As The Tumor Turns

Still Alive After All!

2009-04-25T02:44:00.003-04:00

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The End

2008-02-03T10:48:00.000-05:00

Goodbye, brainhell. Peace to you, my dear friend.

So Will This Be On The Final Exam?

2008-01-30T14:19:00.000-05:00

One of my New Year's resolutions for 2008 was to take more risks, to exercise more courage, to try to step outside my comfort zone at least once a day. And it has been my fortune, good or otherwise, that I rarely have to go seeking excuses to cross my ever-expanding comfort zone border: my life seems to regularly hand out prime opportunities, served right to my door on a sterling silver platter.

Today's little adventure was an MRI of my brain.

Being strapped into the dark noisy pounding tube for 45 minutes was strange and creepy and dreadfully claustrophobic, and yet not nearly as bad as I'd feared it would be. Probably, in large part, because over the past two years I've perfected my ability to put myself into a dissociative trance to a high art. And anyway, I'm not particularly anxious about the results of this MRI. I mean, I'm not suspecting brain tumors or degenerative lesions or anything more dramatic than just a little residual chemo brain damage, which may or may not show up on the scan.

What happened was, the last time I went in for my routine six-month oncology clinic visit, I complained about having memory and concentration problems and just generally being a spacey ditz. I figure the chemo brain phenomenon still hasn't fully resolved, so I asked the young resident if there was anything I could take for it, like maybe Ritalin or one of those drugs. He went back to ask the oncologist on duty, and the way she described it to me when she could finally stop laughing was he burst into her office with this incredibly hopeful look on his face and gasped, "A lady out there wants to know if there's a pill she can take to improve her memory. Is there such a thing???"

Now this brilliant oncologist is actually rather well known around these parts, though I'd never seen her before and had no idea she was even doing time at Our Lady of the Damned. So it was a huge honor when she sat down to casually chat with me. I liked her a lot.

After reviewing my chart and asking me some basic questions, she said, "You know, it's not really unusual for our memories to give us a little trouble, what with aging and menopause and all. What sorts of problems have you been having?"

"Well," I said. "Last week I locked my keys in my car."

"Ha!" she said. "That's nothing. Last week I locked my keys, my phone, and my emergency beeper in my trunk. And the whole 45 minutes while I was waiting for the Pop-A-Lock truck, I had to listen to the phone ringing and the emergency beeper frantically beeping, like all my patients were dying."

"Well," I said. "I missed my turnoff on the interstate. I was halfway to Shreveport before I even realized it."

"Ha!" she said. "That's nothing. One Tuesday I went to my Wednesday hospital by mistake, and I was on my third patient before I realized it."

"Ok," I said. "I accidentally sent a fuck-you email intended for my ex to my landlord in California instead."

"Whoa," she said. "Wow. Ok. I'm ordering you an MRI of the brain, stat."

Anyway, it'll probably be a week before I can get these results since everything kind of shuts down for Mardi Gras around here. But meanwhile, to tide us over, this morning after the MRI I went to the medical records department and obtained the results for last Friday's CT scans. And here's what they have to say:

Impression: Negative CT of soft tissues of neck, unchanged since August 27, 2007. Negative CT abdomen & pelvis, unchanged from August 27, 2007. Negative CT thorax, unchanged from prior exam.

100% negative, still clean as a whistle, not a trace of trouble anywhere! I've been free of disease for one year since my last chemo now, and though the odds are still uncomfortably high that the lymphoma could return, passing the one year mark means they are considerably less uncomfortably high. Prognostically speaking, this is a statistical milestone. Or vice versa. Anyway, the best possible news.

And now with a tip o' the wig to my wise spiritual mentor the Ever Ob. Rev. B. Dagger Lee, would you all please join me in singing along to the Great Goddess of Soul:

I Love BrainHell

2008-01-29T08:23:00.000-05:00

BH at Rest

Breaking News: Cancer Blogger Lives!

2008-01-09T16:39:00.000-05:00

Hello? Anybody still out there? I am well and fine, thanks for asking. Just not much in the mood for cancer blogging lately.

Cancer. Feh. You know, frankly, most days now I tend to forget all about it. Don't even think about it much. I feel a little guilty for not reading the cancer support boards any more, or keeping up with other cancer blogs. But my energies just seem to have drifted off elsewhere these days. I'm taking up new interests, and I mostly hang around with people now who didn't even know me when I had cancer, people who don't always think of me as Tragic Cancer Cootie Person. I'm carving a pretty good new life for myself.

But a couple of weeks ago a funny thing happened.

I had heard that an old friend named Frances, whom I hadn't seen in several years, had recently been diagnosed with lymphoma, and that she was undergoing chemo at, of all places, Our Lady Of The Damned. So on one of her chemo days I put together a little gift bag full of goodies and trinkets and headed over to pay her a supportive visit.

I set out in high spirits, full of good cheer. Going back up to the fifth floor chemo ward was kind of an exciting thing for me: I felt like a ragingly famous alumna returning to my old high school stomping grounds, proudly displaying a shiny cluster of Nobel medals pinned to my lapel. Except in my case the bling of success was a rack of ripply new muscles, a head full of unruly hair, and the unmistakable rosy glow of good health.

But my high spirits encountered a chilling little setback on the way up when I ran into my old buddy Scott, the only surviving member of the lung cancer gang I used to hang out with back in my own chemo days. I'd seen him once last summer at a big cancer fund raiser and he was doing well, recovering from the brutal treatment, growing a beard, hoping for a few more years with no active disease. But now the grim news was Scott's cancer is already back, and has metastasized to his bones. He told me he's trying one last round of chemo, but he's in severe pain, heavily addicted to morphine, weak, depressed, living alone with no family, not much money, no car. Suffering and struggling, but not ready to give up his last shreds of hope and independence for hospice.

Suddenly my spine felt like it was made out of ice cubes. I briefly toyed with the option of thrusting Frances's gift bag into Scott's hands and running off down the hall screaming, possibly even hurling myself through the next plate glass window. But thanks to many decades of cultivating an acceptably civilized superego, I managed instead to temporarily repress this initial impulse, politely wished him well, and continued on with my original mission. With a slightly heavier step I trudged on up to the fifth floor.

My first impression when I walked through the familiar double swinging doors was: Wow, they must have repainted the place with some amazingly brilliant white paint! I don't recall the walls being this bright. Or maybe they doubled up on the fluorescent light tubes. Everything was so white, so light, so bright! Almost blindingly bright. I blinked against the intense whiteness. In my memory, the chemo floor had seemed more like a dark tunnel.

I peered through the shimmering brightness until I spotted Mike, my old chemo nurse. He too was glowing with the eerie new brightness. He saw me, and slowly he smiled, a blindingly white smile. Slowly he stood up, slowly he moved towards me. His mouth was slowly saying something, and my mouth was slowly saying something back, and everything was perfectly normal. Except I guess the blinding light and the weird slow motion effect were making me a just little dizzy and disoriented.

In slow motion I said I had come to see Frances, and Mike's glowing finger slowly pointed to her room. Ah. I knew that room. It was the exact same room I had been in for my last chemo session, exactly one year ago. "Go on in," said Mike, his voice reverberating like an echo chamber. "She'll be glad (glad...glad..glad...) to see you. Her daughters are in there with her."

I squinted at the closed door. It too was glowing with the fiercely bright white light, like some kind of blindingly glowing radioactive shield. Even so, I could almost see straight through it to what was inside the familiar chemo room. I could almost see Frances lying on the same bed I'd lain on, brilliant sunlight pouring in onto the blindingly white starched sheets. I could picture her three beautiful smiling daughters hovering around her like angels, surrounding her with light and warmth and love. I could also see the one lone chair, pulled way back in the dark corner: the chair where he always sat, the Painter, the Designated Driver. With such vivid clarity I could see him sitting there still, reading his book: stern, aloof, annoyed, preoccupied, coldly indifferent to anybody else's feelings. And as I stared at the door and saw what I saw, the muscles in my throat clamped shut like a steel trap that would never ever again let oxygen pass into my lungs. I thought I was going to die on the spot.

Frances, if you're reading this: I am so very sorry. And embarrassed! I swear, that was the very first time in my life I've experienced a full-blown panic attack. It was all there, the racing heart, the sweating palms, the spinning room; feeling faint, unable to breathe, a sense of utter dread and impending doom. I think I mumbled something about being late, threw the bag at poor bewildered Mike, and fled the hospital like I was being pursued by a rabid pack of ferocious fire-breathing land sharks. I sat in my car shaking and hyperventilating for fifteen full minutes before I could drive.

A few days later I mentioned the incident in passing to my therapist, with a mildly bemused and detached clinical interest. Wasn't this peculiar? I said. An actual textbook panic attack, straight out of the blue. How odd! Then I shrugged it off and moved on to something more important, more real.

But no. "Uh-uh, wait a minute," she interrupted. "Hold on. Go back: this panic attack, tell me, what does it mean? What exactly was it telling you?"

It took me a while, but I finally said it. It meant that my whole situation was pretty damn dire, something I've been kind of denying lately with all my happy-happy healing and forgetting and moving on. This panic attack was telling me that I went through something extremely huge and horrible and intensely devastating, and it's just not that easy to just move on and forget about it, to leave it all behind me like it never happened.

The illness, the pain, the terror of almost dying; the being without health insurance, the scary degrading hospital experiences, the dangerously uneven medical care; the loss of my beloved home and all my life savings and any hope of financial security; the slug in the gut of finding out that the person I loved and trusted was incapable of empathy or emotional support and not in love with me after all; the ongoing knowledge that my cancer, like Scott's, can always come back, any day, any minute, and turn my life into a living hell. This whole unthinkable nightmare hitting me all at once seems to have shattered something in my soul, and done some permanent psychic damage.

And now, even though the worst appears to be over and I'm coping extremely well, adjusting, healing, rebuilding, still, at a very deep cellular level, permanently etched in my very neurons, I remain deeply traumatized. And this buried cellular trauma can be triggered and might rise up to haunt me and debilitate me at any time. Fun, eh?

So in one sense there's healing and moving on, but another sense there's no such thing. No matter how strong or brave I try to be, reality will never be the same.

Anyway. As for blogging, I have to wait and see. I'm schedule for my routine six month CT scans on January 25th. Plus I may have to have an MRI of my brain because I've been having having some memory and cognitive problems that are probably just a combination of lingering chemo brain fog, chemo induced menopause, and/or post-trauma nerve damage effects. But worse possibilities have to be ruled out, though I'm definitely not looking forward to 45 minutes trapped in the Pounding Tube of Claustrophobia.

Anyway, various tests loom on the horizon. And if those are clear I think it's maybe time for me to officially sign off as a cancer blogger and wrap this baby up. If I decide to start another blog it'll probably just be a trivial chatty little what-I-ate-for-lunch dealie, amusing for me and my dogs and a few close friends but not so much to anybody else. Though I will post a pointer here if I do. Meanwhile, I'll keep updating Flickr from time to time to let folks know I'm still alive. Click on those pics in the right sidebar to follow the aimlessly meandering plot of my ever-improving days.

See ya'll around the blogosphere!

Adventure At Home

2007-11-09T22:35:00.000-05:00

Excuse me while I briefly interrupt your regularly scheduled Mexico vacation diary to bring you these snapshots of tonight's five mile canoe trip around the perimeter of Lake Martin in the dark. There's a new moon tonight so it was very dark, except for the stars and our head lamps and the light pollution from several nearby towns. And very quiet, except for the tree frogs, crickets, katydids, bullfrogs, night herons, and owls. Lots of alligators out, more than I've ever seen during the day. Their eyes light up freaky red when a head lamp hits them, but I wasn't able to get a photo.

I'm trying to incorporate more adventure into my post-vacation life, especially outdoorsy stuff like canoeing, hiking, and horseback riding. My camera's not very good at night photography, but you get a vague idea of the scene: silent canoes gliding across dark glassy water, passing ghostly cypress trees draped with Spanish moss. It was astonishingly beautiful. (That's Noble, a grad student from Budapest, riding my stern.)

Thank you. Mexico will resume tomorrow.

Vacation Diary, Day 4

2007-11-09T13:27:00.000-05:00

Monday, October 29, 2007

Yet another perfectly gorgeous day! I rose with the sun and girded my loins for adventure with an artistic tropical fruit platter prepared by my beloved Jesus from a colorful array of locally grown papayas, star fruits, and melons. He also brought me a pot of steaming hot te negro con leche, a freshly squeezed pineapple-mango cocktail, and some of his fresh baked banana macadamia nut bread made from, you guessed it, the local Uruapan harvest du jour. Is it too soon to ask him to marry me?

Eduardo Ruiz National Park is less than ten meters from the hotel's door, so that's where I headed next.

This insanely lush, brilliant emerald green, tropical rain forest feels more like Costa Rica, or Brazil, or my wildest mystical jungle fantasies, than Mexico. And it is a horticulturist's wet dream. Majestic white Angel Trumpets of wild Brugmansia drape over shady trails that meander through galloping herds of giant banana trees alongside the rushing Cupatizio River. Sixty foot tall houseplants on steroids tower over it all, while wild red Poinsettias grow to be the size of houses. Wild orchids hang in purple clusters from the trees; wild bedding Impatiens billow in clouds of rampant color along the river banks. I mean, seriously, isn't that an unsettling oxymoron, "wild bedding Impatiens"? Sort of like "fierce packs of feral poodles roam the tundra."

But enough with all the jungle prose; I'll just tell you this magical place was beautiful beyond words and let some photos do the talking:

The afternoon's exciting adventure provided a striking contrast to the morning's dazzling tropical treasure chest. It entailed riding horseback from the Purepecha village of Angahuan, along a steep rugged trail in dry scrubby mountain terrain, to visit a former village that had been buried in lava from the 1943 eruption of Paracutin volcano. Black lava rock covered all but a few protruding remains of an old church.

(Note to self: MUST improve Spanish pronunciation. It's a truly sorry state of affairs when I try to say, "Help me! I am terrified of this crazy horse!" and it somehow comes out sounding like, "Hello, I am a world famous rodeo hotshot, please bring on the life threatening dangers.") Let me tell you, riding down the side of a steep rocky perpendicular cliff on Sr Caballo Loco was at times el trauma grande.

But in the end it was much more fun than scary, and the magnificent scenery was worth every moment of terror.

Vacation Diary, Day 3

2007-11-07T22:48:00.000-05:00

Sunday, October 28, 2007

Another perfect day for traipsing around Morelia! Or for doing pretty much anything, for that matter. But traipsing happened to be my activity of choice, so after breakfast I traipsed on over to the Alfredo Zalce Museum of Contemporary Art. The museum is housed in an amazing 19th century French-influenced mansion located in the Bosque Cuauhtemoc, or Cuauhtemoc Forest (actually a big lovely mid-city park with lots of trees).

The museum

There is a permanent collection of Zalce's work here, but lots of other delectable delights for the eye were on display as well. It's a fabulous museum with thirteen exhibition rooms. I could have easily spent 15 or 20 years inhaling the colors.

A Zalce

Zalce himself

Another room in the museum, with non-Zalces

Another non-Zalce. (Why the hell didn't I write down the names of the other painters? As if the entire art world is divided into two categories: Zalce and non-Zalce. Yeesh, I'm so embarrassed; my apologies.)

After a couple of heavenly hours at the museum (it would have been a lot longer if the gift ship hadn't been closed on Sunday), I traipsed over to a delightful cafe for a latte and cookie break (where I valiantly refrained from taking advantage of internet access). After that I traipsed over to the Jardin de las Rosas, a lively little urban plaza where bands were playing, children were gamboling, and local artists were displaying their work.

I was just traipsing along merrily minding my own business when I suddenly fell madly, insanely, head over heels in love with a half-finished painting that was still on its easel. The woman who was working on it turned out to be the well-known (though not by me at the time, because when it comes to art I was raised in a cave by wolves) Michoacan painter, Evangelina Abonce.

Of course she wouldn't sell me the unfinished piece. But maybe she was flattered that I was so taken by her work out of all the hundreds of paintings in the park that day, especially since I obviously had no clue who she was. She showed me two smaller Día de las Muertos themed pastels she had just finished. But these two also weren't for sale, she said, because she was planning to enter them in a juried show the next week. Alas, by the time they were ready to go on the market, I would have taken my pesos and traipsed all the way back to Deep Inferno. Here was this magnificent but cruel artist, tormenting me in the park with no works for sale!

Well, I tried to be a good sport and forget about the pastels, but my heart simply refused to move on. It was breaking. I loved them so much! I couldn't imagine living the rest of my life without them. Señora Abonce finally took pity on my forlorn looks, or maybe she just wanted me to quit moping around stalking her booth so she could get back to work. Anyway, she sold them both to me for $1200 pesos. My Spanish was totally inadequate to express to her how happy and how honored I was, but when they come back from the framers I'll email her a photo of them hanging in my shack along with my best attempt at immoderate gratitude.

Aren't they magnificent?

Sunday afternoon: I bid a sad farewell to beautiful Morelia and headed for Uruapan. But one look at the hotel in Uruapan and I forgot all about Morelia. I never wanted to live any place else for the rest of my life! The hotel is the Garden of Eden! A veritable tropical paradise, a hotbed of luxury. Lush colorful flora abounds: bougainvillea, roses, birds of paradise, Royal Poinciana trees, enormous banana plants, huge tropical ferns. Somebody pinch me: this has got got to be heaven. Spent the afternoon lounging on my balcony reading Paul Auster.

The view from my hotel room

The view from my balcony

And then, just when I thought life couldn't possibly get any better, dinner was served in the hotel restaurant. Simply unbelievable. I had an exquisite freshly caught local trout with a macadamia nut sauce made from regionally famous macadamia nuts and a very nice Chilean wine, delivered by Jesus, the world's most handsome and attentive maître d'. This culinary zenith was followed by an excessively decadent dessert comprising absolutely perfect crêpes glazed with a burnt goat-milk macadamia chocolate sauce, and topped with vanilla ice cream.

Please: shoot me now. If I get any happier I may explode and take out half of Mexico.

Vacation Diary, Day 2

2007-11-05T21:45:00.000-05:00

Saturday, October 27, 2007

Woke up obscenely early, eager to explore the delights of historic downtown Morelia, which houses more than 1000 colonial buildings and churches. The day dawned to perfect weather for drooling on notable Spanish architecture and important social realist murals.

I set out walking, but not three meters from the hotel door I was riveted in place by my first Amazing Sight of the Day to write home about: the manhole covers of Morelia are elaborately adorned with the images of three kings! There is nothing like this in Deep Inferno. I would have brought some home with me but I was afraid it might be tough to sneak them through customs, and anyway I was already in their bad graces for the ink pen fiasco.

I milled around the sidewalk admiring this exquisite manhole cover for close to five minutes, blocking foot traffic and attracting dubious stares. I'm beginning to suspect that maybe I don't get out often enough.

Oh, and you know what else is really cool about Morelia? And all of Mexico, I guess: zillions of old style Volkswagen bugs! And buses. By the time I finally made it to the corner, I had counted 37 bugs and 12 buses, and it only took me seven minutes to walk half a block. And then there was the whole hair gel thing, where I got totally sidetracked trying to catalog the creative array of dramatic hair sculpting styles favored by the young males of Morelia. And shoes, of course: I am always intrigued by foreign shoes. And did I mention the graffiti? You can tell an awful lot about a city and its people by the graffiti.

Splendid example of culture jamming outside a classroom at an elite secondary school in Morelia.

According to the notes in my travel journal, those were my main impressions of the day. But now that you mention it, I did see some spectacular architecture:

And classical musicians serenading diners at sidewalk cafes:

And vivid, often disturbing revolutionary murals:

And we can't forget the ubiquitous balloon vendors:

I spent the entire afternoon wondering what the hell they do with the leftover balloons that don't sell by the end of the day. Is there a giant warehouse somewhere on the outskirts of the city that threatens to levitate off its foundation on particularly unsuccessful days? Must do more research.

Saturday night: W00t! More margaritas! Accompanied by fancy dinner on top of a swank hotel that overlooks the baroque Morelia Cathedral which was built between 1660 and 1744. Every Saturday night the entire city gathers in the streets below for the illumination of the cathedral, which is accompanied by fireworks, orchestras, and choirs. It was an impressive sight, and I deeply regret that I forgot to bring my camera. But clearly this is a very cultured city. According to prominent signs on numerous street corners, they are currently recruiting more choir members who sing alto.

Thanks to all the walking (plus the margaritas), I have been sleeping very well in my Zalce bed.

More sights of the city:

Young musicians compete in a battle of the bands in a plaza in Morelia

Classical musicians play and painters exhibit their art in the Jardins de las Rosas.

The aqueduct in Morelia was built between 1785 and 1789. It measures 1600 m (5251 ft) in length and is borne on 253 arches.

There were so many breathtaking murals by Alfredo Zalce and other painters, I could have happily spent an entire decade studying them.

Vacation Diary, Day 1

2007-11-05T07:47:00.000-05:00

Friday, October 26, 2007

Flight into Morelia uneventful. Except my ink pen exploded all over my Customs & Immigration paperwork, right where it warns with such firm and official authority, "DO NOT MARK HERE." Brief panic!! as I envisioned my life of hard labor in a Mexican prison camp alongside scary felons who tore off their mattress tags. But the worldly flight attendant just sighed and handed me several more blank sheets, until on the fifth try I finally got it right. Whew. I am now a member of the Jet Set.

Arrived in town around 8pm and by sheer luck of the draw I ended up in the coveted Alfredo Zalce suite at the hotel. Each room is assigned an artist: the Van Gogh room, the Gauguin room, the Miró room, etc. Alfredo Zalce is the famous-son painter from Michoacan with whom I have recently fallen deeply in love, so imagine my delight upon discovering that a reproduction of his work is decoupaged onto the headboard of my hotel room! Also on the walls and other furniture as well.

Headboard in hotel room

Since Morelia is in the same time zone as Deep Inferno (small world, eh?), I didn't have any jet lag so I tossed my luggage in the room and wandered outside to explore the city. Morelia was teeming with night life. It seems very cosmopolitan, and obviously a university town: people of all ages wear black and sit in open air cafes, shouting passionately about art, music, and above all politics. I quaffed a margarita at a sidewalk cafe and enjoyed myself immensely.

(Note to self: please try to remember, especially after several margaritas, that the 'C' in the shower stands for caliente, not cold.)

A few days later I ogled this Zalce engraving in the Alfredo Zalce Museum of Contemporary Art in Morelia.

Back Home

2007-11-04T14:51:00.000-05:00

Hola, amigos! I'm back home safely from my trip to Mexico, with a soul full of vibrant colors and a heart full of happy memories. It was the best journey ever: I had many amazing adventures, learned about different cultures and customs, picked up a lot of Spanish, bonded with some very dear friends, ate way too much delicious food, and discovered that a margarita a day does indeed keep la turista away. Everything was brilliant, and I think I can truly say these may have been the very happiest ten days of my life.

I'll spend the next few days uploading and organizing photos and eventually telling some stories about my exciting travels, but meanwhile here are a few tantalizing snapshots to hold you over.

And hey, it's great to be back!

Off Dancing With The Dead Folks

2007-10-25T23:39:00.000-04:00

Adiós, amigos míos! Me voy a México a la danza con La Muerte. Comportarse hasta que regreso. Si veo un cybercafé en las montañas remotas, voy a decir hola. Voy a volver a mi pequeña choza con muchas historias y fotos. Hasta ese día, danza con la vida!

Hasta la vista, baby!

While Greasy Lymphopo Doth Keel the Pot

2007-10-23T20:14:00.000-04:00

Gumbo weather has finally arrived in south Louisiana! This means the night temperatures are starting to drop below 50 degrees, and daytime highs are not going much above 70, for a few days this week anyway, and genuine winter is not far behind. It also means means you can't get within a hundred feet of a damn grocery store around here because tout le monde is out jamming the aisles, stocking up on gumbo essentials like andouille, okra, and roux. I, of course, am NOT making a gumbo because as you'll recall one of the dubious perks of my charming little shack is that it has no stove. And what the hell kind of a gumbo could you make in a microwave?

Anyway, while you're pondering my shocking deprivation of modern appliances, you may also recall that there is no heat here at Chez Le Chaque. No wall furnace, no floor furnace, no radiant heat, no oven, no fireplace, nada. No heat. And yea verily, winter is nigh upon us, so me I am getting my glacier-white ass ready for the inevitable doom. Just as I've managed to beat the odds and survive lo these many moons without a stove or laundry facilities, I'm also determined to survive this long frigid winter without a furnace. Just watch me.

In fact, the whole hideous challenge has become something of a fascinating new hobby for me. For one thing, I have developed a consuming obsession with snow camping. I spend my free hours perusing web sites and blogs about arctic expeditions. I am particularly intrigued by the haute couture of the subzero outdoor set, at least those idiots who survived their elective polar ordeals.

Polar bear with bad aim girds his loins for winter.

The number one secret to comfortable survival, I have learned, is the high-tech super-light insulating base layer. So I have suddenly become the world's leading expert on such miracle textiles as ThermaSilk, Arctex, SmartWool, LIFA, Capilene, ChillTech, Synchilla, and Polar-Therm. I know all about interlocking polypropylenes, moisture-wicking fabrics, compressibility, high-pile insulation, and welded-seam technology. I am learning how to stay warm without looking like the Michelin Man.

Slender model basks in the warmth of a flattering orange base layer.

Now my next project, when I come home from Mexico, will be weather-stripping, caulking, and patching the all the charming rustic cracks in the shack, in an effort to keep the cold air outside where it belongs. I've already devised a nifty, cheap method of insulating the small kitchen windows with bubble wrap. But this will make the tiny rooms darker than they already are, so I'll be looking into light boxes and dawn simulators. I'll also be researching the most efficient and safe brands of electric space heaters.

This super-efficient little Vornado space heater turns one tiny corner of Le Chaque Miniscule into a tropical cabana.

Wish us luck! And if you yourself have ever survived a cold dark damp glacial winter in a shack without heat, I'd appreciate any survival advice you'd like to pass on.

BBC: Optimism 'no bearing on cancer'

2007-10-23T01:04:00.000-04:00

The three most consistently popular search strings that bring random visitors to this blog are, in ascending order: healthy muffin recipe, pictures of dogs with tumors, and (drum roll! are you ready for this?) naked boyfriend on the bed. Heh heh heh. These unfortunately misleading phrases manage to deliver dozens of no doubt sorely disappointed visitors to my humble blog every day.

But my very favorite misguided search, which only shows up maybe once or twice a month and just happened to appear again today, is: tumor turns out to be spiders. I mean, whoa! How cool is it, that my blog turns out to be number one on Google for this particular unlikely search?

But yeah! Welcome to the zany spider tumor people!

Now what I can't quite figure out is this: are these people being optimistic? Or not.

In Which Our Heroine Blows Her Nose On the Rich

2007-10-18T17:43:00.000-04:00

Hoo boy, I really lost it today. Total meltdown. But not the weeping wailing sobbing kind of meltdown. No, this time it was the trying so hard not to laugh out loud in a totally inappropriate situation that my septum nearly exploded kind of meltdown. I stifled my inappropriate laughter so hard, I actually gave myself a nose bleed.

Here's what happened: I went for a routine yearly mammogram this morning. They had scheduled me for one at Our Lady of the Damned next week, but since I'll be leaving on my trip to Mexico and they couldn't possibly reschedule it for another 843 years, I decided to hell with that, I'll just pay the damn $50 cash and go to a private hospital instead. So I went over to the new imaging facility associated with Deep Inferno General Hospital. It's nearby and that's the hospital that has my previous mammography records on file anyway.

I had been to this new facility before, just over a year ago. I think they'd been open maybe about a week when I went in for my first chest x-ray last summer. I had more x-rays and my first CT scan there too, before it became painfully obvious that my situation was going to be an unaffordable nightmare and I was quickly shunted over to the public charity system.

So I'd been to this place before, and I vaguely remembered it as just another shiny new medical building, nice enough but bland and boring and really no big deal. But that was before I'd spent half my life struggling to stay sane and alive in the dingy grim airless noisy smelly teeming infectious waiting rooms at Our Lady of the Damned. It might be the understatement of the millennium to say that my perspective has changed since then. Today I saw the private facility through entirely new eyes. And the culture shock was just about too much for my poor septum.

First of all, instead of circling around for 45 frantic minutes and finally parking illegally in some muddy field 2 miles away, you just pull right up and park directly in front of the architecturally attractive building. Yes, park anywhere! There are dozens of nice shady spaces from which to choose. The sidewalk out front, instead of being littered with huddled mobs of hacking, dying patients wearing flimsy hospital gowns and hooked up to IV poles, desperately sucking on their last cigarettes, is lined with tidy colorful flower beds. There are songbirds singing in the shade trees! Songbirds!

