2025 Christmas Letter

I used to make fun of my father-in-law for writing his Christmas letter later and later every year, but here I am, writing this letter on December 14 while Tim and Reuben finish laying the floor in the “Keeping Room.”

I guess that’s a good place to start. We (finally) bought a house near State College, and then promptly demolished every room. We took down walls, moved rooms, updated plumbing and electric, ripped out an entire kitchen, added a scullery, replaced all the floors, gutted the full bathrooms, ordered new exterior doors, and have (so far) used about eight gallons of paint. The only room we haven’t touched is the sleeping porch. 

It’s safe to say it was not move-in ready. In fact, nothing is ready.

We move in five days. 

When I first started my job at Penn State in October 2024, I rented a tiny apartment thinking Tim would stay in Ohio with Esther-Faith until she finished college. That plan changed when Esther-Faith transferred to Penn State to join the varsity Adaptive Athletic team. She moved to State College last December and immediately started training with an incredible coach, and she’s majoring in Fine Arts working toward her BFA. She competed in Chicago, Grand Rapids, Lewisburg, and New Jersey. We learned how to fly with a racer and her wheelchair (only losing one of them one time in Philly). 

Tim retired in June, and he is still funemployed—although, he is also doing a lot of the work on the house. 

When we aren’t traveling, training, working, or renovating, we spend as much time as we can with the grandbabies. Zander is two and has the vocabulary of a five-year-old. He repeats everything, which is great until you realize that sometimes our inside words are out-loud words, and he repeats those, too. Zariah and Zaniah are one, and they are so fun. They are emerging walkers, laugh all the time, and have the best dispositions. They are funny, smart, and full of joy like their mom, and they have the leadership potential like their dad. (I’m looking for nice ways to say stubborn and sassy.) We wish Bri and Isaiah lived closer, but we see them as often as we can. They are planning a summer wedding, and I cannot wait for that party.

Isaac transferred to a four-year school and is majoring in Environmental and Social Issues. He currently has a 4.0 GPA and really loves his classes. It is an online school at which he takes one class at a time for a shortened semester. He has settled into a routine of attending class, doing his homework, and managing his time. His latest hobby is recording himself playing video games on his VR headset. I’ll admit, I don’t always know what is going on, but he layers in hysterical music and does dances in the VR games. 

One of the best things about moving to State College is the people. We have made some great friends who stand in the gap for us whenever we call. (Although, I will admit, that friendship is being put to the test on the daily as they help us renovate this house.) We have found some cool restaurants, met some really great people, (kind of) started attending a church, go to as many Penn State sporting events as we can fit in (especially volleyball and hockey), and now that we bought a house nestled on the side of a mountain, State College is really starting to feel like home. I love my job. I love the people I work with. I love Penn State. 

We’ll be ready for overnight guests soon (you know, floors first), and we’d love to have you visit and show you the town we call home. 

All our love, 

Tim and Karin Henn.

© 2006-2025 Karin Shirey Henn, all rights reserved. Copyright notice: All content, including writings, artwork, photographs, or videos, posted on this blog is original to Karin Shirey Henn and the HennHouse unless otherwise stated and may not be reproduced without permission.

Reflections on 2019 and cancer and love

On January 14, 2019, I was diagnosed with cancer.

I still haven't found an easy way to say that, but I am finding it easier to talk about it. Really, the people around me make it easy.

From the colleague who found out about my fingernail issue and left a bottle of strengthening stuff on my desk.

My college roommate who shows up and sends meals and care packages and button up pajamas to wear after surgery and books for Tim and Esther-Faith to read in waiting rooms. And love.

And my colleague and friend who stood in the kitchenette at work after I ran out of a meeting when my nose started to bleed uncontrollably, wrapped her arms around me from behind (so my nose could literally gush into the trash can), and whispered, "You've got this." Over and over. Until I believed. Maybe until we both believed it.

And my friend who drove me home from those first six--really brutal--cycles of chemo. And even drove me home after the sixth one when I had a pretty severe allergic reaction to one of the chemo drugs. He had planned to take me for a beer; instead he drove me to a brewery and bought me a some beers to have when I could.

And the people who sat in a circle in a tiny conference room listening to the oncology nurse describe what chemo was going to be like.

My sister- and brother-in-law who have stuffed my freezer (more than a few times) with healthy soups and breads. They just show up, take over my kitchen, make some soup, do some chores, and leave me feeling loved and fed--in more ways than one.

My sweet friend across the country who constantly and consistently feeds my soul with her words and photos of her mountains.

My mom who shows up to sit with me after surgery.

My daughter who reminds me to persevere. Because surviving is worth it. 

Many friends and friends-of-friends who send mail and gifts and cards and encouragement.

