Balance It Out

Well, hello there, beautiful breathheads:

I'm writing this afternoon from my room on the 7th floor transplant ward of my hospital. My view is pretty darn cool, if I do say so myself, as my window looks right out over the Hudson River, The Empire State Building, and all those beautiful lights that make New York City's skyline so breathtaking. Oh wait, I'm sorry, where are my manners? Would you like to see it, too?


Amazing, right?

Unfortunately, though, my other view is slightly less...appetizing? I can, for example, see my body, which is currently sporting not one, not two, but...wait for it...three separate site for IV access: two peripherals and my port. I can also see the number of IV bags hanging from my pole, and I can honestly say that never have I seen so many in one place feeding into my body at the same time other than my time in the ICU immediately post-transplant. I can see the many doctors who keep walking through my door, and I can see the clock on my wall counting down the minutes until my next dose of cephapine, to which I am allergic. Oh, yeah, and I can see this:



I don't care what anyone says, peas and carrots are not supposed to be neon.

Aside from the food and the lock-up situation, though, things are going pretty smoothly over here. I was admitted directly from my bronch this past Tuesday after my doctor found continued secretions in my gorgeous new lungs. He's the "better safe than sorry" type (good find in a doctor, by the way), so he decided to pull me in here for a good old-fashioned dose of in-house medicine. This was actually tossed around as an option last week and I had time to prepare. I'm not pleased about it, to say the least, but I am accepting of it, which is a big first step. And after all, I want to do right by these beautiful breathers -- they (and I) deserve nothing less. The plan right now is to do a course of one very strong IV antibiotic called polymyxin B; do a normal course of IV levaquin, mycofungin, and oral minocycline; desensitize me to another option for use now and in the future as needed (heeeello cephalosporins! Oh, how I missed you and your thrilling scent of cat pee!); and check out if there's any rejection since I've had a couple of episodes since my surgery. Oh, and we're gonna throw in some sinus exams/consults and vascular treatment, just for laughs. We're funny like that, I guess.

So I'm in here, and I'm looking out at my twinkling city and I am, of course, super bored because that's how things roll at the hospital, and I find myself sort of leaning into the view -- as if my body just wants to leap out the window and fly down through that mass of steel and water and sky and humanity. Because it does. I suddenly realize that I am aching to get out of here. I am literally tingling with the thought of being allowed something as simple as the chance to walk down my silly little street in the West Village again. I am, in a word, desperate. It's not an uncommon feeling for me because I absolutely hate being "sick" and will do anything to avoid places that make me feel that way, but in this case I'm on a drug that they just won't let me start at home. I feel fine, all things considered, but I'm not allowed to leave.

Polymyxin as a drug is well-known for its evil side effect profile, one of the big ones being that it is nuero-toxic. Patients can experience this effect in different and diverse ways, but for me it's always been a tingly, numb-like feeling in my face and hands and a more or less destroyed sense of balance. And as those who know or have ever met me in person can attest, I am not particularly graceful to begin with, so any loss in this department is a huge step down in my ability to perform such complicated feats as walking or, well, writing this blog. And right now, that stuff is hard. It's really, really hard, as a matter of fact.

When I lose my sense of balance, I feel unsteady, awkward, and unproductive. I feel confined right now, quite literally insofar as I am in a specific ward on a specific floor of a specific hospital and can't leave -- I can't even take a long walk for fear of falling into some poor kidney recipient or whatnot. I can't shake these infections either, even post-transplant, and that makes me feel even more off-kilter. And so I find myself here, leaning into my window, staring out at the city and the life I adore from behind the glass of the life that keeps me going, but threatens to drive me crazy in the process. It's a familiar sensation to me, as I remember doing the exact same thing from Denver Children's Hospital when I was 15. I can't seem to check into this place, either mentally or physically, without feeling a sense of loss and desire. I just want to be done with this part of the production and on to whatever comes next.

But I can't be totally free, obviously, and I can't wish away CF or transplant or any of their nasty little siblings. I can't change what's already happened and I can't (or rather, I don't want to) sit around and worry and squander the moments when I could be out showing these lungs a good time. I can't bear the thought of cheating myself out of any more time. Period.

