tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19251173082245070292024-03-13T19:37:00.054-07:00Rebecca Zook Fine ArtRebecca Zook Fine Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16220193852535637262noreply@blogger.comBlogger70125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1925117308224507029.post-36638403280481104452016-09-20T07:37:00.000-07:002017-08-23T08:36:21.876-07:00Happiness Happens...or not<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_V33NQBu2JzycJpkmBccOAJmUJLyHCvD6sKKf_uFriioYduic6gmq7YhV9fgv52jWbYX4rJDAHrBCZziCRzy97JYRlHksI_soQw5ibYqSd6zAs785qWcZemgc0dZPYT2-iCj-BTJrf2Y/s1600/13442233_1039098479489573_1029656742100556955_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_V33NQBu2JzycJpkmBccOAJmUJLyHCvD6sKKf_uFriioYduic6gmq7YhV9fgv52jWbYX4rJDAHrBCZziCRzy97JYRlHksI_soQw5ibYqSd6zAs785qWcZemgc0dZPYT2-iCj-BTJrf2Y/s400/13442233_1039098479489573_1029656742100556955_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">"Solitary Cloud" | 20"x16" | Acrylic on Masonite</span></span></span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /><br />Driving
to the infusion center today I heard on the radio that today is
“Happiness Happens” day. I paused to think about that phrasing. <br /></span></span><br />
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No, it doesn’t. Little happiness fairies do not just follow us around
blowing twinkling mood-enhancing pixie dust on us with their glittering
wings while unicorns prance around leaving rainbows in their wake. No
matter how much I wish it were true.<br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> In the past few weeks, I
have had a third cousin diagnosed with stage four cancer, lost a family
member to suicide and watched a friend deal with a
life-threatening/life-altering injury to his youngest daughter. I’ve had
my own struggles trying to drum up enough work to pay for my vital
infusions and fears about having to find new health insurance with my
pre-existing conditions. The mythical creatures of happiness are not
real, but thankfully the state of happiness is and it’s just as vital to
me as my infusions.<br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> While I’m sure there are people that this
might be true for; people who do walk around in a never-ending state of
bliss. For the most part, I believe happiness takes work and is often a
conscious choice. Each of us have challenges in our lives whether it's
health related, financial, conflicts with family, losses of any type,
past or current trauma and often more than one going on at the same
time. We may face these issues at specific points in our lives or are
forced to confront them every day. It’s understandable to be consumed by
anger, fear and sadness. I think that’s the easier path to take; to
sink into a mode where you no longer enjoy the world around you. You no
longer see the good in it and it can be nearly impossible to pull
yourself out of that alone.<br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> I choose happiness. It’s not an easy
road and people expect it to be. Why should you have to work to be
happy? I don’t think humans as a whole have evolved to accept a state of
happiness. We get bored. We provoke conflict. We create problems, but
if we learn to redirect this natural tendency, to reframe our lives, we
can live meaningfully with purpose and do good in the world. Each and
every person has the potential to make a positive difference, to start a
ripple that spreads and envelops others. You can turn your darkest hour
into a light to lead others. Being happy should have higher value than
we currently give it.<br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> I do fail from time to time, but that’s not
a reason to give up. I’ve learned to be grateful for what I have rather
than mourn for what I’ve lost. I’ve lost a lot. I am grateful for the
experiences I was able to have when I was younger. I am grateful for the
experiences I have now. I’ve said it many times, but the little daily
moments of joy add up to so much more than the “big events” that as a
culture we use to mark the passage of time. If you have to miss out on
those big moments, you really haven’t lost a lot. We each get to define
what is important to us. Those definitions are often in flux and change
(and they should) as we progress along the timeline of our life on this
planet. I think if you don’t stop and examine your life from time to
time, you are doing yourself a great disservice. Change is hard, but
necessary and is the only constant.<br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Today was not a one stick day
at the infusion center (see photo below), but for now, I still get my
treatments. They work. I have a great team taking care of my health. I
am ALIVE and I’m not going to let a little extra pain diminish my
gratitude. Look around you and find an object, a moment, a person that
made you happy today. Search for these every day. Soon, it will become a
natural part of your day to notice the little things. That’s the
beginning of making happiness happen. Don't wait for the unicorns. They
may never come.</span></span></div>
Rebecca Zook Fine Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16220193852535637262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1925117308224507029.post-47187314994146232292015-11-25T14:20:00.001-08:002015-11-25T14:32:35.790-08:00Grateful in Life<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">"Blue Beyond the Clouds" • Acrylic</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">November has been lost. The Christmas fever that now begins the day after Halloween has swallowed it up and Thanksgiving right along with it. Not a particularly “sexy” holiday, Thanksgiving doesn’t have costumes or ornaments or presents. You can easily argue that it is based on a historical lie, but I believe there is value to the holiday if you focus on the thankfulness aspect. Some have tried to reclaim it with daily social media postings of gratitude. My husband is doing this and I look forward to his daily posts. They draw my thoughts in new directions and make me appreciate things I may not have paid much attention to recently. Chronically ill friends are posting thankfuls as well to try to improve their daily outlook on life and recent studies suggest great value in this; that there is a direct correlation between gratitude and happiness. One leading researcher, Dr. Martin E. P. Seligman a psychologist at the University of Pennsylvania, gave a group of 411 participants a variety of assignments to measure their impact on overall happiness. When asked to write and personally deliver a letter of gratitude to someone they felt had never been properly thanked for his or her kindness, participants showed an immediate large increase in happiness scores and the increased happiness lasted for a month; greater than from any other intervention. Gratefulness also encourages forgiveness, empathy, decreases anxiety, improves depression and combats loneliness. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">What prompted me to write this blog entry was a pattern I’ve recently noticed. People struggling with resolving the conflict between grief and gratitude. Feeling that the bad things negate the good. A friend recently said her mother told her “there is always something to be thankful for.” She shot back, “what if there are 2 bad things for every good thing?” Her Mom said, “just shoot them.” They both have a point, but you can’t easily, nor should you, ignore the bad, but you can’t let it drown you either. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">The holidays have the potential to stir up about every major conflict there is from family tensions, to finance issues, loneliness, depression and grief for family and friends that are no longer with us. There are no simple answers, but for me, living in a state of gratitude creates happiness and leaves me better able to put the negatives of my life, my illnesses, people I've lost, into perspective. This didn’t always come easily. For much of my life, and still to some extent, I am the first person to find flaws and beat myself up for perceived mistakes. Negative self-talk ran rampant. I was not good at forgiving myself and for years was in a relationship that fueled it. I didn’t like myself. More accurately, I didn’t like myself when I was with that person. Getting out of that relationship was the first step in a long road to rediscovering joy in life. Finding the silver linings is key. It’s harder to stay stuck in the bad if you actively look for the good that has come from it. That doesn’t mean you just accept the bad. You still should take positive steps to rectify situations and relationships that are negatively affecting you. Not everything is fixable, though. You also have to recognize when issues are beyond your control and not let them have power over you.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">I try to look at my illnesses that way. They have robbed me of a lot and continue to do so. I shudder to add up all the time I’ve been hooked up to an IV for treatments. Instead I am thankful there is a treatment and thankful for the people who donate the plasma from which my medication is derived. They are also hooked up to an IV, but by choice. My views of what is important have also shifted as a direct result of being ill. My patience and empathy for others has grown. I want to share my experiences to help those with chronic illness when before I kept everything bottled up inside me, afraid of being seen as damaged. My sense of self and confidence have grown. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">People that know my husband and I in the non-virtual world often comment on how we act when we are with each other. More aptly, how it’s not an act. The love, affection and respect is very apparent and they want to know the secret. There really isn’t much of one. We simply realize how damn lucky we are to have found each other and that gratitude guides us. Each day is precious. This I learned from the death of my first husband. Nothing is to be taken for granted. We still get annoyed at each other and have occasional arguments like any couple, but hurt feelings do not linger. We are mutually supportive and care greatly for the other’s success and happiness. We celebrate the small things. I know that I am very fortunate to have this amazing relationship with him and I vow to never forget that. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Life is not fair. Bad things happen to good people. This I have accepted and it brings me peace. Looking for reasons why doesn’t. Perfection is not attainable. Other people are always going to have more than you and also have less. Thanksgiving serves as a small reminder of what we need to carry with us throughout the entire year. Remember to be grateful for what we have.</span></div>
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<br />Rebecca Zook Fine Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16220193852535637262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1925117308224507029.post-46927747503799467372015-08-16T18:09:00.001-07:002015-08-17T10:38:21.139-07:00Thank an Artist. August is Artist Appreciation Month<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><i><b>"Life isn't about finding yourself. It's about creating yourself."</b></i></span>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Boardwalk" by Rebecca Zook 24" x 16"</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">And creation is not attained in a vacuum. We are influenced and inspired by everything around us and likely don't even realize how much of our every day lives are influenced by artists. From the coffee cup that starts your day, to the clothes you wear, the car you drive, the music that makes your commute bearable, and of course the art on your walls, you can thank an artist for designing them all. Take a moment and gaze around the room. Look at the flooring, the furniture, your shirt, every little knick-knack and even the office supplies. At some point, an artist sketched out a design for each one of these objects. More likely, several designs. You are only seeing what was eventually approved. Imagine stepping behind the curtain to see what was deemed second best or what slipped through the cracks. August is designated "Artist Appreciation Month," so take a moment to reflect on the contributions of artists in all fields that make our lives a little brighter and a whole lot better.</span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">In my fine art painting, I have certainly had artists that inspired and influenced me. I gravitated to drawing and painting from a very early age. Though they never made their living as artists, both my parents had artistic interests that they passed on to all three of their girls. My father has a passion for photography and writing and even built a darkroom in the garage where I learned to develop film and create prints from negatives. My mother was interested in crafts of all kinds and I'm sure I tried every one of them right along with her. </span>
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The first true artist I remember being enamored by was E.H. Shephard. I had a classic Winnie the Pooh book. I can't remember which one. At the time, the words were not nearly as important to me as the drawings. For some bizarre reason, I kept the book in a bathroom drawer and I remember sitting on a small rug with the door locked studying each illustration very carefully. The book was slightly tattered, well worn. It likely had an owner or two before me. The timeless sketches transported me to another reality where animals talked, had adventures and I travelled right along with them. I wanted to do that. Transport people. Affect their emotions with my own work, but I was only 6 or 7 and likely hiding in the bathroom from my little sister, because it had the only locking door.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy0lRpw6Lhsd1xmrQjaOU9s6AIyv6FpEoaoaR9AyuXMQ6hXWz2Eguy60gA_OKMRY9e0xlw2rodHhzK59gI-tQtG3GTE1r-rhh7QBuxOK1u-NYDOqUhc_xXXbzHjmpUuVd1FNgl0UuIaJ4q/s1600/shepard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy0lRpw6Lhsd1xmrQjaOU9s6AIyv6FpEoaoaR9AyuXMQ6hXWz2Eguy60gA_OKMRY9e0xlw2rodHhzK59gI-tQtG3GTE1r-rhh7QBuxOK1u-NYDOqUhc_xXXbzHjmpUuVd1FNgl0UuIaJ4q/s320/shepard.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">E.H. Shephard</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Going to garage sales was a major part of my childhood. A few years after my crush on Shephard, my fickle artistic affections switched to a new beau when I ran across the Wizard of Oz books from the early 1900s at a sale and bought them with allowance money. The solid color, poster quality of W.W. Denslow's illustrations was reminiscent of graphic design work prevalent in the 1970's that surrounded me in everyday life, even though these illustrations were from far earlier. I was eleven and drawing was still my primary medium. The color in these illustrations grabbed me and that is what I would explore next. What could I achieve with color?
