve been looking for, along with 119 bookmarked articles on related topics. God love the women who put this site together.

Which brings me around to the idea that has held all my thoughts together today. When you face a medical crisis, no matter how surrounded you are by loved ones, you face it completely and profoundly alone. My Mom told me she wishes she could take my place, and I know she means it, but no one, no matter how much they love you, can at the end of the day, stand in your shoes, and occupy your skin. It’s just you and your body. It’s incredibly humbling and incredibly empowering - both at the same time.

I’ve rarely felt so alive. And what I’ve noticed over the last few days is that when you feel that alive, your connection with the people in your life knocks up a few notches. Everything seems clearer, more intense, more electric.

I’m not saying I want to walk around with this Alice in Wonderland sense of space or this revolving door of emotions. I don’t like it and will be anxious to get rid of those feelings. I’m talking about the feeling behind the feeling. The sense that this is all real, and alive and connected and therefore that it matters. And I think that is what the women who put the pink site together must have been feeling. Cut the shit. Let’s talk about what matters, let’s connect over what’s important to us. We’re profoundly alive, let’s do something real with that!

The Big Hole - Part Two

Today was the day. Sam and I headed to St. Luke’s South for my appointed check in time a full 2 hours before my scheduled surgery. I thought it would be like visiting the doctor’s office and I would spend quite a bit of time waiting, but in fact I was busy right up to the moment I dropped off into the dreamy world of anesthesia. Everyone was unbelievably nice, and although it was clear that it was a full day for the staff, they treated me as if I were the only patient there.

I visited with the nurses, met the anesthesiologist, and talked with my doctor, each time confirming my name, date of birth and planned procedure. And I reminded my doctor that I wanted pictures – lots of pictures - of the offending cyst growing inside me. He thought that was funny, but promised he would have the camera ready.

My veins were a little uncooperative and I had to be stuck 3 times (2 of which hurt like hell) before they were finally able to make a connection. I was grateful once the IV began to flow because I knew the Versaid wouldn’t be far behind. I'd been remarkably calm about this impending surgery, but now that the time had arrived, my anxiety was growing. I watched as the clear liquid snaked through the tube towards my hand and within minutes I began to feel drowsy.

Drowsy. Isn’t that a wonderful word? How often do you really get to feel drowsy? I’m more accustomed to ‘beat’, ‘exhausted’ or ‘worn out’. But drowsy? Not so much. Drowsy feels more, well, sort of luxurious. Drowsy implies that deep, sound sleep is on its’ way and there is really nothing you can do but give in to it. And I did.

I don’t remember Sam kissing my forehead before I was wheeled away. I don’t remember the bright lights or the cool air of the operating room. I don’t remember the tube they placed in my throat to keep my airway open. I didn’t know that the surgery took nearly twice as long as it was supposed to. And I don’t remember Dr. Arroyo coming to tell me that he was unable to save my ovary, although he did tell me, and I cried when I heard the news.

I do remember waking up and seeing the nurse standing beside me. She told me about my ovary and since I was hearing it for the first time (or so I thought), I cried when she told me.

Because I only had one ovary anyway (story for another day), its’ loss meant that I’d just been thrown into surgical menopause. I use the word ‘thrown’ because when your body abruptly loses its ability to produce hormones, it’s a lot like slamming on the brakes of your car while driving 70 miles per hour. My doctor has already prescribed replacement hormones (air bags if you will), so we’ll see how it goes.

The good news is that after weeks of going back and forth in my mind over whether to have a hysterectomy in the event the ovary could not be saved, I'd finally decided just days before to tell the doctor not to do it. Despite his and others' inclination that I have my uterus removed, I decided it should stay. I didn’t want to create an unnecessary hole.

Dr. Arroyo was true to his word and took 16 photos. Sam showed them to me after my surgery and pointed out the cyst. It was completely obscuring my ovary and looked awkward and lumpy. It clearly didn’t belong there and although I hated that it had overpowered my ovary, it was clear it needed to go.

But next to the offending cyst was my uterus. It was pink and smooth and shiny and vibrant and healthy, and if I do say so – beautiful. Just beautiful. It was clear to me that it was happy living where it was and I was glad I’d not made a decision to disrupt that.

So I did come away with a hole today, but just a small one. And for that I’m grateful.

Let the braking begin.