And so I have to choose balance, by necessity. For me it means knowing when to push my doctors for more in the life/freedom department and when to back off and trust their judgment in the health/lung part of the deal. Truth be told, I want both a long and a happy life, and I'm not willing to compromise much on either. So I have to learn how to walk this tightrope, even if it does sometimes land me with my nose against a frosty windowsill. The alternative on either side to me would mean giving in to my disease: either by being stubborn and allowing it to take my health and good judgment from me or by being too scared and allowing it to take my spirit. I can't (and I won't) let either of those things happen if I have any say about it.

I haven't yet found the perfect combination, and I seriously doubt I ever will get it exactly right. After all, I am alive, and that makes me prone to mistakes. But tonight, in my cozy, lonely, familiar hospital room looking out over my huge, crowded, exciting city I know that I am the consummate balancing act between these two worlds. And it doesn't feel bad at all.

Well, aside from the food, of course.

xoxo,
Piper

Seven Months Down and Oh, What a Ride

When I was a little kid I had two rides that I really, really, REALLY loved. The first was The Pirates of the Caribbean at Disney World, which was popular with my family as it was the only ride that both my sister and I enjoyed. The second ride, on the other hand, was slightly less involved and didn't require a trip to Florida: namely, the tilt-a-whirl at a local Colorado amusement park.

And wow, did I ever LOVE that tilt-a-whirl. Honestly, I was such a fan that I would literally beg for days to visit the park, and I once jumped out of a moving vehicle in an attempt to get on the ride five minutes faster. Yes, it was stupid and dangerous, but it was also an act of pure, unadulterated love. I mean, this ride and I were like a match made in intentionally induced nausea heaven -- how could my parents expect me to wait until the car was safely in a designated parking space for that kind of fast-paced, dizzy, scream-your-guts-out (and I mean that all too often in the literal sense) joy?! Clearly, they could not.

Fast forward about 20 years to the present. There aren't a lot of tilt-a-whirls in New York City (Coney Island excepted), and if there are you probably aren't going to find them in the West Village. Good coffee and amazing shopping? Check. Old school amusement parks? Not so much. It's a bit of a bummer, but then I remember that I don't actually NEED to pay $5 and step right up to get that kind of excitement anymore. Why, you ask? Because I've had a double-lung transplant. I get it all for free.

(*Dear readers: obviously, transplants are not free. They are not even close to free, as a matter of fact. I'm quite certain that this transplant is the single most expensive thing I have ever "purchased" in my life, in more ways than one. Just ask anyone in Arizona. But for the purposes of this post, I mean "free" as in I don't pay any extra for the excitement part. That's just like the added gift with purchase -- much like the grey crewneck that apparently comes with every purchase of "Pajama Jeans." Seriously, look it up.)

I have to admit that I personally feel my life has gotten less dramatic in the 7 months I've been living with these lungs. At the very least I feel more stable -- mostly because I don't spend all my time worrying about when or if the other shoe is going to drop. I'm pretty secure right now in the thought that I am alive, and to the extent that I might not be alive in a few years or even months, well, I guess that's true for everyone, everywhere. I just don't have the energy left to worry about it all the time after having done it for so many years already.

But I will also acknowledge that, for me at least, the drama seems just a bit more disheartening right now than it did back then, because before at least I could explain it. I could say with certainty that I was sick because I had mucus clogging up my lungs, and said mucus was infected with several strains of nasty bacteria that were slowly wreaking their havoc. I could feel the symptoms of every new infection as they came on and I could make fairly educated choices after considering both my mental and physical needs. In other words, I knew what was happening and I understood why, so even though I was scared I was also, in some ways, empowered. I felt 100% confident asking my doctor about a new treatment option or asking if I could attempt an alternative to one of her suggestions, because I knew what the risks and benefits were to each approach.

The thing about these past 7 months is, I no longer truly understand my body. This is, of course, not entirely true because I still know how to recognize things like a cough or a virus or whatever else. But on another level, I feel pretty clueless. I rarely cough enough to feel concerned because, quite frankly, 7 months ago even my best day sounded like a trip to your local TB ward. Now my worst day involves a few minor coughing jags set in between other "normal" activities, and it just doesn't feel like that big of a deal. On the other hand, I'm becoming more and more aware that most of my friends post-transplant don't spend their first 7 months constantly on IVs. I'm starting to get a few curious souls asking why I seem to require such aggressive treatment, and my honest to goodness answer is: I don't know.