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">W.W. Denslow</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">W.W. Denslow</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I continued to take drawing, painting and sculpture classes all the way through 10th grade and commercial art courses in 11th and 12th. Bud Norton, my high school commercial art teacher, and former Disney® artist, made me realize that it would be possible to make art my primary income, though it would be through Advertising and Graphic Design. I went on to study Advertising Art and Fine Art at Southern Methodist University. This is when I met my next great love, Andrew Wyeth, and I fell hard. I was fortunate that the "Three Generations of Wyeth" show came to the Dallas Museum of Art. Andrew's work stood out to me the most. So realistic. Delicate. Color was employed so subtly. The light. Oh, the light. That is what I wanted to capture in my work–light.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Master Bedroom" Andrew Wyeth</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Sycamore" Andrew Wyeth</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Andrew Wyeth</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I built a career combining illustration, graphic design, photography and writing to varying degrees at various jobs. I returned to fine art painting in my 'spare time' after realizing how much I missed holding a brush, since the majority of my work was now done on a computer. This was 2004 and I had just moved from Dallas to a small lake community. I decided to become involved with the local art association. I was introduced to an artist named Ralf Postulka. She was a wonderful, unique lady that I came to think of as a second mother. I am fortunate to have one of her abstract original paintings. Cancer took her from us a few years ago. I also met another local artist named Jeanette Alexander. I didn't know it yet, but she would be a great inspiration to me. A three time cancer survivor, who was able to walk out of hospice care, she will freely tell you that art was a big part of her recovery. It was a part of mine as well. I all but moved my art studio into a hospital room when doctors couldn't diagnose me. The doctors were all for it. Emotional state is critical for recovery and painting brought me peace. When I became too weak too paint, it was heart-wrenching, but I was determined to survive. Finally diagnosed with multiple rare chronic illnesses, I thought about Jeannette's struggles and knew I could do this. I could come back.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">“Toulouse-Lautrec’s Sister” <br />by Jeanette Alexander</span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In 2014, through a really strange set of circumstances that really could be the subject of an entire post, I ended up being asked to submit a bid to illustrate a children's book for the Immune Deficiency Foundation. A Primary Immune Deficiency is one of the chronic illnesses I have. Though I had done plenty of illustration, I had never worked on a children's book and I was apprehensive, but the author of the book was adamant that my painting style was exactly what she was looking for. I stepped out of my comfort zone and submitted…and got the job. I also met my next love, Charles Santore. The animals, zebras and horses, depicted in the book needed to be more character-like, than entirely realistic, in order to convey the story better. My fine art animal paintings were realistic, so I needed inspiration and found it in Charles. I was mesmerized by his illustrations. I painted the book in my own style, but I was definitely influence by the expression Charles was able to capture in his work. I felt like I had come full circle. Back to a children's book, but I had a lifetime of experience now. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Charles Santore</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Charles Santore</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Charles Santore</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have to thank Patience Brewster for inspiring this post. Her company is celebrating Artist Appreciation Month and encouraging artists to share their personal inspirations. If you aren't familiar with her company be sure to take a look at what they offer. Her </span><a href="https://www.patiencebrewster.com/ornaments.html" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;" target="_blank">whimsical ornaments</a><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> and figures, all designed by Patience, herself, are crafted and hand painted by a team of artists. Each zebra shown here takes 30 hours to paint. Of course the zebras are my favorite. I am one after all. Though I was familiar with her work, I knew nothing about her life. After reading about her, I have to say she is an inspiration. Another kindred spirit that has experienced heartbreak and loss and was able to move forward in spite of it. She took a chance, believed in her art and is making a difference in the lives of others. Thank you.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.patiencebrewster.com/collections/jambo.html" target="_blank">©2015 Patience Brewster</a></span><br />
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Rebecca Zook Fine Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16220193852535637262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1925117308224507029.post-87544410934924694292015-02-12T07:45:00.000-08:002015-02-12T07:45:07.087-08:00Priorities<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"The Sweetest Rose" Acrylic on Watercolor Paper 11"x17"</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">My husband, Ed, called over to me from the back door. He was standing with it open excitedly pointing at the night sky. "You have to come look!" I was sitting at my drawing table, paints open, brush in hand, just about to put paint to paper. I had crashed early the night before and was looking forward to making progress on a particular painting since I had several deadlines looming. The excitement in his voice and the little boy look of wonderment on his face quickly dispelled any notion of claiming I was too busy. I wasn't disappointed. Directly overhead was a glowing full moon with a huge "moon bow" encircling it. The largest halo around the moon I had ever seen. He ran back in to get the camera and we spent the rest of the evening working with the photos and marveling at the wonder of the natural world. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Was the floor covered in pet hair? Was there a pile of dirty dishes in the sink? Wet laundry in the machine? Did I have a ton of work to get done? Yes, to all of this and more, but there is something that Ed and I do exactly right. Something that makes our relationship a successful one. We realize the bulk of our lives are little moments strung together and not the momentous occasions that society spotlights. We recognize in those instants that we have a choice and it's an important one. Ed wanted to share that moon with me; that moment with me. That's an honor. Say "I'm busy" too many times and he'll likely stop asking. The choice is whether to make these moments a priority when they come along. Their very nature makes them unplanned and for two people like Ed and I who have a tendency to schedule every detail of our lives, it can be a challenge to let go of preconceived notions about what needs to be accomplished that day and enjoy the moment. Make your partner a priority not an accessory.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">For those with chronic illness, this point gets driven home in a way that is neither comfortable, nor convenient, but it is a valuable lesson that everyone, sick or not, would be happier living by. No one has a perfect and balanced life. No one. I sometimes wonder if it's a base code written into our flawed human genes that leads us to sabotage our happiness. Always wanting more than we currently have. When you have actual flawed genes, your priorities change and reorder and not by choice. Your body ceases to function in a predictable manner making planning difficult and often making previous life goals unattainable. Does this mean you can't be happy? Can't be in a relationship? Not by a long shot.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Over and over I am saddened by the number of marriages/relationships that I see disintegrate because one person has a chronic illness. It's so easy to blame the healthy person for leaving. How could they be so cold and uncaring? What about the vows they took? Though some people just aren't cut out to deal with chronic illness, I believe it's rarely a one-sided issue. As a person who has multiple chronic conditions that impact me on a daily basis, it would be very easy to become entirely self-absorbed and descend into pity and depression. If you aren't the sick person, you don't get it. Trust me on this, you can't. You have no real frame of reference for the soul-crushing guilt we can feel for something that we have no control over and the bitterness of what it has stolen from us. The fear that some new tragedy is looming around the corner. At some point, you have to let it go. I am all for pushing our boundaries and striving for more, but some things are physically impossible now and I just have to accept it and move on. YOU have to be happy before you can even think about sharing your life with someone else. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Why did you get married or why are you with a particular person? Really examine the reasons. Me, I fell in love with a whole person. I love his sense of humor, his intellect, his excitement of life, his caring, gentle nature, love of animals…I could go on. But what I have to remember is that he fell in love with who I am. This relationship goes both ways. When I'm happy, he's happy. When I hurt, he hurts. I have needs and limitations because of my illnesses, but he has needs too. I have to give in this relationship as much as he does even though I have days when it takes all my energy just to get out of bed. Our relationship has to be a priority otherwise, what's the point? I must be there for him, always. I don't get to hoard my pain and say, your problems don't matter because mine are more serious. That's just not fair. It's not all about me. I have to remain open and responsive to what he needs. When he hurts, I hurt. When he's happy. I'm happy.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">Just in time for Valentine's...</span><br style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">A while back I was contacted by author Sophia Dembling who regularly writes for "Psychology Today" and asked if Ed and I would like to be interviewed for a book she was working on. We received a copy the other day and our first date has been forever immortalized in "Introverts in Love. The Quiet Way to Happily Ever After." We are honored and I truly love my husband with every fiber of my being. Thank you for being my love and my partner in life.</span></td></tr>
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Rebecca Zook Fine Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16220193852535637262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1925117308224507029.post-58632788281207116802014-07-14T14:04:00.002-07:002014-07-14T14:20:24.663-07:00Musical Interlude<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I picked up the recent copy of National Geographic that was on the coffee table and held it up to my husband. The cover had an image of a planet with "Is there anybody out there?" in large block letters accompanying it. I said, "Do you know what the next thing that popped into my mind was?" I got a puzzled stare. "Just nod if you can hear me. Is there anyone home?" He laughed. Okay, it was one word off the actual Pink Floyd lyrics, but my brain continually makes associations with things that I see, read or hear with song lyrics that then get stuck in my head for extended periods of time making my relationship with music…complicated. Freeing myself from one song often just means replacing it with another. The phenomena even follows me into my dreams. One particularly beautiful repeating dream where I am wandering through the most incredible museum in existence uses Moon River from Breakfast at Tiffany's as an integral element.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Musical Interlude" Acrylic by Rebecca Zook</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Mostly I like the way music affects my emotional state. I always awake from the museum dream bathed in tranquility and find myself humming Moon River throughout the rest of the day. One song can draw me out of a bout of self pity. Music can dissipate anger or in an instant bring back vivid recollections that only seemed long forgotten. Researchers theorize that melody helps embed memories. I know I can still 'sing' the preamble to the Constitution thanks to the Saturday morning School House Rock of my childhood. These properties are being used to help dementia patients. Even those who have ceased normal communication have been known to spontaneously sing or have music noticeably calm them. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Unlike my sisters, I never learned to play an instrument though at one time I could pluck out simple tunes on a piano and guitar, but I always liked singing. I have vivid memories of sitting on my parent's bed listening to records of children's songs and trying to imitate the lilting notes of the voices I heard of the accomplished adults singing. Then I tried adding my own melodies to the existing ones, weaving them in and out of the base rhythms. Experimenting with sound just like I'd experiment with my paints. Building neurons in the process. I still do this on my long drive to and from work. Long ago I ceased caring what other drivers thought when they saw me belting out a song; soundless from the point of view of their self contained world, but making me wonder what the neighbors thought of me swinging in the backyard and singing at the top of my lungs when I was a child.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Music activates so many areas of the brain from auditory and motor to limbic (emotion regions). One study I read years ago disputed the myth that you needed to listen to classical to reap the benefits. Whether it was Bach or Def Leppard (and I like them both), the positive benefits of music relied most on your own personal preferences. Like food and sex, music also releases the pleasure inducing chemical dopamine into our system. Another study even linked increased Immunoglobulin A with listening to music or singing and a decrease in cortisol levels which can be an indicator of stress. The net result, an overall boost to the immune system. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My husband and I attended a live concert at a small venue recently. We had seen this musician before, but I was tickled to see the excitement of a friend who had not seen him perform and had no idea what to expect. My friend, like me, has had severe health issues throughout her life. She was in hospice at one point and not expected to make the night. Fortunately they didn't tell her that. She walked out the front door and back to a productive life. She turned to me during a break in the concert and credited music, healing music, as part of what brought her back. I believe it.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My advice. Turn off the TV for awhile, close your eyes and relax. Listen to your hearts desire whether it's Reba McEntire, Mannheim Steamroller, or Megadeath. </span></span><br />
<br />Rebecca Zook Fine Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16220193852535637262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1925117308224507029.post-33225900666629910932014-06-04T14:47:00.002-07:002014-06-04T14:47:28.487-07:00Getting Past the Storm…The Not Quite Perfect Marriage<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
There are two well known artists that I follow on Facebook; a married couple. They are probably in their 70s now and have been together forever. When I see photos of the two of them, even though I've never met them in person, I am struck by the absolute certainty that they are still deeply in love. You can see it in their faces and in their body posture. The way one looks at the other when the other is not aware of it. They always seem to be touching in some manner. A calm energy flows between them and you can't help but be emotionally moved by it. I find myself smiling uncontrollably when I see these photos.</div>
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I told my husband that I hope we live that long and I hope that will be us. His response was that it is us now...but we haven't been together forever. We've only been married since December of 2012. You might think that leaves us still in a honeymoon phase, but when you marry someone at age 45 it's very different from being married in your 20s. It's also very different when you marry someone who has chronic illnesses. This is the second marriage for each of us. His first ended in divorce. My first ended with sudden death. When you are young and dating, you are still trying to figure out who you are. You are going to grow and change in the years to come. What you want now may change drastically 10-years from now. Ed and I already had decades of life experience, relationship experience, which shaped us and sharply defined our needs. We both knew what we wanted out of a relationship, what we had to give and found we were a good fit. That may not sound romantic, but at some point the initial physical attraction wanes and a deeper love has a chance to take hold, but only if it's built on common ground and respect.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Hope Burns Bright" 6"x6" Acrylic $260 by Rebecca Zook</td></tr>
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Recently in a chronic illness group, someone asked if anyone else had had a spouse leave them after they got their diagnosis. I figured there would be some of course, but was astounded by the percentage of people in this group that had that very thing happen and these weren't all newly married young people. Some had been married for 10 or more years and the spouse couldn't deal with the ways in which an illness changes the dynamic of day-to-day life. The element of uncertainty that it injects. Many refused to acknowledge the illnesses calling them hypochondriacs and claiming they could get better if they wanted to. That this was all for attention. Those who had been left had given up on finding love again. Feeling damaged and that it wasn't even worth trying. I was deeply saddened. A few people chimed in about their relationships that had survived and thrived in spite of the health challenges, but not many.</div>