"O"

Last night Sam and I went to see the Cirque du Soleil production “O”. I couldn’t help but think that if God were watching, she would be so proud of the stunning beauty we as humans are capable of creating.

Just One Ear - I swear!

I have this thing about pulling stray hairs from Sam’s ears. He hates it when I do this. He despises it. He abhors it. He detests it. I’m probably still not even close, but you get the picture. I can only chock it up to enduring marital bliss that he even consents to letting me examine his ears.

I think it usually happens in a weak moment. Will be snuggling together, all gushy and such, when out of the corner of my eye I’ll glimpse something wild and wiry growing from the edge of his ear. Sam has learned to recognize the look in my eye when I’ve spied a rebel hair and he instinctively recoils.

“Oh no you don’t,” he’ll protest. “You stay away from my ear. Just ignore it! I’m warning you!” He’s so cute when he does that. Adorable really. But I pay him no mind.

“Come here,” I order. “Let me have a look at that thing. Good God! It’s practically a tree growing there!”

“No way!” Sam will plead. “Leave it alone. It’s fine. I like it there!”

“Righhhht,” I humor him, “Now come here.”

Last week Sam tried a different tact. He let me look at one ear and even held relatively still while I yanked the wiry offender. But when I asked him to turn his head, he slammed his other ear against the chair and insisted, “I was born with only one ear! (pause for dramatic effect) Terrible birth defect! Tragic really. Just one ear. I swear!”

Honest to God he caught me so off guard with that one I nearly peed my pants. By the time I caught my breath, he’d squirmed out of reach.

I’ve learned there are certain places I just can’t get away with my plucking. Once I tried it in a theater and Sam gave me the dirtiest look I’ve ever received. I stopped cold, mid reach and haven’t tried since. Airplanes are another place where he seems to get a little cranky. It’s a shame because theaters and airplanes are two places where I can really get a good look at his ears with out ruining an otherwise potentially romantic moment. Unfortunately, this argument has had no effect on him.

Actually, I am composing this post on an airplane while Sam slumbers to my left. In the name of research (fact gathering if you will), I’ve given his right ear a good once over and have identified a prime candidate for plucking. It’s killing me, but since this is the first part of a weekend get away Sam planned for us, I am using my better judgment and restraining myself from committing a “pluck and run.”

There are other moments, however, where I’ve apparently worn him down enough that he figures it’s not worth the fight. “All right,” he’ll mutter. “Hurry up and get it over with.”

Invariably, it takes me two or three tries before I get a tight enough grip on the little rascal. (Tweezers, I believe, are for sissies.) Finally I get it and Sam stops holding his breath.

“Thank God that’s over,” he’ll sigh with relief.

It’s amazing the things we do for love.

Way Beyond the Sea

April 1st was the two year anniversary of the death of my maternal Grandma and for several days she’s been on my mind. I was with my Grandma when she died. In fact I was with her continually for about 4 hours before she died, and I am so happy that I was. Her death was… well, beautiful.

My Grandma was born a twin, but her baby brother was stillborn. My great grandparents thought my Grandmother would die within the hour as well, so they put her in a tiny shoe box lined with paper and waited for her to take her last breath. She didn’t. Instead, she grew up to be a 5 foot 3 inch force of a woman with a heart the size of Dallas.

Grandma wasn’t afraid of dying. I asked her at least a half a dozen times before she died, and she always answered truthfully. “No dear, I don’t feel afraid. I love you and your brother and your Mom and Dad. But I am ready to go. I want to see Jesus and I want to see your Grandpa.” That always made me feel better. And because she wasn’t afraid of dying, I wasn’t afraid for her to die.

My Grandpa died a few years before my Grandma. About 3 weeks before he died, my Grandpa stopped using his walker. He refused to even try to walk with it, because he insisted it wasn’t his. He said he had been to a big party in Leoti, KS (where he’d first started farming) and that he had seen many of his old friends and family there. There’d been a big bonfire and lots of laughter, but during the course of the evening, someone had taken his walker from him. He wasn’t sure why or how, but he insisted that the walker that sat in his room, the one with his name written in permanent ink on the handle bars, was not his. And since it wasn’t his, he wouldn’t use it.

I loved that he had been to this bonfire party with his friends in Leoti. Of course, he’d never left his room. But I believed him about the party.