My son and daughter-in-law who sacrifice and show up to take care of me and my house and my daughter. They let me sleep when I needed to sleep. Cooked, cleaned, laughed, loved. If you know anything about my son and what he's been through--and what we've been through alongside him--you know how special a gift this relationship is.

And Tim. My sweet Tim. He makes sure I'm never alone during chemo. Sometimes making it more like a party than chemo. Surrounding me with love and laughter while I'm connected to machines pumping poison into my body. Life-saving poison.

And Tim. My sweet Tim. He invited people to my last radiation treatment. Radiation was hard. I cried every day. Through every treatment. These amazing people lined the exit from the radiation suite and cheered when I walked out of that last treatment. They hugged me. Held me. Cried with me. Celebrated with me. Loved me.

My people who have showed up time and time and time again. In the mountains. At the hospital. Through surgery and pneumonia and chemo and radiation and nausea and fatigue and weird side effects and losing my hair and trying wigs and my scarf phase and letting me be different than the person they've known and sitting through chemo and helping me find bras that work and oil diffusers and buying me coffee at work and sitting next to my bed when I couldn't get out of it and holding space.

This year has been brutal, beautiful, hard, and gracious chaos. I have pushed myself to show up even when my body has other ideas. I have allowed myself to be and feel vulnerable. I found the people who I know will love me even if I complain. I'm not ever going to be that person who doesn't complain, but I promise I'm trying to do it with humor. When my cuticles bleed or radiation makes me panic or Tim makes me drink spinach or I go to bed at 6 p.m. or my fake boob shifts in my mastectomy bra or the days I hate my uniboob or menopause is wreaking havoc or I draw my eyebrows on crooked or cancer is cancer and the side effects of treatment make me misbehave, I PROMISE to try to laugh about it. I promise to try to make you laugh.

That is what I've learned this year.

Love. Laughter. Faith. Kindness. Persistence. Vulnerability.

I've learned that I like my hair short.

I've learned that really heavy eyeliner makes up for missing eyelashes.

Unless I cry. Nothing helps when my eyelashes aren't there to catch my tears.

I've learned that Tim loves me no matter what.

I've learned that having a uniboob is sometimes really funny.

I've learned that the mountains are good for my soul.

I've learned that people will SHOW UP. Big. Even if they are miles and hours away.

I've learned that I really am stronger than I thought I was.

I've learned that cancer is not a fair fight.

I've learned that cancer is not a gift, but it sure has taught me some things.

I've learned to plan for the unexpected.

I've learned that chemo is brutal.

I've learned I DO NOT like to be strapped down by my face.

I've learned to advocate for myself.

I've learned to be gentle.

I've learned to be a better manager.

I've learned that sometimes pickles are dinner.

I've learned I'm not the "make friends in the waiting area" kind of person.

I've learned to give grace. And accept grace.

I've learned the value of really good health insurance.

I've learned I don't need my breasts. (Or my ovaries.)

I've learned that cancer impacts more than me.

I've learned to push myself beyond what I think is possible.

I've learned that I will spend as much time in the kitchen as possible--even if I can't taste the food.

I've learned that Tim is a reluctant hero. And he also deals with hard things by using humor. And he is the best choice I have ever made in my life. He is an incredible human being. And he has filled my life with more incredible human beings. And he has flaws. And he loves my flaws. And he loves me.

For Christmas, Tim gave me tickets to see my favorite blues artist live in concert. She doesn't tour much--especially in the United States. But he found a way to get tickets. We missed some of our favorite artists/guitarists in 2019. We missed some Broadway shows. We missed a lot of church. We missed a lot of the normalcy of our life.

But Tim knows that I cried every single time I was strapped to the table for radiation treatment. 25 days in a row. He knows that every day they asked me what I wanted to listen to during treatment. And every day I said, "Beth Hart." Her music got me through those treatments. Her new album came out halfway through radiation. The day it came out, the oncology technicians had already downloaded it by the time I showed up for treatment. My first listen of these songs that I now love was strapped to a table crying, holding my breath, receiving treatment. There are a couple that make me cry still. Every time I hear them. "Thankful" and "I Need a Hero" and "War in my Mind."

Tim and I don't really have a "song," but if we did, it would be a blues song. Probably something by John Mayer or Joe Bonamassa or Beth Hart. When Tim proposed marriage, he was sitting in an apartment in Columbus, Ohio. I was on a shared phone in a rented room in London, England. He promised we would wear out the carpet dancing. We don't have carpet, but there are lots of times a song will come on, he will dim the lights, and we'll dance in the kitchen while dinner is on the stove. Sometimes we listen to the same song three times. And he holds me.

We have danced a lot this year. As we realize how fast time is moving, we ache to stop it. To slow it down. So we dance. In the dark. In the kitchen or the family room or the parlor. We cling to each other--both of us mentally pushing the "if I don't survive cancer" thoughts away. We force ourselves to talk about the future. To make plans. And we wear out the floors.