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The strongest aspect of my marriage is communication. It's the cement that holds every other piece of our relationship together. It's vital, essential. Without it, we would crumble. We both have chronic health issues. There are times when one of us is unable to complete necessary tasks around the house or when we are selfishly licking our own wounds dwelling in a bout of self-pity and aren't thinking about the needs of the other person. That's a difficult state to get past. It's easy to feel sorry for yourself and the unfairness of the situation. You are hurting and exhausted and just want to curl up inside yourself and block everything out. Satisfied, at least temporarily, to merely exist. Sometimes that is all you have the energy to do. The other person feels rejected and can pull away as well to protect their own feelings. It can easily spiral out of control into resentment and get more difficult to reach out with each passing day. Not wanting to expose yourself to the potential of more emotional pain.</div>
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It's amazing what a kind word can do. Trying to understand the other's pain, without blame, offers a lifeline. A possibility of escape and can begin to pull them out of the dark void. Remember that when you are the one that is sick, you don't get to discount the people around you. They need to feel loved and taken care of every bit as much as you. They need to feel appreciated. I've found that doing things for others works wonders for my self-esteem and makes me feel like I matter. Even if it's something small. My husband shakes off appreciation and compliments, but I'm not going to stop giving them. I need to say how much what he does means to me and whether he admits it or not, he needs to hear it. When I thank him, he always says, "We're partners, right? You'd do the same for me." He says it with such conviction that I feel like we could do or survive anything as long as we have each other. He's already nursed me through 3 surgeries and breast cancer in addition to dealing with my Primary Immune Deficiency and autoimmune issues. Equal partners, that is key, with a great deal of respect for each other.</div>
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He also said, "I know our relationship isn't perfect, but it's pretty close." I think anyone who believes they has the "perfect marriage" is deluding themselves. We argue. We say stupid things to each other. We can be selfish. In the end though, we always listen to each other and more importantly, feel like the other person has truly heard us. We apologize and move forward. We share the joy in each other's accomplishments and provide encouragement. We cherish the small moments because we know all to well that you never know when they are going to be the last moments. </div>
Rebecca Zook Fine Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16220193852535637262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1925117308224507029.post-85775101230186562252014-05-21T13:42:00.002-07:002014-05-21T13:55:58.108-07:00More than a Simple Game of Fetch<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Boy and His Dog…"Buster Brown" has sold, <br />
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<i><span style="color: #999999;">(Note: I refer to Floyd as the latest dog…I wrote this before Ed brought River Dog home on Saturday.)</span></i></div>
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As a kid (and adult for that matter), I hated being forced into situations where I was unfamiliar with the other children or the activity taking place. I'd much rather sit on the sidelines and carefully watch until I understood the rules and felt comfortable engaging. Throwing me into the fire resulted in pure panic (I was good at hiding it, but inside, yes, definitely pure panic) and I'd be much less inclined to participate again…EVER. This is common in introverts.</div>
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Fortunately for our latest dog Floyd, an Australian Shepherd/Border Collie mix, both his parents are introverts. I have taken in many abandoned and abused animals from dogs and cats to parrots and even a lizard over the years and have never seen an animal as terrified as Floyd. He believes that he is about to be punished every second of the day. I do not know for sure what his first family did to him, but it was bad. I'm just thankful that once he managed to escape, they didn't want him back. I think he's an introvert by nature, but the abuse compounded it by making introversion a survival mechanism. When everything you do is wrong, it's best not to engage at all. He is gaining confidence, slowly, but has a long way to go. </div>
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Floyd had no idea how to play. No idea what toys were and had to be convinced that it was okay to take a stuffed animal that was handed to him. He'd almost immediately drop it and you'd have to give it to him again. He's realized the phrase "it's okay" means nothing bad will happen. We say it a lot. Also if I hold my arms a certain distance apart stretched toward him that it means hugs. He didn't have the concept that something could belong to him. Anything he took, he acted like it was stealing, even when given to him. With the aging of our Border Collie, Ed desperately wants another ball dog. Our previous adoptee, Archie (mini Aussie and no telling what else mix), is easily distracted and prone to wandering off rather than focusing on the ball. Floyd should be a perfect playmate for Ed if we can just get him over his fears, but being an introvert, Floyd needs to learn on his own timetable, not ours. Pushing him results in not just 2 steps back, but more like a mile of regression.</div>
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We are teaching him the perennial classic game of fetch. </div>
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<b>Step one. </b></div>
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Ed throws the ball for our other 4 dogs as they, en masse, race across the yard barking excitedly and vying to be the first one to snag the ball. Floyd watches, intently focused on the game and finally runs with them, but does not get the ball. Fortunately, Floyd loves other dogs and is not in the least aggressive, which would be understandable given his background. He's trying at this point, but doesn't seem to have the entire concept down. To be fair, with 4 dogs playing, the game isn't all that consistent. There's a lot of stealing, running off with the ball or not completely bringing it back depending on who gets a hold of it first. </div>
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<b>Step two. </b></div>
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One-on-one time. Tossing the ball to Floyd results in the poor guy being bopped on the nose repeatedly. Adding the word "catch" before the toss seems to pin down for him what action he is supposed to take, but it's a little while before he's coordinated enough to open his mouth and get the timing right; not closing it too soon or opening too late. No one had tossed this dog ANYTHING before he came to live with us. Nearly everything a house dog should normally know by adulthood was a foreign concept to him. </div>
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We repeat steps one and two. Then something remarkable happens. I'm sitting watching television and Floyd comes racing through the dog door from outside with the tennis ball in his mouth. He leaps onto the sofa and begins tossing the ball onto the floor, chasing after it himself, leaping back onto the sofa and repeating. He reached his comfort level with the game and not when we were actually playing it. He tried it by himself first. Something I completely understand. I got him to bring the ball to me and I tossed it a few times which he readily chased, but needed a little encouragement to return it after each throw. I was so happy for him. To see that kind of joy instead of constant fear brought tears to my eyes. </div>
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I lived that fear as well, not due to extreme abuse, but because I was different and bullied as a result. Because I wasn't interested in girly things and would rather sit and read my books or explore the woods, climb trees and catch frogs and of course sit by myself and draw for hours on end. Fortunately, I had friends that understood and had similar interests. I couldn't have survived without them. Still, it took me a very long time to find my confidence. To realize it only mattered what I thought and that I shouldn't let other people define me. Unfortunately, it took falling into an emotionally abuse relationship and pulling myself out of it to begin to realize this. Maybe this is why I'm drawn to lost and abandoned creatures.</div>
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I want Floyd to find himself and be happy. It brings me a lot of joy to watch his progression. Yes, I do know he's not human, but that's irrelevant to me. Dogs have emotions, perhaps purer than our own. They are thinking beings and don't deserve the horrific treatment that many humans inflict upon them. </div>
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Now I see him playing by himself with other toys in the yard. Tossing them in the air and catching. He even recently made a flying leap to catch a ball Ed threw much to Ed's surprise. We are still nailing down the details of the game with him…such as not running out the dog door with the ball when we play in the house, but I'm just thrilled that he can be happy and forget his fears, if only for a little while. </div>
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Rebecca Zook Fine Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16220193852535637262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1925117308224507029.post-25823943434705807852014-02-14T08:25:00.000-08:002014-02-14T09:41:40.429-08:00Enchantment<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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I've never been a fan of the spoon theory. It just doesn't resonate with me. If you have or have been around anyone with chronic illnesses, you are likely familiar with it. Imagine each day you are handed a bunch of spoons. They represent the amount of energy you have to expend for the day. You can't have more. Each activity that you do costs you a spoon. The goal is to make it through the day without running out of spoons. I need to define 'activity' because I'm not talking about going for a run or spending the day at an outdoor festival. Those things cost you far more than one spoon. For some people, walking up a flight of stairs, cooking dinner, running to the grocery store or even through the drive-through at the bank will cost them a spoon. Spoon theory is an effective way to illustrate to someone who is healthy what it's like to live with limited energy.</div>
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It just doesn't go far enough for me. Most people think, well, you can plan ahead what you will be able to get accomplished. That you can follow a schedule. If you take a nap you gain more spoons. It doesn't work that way. I think a better analogy is to picture yourself walking dangerously close to the edge of the Grand Canyon. You do have a degree of control, but a misstep on your part could cause you to plummet to your death. An outside force such as a gust of wind could cause you to plummet to your death. Sometimes you find yourself falling and have no idea why. See yourself walking along that edge and trying to accomplish everything you need to during your day, but always keeping the looming abyss in mind. Can you see it? Now add fog. Really thick fog, so that the edge is obscured and the abyss hidden, but it's still there. It's always there. This is what it's like to live with chronic illnesses. </div>
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When you wake up, you have no idea how many 'spoons' are in your hand for the day. You guess at the amount of energy you have. You try to base it on how 'good' you feel that day, but anything can come along and steal the energy. Each day is different. It's the inconsistency that's the worst thing to deal with and the hardest thing for others to understand. "You cleaned the house a week ago, why can't you do it today? We had a night out planned. You were fine two hours ago, but now you say you can't go?" It becomes easier to say "no" rather that disappoint someone at the last minute. And those days that you feel as if you can do anything are a double edged sword. It's nearly impossible to not overdo it using up your energy for the next several days all at one time.</div>
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But the Grand Canyon is breathtaking. Sometimes you have to wait for the sun to burn off the fog, stand at the edge and marvel at the beauty. Then jump. Jump by choice. Throw up your hands and say, "Damn it, I'm going to do this and if I feel like crap for the next week, it was worth it." That was what I decided last weekend. My husband and I had gone out of town for an art show opening and several events were planned around it. I knew that alone was going to zap my energy. Plus, I had to risk food allergy reactions because we had no place to do our own cooking. I took extra medicine as a precaution. All the art events were on Saturday, so Sunday we were left to our own devices. It was a long drive home, but we did have some time to kill. Ed wanted to climb Enchanted Rock. I should say that Ed wanted ME to climb Enchanted Rock. It's an exposed ancient lava chamber after the volcano eroded away. It's BIG. The path is winding and uneven. There are boulders to climb over. It's also quite beautiful and I've only ever seen it from a distance. He felt like I needed a physical victory. It has been close to a year since I've tried anything dramatic along those lines.</div>
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I had mixed feelings. I wanted to do it, but I was afraid of the abyss; the price I might have to pay later. I was afraid if I made it to the top, I might not be able to get back down. I had all kinds of fears trying to stop me. Instead, I told myself I could turn around at any time. Ed said we could stop and rest whenever I needed to. More than once I felt like I was gasping for air; heart pounding. My legs felt like rubber. I had to sit down repeatedly and I truly almost gave up, twice. But with encouragement and patience from my husband, I made it to the top. </div>
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On the way down Ed asked if I was proud of myself. I said, "No. I was a big baby about it." At least I felt like I was. I complained more than once. I expressed frustration instead of just sucking it up and shutting up. He assured me this was something to be proud of. Yeah, he's right. It is. I just hope the next time I can keep the fears at bay. I suffered some pain afterward and was worn out for a few days, but it was worth it. I got to see the beauty in the abyss and gain a new perspective...standing at the top of this giant rock. </div>
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Rebecca Zook Fine Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16220193852535637262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1925117308224507029.post-34741221087183231182014-01-23T11:53:00.002-08:002014-01-23T12:00:53.606-08:00Questioning the Status Quo<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
As you can imagine, I've been through the ringer when it comes to medical testing (as have most of you). Some were simple blood draws…though up to 8 vials at a time. While other tests were much more painful. Think bone marrow biopsy and electrified probing needles. Most were just at varying levels of discomfort. A topic came up on a CVID group about knowing when to speak up for yourself when it came to testing. Most agreed that they often suffered tests in silence because they didn't want to come across as the problem patient or cause a scene. I have been guilty of this in the past. Not so much now. You can politely complain or question something that is about to be done. I recently had an experience that made me look at things from the tech's perspective as well.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sometimes when it comes to my medical issues <br />
I feel like grass being blown about by the wind, <br />
but I take control where I can to calm the breeze <br />
and regain a place of strength.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">"Wildness By The Water" </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">7.25" x 11"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">Acrylic on Masonite </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">$375 </span></td></tr>
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I'll start with the polite questioning scenario. A week ago I had a dermatology appointment to have a new rapidly growing mole examined. It would periodically itch intensely and was changing color. Being fair-skinned, blue-eyed with a healthy dose of red in my hair and having a basal-cell mole removed in my early 20s, I was worried. The dermatologist had a young doctor following him around that day. I explained my concerns and stated that because of the immune deficiency I was more susceptible to cancers. He looked at the spot and said he believed it was a benign growth, but that if it bothered me, he could freeze it off. I paused a moment and said, "How positive are you that it isn't cancerous?" He responded with, "There are some cancers that may not look like cancer." "Hmmm, I would feel much better if we went ahead and biopsied this." He said that was fine and we did the procedure. The young doctor observed all this and started asking me questions about the immune deficiency and if my family had related issues as well. He also generously took my jacket as the dermatologist looked at additional moles on my arms and back and set it with my purse. I was thinking, I hope you retain that bedside manner as the years pass and that you understood my concerns and reason for asking for the procedure. </div>
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At that point the nurse was handing a needle to the doctor and I said, "that's just lidocaine, right?" She said, "Oh, yes." Immediately the dermatologist said, "No, it has a little bit of epi in it. Do you have problems with that?" Not exactly. I explained I am also prone to heart racing and that it was possible the epinephrine might trigger it. So he asked the nurse to get a syringe without epi. I was glad I had spoken up. I had a phone message yesterday that the growth was indeed benign, but I don't regret having it confirmed one bit.</div>