When you can finally tear yourself away from this little mini-Eden in the parking lot you walk in the front door and suddenly you're standing in a fucking solarium. A solarium! With skylights! and palm trees! and a giant aquarium filled with flashy exotic fish! Instead of Bob Barker screaming from an overhead tv, classical music is playing over the speakers. There are no surly armed law enforcement officers guarding the front desk. No humiliating public triage, no interminable lines where you take a number and wait an hour just so you can get your stupid labels and take them to another line to wait two hours just to hand them to the person who may or may not be sitting at the window. No, here you just walk in the door, glance around at the fucking solarium, and immediately a pleasantly smiling person greets you with, "Good morning! How may I help you today?"

You don't need a card or a number, you just tell this pleasantly smiling person your name, and she beams at you like you're her long lost best friend. She enthusiastically shows you to the waiting area, and Oh. My. Dog. The waiting area! It's so damn immaculate, they could perform brain surgery in there, and you could eat off the floor while they did it. Not a drop of blood or snot or vomit anywhere. It's absolutely beautiful: sunny and airy and spotless and did I mention clean? It has clean comfortable chairs, 99% of which are actually empty. It has large clean windows that look out over a landscape of gracious old oak trees. It has art on the walls, little pots of fresh live mums on every table, and brand new up-to-date magazines. Not to mention that giant aquarium with the flashy exotic fish. Plus, it's clean.

I'm not exactly sure why it has all these upscale amenities though, because there wasn't a long enough wait to enjoy them. About 30 seconds after my butt hit the clean comfortable cushion, before I could even pick up the latest clean issue of Atlantic Monthly, it was my turn to go in. I swear, they move you through there so fast you practically get the bends. But listen to this: they didn't screech my (badly mispronounced) name over a loud staticky PA system that you could hear (but never quite understand) five parishes away. Instead, a happy smiling woman came to the door and gently spoke my first name, kindly beckoning me to follow her to the back.

Has anybody else died of shock yet?

No, but wait: hold on, it gets better. The solarium/waiting area business was nothing compared to the mammogram wing of the building. Dear Dog in heaven, it was a fucking spa in there!

The kind happy smiling woman led me to a posh private dressing room, and instead of handing me the traditional flappy flimsy mortifying open institutional gown thing, she gave me a soft thick plush clean white terrycloth bathrobe. I mean a real genuine 100% cotton bathrobe, with the Deep Inferno General logo monogrammed on the front. It was very stylish and flattering, and it had a tie that actually worked.

Once I was tastefully and modestly robed, she led me to a large private waiting room, this one even more luxurious than the last one. There was a skylight in here too, and interesting original art on the walls. Little desk fountains with waterfalls bubbled peacefully around the room. There were rare elegant real orchids on each of the tables, and soothing orchestral music played in the background. I sank into a large plush sofa that was so soft and deep you could barely see the top of my head. The kind woman offered me a fancy bottle of cold spring water, and apologized profusely because I might have to wait two whole minutes before I was called.

And that's when I lost it. I mean, totally lost it. I started laughing so hard my shoulders were shaking and I had hot bloody tears streaming out of my nose. The poor kind concerned woman thought I must be nervous about getting a mammogram, so she sat down beside me and patiently patted my arm, assuring me that it would all be very quick and painless. This made me laugh even harder so of course she thought I was crying, and rushed to fetch me another complimentary bottle of expensive imported spring water and a box of tissues. But it was no good, by now I couldn't stop. I simply could not stop. I was out of control. It was too much for me.

Is there a word for this, a clinical term, for a semi-hysterical reaction to the culture shock of being swung like Tarzan on a vine across the nation's great yawning medical gap, flying through the air and landing with a thud on its radically, irreconcilably opposite shore?

Is it possible to go back and forth between these two sides of the gap, brutally aware of its size, without going insane?

Monkeybutt Update

2007-10-16T23:01:00.000-04:00

Everyone: Would you all please tell my beautiful daughter-in-law how gorgeous she looks? If she could bottle that exquisite glow and sell it, they'd be gazillionaires.

The proud parents tell me Monkeybutt is kicking up a storm now. Not quite to the point where the gorgeous mom waddles around all day feeling like a clothes dryer full of wet sneakers (hoo boy, do I remember that stage!), but enough that the bedazzled dad can definitely detect the action.

And me? I walk around all day having imaginary conversations with the little guy. "What would you rather be, a wizard or a pirate?" I ask him. And he inevitably says a pirate. Then I say, "Well ok, but what would you rather be, a pirate or an astronaut?" And this time he's not sure. He hems and haws until I suggest maybe he can be all three at the same time. He eyes me skeptically, but soon we're busy designing the proper multitasking headgear for a wizard-pirate-astronaut to wear to work. And after that we might run down a hill with our arms out straight, being really fast loud airplanes, until we fall down in the grass and eat cupcakes.

So how many minutes until February? Are we there yet??

Out Of the Tree of Life I Picked Me a Plum

2007-10-15T19:27:00.000-04:00

I apologize for not posting the Friday muscle updates lately, and I especially apologize to any of you who may have been holding your breath in anticipation for the past three weeks and are currently holed up in the ICU as a result. Oops, sorry about that. But the thing is, I just haven't been changing much musclewise, mostly because I've been slowed down by bad back pain from the scoliosis.

I'm having to concentrate on totally unglamorous boring back rehab stuff these days, stupid sissy things like planks, side planks, planks, planks, and more side planks. (Planks are actually not sissy at all: a two minute plank totally kicks my butt into the gutter and leaves me weeping and begging for mercy.) The only hypertrophy lifts I'm doing are flat bench press, inverted bodyweight rows, bodyweight dips, and assisted pullups, varying the grips and number of arms used. What these all have in common is: they don't put any load on the spine or compress the discs. But I'm going to the gym four or five days a week, and loving every minute of it. Especially since my old bodybuilder buddy Darwin is now the manager.

I'm also running 3 miles a day, trying to get my pathetic unacclimated sea-levelized lungs in shape for the high altitudes I'll experience during my trek to Mexico. I'll be exploring volcanos and villages upwards of 8,000 feet which is, like, oh shit when you consider that the highest point in Louisiana is probably the fire ant mound in my back yard.

But even though there's not much visible change in my muscles day to day or even week to week now, I am continuing to whup my ass back into shape slowly but surely. And what I think you can see now is a steady visible increase in robust good health and glowing joie de vivre. I look in the mirror now and I just see Life gushing out of every pore. Behold:

Exhibit A: This picture was taken exactly one year ago, about a week after my first chemotherapy treatment. I was sick as hell.

Exhibit B: Another photo from that same week. My hair had just started to fall out, and I was down to a scary 92 pounds.

And Exhibit C: This is me five minutes ago, a healthy robust 112 pounds, just home from the gym, still high on endorphins after an exhilarating workout and run.

Isn't that amazing? It's good to remind myself (and other cancer patients who may stumble on this blog) of this miraculous transformation from time to time. And you know what I think? I think it's going to keep getting better. I'm really starting to believe that in spite of everything, maybe the best is yet to come.

I Read the News Today Oh Boy

2007-10-14T08:56:00.000-04:00

One of the joys of living in a small town is that every time you sneeze it makes headlines in the little local rag. And in the past few weeks, I swear you can't pick up the morning paper without seeing Mr. Bigshot celebrity Superman looming in your face. I'm afraid he's going to replace me with an agent any minute now. These are all photos that appeared recently in the Deep Inferno newspaper, affectionately known around here as The Daily [Sic]:

At the farmers market two weeks ago.

Farmers market three weeks ago.

At a zydeco dance Friday night. You can just barely see us hanging out schmoozing in the background here, but in the print photo our white hair leaps out at you like Johnny and Edgar Winter.

Yesterday there was a zydeco band playing in the park near our house for the anti-drug propaganda Red Ribbon Week Kickoff event, so we walked over to check it out. Superstar is a major kid magnet everywhere we go.

Of course all the girls wanted to pose with him.

At one point there were about 20 kids crowded around him, patting him, hugging him, laughing at his sunglasses, tugging his ears and shaking his paws. He was heroically sweet and tolerant, as gentle and patient as a Saint Bernard. I almost can't believe this is the same snarly aggressive fearful dog I adopted four months ago. I had him run through his repertoire of tricks for the kids: waving his paw, spinning in circles, taking a bow, etc., and the crowd just went wild. Some of the braver kids took his leash and walked him around using the "heel" command. And even the shyest kids opened up to tell me stories about their own dogs at home.

I love seeing how much joy this wonderful dog brings to people. I'm wondering if there's a therapy dog program around here where he can become certified. I'd love to be able to take him to schools and nursing homes and stuff. I think I'll look into it. Something like this, maybe.

Oh, and guess who else showed up at the anti-drug propaganda festival yesterday: Supe's old girlfriend Stella, the killer K-9 unit police dog. They had her doing demonstrations where cops dressed up in huge padded suits and she attacked them and ripped their throats out. Poor Superman peed his feet at the mere sight of her. That girl really puts the fear of god into him. If he had a stash hidden under the cushion of his loveseat, I guarantee you he flushed it the minute we got home.

K-9 killer dog at work detecting drugs in the park.

More Dogs In My Life

2007-10-11T14:23:00.000-04:00

I really love being around dogs, and dog people.

This is our clicker training class last night. We're using clickers to learn tricks which so far include: shake hands, high five, wave, spin in a circle, walk around a chair, give a bow, and crawl like a snake.

Not all the dogs in the class are big galoompfs.

Here's a Great Dane puppy walking in a circle around a chair on command. Superman can do this too!

But he'd rather sit and stare at the damn birds.

Here's another Great Dane puppy working on "high five," with a huge Newfie pup looking on.

Here's a standard poodle shaking hands. Superman can do all these tricks.

But here he is again, still fixating on the damn birds.

Finally it's time for Superman's big trick of the night, his masterpiece, his grand finale. Which was: "Ignore the damn birds!" When I give him that command, he turns around and sits with his back to the bird cage. Good boy, excellent boy!

Everybody cracked up. I love this class.

A Book A Day Keeps The Blues Away

2007-10-08T16:57:00.000-04:00

My mother used to warn me that always burying my nose in a book was not only going to ruin my eyes and force me to wear thick unattractive coke-bottle lenses, it was also going to turn me into a deranged antisocial unattractive misfit. She was right on both counts, but I didn't care. I'm so myopic by now that my poor wigged-out retinas are plastered flat up against the back of my skull, and to this day I'd rather stay home and read incendiary subversive literature than just about any other option that ever seems to appear on the menu. Of course that may change once I figure out how to incorporate more monkeys into my life, but we'll get to that challenge on the list later. Today I want to talk about books.

I've been a voracious, escapist, compulsive binge reader since I was four years old. I love words and I love ideas, and when they elegantly converge to form an original view of Astonishing Truth, I'm in heaven. Given a choice between oxygen and reading about a radical new way to make sense of the world, I would probably asphyxiate myself.

I may have let the pressures of the world lure me away from building elaborate sand castles and belting out bawdy drinking songs at the top of my lungs, but I never ever gave up reading. No matter what was happening, I've always made time and space in my life to read. So there's really not too much that needs to be said or done about this item on the happy-making list: it's already there. But just for the hell of it, in case you may be hankering for some good reads in your life, here's a list of the most excellent books that I've read in the past 30 days. I heartily recommend every single one of these, they've all brought me obscene amounts of pleasure and satisfaction.

The End of Manhood: A Book For Men of Conscience by John Stoltenberg

Review excerpt from Harvard Educational Review:
Stoltenberg presents a radical critique of the very concept "manhood," arguing that it serves no socially desirable function — only hurtful functions that can and should be eliminated from men's personal identities and social interactions. He presents a provocative alternative to most thinking about men and the problematic aspects of our behavior and identity. He bases his critiques on the claim that "manhood," in all of its various masculine incarnations, is at odds with, and in fact mutually exclusive of, an authentic sense of "selfhood" — a selfhood necessary for relating to others in just, moral, and non-violating ways...[A]uthor and lecturer John Stoltenberg addresses this question and a host of others with a bold passion, sense of humor, gift for story telling, and a deep commitment to what he calls "loving justice."
The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism by Naomi Klein

Review excerpt from Publishers Weekly:
The neo-liberal economic policies—privatization, free trade, slashed social spending—that the Chicago School and the economist Milton Friedman have foisted on the world are catastrophic in two senses, argues this vigorous polemic. Because their results are disastrous—depressions, mass poverty, private corporations looting public wealth, by the author's accounting—their means must be cataclysmic, dependent on political upheavals and natural disasters as coercive pretexts for free-market reforms the public would normally reject. Journalist Klein (No Logo) chronicles decades of such disasters, including the Chicago School makeovers launched by South American coups; the corrupt sale of Russia's state economy to oligarchs following the collapse of the Soviet Union; the privatization of New Orleans's public schools after Katrina; and the seizure of wrecked fishing villages by resort developers after the Asian tsunami....[H]er critique hits home, as she demonstrates how free-market ideologues welcome, and provoke, the collapse of other people's economies. The result is a powerful populist indictment of economic orthodoxy.
Art & Fear: Observations On The Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking by David Bayles and Ted Orland

Book Description:
"This is a book about making art. Ordinary art. Ordinary art means something like: all art not made by Mozart. After all, art is rarely made by Mozart-like people; essentially-statistically speaking-there aren't any people like that. Geniuses get made once-a-century or so, yet good art gets made all the time, so to equate the making of art with the workings of genius removes this intimately human activity to a strangely unreachable and unknowable place. For all practical purposes making art can be examined in great detail without ever getting entangled in the very remote problems of genius."
--from the Introduction
The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing, Traitor to the Nation by M.T. Anderson

Review from School Library Journal:
In this fascinating and eye-opening Revolution-era novel, Octavian, a black youth raised in a Boston household of radical philosophers, is given an excellent classical education. He and his mother, an African princess, are kept isolated on the estate, and only as he grows older does he realize that while he is well dressed and well fed, he is indeed a captive being used by his guardians as part of an experiment to determine the intellectual acuity of Africans. As the fortunes of the Novanglian College of Lucidity change, so do the nature and conduct of their experiments...The issues of slavery and human rights, racism, free will, the causes of war, and one person's struggle to define himself are just as relevant today.
A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini

Review from Publishers Weekly:
Afghan-American novelist Hosseini follows up his bestselling The Kite Runner with another searing epic of Afghanistan in turmoil. The story covers three decades of anti-Soviet jihad, civil war and Taliban tyranny through the lives of two women. Mariam is the scorned illegitimate daughter of a wealthy businessman, forced at age 15 into marrying the 40-year-old Rasheed, who grows increasingly brutal as she fails to produce a child. Eighteen later, Rasheed takes another wife, 14-year-old Laila, a smart and spirited girl whose only other options, after her parents are killed by rocket fire, are prostitution or starvation. Against a backdrop of unending war, Mariam and Laila become allies in an asymmetrical battle with Rasheed, whose violent misogyny—"There was no cursing, no screaming, no pleading, no surprised yelps, only the systematic business of beating and being beaten"—is endorsed by custom and law. Hosseini gives a forceful but nuanced portrait of a patriarchal despotism where women are agonizingly dependent on fathers, husbands and especially sons, the bearing of male children being their sole path to social status. His tale is a powerful, harrowing depiction of Afghanistan, but also a lyrical evocation of the lives and enduring hopes of its resilient characters.
The Labyrinth of Solitude by Octavio Paz

Review from Amazon.com:
First published in 1950, The Labyrinth of Solitude addresses issues that are both seemingly eternal and resoundingly contemporary: the nature of political power in post-conquest Mexico, the relation of Native Americans to Europeans, the ubiquity of official corruption. Noting these matters earned Paz no small amount of trouble from the Mexican leadership, but it also brought him renown as a social critic. Paz, who went on to win the Nobel Prize for Literature, later voiced his disillusionment with all political systems--as the Mexican proverb has it, "all revolutions degenerate into governments"--but his call for democracy in this book has lately been reverberating throughout Mexico, making it timely once again.
Stalking the Soul: Emotional Abuse and the Erosion of Identity by Marie-France Hirigoyen

Excerpt of review from Publishers Weekly:
Often, emotional abuse builds over a long period of time until it becomes so unbearable that victims lash out in frustration and anger, only to appear unstable and aggressive themselves. This, according to Hirigoyen, is the intent of many abusers: to systematically "destabilize" and confuse their victims (with irrational, threatening behavior that preys on the victim's fears and self-doubts), to isolate and control them and ultimately to destroy their identity. These relentless "predators" are also incapable of compassion or empathy, always blame the victim and never see their actions as wrong.
The Gate to Women's Country by Sheri S. Tepper

Excerpt of review from Publishers Weekly:
Tepper's finest novel to date is set in a post-holocaust feminist dystopia that offers only two political alternatives: a repressive polygamist sect that is slowly self-destructing through inbreeding and the matriarchal dictatorship called Women's Country. Here, in a desperate effort to prevent another world war, the women have segregated most men into closed military garrisons and have taken on themselves every other function of government, industry, agriculture, science and learning.
Sacred World: The Shambhala Way to Gentleness, Bravery, and Power by Jeremy and Karen Hayward

Excerpt from the book:
"Being a warrior has nothing to do with waging war. Being a warrior means you have the courage to know who you are. Warriors never give up on anyone, including themselves."-from Sacred World
Mexican Muralists: Orozco, Rivera, Siqueiros by Desmond Rochfort

Excerpt of review from Amazon.com:
The muralists' work took up the themes of society and revolution. Often the paintings depicted historical vignettes like the story of Cuernavaca and Morelos crossing the barranca, or Mexico's ancient Indians. They satirized contemporary society, created ideal visions of peaceful families, and built up dark, imposing industrial cityscapes then leveled them by depicting the debauchery and death of the capitalist industrialists. The paintings themselves reflect diverse artistic influences--surrealism, cubism, and illustration, most notable among them. Their bold colors and strong imagery practically bound out of the 150 color plates in this book.

Anybody else read any of these? What did you think?

Back To The Future

2007-10-08T14:00:00.000-04:00

"When my daughter was about seven years old, she asked me one day what I did at work. I told her I worked at the college--that my job was to teach people how to draw.

She stared back at me, incredulous, and said, 'You mean they forget?'" --Howard Ikemoto,

from Art & Fear by David Bayles & Ted Orland

Lately, as part of rebuilding my newer better life, I've been trying to remember what made me happy when I was nine or ten years old. Back before all my energy was sapped by worrying about non-happy-making things like dieting, and makeup, and clothes. Before I gave a damn whether boys liked me, or if I was skinny enough, or what the hell my stupid hair looked like. What things brought me joy before pressure to seek approval from the big Ps--Peers, Parents, Professors, and the Patriarchy-- consumed my real self? And how can I bring some of those things back into my life today?

Here's my top ten list of things I loved most when I was a kid:

Reading
Drawing
Dogs
Monkeys
Canoeing
Making up stories
Building sand castles
Making tree forts
Watching hilarious programs on tv
Singing at the top of my lungs

In upcoming posts, I want to take a closer look at some of the ways I'm finding to return to the happy-making things that I somehow "forgot" when my life was so rudely interrupted by puberty. Stay tuned.

More Thoughts On Failure

2007-10-05T09:59:00.000-04:00

So listen. My therapist is still out of town. She's gone elk hunting, somewhere out west. Yes! I was thinking the exact same thing: this may be yet another clue that we're not in Berkeley any more, Toto.

Anyway, the thing is, I'm still feeling the need to talk some more about my pervasive sense of failure. And she's not here, but y'all are, so hahaha: guess who's going to have to sit and listen while I rattle on.

Seriously, do you mind? You don't have to say anything. Just sit there and nod occasionally, mutter "Mmmm?," pass the kleenex, and try to refrain from yawning or looking at your watch. Ok?

Ok. So here's where we were before Annie Oakley grabbed her damn gun and headed off to Colorado or Wyoming or whatever the hell mountainous state has a surplus of rabid elk stampeding around terrorizing its innocent populace.

We were concluding that failure itself is pretty much irrelevant. It doesn't really matter if it was my fault that I failed, or even if I actually failed, because "failure" isn't real. It's nothing more than a made-up concept, a subjective judgment call, and anyway it can only exist in the past, which means it wouldn't exist any more even if it had been real. It's over and done. So forget about failure, it's not important in and of itself. And the fact is, rational or not, I do feel like a failure, so there's no point in arguing about whether or not I should feel guilty, ashamed, hopeless, whatever. I just do.

What really matters is how I cope with that feeling, what I do when I feel it, and what steps I take to move beyond it. And that's what I want to talk about today. (Brief aside: You know who totally cracks me up? Charles Kroger. Do y'all think you could maybe cross your loafers the way he does, or bug your eyes out, or something?)

Ahem. So. One common way that people react to feelings of failure is to try to pump themselves up by putting somebody else down. They attempt to reinflate their own egos by denigrating others, perhaps members of a different race, or religion, or nationality. Or maybe they pour their energy into booing a rival sports team, or railing against an opposing political party. Perhaps they ridicule female drivers, or fat people, or gay people, or kids with tattoos. They kick the dog, yell at the sales clerk, sneer at people they deem less intelligent or talented than themselves. They become addicted to the momentary high of feeling superior to somebody else.

I think I'd like to try to avoid this particular coping mechanism. I don't think I'd like myself very much if I went around acting like that all the time. Besides, it doesn't really work. So I have to pay attention and catch myself if I ever start slipping into it.

Another common response to feeling like a failure is to turn the anger and aggression inward and attack the self. Women in our society are particularly socialized to resort to this tactic, though men are not immune to it. When people use this coping mechanism they hate themselves and get depressed. They may injure themselves, or develop an eating disorder, or channel their energies into "fixing" what they perceive to be their most visible flaws. They go on diets, get a new hairdo, buy news clothes, shop around for cosmetic surgery.

Even if I believed this technique was efficacious, I couldn't afford it. Anyway, I don't want to go there either. So once again, I have to pay attention and catch myself if I ever start slipping into it. For instance, whenever I pick up those pruning shears and start in on the ol' radical home haircut. (Another not so brief aside--hey, I'm PAYING you exactly what you're worth to listen to this crap, people: I'm feeling especially touchy about my hair this week, since Rumer Willis just got fugged for copying my exact look. But you know what? I had a gift certificate for a massage at a chichi upscale day spa, and when I cashed it in last Tuesday the receptionist raved about my damn hair. "Crappy yellow wig" indeed.) (Ok, wait. Did I just do something there?)

So those are ways I don't want to react. What are some healthy ways of coping with feelings of failure? Well, let's see...

Oh but never mind, ding ding ding! As usual, just when we get to the good part, our time seems to be up.

Thank you all very much for listening so patiently. If you don't mind, we'll take up where we left off again next week. Because even though my therapist is coming back from her wild western vacation (oh god, what if she has Bullwinkle hanging on her damn wall or something?), tomorrow is opening day of squirrel hunting season around here (run, Rocky, run!), so all schools and businesses will be closed for the entire week. Perhaps next week we can also touch a bit on why I never seem to feel like I fit in.

Meanwhile, I leave you with a couple of last night's drawings. A little bit better, but still not quite where I want to be. Onward!

2 minute gesture drawings

20 minute pose

Where I'd really like to be. (painting by Guillermo Meza)

More On Perfectionism and Perseverance

2007-10-03T23:43:00.000-04:00

Here's another timely quote from Art & Fear by David Bayles and Ted Orland:

"Ansel Adams, never one to mistake precision for perfection, often recalled the old adage that 'the perfect is the enemy of the good', his point being that if he waited for everything in the scene to be exactly right, he'd probably never make a photograph.

Adams was right: to require perfection is to invite paralysis. The pattern is predictable: as you see error in what you have done, you steer your work toward what you imagine you can do perfectly. You cling ever more tightly to what you already know you can do--away from risk and exploration, and possibly further from the work of your heart. You find reasons to procrastinate, since to not work is to not make mistakes. Believing that artwork should be perfect, you gradually become convinced that you cannot make such work. (You are correct.) Sooner or later, since you cannot do what you are trying to do, you quit. And in one of those perverse little ironies of life, only the pattern itself achieves perfection--a perfect death spiral: you misdirect your work; you stall; you quit."

Ok. This is good stuff, but I'll tell you the real reason I'm so frantically inhaling this book, maniacally underlining every other paragraph like a madwoman on an out of control highlighter binge. It's because I'm taking this drawing class on Thursday nights, and it's not going well. I have been sorely tempted to quit.

I don't know what the hell was wrong with me last week, but my drawings just wouldn't come together. I couldn't relax into the proper mind zone to draw, and I felt like something was somehow off with my vision. My depth perception was distorted, and my proportions were absurdly out of whack. I just couldn't seem to do anything right.

It's a really nice little class, down at the nearby college. The people are friendly, I like the teacher (except when he stands directly behind me and watches me draw, which causes me to go straight into freeze mode). The model was wonderful: a graceful, voluptuous young art student who actually took off her clothes, and who knew how to pose. Everything was great, except for me: I totally sucked.

And yeah, I got discouraged. I got depressed. I wanted to quit. But don't worry, I'm not going to quit. I really want to take this class, and I want to enjoy myself. And thanks to this encouraging little book, I'm going back tomorrow night and try again.

The truth is, though, it's not really just about this drawing class. I've been feeling like such a failure in about nine million ways lately. I mean, I failed to be a healthy person; I failed to be a prosperous or even solvent person; I failed to be a person in love. Understandably, my sense of self-worth has kind of taken a hit. Come on: wouldn't yours? As a result, every new little failure seems to take a bigger bite out of me than it normally would have, back...you know, before. I've been feeling so weary and discouraged, and since quitting the Big Things isn't really an option, I sort of feel like quitting the things I can quit, right and left. Like, just fuck it all! Hell yeah, I have days like that. Wouldn't you?

I feel like what I really really need right now is to be spectacularly and indisputably good at something. And silly me, I thought maybe a little figure drawing class down at the local college might be a safe bet. But as usual, the frickin Universe doesn't see things my way. The frickin Universe has decided that what I really need right now is to fail and fuck up even more! Perhaps this is the frickin Universe's idea of a lesson in humility, or a test of perseverance, or a hilarious joke. Who the hell knows. Whatever, I'm telling you: it's a frickin pain in the ass.

Take tonight in dog training class, for example. The standard poodles pranced around doing perfect tricks like professional acrobats. The Labs followed commands with goofy enthusiasm. And the damn border collie (there's always one in every class) sat on the front row with its calculator doing everybody's taxes. But my dog? My big dunce wouldn't do a single goddamn thing we'd worked on all week. Instead, he barked nonstop at the gerbils; he charged at the parakeet cage, knocking over three chairs and a table in the process; he picked a fight with a Newfie puppy that's already bigger than my car; he chased a Weimaraner up and down the cat food aisle; and as if all that wasn't enough, he had diarrhea right in the middle of the ring. I mean, sheesh. Can't I ever get a break?

Ah well. I'm hoping that tomorrow's drawing class won't be quite as humiliating as last week's. And that if I can't be good at anything else, at least maybe I can be good at steadily plodding ever onward, without quitting, without giving up.

7 minute pose

10 minute pose

"The seed for your next art work lies embedded in the imperfections of your current piece." --Bayles & Orland

Thought For The Day

2007-10-03T13:24:00.001-04:00

"The ceramics teacher announced on opening day that he was dividing the class into two groups. All those on the left side of the studio, he said, would be graded solely on the quantity of work they produced, all those on the right solely on its quality. His procedure was simple: on the final day of class he would bring in his bathroom scales and weigh the work of the "quantity" group: fifty pounds of pots rated an "A", forty pounds a "B", and so on. Those being graded on "quality", however, needed to produce only one pot--albeit a perfect one--to get an "A".

Well, came grading time and a curious fact emerged: the works of highest quality were all produced by the group being graded for quantity. It seems that while the "quantity" group was busily churning out piles of work--and learning from their mistakes--the "quality" group had sat theorizing about perfection, and in the end had little more to show for their efforts than grandiose theories and a pile of dead clay."

-from Art & Fear: Observations On The Perils (And Rewards) of Artmaking, by David Bayles & Ted Orland

Whew. Reading that makes me feel not so bad about the mountain of lopsided, ugly, fierce, flamboyant, and dysfunctional pots that is the sum of my life experiences so far.

Oh Please Forgive Me

2007-10-02T00:28:00.000-04:00

Yes, I know. I'm a horrible person.