What I do know is pretty straightforward, though. I know I have some leftover CF pathogens (namely pseudo and some recurring fungus) in my sinuses and trachea and that these sometimes drip down into my lungs. I know I've cultured some new bugs since my transplant, most likely due to my weakened immune system. I know that at least a couple of these bugs are fairly resistant and that I have some additional issues with antibiotics (such as hearing loss from Tobra and just plain old allergies) that make selecting an effective combination difficult. I know that I am blessed beyond measure by a very proactive transplant center and a doctor who favors an aggressive approach to treatment, especially right after transplant. I know that 7 months later I FEEL fantastic -- I can exercise and play with my puppy and have fun with my friends and go to the gym and do (almost) everything I've wanted to do for so long -- but that apparently my clinical results are still finding the right balance. I know that I am still absolutely as stubborn and impatient as that hard-headed little girl who took a flying leap out of her parents' Jeep Cherokee and ended up sitting by herself on the pavement -- a little scraped up but ultimately no worse for the wear.

I know that this is not going to be what the rest of my life is like post-transplant. I know that.

So yes, I am 7 months and a couple of days out of transplant. Yes, I am still constantly on IVs and I still have my port-a-cath in my chest. Yes, I really do feel as good as I claim to pretty much every single day -- I wouldn't BS to you guys about that, I promise. Yes, I get frustrated but yes, I still really respect my docs and am grateful to be where I am in terms of long-term follow-up care. And yes, I would do it all over again in an instant, in the blink of an eyelash, in a heartbeat.

Or maybe just in a breath.

With love, light and seriously immeasurable gratitude,
The Girl Who Cannot Wait

Take Your Time

Don't you just love those moments/minutes/hours/days when you know you have something you want (or need) to say, but you have no idea how to actually express it? I'm sure you all know what I mean; it's that desperate feeling of being without the right words (or actions, or images, or whatever floats your individual boat) to get across the emotion you want to convey. It's a sense of being unable to communicate with those around you and therefore setting yourself up for misunderstanding or isolation. In short, it's what I imagine drowning must feel like -- or pretty darn close anyway.

Lucky for me, I don't find myself rendered speechless very often. This in and of itself is probably both a blessing and a curse (depending on who you ask), but it at the very least saves me the discomfort that goes along with unexpressed emotion. And in a world as intense as that of chronic illness, hospitals, and shortened life expectancies, being able to lay it all out there even if it seems melodramatic or overly intense is, quite frankly, not the worst flaw I could have inherited. (And yes, Daddy, I'm looking at you.)

But, like all rules, there are exceptions. I am, for example, not good at any conversation I perceive as overly needy. I'm not great at letting people know when they're frustrating me BEFORE the proverbial shit hits the fan. And I'm not a huge fan of dealing with things that I find super scary or truly, deeply uncomfortable. In those situations, I tend to turn either to humor or to simple avoidance. It's easier for me to do a very brief or generalized acknowledgment of something harsh than for me to really go the distance and express how bad or overwhelming the situation really is. And, this, unfortunately, is NOT the best trait to have inherited in terms of illness and life. In fact, it's something I really need to work on, and I plan to give it a solid effort in the year to come.

So here goes nothing, right? Or rather, here goes everything...

According to the banner at the top of this blog, I write about "Life, Lung Transplant, and Cystic Fibrosis...and Everything In Between." Quite honestly, though, I consider this blog about Life, more than anything -- it's just that "My Life" in particular, happens to involve a whole lot of CF with a hefty dose of transplant thrown in for good measure. Or at least that's the situation right now, and that was the impetus for starting this blog in the first place.

But the simple fact is that any blog about CF and lung transplant (and indeed about life, for that matter) also needs to include something that's not quite as fun as miraculous near-misses, great doctors, an abundance of expensive drugs that I feel privileged to use despite their side effects, and stories about lives reclaimed. And I honestly feel strongly that I would be remiss to head into 2011 without acknowledging that, and without sending out -- if only from a distance -- my support to the many members of our community who are facing the harsh reality of CF that, sadly, brings to a close all those other crazy beautiful miracles.

This all came to a head a few days ago, as I struggled valiantly with my move (read: fell into an infection-induced stupor on the floor of my new room while my mom sorted boxes and furniture). As part of the joys of moving, I was somewhat distracted and less involved in any and all things CF-related for a few days, something I generally consider good for my sanity anyway. Unfortunately, I was also less likely to email people within the community who wrote me through FaceBook or the blog. And I know that sort of thing happens, but it's not my favorite thing to have happen -- especially when someone emails me about her fears with getting listed for transplant and I know that I have to leave it for a few days. That just kind of sucks, even if it is inevitable from time to time.