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I also recently had my left breast examined again to check for tumors. I had a mastectomy of the right side in September. My doctor just requested a sonogram, but the imaging center insisted on a screening mammogram and then after looking at it called me back for a diagnostic mammogram before we ever got to the sonogram. The mammography tech was very nice and the policy certainly wasn't her fault, though I did question why we were doing this since it wasn't on the order. She got noticeably flustered and I felt bad. When it was all over she said to me, "I know you have been through this all before, but you were really patient." I replied that I was just thinking that this didn't hurt nearly as bad as the last time I had it done. At that point she absolutely beamed. She started telling me how she was really conscious of the psi that she was using and had done tests that showed, past a certain point, additional compression didn't improve the detail in the digital files. She really tried to make the patient as comfortable as possible. I was having a difficult time not smiling really big at her enthusiasm. I had just completely made her day with my offhand remark. I thanked her for her attention to detail and as I left the room thought about how many women must complain during the procedure. It's not pleasant. Someone is moving private parts of your body around and placing you in awkward positions. As an artist and graphic designer, I'm used to positioning models, product or a set up for a still life painting and the direction she was giving verbally or her physical positioning of me; I never once thought it odd or unusual. I do the same thing in a different setting, but I can see how just about everyone else would find it strange and feel vulnerable. I am going to make a big effort from now on to thank techs that do a good job. They deserve it.</div>
Rebecca Zook Fine Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16220193852535637262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1925117308224507029.post-14526804324305266132014-01-23T11:52:00.001-08:002014-01-23T11:52:37.246-08:00Real or Imagined<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">I told Ed last night that I had rejoined a Facebook group for CVID…my immune deficiency…and that I kinda wish I hadn't. Since this one is a closed group, people are much more open about their problems and I was just about in tears reading p</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">osts. People having to choose between paying their mortgage and paying insurance and thinking their families would just be better off without them. Losing insurance means losing the antibody infusions. No one can afford them without insurance and for many it's still a struggle with insurance. Right now a major insurance company is forcing patients with a CVID diagnosis to cease treatment for 4 MONTHS in order to PROVE they still have the illness. One week past my normal infusion schedule and I'm in pain and sick. 4 months could kill a person. They are also just refusing to cover the treatments for many altogether. Insurance companies deciding treatment, not doctors. </span><br />
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /><br />Then there are so many who have family, friends and spouses that think it's not real or that they are somehow causing the problem by not eating right or not taking the right supplements. They accuse them of just being lazy or stupid. People whose family members have not spoken to them for YEARS just because they are sick; because they don't understand the genetic nature of the illness or the variableness of the symptoms. The online community is all they have in the way of emotional support. Many are too sick to work regular jobs. A lot of us have secondary autoimmune conditions which are worse than the primary immune deficiency and/or have cancers. They are barely surviving. One bad illness can wipe you out financially. Imagine one that is lifelong and expensive to treat.<br /><br />I want to thank my husband, my family, my friends, my coworkers and my doctors for believing. For not making me feel this isn't real and for the understanding and support. Coworkers stay away from me when they are sick and are understanding of doctor appointments. Friends insist on accompanying me to appointments to provide moral support or have lunch with me during an infusion. My husband has learned to devise meals that I can eat and are delicious. He does the vast majority of the cooking. He is also there for me when I occasionally indulge in a bout of self-pity. I appreciate this so much. It means everything. I am a strong person, but it would be so much harder without your support.<br /><br />I am thankful I can still work full-time and function in the world, though I have to watch my day-to-day energy expendature. I have a great job, a creative, challenging job, that I enjoy with good benefits. I can sell my paintings for additional income. Again, something that is already a passion for me. I have a house that is paid for because my late husband, Tom, was adamant about having enough insurance to cover it if something happened to either of us. I make enough money, so that my husband, Ed, has been able to go back to college and pursue his passion and he is happier because of it. I have people that love me. I am in a much better place than so so many of my fellow zebras. I also know I could lose it all in a blink. That I am walking on a wire and doing everything I can to not fall.<br /><br /><br />The Zebra painting is sold, but appropriate since those with rare diseases refer to themselves as Zebras after this common saying in the medical community.<br /><br />"When you hear hoofbeats think horses...not zebras."</span>Rebecca Zook Fine Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16220193852535637262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1925117308224507029.post-4776087199509435992014-01-10T11:09:00.000-08:002014-01-10T11:12:47.129-08:00Wounded Animals<div style="font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 13px;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">My husband, Ed, tells me I have a huge heart, but he's definitely biased. For much of my life, people who didn't know me well would describe me as aloof. They would assume I thought I was better than them and would go out of their way to not talk to or include me. I don't entirely blame them for the misjudgment. In person, I'm not easy to get to know. Introversion and shyness are not interchangeable, but I am a person that defines both these terms. Painfully so for most of my life. I avoided eye contact, didn't speak first or call out a hello, generally looked at the ground while walking. That last one had a benefit, though, I found a lot of loose change over the years and a winning lottery scratch off ticket. I hated small talk and am still not that good at it, so I avoided getting into situations that might require it. I can be overly blunt which some people find hurtful or just plain unfriendly. In a way, I ostracized myself, but never because I thought I was better. Quite the opposite.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">As a child, this made me a target for "Mean Girls." I looked like them. I could have been one of them, but instead always had my nose in a book, was focused on my grades and my art. I liked science and animals such as snakes and bats. I was weird. I didn't NEED to be one of them and I think that is what really set them off. I did want friends and always had a close-knit group of like minded people around me. I didn't want to be popular. I didn't want the drama, but they brought it on me anyway just because I was different.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I gravitated to animals from an early age. I had an innate understanding of them. I could read their body language. They were more predictable and less judgmental than humans. Not just dogs and cats. I could get closer to wilder animals than anyone else I knew. Maybe because we shared an understanding of fear. I never did anything to cause them to distrust me. Building trust is the key to everything. I didn't trust people because of the way I was treated. I trusted animals. This led me to adopt many abused and abandoned creatures throughout my life…from a large lizard that was lost in the storeroom of a pet shop, to a parrot who had his wing torn up by a previous owner, to many dogs and cats.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The most recent is "Pretty Boy Floyd," an Australian Shepherd. We've had him for just a couple weeks. I have a special affinity for this dog breed. He was described as 'shy' but it is much deeper than that. He is terrified. He clung to the nearest person, but was scared to be restrained in any manner. He refused to leave the concrete when we tried to take him into an outside run at the animal shelter. On the way home, it was an hour and a half drive, he had diarrhea twice and threw up once from fear and stress. At home, he thankfully got along with the other dogs and cats. Floyd's had to learn that he has a bowl all his own and he doesn't have to steal mouthfuls of food and run away to eat it. We've had to be careful when we praise him for learning something. The excited, happy sounds scare him. Talking too loudly scares him. He seems bewildered when we hand him toys and nylabones to chew. His look says, "Really? This is for me? It's mine?" as he takes it gingerly. Any sort of correction to behavior results in him believing he's been banned from the activity altogether. In spite of this, Floyd is learning rapidly and is trusting more. When we took him to the vet to be checked out and get shots, I think he feared being abandoned again. He struggled out of the harness, then chewed through the leash while still in the car. Going home was a completely different story. His demeanor changed entirely. He was alert and happily looking out the windows. We gained bonus points with him that day. We didn't leave him as he feared. He just needed an opportunity to be happy and learn that life can be good.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I think the majority of us are wounded animals, no different from Floyd. The Mean Girls were mean because something inside of them was broken by another that caused them to lash out. Their victims often silently accepting it and many even blaming themselves. Life is filled with loss, difficulties and disappointments that can overwhelm us. It's no wonder that compassion seems lost. I pushed away most others because of the fear of being hurt. When I first got sick, I kept it to myself, didn't ask for help or understanding, didn't show the pain or fear. I didn't think others would want to visit me in the hospital, so I didn't ask, though I was lonely and scared. I relied too heavily on my husband, Tom. He was shouldering a huge burden caring for me, the house, the pets, dealing with medical insurance and bills and trying to work a full-time job. He too only shared his pain with very few others. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">When he died, something in me broke. I had just lost the one person I trusted fully and my entire emotional support system. The wall I built around myself for protection crashed down. I was completely exposed. For the longest time I had believed that people couldn't change and that we were never victims of circumstances beyond our control. I felt that if something bad befell a person, it was their job to fix it. Bad things happen for no reason every day and sitting in a heap on the floor lamenting it, but doing nothing solves nothing. What I failed to see was that sometimes it's not a lack of wanting to make things better, but truly not knowing where to begin. Though I would do nearly anything for an animal, I saw people differently. I had little compassion for my fellow humans. Due to my own pain, choosing to see only how we hurt each other and hurt the creatures around us. Then I did something that not only surprised my few close friends, but me as well. Instead of walling myself back in, I shared my pain. Maybe my struggles will help others dealing with the same issues. I didn't expect any direct feedback. I wrote for myself with the thought that maybe others were reading. What I received was an outpouring of compassion. Compassion that I didn't expect and in some cases from people that had been the cruelest to me. I felt connected to the human race for the first time in a long time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">People are kind. People will help if you ask. Given the opportunity, people will rise to the occasion. It was enlightening. Conversely, others who are struggling, who are down so deep that they can't see the sky, who are bitter and hopeless aren't always a loss. Compassion, attempting to understand, looking outside of our own personal pain, we can use these things to help those burdened with hurt and anger. People can change. People can learn to trust again. Something as simple as a smile or a compliment on a job well done can make a person feel like they mattered. That THEY made a difference. We get caught up in our own problems and struggles, but sometimes in helping others we actually end up helping ourselves heal our own wounded animal.<br />
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Maybe I do have a big heart, but only because I learned that I was wrong about people. Only because I was shown compassion in response to my pain and loss and that gave me the ability to show it to others. Being able to share my struggles and receive feedback has lifted a smothering weight off me. I'm lighter and happier and that gave me the ability to open my heart to another and be happy.</span></div>
Rebecca Zook Fine Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16220193852535637262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1925117308224507029.post-90944096581238601232013-11-26T11:22:00.000-08:002013-11-26T11:22:08.061-08:00My Thankfuls<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I got in the car this morning and thought about Tom. Tears started to well up. The emotional pain I went through when Tom died is resurfacing as I think about what lies ahead for a Facebook friend who lost her husband recently. We share the same birthday and his death will forever be linked to it and to Thanksgiving for her. Once again I am reminded how quickly life can change. Change being the only constant in life.</div>
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My husband has been posting daily "what I am thankful fors" on Facebook for the entire month. He is not thinking of them ahead of time. He is waiting to be inspired by something that has occurred that day. Many of them have centered around me. For that I am thankful. He doesn't live in my body and can't truly experience my illnesses, but they certainly impact him and I worry from time to time that it will drive him away. That I bring him happiness is still a concept that amazes me. That I found love again also amazes me. That I am able to be happy at all amazes me. Learn from change. Adapt to the changes. </div>
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I've lost physical abilities and I've lost people that I can never get back, but I have gained so much more in wisdom, gained the ability to appreciate what I have left and what I can still do. Living is very much worth the price I have paid and continue to pay to remain here. I make a difference by being here. We all do. We impact family members, friends even strangers. Hopefully for the betterment of us all. There is power in this. Use it wisely. </div>
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I dropped my hearing aid, for the good ear of course, on the stone floor one cold morning last week and parts of it shattered. I managed to get an appointment at the ENT doctor's office yesterday and asked to get my hearing checked at the same time. They were completely swamped and I spent the better part of the day there. Though I had other things I planned to get done, it wasn't worth getting angry over. By the profuseness of the apologies and being told that no one had even taken a lunch break, I think other patients weren't so patient. Initially, they thought they would be able to fix the hearing aid while I waited, so after the hearing test I was put in an exam room rather than the waiting room. The door was open and the Physician's Assistant came in and sat down and introduced himself. Thinking he had some information to share, I waited expectantly. He finally said, "I just needed to take a break." I laughed and replied, "Just needed to get out of the main flow, huh?" "Yeah…so where are you from?" At that moment a favorite quote from the television show "House" popped into my head, "It's what life is. It's a series of rooms and who we get stuck in those rooms with adds up to what our lives are." I decided to take it literally. What ensued was an amusing conversation about the difference between living in Dallas versus Ft. Worth, other states he had lived in and later that his daughter was an artist living in Oklahoma City. I also learned that the power was out at their other office due to the sleet and they were funneling people here. That's why it was so crazy. They were trying to accommodate everyone they could. I hope our conversation was the break he needed. Before I left, I was talking with the audiologist and the P.A. came in, pointed at me and said, "she's really nice." Well, at the very least, I didn't make anything worse for them and I saved myself the energy it would take to get angry at the long wait. Let go of what you can't control.</div>
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I'm not sure where I had intended to go with this blog entry. It turned into a stream of consciousness kinda thing. Ultimately I guess it's about what I'm thankful for (it is Thanksgiving after all)…my husband who I appreciate dearly, my painting and writing abilities that allow me to share pieces of myself with the rest of the world, that I am still able to work and to have a job that makes use of my creative talents, my pets that bring laughter into my life, the friends and family that have been so supportive, medical technological advances that caught my breast cancer early enough to consider me cured and of course all the plasma donors who I truly couldn't live without. I am warm, safe and happy and that is so much more than many people have. It's not worth lamenting what is gone. No regrets. </div>
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Happy Thanksgiving!</div>
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Rebecca Zook Fine Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16220193852535637262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1925117308224507029.post-31235140441544886752013-11-10T10:56:00.000-08:002013-11-10T11:03:44.207-08:00At a Loss for Words<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_hvNcVu1hFfRXKc6gHwYN3mPfAaQgw3d7nLMw0KNhp9o9wftaqd9JJtfWAYGETh03_pZKgoOOy_tc3rQkgmxSAo88i-oIMsNllNgIfLu1fN0tf4LIydMljr9B9iXL1t-JWtSkPWXEDCw/s1600/YellowGlowLake2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_hvNcVu1hFfRXKc6gHwYN3mPfAaQgw3d7nLMw0KNhp9o9wftaqd9JJtfWAYGETh03_pZKgoOOy_tc3rQkgmxSAo88i-oIMsNllNgIfLu1fN0tf4LIydMljr9B9iXL1t-JWtSkPWXEDCw/s320/YellowGlowLake2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Sunlit Lake Fog" • 6"x6" • Acrylic on Masonite</td></tr>
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"Sparrow, get off of those clean pillows!"</div>
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I was in the laundry room which has shelving for clean linens, bulk item storage and a place to hang clothes temporarily as they come out of the drier–except it's become more of a second closet for me. My clothes just don't seem to make it to the bedroom.</div>