Only a week or so after that, my Grandpa stopped eating. We didn’t understand what was happening, so we desperately urged him on. “Please Grandpa,” we pleaded, “you have to eat something.” He would try a few bites, but he would get frustrated with us. “I’m not hungry,” he’d snap, “I don’t want it.” I was racked with guilt. I didn’t want my Grandpa to be frustrated with me in his final days, but I felt that not pushing him to eat meant we didn’t mind if he died. It was awful.

I was at work when my Grandpa took his last breath. My Dad and Mom called me from the nursing home and I drove the hour to Topeka to be with them. When I got there, his body had already turned cold and foreign. I’d tried to talk to him in the car on the way to Topeka. I felt his spirit might be floating around nearby. I didn’t really feel anything though.

It was different with Grandma. We learned she had cancer, and although the doctors never really told us she would die so soon, I guess we knew. We called hospice and this amazing woman came to talk with us. She explained that Grandma would probably stop eating at some point and that that would be a natural part of her dying process. She explained that some families tried to force their loved ones to eat, but that it would only serve to complicate the dying process. She assured us that Grandma’s body knew how to die naturally, and encouraged us to help make her comfortable in that natural process, rather than trying to fight it. I was nearly drowned with relief.

Grandma lived for another 3 weeks after we met with the hospice nurse. Our conversation with her changed everything for me. Instead of trying to fight the inevitable, I embraced it.

For a few days before she died my Grandma had a song in her head that she couldn’t shake. It went like this…

I’ve got a home in glory land that out shines the sun,
I’ve got a home in glory land that out shines the sun,
I’ve got a home in glory land that out shines the sun, way beyond the sea.
Do lord, oh do lord, oh do you remember me?
Do lord, oh do lord, oh do you remember me?
Do lord, oh do lord, oh do you remember me? Way beyond the sea.

It was a song I’d learned in Bible School as a child, and probably hadn’t thought of since. My Grandma asked my brother and I to sing it to her and we did and she sang along. I remember how she sang the “do lord” part in such a sweet little girl voice, and with so much hope and anticipation. My heart swelled.

The night Grandma died, I think we were all more or less ready. Her breathing was heavy and labored and her voice had deepened to something that sounded almost supernatural. But she was in good spirits and told each of us how much she loved us.

Grandma talked about seeing Grandpa at the end of her bed one night during a dream. She said he’d come to assure her that he was fine and so I asked Grandma that night to do the same for me. “When you get to heaven Grandma,” I said, “ you be sure to come back and visit me in a dream so I will know you are ok.” “I sure will honey,” she promised, smiling. “I sure will!”

I sat next to Grandma on her bed for an hour that night as she tried to doze. She never really slept, but she wasn’t really awake either. She talked and talked as if she were having a conversation with a group, but it was hard to make out her words. Her conversation was happy though, that much was clear. At one point she opened her eyes and looked at me in surprise. “Are you still here?” she asked. “Well, for heaven’s sake, you go over to my apartment and sit in my big chair and just relax and watch you some tv.” I told her I would rather be there with her, but I think she had already tuned back out again.

Just after 10:00 pm she told my Dad she wanted to go to the bathroom. Dad helped her out of bed and started to walk with her the few steps to the bathroom door. She looked hard at the clock overhead as if to see if it was time yet, and then in the next few steps, slumped into my Dad’s arms. I like to think those were her first few steps into her new life, and I am so touched that she took them while we were all there with her.

We laid her back on the bed and my Mom and I sat with her. I cradled Grandma’s head in my lap and we stroked her hair and spoke softly to her as her body shuddered gently its’ final gasps of life.

In just a few moments it was over. It’s amazing how quickly a body becomes just a body. But this time I felt my Grandma was close by. And I knew she was fine.

At the funeral, I thought my Grandma’s body looked almost as beautiful and radiant as if she were alive. I spent long moments just looking at her, and because she never liked to go anywhere without her Kleenex, I stuffed several tissues into the sleeve of her dress. I still felt she was nearby, and because my Grandma always took great care with her appearance, I knew she would be pleased by how beautiful she looked lying there.

In the two years since my Grandma died, I have felt even closer to her than when she was alive. I find myself talking to her, sending up a prayer or asking for her comfort. I always feel she is nearby.

I’ve dreamed about Grandma twice since she died. The first time was actually quite frightening. I dreamed I saw her walking alone on a dusty, dirty road miles from the nearest town. I was able to give her a ride, but I was terrified because I knew if I hadn’t come upon her, she would have never had the strength to walk the rest of the way to town.