This year has been so difficult because of the side effect of treatment, but this year has been so beautiful because of the way we have been forced to think and love and plan differently, trust, have grace, receive help, and be thankful for everything in our lives. The sunshine. The moon. The lights on the Christmas trees. The birds in the feeder. The way Esther-Faith leans on us when she's tired. The way I sneak chocolate into my niece and nephew's pockets when they leave my house. Sitting around the table sharing a meal. Accessible schools. Dancing in the kitchen. Faith. Memories. The cancer center. Online church. Our home. Our jobs. The mountains. Our heroes. Family. Dreams. Hopes. Plans. Time. Laughter. Love.

I think though, mostly love.

© 2006-2020 Karin Shirey Henn, all rights reserved. 
Copyright notice: All content, including writings, artwork, photographs, or videos, posted on this blog is original to Karin Shirey Henn and the HennHouse unless otherwise stated and may not be reproduced without permission.

Chicago or bust

I just shoved three days worth of clothes and toiletries into Esther-Faith's super tiny, pink, hello kitty suitcase and zipped it shut. I checked in for my flight not quite 24 hours in advance via the app that has been on my phone for just under 24 hours. I've selected all of Esther-Faith's outfits for the week and matched ties with suits and shirts for Tim. The cat has food for three days. I've set reminders on my phone to remind Tim to let the dog back into the house. I've meal planned for the week. My work laptop is charged and I have a book to read on the plane. 

I'm about ready to travel for the first time with cancer as my only companion. 

I'm a nervous traveler. Well, nervous seems like a mild description. I love to travel with my family, and I love to plan travel. But alone? Not so much. Even without the added layer of traveling with a pharmacy in my purse. I have all of my prescriptions in their original bottles in case the ATF (or is it TSA) folks decide to dump my purse out and find out why there are medicines for managing any combination of cancer side effects. 

I was supposed to be four weeks out from chemo when I took this trip--not two. Two weeks out means I'm still dealing with painful diarrhea, extreme nausea, and debilitating fatigue. 

And tomorrow, I'm getting on an airplane. To Chicago. Away from my family and my home and my people and my doctors and the cancer center and everything familiar. My hotel is 1.5 miles from the conference. I have to navigate an unfamiliar city. Find food. Use UBER for the first time. And work. Attend sessions and meetings and learn and whatever. 

People do this, right? People with cancer work and travel and manage? I mean, I know they do. But can I? Can I do this? Really, I won't know the answer until tomorrow. Until I get on a plane and fly to Chicago for a conference I'm excited to attend. Excited to learn. Excited to think about the future of my job and my career and what we can do for students at Ohio State. And see Yo Yo Ma perform. And Gwen Stefani. And meet folks from other universities trying to do what we're trying to do. 

But cancer. 

I'm a nervous traveler, and now I have an added layer. Cancer. Sometimes I'm still in denial that I'm Stage 3 breast cancer with a grade 3 tumor. Friday I went to see my counselor, and Friday night I googled all of it again--desperate to understand what it all means for me. And for my family. I fell asleep with "grade 3 tumor, stage 3 cancer" in my search bar, but I never hit enter. 

I don't know if I really want to know what it all means. I want to go to Chicago and learn as much as I can about implementing Marketing Cloud at Ohio State and I don't want to think about cancer. I don't want to think about what is coming the rest of this summer. I want to think about finding a restaurant that serves shrimp and grits so I can memorize the flavors and recreate it at home. I want to think about missing Tim so much that whatever is going on between us melts away before I get home. I want to think about finding just the right souvenir for Esther-Faith. 

But cancer. 

When I get home from Chicago, the next big thing on my calendar is vacation followed not 100 hours later by surgery that will change me. Change who I am. Change my body and how I feel about myself. Forever. 

I don't think I'm required to like this situation, and despite all of the pleas from the people I love to "be positive" and "fight like hell" and "kick the shit out of cancer," I think what I'm doing is what I'm supposed to be doing. I'm doing everything my doctors and nutritionists and physical therapists and psychologists and pharmacists tell me to do. But to me, fighting is actually just surviving this. I'm scared I won't. So, I work on my cookbook at ridiculous hours while cinnamon rolls rise, and I read all the books I love alternately with books by cancer survivors (I call them all that--even if they died). 

A couple of weeks ago I got to see Keely play soccer. She scored three times and she won the sportswomanship of the game award. She got a free snack from the concession stand. Gavin begged her to share. 

After the match Michele walked me to my car. We talked. Mostly, I talked. She listened. Then I cried. Then she held me. There are things I can't tell Tim, and Michele holds that space for me. She lets me share with her the things I'm feeling and the confusion and anger and the books I'm reading. And she reads them, too. No matter how painful or uncomfortable, she reads the books so that she can relate to where I am mentally and emotionally. It's a gift really. To have someone like that in my life. There is really no way I think I will be able to repay her for that gift. 