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Ed walked in and heard me chastising our cat. "Uh sweetheart, what pillows? I don't see any pillows." He's teasing me. They were in fact several stacks of towels. In my head I said towels, but that's not what came out of my mouth. I wonder if I'm losing my mind. I had already forgotten my hearing aids twice. I never forget them. I have to reread anything I write 3 or 4 times to catch mistakes. Such as typing 'booth' instead of 'books.' On multiple occasions, instead of speaking the word that I have in my head, I say one that sounds very similar, but likely does not have the same meaning. Better yet, I can't find the word I want at all until 5 minutes later when it suddenly pops into my head at which point I speak it aloud completely out of context.</div>
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So when I saw the Physician's Assistant for my oncologist on Tuesday before my infusion and he asked how I was, the first words out of my mouth were, "I'm okay, but Tamoxifen is making me stupid…(long pause)…and forgetful." He laughed and asked why I thought that. So I added "As an example, I forgot my hearing aids, so I may have trouble understanding you today." </div>
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I had done a little research already of course and ran across a few forums where other breast cancer patients were discussing a similar experience with Tamoxifen. I never gave birth to children, so I don't have any personal experience with the "Mommy Brain" that is blamed on hormone fluctuations post birth, but I figured if this drug's job is to block hormones, then I'm likely finding myself in a similar predicament. I also keep calling our new cat she instead of he. Frankly, I doubt he cares and is just happy to be off the mean streets of Granbury and in a loving home with regular meals, but my mistake seems to bother Ed a bit, since he corrects me every time. Then I think of the TV show "The Closer." If you were a fan, you'll know why.</div>
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Josh, the P.A., is nodding his head and has a slight bemused smile on his face as he's listening to me detail my answer to the "why I think that" question. I'm trying to decide if I should be annoyed that he's finding this amusing, but determine that it actually is, a little. Until he calls me, M'aam, which does annoy me because in my head I'm still in my mid-20s. Then he confirms it. "Yeah, it's likely the Tamoxifen." The Tamoxifen that I'm supposed to take for the next 5 years! It's only been a month and I already feel like I'm going insane. FIVE YEARS…or until I go into menopause naturally. "But my job is to be creative on demand. That's a little hard to do when one's brain is in apparent hormone withdrawal," I implored. "And my obsessively detail oriented nature is one of my strongest assets." There are other drugs, but they are usually given to post menopausal women he tells me and suggests I speak with the oncologist at my next appointment with her. He actually stated another oncologist's name and I said that's not right and my brain decided for dramatic effect to completely lose the name of my actual oncologist. </div>
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So until this gets sorted out please avoid going grammar nazi on me. Forgive me if I put my glasses in the refrigerator or if I stop in mid-sentence at a complete loss for words. If I call towels pillows and pillows towels, or if I forget something I'm supposed to do for you, a gentle reminder would be appreciated. Now I'm going to go reacquaint myself with writing lists and the wonder of post-it-notes.</div>
Rebecca Zook Fine Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16220193852535637262noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1925117308224507029.post-81213865179710766862013-10-21T17:06:00.002-07:002013-10-21T17:12:03.539-07:00Patience…how to teach your dog to shake in 10 minutes.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">The mastectomy didn't just remove tissue, it has my energy level pegged firmly on empty. The lack of energy is making me reevaluate the importance of things that need to be done. The frequency of vacuuming the house or mopping the floors has definitely declined. Dogs need to be brushed and bathed and it hasn't happened. Fortunately, Ed handles all the grocery shopping and cooking. I'd likely be starving otherwise. Some things I have no choice in confronting. Going back to the day job full-time. Painting to bring in extra money to pay unexpected medical bills. My continuing antibody infusions, autoimmune issues and ongoing breast reconstruction demand time and attention as well. Sometimes I want to just curl up and sleep for 24 hours straight. I'm still working to find an acceptable balance; figuring out what I can and can't get done. It's a little frustrating. I was already living at a lower energy level than the average person and this additional hit has knocked me to the ground.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Two of a Kind"<br />
4"x4" Acrylic on Masonite • Unframed • $50</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The pets don't understand why I haven't been paying much attention to them lately. I sit down and I'm completely covered with cats and at least one dog within seconds wanting love. I make an effort to talk to and pet any of them I see throughout the day, but I don't have the energy to play much and my patience wears thin at times and of course I feel guilty about all of it and I don't have the option of explaining it to them.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">What helps the most with chores is keeping up with them before they become overwhelming. Instead of letting dishes pile up, rinse them and put in the washer as you use them. Sweep one room a day instead of all at once. Recently, I applied this same logic to teaching Archie dog to shake. Just do a little bit at a time. He is smart and wants to please me and has quite a vocabulary that he understands already, but not in the way of 'tricks.' He learned sit and lay, but these were more for our benefit in getting him under control. He was a bit wild having been a stray and didn't understand that there were rules to be followed with us and with the other animals. He has learned a great deal, but I decided I wanted him to learn shake. The rest of the dogs already knew how.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I don't like to teach my guys using food reward unless they just refuse to respond to praise alone. In Archie's case, he gets entirely too excited by food to concentrate on anything else anyway. I had to use Cheerios initially to teach him to sit, just to get him focused on me, but moved to praise quickly so that he would follow commands without expecting to get a food reward every time. This method may take longer with some animals but I believe having a dog that trusts and wants to please me is better than a dog who just wants the food.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">If you have furry pets, you know it's impossible to go to the bathroom by yourself. I decided to use these little snippets of time to teach Archie. The first few lessons went like this…I would pick up his paw and say 'shake.' His response would be to immediately fall to the ground on his back in a submissive position. End of lesson. I wanted him to figure out what I wanted for himself. To think it through, so I never said 'no' or forced him to get up and try again. These lessons lasted less than 5 seconds total. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We went through this for a couple weeks whenever he followed me into the bathroom. He eventually stopped falling down and would instead try to gnaw on my hand as I held his paw and said shake. I'd let go each time. End of lesson. Another couple weeks of this. Again, he suddenly stopped putting my hand in his mouth and instead just stood there calmly as I lifted his paw and said the command. I let this continue for about a week. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Finally, I stuck my hand out without touching his paw and said 'shake.' He looked at my hand and then at my face intently for just a moment. I knew at that point he got it; before he even lifted his paw, you could see it in his eyes. They were smiling. He confidently and enthusiastically slapped his paw right into my hand. I praised him and we both went a little berserk with happiness. I had no idea if this would work. I had been much more conventional in training the other dogs. It was an experiment. I've continued to reinforce the shake to make sure he has it down. Yes, it took over a month for him to learn the behavior, but when you add up the actual time I spent teaching him, it couldn't have been more than 10 minutes total. You can accomplish a lot with a little bit of patience. Occasionally I forget and just need a reminder.</span></div>
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Rebecca Zook Fine Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16220193852535637262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1925117308224507029.post-52679837777915156482013-09-09T18:35:00.000-07:002013-09-09T18:35:25.298-07:00...and so it begins<br />
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'Twas the night before Christmas…not even remotely. Though, I will be up before dawn in nervous anticipation like a small child and I do get a couple presents tomorrow. The first is to have the waiting over and the second is to get the cancer out of my body. I suppose that's close enough.</div>
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I'm trying to decide how I feel. I've bounced up and down between calm acceptance and fear over the past few days. Sometimes multiple times a day. My fear is centered not around the actual mastectomy, but the general anesthesia, we don't always get along. I'll be having a long discussion with the anesthesiologist prior to surgery and hoping they can mitigate the negative effects it has on me. Lack of control, I'm sure, is playing a huge part in my emotional swings. It's not easy for me to let go and hope for the best without my hands on the reins. Right now I'm back to calm acceptance. I'm just ready for it to be over.</div>
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Earlier today I went to the hospital for the lymphoscintigraphy which consisted of shots of a radioactive tracer that felt like wasp stings then imaging to track the tracer to the first lymph node. This is what they will remove and test to confirm that the cancer has not spread. I had a special 'navigator' with me, a breast cancer survivor herself, to hold my hand during the procedure and and who will also see me before the actual surgery. </div>
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This is going to sound wrong, but when I checked my messages on Friday and had a call from one of the other support navigators asking me to call back, I actually got angry. Let me try to explain. I am not that worried about the whole breast cancer diagnosis (though the thought of surgery itself does scare me). At least with cancer you have a firm diagnosis and course of action, and most importantly, a possibility of a cure. Especially if caught early. There are distinct steps to take. There is an end to treatment. I have received informational books (more like novels in some cases), offers of local support groups and now a special support navigator. </div>
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All I could think was where was all this support when I was searching for what was wrong with me years ago, when I was lying in the hospital often alone, dying. Even after. I had to seek out others like me. Scavenge for information. No one handed me books on how to deal with my diagnosis or or even a clue where to search for answers. Thank you internet. I joked with my infusion center 'navigator' when she handed me the first 'book' I was to receive that I've been going there for treatment for years and apparently it took getting cancer before I mattered. I WAS joking at the time, but with each offer of help, it's rubbed it in a bit more. I am truly thankful that breast cancer gets the support from the medical community that it does, but I still identify with the Zebra herd–the misunderstood, the chronic, the incurable. People relate to breast cancer. They know someone who is a survivor. People don't relate to hypogammaglobulemia or the fact that it doesn't get better. We are also survivors. Every single day for the rest of our lives.</div>
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So tomorrow morning will come. I will be at the hospital before day break and this new medical journey will begin in conjunction with the conditions that already exist and I will continue to survive. That seems to be my superpower. Survival. Can't wait to see what battle the Fates have lined up next.</div>
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Rebecca Zook Fine Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16220193852535637262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1925117308224507029.post-10476813322970648322013-08-21T11:13:00.002-07:002013-08-21T13:51:40.691-07:00Convertible Therapy<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq45wNFDdHuz83kYCdMpm2mjW9TZW89tm2laX3aT6oNN0cM5B_gePSAIcwDf52MZ4bfv-vI1PzEigA3n7FYdefWWKKMLjf6SfyxhiaL0mEHT1fY-kj9M7Q0bY71SLd9GEyN3K9mTeiSMQ/s1600/OldFriends.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq45wNFDdHuz83kYCdMpm2mjW9TZW89tm2laX3aT6oNN0cM5B_gePSAIcwDf52MZ4bfv-vI1PzEigA3n7FYdefWWKKMLjf6SfyxhiaL0mEHT1fY-kj9M7Q0bY71SLd9GEyN3K9mTeiSMQ/s320/OldFriends.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 15px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 15px; background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Helvetica, Geneva, Arial, SunSans-Regular, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><b><i>"Old Friends"<br />Water-Soluble Oils on Board<br />10.5" x 8" SOLD</i></b></span></td></tr>
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I can imagine that oncoming traffic either laughed or thought I was insane when I suddenly threw both my hands up into the air above the windshield header. It was still a little hot, but I needed a top down day. I've owned convertibles nearly continuously from the age of 17. The love affair started with a bright blue MGB, moved to a Triumph TR-6 followed by a string of Mazda Miatas. The Miata that never left is a bright blue race package '94 model with factory white racing stripes and roll bar. I call her Shelbie. Like me, she is aging and not always gracefully. Our bodies getting used up, breaking down, turning against us. Earlier this year I sent her to a Miata specialty shop in Dallas for a heart transplant…an attempt to prolong our days together. Her engine was rebuilt and it gave her new life securing our relationship for at least a little longer. I wasn't about to give up on her.</div>
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Early in our time together we were driving down the Expressway when a car pulled up alongside. I heard a beautiful male British voice say, "Excuse me." I turned to look. A handsome young man about my own age very politely inquired (and perhaps everything just sounds more polite in a British accent), "Would you mind showing us your tits. It doesn't matter that they are small." I sped off. Not quick-witted enough to formulate a reply. We were redeemed a few year later. I was loading groceries when I saw a man hang himself out the passenger window (up to his waist), of a passing car, spread his arms wide and call out to me, "Will you marry me?" I laughed out loud. Shelbie always turned heads. </div>
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Nineteen years have passed and neither one of us gets quite the attention we used to. I don't like to think that I am vain. I've never worn make-up, keep my hair quite long, but simple, dress nice, but not trendy, but to be honest, I guess I am to a degree. I've been dealt another blow. Breast cancer. Now I'm facing another surgery; a full mastectomy of the right side followed by radiation while still dealing with my immune deficiency and autoimmune conditions. The thought of losing something that is in no way critical to the functionality of my body is tougher to swallow than I thought. Even if they are small, I've gotten quite used to the way they look on my body. After a few days of sulking, "why me's" and "dammit, don't I get to be happy EVER in this life," I turned to my husband and said I had made a decision. "I refuse to have breast cancer." He responded with, "Good. I agree. Let's go with that." Then I burst out laughing. That wasn't quite the response I expected, but apparently was the one I needed. It was the beginning of acceptance.</div>
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I was driving home from work. Radio playing "Roam" by the B-52s. Top down. I realized I wasn't thinking about the cancer. I felt at peace. Felt happy. I was still here and determined to remain no matter how many times my body tries to kill me. I'm not giving up on me. This very moment is mine. My hands flew into the air.</div>
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Rebecca Zook Fine Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16220193852535637262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1925117308224507029.post-17230637237059149562013-07-31T09:35:00.003-07:002013-07-31T20:12:06.517-07:00Why You Should Mammogram Your Peaches<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unfortunately, I didn't have any paintings of peaches.<br />
"Between the Lines" seemed the best alternate.<br />
5"x7" Acrylic on Masonite</td></tr>
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Thursday night I made peach cobbler. </div>
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It may not sound like an achievement worthy of a blog post, but that's kinda the point. I love peaches and thankfully they happen to be one of two fruits (excluding tomatoes) that don't try to kill me when I eat them. In addition, I have Celiac disease, am lactose intolerant and soy allergic and haven't had peach cobbler in years because of it. I was determined to make a version that I not only 'could' eat, but would 'want' to eat. Convinced this was impossible, I hadn't made a single attempt before now. I guess having the hope of someday eating a good cobbler was better than facing possible failure and crushing the hope altogether. Watching co-workers consume copious quantities of peach cobbler that seemed to be breeding on its own at the office (it's peach harvest time in Texas), I became determine not to miss out. </div>
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In the meantime, my brain wandered back to a new medical issue. I was waiting on the results of a biopsy and trying not to worry. Something that I'm very good at…worrying. I'd been having testing done on my heart to make sure that the tachycardia was still the same benign issue. I'd worn a Holter monitor and had a stress test done. I'd also scheduled a mammogram telling them they would want to do an ultrasound as well, but noooooo. When I got there we only did the screening mammogram and the radiologist couldn't get to it until later and they would let me know if I needed to come back. Of course a few days later I got a call back, but was unable to schedule it right away since I was still setting up heart-related appointments at the time.</div>