The second dream was different. I walked into a small white room and she was sitting at a table. “There you are,” I said to her. “I’ve been wondering when I would see you.” She looked up and smiled a big warm smile. She didn’t say anything, but it was understood that she was there to fulfill her promise to visit me. We hugged and then I turned my back for an instant and when I turned again she was gone. I was disappointed, but not surprised. She had come back to let me know she was ok. Knowing Grandma, she wouldn’t have had much time to linger. She probably already had lots of people she was looking out for over on the other side.

In the two years since Grandma died, I have found myself thinking often about death. It feels different to me now. No longer scary. No longer tragic. And no longer far away. Sometimes in fact, the veil that separates this world from the world my Grandma lives in feels very, very thin.

I love you Grandma. And I hope you are enjoying your new home in glory land, way beyond the sea.

Hot Water

I was making coffee at the office yesterday morning, and in order to save some time, I put my paper cup on the hot plate to let it fill before replacing it with the coffee pot. The coffee had just started to drip when Charley called to me from outside the room. "Is that a new employee?" he asked, pointing to an unfamiliar face. Charley works at a different location, so we spent a few moments catching up on recent hires before I went back to fetch my coffee.

Well, you can imagine what I found. In the brief time I had stepped away, I'd completely forgotten about my coffee and now it was pouring over the sides of my cup, flooding the hot plate, spilling over the coffee maker onto the counter and threatening its way to the floor.

"Oh no!" I exclaimed. "What do I do?" Unfortunately, this wasn't the first time I'd walked away from my time-saving, coffee-cup-filling trick. I knew from experience that picking up the cup meant my hands would be scalded with hot coffee. And even more so today, because the cup I'd used was an extra tall paper cup with no handles.

Charley heard my panic from outside the room and came running. "What's wrong?" he asked. "What happened?" Of course I didn't have to explain. We stood side by side in front of the "coffee fountain" hopping from side to side, trying to make a grab for the cup, backing away and trying again.

"Drop it in the sink!" (me) "I can't get a hold of it!" (Charley)
"Knock it over!" (me) "Then will have an even bigger mess."(Charley)

It was hopeless. Finally we just looked at each other and burst out laughing. We were clearly in hot water (that was for Jim) and didn't have a clue what to do.

"Oh shit!" Charley said. "No shit!" I giggled. We were cracking ourselves up, but meanwhile, the coffee continued to stream over the top of my cup. And the fact that we were just helplessly standing there watching it get worse, somehow made it all the funnier.

Finally, in a burst of inspiration, Charley dashed into the bathroom, grabbed a stack of paper towels and used them like hot pads to grab the cup. In the second it took the hot water to soak through the towels, he had already dropped the cup in the sink. He was my hero! We used the rest of the paper towels (at least a hundred) to clean up the mess, laughing the entire time.

"I can't believe I did that," I said, as I finally caught me breath. "Yeah, but I distracted you," Charley answered. And it was true. We really had been in it together. And it felt good. You know? It felt great!

The interesting thing about the coffee incident was that it was a distillation of a much bigger, much more serious problem, a problem I was at that very moment in the midst of dealing with.

The day before, I'd created a huge mess with The Boss. I'd stepped away to answer a question for another employee, but in answering the question, I set off a series of events that landed me in seriously deep hot water. Initially, I wasn't sure what to do or how to handle it, but I called out for help and my P3 buddies jumped in. Together we laughed and consoled, strategized and shared old war stories until finally I had enough inspiration to go work it out with The Boss. I had to walk into his office alone, but I knew they were waiting (in spirit) just outside the door, their hands full of paper towels to help protect me from the burn. I debriefed with them afterwards and it felt good. Yes - in spite of the stress I just been through, it felt great!

In Jack Hayhow's recent post about relationship and community, he talks about community as a feeling of fellowship with others, the kind that develops when you share common attitudes, interests and goals. And I will add, the kind you have when you trust one another. When you enjoy that kind of fellowship at work, showing up is more about a shared way of life, and less about the toil and the paycheck.

I'm grateful for the fellowship I share with Charley, my P3 Buddies, and so many of my co-workers. I'm lucky to have a job that doesn't usually feel like work. And I am pretty confident this is why.