Ode To Happier Things

2007-10-01T10:23:00.000-04:00

Exciting news on the tiny grandperson front! Friday's ultrasound reveals that the tiny new person is a BOY. A perfect, tiny, brand new boy!

The proud parents don't have a name picked out yet. So in the absence of an official name, I've been calling the baby "Monkeybutt McCupcake" and sending presents every week with a monkey theme. Monkey overalls, monkey onesies, monkey quilts, monkey socks, sock monkeys. Plus the occasional hand-knitted hat from Etsy that looks like a cupcake. Personally, I would be happy to keep calling the kid Monkeybutt for the rest of his life. But the proud parents have tactfully suggested otherwise.

So, in an effort to be helpful, I've been sending them name suggestions. Here's where we are so far:

To: Parents of Monkeybutt
From: Granny of the Apes

Ok, here's my first list of potential boy names:

arthur
bonzo
cornelius
darwin
elijah
finster
george
ham
ishmael
julius
kikazaru
luke
mazaru
nikko
ojo
pepe
razzberry
spike
thelonius
ungawa
virgil
washoe
zephyr

What do these all have in common, you ask? Why, they're all names of FAMOUS MONKEYS, of course!

My first vote is for Zephyr, but I also really love Finster and Thelonius (especially if his nickname becomes "Monk").

Mucho de loove,
-Granny of the Apes

From: Father of Monkeybutt
To: Granny of the Apes
Attachments: Scans of Ultrasounds

Medical angst be damned... may I introduce MISTER Monkeybutt!

Sorry if the resolution isn't great, the originals aren't super clear and they lose a little something in the scanning process. Let me know if you can't find his foot or hand or whatever.

Much love,
Father of Monkeybutt

Image of Boyness

Monkeybutt with weird superfluous little image drifting on the right that they think looks like a goblin.

From: Granny of the Apes
To: Parents of Monkeybutt

ZOMG!!1! Monkeybutt is so BEAUTIFUL! I have never seen such a beautiful fetus, ever. He is simply perfect. It's too bad they can't do color ultrasounds yet, I want to see what color his fuzz is. Lanugo, is that what it's called? It's been such a long long time since I thought about prenatal stuff.

Oh I think that goblin thingie looks exactly like a Calavera de Azucar. Or no, wait, maybe it's a Grateful Deadhead decal. Oooo, maybe
you're going to have a baby hippie!! :-|

Tons of love!
-Granny of the Apes

To: Granny of the Apes
From: Mother of Monkeybutt

Now we have the fear of hippies deep in us. While we were looking at the ultrasound yesterday, we swear that we saw a peace sign. We started freaking out that it was going to come out smelling like patchouli with dreds or something. So now that you think it's going to be a hippie, we're really scared! And yes it does look like a calavera de azucar. Seriously.

Love,
Mother of Monkeybutt

To: Parents of Monkeybutt
From: Granny of the Apes

Oh boy! Don't get me started on hippie names

Doobie! Fillmore! Moonjava! Snowphish! Stoner!

No, wait, I've got it: REVOLUTION!!!! We can call him Revvie.

But, um, Dude??? No. As much as I love The Big Lebowski, NOT Dude. And why the hell isn't Che on there? Or Fidel? Seriously, I vote for Revolution
Garcia Boomer.

Damn, this makes ME want to go out and start having many new babies, just so I can give them all fabulous hippie names. Be VERY afraid.

xxxx,

Granny of the Apes

So while the proud parents are off in their little anti-hippie world pondering boy names, dear readers, I am down here in Deep Inferno pondering grandmother names. If he can't really be Monkeybutt, then I can't really be Granny of the Apes. So I'm putting it to you all: post your suggestions for the perfect grandmother name for me. What should baby Monkeybutt call me? So far I've considered Grannyvibe, Maw Maw, Lala, Einstein, and Sophia Loren. What do y'all suggest?

Cancer Girl The Untouchable

2007-09-29T21:18:00.000-04:00

Back when I first started chemo, when I was miserably sick and weak and bald and immunodepleted, trapped in the house, lonely, and bored out of my shiny white skull, I used to lie in bed listening to dance music on my iPod. I would lie there and cry because I wanted so much to be able to go out dancing. I wasn't even sure yet that I was going survive and get well, I didn't know if I would ever have another opportunity to dance before I died. The odds were not as encouraging then as one might wish. But odds be damned: I couldn't help it, I still dreamed every night about a time when I would dance again.

One day in a fit of wild optimism I went on eBay and bought myself the most beautiful pair of red cowboy boots I could find. The day they arrived in the mail my feet were too swollen from the Prednisone to even try them on, but I set them on top of the tv where they would be a constant incentive for me to get well. I would lie there with my eyes on the prize, visualizing my future self sporting a head full of brand new short spiky bleached white hair, all decked out in my beautiful new red cowboy boots, gleefully dancing my heart out all night long. And oh my lord, that image made me so idiotically happy! I held on to that happy image with a white-knuckled death grip through the very darkest passages of hell.

And my friends, tonight I finally wore my red cowboy boots to a zydeco dance, for the very first time. I decided I needed to get my mind off the worrisome pap test results, and just go out and have myself a ball. It was a big annual dance party, held in an outdoor pavilion out in the country, and just about everybody I knew was there. I had waited so long for this! Every cell in my body was buzzing with happiness as I greeted old friends, hugged, laughed, exchanged news, waved to familiar faces across the dance floor. It felt so goddamn good to see everybody again, I was about to explode. I couldn't wait to dance.

But the oddest thing: nobody asked me. Not one single person. I stood up in the front, in the center, and smiled, and tapped my beautiful new boots. But as every song started, guys I knew would quickly walk right past me like I was invisible on their way to ask somebody else to dance. I kept hoping and smiling and trying to stay happy, but you know, after about 45 minutes I began to wonder what the hell was wrong with me. Did I have a bad case of BO? A giant booger dangling from my nose? A snapshot of Lorena Bobbit taped to my butt? Or was it the stigma of cancer?

Well, of course old stuff started to come up. Standing there like a wallflower triggered all kinds of icky issues. And wouldn't you know, my damn therapist is on vacation. Old hurts bubbled up from the deep reservoir of doom where they lurk, and they seriously began to cloud my vision. All I could think was how ugly I am, a major sexual pariah with cooties. I relived the seventh grade cotillion where nobody ever asked me to dance because I was a homely girl nerd with thick glasses. And the asshole guy I asked to dance at a zydeco club two years ago who sneered, "Why should I dance with you? You won't fuck me." And worst of all, the devastating memory of how the man I had loved was sexually repulsed by me after my cancer. I felt so hideous and untouchable, I wanted to fall through the floor and die.

All these things have really done their damage to me, they've left indelible scars that still open up and bleed sometimes. I'm way too fragile, and I'm learning that I need to protect myself better. After an hour of never dancing, it was all I could do to keep my chin from quivering and my eyes from filling up with tears. I had to leave before I embarrassed myself further by crying in public.

See, this is the thing about cancer: the whole time you're sick, all you think about is how much you want your old life back again. But as time passes, it becomes heartbreakingly clear that you can never ever have that old life back again. You may be alive, but it's dead and gone forever. Too many things have changed, inside and out. You can't go back. You just have to do your best to rebuild a new life from scratch, and try to find new things that might bring you some semblance of joy.

And honestly, I'm trying not to be bitter or angry or vengeful. There's a little wee bit of me that's tempted to go to the next zydeco dance and stand up on a chair and holler, "Hey GUYS! When y'all get YOUR damn cancer and your stupid dicks fall off or whatever, see if I'll give YOU the fucking time of day." But alas, I've taken a solemn oath to never be mean to a cancer person, ever, so I can't.

Anyway. I guess I just need to forget about dancing for now, leave it behind, and try to fill my life with other things, things that won't rub so much salt in my old wounds and make me want to die. Because I really and truly can't afford to feel that way these days. You know?

But damn, it hurts a lot to lose yet another dream. A lot.

Message In A Klein Bottle

2007-09-29T12:54:00.001-04:00

This missive arrived in today's mail:

Date: 9-26-07

Dear: Lymphopo Squeakywheel

Your pap smear result was abnormal.

You have been referred to GYN clinic for follow-up.

You can call us at 1-800-BAD-NEWS if you have any questions.

-T. Boudreaux, FNP
BCCNP Clinic
Our Lady of the Damned Medical Center

Sigh. I know, it could be nothing. But I was so enjoying my little break from medical angst.

The Deep Inferno Socialization Society

2007-09-28T21:29:00.000-04:00

Fridays are not just Muscle Day down here in Deep Inferno, they're also Socialization Day. Yes! Friday is the day that Superman goes to the zydeco down at the farmer's market to get socialized, so he won't be a vicious mean killer Doberman. He looks forward to it all week.

Mr. Social Butterfly arrives at the zydeco.

Tonight we ran into lots of old friends, made a few new ones, and passed a real good time. As you can see:

Here he is leaning on Nick.

Chatting with Jerry.

Confiding in Quentin.

Worshipping Marvel.

Making a new friend.

Damn, I didn't get a picture but we met the nicest couple visiting from San Francisco: he's a nurse and she's a chef. We introduced them to lots of interesting folks, knocked them out them with our astonishing real estate prices, assured them that we desperately need nurses and chefs around here, and I think we pretty much convinced them to think seriously about moving on down. Of course when they get home their friends back in San Francisco will think they've gone totally off their rockers, talking about moving to Butt Crack Louisiana. But they're in on the secret now, and this place will magically pull them back. I've seen it happen so many times, and they sure seemed ripe for the pulling. I'd love it if they lived here.

Oh, and here's one more, this one's for Citygrrrl. You missed a good show tonight, grrl! How many more days till you get here??

Yet Again: The Muscles of Friday

2007-09-28T09:06:00.000-04:00

I've had to slow things down considerably on the muscle building front this week due to back pain that's a result of my severe lumbar scoliosis. I had been doing an upper-lower split along the lines of: upper body, lower body, upper body, rest day; repeat. But now I've switched to a full body workout every other day, three days a week, using only exercises that don't place a load on my spine. It's frustrating and humbling, but necessary: the pain has been getting so grim it's curtailing my QOL in a very ugly way.

So my main exercise now is assisted pullups. This is a great compound exercise that works almost all upper body and core muscles. Four weeks ago I needed a 50 pound assist; now I can do five pullups in a row with only a 10 pound assist. Big w00t! So even though it seems like things are moving at a snail's pace, invisible to the naked eye, progress is actually happening at a pretty respectable rate. If all goes according to plan, two weeks from now I should be able to do five unassisted pullups in a row. And after that, well, the sky's the limit.

My upper body workout now consists of many sets of assisted pullups with various grips; flat bench; assisted dips; assisted one-arm pullups; reverse rows hanging from the Smith Machine; and bodyweight pushups. For now lower body is bodyweight squats, lunges, and step-ups; glute bridges with my feet on a large Swiss ball; and reverse heyperextensions, except on days when those hurt.

In a way the photos I've been posting are deceptive, because what looks like progress is sometimes really more about getting the light right, catching it in a way that's flattering and maximizes definition. I haven't quite figured this out yet, but here are two different shots with light from slightly different angles, in an attempt to be brutally honest. I want to be able to look at these a few months from now and see what I really looked like, not just what I wished I looked like.

Kickin' ass

Takin' names

The Art of Being Human

2007-09-27T13:31:00.000-04:00

I was recently invited to attend a Buddhist meditation weekend workshop called "The Art of Being Human." A well-known instructor from out of state is flying in to teach it, and it's being held in the beautifully elegant, simple, tastefully uncluttered home of a famous local musician. The other attendees will probably all be affluent, well educated, conventionally attractive white people who wear organic cotton clothes and leave their shoes at the door. There will be healthy gourmet vegan meals served with fresh cut flowers on the table, a lovely garden for walking meditation, and a swimming pool to cool down at the end of each day.

Part of me kind of wants to go, because reading Pema Chödrön really helped pull me through some dismally dark times. Another part of me wants to go, for the rare opportunity of being in a room full of people who drive Priuses instead of mammoth SUVs with 'W' stickers on the bumpers. And yet another part of me wants to go because for ONCE I could be pretty fucking certain that nobody will be serving me deep fried pig penises boiled in the same damn vat of rancid trans-fats they've been re-using for the past 20 years.

But these are extremely tiny parts of me, compared to the hugest part of me, the majority part of me, the part that wants to run shrieking out of the room and burst into flames at the mere thought of paying $125 to be cooped up for three days with this kind of pampered white privilege. And it's not even about the money, because they do offer sliding scale scholarships for those who can't pay.

I mean, please: "The Art of Being Human"? Hell. You want to see some true Masters of meditation in action? Go to any of the packed waiting rooms at Our Lady of the Damned. These ugly, drab, grungy, noisy, cluttered, crowded, smelly, uncomfortable rooms are the "workshops" where I learned to sit in perfect stillness for eight hours or more. This is where I learned to transcend my own jumbled thoughts, desires, physical pains, and frantic emotions; to tune out the noisy world blaring its distracting Regis Philbins and Bob Barkers and Judge Judys; to let go of striving for goals, to abandon hope of fruition; to feel at one with my fellow sufferers; to wait in utter stillness, with Cosmic patience, compassion, and a quiet empty mind. This is where I learned to respect not so much the "Art," but the Challenge of Being Human, of Staying Human, under conditions designed to brutally dehumanize.

The sad truth is, I can't do it, I can't accept the invitation. I've just lost the ability, lost the desire to be part of that tasteful, elegant, self-consciously uncluttered world any more. It doesn't feel real to me. It leaves me empty, but with the wrong kind of emptiness.

I do my weekly meditation at the funky rundown neighborhood washateria now, with the other poor people. We sit together in stillness, watching sheets tumble in the dryers, folding towels with empty minds, letting go of attachment to machines that work and won't steal our money. This is what really feels like The Art of Being Human to me now. Aum.

Our 15 Minutes

2007-09-23T19:19:00.000-04:00

Hey, look, this showed up in the newspaper today:

Me taking a picture of Soop and his fan club at the farmer's market Friday. We're famous!

You May Already Be A Winner!

2007-09-23T14:02:00.000-04:00

Be the first to correctly identify all four subjects and what they have in common:

Superman Goes to the Zydeco

2007-09-21T21:10:00.000-04:00

Every Friday afternoon we take a lawn chair and head down to the Deep Inferno farmers market. They have locally grown vegetables for sale of course, and various handmade crafts. There are Creole cooking classes, and a band plays, and people dance under the pavilion. Politicians up for election work the crowd, shaking hands and kissing babies and of course making a huge public display of fussing over big handsome dogs.

We arrive at the zydeco.

Right away, Brad Pitt gets a big kiss from the Queen of Deep Inferno.

Soon the kids come over to say hello.

Everybody wants to pose in a picture with Superman.

He loves to be patted.

He's especially sweet and gentle with the shy kids.

Uh-oh, this finger appears to be heading straight for a nostril!

Superman loves girls.

And girls love him!

They vie jealously for his affection.

Everybody wants to kiss that freaky pink nose.

Don't tell anybody that my big ferocious guard dog is really a pussy cat.

Thank Dog It's Friday

2007-09-21T08:17:00.000-04:00

And so yet another exciting Friday Muscle Watch rolls around. Behold the slow but steady return of strength and vitality:

In other news, I had hoped to make it up to Jena for the protest yesterday, but my friends from here who were going wanted to leave at 3 a.m. And with a heavy heart I had to admit that I just don't have the stamina yet for a 15 hour day of Porta-Potties. So instead I wore black (a bold decision for a person who lives with three white dogs, believe me) and followed the event on various feminist blogs and forums.

As it happened, I had a routine appointment at the oncology clinic yesterday. (This was the one where I was supposed to get the results of my August 27 CT scans--can you even imagine what a nutjob I would be by now?). When I was checking in, I noticed that all the nurses and receptionists at the onc clinic were wearing black scrubs. Even the white ones!

Three years later when I was finally called in for my pre-appointment vitals, I mentioned to the nurse taking my bp how wonderfully supportive it was that they were all wearing black in honor of Jena today. "We always wear black scrubs here in the medicine department," she said. "That's our color."

Hunh??? Surely I would have noticed at some point over the past year that the oncology nurses were all dressed in black? But they weren't, because I would have noticed such a morbid detail, especially back when I was sure I was dying. The only thing I can figure is that now I go on Thursdays instead of Tuesdays: Tuesday onc clinic is for patients with active disease, and Thursdays are for those of us who have No Active Disease, fondly referred to by staff as the NADs. (Go, NADs!) And maybe only the Thursday nurses wear black. Who knows.

Anyway, the nurse kindly pointed out that those who were supporting the Jena 6 were wearing hard to spot black ribbons pinned against against their black scrubs. So I sought those out and voiced my support.

Finally, about eleven years later, a young resident appeared, and this time I really hit the jackpot. A brand new crop has rotated in which could be bad news, as they're likely to be terribly young and nervous and inexperienced and not quite fluent in English yet. But this guy was wonderful. He came into the exam room empty handed, not burdened or distracted by my 50 pound chart, and he sat down in a chair facing me with nothing between us. He was relaxed and friendly and he actually LISTENED. He took the business of my paralyzed thumb seriously for a change. Instead of just blowing it off with some sham diagnosis, he ordered an x-ray and gave me a referral to the orthopedic clinic.

The last young resident who looked at it dismissed the swollen nodule as a lipoma, which I know damn well it isn't. (At least she ordered some blood work to check my cholesterol, which as usual came back as low as a healthy ten year old's.) But this guy had a guess that makes sense: he thinks it's almost certainly a wicked case of trigger finger, which I'd never even heard of. The description fits perfectly. He thinks it might have been caused by chemo-induced damage to the synovial sheath, the membrane lining the bone cavity that the tendon moves through. This makes much more sense to me, and is a huge relief after all these sleepless months of being thoroughly convinced that my right hand is about to be amputated.

So I'm healthy and relieved and feeling pretty darn good, and the dogs and I have a delicious weekend planned. I hope y'all do too! Since Superman's been hogging so much bandwidth lately, I'll close today with a few select shots of the ever beautiful if excessively bossy Dixie Rae.

Brave guard dog in the window.

Surveying her kingdom.

Alpha dog Dixie Rae rules the roost at our shack.

The Future's Looking Bright!

2007-09-17T22:22:00.000-04:00

Tonight, Superman graduated from his obedience school egregia cum laude. I invite you all to please stand and join us in a rousing moment of song:

Gaudeamus igitur
Juvenes dum sumus
Post jucundum juventutem
Post molestam senectutem
Nos habebit humus.

(Let us rejoice therefore
While we are young.
After a pleasant youth
After a troublesome old age
The earth will have us.)

Pereat tristitia,
Pereant osores.
Pereat diabolus,
Quivis antiburschius
Atque irrisores.

(Let sadness perish!
Let haters perish!
Let the devil perish!
Let whoever is against our school
Who laughs at it, perish!)

(Ahem. I certainly hope nobody here is laughing, especially not at that ridiculous mortarboard. Or you shall all perish in Latin.)

Anyway. On Wednsday night my brilliant Superman will begin graduate studies, pursuing his doctoral degree in clicker trick training. Stay tuned.

I study nuclear science
I love my classes
I got a crazy teacher, he wears dark glasses
Things are going great, and they're only getting better
I'm doing all right, getting good grades
The future's so bright, I gotta wear shades

Enjoying the Heck Out of Life

2007-09-15T19:25:00.000-04:00

After spending this past week fending off floods and hurricanes and mosquitos and enormous black clouds of lovebugs so thick the street lights came on in the daytime, it was a relief to finally have a beautiful, clear, sunny, not-too-hot day to spend out tootling around on the water. Ah yes, now I remember why I love Louisiana so much!

Cypress trees in the Basin

A beaver lodge

An egret

An alligator checks out the boat: this guy was about 13 feet long, which means he's probably about 70 years old.

If I had a fancier telescopic lens, you could you see that's a bald eagle sitting in the top of that tree.

Norris telling very bad Boudreaux and Thibodeaux jokes.

Jesus Christ on a tree!

A painting of The Last Supper, hanging way the hell out in the middle of the swamp. We don't need no steenkin' museums down here.

The Henderson Queen looks like a very very very old rustic Cajun houseboat, but was actually built in the 1980s for a movie set.

Late afternoon sun sparkling on the water. How much better can life possibly get!

Stand Back, It's the Friday MuscleWatch!

2007-09-14T09:49:00.000-04:00

Slowly buy surely my strength is starting to return. Maybe you can't see it so much, but I sure can feel it. Even two months ago, little ordinary daily tasks like lugging six loads of laundry over to the washateria would wear me out, strain my joints, hurt my back, leave me exhausted for the rest of the day. Now I'm all, Ughn! Outta my way, dickblisters, I got me some fuckin LAUNDRY to do!

And at the gym, it's extremely satisfying to watch my numbers climb, as I increase my loads pound by pound, day by day. It's true what they say about the phenomenon known as "muscle memory": lost muscles really do come back a lot faster the second time around.

What a relief it is to finally be rebuilding, my body AND my life.

W00t!!

How I Stay Sane

2007-09-09T10:53:00.000-04:00

Drawing and knitting have been bringing me a lot of peace and joy these days. I'm not interested in creating masterpieces, it's more about the process than the product for me. I love the way I can drift off into a soothing, centered, serene zone while I work. My brain empties itself of worries and fears, and soon involuntary fragments of familiar well-loved poetry float in to fill the emptiness.

I watch with a kind of detached fascination as a face magically appears on my blank drawing pad, or a long festive scarf emerges from my softly clacking needles. It doesn't even seem to be me who's producing these things, they seem to somehow be making themselves, not of my volition.

And yet I can see myself right there in the creations. I see such complex emotions in the faces, and I recognize the very things I've never been able to express with words. I see my own crazy foolhardy defiance in the scarves: Yes, they say, I know the brutally cold winter is on the way, and icy bitter winds will soon be battering my tiny uninsulated, unheated shack. But look! Here I am, facing it bravely armed with long festive colorful scarves! and lots of festive fringe! And perhaps a festive dose of denial.

But we do whatever it takes.

twice beautiful
is beauty
and what is good is doubly
good
when it is a case of two
woolen socks
in wintertime.

The windmills whirl the winter in
She winds his muffler tighter,
They sit in the kitchen.
Some tea with whiskey keeps away the doom...

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

With Great Sorrow

2007-09-07T23:24:00.000-04:00

When I came home from learning the good news about my clear CT scans on Tuesday, there was an email waiting in my inbox bearing the horrible news that a magnificent woman I worked with for several years in dog rescue had suffered a brain aneurysm while driving. It said her doctors didn't expect her to regain consciousness. This morning I received another email announcing that her family has carried out the decision to remove her from life support, and she isn't expected to survive long at all. I haven't heard more.

Earlier this week I had been following reports over at the Well-Dressed Recluse about a close friend of Genni's, a young mother who had just been diagnosed with stage IV breast cancer and was uninsured. My heart immediately went out to her, and I wanted nothing more than to somehow become her guardian angel. But today I read in the news that this same amazing talented beautiful creative woman, along with her husband and five-year-old daughter, is dead. I'm reeling with shock. And oh, Genni Genni Genni, I am so so sorry.

These two devastating tragedies have shaken me to the core. I've been weeping for these women, this man, this little girl and the people who love them all night. And coming right on the heels of my own good news, I'm struggling mightily with the gut-wrenching knowledge that there is absolutely no good reason on earth that I deserved to live and they didn't. This is a very hard thing, and I just can't come to terms with the unfairness of reality right now.

But most of all, I'm feeling so frightened that my precious grandchild is going to be born into such a sad, terrifying, pain-filled, and brutally capricious life. I want to cry out, Please, please, please, Universe, protect this tiny new person!

But obviously the Universe does not concern Itself with protecting good beautiful innocent people.

The Friday MuscleWatch

2007-09-07T09:09:00.000-04:00

Damn. Can I just say how great it is to be doing serious workouts again? I'm so glad to be back on the benches beside all my old buddies at the gym, a surprising number of whom actually noticed that I was gone and asked about me. And I'm deeply touched that the gym kept that old picture of me and Darwin up on the bulletin board of "Cajun Bodybuilders." The board has changed a lot since I've been away, new people added, but there I still am, beaming and flexing like a fool, though unfortunately still the only woman up there.

The old picture that's still on the bodybuilder bulletin board, taken in April 2006.

So yeah, it's mighty good to be back "home" at last. Of course I'm still weak as a day-old kitten. Even worse, my stabilizers are shot to hell, so I have trouble lifting even the lightest free weights without wobbling all over the place, like a drunk day-old kitten. But I'm avoiding the temptation to play heavy on the machines, because in the long run stabilizers are a hell of a lot more important than pretty beach muscles.

I also sustained some collateral damage to my connective tissues: the chemo really fried my tendons, essentially shrinking them in the wash. My previously spectacular range of motion is so sadly diminished, sometimes I feel like I might as well be in a straightjacket. But I'm optimistic that some of this will resolve as I steadfastly and tediously rebuild my lost strength.

Anyway, here you go, the eagerly awaited Friday Musclewatch:

This is what a drunk day-old kitten in a straightjacket looks like.

The mysterious case of the missing lats: hmmm, could it be they absconded with the missing medial delts? Stay tuned Watson, they can't have gone too far.

In Which Our Heroine Tackles Life Headlong And With Gusto

2007-09-05T22:56:00.000-04:00

Hey! I bet you've all been teetering precariously on the edges of your seats, breathlessly wondering how I celebrated the first 24 hours of my good news, haven't you? Well, ok, I won't keep you in suspense. Before you fall flat on your butts and asphyxiate yourselves, I'll tell you. So far:

I renewed my gym membership for a rabidly optimistic ONE FULL YEAR, and immediately proceeded to assault the bench press with determined if somewhat wobbly fervor.
I courageously signed up for that nude figure drawing class at the nearby college again, even though I know damn well the squeamish models will never ever take off their stupid clothes.
And today I walked over to the courthouse and applied for an expedited passport! Yes!

Instead of visiting Mexico City for the Frida hoopla, I've decided to travel down to Michoacan in late October and early November to celebrate El Día de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead. And I've already made my reservations.

Because the one thing I know for certain about Life is that it's extremely fragile and slippery and ephemeral and short, so being sensible and cautious and practical, eternally putting off all those crazy adventures you've always dreamed of having, is really not a good idea.

Stay tuned: reports on more non-sensible, uncautious, and impractical plans coming soon, to a computer near you!

The author's modest collection of Día de los Muertos bags.

Close-up detail of Alexander Henry's fabulous festive dancing dead people fabric.

Perseverance Pays Off

2007-09-04T11:12:00.000-04:00

So finally, miraculously, today my chart was actually there in the medical records department! My CT scan results, however, were NOT in the chart. Because duh, the chart itself has been gone every day for several weeks, so nobody could have possibly filed any incoming reports. The faceless bureaucrat du jour told me the papers I wanted were probably buried somewhere in a 12 foot tall stack of other papers waiting to be filed. In other words, totally hopelessly inaccessible.

But did I despair? Did I give up? Did I light my hair on fire, and curl up beneath the bureaucrat's swivel chair clutching an institutional size box of Ding Dongs, a 40-oz. bottle of St. Ides, and the Complete Patsy Cline box set?

Why yes, as a matter of fact, I did. Wouldn't you have?

Fortunately, in a frantic effort to get me out from under her feet before I set her hem on fire, the poor beleaugered faceless bureaucrat was forced to delve around in her computer for my reports and print them out for me. Which, bless her heart forever and ever and ever, she did without further ado. Now why the hell couldn't somebody have just done that last week? Sheesh.

Anyway, this is the report she handed me:

Impatient Name: Lymphopo Squeaky Wheel
Age: 53 Years
Gender: Irrelevant social construct
Test Type: Chest/Thorax w/contrast
Performed Date: August 27, 2007

No evidence of pulmonary parenchymal mass or infiltrate. No pleural thickening or effusion. No evidence of abnormal soft tissue mass or enlarged lymph nodes within the mediastinum or either hilum. Previosuly noted anterior mediastinal mass no longer evident.

Impression: Negative CT thorax. Anterior mediastinal mass noted on prior exam no longer evident.

Woooo fuckin hooo! Clean as a whistle! As were the scans of my head, neck, abdomen, and pelvis. Look out, world, I'm ready to live!

This is what a happy, healthy, grateful, and relieved person who's seriously ready to get on with Life looks like.

I've Dreamed Of This Day For SO Long

2007-08-31T14:15:00.000-04:00

Look! The sutures are out! The incision is healed! The scar has already begun to fade! I can finally wear spaghetti straps again! THE PORT FROM HELL IS GONE!