What sucks more, though, is that when such a thing happens in the CF community, the person isn't always around when you finally get your act together. And the truly heartbreaking reality is that you might find yourself remembering a young woman who was amazingly brave in the face of failing health and other challenges, who looked incredibly cute in the pictures she took to document her fight (all wearing the lung shirt that you and your sister designed), and who had always been nothing short of an inspiration in her several previous emails to you. You might just find yourself sitting baffled at the computer, wondering how just a few days could make such a huge difference -- and knowing that there but for the grace of God go all of us when it comes to this deadly disease.

So please excuse that this post isn't a particularly happy one. Those moments still exist in this world, and I think it's super important to share them. Actually, truth be told, I think CFers are pretty remarkable in our collective determination to look on the bright side. And Summer, you were a perfect example of that. But as a self-proclaimed hippie and a woman of faith, I know you'd also agree that there is, no doubt, "a time to dance, a time to mourn...and a time to every purpose under Heaven."

And beyond it, as well.

A Tale of Two Years (and Four Lungs)

Dear 2011,

Well, hello there.

Okay, so I have to be honest: I am SUPER excited to "meet" you. Seriously. I think I can honestly say that I have never been more thrilled to ring in a new year -- even 2000, which was, of course, thrilling in actual celebration and important for me personally in that it was the year I graduated high school and spread my wings, so to speak. And please, don't get me wrong. I've had some fantastic years in my life -- many of which I look back on now with total awe that I could ever deserve to be so blessed or so lucky -- but 2011, I'm 100% sincere when I say that you have all the potential in the world to take home the big prize. You are, to put it mildly, potential personified. And for that reason alone, darling new year, I am extremely thrilled to welcome you into my life.

Of course, your predecessor was pretty darn impressive in its own right, obviously. I mean, how many years come complete with a brand new set of organs? (Important sidenote: please don't take that statement as a challenge, future years. I really think I'll hang onto what I've got for now if it's all the same to you.) It's undeniable that 2010 was about as "landmark" as they come, and that it was filled with joy, sorrow, hope, fear, laughter, tears, and miracles beyond my wildest dreams. For that, at least, I hope 2010 knows that I am forever and truly grateful.

In some ways, of course, it's always hard to separate the worst moments in your life from the best. By which I mean that true joy often stems from hard lessons, or from overcoming tragic circumstances -- at least that's quite often been my experience. And by that measurement, no doubt, 2010 was pretty much as awesome as they come, itself a fact made clear for me when I spend time rereading parts of this blog, or just revisiting memories. I laugh out loud pretty much every time I read those awesome comments you left me during my stay in the ICU, for example, and I smile to know that people from all across the country and even the world were lifting up their hearts in prayer, love, and celebration right along with my family. Wowza. No, seriously. Wowza, in every sense of the (very made-up) word.

Charles Dickens started out one of his most famous novels with the words now dreaded by high school English students the country over: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way . . ."

I'm pretty sure Dickens might have been waiting for transplant when he wrote that passage.

Okay, fine, so maybe not. But the point still stands that difficult moments in life have a strange habit of bringing people together, showing us what's important, and teaching us lessons that might scare us in the moment, but at the very least have the potential for some pretty interesting stories (or blog posts) down the road.

Although I have to say that if 2010 was both the best of times and the worst of the times, then I think I'll settle for 2011 just being pretty darn good in its own right. I'll gladly accept a few less life-changing lessons and brilliant surges of pure delight if I can also, in turn, cut down on the sleepless night full of worry and the scared looks I saw on way too many faces in 2010. I know I have a lot more to learn, and I promise I'm excited to get there, but for right now I think I'd be okay making those discoveries under just slightly less difficult circumstances, 2011 -- that is, if that's okay with you, of course.

Of course, my New Year's wish for all my beautiful friends out there is similar, though not, it goes without saying, exactly the same. I wish the best of times (always), I wish you harder times (when necessary), and above all I wish you excitement, joy, wonder, and discovery through each and every second of this magical experience that we call life. And when it all seems just a tad bit overwhelming, then I wish you, as Dickens might say, a true "spring of hope." And maybe, if we all get really lucky, a few more seasons as well.

