I am still grappling with the day’s events. I anticipate that I will, over time, write several blogs about this day, from various perspectives. No matter the angle from which I choose to view today’s events, I am unable to find a perspective that fully encapsulates the enormity of it all.
So, let’s start from the beginning.
I awoke this morning and dragged out the door to the doctor’s office. Today was the day that we were to discuss the next phase of medical options. In a nutshell:
Existing tumors showing no further response to treatment. New tumors growing in spite of it.
Remaining options:
1) Do nothing, live life with a tumor garden inside me, to an anticipated early death.
2) Try chemo, even though the pros aren’t sure that it will actually be any more effective than what I’ve been doing.
3) Opt for surgery which may or may not work, and will result in some significant life changes from here on out.
4) Quadruple current medications and add something else that will accelerate drug results.
Door number four is the decision I made. The doctor said that the prognosis still remains extremely good with the use of the new drugs, and that the fact that things have not progressed as we’d hoped to this point is more a matter of having to experiment to find the best and most effective treatment, than it is of being on a single course that simply won’t work.
The doctor suggested I take some time and think it over. I pointed out to him that the first three alternatives were identical the last time I had to make this decision, and nothing about my circumstances at this juncture compels me to feel any different about those options. The only option that has changed is trying new drugs. Bring ‘em on, I said.
Not that I would have necessarily made a different decision had I known, but the conversation from that point forward was all about the cost. The office manager told me that my share of cost for the next thirty days’ treatment (drugs, labs, imaging, etc.), above what the insurance will pay, is $20,000. She told me that there would not be a problem in getting it negotiated down to $10,000.
I’ll be honest. Some ugly and horrific thoughts bolted through my mind at that point. First: Is my life worth that much money?
I did the mental math. This morning, I had slightly more than half the cost for the treatment in my savings account. I thought about how much any number of people in my family could benefit from that much cash.
I decided, all things being equal, it was worth it to ME to find another $5,000 for the possibility of extending my life. I made arrangements with the doctor’s office to take the money off of my bank card later in the afternoon, after I transferred money between accounts. I said aloud, “Gosh, I guess I’d really best get to living right, so I can justify the expense of my existence.”
The office staff laughed courteously, and then hugged me and said good-bye.
The first part of the drive to Weaverville lacked much conversation as JC and I drove over Buckhorn. The CD player blared Talking Heads as I contemplated how to manage this latest medical/fiscal development. Finally, after mentally turning over a lot of ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’, I turned down the radio and shared my morning’s events with JC.
Upon expressing my concern about the cost, JC contemplated for a moment, and then said, “How many pies would you have to bake?” We both laughed as we thought about the time in 2004 when I raised money for my reconstructive surgery by baking pies and taking donations for them. All of a sudden, it almost seemed like a doable plan.
JC offered to do a benefit concert, and change the name of his garage band to 'Rapunzel's Sister', a nod to my current state as the antithesis to the namesake of the fairly-tressed fairy tale.
Our collective resourcefulness made me think about how, for the preceding two hours, I had been making the financial piece of this equation much bigger than it actually is. Shameful.
By the time we pulled into Weaverville, I had determined for myself that I would put the whole medical thing out of my mind and focus on some things I could manage at work. I banged away at things that needed to be completed, gaining a sense of satisfaction at seeing results.
Around 10:30, my cell phone rang. The doctor’s office. I answered the phone, immediately launching into my plan for moving funds, etc. The office manager stopped me. She explained to me that purpose of her call was to report that someone—who wished to remain anonymous—had written a check for the patient balance of my treatment. Someone—whom I presumably do not know—wrote a check for $5,000 so that I can continue taking up space, using up oxygen.
I have been struggling all day to find words to express what the knowledge of that feels like. Thankful. Humbled. Grateful. Amazed. Awed. Shocked. Inspired. Fearful. Loved. Relieved. Appreciated. Alive. Curious. Blessed. Challenged. Eager. Indebted. Grateful, Thankful, Thankful, Grateful.
I am curious to know what compelled such an amazing act of generosity. Was it something I did? Or didn’t do? Or maybe it’s not me at all, but the memory of a loved one. Or the burden of compassion placed on a stranger’s heart by a spiritual force bigger than us all. The enormity of the grace-- the pure, unmerited favor-- of it all has left me staggering.
I am not a woman who generally runs short of words. Long ones, short ones, in between ones, I usually have from one to too many for any occasion. I just don’t know how to properly say thank you to someone for believing that my life is worth living. It feels like a situation where the only real way to show appreciation for such a precious and invaluable gift is to demonstrate gratitude through a life lived well.
Even that sounds trite and clichéd, but I think in this instance, it’s sort of all I’ve got. The chance to live life, and life more abundantly, no matter the terms in which it’s granted, is both the gift and the expectation.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
Chivalrous S**t: Or—The Bad Example *Some* of Us Set in Weaverville Today
Because some of my friends have been so kind as to chauffer me around on some of my longer trips, I saw fit today to return the favor. JC and Dave needed some help in shuttling for today’s Trinity raft trip, so I gladly obliged. My job was to go swap out a 2-seater sports car for my car, and pick them all up back in Weaverville when they returned in the van.
I loaded my phone, laptop, etc., and got on the road, with yet another friend, Amy. The whole trip was going swimmingly well as we made all the appointed stops. I was able to blow through some work on my laptop, and stay abreast of email, etc. When I was a kid in Shingletown, much of my time growing up was spent without a telephone of any kind. It’s hard for me to put myself back in that time and understand how we got along. My cell phone is a permanent appendage now.