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Eventually, my brain went back to the task at hand. Pretty quickly I found a recipe for the filling that had none of the offending ingredients and I'd recently taken to substituting gluten-free shortbread cookie dough for any recipe that called for a crust. I cocked my head and scrunched up my nose; this seemed far too easy. I mixed up the filling. The aroma was so wonderful I grabbed the bowl, ran into the living room and shoved it under my husband's nose wanting confirmation that this was pure heaven and he agreed…and he's not even a peach fan. I poured it into a pie pan and covered the top with the shortbread dough and plopped it in the oven.</div>
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Both the Holter monitor and the stress test showed nothing new on the heart front. This was good news. I had also finally gotten to the second mammogram and ultrasound. This time the radiologist looked at the digital files while I was still there. Unfortunately, something was not right. New calcifications in really dense tissue were present. It likely wasn't anything to worry about, I was told, but to be safe, she strongly recommended it be biopsied. She laid out the case for biopsy carefully, not realizing she had me from the first sentence and the word 'suspicious' specifically. I was scheduled for a few days later. I was not too panicked at this point. A little alarmed, though, understandably.</div>
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The timer went off and my parrot, Toby, pointed it out in his personal nonsense language though I'm sure it makes sense to him. He always talks when it goes off. I checked the cobbler. It was bubbling over the sides and parts of the crust were not yet done. I was worried about burning the filling so I removed the pan and placed it on the stove to cool. It still smelled incredible. I let it cool for as long as I could stand. I grabbed a bowl and spoon and a generous helping of cobbler. I sat down in my chair anticipating greatness, but also little afraid that the smell was deceiving me. Would this be pure joy or soul-crushing disappointment? I know. It's just cobbler, but at that very moment it seemed to matter a lot more to me than maybe it should have.</div>
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Nervousness about the biopsy procedure was setting in. I hadn't had this particular test before. I have had a bone marrow biopsy and this sounded similar and was most likely the source of my anxiety. This is not a test that affords any kind of dignity. Not that I have any left. When you've been poked, prodded and handled enough on just about every part of your body you get to a point where you think you could just strip in front of anyone and not think twice about it. At least I have. </div>
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The appointment started with an obviously rehearsed speech from a younger nurse on what to expect during the procedure and afterward. I finally had to stop her before I burst out laughing. Her inflection on specific phrases and exaggerated facial expressions made me think of bad overacting in a middle school play and laughing would likely be seen and an odd reaction at best and offensive at worst. She was compelled to finish her speech, though and I just bit my tongue. Next, the procedure room…if I imagine myself standing back and watching, the scene would be reminiscent of some medieval torture chamber. Let me paint a picture for you and let's use 'peach' as a euphemism for the offending right breast which is the source of the suspiciousness. You walk in to a small room and immediately before you is an exam table with a hole in the middle of it. You are asked to lay on your stomach and place the peach through the hole. You didn't see that coming did you? The procedure is done from beneath you. You see nothing. Padding has been placed around part of the hole to make things more comfortable…uh huh… Additional padding is placed under your head and feet to help as well…not so much. Suddenly you feel the peach being pulled and seemingly randomly moved around for an eternity. Finally, it is relayed to you that the peach isn't fitting far enough down the hole for compression. They compress the peach for X-rays and to hold it firmly in position for the actual procedure. Really? The peach may be on the lower end of average, but my God, what do they do with smaller ones. </div>
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All padding is removed. You are asked to bend the right arm out at a weird angle and roll slightly onto your right side rather than stomach and bend your left leg up. I didn't know I needed to practice yoga for this. On second thought, Twister may have been better preparation. The hope was to get the peach lower. More tugging, maneuvering and compressing. Finally, we are in position. I am told to NOT MOVE again, at all, through the rest of the procedure. Do I need to remind you of the current contorted nature of my body and that I have a bad disc in my neck? They X-ray the peach before beginning to find the exact spot to place the hollow biopsy needle. Lidocaine time. The lidocaine injections were the worst part of the entire procedure. It hurt like hell, rather ironic for a substance whose purpose is to mitigate pain, and I had to not move, at all. I was being constantly reminded of this or they would have to retarget the area for biopsy. I was facing a wall that was about 18 inches in front of me with a colorful abstract painting on it. I didn't like it, but tried to concentrate on figuring out the artistic technique to distract myself. A nurse would periodically pop up in front of it and attempt to be comforting. She was genuine, but I wasn't very receptive. I had tears running down my face and was shaking. I was afraid my shaking was going to be an issue, it was a form of 'moving' after all and asked for a moment to calm down. Denied! "The faster the better," said the doctor. Three stabs with the needle which felt odd, but didn't really hurt and it was over. They told Ed, who was waiting in the original exam room, that I did well. I told him I was giant wuss which was much more accurate and I was handed a coffee cup filled with jelly beans like child's lollipop for a shot as a parting gift…and I can't even eat them.</div>
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What I could eat was this cobbler. I stared at it a moment and dug in. It tasted EXACTLY like peach cobbler. I exclaimed, "this tastes exactly like peach cobbler!" with a big smile on my face. Ed cracked up. Then got serious for a moment. "When most people say it's the little things that matter, they don't really mean it, but you do. It makes me happy and at the same time I really feel it here" and he thumps his fist over his heart. I felt a big awwww in my heart at that sentiment. Maybe it was okay that the outcome of the peach cobbler experiment mattered so much to me. I really felt joy in its success. There can be so much pain, physical and emotional with any illness whether chronic or not. Finding the little joys in everyday life is what is going to make that life worth living.</div>
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I still had biopsy results hanging over my head. Would this be pure joy or soul-crushing disappointment? All the text above was written before I had results. The anxiety of not knowing very much real. I have them now and the answer, like most of life, is in shades of grey. Yes, I have breast cancer. A more unusual form known as tubular carcinoma. Guess I can't break away from being a zebra. In this case though, rare works in my favor. It's slow growing, considered less aggressive and by comparing to previous films that show no sign of it, we likely caught it very early. Is it still scary? Yes, of course, but I'm mostly okay with it. Just another hurdle to overcome. Keep moving forward I repeat to myself. Forward…</div>
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…and please remember, I am not a frou-frou, girly-girl and if you send me anything PINK, I shall hunt you down...</div>
Rebecca Zook Fine Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16220193852535637262noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1925117308224507029.post-57111086001407607602013-06-18T13:13:00.002-07:002013-06-18T15:50:32.490-07:00Life Lessons<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8P9SYeOdFNligJ2cWdhGvMFPwtO9-UFltEsSbGfqZocHIQfqqrx-jXMy54NSYHzNmDbr9ba5MTypF5NEulv8rChXj_8TB-tEqL-0QpkhJ3ocwOxAMJA1ao7lgOqBLeGwhP9lG3hfkWi0/s1600/fromadistance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8P9SYeOdFNligJ2cWdhGvMFPwtO9-UFltEsSbGfqZocHIQfqqrx-jXMy54NSYHzNmDbr9ba5MTypF5NEulv8rChXj_8TB-tEqL-0QpkhJ3ocwOxAMJA1ao7lgOqBLeGwhP9lG3hfkWi0/s320/fromadistance.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10;">In the past, I would have been sad or frustrated that I couldn't hear a good third of the dialog, but instead I found myself enjoying the play immensely. It helped that Shakespeare's "Taming of the Shrew" was familiar to me. I found myself concentrating on the actors' body movements and facial expressions. The 'choreography' you might say. My lack of hearing enabled me to see the play on another level that probably wouldn't have been quite so conscious otherwise. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was enjoying the company as well. My husband and I haven't spent enough time 'dating' lately. I've been consumed with solo show preparation, painting in general and a particularly bad autoimmune flare. I was reminded that I thoroughly enjoy his company and that spending quality time together is so important in keeping a relationship on track. So is an appreciation of the little things. Enjoying a good meal that he cooked and his sense of humor is more important than that he left the kitchen a mess. Not taking the things he does for granted. Actually saying thank you rather than just thinking it. I know he doesn't expect that, but I do appreciate him and he won't know if I don't tell him. Assume nothing.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm writing this while at the cancer infusion center and watching a couple in their 50's. She's the one in the chair hooked up to the IV. He hovers, extremely attentive. Trying to anticipate any need she may have. Trying to mitigate any discomfort. He can't stay still. I see concern on his face with a touch of fear perhaps. He loves her and being proactive helps hide the fear. It allows him to feel like he has some impact in a situation for which neither have much control. Disease puts much in perspective. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Perspective gained through time and experience. I think the harsher the experience the more it shapes you, but how is up to you entirely. I've met people who turned bitter; who can't see past their own personal pain and fear, very much like Katherine in the beginning of the play. Stuck in quicksand and sinking so slowly that they don't recognize the danger. I feel sorry for them. You can lament what is lost to you whether it's opportunity, a person or your health, but clinging to anger is no way to experience life. Anger without resolution is a living death. At some point you have to realize that this life is not fair. Random, really crappy things happen. Some people are burdened more than others. You can look back and learn. You HAVE to look back to learn, but always move forward in the end. Hopefully you can recognize what holds true importance before you face the loss of it. The trick is to remember it when the danger has passed.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the end, Katherine finds love and respect and so have I. It's good to remind myself periodically of its true place in my life and not let day-to-day issues diminish it. I am able to see the important things on a different level, because I know what it is like to have them ripped away. I've found my joy. May you find yours.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Painting:</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10;"><b>"From a Distance"</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10;">Sedona, Arizona</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10;">Acrylic on Board</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10;">11.25" x 8.875"</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This seemed appropriate. Looking at something from afar gives you a different view of of it whether it's an object, landscape or aspects of your own life.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">View more work at <a href="http://RebeccaZook.com/">RebeccaZook.com</a></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10;"><a href="http://facebook.com/RebeccaZookFineArtPaintings">facebook.com/RebeccaZookFineArtPaintings</a></span><br />
<br />Rebecca Zook Fine Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16220193852535637262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1925117308224507029.post-67201426954896758712013-03-19T12:53:00.000-07:002013-03-19T12:56:38.185-07:00Road Blocks<br />
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Vacations mean different things to different people. Some crave pure relaxation, some excitement. I think Ed and I were looking for a combination and over the course of the week we also learned a bit more about ourselves. <span style="color: black; font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande';"> </span></div>
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We just got back from the mountains of North Carolina. It was actually a delayed honeymoon (married in December). I rented us a cabin in the woods with a full kitchen since eating out is almost impossible for me due to food allergies, and overall, staying in a home is much more sanitary than a hotel room when you have a primary immune deficiency. Plus we are both introverts and this certainly catered to a need for exclusion.<span style="color: black; font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande';"> </span></div>
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<i>Photo of me Ed took at one of the many waterfalls we photographed.</i></div>
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My husband loves to hike and has many stories of previous adventures. I had stressed to him from the beginning of our relationship that due to lung damage from CVID and other issues caused by my various autoimmune diseases, I was limited in what I could do. In our day-to-day lives back in relatively flat Texas I get physically tired at times, but really, the diseases don't slow me down that much. In the mountains hiking uphill was another story completely. I was shocked at the difficulty I was having. Shocked at my inability to catch my breath and at times having to stop every few steps. Ten years ago I could have sprinted through the forest like a deer and not thought twice about the thinner air or steepness of the trail. I didn't realize the full extent of the damage done. I was emotionally crushed, but tried to fight back the feelings. <span style="color: black; font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande';"> </span></div>
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Ed had his own issues to deal with. Our plans were thwarted at every turn. Rainy Monday, activities closed for the off-season and a landslide had taken out the only road that ran completely through the National Park. In addition we had the the scary, single-lane curvy road with sheer drops that we were told was open and instead ended in a locked gate and one road closure was blamed on "Sequestration." We are still laughing about that last one. Old friends have accused Ed of carefully planning every second when it came to activities and that one little hitch would throw him into chaos and he himself admits to reacting badly to sudden changes. Our entire trip was last minute changes.<span style="color: black; font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande';"> </span></div>
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We had a long list of waterfalls in the surrounding area that we wanted to see. Ed was encouraging as I trudged up the steep trails and steps, but his words made me feel like a 5-year old. "You can do it!" and "We can go as slow as you need." What I shouldn't need is anyone to have to prod me along with words. I'd start to get annoyed, but I knew he was only trying to help. At one point Ed looked over at me and said, "You don't look tired. You look sad." I told him what I was feeling. I was sad. Sad for everything I'd lost. Discouraged. Angry. I wanted to just sit down in the middle of the trail and cry. My pride was the only thing preventing it, barely.<span style="color: black; font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande';"> </span></div>
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But you know what? As torturous as it was at times, I never turned back. I never gave up. I reached the top of every waterfall we hiked to. I saw amazing beauty; half frozen streams, an owl, deer and wild turkeys. We took over 2,000 photos in the course of a week and some will end up as paintings. It didn't matter that it took me 10 times longer than it should have. I didn't give up and I'm very proud of that. Ed in turn learned that he is more adaptable than he thought. The last minute changes led us on adventures we would have otherwise missed and he had no problem making adjustments on the fly. Overall it was probably less stressful not having a firm plan. We did what we wanted when we wanted and didn't need to keep constant track of the time. <span style="color: black; font: 12.0px 'Lucida Grande';"> </span></div>
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We toned it down on our last full day there. I was only up for 2 small waterfall hikes, but I don't regret any of the pain and frustration. It's just made me more determined to increase my activity level. Road blocks, whether figurative or literal, don't have to be dead ends. We were both able to create detours to get around them and keep moving forward.</div>
Rebecca Zook Fine Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16220193852535637262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1925117308224507029.post-68192022917057064692012-12-28T12:59:00.000-08:002012-12-28T12:59:42.257-08:00"Winter is Coming"<br />
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<b>KER-THUNK!</b></div>
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<b>…thunk…</b></div>
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<b>It's the other shoe. </b></div>