When I land in Chicago, I imagine I'll text Tim that I arrived safe. Then I will figure this out. I will navigate travel and work and cancer all at the same time. I will obsessively text to make sure Esther-Faith and the pets are all fed and in the house at the right time. I'll ask for photos to make sure outfits are all arranged the right way. I'll text Tim twice to remind him to shave his face and to give Esther-Faith a vegetable for dinner. Esther-Faith has asked to cook while I'm gone. I'm both happy and nervous about that. At 13, I was cooking full meals. I have no doubt that she will be able to do it, but I won't know until after I land in Chicago and Esther-Faith and Tim manage without me. 

I guess I'm hoping they'll be just fine. Maybe I shouldn't text reminders. Because really, I don't know if I'm going to survive this cancer thing, and I need them to be able to manage without me. Maybe I'll send Michele a list of all the things that I'm not going to text to Tim and Esther-Faith. Maybe I'll just relax and worry about finding the best shrimp and grits in Chicago. Maybe I'll just work and conference and cancer and survive. I'll fly to Chicago for three days and I'll fly home. The rest is coming no matter what. I just need to figure out how to travel with cancer. I need to endure the next couple of days. I need to trust and love and survive and trust again. 

Could you all check on them for me? Make sure Tim's tie matches his suit and shirt? Make sure Esther-Faith has lunch and she sets the timer for her procedure? Make sure it isn't steak and potatoes every night? Make sure there are veggies? Make sure Tim doesn't forget that we have pets? And remind him that he likes the pets? Make sure they're okay while I'm gone? I'm planning and hoping to be here for years to come, but just in case, will you check on them for me? 

I'm going to Chicago by myself--with cancer as my only companion--for a couple of days. And I can't figure out if it is a test run or a metaphor or just a conference and all will be fine. Because cancer has changed me and changed how I think and how I relate and how I love. It has changed me. I am changed.

© 2006-2019 Karin Shirey Henn, all rights reserved. 
Copyright notice: All content, including writings, artwork, photographs, or videos, posted on this blog is original to Karin Shirey Henn and the HennHouse unless otherwise stated and may not be reproduced without permission.

Dance recital 2019

© 2006-2019 Karin Shirey Henn, all rights reserved. 
Copyright notice: All content, including writings, artwork, photographs, or videos, posted on this blog is original to Karin Shirey Henn and the HennHouse unless otherwise stated and may not be reproduced without permission.

Wigs and marking halfway

My wig fitting was originally scheduled for last Friday, but Tim called and moved the appointment up to Wednesday. I had physical therapy and an appointment with my surgeon (first surgery is scheduled, and no, I don't know how I feel about it), then I met with Amy, the best hairy godmother in the whole world.

I tried on long wigs and short wigs and purple wigs and black wigs and blonde wigs and red wigs. Eventually, I decided on a little-bit-longer-than shoulder length red wig. But there was this sassy short wig that I also loved. Insurance only pays for one.

As I was sitting in the chair in the private wig fitting area with nothing on my head, Tim stood up from where Amy sat him in the "quiet chair" (that's another story for another time that involves cosmetology and a story about a penis pump), he leaned over, and gently kissed my very bald head. We made eye contact in the mirror, and I knew in that moment that he loves me no matter what. He loves me as much, maybe more, as he did when he asked me to marry him. And when we said our vows. And when I typed his academy notes. And when we did hard things. And when he watched me become a mom--three times. When we celebrated 20 years of marriage. And when I was diagnosed with cancer. In that moment, I felt more love than any other time in my life.

We walked out with both wigs. I wore the sassy short one. Tim bought it for me because he said he loved how I can't stop smiling when I'm wearing it. And I can't stop smiling. I had no idea a wig could make such a big difference.

I haven't decided yet if I'm wearing a wig to chemo tomorrow or not. And it doesn't matter if I do or don't. Tim will be there, making the nurses laugh, paying really close attention to everything going on around us, taking notes when I'm making promises I'm not going to remember, and loving every moment he's with me. Even if it is at chemo.

Tomorrow will mark my third chemo infusion. At this time tomorrow, I will be exhausted, but I will be halfway through my first round of infusions. And three weeks later, I will be halfway through chemo. We'll probably get milkshakes halfway through the halfway chemo. We might make a nice dinner when we get home. Maybe I'll take both wigs and switch halfway through. Halfway feels like a milestone. But I know that I also have halfway to go. And that feels like a lot.

I'm so glad I'm marking all of the milestones with Tim by my side.

© 2006-2017 Karin Shirey Henn, all rights reserved. 
Copyright notice: All content, including writings, artwork, photographs, or videos, posted on this blog is original to Karin Shirey Henn and the HennHouse unless otherwise stated and may not be reproduced without permission.