Remember the Monday Hairwatch reports last spring, as we watched my hair grow back cell by tedious cell? Well, starting today, we're going to have the Friday Musclewatch reports. This time we're going to watch my poor missing muscles grow back, cell by cell. And now, I'm off to the gym to workout, for the first time in over a year, with NO restrictions! Halle fucking looyah.

Have a great weekend, everybody.

A Good Day To Not Die

2007-08-30T21:16:00.000-04:00

Well, no news on the scan result front today. I phoned the magic number at the medical records department, and the real live person who actually answered by the third ring told me my chart was gone again. She said this time it had been sent over to the family practice minor surgery clinic, where I have an appointment tomorrow morning to have my port hole stitches removed. Monday's a holiday, so it'll be at least Tuesday before I have another chance to find it.

So I just figured, oh well. I'm probably not going to die today anyway whether the scans are good or whether they're bad, so I might as well just go ahead and have myself a great day. And that's exactly what I did. I had lunch with a very dear old friend, then later on Miss Wanda came over to hang out on my front porch and watch the zydeco parade go by. Yes! How totally cool is that, that the damn zydeco parade, with horses and bands and floats and dancing politicians tossing tootsie rolls to the crowds, went right down my street, passed right in front of my shack!

What's that you say? Did I take any pictures? Why yes, as a matter of fact, now that you mention it, I did:

Superman on the front porch, waiting eagerly for the parade to start. "Is it here yet? Is it here yet?"

"Oh boy, look, Miss Lady! Here it comes!"

Superman and Miss Wanda ogle the majorettes.

Hey! I know these guys! These are the people who teach the zydeco aerobics class at my gym!

Here come the horses! It's the zydeco cowboys!

Superman is about to give this poor horse a heart attack.

Superman and Miss Wanda sadly watch as the last float rolls by. So long, parade.

So no answers yet, but it was an extremely lovely day and sure enough, no matter what the scans end up saying, at least I didn't die today. And I probably won't die tomorrow either. Now I have to go rake all the tootsie rolls off my front lawn and shovel the piles of horse doo in the street onto my roses. Remind me to never again live in a town where parades don't go marching down my street, past my house, on a very regular basis.

In Which Our Heroine Continues to Tilt At Windmills

2007-08-29T18:43:00.000-04:00

So today is the Big Anniversary. Two Big Anniversaries, in fact: two years ago today Hurricane Katrina devastated my beloved state, and one year ago today I received my own devastating diagnosis of lymphoma.

Remember this old post?

This is what a person with Lymphoma looks like:

CT SCAN of thorax with contrast: There is a bulky soft tissue mass ("Brenda") present in the anterior mediastinum in the prevascular space. Appearance is that of multiple matted lymph nodes, some with central necrosis.

CT SCAN of abdomen and pelvis with contrast:

Enlargement of the uterine cervix; correlation with pelvic exam suggested as cervical cancer not excluded.

Multiple right ovarian cysts ("Curly," " Larry,"& "Moe," et al.)

Enlarged iliac and retroperitoneal lymph nodes.

Liver appears mildly enlarged. No focal abnormalities are seen within the spleen. Pancreas, kidneys, and adrenal glands are normal.

FINAL DIAGNOSIS Right supraclavicular mass ("Gladys") biopsy:

Diffuse large B-cell lymphoma, most likely of mediastinal origin.

This is what a cancer survivor looks like:

Yup, that was exactly one year ago today.

Anniversaries of devastations are generally a time for looking back, remembering, and mourning the losses; then looking forward and getting on with the rebuilding. I, of course, jumped the gun and did the looking back and mourning and stuff last week. I finished with that. Now I'm already all about the shutting up and moving on.

So today I began with with the next step of my journey. Which is battling my way through the goddamn indomitable bureaucracy to find out what the hell showed up on Monday's CT scans. This morning I rolled up my sleeves and girded my loins and drove myself down to Our Lady of the Damned, fully prepared to wrassle with The Machine.

First stop was the medical records department. I figured since I still hadn't received an appointment notice in the mail, I might as well just request my records and look at the damn scan results myself. So I stood in line and gave the nice lady all the ID cards in my wallet plus my firstborn child, and waited. Ten minutes later she emerged from the back room and told me my chart was not there.

Oooo-kay. I've been through this before. I've learned the ropes, I knew exactly what to do: instead of emitting a high pitched wail while curling up in fetal position beneath her desk and setting my hair on fire, I simply asked her to tell me which department has my chart.

"QM," she said.

"QM?" I said. "What the fuck is QM?"

"Quality Management," she said, not very helpfully. I still don't know what the hell QM is or why they have my chart, but never mind. It's not time to give up and bring out the matches just yet.

"How long will this QM have my chart?" I asked, quite calmly if I do say so.

The nice lady shrugged. "It could be one day, or it could be three months," she said. "Who knows. You may never ever see your chart again."

Three months? Never, ever??? Gaah!! That did it. I was just reaching for the matches when the faceless bureaucrat at the next desk looked up and said, "They have to return your chart back here every night though. They may come pick it up again first thing the next morning, but they always have to bring it back here at the end of every day."

Ok! This, class, is what's known in the warfare against indomitable bureaucracy as the Extremely Rare Helpful Person. When you come across one of these, I've learned, you must immediately latch on to her for dear life, like a cross between a tenacious pitt bull and the little black leeches in The African Queen, and refuse to ever let go.

Helpless missionary tries vainly to remove tenacious black pitt bull leeches from the body of an ERHP.

Long story short, I milked this ERHP in the medical records department until I had obtained two very useful nuggets of information. One, she gave me a card with her phone number, an actual number that she swears to the heavens will actually be answered by an actual live person before the third ring. By calling first I can allegedly ascertain whether my records are available before I drive all the way back down there. She said I may also be able to request that certain pages from my chart be held for me at the medical records desk, even if QM plans to take the other 499 pounds of pages to do whatever the hell it is they do. I'll believe this when I see it, but hey it's worth a try.

Second, the ERHP told me where to go to find out when my next appointment is scheduled at the oncology clinic. WHY has nobody ever told me this invaluable secret before now? It was so simple! No waiting, no crying, no screaming, no throwing chairs or making out with Johnny Walker for fifteen hours. I just walked straight up to the secret window, handed the nice woman all the ID cards in my wallet plus my firstborn child, and explained what I wanted to know.

And it's a damn good thing I did this, because after futzing with her computer for a few minutes, this nice lady informed me that I don't have ANY appointments scheduled AT ALL, ever again, with the oncology department. Holy fookin Roomba! This is a major screwup, of the first degree. I was just about to start wailing and whip out the matches, when the nice lady said, "Hold on, hold on! I'm going to schedule you an appointment right now." WHOA. She can do that? Just like that? Holy hell, the things nobody ever told me.

So, ok, bad news! good news! bad news! good news! It's beginning to look a lot like Chinatown around here, isn't it? The good news is, she made me an appointment to go find out the results of my CT scans! The bad news is, she made this appointment for September the fucking 20th. That's 3 weeks away! Can we imagine what kind of basket case I'm going to be if I have to spend three very looooong weeks in suspended animation waiting to hear whether I'm going to live or die?

Oh hell no. Nuh-uhn. That's just NOT going to happen, people.

So my proactive quest for the Holy Grail of my CT scan results continues. Starting tomorrow, those unfortunate faceless bureaucrats in the medical records department are going to become very very familiar with the aroma of burning hair. I am going to get my hands on those damn scan results if I have to burn down the whole damn building. Stay tuned.

P.S. While patiently awaiting news of the CT scan results, you may all feast your eyes upon this particular miracle of ultrasound radiology:

No, that little jelly bean nestled in the tunnel isn't a tumor. It's my beautiful, gestating grandchild! Yes! This perfect little person is expected to emerge and join us in this magnificent if occasionally flawed world next February. Seriously, you talk about your stay tuned! Yeeeeeeeee haw! If the creek don't rise and the elusive scan results don't spell D-O-O-M, I'm finally gonna be a real GRANNY!!!

The Road From Scanville

2007-08-27T13:40:00.000-04:00

I finally had my CT scans this morning: head, neck, chest, abdomen, and pelvis. And even though I had to drink the nasty ass contrast drink, I must say Our Lady of the Damned was at her very finest today, and it was actually quite a pleasant experience.

No, please! Don't die of shock! Sometimes that really does happen.

Anyway. I was sitting there in the waiting room, dreading the hideous drink and struggling to peel the lid off the bottle, when a vaguely familiar woman in an orange t-shirt walked up to me. I recognized it as the very same orange t-shirt that was handed out to cancer survivors at the fundraising games a couple of weeks ago. "So what happened to your purple hair, girl?" she demanded. She took the nasty ass drink bottle out of my hand and opened it for me. "Let me go get you a straw," she said. "It's easier to get that evil shit down with a straw."

A minute later she returned with my drink and a straw, and then she stood in the middle of the waiting room, cupped her hands around her mouth, and loudly announced that she needed all cancer survivors to gather round pronto. Five total strangers stood up and formed a protective circle around me: they cheered, and made me laugh, and talked me through the ordeal until I'd managed to gag the very last drop of the nasty ass stuff all the way down. And keep it down. At which point the entire waiting room erupted in relieved applause.

Somehow the trains seem to run on time in the radiology department, and a record breaking two minutes later I was called into the back. While a nurse was sticking the IV in my arm, my old friend Dr. G, the head of the radiology department, popped into the tiny needle room to say hello. He performed two procedures on me last year: a needle biopsy in my chest, and an emergency guide wire removal from my groin. I'm a little concerned about why, out of the eighty-eight gabazillion million patients he must see in a year, he still manages to remember me so damn well. I especially worry because I was under twilight anesthesia for both of his procedures, so Sweet Baby Roomba only knows what the hell I said to him. He is an extremely attractive man.

So today he bopped in and told me I looked really good. I said thanks, but I only hoped I look good on the inside. "You will," he said confidently. "Except your spine will still be horribly twisted." Shit. Now HOW does he remember an irrelevant detail like scoliosis? This is the department big shot, the head honcho, so he certainly doesn't take the routine scans himself, or even read them. Should I be flattered or horrified that the memory of my deformity has stuck with him for over a year?

And then he said: "Look, that's Frida Kahlo on your shirt!" Well so it was. I confessed that I'm a bit of a Frida buff, and he told me he's from Mexico City and a big fan of Frida and Diego himself. And next thing you knew we were off, talking a mile a minute about Mexican painters. At one point he asked me if I'd ever been to the Blue House, and the oddest thing happened: I could feel my lips moving, and then I heard what sounded like my own strangely detached voice saying, "Not yet. But if these scans come back clean, I'm planning a pilgrimage there in the fall." WHOA. I am? Huhn. Funny, because just last night I was worrying about whether I would starve to death or freeze to death first come winter, given my dire financial situation. "You know, cancer kind of kicks you into acting on all those dreams you've been putting off," I heard the voice that sounded a lot like mine say.

"Good," he said, beaming the most dazzling smile straight into my heart. "Before you go, let me know and I'll give you a list of murals you should see." Not if I go. He didn't say "if." What a dear sweet wonderful man.

I don't have an oncology appointment yet to hear the results of the scans, but it should be within a week. I may have to drive back down there tomorrow and ask the chemo nurses to check the computer, because the oncology clinic has been really bad about not mailing me the notices on time. And I can't really get on with my life until I know the results. Everything's on hold, in a weird kind of limbo. I've been putting off stuff like signing up for classes, planning trips, falling in love, and so forth until I have some kind of indication of what the next six months will bring.

I hope and pray that Dr. G is right. I'm SO ready to get moving with rebuilding this life. And his list of Mexican murals just might be the best possible thing to look forward to.

An Email I Sent Today

2007-08-24T19:12:00.000-04:00

I don't know what you want or expect from me. But I'll try to make my position as clear as possible.

You treated me with cruelty when I was most vulnerable, you kicked me when I was down, not once or twice, but repeatedly. This consistent pattern is well documented in emails from the past year.

On Friday, September 1 2006, 63 hours after I was diagnosed with cancer, you responded to my request that you treat me with kindness, empathy, and compassion by accusing me of expecting you to "check your balls at the door" and "become a spineless wimp." You wrote: "I'm not interested in changing my ways one iota, not now. It's worked very well for me up to now. I'm certain it will continue to work for me in the future."

I realize now that I should have listened to you and believed that you really meant exactly what you said.

You also accused me of trying to change you, and in a way you were right. I wasn't so much trying to change you myself, as hoping against hope that you would be willing to change yourself. But subsequent months proved to me what a mistake that was. I finally realized that my only choice was to either accept you exactly as you were determined to remain: angry, narcissistic, controlling, unwilling to engage in genuine emotional intimacy; or to terminate the relationship. I chose the latter and I don't regret it.

Now I'm slowly and carefully rebuilding a new life for myself. I don't know whether this new life will be measured in months, years, or decades, but I do know one thing with absolute certainty: however long or short my new life is going to be, there is absolutely no place in it for people who treat me with cruelty or kick me when I'm down. There's no place for people who believe that empathy and kindness are spineless wimpy women's work, beneath their contempt. There is no place for people who are unwilling to change and learn and grow emotionally. I don't know how much time I have left, but I do know it's not nearly enough to waste one precious minute on people like that.

So I have no friendship to offer you.

Best wishes with your own future, I hope it continues to work very well for you.

Flunking the Mortality Test

2007-08-21T22:38:00.000-04:00

Today brainhell tossed a grisly gauntlet before his readers: he challenged us to enter a contest in which we write a vignette describing his death.

Wow. The man is hard.

His loyal longtime readers are well aware that with ALS, the loss of respiratory function is going to be the most likely cause of his death. At some point, brainhell will probably become completely unable to breathe. And this, he has told us, is an extremely unpleasant way to die.

Progressive weakness in the muscles of his respiratory system has already made breathing, coughing, and swallowing difficult for him. This condition can cause him to aspirate saliva, which could result in a fatal lung infection such as pneumonia. Or he might go into a laryngospasm that closes off his airway so that he can't inhale, can't take a breath, can't even call for help, causing him to suffocate, helpless, panicked, alone in his bed. Or he might die of cardiac arrhythmias caused by insufficient oxygen. There are many possibilities, almost all involving the utterly horrible terrifying nightmare of not being able to breathe.

We all know this, his devoted readers. We know it well. And yet so far, not one commenter has dared to broach this hideous prospect, much less compose an actual vignette describing the agonizing details. We're much too busy dancing and twirling around it in a cowardly frenzy of upbeat denial.

But by doing so I wonder if we haven't somehow abandoned our brainhell, leaving him all alone with his terrible truth. Here he invited us to join him, to keep him company by graphically imagining his own personal tenth circle of hell, but not one of us has been brave enough to accept the invitation. I'm especially feeling like a lily-livered hypocrite myself right now, after all my blustery bravado about bravely sticking my head straight up the rosy pink anus of mortality and crap like that. Hell, the best I could do was conjure up Emily Dickinson's meaningless fly on the windowsill.

Ok, let me try again. How's this: brainhell chokes to death from laughing so hard at us all for being such sorryass cowards in the face of his challenge. Not this particular challenge of course, but another one, equally daunting, issued somewhere way way down the line.

You Can't Go Home Again

2007-08-19T11:23:00.000-04:00

I had a strangely surreal experience last week. The wife half of the couple that bought my old house two months ago called me up and invited me to come over for a cup of coffee. She said she was dying to meet the woman who had once lived in this beautiful old dream house, the woman who had planted all the magnificent roses in the yard, the woman who had left the sticker on the underside of the toilet seat that says "A Feminist Was Here."

Whoa, go back to my old house? I was terrified! Would it be devastatingly heartbreaking to see these strange new people happily living in my house? Would it bring up all kinds of repressed feelings of deep sadness and loss and homesickness and envy? (Because really, you know, I've been quite happy and content here in my tiny shack. But who knows what kinds of deep underground shit might get stirred up by returning to the scene of the tragedy?) I panicked and dithered but finally my curiosity won out over my fears and I said ok, I'll be there in five minutes.

So then suddenly there I was standing on "my" beloved front porch (which, by the way, was crowded with strange stuff I'd never seen before), ringing my own doorbell, waiting for a total stranger to open the door and let me in. It was beyond weird. But even further beyond weird was when the woman opened the door and stood there looking totally blank. "Yes?" she said, as if she wasn't expecting a visitor.

"Hi," I said cheerily. "I'm the, uh, woman you just spoke to on the phone, the one who left that sticker under your toilet seat?"

She stared at me for a moment, and then slowly comprehension began to dawn. "Oh!" she said. "Oh my goodness! You... I was expecting... You're not... I thought... I heard... I really thought you were going to be a decrepit old lady! I thought we'd bought the house from this very decrepit, very sick, very old lady." (Note to self: kill all former neighbors asap.) "I'm sorry," she said. "Come on in!"

And from the moment I stepped through the front door, everything felt like a dream. Like one of those eerie haunting dreams where you go back to a house where you used to live a long time ago but nobody there recognizes you and everything is totally different. Exactly like that.

Unfamiliar things were everywhere! The new family has four children, and they hadn't quite unpacked from the move yet so there were boxes overflowing with stuff in every room. Along with a whole lot more furniture and knickknacks and, well, just things than I had. The house was much more cluttered, but I think it was a happy, lived-in kind of chaos.

And weirdest of all, on top of all their unfamiliar stuff, they had kept almost all the things I had left behind when I moved. Mixed in with their possessions were pieces of my furniture, art, books, just all kinds of miscellaneous items I couldn't take with me. I mean, I moved from a 3,000 square foot house into a 600 square foot shack, so of course 90% of what I owned couldn't possibly come with me. I donated a lot of things to charity, threw a lot out, sold the mahogany dining table to a neighbor, but I was so overwhelmed and exhausted by the end of the move, I just walked out and left tons of stuff behind for the new owners to deal with. And it was the oddest sensation now, to walk through the rooms and see my old forgotten things mixed in with their unfamiliar things in the old familiar rooms that suddenly looked so strange and unfamiliar. I thought maybe my brain might break.

But you know what? I didn't feel sad at all. It made me extremely happy to see that the new people not only hadn't hauled my detritus off to the dump, but they were actually enjoying it! They were thinking of my rejects as exciting mysterious valuable antique treasures they'd discovered up in the attic of their very old house. The woman would be saying things like, "My mama wants to take this beautiful old piece on Antiques Roadshow!" and I'd be thinking, "Hmmm, I think I remember buying that thing at Target, or maybe it was World Market? back in 2004." I didn't want to disillusion her, but I just couldn't stop laughing.

Anyway, yeah. Going back to the old house was breathtakingly strange and surreal but it was also a happy and utterly freeing experience. I know for sure now that I really have let go and moved on. That enormous, wonderful, cluttered, extremely high-maintenance old house is somebody else's headache now, and I'm glad. Because it means I'm officially a Free Man in Paris, unfettered and alive.

The Day I Dyed For The Cure

2007-08-18T15:21:00.000-04:00

Hey look! I "Dyed For The Cure" at the big annual cancer fundraising games today.

First they spiked me...

And then I went with bright purple! Looks great with my lovely official orange survivor t-shirt, which entitled me to a free lunch and a free massage. W00t!

My friend Josh went purple too, in solidarity.

I ran into my old buddy Scott, one of the lung cancer guys I used to hang out with at the oncology clinic. He's the only one of that lung cancer group that's still alive, and in fact against HUGE odds, he's even in remission. Go Scott! He doesn't really have enough hair yet to dye.

The free catered survivors' luncheon was very nice. We all looked très butch with our cool short hair styles.

Josh bravely entered the football toss contest and came in second!

To hell with the damn cure, we're totally abstaining from that hula hoop contest.

It was a fun day but, um, but I forgot one minor detail: because of my surgery yesterday, I'm not supposed to shower for three days. So here I am stuck with these unfortunate neon periwinkle wilted spikes until Monday. Oh well!

The Gory Deets

2007-08-17T18:18:00.000-04:00

Whew. Ok. So that was really freaky, being wide awake under the knife with nothing but lidocaine to blunt the pain and terror for an hour and a half. The reason it took so long is that it was a teaching situation: a surgeon was talking a young resident from Cuba through her first portectomy, while another resident watched.

So I lay there on the table, wearing a pair of black shorts covered with white dog hair and draped with green sterile cloths, staring up wide-eyed at the big bright round light, listening to the head surgeon's running commentary. "That's it, press down all the way through the dermis. Watch the blood, watch the blood! Good. Now tilt your scalpel a little to the left...no, the other way, the OTHER way...yikes! You don't want to accidentally slice that big vein. Ok, now pull that skin flap back using the small skin hooks...waaay back, yeah...now stick you finger up inside the wound cavity as deep as it will go: see if you can feel where the tissue is attached to the back of the mediport...."

Glurk. I had distinctly mixed feelings about the fact that there was no overhead mirror for me to watch. Anyway, there I lay on the four foot long table with my feet dangling off the end (what's with that???) and my face stretched into a frozen silent Munchian Scream for an hour and a half, and it's a miracle it didn't stick like that permanently.

It was actually kind of fascinating though, listening to the surgical patter. Sort of like watching Grey's Anatomy. I kept expecting them to dart off into the broom closet any second to have a hot threesome affair. Anyway, they didn't play loud rock music like surgeons in the movies always do, or tell off-color jokes, but it was otherwise an extremely casual come-as-you-are operation. Nobody wore masks or scrub caps or even cafeteria lady hairnets, so lord knows what ended up drifting down from the atmosphere into my open wound cavity while they stood around discussing horizontal and vertical mattress suture techniques.

And yeah, the whole procedure felt incredibly creepy, all that slicing and tugging and pulling and finger probing. Not painful, once they got enough lidocaine shot into me, though injecting the lidocaine way up into the muscle behind the port hurt like a bitch. (Ooops, I'm sorry. Finnie? I should have warned you not to read that last sentence. Could somebody please pour a bucket of water over him?) But I could feel the pressure and tugging and all-purpose creepiness and it was squicky as hell.

They used an extra strong type of suture especially for me on account of I plan to do lots of extremely heavy lifting, plus I'm not squeamish about scars. I take the big over-the-shoulder pressure bandage off on Sunday, and I go back to have the stitches removed in two weeks. And after that, YES! I can start working out!

This was almost the happiest day of my life. I would have felt a whole lot more festive if I'd been sitting on some clean scan results. But hey, I'll take what I can get: at least the hideous port is finally out. Y'all settle your bets amongst yourselves now, I'm going to go chug some Tylenol and tea. I'm still feeling kind of woozy and my port-free chest is aching like the dickens.

Recovering with concerned support network hovering anxiously on the loveseat.

Nurse Dolly monitors vitals.

Stern Burly Nurse Soop strictly enforces visiting hours.

Caretakers need naps too!

Deportee

2007-08-17T13:48:00.000-04:00

Enormous pressure bandage, so the pouffy little pocket of stretched skin won't fill with blood.

It goes over the top, causing me to hunch my shoulders up to my ears like Nixon.

Gory deets to follow as soon as I stop trembling with shock.

I can't believe it actually HAPPENED!!!! Aiiiiyiiiiieeee!!!!!

In Which Our Heroine Is Once Again Strangled With Red Tape

2007-08-16T13:53:00.000-04:00

Well surprise surprise: no scans happened today after all. It turns out the oncology nurse I spoke to on the phone Tuesday doesn't have the authority to reschedule new scans; the authorization has to come directly from an MD. So they sent me running all over the entire hospital for an hour this morning, where every department on earth met me with bewildered confusion. Nobody knew what the hell to do with me. But I persevered.

Somebody in radiology finally had the prescience to send me up to 5 North, the chemo ward, which has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with my situation at this point, but for some reason the chemo nurses seem to be the only people in the whole damn hospital who can ever figure out how to make the system work. Plus they're so wonderful! It's always a pleasure to go visit the ol' gang up there--I'm so inexplicably happy to see them, the beloved sadists who tortured me for six months. I believe this is called Stockholm Syndrome?

Anyway, sure enough the ever-knowledgeable chemo nurses figured out a way to reroute me over to the internal medicine clinic where, after a zippy three hour wait, I saw a resident who ordered CT scans for NEXT week. I'm just thankful they discovered the mistake BEFORE I had to drink the nasty ass drink.

Oh, and the IM resident examined my thumb and shrugged it off. She said it looks like a lipoma, but I'm here to tell you the nodule is very hard, not soft to the touch. So I'll ask an oncology resident to look at it when I go in for the results from my scans in two weeks.

Meanwhile, the mediport removal is still (theoretically) scheduled for tomorrow morning. I was afraid they would try to talk me into postponing it to make sure the scans came back clean, which would certainly be the sensible logical proper thing to do. I was ready to fight them tooth and nail though, knowing it would probably take anywhere from two to four months to get a new surgery appointment. But the resident just shrugged and said, "You should have had that thing taken out six months ago." Indeed.

So I'll be heading back down to Our Lady of the Damned bright and early tomorrow morning, fingers crossed, to beg them to yank it out once and for all. Place your bets now, while the pool's still open!

Read It And Weep

2007-08-15T14:50:00.000-04:00

When staying alive means going bankrupt: Health insurance didn’t keep cancer-stricken California woman solvent

LOMPOC, Calif. - Kathleen Aldrich, financially ruined by two bouts with ovarian cancer, is not who you might assume she is.
She raised three kids as a single mom. She worked hard for years. She had good jobs. She paid her bills. She lived in a nice house and drove a nice car. She had a decent credit rating. She had health insurance.

Now she has a record of bankruptcy and is the embodiment of the fear that nags at millions of U.S. families: that they are but one medical calamity away from losing everything. Like Aldrich, they — and perhaps you — could be.

Very scary and sad article, but read it anyway.

In Which the Author Plays Hooky

2007-08-14T16:27:00.000-04:00

Ok. So I've been wondering when the hell my August CT scans were going to be scheduled, anxiously checking the mail for an invitation, worrying and fretting and then double checking the mailbox again every day because there's no way to just call Our Lady of the Damned on the phone to ask. Nothing in today's mail. Damn. I had really hoped to have the scan results BEFORE I go in to (at least theoretically) have my port removed on Friday.

But then a few minutes ago the phone rang and oh my god it was an oncology nurse from OLD wanting to know why I missed my appointment at Onc clinic today! And why I missed my scans last week! Crapoloosa! I never got the fucking invitations in the mail! I had no idea!

I was panic stricken and on the verge of tears, figuring it might be MONTHS or even YEARS before they rescheduled me, if ever. But listen to this: the amazing and heroic onc nurse made me an appointment for the scans on Thursday, yes THIS coming Thursday, day after tomorrow, the 16th of August, at 9:00 am! I doubt they'll have the results read in time to stop the port removal the next day if the news is bad. But oh well, at least I'm finally going to have my six month scans.

Ok. Yes! Thursday! Day after tomorrow! GAAAAHHHH!!!! Please excuse me now while I go throw up as an intense wave of scanxiety plows me down like a Mack truck. I'm terrified! I'm so not ready! GAAAAHHHH!!!!

The scanxious author performing frantic last minute calisthenics in preparation for the imminent scans that loom ominously on the horizon.

The Chosen and the Not Chosen

2007-08-12T15:50:00.000-04:00

More fun cancer news in the papers today! Snipped from an article about Washington Rep. Ross Hunter titled State lawmaker goes radioactive in bid to kill cancer:

This is the three-term lawmaker's second bout with lymphoma, a cancer of the immune system cells. Doctors treated the first, diagnosed in 2006, with a standard chemo regimen, but monitoring near the end of the 2007 legislative session showed the cancer had returned.

This time, his doctor recommended something more effective but rare: a single, extremely high dose of Bexxar. This concentration of the drug, developed locally and pioneered in this method by Dr. Oliver Press of the UW, isn't widely used for a handful of reasons. Approved by the FDA in 2003, it's relatively new and expensive at about $20,000 per treatment. Only three hospitals in the country -- and maybe a total of five worldwide -- are equipped to handle a radioactive patient, post treatment.

In essence, a patient needs what Hunter has: the right cancer, physiology and medical coverage. This truth isn't lost on him. "Thank God I have great insurance."

So I wonder, exactly how does this God decide who gets a second chance and who doesn't?

Stop the Presses!

2007-08-11T09:12:00.000-04:00

Snipped from an editorial at one of the daily rags:

A Newspaper reporter assigned to spend 12 hours in the emergency room at Our Lady of the Damned found dangerous overcrowding, long patient waits, health-care professionals under overpowering pressure, patients using the ER for non-emergency conditions, psych patients and homeless people boarding on the premises, and emergency bed usage at capacity, forcing diversions to other hospitals.