With love, gratitude, and some serious excitement for the year to come,

xoxo beautiful people,
Piper

40 years

On December 26, 1970, my parents, Kathleen Murphy and Michael L. Beatty, walked down the aisle to take their place at the altar and say their vows. It was the day after Christmas, they were in Abilene, Texas (where my mother had lived all her life and my father's family had lived intermittently throughout the years), and the day was so busy that neither one of them managed to eat anything at the reception. Fortunately for them, a thoughtful caterer had the foresight to pack them a double-portion boxed lunch of fried chicken to eat on the way to their honeymoon in San Antonio. Unfortunately for my dad, however, my mother ate the entire thing -- double portion and all -- while he drove.

And that little story, y'all, is what we down in Texas like to call "foreshadowing." The lesson being, of course, that while marriage might be a pretty fun road, at the end of the day there's always gonna have to be a few compromises if you want to survive the drive.

And survive they have, despite what some might call a pretty bumpy road. After 2 years of marriage my mom moved to Texas to accommodate his work, which was followed 2 years later by his moving to Idaho to accommodate her PhD. At 9 years of marriage, while they were temporarily working in different universities in separate states, my mother gave birth to their first child (and my older sister) and my dad's epic journey to try and make it from Wyoming in time for the birth has become the stuff of family legend. At 11 years of marriage they gave birth to their second child (yours truly, of course) and were told to "just take her home and love her as long as they had her" due to a fatal disease called cystic fibrosis.

At about 15 years of marriage they moved again, this time back to Houston for my dad's job, and 6 months later my mom moved back with just the two kids in an effort to stabilize my health. Thus began somewhere close to 9 years of commuting -- sometimes between CO and TX, sometimes further (like to MA while my mom received her third advanced degree) -- for my father, who nonetheless managed to be present for nearly every soccer game, horse show, or badly costumed school play. (Major kudos to BOTH of them for pulling that one off, by the way.) The separation ended at about 23 years, when my dad finally returned full-time to Colorado. Shortly thereafter, both my parents moved their jobs (but not their family) to a larger city in Colorado. Around 27 years they sent their oldest daughter off to college, and my dad began a family tradition by driving her cross-country himself, with pit stops at the Grand Canyon and Vegas on their way to Los Angeles. My own trip, 3 years later, would include stops all along the Deep South, including Abilene (the origin of this story), Shreveport, Jackson, and Birmingham en route to Atlanta. My mother flew out to meet the weary travelers at our final destination and help move into college, and both times my dad snapped a picture of the departing daughter walking away from the rental car on her way into the dorm solo, turning back for one last wave and a smile before beginning college.

If parting is sweet sorrow, then my parents have certainly worn that emotion into the ground. At 38 1/2 years my mom left again -- this time to stay in New York with me while I awaited lung transplant. At 39 1/2 years, my parents received the gift of knowing that the dire predictions of my original doctor were wrong, and this gift came in the form of the ultimate gift from some other family -- another set of parents, another spouse of another loved one. And at 39 3/4 years, my mother returned back to CO to complete that cycle -- though it was and is hardly the completion of their collective journey.

And now, at 40 years, they have been Texans, Idahoans, Wyomingites, Coloradans, Massachusonians, and New Yorkers; between them they have no less than 4 post-graduate degrees and have been lawyers, small business owners, researchers, politicians, professors, authors, deans, and honorary nurses; they have traveled to 6 continents and spent at least some time in pretty much any place you can think of; they have friends all over the world; they are loved and admired by many (myself included); they are two of the smartest and kindest people I know, by far; and they are still the parents of two living children and two very sweet dogs (and the "grandparents" to one pretty roly-poly shorkie).

Congratulations, Mom and Dad. Erin and I love you and can't wait for the four of us to celebrate 50 years together.

Christmas v. The Beatty Family: A Case of Sleds, "Star Search", and Serious Overcrowding

Opening Statement

Good morning, everyone. So glad you could make it out on this chilly December 25th, 2010.

Christmas is that magical time of year when anything and everything seems possible. Everywhere you look people are talking about compassion, love, and spreading what they call "The Christmas Spirit" (which is, I have learned through the years, really just code for "The Way We Should Live Every Single Day of Our Lives", but I digress). Anyway, people are smiling, hot cocoa and candy are available in abundance, and for once in their lives even NYers seem to feel that it's alright to wear a monochromatic suit and a red stocking cap with a little pom-pom stuck on top. Meanwhile I saw not a single PETA volunteer on the street in protest of the obvious cruelty inherent in forcing artic deer to pull a fat guy in a flying sleigh into some seriously tropical climates. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is truly a Christmas miracle.

