It was a chilly night last March when I became closely acquainted with Dread.

     I sometimes feel that it has stalked me since then.

     Don't get me wrong. I live--have always lived--a truly blessed life that I can never be thankful enough for. I have all that money can never buy: parents who loved and cherished me, healthy kids, work that I find stimulating. A body that did whatever I asked of it and required no maintanence. All the standard issue Great Stuff that you can arrogantly view as your due after a few decades.

     In looking back, it lines up a little differently. Some great philosopher said, "Life can only be understood backwards. Unfortunately, it must be lived forwards." In looking over my  shoulder, I notice that, over the past year, Dread began showing its pointed little head at me, popping up on the manholes I walked over, an evil little imp pointing a finger at me. I'll get you my pretty. And your little girl, too.

     I'm pretty good at ignoring what I don't care to see, so I just stomped on the manhole covers and kept skipping along.

     Despite my glorious husband, unincarcerated children and troupe of loyal friends, in the past year, I occasionally had an odd feeling that somebody, somewhere was stepping on a crack and trying to break my back.

     There was the plumbing problem. The freaky impounding of my car over the mixup over my expired tabs. The return of the plumbing problem. The unpleasant gum disease diagnosis. My son's dramatic illness and tonsillectomy. Have I mentioned that we had persistent plumbing problems?

    None of them much to worry about. Nothing tragic. Just a short run of Bad Luck, hardly worth noting compared to the long run of Good Luck I've experienced. Expensive but ultimately annoying hassles. No boo-hooing over this or you fear that God will say, just as Mom used to, "Dry up, sister, or I'll give ya something to cry about."  
 

     Then there was that night in March that changed that and gave me the gift that has helped me so much since then.

     I was on my way out to a radio station event--hosting a Women's Wellness event at St Catherine's an evening about Menopause. We had 500 guests, the hall rented, food, wine, experts, a staff of people ready to pull it off. I had prepped for months and felt ready to host a two hour live broadcast.

     I was ten blocks from home when my cell phone rang.

    Oldest daughter, Five Footer, who is not given to panic or exaggeration and is cool in a crisis.

    This time, thought, she was panicked. Her little sister, my four footer, had slipped on the ice in the driveway and sheared off her two front teeth.

     "It's bad, Mom," Big Sister warned. "Really bad."

     Big called it right. We met at our neighborhood dentist. When they got out of their car, Little was crying so hard that her face was swollen almost beyond recognition. (She's pretty tough, too.)

      That night she had full mouth shots and her teeth capped. I was with her when the work began and the numbness set in; her sister and my niece stayed until the dentist completed his work and took her home. I did my broadcast and got through it knowing that no matter what I chose, I would be  failing someone who was counting on me.   

     Next day, I took the day off and delivered Little Girl to her first appointment with an endodontist. For the second time in less than 24 hours, she had full mouth shots to numb her up as she received a temporary root canal in her two front teeth.

     A few months later, she developed an abcess on one of the teeth and had to have the root canal replaced. More shots and another long session for both  us--her in the chair, me averting my eyes and holding her hand.

     Then two weeks ago, we had to do it again. The final root canal.

     Each time the full mouth injections.

     Oh, how she hated it. Oh, how she dreaded it. She knew she had to do it, but oh, the dread in opening her mouth to let the endodontist put his tools and hands in there so he could do his highly skilled healing work and give her two functional, attractive front teeth.

     I knew there was no prize or bribe that would take away the pain, so I didn't offer her one. I thought that would only cheapen the experience, the reality of this little girl's mighty struggle. There's nothing for a mom to do but sit there, hold her hand and pomise it will all be over soon. Nothing to do but murmur from the bottom of your heart that this hurts, that I'm supposed to spare you pain, but you have to face this yourself. I'm proud of how hard you're trying. It will be over soon.

     Really, as soon as the first injection went in, between her teeth and her upper lip, the hard, painful part was over. The Novacaine took over and there was nothing to feel--or fear.

    She broke my heart afterward. We were walking to the car and she was thinking about how she had put up a big fuss with the dentist at first, so much so that he had to get very stern wth her to get her to open up.

    She tentatively put her little hand in mine and quavered, in a halting voice, "Mommy....I'm--sorry."

    She had nothing to be sorry about. She knew it would be painful, but she did it. She did it as best she could.

     It is hard to watch your child in pain. Since then, there have been so many recent examples that remind me that losing your two front teeth beats a helluva lot of the problems that many families must face. Kids who need to be at Ronald McDonald house for months because of bone marrow transplants. Kids who get their intestines sucked out at a swimming pool. Kids who...oh, I'll stop now before we all start reaching for the noose or the knife. The pain of a child--truly, what is more troubling to contemplate?