Blah blah blah working on ways to deal with the crisis blah blah blah funding stalled blah blah blah high-cost and low-profit blah blah blah create task forces blah blah.

If officials were required to duplicate the experience of the Newspaper reporter who spent 12 hours in an overcrowded, stress-filled emergency room, funding probably would come quickly.

You think? One of our favorite sources of entertainment during interminable waits at Our Lady of the Damned is when some privileged white person with an overblown sense of entitlement somehow ends up in one of our dangerously overcrowded stress filled waiting rooms, and appalled at the savage way he is being treated, attempts to Do Something About It.

Ha! We the Defeated and the Damned already know that The System is an impervious brick wall and if you try to bang your head against it, you're only going to give yourself a bloody concussion. But watching another naive powerless fool have a go at it can provide us with minutes of amusing distraction.

The System is not only an impervious brick wall to its unfortunate users on the inside, but also to any force that tries to change it. My own prediction is that task forces and funding won't make a dent. The System is rotten at its very core, and I fear that Our Lady of the Damned will soon go the way of King-Harbor in L.A. As much as I hate OLD, the possibility of losing it is utterly terrifying.

But nevertheless, to the reporters and readers from the Newspaper: Hey, y'all! Welcome to Reality!

ER waiting room at Our Lady of the Damned. Photo by Newspaper reporter.

It's Worse Than You Thought

2007-08-10T14:40:00.000-04:00

Ok. I wasn't being entirely straight with you. It's not just the curtains and throw pillows plus the occasional t-shirt and concrete statue. It's a whole lot worse than that.

Frida distributes arms to the Communists on the desk.

Frida illuminates the back porch.

Frida watches the amphibians play chess.

Frida flies with the time.

Along with Diego and Catarina, Frida juices the microwave.

Frida frames the back yard.

Frida competes with the view of a tree.

Frida carries the checkbook and a dog-eared underlined copy of Bandit: Dossier of a Dangerous Dog.

I suppose future generations of blog scholars will dedicate their lives to defending dissertations that purport to explain: Why Frida? Well, hell, if it enables them to make a decent living so they can support their own freaky tasteless habits, good for them.

But frankly, just between y'all and me? Don't make too much of it. Because the answer to Why Frida? is probably 90% Because she's every god damn where you turn these days. I mean come on, what are the odds of ever finding, say, Stevie Smith curtain fabric, or Flannery O'Connor drawer pulls, or Shelley Duval switch plates, or a B. Dagger Lee purse? We take what we can get over here at the Shack O'Deflated Tumors. And hello future blog historians! In the Year of Our Roomba 2007, the eBay it was flooded with the cool inexpensive Frida stuff. Simple as that.

Oops, one more:

Frida reacts to pain and betrayal by compulsively chopping off her own hair and documenting it in her art.

In Which Our Heroine Goes A Bit Overboard With A Theme

2007-08-10T00:08:00.000-04:00

So in a fit of maudlin and macabre madness today I decided to sit down and make a list of all the things I 've been meaning to do that I'd better hurry up and do now, before my right hand is amputated. Just in case this turns out to be thumb cancer. You know, stuff like join a bowling league, perform brain surgery, learn to play bagpipes.

It was a depressingly long list, but the good news is: I actually managed to accomplish one item, to finish it, to check it off, cross it out, say woo hoo. Yes! After living in my shack for what, two months now? I finally finished sewing my Frida curtains, out of the fabulous Alexander Henry print fabric that's called "Frida's Garden."

Close-up: Frida with her parrots and monkeys and tropical plants

With her paint brushes and icons and oh my god, are those Stapelias? Ewwww!!

A festive backdrop for the newly recovered loveseat.

And yes, we have an unfortunate case of Frida home decor mania run amok: those are Frida throw pillows. Great Roomba, enough already!

Bad Day, Bad Week, Whatever

2007-08-09T10:12:00.000-04:00

Ugh. Yesterday was a nightmare. Every cell in my body was on fire with pain, and my brain was lost in a deep dark pit way over the edge of some place you really don't ever want to go. This is Cymbalta withdrawal, and damn it's hell on wheels.

But I think today's going to be better.

Many thanks and apologies to all my patient abandoned guinea pigs, and others waiting to hear back from me on sundry matters. Hang on gang, my deep-fried brain and I will float back to the surface soon.

Guess Who I'm Dating Now

2007-08-07T10:19:00.000-04:00

Who's that behind those aviator Doggles?

Hint: He's a handsome celebrity...

A well-known star...

Of course! It's so obvious. You probably just didn't recognize him without the cigarette.

Eat you hearts out!

Missing In Action

2007-08-05T21:23:00.000-04:00

My deepest apologies to you all for the unscheduled lapse in blogging and personal training. I've got some medical crap going on. For one thing, I'm going through a brutal withdrawal from Cymbalta. It's pretty miserable, even though I'm tapering the dose and using citalopram as a crutch.

But I've also got a bigger worry. The joints in my right thumb are shot to hell, swollen and painful with the tendons shrunk so tight that I've almost completely lost the use of the thumb. When I mentioned this at the oncology clinic in June, the resident shrugged it off, said it's normal for chemo to damage tendons and cause stiff painful joints for a while.

But this is something else, and it's getting worse. I showed it to my private GP last week, and she said I should definitely get it looked at by an orthopedist at Our Lady of the Damned. There is a painful inflamed swelling that she said could be a ganglion, or maybe arthritis, and it needs to be x-rayed. What she didn't say but what I know is that it could also be an osteogenic sarcoma, a cancer of the bone and connective tissue.

I should be getting an appointment for my routine six month CT scans any day now, and that will be followed by an oncology clinic appointment a week or so later to discuss the results. But there's no way I can penetrate the system to be seen before then, so I'm left to stew in my anxiety, and it's really kind of knocking me for a loop.

I know, I know, it's probably nothing, maybe I won't have to have my right hand amputated after all. But it hurts, and my thumb is almost paralyzed, and I'm scared shitless. Well, wouldn't you be?

Anyway, in the temporary absence of real live blogging, I hereby offer you some old previously unpublished stuff in honor of the upcoming one year anniversary. It might be easier to read it in three or four sittings, it's kind of longwinded and overwhelming.

These are a series of emails I sent to "the painter" last August, almost a year ago. I'm omitting his replies for privacy reasons. These were written during the week after my second biopsy, right before I got the results. At the time, doctors suspected that the tumors in my chest might be advanced lung cancer, and I was looking at possibly having less than six months to live. It was a rough, raw time in many ways.

August 24, 2006
Dear Painter,

What does this mean, when you wrote to V: "Liz gets pretty down at times, and it sometimes comes out of my hide, but I can take it, especially if it helps in the long run."

Comes out of your hide? How so?

I mean, wouldn't it be maybe be a little different if you would be kind and tender and compassionate instead of bossy and angry and mean when I'm feeling vulnerable and upset? I only lash out at you when you're yelling at me, withdrawing from me, or trying to control me. When all I want is kindness and understanding.

I really hate this feeling that you talk to your friends about how I'm the difficult patient, the crazy unstable one who "gets pretty down at times" while you calmly patiently heroically stand by and try to deflect my "fits," all supposedly for my own good. Do you ever tell them about how you yell at me, or walk away from me when I'm crying?

I hate being the one you need to go dancing at RNB or WR to get a break from. It breaks my heart, it hurts so bad.

Jesus I hope we can work this stuff out before it's too late. I wish I knew how to get through to you. I need so much to feel like you're on my side.
Not just my body's side, but my soul's side. I wish that you cared as much about my hopes and dreams and fears and wishes and feelings as you did about which hospital I go to or which medications I take. That you cared as much when I cry as you do when I cough. I just can't understand why asking for these simple, human acts of friendship instead of just purely physical caretaking is "taking it out of your hide."

I'm sorry. This whole thing just really hits me the wrong way. So what am I supposed to do, to avoid "taking it out of your hide"? Just never feel down? Or never share it with you if I do? What? Tell me what you'd prefer I do when I'm feeling sad or hopeless or frightened. Call some anonymous 800 number? Wait for next week's therapy appointment? Take sedatives? Go to the ER for 9 hours, while you go dancing at the RNB? What? Tell me where else to turn for genuine emotional friendship, if it's so damn hard on you when I turn to you. I'm serious, I need to know.

Love,
-L.

August 24, 2006
Dear P:

Of course I understand your need to get away from it all, to have fun, to enjoy the music, the activity, the noise, the interaction; to flirt, to feel happy, to revel in the friendship and warm closeness and companionable pleasures, to feel the powers of your own sexiness in the arms and smiles and appreciation of other women. I know that need very well, because it was mine for so many years too.

I feel like a total selfish asshole if I tell you that it stabs me in the heart, hurts me to the core, when you go dancing while I'm home sick. You probably resent me for trying to make you feel guilty, and maybe you should. But how much longer can I stuff my feelings, before they explode later and end up doing more harm? To us as a couple, and to me physically. Maybe it's already too late, the damage is done.

But I don't know what else to do except be honest and say: this hurts me. It really hurts me bad. If my saying that destroys your love and respect for me, then I guess that's the price I have to pay.

It wouldn't hurt so much if you were just out having dinner with friends, going to art museums or movies or concerts, hanging out with [your son], enjoying that kind of interaction, having that kind of life. But dancing! I know all too well that dancing is a very different way of "interacting." The dressing up, the looking good, the sly smiles and sexy hips and subtle eye contact. I know it all too well.

And part of what hurts me so much is that dancing was once MY great love, and now my illness has completely robbed me of it, possibly forever. Now it's all yours to enjoy, happy and free of remorse, while I sit here feeling hurt, bereft, left out, trapped like an impotent prisoner in my own hideous unhealthy body, stuck with my embarrassingly painful emotions, drowning in my own bleak despair and unattractive self pity. It hurts me worse than anything you can imagine, that this is the kind of break from me you choose. And I think you know, or at least strongly suspect that it hurts me. But you choose it anyway, without apology.

I do understand that all this is very hard for you too, that because of my illness you've suffered losses of your own dreams and pleasures, that you're also grieving and mourning what could have been, that you're uncertain and stumbling in your own pain, feeling helpless and lonely and angry and scared.

I know that you have needs of your own that often don't include me. And I know that you need more joys in your life, things that I can no longer provide you, even though it nearly kills me to admit that horrible truth.

So what else can I do but say ok, fine, go have your fun. But then I can't help it that even though I wanted you to be happy, I end up sitting here hurting so bad, hating myself, wishing this damn sickness had never happened, wishing I'd never met you, wishing my heart didn't ache so bad, wishing I just had somebody somewhere I could talk to who would listen and care and understand my pain, while you're out dancing and having fun.

I don't know the answer. I understand how you feel and what you need, but that doesn't change how I feel. My immediate tendency is to want to pull away from you, to withdraw, to close off my feelings and shut myself down so I won't have to feel any more pain. Maybe there's a better way, but I'm not able to see it right now. Maybe a counselor could help me see it. I don't know.

Sometimes it all just seems so goddamn impossible, so hopeless, and it's at these moments that death starts to look like the best answer, a welcome relief to me. I mean, sometimes I just want to get it over with quickly, not just to spare myself all the inevitable suffering, but so I can stop inflicting suffering on other people, especially you, but also the kids.

At least the kids are both taking this opportunity to reach out and try to really get to know me, we're dropping all the barriers and talking to each other in honest open ways that we never dared before. It's awkward sometimes, and hard but also incredibly wonderful. It's been really good for all three of us to have this experience, and I'm glad we've taken the chance to risk it. I wish I could have that kind of authentic relating with you. But wonderful as it's been I know if it drags on too long, it's going to become too big of a stress for them too, and that kills me, that I'm hurting them now. Hurting them, hurting you, hurting me. Please, please, somebody make it stop soon! For all our sakes.

I'm not much for praying, but I can't tell you how often I've prayed to die soon and deliver us all from this horrible miserable hopeless mess I've brought on us.

I hate it when people talk about how "strong" or brave I am. I'm not. I'm only going through the moves, taking the next step, enduring whatever happens until I can't any more. Trying to put on a brave happy face to make everyone around me feel better. The truth is I'm a lot stronger at enduring physical pain than emotional pain. And this hurt and loneliness in my heart, this desperately needing a friend that I'm feeling right now tonight is getting pretty close to my limit.

I hurt, I need help, and I honestly don't know where to turn. I just don't know.

I hope you had a safe trip. Let me know that you made it home from the dance safely.

Love,
-L.

August 25, 2006
Dear P:

I'm just too vulnerable right now, my emotions are too raw, and I really need to put up a wall and protect myself. I can't trust you to not hurt me. I can't trust you to not blow up at the hospital, fly off the handle, lash out at me, be mean to me, refuse to listen to me, yell at me, try to control me, get mad at my feelings if they aren't exactly what you wanted me to feel. I need to protect my raw vulnerable scared hurting self. I have too much other shit on my plate right now to handle the hurt that's been coming from you as well. All this loneliness and crying is just not good for me.

That's part of why I don't want you to go to the hospital with me for the biopsy result on Tuesday. Because I need to be steady as a rock, I need to be strong and open, I need to be able to feel whatever emotions I feel in response to the news without worrying about you getting mad at me, or trying to take over. I need to ask questions without being interrupted, and maybe make decisions you won't like. I can't trust that I can be and do those things with you in tow, always ready to go off at any time like a loose cannon if the hospital, or the doctors, or the nurses, or I, make you mad.

It's probably best for us to take some time apart for a while. I'm not talking about breaking up, just maybe having some space between us for a while, a few weeks, whatever. Maybe until we can find a counselor and get some help. Or until I'm not so raw with hurt. You can have a break from me, get your fun noisy life back, and I can try to build some semblance of a new life, since I've lost two of the things that once meant the most to me, dancing and weight lifting, the passions that gave me strength and pulled me through when times were bad.

I need to find something new that I can do to bring meaning and passion and purpose back to my life, however short it may be. I need to keep myself as much as possible in a strong, serene, positive state of mind. I need to not be distracted by fighting with you, fending off your anger and hostility and negativity, and constantly feeling the emotional fallout from it. At other times, I could have been more independent and stood up to you and stood on my own two feet. I could have been ok with whatever you dished out, and not been broken down by it. But now I can't, and I'm tired of being knocked down.

So let's take some time apart. You stay there and paint and dance and do your thing, and I'll do my best to try to rebuild my own shattered positivity and inner strength and determination. I'll do what I can to find somebody I can talk to, who will listen to me without hurting me. I'd prefer a loving caring friend, but if I have to pay a professional, it's better than nothing. If I have to pay somebody to drive me in for more biopsies or treatments, I can do that too. If you can find a couples counselor and are still willing to do that, I'm willing to go and give it a try. I'm just not willing to go on hurting like this and feeling so lonely, lonelier when I'm with you than when we're apart.

Thanks for letting me know that you had fun and got home safely.

Till later,

-L.

August 26, 2006
P:

Yeah, I'm well aware that being apart is as good for you too, if not better. That was a disaster, having you just sit here for over two weeks doing absolutely nothing day after day except resenting me and getting mad at me. I didn't even need you to be here the whole time, other than the driving to & from biopsies. I'm not exactly an invalid in need of a full-time caretaker yet, and you don't seem willing to offer me emotional support, so there wasn't really any reason for you to stay here that long. I'm sorry I didn't put my foot down and make you leave sooner. I won't ever let that happen again.

I'm also pretty well convinced that we won't ever really get married. I understood that we probably wouldn't when you told me you hadn't told [your son] we were "engaged." You tell me you have a good relationship with him, but you've also made it clear that I am not going to be part of that relationship. After a year I've only seen him once, for a total of 3 minutes, even though he lives a few miles away, and never met anyone else in your family. So again, I understand that though your mouth says one thing about marriage, your actions and your deepest heart are really saying another: I'm not going to be part of your family.

It's all talk, just like building a house here was all talk. I'm ok with it, we are nowhere near able to get along well enough to consider marriage at this point anyway. I just wish you would be honest about it, instead of pretending it's going to happen.

I keep wondering why you keep going on and on about how horny you are, working it into every email conversation no matter how out of context, irrelevant, or inappropriate. What's up? Are you trying to tell me that you're getting sick and tired of how my illness has made me sexually unavailable to you? Believe me, I'm painfully aware of that and it makes me really sad. You don't need to keep reminding me or pressuring me. I
feel like enough of a failure as it is. But please be honest and direct, that's all I ask. If the underlying message is: I'd better shape up and put out or you're going to have to start looking elsewhere to get your needs met, please just come out and say so directly rather than all this weird out of place sexual innuendo. Thanks.

I hope your painting is going well.

Love -L.

August 28, 2006
You say:

"I'm just not in any hurry to make any life altering moves, be it marriage, moving, building or anything else. That'd be stupid at this point."

Wow, that's the exact opposite of what you've been saying in the recent past. So there's been a change of heart? Why?

I'm having a really hard time feeling close or connected to you. We seem to be so very alienated, but not talking about it, making small talk pretending nothing's wrong. There's a strange distance but when I try to talk about what's really going on you say I'm being "too harsh." And you suggest maybe I'm just having a "slump" like there's nothing really wrong between us?

I have no idea what our relationship is any more. A few weeks ago you enthusiastically wanted to get married right away; now it's been moved to the back burner because getting married sooner would be "stupid." What caused this sudden change of heart? I can't help but wonder what was up with all the yelling and anger and impatience and blame you were directing at me when you were here. And the way you don't give a flying fuck how I feel about you going dancing, you've let me know loud and clear you're going to do exactly as you damn well please and I can just stuff my damn hurt feelings up my ass. Will you please be honest and tell me what's going on?

It's true, I'm feeling much better since you left. A lot is probably emotional, the body mind connection. I like feeling strong and independent and peaceful again, it's good for me to get up and move around, I don't like being sent to bed, bossed around, or yelled at when I cry. Those two weeks you were here left me feeling so hurt and distant from you. I desperately needed some time to get back on my feet, back to being myself so I can be strong enough to face the biopsy results tomorrow.

I feel much happier now that I'm spending time around people who are kind to me instead of yelling and angry. The inflammation has gone down, the edema improved. This doesn't mean the underlying disease is cured, it just means my body is relieved to not be so stressed and crying all the time. I think it's easier to heal when I'm not so stressed.

Your words say one thing, that you love me and that I'm the most important thing blah blah blah. But it was too much to ask you to stop yelling at me, to just be kind to me and not keep hurting me? I don't understand the discrepancy, but my experience has been that actions speak louder than words.

-L.

August 28, 2006
Dear P:

Sure, I get frustrated with the public hospital system. But I guess I just deal with my frustration in a different way. While I'm trying to concentrate on getting medical care, in the immediate moment, I just try to focus on being calm, positive, enduring, staying focused on how to move to the next step.

When things got rough, the waits were long, the system confusing, I needed so much for you to just reach over and calmly say something kind and encouraging, like Hang in there, you're doing great, we're going to get through this, it's going to be ok, I'm right here with you. But instead you seemed to be putting all your energy into negative stuff like looking for somebody to blame and resent and criticize, ranting and fuming and occasionally exploding, being so intensely angry and bitter at the hospital, and also at me for not letting you take me to a private hospital. I wished so much that you would just set the anger and blame aside until a later time, and while we were there in the thick of it, just be there with me.

And I want to be there for you too. It was stressful for both of us, I know, but your anger made it much worse for me. I ended up feeling alone, and so guilty for not being able to afford insurance.

As for the yelling, maybe you're not aware of how often or how much you raise your voice when you're being stern, controlling, authoritarian, angry. Maybe it's just your way of reacting when you feel anxious and helpless, I don't know. But it doesn't feel very good or comforting to me. I wish that instead of getting mad, you could just talk about how you feel, and I could be supportive or comforting or whatever you need.

Thanks for your response. It makes me feel better. My heart is feeling very sad about the way things are between us right now.

I love you,

L.

This was the last letter I sent him before going in for my biopsy results alone the next morning and being diagnosed with lymphoma. The next night he went out dancing again, while I sat at home and cried, and hated myself for doing it. Damn, what a nightmare. What a relief to be a year into the future, past all that.

The Further Adventures of Superman

2007-07-29T18:25:00.000-04:00

Superman and I were out for our evening walkies last night, bopping along down the sidewalks of Deep Inferno, minding our own business and cheerfully humming dorky old Abba tunes in two-part harmony while boyfriend heeled at my left knee with impressive military precision. When all of a sudden, I kid you not, a COP CAR pulled up alongside us and turned on his flashing blue lights!

Now in driver's ed they never taught us the protocol for pulling over while walking. Was I supposed to raise my hands in the air like on tv, or what? Does a 90 pound albino Doberman count as a concealed weapon?

And what the hell could the police want with me, anyhow? Come on, dude, I was thinking, no way am I walking over the speed limit, so what, one of my tail lights is out?

Officer Cop rolled down his window and beckoned me over to the squad car. "That's a nice looking dog you've got there, ma'am," he said. "Is he aggressive?"

Ah ha, I get it, he's profiling me: little old white-haired granny, wearing hot pink Chuck Taylors and thick nerdy glasses, bopping along the sidewalk diligently obeying the leash laws while humming Take A Chance On Me? Yup, odds are clearly pretty damn high she's running an illegal vicious dog fighting ring out back behind her petunia bed.

"Oh, no sir, Mr. Officer," I assured him. "He's a real sweetheart, just a great big lovable goofy ol' puppy." Unless you happen to be a cat. Or move one more inch in my direction, you fool, which I really really wouldn't advise. "I take him to obedience classes down at the PetSmart every week!" I blathered on, straining to radiate innocence from every pore. "He's learning to obey and do tricks and he's always on a leash and he has his rabies tag and I'm carrying a poop bag and see? see? See what a good responsible dog owner I am?"

But the cop had stopped listening and was peering at something in his back seat, which I couldn't see through the black tinted windows. "Whaddaya think, Stella?" he asked. Stella didn't answer. "I'm surprised she isn't trying to kill your dog," the cop said to me. "Stella is usually VERY aggressive."

And then it dawned on me, duh: Stella wasn't some belligerent passed out drunk he was hauling in to the station; this was the official Deep Inferno K-9 Unit! And Officer Cop didn't want to lecture me on the dangers of owning an aggressive breed; he just wanted to talk dog shop with me. And possibly find out whether my four-legged penile extension was meaner and scarier than his.

So great, we chatted dog talk for a bit, the cop car blocking the middle of the street with his light still flashing so all my neighbors could peer through their curtains and speculate as to why the heck that weird old lady who just moved into the little shack on the corner was being arrested for walking the streets at dusk. Meanwhile Superman sat obediently at my side, calmly studying cracks in the sidewalk.

"I just don't get why Stella isn't barking at him," the cop said again. And I guess his curiosity finally got the better of him, because he hit a little button on his dashboard that lowered the rear window.

Well cheezis. Thank the everfucking Universe there was a wire mesh screen. Because Stella (aka Cujoella) took one look at Superman and started hurling her ferocious deranged snapping snarling barking foaming German Shepherd self against it with full force, over and over again, her blazing red eyes fixed on his jugular as flames shot out through her nostrils.

Superman took one look at Stella and peed all over his own feet.

Oh well, I guess this means we probably lost the Biggest Penis in Deep Inferno contest? Rats.

"Hey, nice talking to you!" said Officer Macho with a smug grin as he put his cruiser into gear.

"Right," I said cradling my trembling whimpering 90 pound baby who was desperately trying to crawl up onto my shoulders. "We'll have to get the pups together for a play date real soon."

Poor Soopy. When we got home he did his very best to make up for his embarrassing little lapse in protective duty. He spent twenty whole minutes following a big black carpenter ant back and forth across the back porch, bravely barking his head off at it, staunchly defending Miss Lady and the Beloved Homestead.

My big sweet hero! I don't know what I'd ever do without him.

Who's On First

2007-07-27T20:53:00.000-04:00

So my latest thing is I've become a groupie for the Thursday Night Blues Band down at the funky little local dive bar here in town. These guys just rock the hell out of that place, every week. So this morning I was talking on the phone to the harmonica player.

Me: You were amazing last night. The whole band was on fire! Excellent show! By the way, what was the name of that great Junior Wells song, the one with Lee on the vocals?

Nick: 'You Don't Care.'

Me: Yes I do, I really liked that song.

Nick: No no. 'You Don't Care' was...

Me: I DO care, I tell you. I want to know the name so I can download it.

Nick: Right. 'You Don't Care.'

Me: Goddamnit, I DO care! I really want to know the name of the fucking SONG, Nicholas.

Nick: 'YOU DON'T CARE'!!!

Me: YES I DO!

Nick: NO NO NO!!! Listen to me: 'YOU! DON'T! CARE!'

Me: My, my. Are we feeling just a wee tad insecure this morning?

Nick: (bangs head quietly on desk)

Come On, Charlie Brown, Kick the Ball Again!

2007-07-27T12:58:00.000-04:00

Oh my Dog! LOOK what just came in the morning mail:

From: Our Lady of the Damned Charity Medical Center
To: Lymphopo Pain In The Ass Squeaky Wheel

Dear Ms. Pain In The Ass Squeaky Wheel:

You (FINALLY!) have (yet ANOTHER, bwaahahaha!) appointment at the Family Medicine Clinic with Family Practice Minor Surgery on: 08/17/07 at 8:30 AM. Please bring enough food, medication, blankets, pillows, and changes of clothes to ride you through a possible (ok, PROBABLE) 874 hour wait (chump!).

If you miss this appointment it is YOUR RESPONSIBILITY to call the above number (where you're guaranteed to get a busy signal 24/7--sucker!) to reschedule. For your reference, please note the following: a $15 deposit is required at the time of visit; we will bill you for the remaining $24,792.37 whether or not you actually manage to see a medically trained person at this appointment.

Good luck, fucker!

Whoopeee!!! Once again, for what, the fourth time now? I get to have my hopes all raised up in eager anticipation. Shall we start a betting pool this time on whether or not the hideous port will actually come out on August 17th, or whether Lucy will once again yank the damn football right out from under me at the last minute? Come on, y'all, place your bets! Who all's in?

Seeking Feckless Volunteers

2007-07-25T16:43:00.000-04:00

Ok. Here's the deal. I'm finally getting around to setting up my online personal trainer service, Granny Gets A Six-Pack. But before it can sprout wings and fly, I need to run a beta test on some guinea pigs. So I'm issuing a call for feckless volunteers.

Remember: Granny Gets a Six-Pack is NOT about hating your body, or sacrificing pleasure, or starving yourself to be thin. It's NOT about trying to look like an emaciated runway model, or even a perfectly buff fitness model.

It IS about nurturing yourself, about building beautiful plump juicy muscles and enviably high bone density; it's about growing strong and fit and powerful. It's about respecting your body, enjoying every single bite you eat, and using food to increase your energy, vitality, and well-being.

Strong, fit, and active at 52.

Each client will receive a personalized program, based on his or her individual wishes, dreams, circumstances, and limitations. We'll work on setting realistic long term, short term, and daily goals. I can help you design an eating plan and/or a workout plan (with or without a gym membership), and I'll provide ongoing cheerleading, advice, information, motivation, and help leaping over and beyond the hideous obstacles, both mental and physical, that have been holding you back. There will be short fun written assignments, informative educational reading suggestions, fascinating and lively records to keep, and of course the obligatory show-tune singalongs.

There will be NO boot camp bullying: I'm a big believer that people, like dogs, accomplish much more with positive reinforcement than with scolding and punishment. For every pound you add to your bench press, I'll toss you a liver treat. (kidding!) (about the liver treat, not about the reinforcement.)

A highly accomplished dog

Anyway, I'm still not quite sure exactly how everything's going to fall into place logistically, and that's where y'all come in. I need a handful of courageous volunteers to test drive the thing and help me work out the bugs.

So! All ye brave readers out there in Blogistania who send an email to grannysix at gmail dot com IN THE NEXT 24 HOURS and sign up as willing participants in Granny Gets A Six-Pack, the Beta Version will receive one! free! month! of online training. In exchange all you have to do is help me out with some simple (and I assure you, highly ethical) experiments, fill out some questionnaires, and provide some honest feedback about the program. If the feckless guinea pigs survive the beta program with their faculties intact, then I'll open GGASP wide to the feckfull paying public for $100 per month, and we'll take the world by storm.

So. Who's going first? Be bold! This could be your big chance! Sign up now at: grannysix at gmail dot com (not in the comments here); operators are standing by for 24 hours only with your once in a lifetime FREE one month membership! Go for it!

Here I am sharing my coveted workout secrets with Big Ronnie Coleman, eight-time Mr. Olympia winner. For the next month, this could be YOU!