But even with all that aside, there's another reason why I really do adore this particular holiday. That reason, of course, is simple. Because for an inventive little kid with an overactive imagination and a knack for making up stories (even if said stories never make it beyond her own head, as is often the case), Christmas is, to put it mildly, A.Gold.Mine. No joke.

Or maybe it's just in MY family that Christmas is not only the most wonderful, but also the most comical, time of the year. Seriously, if something weird is going to happen (and trust me on this one, with my family something weird IS ALWAYS going to happen) there's at least a 75% chance that it will happen on or around Christmas Day. Coincidence? Maybe. Bad luck? Nope, I don't think so. Personally, I'm going to go with the theory that God finds us amusing, and therefore we're just a really great birthday present for his Son. You know, just a thought.

Anyway, I can tell you're not fully convinced, which means that I'm going to have to give you hard evidence to make my case. So sit back and enjoy, ladies and gentlemen of the Christmas jury, and please remember that the eggnog in the jury room is most likely spiked due to counsel's slightly wicked sense of humor. Enjoy.

Exhibit A -- The Runaway Sled:

One of the first Christmases I remember fully was in Colorado. At the time, we were what you might call "between houses" (we had just moved back to the state from TX) and I was probably about 4 or 5. Which, of course, made my sister slightly older -- she was somewhere either 6 about to turn 7, or 7, about to turn 8. But age aside, Christmas that year was AWESOME! Santa brought us both matching red sleds (a big deal in snowy Colorado) and we were super excited to try them out. Unfortunately, there were no hills in the vicinity, but no matter -- we lived on a mountain! And our driveway sloped straight down at basically a 90 degree angle! What luck! No need to ask permission, right? Mom and dad won't mind!

What follows is a pretty predictable story: girl meets sled, sled meets driveway, driveway meets truck. Ow. Note that my older sister was NOT on the sled at the critical moment for reasons that remain a point of contention (I think she sent me down as a guinea pig, she thinks I insisted on going first -- both are equally possible). Needless to say my mother wasn't too worried about the blame-game when a man approached her front door with me sobbing in his arms and uttered the phrase "I didn't mean to run over your daughter." Cue the ER, which I promptly decided was a great place to stop crying, stand up, and practice my "jazzercize" moves. Mom claims this was embarrassing. I think the only embarrassing part of the story is that any of us were into "Jazzercize." Ever. Hello, 1980s!

Exhibit B -- The Clumsy Reindeer:

And if, after that harrowing tale of driveways and jazz hands, you still require further evidence, please direct your attention to our next true story of Christmas Past. This one comes slightly later in the chronology, my guess is that I was around 7-8 at the time and my sister closer to 9-10. But even if I don't remember the exact year, I DO remember quite vividly the gift that my sister wanted.

See, my fashion-designer-in-the-making sister didn't want a sewing machine or a box of colored pencils. Nope, she wanted an official "Star Search" karaoke microphone with real voice enhancement and colored lights. Shrinking violet, she is not. Not to mention that this was the late 80s/early 90s, when everyone even semi-cool was perming their hair and lip syncing along with Milli-Vanilli. So of course, Santa wanted her to get this coveted mic (lucky us, right?) and he tried valiantly to deliver it on Christmas morning.

Okay, big guy. Let's just say that you get an "A" for effort on that one and pretty much a D- on actual performance -- though that last grade might be a little generous.

Santa did in fact deliver the gift. But he also tried to set it up, in which process the gift was ruined to the point where it no longer worked. It was, quite literally, a microphone with no microphoning capabilities. And I know, I know, it's not the gift but the thought that counts, but try telling that to a 9 year-old whose toy doesn't work. So Santa did what any reasonable fat guy with a liability problem would do in a bind:

He blamed it on Rudolph.

Turns out that clumsy reindeer had STEPPED ON my sister's gift. Never mind that it was delivered to an apartment with no chimney. Never mind that there was no snow in Houston and no good reason for a reindeer to slip. And really never mind that Santa should have left some time in his schedule to make a quick pitstop at K-Mart just in case. Nope, the reindeer did it, plain and simple. I know because I read it in the note Santa left by the eaten cookies. "Sorry about the Star Search Toy - Rudolph stepped on it. But I will tell your Daddy to buy you a new one. Merry Christmas." Um, thanks, Santa. Hey, at least you won't have to pay the elves any overtime for this one, right?