     What I really want to blog about today is the strength and guts that my little girl showed and how that has come back to me time and time again as I have stared down my own pain and troubles. She showed me so clearly that there is no shame in fear. In fact, you're crazy not to fear what will be painful. But I also learned that sometimes the dread locks us in, the fear makes the pain all the worse.

     I was afraid of my surgery, no doubt. And it hurt, the kind of pain morphine just spreads a little butter on. Then I was afraid of the chemo. Hey, guess what--not so bad. Hey, it's just an IV--and it will save my life. It's liquid chemical light to be embraced and welcomed, not feared. And what about the side effects? Little queasy, little tired. Odd smells put me off, like morning sickness. All of a sudden, it's gone. No problem,. Turns out, once again, I'm one of the lucky ones.

     The last of this Breast Cancer Dread Trifecta--surgery, chemo, HAIR. How I dreaded losing my hair. The nurse assured me that, with the chemo drugs I'm getting, all my lovely, chemically treated locks will fall out 10-24 days after the first session. And it will all fall out ("release" they call it) in 48 hours. I would shed like a dog, my hair falling out in my bed, sink, brush, everywhere.

     No thanks. Don't work to save what's beyond salvation.

     And then, all of a sudden,  I was ready to let it go. To take it off. It's never going feel good, I'm never going to be emotioanlly prepared for a buzz, a heinie, a skull. So let's go NOW. I sobbed like a child when I told the kids It Was Time. 

      We gathered on the back patio. I braided four braids and each of my children and my niece cut off one bread at the scalp and placed them reverently in a Zip Lock bag.

     Then my 6 footer, my son, got out the clippers.

     I see now that he had purchased them as soon as I got home from the hospital. He had taken them out of the box and placed them on the kitchen counter, to de-sensitize me, to let me know that he was ready to go whenever I was.

     First he cut me a Mohawk, like the one he had etched into his own scalp. We posed for a fierce, once-in-a-lifetime Mother-Son-Mohawk portrait. You can find some of these pictures here on the website under my photos.

     Then he started buzzing. The rest went. Down to the nub. Scattered there on the patio like a dead animal.   

     Who am I without my hair? I was born with hair, got the Toni perm in grandma's kitchen (PU!) then the pixie. Pigtail Heidi hair, Breck Girl, ponytails, long sit-on-it Cher hair, Sun-in, Protein 21, Dorothy Hamil hair, Farrah Fawcett hair, standup bangs, one bad curly perm after another. The Rachel. Brunette gives way to gray gives way to blonde streaks. The older I get, the Blonder. Take that, Father Time, you patriarchal Bastid!

     Hair loss. This is no small thing, and nor would it be for many of us. I've been told that, with a breast cancer diagnosis, some women ask "Will I lose my hair?" before they ask "Will I live?"

     At first, I think I look like an alien.

     We all rub our hands over the shorn head. But the tears are gone now. I cried before, not during or after. The dread, like my little girl had shown me, it in the anticipation. The secret of handling this--It was all there. Why had I been unable to learn what she had already taught me? I had been dread-locked.

     No more.

     I'm much better now. I feel better than I did since this all started the day after Mother's Day. Now I have nothing else to dread. The surgery has healed and my new breast fits. Chemo has begun; now I know what that's about. And my hair--turns out I feel liberated without it.  I don't look sick or pitiful, at least not to myself. I look strong, like a woman who has looked something dreadful in the face and decided to whistle.

     That night, shsortly after I was shorn, my husband came home and as he parked his car in the garage, I sidled up beside the wall and called to him.

     "I'm warning you," I said. "II'm bald."

     I walked out and he examined me quickly. "You look beatufiul," he said, with utter sincerity. He held out his arms and I was home.

     That night before bed, the four footer asked if she could kiss my head. She did, in a benediction that let me to know I had nothing more to dread.

     I have written about my grandmothers on this blog, and a friend of mine who is acquainted with my girls reminded me that I'm part of a strong line...a line that comes both before and after me. That  observation was a very sweet gift.

     So now, for me, it seems there's nothing else to fear. More chemo, sure. The chemo may make me tired, but who can be afraid of tired? The cancer can come back, but I think it's already gone and I'm cured. Just buying an insurance poiicy with chemo and possible radiation. I've had a little bit of bad luck and an abundance of blessings.`

    What are you dreading? I could be wrong, but in my experience, the buildup to whatever you're afraid of is worse than the reality. Don't waste time on dread and get to what you fear quickly. Life it too short...and too sweet...to waste it on things that may not be worth your fear.