ADDENDUM: Yikes! I'm sorry but I'm going to have to close sign ups a couple of hours early, folks, because I already have about 8,000 volunteers and my inbox is still exploding. But this is good! Part of my experiment is about discovering what kind of client load I can handle before I have a nervous breakdown and/or the computer ignites into flames. So, as of 12:00 noon Louisiana time on Thursday the 26th of July, GGASP is closed to new volunteers, and would somebody please pass me that fire extinguisher over there? If you were negligent in checking my blog every four minutes around the clock and thus missed your big chance to participate, don't despair! If this batch of guinea pigs doesn't do me in, in a month I'll be open for aplha business and by then I should have figured out some very basic stuff like how to not delete all you important records thus causing you to lose all your hard earned muscles with one careless stroke of the keyboard. Stay tuned!

The Anniversary Begins

2007-07-22T18:22:00.000-04:00

So, the time of the one year anniversary of my cancer diagnosis is rapidly approaching, and I'm beginning to feel the predictable gloom that sad anniversaries so often bring.

Earlier today I was rereading an entry that I wrote in my late lamented Granny Gets A Vibrator blog exactly one year ago this week. This was back when I first knew I was very sick, but didn't yet know how sick. I'd been coughing for months and I knew there was something suspicious on the chest x-ray, but words like "neoplastic mass" and "advanced cancer" hadn't yet been tossed around. The man I called "the painter" had temporarily walked out on me in a huff because I wasn't sufficiently grateful when he tried to take charge of my situation; he was merrily going out dancing every night, and I was left struggling with my fears all alone.

In late July 2006, in an entry titled "An Apology to My Readers," I wrote this:

When I started this blog, back at the beginning of the year, I hoped I could be an inspiring and optimistic role model: Look at me! I wanted to shout from the rooftops to younger women everywhere. Don’t be afraid of aging, or the empty nest! It’s not so bad being over 50! This is a time to look forward to! I’m happy, healthy, strong, independent, full of energy, pursuing a life filled with passionate interests, laughter, learning, love, sex, and daring adventures. Life is good!

And for a few months I managed to pull it off pretty well.

But I would be inexcusably dishonest if I didn’t confess that right now, over here at Chez Le Vibrator, morale has reached an all-time low. I’m no longer feeling very healthy or strong or sexy or optimistic. In fact, I’m feeling about as weary, discouraged, depressed, and defeated as I’ve ever felt. And scared. I’m really scared about what upcoming medical tests are going to find, and scared about what it’s going to mean to be without health insurance.

I’m afraid I’ll have to give up weight lifting, and dancing, and my home, and garden and dogs and everything I’ve loved doing. I’m afraid I’ll never be able to trust being in a relationship with a man again. I’m afraid I’ve already lost the ability to take much pleasure in these things anyway. I’m scared and angry and discouraged about the state of the world and the wars and the hate and racism and brutality that never seems to stop. I’m scared about facing a bleak, dismal, and possibly brief future, old and tired and alone. And I know, it’s been a long long time since I’ve been able to be funny. If it weren’t for my magnificent sons and their wonderful partners, I wouldn’t have much good to say about anything these days.

And so, I really want to apologize to those readers who innocently wandered over to this blog expecting to read witty, sexy, feisty, optimistic, well-written vignettes about the joys of growing older, and instead have found a grumpy, rambling, self-absorbed, discouraged and embittered old woman. If I’d known last January that things were going to take such a turn, I never would have started this blog. I’m sorry about the way it’s gone south lately. And I’m sorry for being such a whiny pissy complaining sissy about my troubles, and airing my dirty laundry in public etc. I’m going to cut back on the negative stuff for a while, for my own sanity as well as yours.

Anyway, I go in for another round of x-rays tomorrow, then to meet with the doctor on Wednesday. I am really scared. Wish me luck.

God, what an awful time that was. And I really didn't even have a clue what a grim nightmare I had ahead of me. I wish I could go back in a magic time machine and find my poor scared July 2006 self and say something, do something, hell, I don't know, just wrap my arms around that self and cry with her. She was so right to be scared.

And now here it is a year later. I keep going back to these prescient worries: "I’m afraid I’ll have to give up weight lifting, and dancing, and my home, and garden and dogs and everything I’ve loved doing. I’m afraid I’ll never be able to trust being in a relationship with a man again."

And all I can say now is: well thank goodness it wasn't quite that bad! At least I managed to hang onto the dogs.

Anyway, my motto remains: Onward.

Or as Alfred Lord Tennyson said so much more eloquently in his poem Ulysses:

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Superman Saves the Day

2007-07-21T23:37:00.000-04:00

I just have to tell y'all what an amazing hero my Superman was today.

He woke me up at about 5:00 this morning, pacing and whining and nudging me in the bed. I figured he needed to go potty, but when I opened the back door he refused to go out. He kept pacing and whining, going back to the bed and nudging it (he's not allowed to get up on it except by invitation). Clearly something was bothering him.

Was the house on fire? Nope, I checked everywhere. Were there burglars milling around on the porch? Nope, not that either. I was puzzled, reduced to scratching my head and muttering inane things like, "What is it, Lassie, did Timmy fall down the damn well again?" Superman just rolled his eyes and kept nudging the bed.

Ok, clearly the problem was something in the bed. But what? Snakes?! Spiders?!! The Loch Ness Monster??? No, the only thing in the bed was Dixie Rae. She's allowed to sleep under the covers every night, and while Superman might privately harbor a deep dark resentment over this privilege, he has the good sense to not turn into a drama queen over it at 5:00 in the goddamn morning.

Well, poor little Dixie Rae is deaf as a door knob but finally all that frantic nudging and pacing woke her up, and she dragged her sleepy self out of the covers, yawning and blinking like a mole, to see what the hell all the commotion was about. And as soon as she emerged, Superman pounced on her.

I rushed over, thinking he was about to swallow her whole, but it turned out the big freak was obsessively licking her ears. At a tiny 4.5 pounds, she sports an incongruous pair of giant Yoda ears that give 90-pound Superman's ears a run for their money. They're glorious (if useless) ears, but that doesn't explain why he suddenly wouldn't stop licking them. Every time I dragged him away from her, he'd lunge right back over and start licking again. He wouldn't even let Dixie walk to the door, he cornered her and licked and licked.

I'd never seen him do anything this crazy before. It was the strangest thing. She finally got fed up and started to snap at him. She only has one tooth left, a back molar (typical of the breed--you've probably seen older Chinese Cresteds with their tongues hanging out); nevertheless, he usually cowers and lets her boss him around. But this time he ignored her warning and kept licking her ears, frantically, obsessively, like he'd gone insane. I finally shut him in the bathroom, where he whined and cried and banged against the door, which he NEVER does, he usually LIKES to go in his room to get a break from the bossy little dogs.

At last it occurred to me to stop calling Superman a kinky ear fetishist and start wondering if maybe there was something actually going on with Dixie's ears. Something inside of them sure was attracting Superman like a deranged magnet. Maybe a piece of liver treat had gotten lost inside one of them? Or perhaps an entire steak had fallen in, or maybe that's where the UPS man disappeared? They're certainly big enough.

I got a flashlight and looked around, and all I could see was a little bit of waxy discharge in one ear. It didn't look like much, and she wasn't acting like she was sick or in pain: no head shaking, no pawing at her ears; she was frisky and alert, she had her usual unholy chowhound appetite and was giving Mr. Bingles the eye before the sun was even up. But just to be safe, I decided to take her to the vet and let him have a look.

And you know what? It turns out she has MASSIVE asymptomatic bacterial and yeast infections, in both ears. The vet said it was a miracle we'd caught it in time. And I never would have suspected a thing, if Dr. Superman MD hadn't made the diagnosis! I guess he smelled the infection, and it just freaked him the hell out for some reason. Now that her ears are full of nasty smelling drops he doesn't want to lick them any more, but he still goes over and sniffs them every hour or so: just checking.

So please, a big round of applause for my hero Superman, whose fine-tuned nose and courageous licking may have saved Dixie's life and me thousands of dollars in vet bills! What a guy.

Dixie Rae on the road to recovery.

Our Lady of the Crappy Day

2007-07-19T23:23:00.000-04:00

I'll be frank: I've had a very crappy day today.

This morning I went down to Our Lady of the Damned to have my hideous port flushed. This is an unpleasant but mercifully quick procedure I have to repeat every four weeks so the damn thing won't clot while it's not in use. I go to the minor surgery drop-in clinic where a heroic nurse uses all her strength to forcefully ram a giant Huber needle into the hideous port's septum. This hurts like hell for about 30 seconds, but I'm so used to it I barely flinch. (A year ago I would have passed out just reading this description.) Then she pushes a saline solution and an anti-clotting agent through the catheter for a few minutes.

Sometimes I have a bad reaction to the flush, and today was one of those times. As soon as the saline hits my bloodstream, it floods my mouth and nose with a distinctive taste and smell that trigger intense flashbacks to chemo. And today was really bad: I was instantly overcome with associative nausea. Even now, ten hours later, when I drink tea it still tastes like the nasty saline and makes me gag.

Have I ever mentioned how much I hate this hideous port?

And speaking of the hideous port, I heard some very bad news today. The heroic nurse who performed the flush told me that the chief of surgery recently sent out a memo saying that his department will no longer remove hideous ports until the patient has officially been in remission for some ridiculous number of years. Yes, YEARS! He says that too often they have to turn around and put the port right back in when the cancer recurs, so from henceforth the new hospital policy strictly forbids port removal before the requisite number of years, yes YEARS, have passed. And it doesn't look like I'll be grandfathered in.

Fuck. I just want to bang my head on my desk. In fact, if I weren't feeling so damn seasick from the saline, I would.

The existence of this official memo tells me two things:

1. The doctors are officially not optimistic about their patients' chances for event free survival; and

2. I'm not in charge of my own body. I don't have any say in whether or not this hideous device remains implanted in my chest wall. Fuck. I'm sorry, but it's just so goddamn discouraging, so frustrating; the system is so impervious, and so impersonal. I feel hopelessly powerless and trapped.

Not a good day at all.

But as usual, the one thing that brings me joy and keeps me going is my wonderful dogs. The little girls, as always, are comforting, companionable, and communicative to the point of being telepathic. And my big Superman guy, who's been living here one month today, is just more and more fabulous every day.

Eraser Nose, my schmookums!

Last night I took him to his first class at obedience school. It was crazy and chaotic with 20 untrained dogs milling around but we both had a blast. I'm really impressed with the woman who teaches the class. She has excellent credentials, solid experience, an impressive track record, and an extremely sound philosophy. (For you canine savvy folks out there, I fall squarely into the Ian Dunbar camp, though I do take some helpful tips from Cesar Millan. I also like Jean Donaldson, Karen Pryor, and Turid Rugaas.) For the next eight weeks the class will be divided into small groups of five dogs so she can give us more individual attention.

Superman and Dolly Louise practice "stay."

Soop watches patiently while Dolly gets the first treat.

Superman is already learning quickly at home, but I like going to a class because it gives him an opportunity to practice responding to commands with lots of distractions around, and also to work on his socialization with people and other dogs. He's generally been mellow and friendly to strangers. Every day we walk three miles, with him heeling perfectly on the leash, and people inevitably approach to admire and pet him. He's aloof and dignified, but not hostile to being touched. I have him sit, and he holds his nose in the air like some regally serene cross between Queen Elizabeth and Ghandi. He's never snapped or growled, not even at the convicts out washing the cop cars (who are of course his biggest fan club).

But there was a bad incident the other day where he snarled at a male guest who came inside the house. This is totally unacceptable. Superman did respond quickly when I told him to stop, he snapped out of it and obeyed when I gave him a down command. But still this concerns me, and it's something the teacher and I will be working on correcting.

It's awkward enough squeezing visitors into our tiny shack. Up until this incident Soop has had a friendly greeting for all the men who've ventured inside, sniffing them then going back about his business and leaving them alone. He tends to be much more affectionate with female guests, lavishing them with kisses, leaning his head on their laps, and gazing up into their eyes like a lovestruck fool. He basically has a good temperament, but he had this one alarming reaction to one person, so now my vigilance is turned on full throttle.

I knew when I adopted Soop that he might be a challenging dog and that I couldn't slack for one minute on training and socialization. And I enjoy the challenge. He's bonded with me strongly, he's gentle with the little dogs and they respect him. He's eager to please, he learns quickly and responds well to positive reinforcement reinforcement. I'm optimistic that he's going to turn out to be a real gem of a dog, and so is the trainer who has evaluated him.

I say "Leave it," and Superman stoically ignores the liver treat on his paw until I say "Ok, take it." Good boy!

So that's the way it is: disappointments, setbacks, bad days, shit happens. But somehow I adjust, I rise to challenges, I find ways to be happy, and life goes on.

Work in progress: Our Lady of the Shitty Days

But it's not going well. I'm learning that it takes a lot more than a mustache and a monobrow to turn a meek, mild, doughy gray virgin with downcast eyes into the glorious and forthright Frida. Stay tuned for further updates as my masterpiece evolves...

Dolly Louise joins me in a rousing round of the hokey pokey. Who can stay glum for long around here!

Almost

2007-07-11T15:31:00.001-04:00

You know what? It was almost worth everything: worth getting cancer, and nearly dying, and going through chemo hell, and losing my house and my savings and especially my beautiful muscles, the whole shebang, just so I could experience that single gloriously august moment this morning when I was getting out of my car at the grocery store and a woman getting into the car parked next to mine happened to glance through my rear window, and upon seeing the enormous concrete Virgin reclining on my back seat turned to me and said, "Yeah, some days a little plastic one on the dashboard just won't do the trick, will it?"

Seriously, I mean this close to being worth it.

Go Ahead and Die!

2007-07-11T10:57:00.000-04:00

I Was A Ninety-Pound Weakling

2007-07-10T12:45:00.000-04:00

I hate not having my big beautiful muscles anymore. It's not all about vanity, though I'm certainly not in love with the way these scrawny little pipe cleaner arms look right now. What I really hate the most is being weak, too weak to be useful, too weak to be independent, too weak to do the things I really need to do.

For example. I got it into my head recently that I wanted to buy a bunch of concrete Virgin Marys and paint and decorate them to make them look like Frida all decked out in her various self-portraits. Fun little craft project! Besides, every tiny shack needs a bunch of colorful festive virgins lurking around in its corners. So I went to the little nursery in downtown Deep Inferno and purchased myself a 36" tall statue of the Blessed Mother With Sacred Heart, to be the first of my Fridas.

The guy at the nursery loaded her into my car for me, and you know, it never even occurred to me that I'd have trouble getting her out when I got home. Back in the day, which is to say exactly one year ago, I could have easily tossed her over my shoulder and toted her to hell and back without batting an eye. But now? I can't even budge her. Not one stupid inch.

So now I have this damn virgin lying supine on my back seat, her hands outstretched, eyes aglow, and heart bursting out of her flat little chest like an eighth grader on her very first car date.

Our Lady of the Back Seat

And she'll have to stay back there, riding around with me on my various errands, until next week when Mr. Oscar Lewis, my elderly yard helper, comes to clean the back fence. Mr. Oscar Lewis's claim to fame is that he doesn't catch poison ivy, so his services are much in demand around these parts. The evil stuff grows on my fence like kudzu, and I dread that the dogs will roll in it and bring it inside to me. Anyway, between the two of us, me and the elderly Mr. Oscar Lewis, we might be able to lug her into the kitchen so I can start painting.

So you see? This is why I wish to hell I could have this hideous port taken out, so I can start working out again and rebuild my strength. I could have done five or six virgins by now.

Ah well. Meanwhile, the multi-colored Crape Myrtles along my fence are starting to bloom, and in spite of the nonstop rain my poor little flower bed is blooming like crazy and finally starting to fill in. Until the hideous port is out, all I can do is focus on building inner strength. Too bad there's not a competition to see who can bench press the most bad-news biopsies, brutal bankruptcies, and bastardly boyfriends. I've always wanted to win a trophy.

Crape Myrtles along fence

Poor little flower bed

Pipe cleaner arms

'How can this be happening to me?'

2007-07-05T20:31:00.000-04:00

This is an oldie from The Onion but I still love it so much. If you haven't had your daily guffaw, check it out: Man With Friend With Cancer 'Going Through A Rough Time'

Dog Is Great, Dog Is Good

2007-07-04T16:22:00.000-04:00

Thanks so much everyone for the kind supportive comments after my port debacle yesterday. I'm feeling better today. It's amazing--and a little alarming--how much comfort and joy I derive from my blog and my dogs. Alarming because I worry that I'm in increasingly deep doo-doo danger of becoming one of those crazy old dog ladies who totally eschews non-virtual human companionship.

When I came home from the hospital yesterday I was totally exhausted, angry, defeated, and on the verge of tears. But my dogs were just so unabashedly overjoyed to see me! They didn't berate me for not being assertive enough, they didn't blame me for being such a loser, they didn't yell at me for crying, they didn't threaten to leave me because my life is too fucked up. And hey, neither did y'all!

My dogs have never once recoiled with repulsion at the sight of my port, and they don't remind me daily that I'm no longer attractive. They were just there for me yesterday when I needed them, happy and waggy and lovey-dovey, comforting me with their silly goofy grins and big wet kisses. Not for one minute were they critical or judgmental or irritated at my many failings. Why the hell is it so hard for some people to be like that?

The port that won't go away

Anyway, the dogs and the kind comments got me through a rough night, and today I'm feeling ok again. So I still didn't get my hideous port removed. But at least it wasn't a life-threatening failure on the part of the System. And I hate to complain because I know many of the other folks waiting with me yesterday had bigger hardships than I did. Quite a few of them had to leave after waiting six hours or more, before they even saw a doctor. Some had obligations like picking up kids at daycare; others had to catch the last bus because if they missed it they'd have no way to get home. One woman had to leave because she had her 36-year-old Down syndrome daughter in tow and the daughter was starting to have a serious meltdown from the long crowded wait.

And by leaving these people totally forfeited their appointment, so they'll have to wait several months for another one. Which means they'll have no choice but to go that hellhole of an emergency room to wait 12-15 hours if they need help with infected incisions or excruciatingly painful stumps.

This system totally sucks.

Speaking of which, how many of y'all have seen Sicko? I haven't, because as I said in comments, it will probably get to Netflix long before it's ever shown in a theater within 90 miles of Deep Inferno. But I've been hoovering reviews and really looking forward to the various dialogs it's bound to open. Though I know it's inevitably going to unleash an angry backlash from the fully insured who are afraid that any improvements for the less fortunate will mean they might have to relinquish some of their healthcare privileges.

And sure enough. A couple of days ago some folks were discussing Sicko on one of the online lymphoma boards I sometimes frequent. I was pretty shaken by some of the comments. For example, I quote:

"I have no desire to see it. The health care in the US is the best in the world. We are free to seek the opinions and treatment from any institution anywhere. Many here can attest to seeking opinions from sources in MD anderson, Mayo, Sini, and the list goes on. People from other contries come here when their state controlled Health care fails them.

I know I come across as a hard ass on some threads but I honestly have compassion for the terible choices we all face. The money it takes to develop the drugs we take are stagering. The drug companies test 1000s of drugs to find 1 that actually works. The cost to develop those drugs have to come from the users of those drugs. Thats the free market - profit incintive causes better drugs to be developed plain and simple.

People will pay for new cars, cable TV, Cell phones, vacations, starbuck coffee, ... and claim Health insurance is too much. But the fact is they see that the cost benifit of health insurance was just too far down on their list. Many (not all) are uninusred due to choice." [sic]

Sheesh. I guarantee you the miserable throng of uninsured people crammed in that drab airless waiting room at Our Lady of the Damned yesterday were not sipping raspberry mocha frappuccinos while they jingled their BMW keys and discussed upcoming vacations to the French Riviera.

What the hell planet is this person from? Dude: try being over 50, self-employed, low-income, with several preexisting conditions, and see if you can afford the skyrocketing premiums. And then there's the whole mess of being underinsured. Even if I'd been able to afford to hang on to the shitty little health insurance policy I had managed to qualify and pay through the nose for for five years until 18 months before I got sick, it wouldn't have covered more than maybe an eighth of my cancer expenses. I would still have ended up bankrupt.

Even on lymphoma "support" boards, there is contempt for the less fortunate. Or at best we're invisible. The moderator of one board routinely greets newcomers with advice to seek out top lymphoma specialists at top cancer centers, without a thought to those who can't possibly afford it. Not to mention those who can barely manage to arrange transportation to and from the nearest public charity hospital.

And whenever the topic turns to statistics and prognostics on one of the cancer boards, somebody is bound to trot out Steven Jay Gould's famous essay, The Median Is Not The Message. Gould survived for 20 years after he was given 8 months to live, and we are all expected to take great comfort in his conclusion:

"When I learned about the eight-month median, my first intellectual reaction was: fine, half the people will live longer; now what are my chances of being in that half. I read for a furious and nervous hour and concluded, with relief: damned good. I possessed every one of the characteristics conferring a probability of longer life: I was young; my disease had been recognized in a relatively early stage; I would receive the nation's best medical treatment; I had the world to live for; I knew how to read the data properly and not despair."

But what about those of us who aren't in the good half, who don't possess those magic characteristics for long life? Particularly those of us who won't "receive the nation's best medical treatment"? The general view on the "support" boards seems to be, "Whew! I got mine, so to hell with those poor bastards who fall on the wrong side of the dividing line." Which is one of the reasons I've never spent much time seeking "support" on those boards.

And speaking of contempt, here's a cute furry little anecdote. One of my low points in the nightmare that was yesterday came when the doctor was dismissing me and my tiresome problems with an indifferent wave of her hand. As I was leaving, I pointed to the sign that's on the door of every exam room, a list of Every Patient's Rights and Responsibilities. The number one Patient's Right at the very top of list is the right to "reasonable access to care."

"Do you call this 'reasonable'?" I asked, referring to either my six hour pointless wait or my six month fruitless quest to have the damn port taken out. She shrugged and said, "I'm sorry but it's not always possible."

"Then I suggest you take down the sign," I said. "If I don't really have the right to reasonable access to care, then don't advertise that I do."

She shrugged again and said smugly, "Well, you do always have the right to go elsewhere."

Oh don't I wish I had that "right." But she knows as well as I do that without insurance, even if I can pay out of pocket, private doctors and hospitals won't give me the time of day. They'll automatically turn me away, suggesting that I shuffle back over to Our Lady of the Damned. Without insurance, I have no "rights" whatsoever to anything other than the charity system.

Do you know what a slap in the face it is to realize that even your doctor has such utter contempt for you?

Give me dogs and blogs any day.

Your Tax Dollars At Work

2007-07-03T17:35:00.000-04:00

I arrived at the surgery clinic at Our Lady of the Damned at 9:30 this morning for my 10:00 appointment. It was 4:00 when I finally saw a doctor. I spent most of that six hour wait standing because the clinic was so packed that those of us who had two legs stood so those with one or none could have the chairs. I couldn't read, or knit, or do anything except stare into space for six long dead hours. I couldn't even leave to get lunch because if they called my name and I wasn't there I'd lose my appointment.

At 4:00 I finally saw a doctor, the rudest MD I've ever encountered which believe me is saying a lot. And it turned out I'd been sent to the wrong damn surgery clinic: port removals are at the minor surgery clinic, not the family practice surgery clinic where my appointment was. So now I'm back to square one. Again. The minor surgery clinic is booked through the end of August, so it won't be any time soon. Maybe I'll have my port taken out in September or October. Or maybe they'll just keep giving me this assinine run around until I go insane with frustration and impotent rage. Which is pointless because the psychiatric beds are all booked solid through 2027.

Excuse me, I'm long overdue for collapsing on the bed and crying myself to sleep.

Schmutzie Love

2007-07-03T07:24:00.000-04:00

I'm leaving in a couple of hours to head down to Our Lady of the Damned for my hideous port removal surgery, but first I'd like to ask y'all to do me a big favor while I'm gone. Head over to Schmutzie's place and hold her virtual hand. She's having surgery today too, but hers is a lot bigger and scarier than mine. And hers is going to save her life. Please hold her in your thoughts today. Thanks.

The Big Day

2007-07-02T12:17:00.000-04:00

So today is my last day sporting this hideous port. I'm scheduled to have it plucked out tomorrow morning at 10:00. Damn, it will be such a huge relief to have this horrible thing removed from my body. I hate the way it looks, I hate the way it feels, I hate the way it aches when I move, I hate the way my straps rub raw against it, I hate that I can't workout or lift weights with it, I hate going down to the hospital every four weeks to have it flushed out with saline solution. I hate the very idea of having a creepy foreign body implanted in my chest wall. And I especially hate the way it brands me: Person With Cancer.

I know there are lots of people who love their ports, who barely notice them, who keep them for years. I would wager that most of these folks are plumper than I am. Lean people tend to feel more pain and discomfort from their ports. Our skin has to stretch tautly over the protrusion, and our ports are more hideously visible. We don't have enough adipose tissue to anchor them firmly in place so they slide around which can be extremely irritating. But none of the doctors I spoke to in my campaign to have the damn thing removed seemed to be aware of this distinction. The chemo nurses, of course, are well aware of the difference.

Anyway, it's not going to be a big deal surgery. I don't need to bring a designated driver, and I'm allowed to eat breakfast before my appointment. The procedure is performed under a local anesthetic and should take about 45 minutes (though there will certainly be a two to four hour wait for it to start). Then they'll stitch me up, tape me together, and send me home a Brand New Normal Person again!

Of course I'm acutely aware that there's an unpleasantly high chance that I'll have to turn right around and have it put back in again, if my August scans don't bode well, or if my daily checks suddenly reveal an enlarged node. I wish they had taken it out when I first asked, back in April, so I could have spent the last three months working out and building up my stores of lean body mass, replacing the muscle and bone I lost during chemo so I'll be stronger if I do need to go through treatment again. Because if there is a next round of treatment, believe me it's going to make the first round look like a Sunday picnic in the park.

But even knowing how disconcertingly high the odds are that I'll need a new port someday, I'm still so exceedingly happy about having this one taken out tomorrow, I'm about to explode with joy! Stay tuned for magnificently gory suture pics.

Pupside-down dog

Ridiculously happy person

It's Boyfriend Thursday!

2007-06-28T10:50:00.000-04:00

So now Superman has decided that Dolly is the Queen of Louisiana and he's going to follow her everywhere she goes and do whatever she does. Dolly has a little bed beneath my desk where she sleeps while I'm working. So guess who decided HE has to sleep under my desk all day TOO? And guess who is now trying to type this with her legs twisted and feet squished way off to one side because there's not one single iota of floor space for me to put them?

Big ol' Doofus!

Guarding his Queen

Waiting for the burglars

Sit, stay

Down, stay at a distance. Good boy!

Napping with the girls

The Prince on his throne

And à propos of nothing else, here's some Cajun Hibiscus blooming in the window box just outside the clawfoot tub. Life is good!

Shorn!

2007-06-25T16:29:00.000-04:00

Big News: Today I went to the barber and had my hair cut. This was my first real post-chemo haircut, other than that very light trim over the ears I did myself a month or so ago.

Don't get me wrong, I love my hair dearly, and I'm just so glad to have it back, I will never complain about it. But honestly, I was so #@*%! frustrated with it because it was growing in too thick and fluffy, too puffy and wooly, exactly like the texture of an elderly sheep. I would have been ecstatic if it looked like Malcolm Gladwell, but it was looking a whole lot more like Phil Specter. Or like one of those prim pouffy old lady perms. I tried fooling around with various spiking gels and waxes and curl products, but nothing had any damn effect on it whatsoever. It was never going to look even remotely hip.

So I finally gave up and went to Cynthia the barber. Here's what she did:

Before: pouffy like sheep.

After: more like a very sleek llama.

Llama-head close-up. I kind of like it.

In other Very Exciting News: I FINALLY got an appointment to have my hideous port removed! I report to the surgery clinic on the morning of July 3rd. Then I'll rush out and celebrate my brand new independence with fireworks. Unless my head explodes with happiness first.

You know, I was talking to a friend on the phone this morning. We chatted a good while, and then right before we hung up he said, "Oh by the way, how's your health?" And I sat there for an instant drawing a blank. Health? Huh? And then: Oh. Right. That. Shit, I had forgotten all about it! I guess that's a pretty good sign, don't you think?

Bettah Off At Last

2007-06-23T19:36:00.001-04:00

This is a difficult post for me, but it's something I've been needing to get off my chest.