Exhibit C -- An American Christmas in Paris:

And finally, esteemed jurors, I could hardly allow you to make your decision without hearing the story of the famous Christmas in Paris, which sounds sweet and romantic (and was indeed a lot of fun), but might also top the charts for craziest Christmas ever.

The scene: Paris, an apartment on the Champs Elysee, temporary home to my parents, my grandmother, myself and a friend from Colorado, my sister, and about 35 of my sister's friends from both the US and her study abroad program in Spain. At one point I was more or less sure that I was actually living in a youth hostel done up to LOOK like a single-family apartment. But no worries, my friend and I went on the Paris Metro to purchase a small tree. It was "decorated" with whatever was handy and topped with a cheesy (um, make that CLASSY) souvineer tour eiffel. Fantastique.

Meanwhile, my dad became obsessed both with seeing every sight in Paris at the cost of our collective sanity (Note to self: do NOT allow dad to purchase "best of Paris" ever again, or similar book for another country. Ever.) and the idea of a traditional bouche de noel (literally Christmas Log, or Yulelog - a rounded, log-like cake with filling). Forget that most people under 30 in the house spent a significant amount of time in the pizzeria down the street and that we were all of legal drinking age in Europe, which made things...interesting. The Champs Elysee, meanwhile, had turned into a full-on carnival for the millenium celebration (my sister believed the Eiffel Tower would "lay an egg" at midnight. Seriously. She thought that.) and it was pretty much impossible to do a headcount at night without instituting strict roll call a la Little Orphan Annie or a military academy.

Luckily, Christmas proceeded (and most of the houseguests actually left right around Christmas Day, I believe), but the day after (also known as my parents' anniversary) brought a massive windstorm that uprooted trees, closed the Metro, and did serious damage to several French landmarks - including the windows of the Sainte-Chapelle. Major bummer. Our vacation is literally still a topic of conversation for many Parisians, although I'm pretty sure they're not referring to the damage we personally caused. Or at least, I hope not.

If so, I am TOTALLY blaming Rudolph.

Closing Argument

There is more evidence, of course, like the time the dog (the family dog - not Sampson) got a raincoat and hat for his "present" and caused the cat to freak out, the "Christmas bush" we once used to celebrate in San Francisco, and the fact that I for years insisted that a very tacky multicolored foil pine cone with fake snow be placed in a prominent position on our otherwise pretty tree. (Of course, now I'm old enough I have my own tree, and the lights are indeed multicolored. So there.) Most families I know watch "A Christmas Story" so that they can laugh at the ridiculous antics of Ralphie and his family. Not my family though -- we watch it because we relate. Quite honestly, it wouldn't surprise me one bit if I end up with a pink bunny suit one of these years. I have some very crafty aunts, after all.

And so, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I rest my case. I know that if you consider all the evidence before you, you too will arrive at one simple, indisputable fact: Christmas with my family is, without question, a ridiculous, crazy, silly, wonderful, miraculous, beautiful day.

In short, we are guilty as charged. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

****

Merry Christmas, Happy Winter, and a Peaceful New Year to all our beautiful readers.

Love,
Piper and Sampson Bear Beatty

Merry Christmas to All

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the flat
Not a creature was stirring, not cockroach nor rat.
The stockings were hung on the windows, all there
For all of the family and dear Sammybear.

The streets were still busy, the stores all aglow
And in NYC there was still not much snow.
But better than snowflakes and better than cheer
Was the one special gift we were given this year.

'Cause when it turns midnight there will be no clatter
Of treatments and neb cups and all of that matter.
And those pills that I take are a small price to pay
For the knowledge that I will wake up Christmas day.

I'll spring from my bed with the greatest of ease,
I'll take a deep breath with no crackle or wheeze.
Then I'll run to my kitchen to grab some hot "joe"
And have one perfect Christmas, regardless of snow.

And E in her fashion and Sam with his toy
Will all settle in for some true Christmas joy.
While Mom and Dad truly deserve three big cheers
'Cause on Sunday morn they'll be hitched 40 years!

The lights will be lit and we'll say a quick prayer
In remembrance of loved ones, both passed on and here.
For those who are hurting, for those who are missed
And for all of us living, so joyful and blessed.

And we'll each give a moment to offer a smile
To the heroes out there who went the extra mile.
To those who save lives and to all who help fight:
Merry Christmas to you, and to all a good-night!