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Somewhere in the back of my mind I have a lingering fear. Some might call it silly or irrational, but to me it's based on real world experience. I have a good life. I have had some very bad things happen in it, but I've always dealt with the given situation, moved on and been happy again. I've developed faith in myself. What I've also developed is a little paranoia. When I am happy, REALLY happy, and things are going great a little part of me starts poking a finger at my brain, "Hey…hey…things are going a…little…too...well. Something is gonna screw it up." I can slap the thoughts back, but never quiet them completely. </div>
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Let's do a short year in review…</div>
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I've had some great projects at work this year that were creative and challenging. They involved design, photography and writing. I won some awards with my fine art paintings as well as sold a few. I was honored to be asked to create a painting to be auctioned for a great cause. Made progress on renovating the rest of the house. It's the holiday season! I find myself just staring at the Christmas tree, decorated mantle, roaring fire, cats and dogs sprawled out on the furniture and floor and now with Ed, my house feels like a home again…full of love and we were married on December 21st! I think this sounds pretty darn good. </div>
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"Winter is coming." </div>
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I've been watching "Game of Thrones" and THAT is a great line. Foreboding…that vague feeling that something lies just out of reach. You can only see glimpses of it in your peripheral vision. Something…bad. So when my infusions didn't seem to be making me feel quite as good as usual, the finger got more persistent. When the stomach issues got a bit worse than usual, I started asking for tests. I get regular CBC bloodwork with every infusion and all have been normal, but additional bloodwork also turned up nothing. My primary doctor was ready to kick me back to the hematologist, which didn't make sense to me. My symptoms wouldn't really be in his realm of expertise, so I asked for imaging studies. I suspected an ovarian cyst and made a good argument for it. Actually my argument was that since the few symptoms that exist for Ovarian Cancer mimic the normal digestive issues I already have, that it would be best to definitively rule out the possibility of cancer. I wasn't even worried at this point; the rational side of me anyway. I just wanted to confirm that a cyst is all it was. I just wanted to quiet that damn nagging finger. Ultrasound approved.</div>
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I was right. I have a large ovarian cyst. </div>
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The finger was also right. The cyst wasn't the real problem. The tumor is.</div>
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I find this out the day after my birthday. Same day I had the test, but it's also 3:00pm the afternoon before Thanksgiving. The ONLY information I received is that I have a "rather large" uterine tumor. I see the email arrive with "Test Results" as the subject as I am sitting on a kitchen stool in front of the stove perusing the internet for a good green bean recipe to cook. I need more information. I don't do well without detailed information and everyone and everything is closing down until Monday. Ed does his best to quiet my fears, but I'm a worst case scenario kind of planner. I am compelled to gather as much medical information as I can even in the absence of knowing for sure what we are dealing with, but the phrasing "rather large" isn't terribly comforting. </div>
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I began alternating between cooking for Thanksgiving and reading about fibroids and their treatment. Baked corn and hormonal therapy. Cornbread dressing and wait-and-see. Mashed potatoes and surgery. Monday finally arrives. I call my doctor's office at the infusion center to get a recommendation for a good gynecologist. The first place I call won't see me until March. MARCH! I'm having distressing symptoms NOW! I have vacation plans I can't cancel in March and was hoping to be treated and recovered by then. I leave a message at the second one on the list and they never call me back. I'm on my own now. I find another clinic in Ft. Worth with a satellite office in Granbury. Two of the doctors had good patient reviews online. One of the two had quite a few. People complained about the office staff, but said this doctor was worth the bother. I called and got an appointment for just a few days out. I also got a copy of the radiologist's report. My tumor is about the size of a small pear and attached to the outside of the uterus pressing against other organs and it was probably the reason most of my work pants and jeans had become uncomfortable to wear. Thank goodness for black yoga pants!</div>
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I get the standard medical information forms to fill out. List your surgeries, medications, illnesses, etc. Sigh, I'm going to have to explain my primary immune deficiency to yet another doctor. Most are unfamiliar with it. To my surprise, she has another patient with CVID. No explanation needed. I have a little more confidence now. We are going for surgery. Remove the uterus and keep the ovaries. Stable hormones should help prevent my body from going into an autoimmune tailspin. These types of muscle tissue tumors are 99% benign and removing the entire uterus prevents a recurrence, which is common. The surgery can also be done laparoscopically, so no large abdominal incision and faster healing. It's scheduled for later in January. As long as I can sit at my drawing table and paint during recovery, I'll be okay. I'll go crazy just sitting around and doing nothing for more than a day. New dog, Archie, may be getting a lot of clicker training lessons as well. </div>
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It's still surgery and I'm a little scared, but this should be a cakewalk compared to what I've already been through. The timing with my infusion schedule is perfect. I get fresh, raring to go antibodies the day after surgery. I literally leave the surgery center and go straight to the infusion clinic. I'm hoping if I do have moderate pain or nausea from the anaesthesia, I can get some really nice IV meds at the clinic and I'll be monitored by the nursing staff there for most of the day. Very reassuring for me. </div>
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The scenario could be a lot worse. This is a relatively minor blip that I can use to my advantage and hopefully get a couple paintings completed. Wish me a fast recovery.</div>
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I'm hoping it's more like the other slipper that fell down than a steel-toed shoe.</div>
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The Painting:</div>
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"Long Creek Winter"</div>
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Acrylic on Board</div>
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12" x 12"</div>
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Available for purchase</div>
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Rebecca Zook Fine Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16220193852535637262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1925117308224507029.post-84848716249800272952012-12-12T07:54:00.000-08:002012-12-12T07:55:41.926-08:00Eyes Wide Open<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I have a lot on my mind. Life and death. Sickness and health. Want versus need. Chaos and balance. </div>
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Several weeks ago at the infusion center a man walked up to me and said, "You don't know me, but Dr. Mandell suggested I should come find you." We hadn't met, but I did know him. I also knew that statistically, he should be dead. We had more things in common than having the same hematologist–the same man that we both credit for saving our lives. He also works in the motorcycle industry and is one of the few people to have said, oh I know Tucker Rocky, when I explained where I worked. Usually, I get a blank stare and am asked to repeat myself…"Tucker-what? Huh?" A few years ago, early in my treatments, I spotted an article or flyer, I don't remember which, on the bulletin board in the snack area at The Center for Cancer and Blood Disorders. This man was about to begin a motorcycle ride across the country. A diagnosis of impending death seems to have one of two effects on people. They either curl up in a ball and cease to function, an even earlier death, or they are spurred into doing the things they always wanted to, but probably never would have because there was always "still time." I liked his page on Facebook so I could follow along on the journey. He told me he did this ride for himself and to bring some awareness to his disease, Multiple Myeloma. With treatment, the survival rate is 3 to 4 years. He's passing 8 now (this is unheard of) and shows no signs of coming out of remission thanks to a stem cell transplant. He volunteers his time to council patients and their families or to just lend an ear as someone who has run through the gamut of emotions associated with a diagnosis that doesn't offer much hope. He is hope. Doing what he can for others, not just living for himself, knowing that the odds of long-term survival are not in his favor. Each day precious. I admire this.</div>
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I'm sitting at my drawing table and Ed remarks that I don't look like I'm enjoying myself. Is something wrong? It's not a simple yes or no answer. I don't know about other artists, but for me, painting is intense and it's tiring…mentally, and I love it…normally. </div>
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Right now I'm frustrated. I haven't had time to paint on a regular basis and keep having to stop and start and stop and start a painting that I began months ago. I have virtual folder full of photographs of landscapes that I want to draw inspiration from for my 'grasses' series. It can be a little disheartening to see all the photos and realize what little I have accomplished. I want to have an entire show of nothing but grass-themed paintings. Life is interfering with my wants. The limits of Time weighing heavily. Like my new friend, I have come to view Time as limited. I wish it was tangible. I wish I could gather up armfuls of Time and squirrel them away for future use. Put Time in a bottle as the song goes. </div>
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At least that's what I thought the main conflict was, but I'm realizing that it's also something deeper. Something more internally motivated. The daily routines and necessities of life are always going to battle for my attention and draw energy away from painting. This is not new. I have a day job. Thankfully one that I love that fuels my creativity, but can leave me mentally exhausted by the end of the work day and at times requires lots of overtime depending on the project at hand. My illnesses wax and wane in repetitive 3-week cycles corresponding to my treatment schedule and can leave me physically exhausted. Then there are life choices that I've made…tending my flower garden which brings me a different kind of creative joy and peace, the plethora of pets that I love dearly, and of course, Ed, who opened my heart again after loss. I want to pay time and attention to each one; each thing that I love. Finding balance is not easy. Again, this is not new. Why was I apparently making disgruntled faces as I painted? What is different, changed?</div>
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I had to define painting in my mind as not just a want, but a need. I've wondered at times if it's just a selfish pursuit on my part. If I stopped, I could spend more time with other things, the animals, the other people in my life. The last few months have told me that I would be miserable without my painting. Perhaps it is still selfish, but I need it to be happy. </div>
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"Spring Blanket" is the piece that has been sporadically occupying my time. Just when I thought I was nearing completion, I found myself painting out entire flowers that suddenly became distracting and adding in more round puffs of seed heads. Bits of flower petals from the distractors left deliberately to peek through. I significantly darkened up the lower left side to tie in with the trees in the background. I found the seed heads echoed the colors in the background branches. I added sky blues into sections of the grasses. Layering in more and more color, but subtly, so it didn't compete with the vibrant reds of the blanket flowers. My brain was picking apart the design and trying to improve it. It just took me a while to realize it consciously. At first, all I knew was that I wasn't happy with the piece and consequently wasn't happy with me. </div>
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I'm trying to seek a balance between the impressionism that I love and maintaining the realism I'm known for. I want my work to be…richer…good a word as any and I'm not where I want to be yet, but I believe I'm headed in a good direction. I no longer think twice about painting something out that I spent quite a bit of time on. I'm more ruthless in my editing. More critical. </div>
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I want to keep growing. I NEED to keep growing and yet I also need to recognize life's current restrictions and limits. Some of you will say that the only limits are what you impose on yourself. The only limit is the sky itself. To me that's a nice fairy tale. Something you tell children until they hit the brick wall that is the real world. At that point, you either stand there paralyzed, figure a way to walk around it or blow the thing up (or a combination thereof). Some of us carry burdens that make it harder to move forward, but not impossible. In that sense, I guess I'm not as jaded as I sound. Some limits are insurmountable, though. Some we have no control over and must come to terms with that and not let them ruin our happiness.</div>
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So where does that leave me, the realist? Still spinning plates. Still seeking balance. Still fighting that damn painting. I don't have all the answers and am kinda glad that I don't. Life would be pretty boring if I did.</div>
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Note: I generally post in-progress photos of my paintings on my personal Facebook account. </div>
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Friend me if you'd like to follow along. </div>
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<a href="http://www.facebook.com/rebecca.zook">http://www.facebook.com/rebecca.zook</a></div>
Rebecca Zook Fine Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16220193852535637262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1925117308224507029.post-59812244732126730542012-12-07T13:34:00.003-08:002012-12-07T13:34:58.987-08:00When did it become wrong to grieve?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNHjH8Tz-RezKekJll39Hlanws1R6dJG5b0OdUzV6OMSVg3ZGRsiuf4ctaEnlKtmFxiCBEyGUY4DcAAXjDXS6I0tPG8WMepMh0mrNTj8XIg5j6SktIb5htFHdpHiXaSfCfuCZXVHaXX3g/s1600/selfportrait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNHjH8Tz-RezKekJll39Hlanws1R6dJG5b0OdUzV6OMSVg3ZGRsiuf4ctaEnlKtmFxiCBEyGUY4DcAAXjDXS6I0tPG8WMepMh0mrNTj8XIg5j6SktIb5htFHdpHiXaSfCfuCZXVHaXX3g/s320/selfportrait.jpg" width="311" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Painting is a self-portrait acrylic on masonite</span></td></tr>
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When did it become wrong to grieve?<br />
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Driving home yesterday I was singing along happily to Christmas carols when they were rudely interrupted by radio spots. I switched over to NPR to wait out the commercials and into the middle of a discussion about grief that hit pretty close to home. I found myself agreeing with what the psychiatrist was saying, but I quickly realized that the real point of the interview was something else. It wasn't simply a discussion of grief, but was actually about a proposal for an update to the "Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders" considered the "bible" of mental illness classifications. Grief could soon be diagnosed as a mental disorder lumped in with major depression. I was speechless. I found this absurd.<br />
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Experiencing sadness for as little as 2 weeks could earn you a diagnosis and associated antidepressive medications. What's wrong with this? Where is my empathy? Do I want people to suffer unnecessarily?<br />
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Our society has become so detached from death that we are losing the ability to cope when we lose someone close to us. In the not so recent past the body would remain in the house until burial. Photos of the dead were lovingly taken and preserved. I think grieving is entirely NECESSARY and truncating that process with drugs or labeling the person as mentally ill will only delay or prolong the suffering. We are advocating hiding from our emotions rather than understanding and dealing with them directly. Not properly dealt with, the strong emotions that accompany losing a loved one will undoubtedly resurface in times of stress, maybe years later, or may permanently affect our ability to form and keep new relationships.<br />
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A diagnosis in two weeks, pfft! It took me 2 weeks until I could actually cry when Tom died. I was in a bizarre state of surreal disbelief, shock, until that point. Fully functional, but still processing what had happened. Everyone reacts differently to death and deals with it in their own time. There isn't a right or wrong timeframe. You should feel free to express your feelings and not fear they are abnormal. That they are the result of a mental illness. Grief serves a purpose. Sadness is natural and normal.<br />
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People who suffer from situational induced depression are not at any more risk of developing crippling clinical depression than the rest of the population. Though I do not have clinical depression, I do have experience with it and strong empathy for anyone suffering with it. Tom had dealt with depression most of his life. Drugs were the ONLY way to keep it at bay. Periodically he'd develop a tolerance and have to try something new. I saw what the depression was capable of in these brief periods of ramping off and onto new meds, but I didn't know its true power. Not yet.<br />