Yesterday when I was describing my harrowing experiences in the ER waiting room at Our Lady of the Damned last summer, I found myself starting to write the following sentence: "I've been in pain, terrified, alone, crying, unable to breathe..." And then I stopped, and went back, and deleted the word alone. Because technically, I wasn't alone. There was somebody waiting at the hospital with me: the man who claimed to love me, the man who claimed he wanted to marry me and spend the rest of his life with me. And yet, when I look back, my predominant memory of those long miserable nightmarish waits for medical help are of being starkly, surpassingly, heartbreakingly alone.

He was there, but at the same time he wasn't. During those waits, he was almost always completely absorbed in his own resentment, angry, furious, bursting at the seams with rage. He was ostensibly mad at "the system," but ultimately he took it out on me, and blamed me for everything that was going wrong.

During those long tense waits, while I gasped for breath and braced myself to fight what doctors then suspected was advanced and probably terminal lung cancer, he never once smiled or reached over and held my hand, or offered kind words of comfort and encouragement. He never showed any empathy or compassion for me or my fears. He just sat and fumed and glowered, grumbled and stewed. Occasionally he would snap at me in annoyance, then retreat back into cold distant silence, reading his book or wandering off in search of a vending machine. When we were finally back in the privacy of home after 12 horror-filled hours, he would explode in a cold icy fury, storming around, seething with blame, yelling at me and threatening to leave me until I was lying on the floor sobbing, with no more will to go on living.

"You're so lucky to have him," people would say. "Not many men stand by their women in times of grave life-threatening illness like he is. It's probably just the Prednisone that's making you so moody and unstable. Maybe you should see a therapist. You know, it's actually harder for the caretaker to go through a situation like this than it is for the patient."

Lord help me Jeezis, I felt like I was losing my fucking mind.

But you know what? I could have saved myself a bundle in therapy bills if only somebody had given me a copy of Why Does He Do That? Inside the Minds of Angry and Controlling Men by world-renowned authority on domestic violence and abuse Lundy Bancroft. Damn, I wish I'd known about this book a year ago. Or better yet, three years ago. Or hell, thirty years ago! It sure would have saved me a lot of grief.

So wait, sure there were some bad moments, but there were also good times, plenty of them. So, I mean, abuse? Was this really an abusive relationship, you ask? That's an awfully loaded word.

It is. And you know, I had always prided myself in believing I would never stay ten minutes in an abusive relationship. Not me. I would not put up with anyone who ever laid a hand on me, or called me a bitch to my face, or anything like that. But what I learned from this book is that abuse can take many subtle insidious forms. It's not just about hitting or name-calling.

According to Bancroft:

I have chosen to use the term abusers to refer to men who use a wide range of controlling, devaluing, or intimidating behavior. In some cases I am talking about physical batterers and at other times about men who use or insult their partners but never frighten or intimidate them. Some of the men I describe in the pages ahead change moods so drastically and so often that a woman could never feel sure what they are like, much less attach a label. Your partner may be arrogant, or may play mind games, or may act selfishly over and over again, but his better aspects may make you feel that he is miles away from being an "abuser." Please don't let my language put you off. I have simply chosen the word abuser as a shorthand way of saying "men who chronically make their partners feel mistreated or devalued."

But how could I have been so blind as to not realize I was being subjected to abuse? Read on:

One of the obstacles to recognizing chronic mistreatment in relationships is that most abusive men simply don't seem like abusers. They have many good qualities, including times of kindness, warmth, and humor, especially in the early days of the relationship. An abuser's friends may think the world of him....So when a woman feels her relationship spinning out of control, it is unlikely to occur to her that her partner is an abuser.

Most abusive men put on a charming face for their communities, creating a sharp split between their public image and their private treatment of women...They are drawn to power and control and part of how they get it is by looking good in public.

So how can I know it was abuse?

The symptoms of abuse are there, and the woman usually sees them: The escalating frequency of put-downs. Early generosity turning more and more to selfishness. Verbal explosions when he is irritated or when he doesn't get his way. Her grievances constantly turned around on her, so that everything is her own fault. His growing attitude that he knows what is good for her better than she does...

At times he is aggressive and intimidating, his tone harsh, insults spewing from his mouth, ridicule dripping from him like oil from a drum. When he's in this mode, nothing she says seems to have any impact on him, except to make him even angrier. Her side of the argument counts for nothing in his eyes, and everything is her fault. He twists her words around so that she always ends up on the defensive....

But he would never call it abuse! In fact, he often denied all the cruel things he'd said and done. According to Bancroft:

The partners ask me: "After an incident, it seems like he really believes the abuse didn't happen. Is he consciously lying?" The answer in most cases is yes. Most abusers do not have severe memory problems. He denies his actions to close off discussion because he doesn't want to answer for what he did., and perhaps he even wants you to feel frustrated and crazy.

He'll speak to you with his voice trembling with anger, or he'll blame a difficulty on you, or he'll sulk for two hours, and then deny it to your face. You know what he did--and so does he--but he refuses to admit it, which can drive you crazy with frustration. Then he may call you irrational for getting so upset by his denial.

Abusive men present their own stories with tremendous denial, minimization, and distortion of the history of their behaviors.

An abuser almost never does anything that he himself considers morally unacceptable. He may hide what he does because he thinks other people would disagree with it, but he feels justified inside...In short, an abuser's core problem is that he has a distorted sense of right and wrong. The abuser's problem lies above all in his belief that controlling or abusing his female partner is justifiable.

Bancroft describes different types of abusers, and several of these punched me right in the solar plexus, they were so accurate:

Mr. Right considers himself the ultimate authority on every subject under the sun: you might call him "Mr. Always Right." He speaks with absolute certainty, brushing your opinions aside like gnats. When Mr. Right decides to take control of a conversation, he switches into his Voice of Truth, giving the definitive pronouncement on what is the correct answer or the proper outlook. Abuse counselors call this tactic defining reality.
The Water Torturer tends to stay calm in arguments using his own evenness as a weapon to push her over the edge. He often has a superior or contemptuous look on his face, smug and self-assured...like Mr. Right, he tends to take things she has said and twist them beyond recognition to make her appear absurd. He gets to his partner through a slow but steady stream of low-level emotional insults. She may end up yelling in frustration, leaving the room crying, or sinking into silence. The Water Torturer then says, "See, you're the abusive one, not me. You're the one who's yelling and refusing to talk things out rationally. I wasn't even raising my voice." The psychological effects of living with the Water Torturer can be severe.
The Player is good looking and often sexy. In the early part of the relationship he seems head over heels in love and wants to spend as much time in bed as possible ...As the relationship progresses, he may start to go for long periods giving his partner next to no attention and barely speaking to her, so she feels shelved.
Rambo is aggressive with everybody. He gets a thrill out of the sensation of intimidating people and strives to handle life situations by subtly or overtly creating fear. He has an exaggerated stereotypical view of what a man is supposed to be, which goes hand in hand with seeing women as delicate, inferior, and in need of protection.

Ok, so maybe he was abusive. But he kept telling me how much he loved me! Uh-huh. Bancroft has this say:

The reality is that abuse is the opposite of love. He may feel a powerful desire to receive your love and caretaking, but he only wants to give love when (and how) it's convenient for him.

When an abusive man feels the powerful stirring inside that other people call love, he is probably largely feeling:

The desire to have you devote your life to keeping him happy with no outside interference.
The desire to have sexual access.
The desire to impress others by having you be his partner.
The desire to possess and control you.

But a few days or weeks after his outbursts, he would apologize. Doesn't this prove he was truly sorry? Bancroft counters:

The good news is that remorse is often genuine; the bad news is that it rarely helps. Abusers have numerous contradictory attitudes and beliefs operating simultaneously in their minds. When a man feels sorry for his abusive behavior, his regrets collide with his entitlement.

His remorse is not primarily focused on the way his verbal assault wounded his partner. What he feels bad about mostly is: (1) He damaged his image in other people's eyes; (2) he offended his own sense of how he would like to be; and (3) he feels he should be able to control his partner without resorting to abuse... In a day or two his guilt is vanquished, driven out by his internal excuse-making skills. The effects of the incident last much longer for the abused woman, of course, and pretty soon the abuser may be snapping at her: "What, aren't you over that yet? Don't dwell on it, for crying out loud." His attitude is, "I'm over it, so why isn't she?"

Is there no hope whatsoever? Can men like this ever change? Bancroft isn't optimistic:

My fifteen years of working day in and day out with abusive men have left me certain of one thing: There are no shortcuts to change, no magical overnight transformations, no easy ways out. Change is difficult, uncomfortable work. The majority of abusive men do not make deep and lasting changes even in a high-quality abuser program. An abuser who does not relinquish his core entitlements will not remain non-abusive.

Bancroft lists a series of conditions that an abuser must meet in order to genuinely change, but I'm certainly not holding my breath. The main epiphany I got from this book was not hope that a man can mend his evil ways, but rather a huge sweeping sense of relief and freedom, from knowing that it wasn't all my fault and that I'm not crazy after all. It's such a liberating relief to finally have a name for what was going on, and a Witness who understands what I went through. I almost wondered if Bancroft had maybe gotten some kind of grant to follow me around throughout my cancer treatment, some of his examples were so eerily close to home.

Anyway, I am so much happier now that the abuser is completely out of my life. I feel lighter, freer, more relaxed, and I have so much more energy. Do you have any idea how draining and exhausting it was to be constantly contending with that nonstop stream of arrogance, criticism, control, contempt, denial, dismissiveness, defensiveness, deception, entitlement, grandiosity, hurtfulness, irritability, judgment, manipulation, narcissism, superiority, ...well, the list goes on. But I think Bancroft sums it up best with one word: devaluation. I've finally been able to shake off that deadening sense of being continually devalued.

Abuse is inexcusable under any circumstances, but may I just go on the record right now as saying that I sincerely hope there's a very special hot spot in hell for anyone who abuses, hurts, or devalues a person going through cancer treatment? Thank you.

Some relevant articles:

Not Always Strong

Lymphopo says: Shop till you drop!

Tales of the Damned

2007-06-22T20:30:00.000-04:00

I've spent way too many miserable hours in the filthy, overcrowded, understaffed, confusing, and heartlessly indifferent waiting room at Our Lady of the Damned. I've been in pain, terrified, crying, unable to breathe, carrying chest x-rays and CT scans that showed a huge malignant mass pressing against my lungs and heart, squeezing my superior vena cava and cutting off my circulation, causing my face to swell and turn blue.

This is technically, in every possible sense of the word, a bona fide hair-on-fire Medical Emergency. And yet I've sat in that damn waiting room like that for eight or nine or even ten hours. More than once. I've sat there totally forgotten, my charts lost or inaccessible, waiting all night to see a new inexperienced incompetent sleep-deprived resident who barely speaks English and doesn't have a clue how to treat me and finally fucks up by sending me off into the dawn with an incorrectly written, unfillable prescription so the whole long wait was for naught. And I've watched the other people around me go through similar horrors. Let me assure you, it's the total shits. As bad as it gets.

So as a result of what I've been through myself and witnessed others going through in the brutal arena of a public hospital ER, the recent story in the news about the woman who died on the ER floor of a Los Angeles public hospital while indifferent medical staff stepped over her body and a janitor mopped the blood that was pooling around her does not shock me at all. But it does scare the living crap out of me. Because I've come much too close for comfort to being in this situation myself and may do so again, but also because every fucking time something like this happens, there are inevitably threats to shut down the entire public hospital system. And then where the hell would poor and uninsured people like me go?

From today's Chicago Tribune:

The shocking audiotape of the 911 call suggests the dispatcher had no idea what to do when she received a call last month from the boyfriend of Edith Isabel Rodriguez. As he pleaded with the dispatcher to send paramedics to her aid, Rodriguez lay on the floor, in pain, throwing up blood. The dispatcher was flummoxed, though, because the policy of "take the patient to the closest hospital" didn't apply. Rodriguez was already in the emergency room lobby of Los Angeles' inner city Martin Luther King Jr.-Harbor Hospital.

Shortly after another bystander made a second futile 911 call imploring paramedics to take Rodriguez to another hospital, she died of a perforated bowel. A security videotape, still unreleased to the public, is said to show her writhing on the hospital floor unattended for 45 minutes. At one point, the tape reportedly shows a janitor going about his business mopping the floor around her.

And according to the LA Times:

Unfortunately, there are no simple solutions to tragedies such as that of Edith Isabel Rodriguez. When the facts emerge her death likely will be due to a combination of administrative incompetence, medical and nursing negligence, bureaucratic indifference and emergency room overcrowding. The last is a particularly vexing problem across the country. Emergency room overcrowding is usually a result of a dysfunctional primary care system, a problem not unique to Los Angeles. Too many people forced to visit the emergency room for primary care renders the emergency room not only inconvenient, but occasionally dangerous. It may be worse in the public sector, but patients often have to wait a long time in fancy private emergency rooms too.

Without a fundamental restructuring of primary care, emergency rooms will continue to serve as the clinic of last resort, a situation that benefits no one. As a result of the Rodriguez case, King-Harbor is in for rigorous scrutiny. Federal officials have concluded that King-Harbor's emergency room patients are in "immediate jeopardy" and threatened to withhold funds from the hospital until reforms are instituted. Because of past problems, there is even a chance the hospital may close. If so, it will be another nail in the coffin of the American public hospital system that for decades represented the best and worst of our society. The best because it took care of those the system otherwise ignored. The worst because of the incompetence and indifference that cost the lives of Edith Isabel Rodriguez and others like her.

I've looked into the eyes of indifferent bureaucrats and hostile politicians, and I've seen how little my life is worth. Stories like this one confirm it.

New Inventory In Ye Olde Booke Shoppe

2007-06-21T15:16:00.000-04:00

Hey! I've been adding some new stuff to my Deep Inferno Trading Post, and I just thought I'd send y'all a heads up about some of my faves that you might like to check out.

If you're one of those people whose moods are highly sensitive to your surroundings, if you're more interested in expressing your True Self than putting on a show to impress other people, and if looking at my irreverently demented home decor didn't drive you to jab icepicks through your corneas, then you might enjoy My Prescription for Anti-Depressive Living by the exuberant potter and designer Jonathan Adler.

Jonathan says:

"My hope is to give you, cher readeur, a transfusion of joy, abandon, and creativity in decorating your home. Adulthood can make you too serious. Modern technology can burn you out. Daily routines can make you give up on your dreams of grandeur. There are remedies for these ailments, and the remedies are at your fingertips, with the help of Moi, some courage, and pluck. Your home can be the antidote to the heartaches and traumas of everyday life.

I want you to walk in your front door every day and feel happy."

Typical anti-depressive decorating advice from Jonathan Adler:

Minimalism is a bummer: Be immoderate and be happy!
Your home should be like a good dose of Zoloft.
Just because clowns are creepy doesn't mean you shouldn't put one over your fireplace.
Colors can't clash.
Exude exuberance, be inappropriate, make mischief, liberate your inner hippie, love what you love, be true to yourself.

"When you have your picture taken, rent a white poodle and eat Froot Loops--they're more photogenic than oatmeal."

The book is filled with wonderful and wry little Adlerian anecdotes:

"Recently, Simon and I surveyed our New York pad and thought smugly, 'This apartment is a three-dimensional expression of who we are as people, and the art choices are perfect. Could we be more brilliant?' Then, as we looked around, we realized that all of the art featured funk icons or hetero soft-core porn.

Helen Keller could see that we are neither R&B musicians nor porn stars. The truth is, we are more like a couple of herbal tea-sipping grandmothers. We are blissfully content but rather vanilla. We don't drink, we're in bed by ten. Whence the art?

Your stuff (art, objets, furniture) can reflect sides of your personality that rarely see the light of day. Clearly, our idiosyncratic, if not louche, collections provide Simon and me with much-needed vicarious outlets."

But of course the blindingly gleeful photographs are the best part. I swear you can spend half a lifetime poring over this tome, and each time you'll notice delightful new details. Even if you can't afford to transform your beaten down shack by the railroad track into the majestic amusement parks of gay splendor these guys have created, you can still be inspired to dot your decor with entertaining little vignettes that make your heart break out in the Macarena every time you walk through the room. And that, in a nutshell, is the essence of Anti-Depressive Living.

Shakespeare goes to Paris in the bathroom.

Frog and turtle play chess while little Buddha ogles the boobs of Venus.

Happy alligator careens through the cookie jars in his souped up sharkmobile.

Three virgins recline on the bed.

Lymphopo says, check it out.

Naked Boyfriend On The Bed

2007-06-19T23:34:00.000-04:00

Ok, so B. Dagger Lee asked for naked boyfriend on the bed pics, and who the hell am I to deny her wishes? Here you go, BDL: just for you.

Boyfriend in the buff (except for his cool new Superman tag)

Dixie Rae only has eyes for Mr. Bingles the bear, but Dolly Louise thinks this new guy is really hot stuff.

A cozy threesome.

True love! He's just the biggest sweetheart ever.

Home Sweet Home

2007-06-15T19:31:00.000-04:00

So! Here I am, all shacked up. Today was the Wait Around For the Phucking Phone Company Day. The guy was supposed to be here to install my phone lines and DSL sometime between 8 am and 5 pm, but of course it was 5:40 when I finally got hooked up. But I guess I'm lucky he came at all: we had a MAJOR deluge this afternoon that washed my rent-a-husband clean over to the next parish. So where my walkway is supposed to go is now a deep pit of water and mud. The phone guy could have taken one look and driven off into the sunset too.

Anyway, he didn't and now I have a phone, and I have the internets back! Of course the very first thing y'all have to do is see the pictures of my new house.

Let me tell you, it was quite a challenge trying to fit my stuff in here. First thing I had to do was get rid of 90% of it. Can you imagine how hard and yet how utterly liberating that is, getting rids of 90% of your stuff? Rummaging through your clothes, your shoes, your books, your CDs, your dishes, your furniture, your miscellaneous detritus, and flinging nine out of ten items over your shoulder? Gah. But I did it.

Next I had to figure out how to arrange the 10% of stuff I had left in a way that didn't feel too cluttered and cramped. Since there are zero closets or cupboards in my shack, I had to figure out ways to stash and store not only day to day stuff, but also unsightly occasional stuff like suitcases, stepladders, garden tools, the vacuum cleaner.

Anyway, yadda yadda, let's just cut to the chase. Bring on the visuals! Here you have it, my cozy new casa. Let's start with the tiny compact living room.

This is looking into the living room from the bedroom. The two rooms are adjoined by French doors that I decided to keep permanently open, to make it almost feel like one big room. This gives each room more light and a nice open feel.

Small sofa with dogs. The coffee table is a clever repository for blankets and quilts.

This corner of the living room is my office. Where I am sitting right now! The drawers of the secretary are full of stuff. Um. Whoa, that was a great sentence.

Ok, moving along. There wasn't enough room for all the chairs, so the green one volunteered to go out on the front porch, an excellent spot for early morning train watching.

Now let's venture into the bedroom, where my bed takes up over half the space. There is an entire tool shed stashed beneath it.

The weed eater, the leaf blower, two suitcases and a pet carrier are hidden beneath the tv. That white curtain on the right is a closet that I built from a kit I bought at Target. It's sort of a cross between Tinker Toys and an erector set, with instructions that have been translated from Urdu into Japanese into Swahili into Norwegian and then finally into something vaguely resembling English. But look, so far it hasn't collapsed under the weight of my hanging jacket and skirt collection. I did something right.

You've already seen the bathroom, but since the last photos my stalwart young frat boys have managed to cram an amazing assortment of furniture in there.

It's sort of like the 800 clowns stuffed into a Volkswagen at the circus. Furniture everywhere!

And finally, what you've all been waiting for...

Ta-da! The kitchen. Gee, can you guess who lives here?

The china hutch earns its keep.

I had my rent-a-husband take the door off between the kitchen and the bedroom, since there's only one air condition unit and the bed would have to block the door closed. This way, the cool air can circulate. Note the classy Three Stooges refrigerator magnets, the hub around which my entire Anti-Pottery Barn decor theme revolves.

The other end of the long narrow kitchen, which I guess we could technically call "the dining room." I need a longer tablecloth so I can hide more items beneath that table.

Decorating on a shoestring: More fun with contact paper! This must be what people did before drawers and cupboards were invented.

Ok, there you have it, all four rooms plus the porch. Sorry if that was a little too much shack overload. But you know, I'm liking it. It's going to be very livable. I've been feeling quite happy here. Now the next step is to complete the sale of the other house. If all goes well, the closing is set for 10:00 Monday morning. Fingers crossed!

And damn, hello, it's nice to be back.

Where the Boys Are

2007-06-13T10:37:00.000-04:00

OMFG! They are NOT the big burly ex-convicts I was expecting, they are two adorable 12-year-old college kids with a Penske rental truck.

!!!!

Anyway, they are very sweet boys and they have instructed me to stop milling around amidst the chaos and stay out of their way. So here I am again.

I am mortified and horrified at the size and extent of the 7-year-old dust bunnies behind and beneath all my furniture. I vow to be a better domestic goddess from henceforth on out.

But look! See how I have helpfully placed labels on each item telling the young frat boys where it should go when they unload the truck.

There is no end to my helpfulness. "Please, Mrs. Lymphopo," the ladlets keep insisting. "Just sit down and relax. Let us take care of everything!"

But where the hell am I supposed to sit? All my chairs are already loaded onto their truck.

It's Another Stress-Free day in Deep Inferno

2007-06-13T08:46:00.000-04:00

Gppd mornign! It's moving day and I just wanted to tell you all that I am NOT STRESSED! I am typing this down on my knees on the floor because my desk has been cleared off for the movers (I'll take the computer over in my car later), but I AM NOT STRESSED!! I've been up since 4am running around ragged doing last minbute preparations, but IAM NO(T STRESSED!!! My back has gone out, I am lame and in pain, but I AM NOT STRESS!!!!

Oh, and get this: the City of Deep Inferno Dept. of Public Works is tearing up the damn street RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY HOUSE. The whole street is blocked off to traffic, and they've shut off the water for the enmtire neighborhood, BUT I AM NOT FUCKING STRESSED!!!!

No. This is not my problem, this street closure. The movers will deal with it. They are not only experienced professionals, they are BIG BURLY experienced professionals. They will plow their huge truck through the flimsy little road blocks, they will not be intimidated by the crew of scrawny civil servants with jkackhammers and backhoes. They will be here in ONE FUCKING HOUR (oh shit, I've got to hurry and take the dogs over to the vet where they'll be boarding for the day) and they WILL MOVE MY FUCKING STUFF.

No stress. Nope. I'ts a totally stress-free day here in teh land of second chances. Everything is going towork out just fine. Right? RIGHT???? Yeah, righht.

Bon voyage, we're off!!!

New sign on the new gate at the House Of No Stress

Moving Like A Maniac

2007-06-12T15:28:00.000-04:00

My apologies for being so scarce these days. I'm in the throes of crazy frenetic chaotic running around like a mad woman moving.

The actual moving day with the Burly Boyz and their big truck is tomorrow. But I've been slowly moving a few things in myself. You know, it kind of feels like I'm having an affair with my new house: I keep thinking up excuses to go over there and just hang out. I love it over there! Tonight is my last night in this house and I should probably be feeling sad, but all I feel is frenzied with too many things to do before the van gets here, and happily eager to move on.

So look at the new place! It's starting to look like somebody actually lives there:

Check out the doorbell, it's a cast iron steam engine with an authentic train bell. I got it on eBay.

My hunky handyman (or my Rent-A-Husband as I tend to think of him) has been fencing in the back yard for the dogs, installing new locks on the doors, building me a walkway, some gates, adding new electrical outlets, and a bunch of other helpful stuff. He also happens to be one of the best zydeco dancers in the state.

Anyway, I may be offline for a few days, because BellSouth or AT&T or whoever they are this week can't come out and hook me up in the new house until Friday. Until then, you may all amuse yourselves by reading the best cancer blog ever (thanks to Corey for the pointer!). Beautiful, heart wrenching prose. And oh what I would have given to have had a partner that kind and thoughtful and perceptive and understanding throughout the whole hellish ordeal. The birthday post especially kicked me in the gut. I cried on my birthday during chemo too, it was pretty close to the worst day of my life. Go read Follow Lingling as She Gives Lymphoma a Beatdown. The world needs more of these eloquent voices that fearlessly tell the unspeakable truth.

See you in a few days!

It's A Bird, It's A Plane...

2007-06-07T14:57:00.000-04:00

I drove over to Baton Rouge this morning and met my new boyfriend. His foster mom brought him to the PetSmart, and I brought my little dogs so we could see how they reacted to each other.

When they first met they cautiously sniffed each other in the appropriate manner and milled around a little checking things out. As soon as they were convinced that nothing was untoward, they quickly lost interest in each other. The foster mom and I stood in the Kong ailse and talked and observed, and pretty soon a small crowd had gathered around. Women were emitting high-pitched coos at the cute little doglets, imagining how fancy they'd look riding around in an Hermes bag, while men were admiring the big guy with intese and overt testosterone envy, as if he were some big expensive penis extension they'd be proud to wag around the streets of their hood.

All three dogs exhibited excellent social skills and tactful restraint, politely ignoring the embarrassing onlookers. We watched as a few other dogs approached the big guy, including a tiny 3-week old Jack Russell that definitely should NOT be out in public since she was too young for her Parvo shots. Arg. But it was helpful because she tried to clamber all over the big man's ankles, which had to be annoying, and he just looked the other way. Good boy! I was totally impressed with his tolerant manners.

So we all passed our tests with flying colors, and I'll be bringing him home the week of the 17th, once I'm all settled into the shack and have the fence secured. Yay!!!

His name is Superman. Here he is being a perfect gentleman, ignoring the ditzy little rug rats with that typical Doberman aloof dignity. He spent Katrina all alone, chained up to a basketball goal in the 9th Ward. After the storm was over but before the levees broke, some kind neighbors untied him and took him with them when they evacuated to safety in Alabama. His original owners were fianlly located, but they no longer wanted him. So Superman ended up with the Doberman rescue group, waiting for me to come fall in love him.

Yes, of course I wore black pants, and yes, of course he leaned against me like Dobies do when they like somebody. Tip of the day: Rush out immediately and buy shares in the Pet Hair Pic-Up Adhesive Roller Company; over the next few weeks, their stock is guaranteed to soar.

Shmookums! My boyfriend! From now on, just call me Lois Lane.

My Day At The Prom

2007-06-05T20:09:00.000-04:00

So I spent the morning over at Our Lady of the Damned today, my first appointment at the oncology clinic since early February. This was just a routine follow-up thing, the kind that cancer patients with private health insurance do every two or three months. Over at Damned General, they only manage to squeeze us in every six months. Whether we're still alive or not.

What a flashback! Ah, that old familiar three hour wait in the crowded room full of people coughing up their lungs. I opted to wait outside in the hot midday sun when I overheard the guy next to me tell somebody on his cell phone that they're testing him for TB.

When they finally called my name, I was happy to see that they'd assigned me to my favorite resident, the really smart one who actually sits down and talks to me and listens to me, who remembers my name and laughs at my jokes. He walked in the room and stopped dead in his tracks, and just stood there gaping at my new blonde hair and my big healthy smile. Speechless! And then he burst into this huge grin and just shook his head back and forth in wonder. And then for the longest time, all he could manage to say was, "WOW."

Shit, I think the last time a guy looked at me like that was when Michael O'Brady picked me up for the junior prom in 1971 and I was wearing that dress that almost got me kicked out of school.

Anyway. We he was finally coherent, we had a talk about maintenance Rituxan. He said I was supposed to start it next week, but I reached in my purse and whipped out a sheaf of recent studies published in the Journal of Clinical Oncology indicating that maintenance Rituxan provides no benefit after R-CHOP in patients with high-grade lymphoma. No benefit, and there are potentially gnarly side effects.

He gave me the same look the guys at the gym used to give me whenever I bench pressed two Volkswagens, one in each hand, and said, "Ooohh-kay. Let me go talk to my boss." And when he came back a minute later he stuck a gold star on my forehead and wryly told me I got an A+ in advanced oncology for the semester. "Aw shucks," I said modestly. "I only have ONE disease to learn about. Y'all have millions."

Then he announced I will have my second post-chemo CT scan in August (private insurance patients have PET scans at least every three months but oh well). I spent another three minutes listing sound medical reasons, complete with references and footnotes, why I should have my hideous port taken out asap, because it turns out that only an oncologist can approve port removal. The cute surgeon who approved it in May didn't seem to know that.

And then we said good-bye, the nice young resident and I. "I'll probably never see you again," he said, "because like you, I'm graduating and moving on." So we shook hands and congratulated each other and wished each other long bright shiny futures. As he was walking out he suddenly stopped and turned around and smiled at me. "You know," he said, "this line of work can be incredibly depressing and discouraging sometimes. But when I walk in here and see how you look today, compared to how you looked a few months ago, that's the big payoff. It makes everything worth it."