     Have you ever had a Pearl of Wisdom drop out of your own mouth? You say something and are immediately struck by the truth of it. You take that perfect audio ivory orb and string it and examine it and contemplate your own wisdom and then congratulate yourself on just how Profound you are.

     You don't do this? Really?

     Occupational hazard for a talk radio host? Maybe.

     I have a lot of Pearls: little mottoes and sayings and cliches. I change them up as I realize how simplistic, ridiculous or absurd they are. But one of my Mottoes To Live By has been current for years and I'm sticking with this one.

     Listen up:

     "Steal From The Best."

     And that leads me to, uh, Rush Limbaugh.

     Settle down, now. Whatever we may think of RL's attitudes, politics and choices of wives/hobbies/ideologies, no one can take away the guy's success. He figured something out and has been widely imiitated, but he's the Original. Ya gotta give him that...if nothing else.

      When he first started his syndicated show, no one had ever heard anything like it and people who shared his opinions were like the Newly In Love. They would get on the air with him and babble about how they shared his philosophy, enemies and views. In their efforts to announce their solidarity, they would rhapsodize, ramble on and hijack his program. The show would slow and the pace.would.stop.

     The Big Boy figgered this wasn't good for bidness, so he developed a quickie code with listeners. Those who Believe as he Belives simply crow "Dittoes!" as they greet him. Meaning, I Walk In Ideological Lockstep with You. The fans have long called themselves "Dittoheads." The show rolls on without an obnoxious amount of fawning. (Note: I didn't say it was or was not obnoxious, I simply used the word to modify the verb.)

     I thought about this in the days before I returned to work following my surgery. I heard from so many listeners who have already traveled the path that I am on, either through their own experience or through that of a loved one. I knew people would want to extend their good wishes for my good health. 

     You can't know how much I appreciate the positive energy that has flowed my way. That said, I still want to do a radio show where we talk about all the things we always talked abut. If we're quizzing the Sexpert or getting the Dirty Laundry, I really didn't really want to slow the show with a caller who might get on the air with me and then feel compelled to extend their support before we could get into the Topic At Hand.

     Hence, "Tittoes!"

     Maybe you've been listening and heard another listener on the air with me who says "Tittoes!" before they say hello. Here's how that came about.

     I was trying to come up with the quickie "I'm With Ya, Kevyn!"  Solidarity Comment and came up with zero, zip, nada, squat, diddly. I drew the Rush comparison with my BOSS who, when I said, "I need my own Dittoes!" said simply, "Tittoes!"

     "Can we say that?" I asked.

     "Kevyn," she replied, "right now, you can say whatever you want."

     The first day back, I talked Tittoes and listeners seemed to like it right away. Some of you great me with a hearty "Tittoes!": when you call; some of you have signed off with e mail or in cards with the greeting. I have seen it spelled a number of ways and a few of you write "Tittles!" which, well, makes me titter.  

     That afternoon, I was at the St Louis Park Target with the 4 footer when an attractive youthful woman (I figure she was about my age) walked up and tapped me on the shoulder.

     "Are you Kevyn Burger?" she asked.

     I admitted that, yes, I was.

     She smiled at me with a kind and fervent smile. "Tittoes!" she said fiercely. "Tittoes!"

     And I smiled back.

     So that's the secret handshake of sorts in Ye Olde Kevyn Clubhouse. Tittoes. Some of you may not be comofrtable saying it--that's okay. Not mandatory. Just a way to wink at me if you feel like it. And I promise, if you say it, I'll say "Thank you!"   
 