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I did not like his doctor and was trying to persuade Tom to switch to mine. The tipping point came when Tom developed another tolerance and instead of trying him on a different medication, the doctor declared that Tom was actually not suffering from depression, but needed to quit his job and find a new one. That the job was the real problem. He refused to prescribe more drugs. I watched my competent, confident husband descend into a sea of questioning self-doubt. Unable to make even the simplest of decisions. Falling so deep into an emotional hole that he could no longer see the light to find his way out. Thoughts of ending it creeping into his conscious mind. New drugs brought him out of it. In the past, he had questioned the drugs. Were they hiding the real Tom? Were they just a mask on the 'real' person? I countered with, "You have a chemical imbalance in your brain. The drugs allow you to be the real Tom." I truly believe this and I think the episode of being off them drove the point home.<br />
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So, I do strongly believe in treating depression with medications…if in fact what you have is a real and long-lasting illness. For the majority of people, grief isn't. Is it painful, torturous? Hell, yes! My only recently rebuilt world came crashing down around me. I felt lost and I felt the loss without medication to blunt the pain or dull the mind. I forced myself to face it and am glad I did. Talk to someone you trust; family, friends or a therapist. For me writing was a way to explore my emotions. Forcing myself to put them into concrete words also made me understand and accept them. I was able to learn from them and move on with my life.<br />
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We fear what we don't understand. Tell someone you have cancer and you are overwhelmed with support and empathy. Tell someone you have a mental illness and most people back away. The stigma attached to it is deeply ingrained and completely unenlightened. In both cases something has gone wrong in the body and treatment is necessary. Attach a label of 'mental illness' to grief and it may inadvertently become something to fear. Something to hide.<br />
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Do I still get sad occasionally? Yes, of course and the holidays are a trigger for many people who have experienced loss, but understanding it can give you power over it. Will some people be unable to come out of their grief induced depression on their own? Yes, but let's not label something that is natural and a normal response to loss as an illness until it's necessary and I believe each person must make that determination for themselves.<br />
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Rebecca Zook Fine Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16220193852535637262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1925117308224507029.post-28014475445615157012012-11-07T10:08:00.002-08:002012-11-07T10:16:22.699-08:00Of Life and Lemonade (an announcement)<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you spend any time indulging in social media, you are likely bombarded on a daily basis with inspirational quotes accompanied by photos of furry felines, glowing rainbows or cute kids from well meaning friends. Rarely do these manage to catch my attention (unless it's a particularly cute kitty). Sugary-sweet sentiments can be hard to swallow when your life has been punctuated by emotional pain, physical pain and heartbreak. I'm a realist and reality is harsh. When things are going well it can be hard not to look around and wonder where the next blow will hit. Better to be prepared for it.</span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But there is one tried and true saying, admittedly, shamefully, cliché, that I will repeat here.<br />
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"Today is the first day of the rest of your life."<br />
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and then have the gall to follow it with…<br />
"When life gives you lemons, make lemonade."<br />
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Well, hell, let's throw in "no regrets" too.<br />
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Honestly, these three sentiments are how I've managed not to become depressed and bitter and give up on the prospect of future happiness, love or life in general. There is some innate wisdom in most clichés or they wouldn't have become…well…cliché.<br />
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Can someone survive emotional abuse and learn trust again?<br />
Can someone be sick with incurable illnesses and still maintain hope for a future?<br />
Can someone survive the death of a spouse and find true love in another?<br />
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Yes.<br />
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I've had many first days in my life. Days that started with picking myself up off the ground, facing forward and taking a single step. Sometimes just getting up off the ground was all I could manage…figuratively and literally. No matter how much I didn't want to, I did it anyway. It got easier, but walking through life alone is hard, not impossible, but certainly more difficult.<br />
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I wanted to share my life with another, but felt that I would be seen as a liability. That it would be too difficult for someone to navigate their life around the moat that surrounds mine. Things I couldn't change like a dead husband and ongoing medical treatments. Plus things I wouldn't change…a house full of pets that would make even some animal lovers question my sanity. But with all my doubts, I really had nothing to lose. If I look on my life objectively as a whole, it's been good, really good, and I wouldn't throw away the good parts to avoid the pain if I had known what was to come. I have learned that I am resilient. I believe no matter what is happening in my life, that my attitude and actions determine my happiness. You can find joy in the tiniest little moments in the midst of great pain if you simply believe they exist. It could be argued that those tiny, fleeting moments are the ones that matter most. String them together and they are what make up the bulk of our lives.<br />
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Dialogue from one of my favorite television shows comes to mind.<br />
Dr. Gregory House: Are you going to base your whole life on who you got stuck in a room with?<br />
Eve (patient): I'm going to base this moment on who I'm stuck in a room with. It's what life is. It's a series of rooms and who we get stuck in those rooms with adds up to what our lives are.<br />
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Then I got lucky.<br />
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I found someone who didn't try to navigate around my life, but instead did a cannonball right into the middle of it. He spent 10 minutes playing with my dogs while inadvertently ignoring me the first time he came to the house (this was not a bad thing). He had been a veterinary tech for 14-years and wasn't overwhelmed by the numbers. He wasn't scared of my illnesses. He had enough medical knowledge to understand. Instead of complaining about all the foods I couldn't have, he found new foods and recipes that we both could eat. Our life philosophies match well and when I see that we BOTH are laughing hysterically while the 4 dogs run around the yard in the dark with glow necklaces around their necks trying to play fetch...that's someone I want to be stuck in a room with.<br />
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Here is the formal announcement that most of you won't find surprising.<br />
Ed and I are engaged.<br />
…and I am happy.</span>
Rebecca Zook Fine Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16220193852535637262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1925117308224507029.post-77389487051816058612012-09-25T08:27:00.000-07:002012-09-25T08:32:33.904-07:00Creation or Copy?<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Personal Facebook friends have likely already read most of the content of this blog entry, but I felt the need to expand it a little further (new thoughts at the bottom).</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I just wanted to share this Facebook exchange. I've had this argument on several occasions when trying to explain to a show entrant why we couldn't consider their piece for a juried show. The below is paraphrased from a post on an art group and deals with someone wanting to sell drawings of celebrities done from published photos. I feel the same way about artists selling their reproductions of famous works…even if they have fallen into the public domain. Thoughts are welcome.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The poster (paraphrased):</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Even if it looks exactly like the photo, it's not a photo. It's a hand work done by an artist in a different medium. Someone might say, "Wow, nice photo" but a realistic drawing makes you see the talent and skill of the artist. I never heard anyone gasp in amazement at a photo of someone." </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My reply:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have heard it and I have made such exclamations myself. Photography is a very valued art form and can certainly move people emotionally. Technical ability alone does not make one an artist. An artist needs to have vision as well as ability. You could place a dozen artists in the same landscape and come up with 12 different interpretations. By copying someone else's work, you lose YOUR interpretation of it.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Think of it this way...when a photographer (videographer, film producer, insert creative visual profession) creates a photograph, THEY made the creative decisions that led to what you see. They could have done as much as made the decision on the clothing the person wore, the position of the body, the location the person was placed in or perhaps the photographer was simply in the right place at the right time, but THEY still made the decision to snap the shutter at that exact moment. All the creative decision making was done by the photographer, NOT the artist copying the photo. The idea, the preplanning, the creative process is equally (if not more so) as important as the technical ability shown in the final piece.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Simply because you recreate the image in a new medium does not make it yours. If you created a drawing that you carefully designed and had another artist copy it in a different medium and call it theirs, how would you feel?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am both a fine art painter and graphic artist/photographer. I set up photoshoots for apparel catalogs and deal with professional models. I know what it takes and the million little decisions that add up to just one photo. Copying another creative's work and selling it is a breach of copyright law, as another poster stated. It also does a disservice to you as well as them.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, I'm not saying that you should never work from source material that you didn't generate. I have created a couple paintings based on photos taken by my youngest sister, who also has an artistic eye. WITH her permission, of course. And often clients provide photos for commissions, though I prefer to take my own unless there is no way to gain access to the subject. Also, repainting the works of master artists can hone your own skills, just be careful that you don't end up using other sources as a crutch and inadvertently stifle your own creativity. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After reading my Facebook response above, Ed asked, "What about buildings? Are you simply copying the architects artistic creation?" or something along those lines. My response was, "Well, some people would say that in my landscape paintings I was simply copying what God created." We took it further. Clothing, furniture, the throw rug, a simple plastic cup Ed picked up. The cup was blue plastic with a lid and tapered to fit in a car cupholder and had little ridges on the handle. Someone made those decisions. Someone designed it. We are surrounded by art. Objects that a human was inspired to create and frequently we pay little or no attention to them. Imagine a world where everything was purely utilitarian. A world where objects held no aesthetic qualities. I think that these qualities affect us, affect our moods on a mostly unconscious level. Without the beauty, I know I would be a little less happy, less content. Ed will tell you that I like my 'things.' They range from antique furniture (imperfect pieces that you can see have had a long life before me) and art glass containers to a little shot glass that I've filled with found feathers, also a collection of fossils, more found objects, that I keep arranged in a semicircle from largest to smallest. I am admittedly a packrat. I see beauty in all these objects no matter what the accepted societal value of them might be. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I've strayed from the point. He talked himself into the answer before I had a chance to respond. Paraphrasing… "If you are photographing or painting a building, you are deciding the angle and the time of day that you take it, the lighting. As long as the final product is about more than just the building, as long as it's in a context, then I think it wouldn't be just copying." I'd agree and I think it applies to all the other objects we interact with as well, but it would do us artists some good to remember that many of the 'things' we paint are in fact the product of another creative mind and give a little nod to that artist as well. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Painting...</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>"Buster Brown"</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Acrylic on Board</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">17 3/4" x 14 3/4"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">note: dimensions are unframed size</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">comes framed</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">$895</span><br />
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<a href="http://rebeccazook.com/"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">rebeccazook.com</span></b></a>Rebecca Zook Fine Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16220193852535637262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1925117308224507029.post-28496488415503091402012-06-12T11:05:00.000-07:002012-06-12T11:30:37.718-07:00A New Life<br />
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I have a movie. </div>
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Okay, it's really a Hitchcock film staring Laurence Olivier, but it is titled "Rebecca" and Rebecca doesn't even appear in the film as a character. She is a phantom, a lingering memory that haunts a younger second wife who sees only the outward carefully crafted public persona of the first, falls victim to comparing herself and comes up lacking in her own mind. How could her new husband ever love her after Rebecca?</div>
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I saw this film for the first time in college after fellow photography students expressed shock I was unfamiliar with it given my name and my penchant for moody, dark photos that could fit a film noir theme. I could see myself in the second wife rather than Rebecca. Young, plagued by self-doubting inner turmoil, though I could hide it better. </div>
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Now I find myself in the role of the husband. Trying to go on with my life, find love and be happy after losing a spouse. If you've seen the movie, you know the similarities end there. It is a dark tale riddled with secrets and lies and I've striven for honesty in my life. For the past few months I've watched someone else struggle in the role of the second wife. It would be easier to step into a life where divorce had taken place, where an animosity had built up causing a split. Instead my boyfriend finds himself with someone who was in love, who was happy and had it ripped away by tragedy. Early on he found himself making comparisons or thinking that I was. The specter of a dead husband lingered in the corners watching him. He wondered if he was just fulfilling a role. Did I really care for him or did I just need to fill a hole? I know friends and family of us both were likely wondering the same thing. The doubts almost ended us. </div>
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But I had grown emotionally. I wasn't the scared 21-year old anymore. I had gained confidence. Knew who I was. Knew what I wanted. Know what is important in life and how easily it can be taken away. I have to credit my late husband with much of my emotional growth. He taught me that I had intrinsic value; taught me to believe in myself. They say wisdom comes with age. Perhaps for some, but I think it's learned from how you choose to handle life's hardships that can happen at any age.</div>
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I have patience. He has a kind heart. He has intelligence. His priorities match my own. He makes me laugh. I could wait. </div>
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Patience. </div>
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Reassurance.<br />
Compromise. </div>
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Time. </div>
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He started a calendar and has a system of little dot stickers. He thought I would laugh at this. One color is for exercise, one for 'productive' and one for creative. He has definitions about what activities fall under these categories and how many times a week he should accomplish each; acknowledging that ALL have an important role in creating a balanced, happy life. I only learned about a fourth color recently. The category is "love" and it's not just about me. He defines it as doing something unexpected like buying me a little gift, but also as playing ball with the dogs when he really didn't feel like it, but because it would make THEM happy. I found myself tearing up. How could this person have ever thought that he had nothing to offer me? </div>
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I admire him. I respect him. I saw the good in him even if he didn't see it in himself. I know we are still learning about each other and growing. We are both willing to listen to the other and make compromises when necessary. I find that I am happy. Really happy with my life as it stands right now and that's the true objective isn't it? <br />
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In the movie, the house and everything that was Rebecca burns to the ground. All tangibility of her existence is erased. My late husband helped me become the person that I am today. I will always remember and love him. I do not need or want to erase him. I chose to use what I learned in that relationship to continue to live and to be happy. I know that is what he would want for me.</div>Rebecca Zook Fine Arthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16220193852535637262noreply@blogger.com0