So I left beaming, feeling all squishy and sappy inside, though also slightly guilty when I passed the sad sick chemo people waiting in line in the hall. It felt unseemly to be beaming that hard in front of them, because I remember so well what it was like to be them. Anyway, I know this was just an eyeball assessment, and the real test of how healthy I am will be the CT scan in August. But still. I think I made his day, and he sure as hell made mine. Whatever shows up in August, I feel good today, and I feel happy. And maybe, just maybe, if my young man is true to his word, I'm finally going to have this hideous fucking @#$!*&$ port taken out, SOON.

The author decked out in her snazzy prom attire du jour.

Before & After

2007-06-03T15:53:00.001-04:00

Actual moving day, the one that entails a very large van and a merry crew of able-bodied bonded & insured movers who whistle while they work and know the names of good chiropractors, will be sometime the week of June 11th. But meanwhile I've been going over to the shack several times every day, taking loads of stuff that will fit in my car. Smallish things like lamps and paintings and boxes of knickknacks.

This saves me the trouble of having to deal with bubble wrap and special moving boxes designed for fragile items. It's only 14 blocks from house to shack, and I can just pile stuff on the back seat without wrapping, as long as I avoid potholes. Anyway, I find myself constantly yearning to be over there and making all these little trips is just an excuse to go.

There's no real furniture yet but I've already stocked the shack with an electric tea kettle, a boom box, a roll of toilet paper, and a comfy lawn chair. What else does a body need to be happy?

I spent a few lovely hours over there today enjoying a good book, watching the trains go by, and listening to my favorite Sunday morning zydeco show on the radio. Also puttering in the garden, hanging curtains, and putting pictures on the walls. It's starting to feel more and more like home.

Behold the progress with your very own eyes:

Bathroom: Before. Note dead roaches all over the floor. Welcome to Louisiana!

Bathroom: After. Lysol is our friend. Once sanitation was achieved, we began to strive for that ever-popular decor trend, the elusive perfect blend of Paris Apartment meets NASCAR Event. There will eventually be two dressers and an armoire squeezed in here somewhere.

Behind that striped curtain on the left is a cleverly disguised makeshift broom closet, a place to invisibly store mops, brooms, swiffers, the vacuum cleaner, and other unsightly cleaning supplies. It's like living on a houseboat, or an Airstream. Or in a tiny little shack with zero closets. Every square inch must be put to use.

Flower bed: Before. Nothing but weeds and hard dried clay.

Flower bed: After. Can you even see the damn plants in this shot? They're still quite small, but so far they're thriving, and adding much-needed color to the barren landscape. The new plants should fill in and up over the next few weeks, forming a lush riotous Thomas Kinkadesque fantasy border. Unless I forget to water.

The long narrow flower bed is protected by the Greek god Pan, that horny cloven deity from whom we acquired the words panic, pandemonium, and possibly pancake makeup. Whether he keeps these qualities away from the shack or shepherds them in remains to be seen. Stay tuned and find out!

Welcome To The Hood

2007-06-01T20:14:00.000-04:00

I haven't even moved in yet, but already I've enjoyed strolling around my new neighborhood and hanging out with my very friendly new neighbors. These are some of the houses that surround my new shack. There are at least two bona fide mansions within spitting distance of my humble front porch! (We do love our porches down here.) I can see each of these lovely abodes out of at least one of my windows. I know the people in all but one of them, and at least two of them have swimming pools. Is this Deep Inferno's answer to Beverly Hills?

That cute little cottage with the picket fence is right next door to me, I can see it out my kitchen window. Huey lives there, another California transplant and zydeco dancer who moved here a few years after I did. We share a parking area and a landlord. See the chairs and tables on his front porch? Those used to be my porch furniture, until five days ago. I traded them to him for a compact refrigerator. Now I go over and have tea on his porch every morning. How enterprising was that?

I can also see the railroad tracks from every room in my house. Stay tuned for some serious freight train photography. When life gives you a lemon, I always say: turn it into a weird geeky obsessive hobby, and run like hell with it.

Granny Gets A Boyfriend

2007-06-01T09:50:00.000-04:00

Another big announcement already! Stop me if this just way too much excitement for you to handle.

Ok, now this is a big one, so you should probably turn on your mental drumrolls and fanfare sound effects: I'm about to get myself a brand new boyfriend. I'm going to adopt a male Doberman from the regional rescue society!

The reason for adopting from rescue rather than directly from a shelter is that they will carefully evaluate the dog's temperament. Obviously I can't risk taking in a big muscular male dog with a strong prey instinct that's going to be triggered by tiny dancing fluffballs. So I need to adopt from experienced dog savvy people who have lived and worked with the dog and know how he reacts to different situations.

Dobes are one of the Misunderstood Breeds. Many people assume they're all vicious killers. While it's true that they tend to be shrewdly intelligent, fiercely loyal, and highly protective of their person and home, they also tend to be great big doofussy love bugs and high-powered kissing machines. And I'm going to be sure that my new boyfriend is as doofussy, kissy, and love buggousy as possible. At the same time, I'm going to let that Misundertoodness work in my favor: who the hell in their right mind is going to mess with me or my shack with one of these magnificent creatures standing guard?

Aren't they beautiful? I had a heck of a time choosing one, so I let the rescue folks pick the one they thought would be a good match. The first one they selected for me is that last one, the beautiful albino guy. His foster mom is going to spend the next few days exposing him to as many small dogs as possible, to make absolutely sure he doesn't have an aggression problem with them. If it turns out he's not right for my situation, then we'll try one of the others.

A lot of these dogs are Katrina casualties who ended up homeless and wandering the streets after the storm, many of them extremely sick and emaciated. They owe their lives to the rescue angels. Many of them still have ongoing health issues. Albinos in particular tend to have a lot of health problems, and especially being susceptible to skin cancer they're not long lived. This might keep other potential adopters away, but not me. Health Issues R Us here at the Shack O' Second Chances! And we are all about the compassion for our fellow issuites.

So I'll keep y'all posted on the new boyfriend front, as developments develop. Keep your fingers crossed. And meanwhile, please support the animal rescue organization of your choice.

“The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated.” -Mahatma Gandhi

P.S.: Did it occur to you that committing to a new dog is an indication that on a very very deep level I now believe that I'm going to live for a while longer? Well, it occurred to me!

From the People Who Look A Little Too Much Like Their Pets Dept.

2007-05-30T18:42:00.000-04:00

Time for a random Hair Watch update! Almost five months since the last chemo:

I wanted it to look like Billy Idol, but it wants to look like Harpo Marx. And it won.

But don't the girls look fine with their new summer shavedowns? Maybe I should start getting my damn hair done at PetSmart too.

Important Announcements

2007-05-29T10:01:00.000-04:00

Good morning, Blogistan! Hope you all had a great weekend. I have several exciting announcements to make, in no particular order.

Let's see, I'll start with the grand opening of the Deep Inferno Trading Post. I have joined the Amazon.com Associates affiliate marketing program. This means that if you click over to my little emporium and buy something I recommend from Amazon.com, I can earn up to 10% in referral fees. My brilliant geeky son helped me set it up, built me a lovely front end, and voila: Ye Olde Book & DVD & Music Shoppe is ready to go!

There are many books, including a few cancer books, some juicy Louisiana fiction, and other good stuff that was fascinating enough to hold my microscopic attention span over the course of the last grueling year. Also a bunch of my favorite movies, and an entire section of Louisiana music. So check it out, browse around, and if you find something that intrigues you enough to make a purchase, you will be my best friend for life.

And then taking another baby step into the wonderful world of generating some income, I have started writing for a new web site called As We Are Magazine. So go check that out. The founder of As We Are, Trudi Evans, is a regular reader here, and she kindly invited me to start a new blog over there. I like her philosophy: "This magazine is dedicated to providing women with a forum to speak out and speak up. It is founded on the belief that we are good enough, as we are. Our hips don't need to shrink, our clothes don't need to look better, and we don't need a tan to improve the world. Here, we can analyze, empathize, and inspire true change in our societies."

So I decided to restart my old Granny Gets A Vibrator blog, running with the theme of "Middle-Aged Woman Bumbles Outside Her Comfort Zone; Hilarity Ensues." I'll be posting at least twice a week, running some old stuff, adding some new stuff, and seeing where it takes me. I'm suddenly really looking forward to writing that has nothing to do with cancer. Moving on!

I've also sold a few blog pieces to a health care web site, and I've been interviewed by a magazine that's doing a feature on cancer blogging, which might bring me some more helpful publishing contacts.

And I'm in the process of setting up an online personal trainer business, which will be called "Granny Gets A Six-Pack." I'll let you all know the very minute it's ready to go, probably in the next week or two.

Finally, there's a second tentative offer on the house. This one could fall through too, of course, but this time the buyers are fully aware of the wiring and roofing issues and insurance-fu right up front, and they made the offer "as is." So please keep your fingers crossed.

In other news, I got the key to my new shack over the weekend, and I've already planted a new garden. I'll be moving in a couple of weeks. It's been empty for several years, and it's filthy. I spent all day yesterday cleaning the kitchen: sweeping out truckloads of dead roaches, spider webs, and mouse droppings, then getting down on my lily white knees to scrub the floor with disinfectant. If I have time today, I'll start tackling the bathroom.

But in spite of the funk & filth, the place has a very cheery feel to it. The neighborhood is fabulous, and yesterday four people dropped by to welcome me to the hood. I love the sounds: rain on the tin roof, kids playing basketball in the vacant lot next door, and of course the trains. Every time a train goes roaring by I get all excited and run outside to watch, though I suppose that will probably wear off soon. But I don't know, I'm thinking I might become a serious train watcher. (One of my favorite movies ever, which you too can own, is The Station Agent.) I've been a circus train fanatic for 15 years, and the circus is coming to this neck of the woods in June, so I'm gearing up for some passion in that department. All in all, the new shack is looking very promising.

I think my desk is going to go in this corner, because I love to stare out the window when I'm supposed to be working.

Anyway. Between all these exciting new developments and the very kind generous donations readers made through my PayPal button, I'm feeling extremely optimistic for the first time in ages. Optimistic and happy. Wow, happiness: something I'd completely forgotten the meaning of. Finally, it's back! Thank you all!

Better Angels

2007-05-22T11:15:00.000-04:00

In my ongoing graitude to everyone who reads here, may I echo today's beautiful and true words from the magnificent brainhell:

the support group has brought out everyone's better angels. and if it is true, as my friend visiting from hawaii said, that many people love me, then it is just a reflection of the basic human impulse to GIVE ... to anyone halfway decent who is in need.

Thanks so much to all of you. As horrible as the news seems day after day, know that the world is still filled with goodness.

The Missing Weeks, Part 2

2007-05-22T10:19:00.000-04:00

Last week I posted some emails I sent to friends and family during the weeks between my diagnosis and the beginning of chemotherapy, back in the days before I had a blog. Here is the next set of emails, written after chemo had begun. There's an obvious change in my tone: the breezy bravado and upbeat humor fade dramatically as the treatment progresses, and are replaced with a frustrating mixture of painful desperate cries for help and a numb defeated withdrawal that wouldn't let anybody near. I cringe now when I reread them.

As The Tumor Turns: The Train Wreck Episode
October 11, 2006

Greetings Gang Members!

My wise advice du jour from Cancerland today is: don't get cancer.

Between TWO #$!*%$ surgeries on Monday (the second time an emergency SWAT team of surgeons from the radiology department had to be rushed in to retrieve a 6" piece of guide wire that broke off during the routine mediport installation--the damn thing, giddy with its sudden freedom, took off on an unauthorized and potentially lethal joy ride through my vascular system, until they finally detained it and took it into custody from a large vein in the top of my right groin) and today's satanic 6 hour chemotherapy session, I feel about like I've been run over by a freight train. More than once.

Besides not catching cancer, my assignment du jour today is for everybody to drop whatever you're doing right this minute and go make a tiara for J. He is the world's greatest support person and deserves tiaras by the shitload. He spent 8 hours at the hospital with me today, and on Monday 14 hours. In between feeding me ice chips and beating the crap out of the unfortunate surgeon who broke the guide wire, he managed to find time to use his movie star good looks and smooth southern charm to woo the nice lady at Our Lady of the Damned Social Services (Celina--make her some tiaras too while you have those rhinestones and hot glue guns out) into finagling some financial aid so my $4,000 per shot Neulasta is going to be absolutely free! Totally covered! They had to use extra sedation, several burly orderlies, and excessive restraint to keep me from dancing the happy happy joy joy dance all over the operating table when I heard that news.

And finally, a few nice words about Our Lady of the Damned. The emergency room there is a total hell hole, filthy and crowded and disorganized with 9 or 10 hour waits no matter how dire your condition. The oncology clinics are a mess too, 4 hours waits that are hideous obstacle courses through rude incompetent bureaucrats, hundreds of infectious patients, not enough chairs, and clogged up restrooms. The first floor of OLD is like some kind of worst nightmare reality survival show.

But when you get up to the fifth floor, which is where the same-day surgery and chemotherapy departments are, it's like you're suddenly on a different planet. You have now entered a luxury resort zone. The nurses all wear halos around their heads and Nobel Kindness awards on ribbons around their necks. Their only goal in life is to gang up and make you as comfortable and happy and well as possible. They will go to hell and back to get you an extra pillow, nuke your tea, bring you some ice chips, hang out and reassure you if you're anxious, calm your worries and do whatever it takes to make you smile and relax. Chemo is given in a nice clean private room with a crank up bed, a tv that turns off, a window with a view, and a clean private bathroom. They bend over backwards to make the experience as easy and pleasant as possible.

I guarantee you, there's not a zillionaire on earth who gets better care than I've gotten on the fifth floor Monday and today (and for my two previous biopsies). I know it almost sounds like a cliché to say the nurses are the true heroes, but I can tell you in all honesty: I believe it weren't for the nurses, we would all be dead right now. So while you've got the sequins and glitter out, make a few tiaras for the fabulous fifth floor nurses too.

I haven't thrown up yet, I've been taking Phenergan every few hours to stave it off, but they say tomorrow is the day the big vomit fest is most likely to hit. Right now I just feel like total shit that's been through the ringer a few times and back. And I look like shit too. I barely have the strength to type but I swear of one more person says "Oh how cute, you' got your scary Halloween costume on a few weeks early!" I'm going to muster just enough strength to undo all their expensive orthodonture. Also in the TMI department, I have a nasty bitter metallic taste in my mouth, and my pee is bright pink.

So don't forget, boys and girls: make those tiaras, and whatever you do, refrain from getting cancer!

Tons of love,

Liz (aka Mom)

October 24, 2006
As The Tumor Turns: The Taciturn Episode

Dearest Gang Members:

I'm sorry I've been so lax about sending out updates, but I seem to be going through a quiet phase. It's a GOOD, serene, if slightly dazed kind of quiet phase though, not a bad tragic terrorized paralyzed quiet phase. The first week after chemo was pretty rough, but now I'm actually feeling almost well again, the evil side effects have subsided, the extra 20 pounds of edema have drained away, and other than a persistent low white blood cell count, all is well here in Cancerland.

Because of the low WBC count, my immune system is compromised so I can't go anywhere that I'll be around people and their quotidian germs. So, alas, no Wal-Mart for me! I have to go to the hospital at least twice every week for blood tests and oncology appointments, so I have to wear a grim looking surgical mask in the waiting rooms.

The first time I wore the mask, I couldn't figure out why everybody was being so unfriendly. Did they think I was the one with the deadly communicable disease? But then, duh, it occurred to me: they can't see me smiling at them, so they don't smile back. As you can see from the attached photo, J. fixed that for me.

Nowadays my entire social life revolves around bonding with other cancer patients in the waiting room. It's just as well because nobody else wants to sit around and discuss mediports and vomit for hours at a time.

Other exciting news from the world of malignancy: I think my hair is going to come out tonight or tomorrow. For the past few days my scalp has been feeling really sensitive and itchy, and this morning it was finally started coming out in tiny clumps if I pulled it. I think I'm about as ready as I can be. Stay tuned for baldie pix.

My second round of chemo will be Wednesday, November 1st. Until then, I'm just lounging around enjoying the heck out of not feeling quite so sick. I have an enormous appetite for really plain, simple, nourishing food, and a deep longing for a quiet, simple, peaceful life with zero stress, controversy, or major decisions. I don't feel much like reading or writing or talking; I'm oddly content to just sit by a sunny window all day with my dogs, knitting and listening to Mendelssohn. In other words, chemo has turned me into a potted plant.

So here we are, one round of chemo down, seven more to go; current score is one to nothing, with me in the lead. Go me!

Stay tuned till the next time the tumor turns.

Love,

-Mom/Eliz.

No Title
November 7, 2006

Dear Gang Members:

I'll be frank with you: I am going insane. I mean seriously, deep depression, no more will to live type stuff. Cancer is bad enough, but add incarceration, isolation, loss of freedom and autonomy and strength and independence on top of that, and it's too much for me. I'm sorry. Something has got to change.

I survived my second treatment just fine on Wednesday; slept all day Thursday; Friday was brutal, hell on earth; I started to emerge on Saturday and even managed to walk downtown to the bank and back. Sunday was a bit better, yesterday I felt almost normal.

Except there I was trapped in the house with no life whatsoever. No one to talk to, no sense of agency or control over my days. I tried to be "a trouper" but all the forced passivity was too much for me. Depression swallowed me alive.

Last night after watching his tv for four hours, ignoring me all day, J. went to sleep at 8:30. And I went nuts. I tiptoed into my office so I wouldn't bother him and sobbed at my computer for ten minutes. But the claustrophobia of feeling trapped and housebound and all alone was so bad, I went out on the porch and sat in the rain and cold and sobbed out there for another ten minutes. I hated my life, hated myself, hated the whole thing. I was ready to call it quits.

But then suddenly I said: Fuck this shit, there is something totally WRONG with this picture. And maybe it's not me. While J. slept, oblivious as usual to my descent into despair, I got in my car and drove aimlessly around town with the radio blaring. It felt so stealthy somehow, yet liberating, like I was a teenager sneaking out in the night, or a convict breaking out of jail. J. never even noticed that I was gone. While I was driving the dark streets, crying and alone with nowhere to go, something inside me snapped. Something broke, I felt it. And I knew I had to change the way things have been going or I was going to blow my brains out.

I sent J. back to Baton Rouge today. I just can't take this whole business of life revolving around his tv programs all day then him turning in at 8:30 every night, with no actual human interaction between us. If I'm going to be trapped in the house, for god's sake let it at least be with somebody who will have conversations. At this point, I'd rather be alone.

I hate this. Our relationship has devolved to the point where there's nothing left but the babysitter-sittee dynamic. I might as well be his sick grandmother or something. He's stopped seeing me a a woman, as a lover, or even as a competent capable interesting adult. He goes through the moves, doing the caretakey things: he cooks for me between his favorite programs, he admonishes me to take my medications like I'm an incompetent child, he brings me my dinner in bed then goes back to watch more tv by himself, while I eat alone. And when he's had enough tv, he just turns off the light and goes to sleep, barely bothering to say good night. It's like the marriage from hell, where nobody talks. He seems so distant, exuding cold rational parental sternness except when he occasionally explodes with anger over some little thing. It's like in his mind he's been waiting so hard for me to die , that to him I've already died.

I've been so miserable and felt so alone. I actually feel much less lonely when he's gone than I do when he's here. And this hurts.

I also think all his "help" has been hurting me in a way too. I don't want him to keep doing things for me; I never did. What I really wanted was for him to just be here for me, to listen and care, be warm and kind and compassionate, not always running around fixing stuff like he's trying to avoid me. Besides I need to be doing more things for myself, even simple things like cooking and shopping and cleaning. I desperately need to get some semblance of a sane life back, to revive my old sense of independence and agency. I need to stop feeling like a helpless vegetative nonentity just lying around all the time.

In his efforts to protect me from germs, J. has turned into my jailer. I need to go out when I want to, even if it's just to see my therapist, get a massage, visit the acupuncturist, talk to friends, buy groceries, maybe even go to the gym once or twice a week. But he doesn't understand this, or he doesn't seem to care about how I feel. I understand why he's this way, he's reacting because his father died of an infection when he was sick with lymphoma. But I'm NOT his father. Do y'all understand? I need so much to be part of the world, I need A LIFE again. What's the point of fighting cancer if there's no life left to fight for? Yes, there is some risk of infection if my WBC count is low. But I'm very serious when I tell you that the risk of severe mental illness if I DON'T do these things is a thousand times higher, and more life threatening.

So today I'm going out to vote, then I have to drive myself down to Our Lady of the Damned for my biweekly blood draw. I'm going to call P. and make an appointment for a therapy session, and also see about calling Wendy for a massage. It looks like it's going to be a nice day, so this afternoon I may walk up to Miss Wanda's cafe. I haven't seen her in weeks, and I miss her. I may walk over to Benny's supermarket and pick up something for supper. If my blood counts are ok, tomorrow I may get over my fear of being bald in public and swing by the gym. I miss those guys like crazy.

So that's where I am now, desperately struggling to salvage some tiny shred of mental health, to find even a sliver of my lost self somewhere in the hideous heap of soul rubbish and debris at the bottom of this unmitigated pit of hell.

Two treatments down, six to go. Wish me luck.

Love always,

-Liz (aka Mom).

As The Tumor Turns: The Early Thanksgiving Episode
November 12, 2006

Dearest Gang Members:

I really want to thank you all from the bottom of my heart for rallying to my support after the last grim episode of As The Tumor Turns. So grim it went out without a title! But I'm feeling much MUCH better now, though I must apologize that I haven't yet managed to muster the psychic energy to return phone calls and answer emails yet. Such is life these days. But I'm deeply grateful to you all for pulling me through that dark spot. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Special big thanks go to Marla, who went to the heroic extreme of selling the house next door to none other than...drum roll...Popp and Michelle! If THAT didn't cheer me up, nothing would. (For you non-locals, Popp is a famed zydeco musician; they're both great people who share their living quarters with Amber, the world's cutest five-year-old.)

Thanks to Harrison and Alex for the sweet letters and pictures of your gorgeous new kitchen; thanks to Julie and Missy for the calls and emails; thanks to Finnie and Lia for calling plus that excellent though poignant blogging; and a very big thanks also to Julian, who inadvertently and unknowingly convinced me that when this is all over I should think about--are you all sitting down?--selling my house here and buying a houseboat in Portland. (They're actually called "floating homes"; a houseboat has a motor.) I'll have to declare bankruptcy first, but hey! Dare to dream!

And finally, the great news that you've all been waiting breathlessly for--no, not remission, even better: I started a new blog!

I'm going to keep it kind of low key and private, though not aggressively so. I'm mean it's not a state secret or anything, but I'm not going to advertise it. Posting may be sporadic, and probably excruciatingly dull since I don't get out much these days. I mean, how many entertaining ways can I possibly portray the gripping excitement of knitting, or vomiting, or spraying stuff with Lysol, or dashing off to the Wal-Mart to buy stool softener? Anyway, there it is; bookmark it and check in for updates from time to time.

Again, many thanks to all of you for hanging in there with me. Next tx is November 22, which means I'll be knocked out of the ballpark for Thanksgiving AND my birthday. But I've got 10 more days of feeling good, and I plan to enjoy every single second. (Bought five new skeins of yarn today--almost more excitement than I can stand!)

Take good care of your wonderful wonderful selves, gang.

Much love till next time,

-Liz (aka Mom).

It was such an awful, miserable, hopeless time. I've almost managed to put it out of mind, to repress the memory. But reading these letters brings it all back. When I was at my very lowest, suicidal and filled with hurt and sickness and despair, several people tried to help by assuring me that it was "just the Prednisone talking." But looking back, I am certain that it wasn't. The Prednisone may have amplified the message, may have lifted the social inhibitions that normally caused me to keep such feelings to myself and added to the drama of the delivery, but the feelings of hurt and pain and rage and despair were extremely real, honest, human reactions to the brutality of the situation. It makes me sad now to look back and see my former self hurting so bad, struggling so hard to appear brave and sane and upbeat so my loved ones wouldn't worry. Shutting down and turning off the switches in an attempt to stop feeling. I honestly have no idea how I survived.

Granny Gets A Six-Pack: Trainer to the Unlikely

2007-05-21T15:54:00.000-04:00

Several readers have suggested that I start an online personal training service. This is an intriguing idea, since I can't go back to work at the gym until I have my hideous port removed and the damn hospital won't give me an appointment. But I'm not sure how the online training works.

I can see how the eating plan part works, but how does a trainer operate online when it comes to working out? Most of what I offered my flesh & blood clients as a certified personal trainer was real nitty gritty hands-on stuff: measuring bodyfat composition with a Futrex machine; visually evaluating their strength, flexibility, and range of motion; discovering their limitations and designing a plan that works around them; teaching them to lift with impeccably correct form; spotting them and showing them which muscles to fire; monitoring their progress and knowing when it's time to increase resistance; entertaining them with bad puns and stuff so they don't die of boredom during their sessions. All stuff that required me to be standing right there beside them.

For those of you who have engaged or researched online trainers, how the heck do they accomplish these things? Exactly what services do they offer? What sort of rates do they charge? How do you decide that they're a better choice than hiring a face-to-face trainer?

As many of you know, my personal motto is: I don't want to be skinny, I want to be STRONG! And this is the approach I take with clients as well. I believe the first step toward shedding unwanted fat is to increase your metabolism by adding beautiful sleek muscle tissue, and lots of it. No matter how old or young you are, it can be done. So I'm not the one to help a person whose goal is to become wispy, willowy, tiny and frail. I want my clients to grow strong and healthy and robust, full of energy and vitality. I don't believe in dieting, or starving, or depriving yourself of food pleasure. Life is way too short for that.

The author a year ago at age 52

Another of my personal mottos is: Maybe I can't eat everything I enjoy, but I can sure as hell enjoy everything I eat. I help clients design individualized eating plans that maximize muscle building, where every single calorie is nourishing and delicious. I spend time with my clients figuring out ways to avoid or eliminate mindless eating, those ubiquitous Pavlovian traps and triggers that cause them to gorge when they aren't even hungry, on stuff they don't really enjoy and that isn't the least bit good for them anyway. Everybody has different weak spots, and we work on finding them.

And I'm sure it comes as no surprise that I'm a total bust as a Nazi drill sergeant. Alas, I'm a big ol softie with my clients. When it comes to eating and working out, my approach comprises empathetic listening, paying close attention to details, offering exuberant cheerleading (or kind commiseration), and tons of positive reinforcement. I'm not a good choice for those who prefer a dominatrix in spandex. But I always got excellent results, and they came back for more.

So I don't know. Do y'all really think there's a market for this unconventional approach out there? Let me know if you have any ideas how this could possibly work. Thanks!

A Few Updates

2007-05-21T13:27:00.000-04:00

Wow. I can't even find words that are remotely adequate to thank the folks who hit that PayPal donation button over the last few days. You've not only rescued my horrifyingly empty bank account, you've uplifted my sagging morale like some kind of miraculous antigravity emotional wonder-bra. Thanks to each and every one of you!

There is, however, depressing news on the electrical front. An electrical contractor came by yesterday to give me an estimate for upgrading the wiring, but he took one look at the situation and shook his head sadly. Rewiring a big old two-story house is, apparently, an unthinkably major undertaking that would involve tearing down the walls and ripping out the ceilings and second floor. Essentially rebuilding the entire house. No can do.

So our only hope now is to find somebody, somewhere, who will insure it with the knob and tube wiring. My fabulous realtor Marla is frantically looking for a rogue insurance company that won't slam the door. We're also having a roofing contractor come out today to give an estimate for reroofing. But if it's impossible to obtain insurance, I'll have to declare bankruptcy and just turn the house over to creditors. Ha, let them deal with the damn mess! I hope they're getting severe migraines at the mere thought of it.

In happier news, and this is an extremely exciting milestone: I gave myself my very first post-chemo haircut last night! I just trimmed a little off the fuzzy tufts that were sprouting behind the ears. It felt good to be squeezing my trusty nail scissors, though it didn't trigger my old compulsive hair cutting disorder so far. But what fun it was, seeing that familiar little pile of hairs drifting around on the sink again! I think this is as long as I'm going to let it grow, so this will be the final Monday Hair Growing Progress Report. From now on, it's only going to get shorter (especially if the CHCD comes back). Woot!

Still a little thin in places, but the curls manage to achieve a pretty effective combover.

The author sporting ridiculous flip-flops and newly trimmed hair.