I've always found summer to be magical in Minnesota. The morning dew twinkles like crystal. The sun coaxes flower buds open and you can practically see Thumbelina posing on the stamen on her teeny tippy-toes. Spiders weave gossamer webs strung with diamond dew. When I was a child, I not only read but lived in a fairy tale. I was one of those earnest bookworms who didn't understand that fantasy was different from reality. Real life magic all around me still casts its charm. I sometimes still find myself looking for fairies and pixies and sprites and brownies--those little folk that I'm sure I saw with my own eyes when I was younger. In fact, one of the happiest parts of being a mother has been to plant my favorite fairy visions in the imaginations of my three children. Each of them, wide-eyed, has independently reported spotting a fairy house and fairy royalty. We have examined gardens, nests, holes, rock piles, woods, beaches and more in our pursuit of these elusive creatures...or the detritus they leave behind as they flee our curious gazes. I'm down to just one child who is still buying what I'm selling and she's becoming a bit of a reluctant consumer all of a sudden. However, the Lake Harriet Elf has gone a long way in keeping her Believer Status intact. Mine too, in fact. Do you know about the Lake Harriet Elf? He's been around for more than a decade, in his house just west of the steps on Oliver Avenue South. He calls himself Mr. Little Guy, but does reveal that his given name is Thom. He and his family live in an unassuming ash tree in between the bike path and the walking path on Lake Harriet. The tree is unremarkable in that it is no different from scores of such strong and slender trees that line that stretch of lake. What separates this tree from the others is the small door at its base. Cunningly fashioned of wood, it has a rounded shape and an infinitesimal doorknob. You need not be a student of the Brothers Grimm or Mr. H.C Anderson or Charles Perrault or any of the great purveyors of fairy tale literature in order to be familiar with this door. If you have ever once, even long ago, imagined that our world was jointly inhabited by Little Folk, then this door is familiar to you. It's a portal to something secret. And can't help but make you curious. When we moved to Southwest Minneapolis two summers ago, the neighbor kids quickly led my then seven-year-old to the so called "ElfTree." I had heard of it, of course, had seen it, but was not fully aware of the lore and legend. I let my daughter take me there and allowed her to fill me in on the magical family residing in the tree. Since then, we have been back many times. In keeping with tradition, my daughter left a note for the elf, asking about him and telling him about herself. Some days later, she got a personal reply from the elf, typed on silver paper about half the size of a standard business card. It still is fixed beneath a magnet on the family fridge. I told her I could just see him, in his top hat, black suit and striped socks, typing away on a tiny typewriter. My daughter looked at me like I was crazy. "He's half bald, Mom,' she informed me. "With red hair around the bottom. His suit is green. And he uses a little laptop." With and without her, I have walked around Lake Harriet countless times and I always pause near the Elf Tree. In the summer, there are always flowers planted around it. Sometimes a wooden fence is installed to corral the flowers. There are always trinkets and treasures left there, and always letters. Children routinely drop off their missives and Mr. Little Guy issues his replies on those signature silver pages. He and his family reside in the tree in the summer; he must be one of those prosperous elves who can make an exit during the cold months. He has been doing this for years, but has kept a low profile all the while. It's enough to make me believe in him. As far as I can see, he has no agenda, no financial motivation. He is not trying to become Mr.LittleGuy, Inc, or market himself for the movies or commercial endorsement. He has never cashed in on his celebrity or the good will that he generates. It's work, being Mr. Little Guy. Collecting those notes, writing back, all under the cover of the mist. But imagine the payback. The first walk I was able to take after my surgery, I hit the path at Lake Harriet and started walking with no destination in mind. I figured that once I got tired, I'd simply turn around and trudge home. Without realizing it, my feet carried me to the Elf House. I plopped down on a nearby bench to watch the water and relax. Instead, I spent a delightful half hour eavesdropping. Listening to young children, some squealing with curious pleasure, some wide-eyed and whispering in wonder. Some dropped off letters. Some talked to their parents about the details of the clothes the elf family wears or how their house must look deep inside the tree trunk. While I was settled there, I saw three soldiers approach the tree. A woman, wearing an Army-green beret and fatigues, was accompanied by two men dressed identically. From the best my eavesdropping ears could make out (An aside: When you people are having interesting conversations, would you please SPEAK UP!) the woman was familiar with the Elf House and was sharing the story. The three of them squatted to study the door and the notes and the trinket treasures and each broke into child like grins. I resisted my urge to interview them (tragic professional liability) because I didn't want to interfere with their magical moment. I don't know if they have recently returned from a battle field...or are en route to one...but I know the men and women who wear the uniform need all the magic they can find. I need my magic, too. I need to return to the ethos of my childhood, where I was deeply absorbed in possibility and had no interest or fear in the future. What surrounded me was simply enough. I find rich pleasure in staring at that wooden door, knowing that someone who cares about magic lives behind it. It's true. He's real. He's goodness. He's helped me accept the wonder and joy that is all around us. Mr. Little Guy and I have something in common, I have found. He gets letters and messages from complete strangers who express their fondness for him. That has been my experience as well this summer. Mr. Little Guy must keep going because it feels so good to get those good wishes. Feels so good to be believed in. I'll sign this one off in homage to how Mr. Little Guy ends his notes...I couldn't say it any better than he can. To all of you who think of me, pray for me, send me your best and fervent wishes for health and healing, who believe I will beat this thing and survive to see the best that's ahead, I say, as he does: "I believe in you."