When everyone met back up in Weaverville, I ran a few errands, including a stop in the courthouse. Bonus there—I FINALLY made it through the metal detector without setting it off, having rid myself of wig, underwires, jewelry, and shoes. Go me.
After exiting the building, I walked down the main drag and met up with my friends for lunch. I enjoy dining in Weaverville just because of the close knit feel of every place in town. It’s like a good friend’s mom is in every kitchen fixing up a meal just for us.
Upon filling all our bellies, we walked out to the parking lot to begin our trek back to Redding. Just as we were rearranging gear in the car to accommodate the extra people, my cell phone rang.
“I have the doctor on the line. Is this a good time to speak with you?” Some faceless soul asked me. She told me her name, but given everything else that transpired in the conversation, her moniker is a buried memory. Her voice though, the echo of it is burned into my brain.
I motioned to my companions and wandered under the shade of a large oak-like tree, dropping myself to the base of the tree’s broad trunk. One of the things I like about my doctor is that he’s direct and to the point. With tactical and technical precision, it took him less than three minutes to make my body physically deflate and fill with that brand of fear and dread that makes one think that their innards have just emulsified to pure liquid. It wasn’t until I finished with the call that I realized I was crying, or that my friends were all gathered near me.
Someone said, “OMG, what’s wrong??”
Someone else, who shall remain N*amy*less (oops!) said, “Dude, can’t you tell? She just found out that her s**t’s all f**ked up!”
What made that comment so hilarious is that I’ve never in all the years I’ve known the woman heard her say so much as ‘darn’ or ‘shucks’, let alone s**t or f**k. I laughed.
While I was laughing, Dave said, “So, you still have cancer?”
I laughed again, not because of what Dave said, but because I was still thinking about what Amy said, and trying to decide if I should classify it as a cute-yet-inappropriate euphemism, or considering the exact nature of my current circumstances, a deeply sardonic metaphor. My mind is a strange place, I know.
Before I could even fully finish that thought, I heard a big smack as JC threw a punch at Dave, saying, “She doesn’t HAVE cancer, you moron. She’s kickin’ it’s ASS!”
As Dave swung back, both men fell to the ground and began that peculiar wrestling between males that seems so odd to me. I began to laugh again, tears still streaming down my face. Everyone turned and looked at me.
Points to JC for so fully investing in my vision. Demerits to both boys for hitting a friend. Violence solves nothing, so said Ghandi, MLK, and ME.
At that point, it seemed as if we’d all been sucked into a vacuum. I didn’t hear the traffic from the highway, the breeze in the trees, or anything at all. For just a moment, I felt like JC had swung and landed that punch by proxy, for the damnable way I felt as the words of the doctor filtered through my brain.
“Am I supposed to be honored that the two of you are fist-to-cuffs over my ‘shit’? How chivalrous!”
Somehow, as the sarcasm oozed, I felt the life begin to creep back into me, as if now there was more adequate room for it.
Slowly, as the shock wore off, I stood up, dusted myself off and said, “The mission hasn’t changed. Just the length of time required to accomplish it.”
As we drove back to Redding, I began dealing with tactical details—scheduling additional doctor appointments, extending medical coverage, strategizing over how to traverse another month of treatment.
Honestly, the fear only lasted but a split second. What I think I initially succumbed to, was just disappointment. I had been so hopeful that I would be done on Monday. I had put my faith to work and made plans—sky diving weekend, house hunting, etc.
This is far from the first time in life I’ve suffered a large-scale disappointment, and it’s sure not to be my last. I refuse to stay mired in that setback, though. The things I’d planned will keep until I’m done with this phase of life.
I’m choosing instead to embrace the opportunities before me. I have the chance now to discover how much greater a degree of endurance I possess within me. I have the option of prevailing through the unexpected. I have the privilege of continuing to learn to live life in ways I’d never considered.
Since my locks will be ‘vacationing elsewhere’ longer than I’d anticipated, I think I’m gonna go ahead and find one of those shirts that says, “I’m too sexy for my hair.”
I think I’m gonna continue taking advantage of the opportunity to write.
I think I'm gonna continue enjoying the scope and focus of the work I'm doing, because for whatever reason, its is a huge component of sustaining my good outlook through all this.
I think (KNOW) I’m gonna drink some really great wine tonight.
And all the rest of my ‘shit’ can take a holiday while I continue to kick ass like a ninja, because that’s what I’m gonna do. For another 30 days. Or however long it takes.
I loaded my phone, laptop, etc., and got on the road, with yet another friend, Amy. The whole trip was going swimmingly well as we made all the appointed stops. I was able to blow through some work on my laptop, and stay abreast of email, etc. When I was a kid in Shingletown, much of my time growing up was spent without a telephone of any kind. It’s hard for me to put myself back in that time and understand how we got along. My cell phone is a permanent appendage now.
When everyone met back up in Weaverville, I ran a few errands, including a stop in the courthouse. Bonus there—I FINALLY made it through the metal detector without setting it off, having rid myself of wig, underwires, jewelry, and shoes. Go me.
After exiting the building, I walked down the main drag and met up with my friends for lunch. I enjoy dining in Weaverville just because of the close knit feel of every place in town. It’s like a good friend’s mom is in every kitchen fixing up a meal just for us.
Upon filling all our bellies, we walked out to the parking lot to begin our trek back to Redding. Just as we were rearranging gear in the car to accommodate the extra people, my cell phone rang.
“I have the doctor on the line. Is this a good time to speak with you?” Some faceless soul asked me. She told me her name, but given everything else that transpired in the conversation, her moniker is a buried memory. Her voice though, the echo of it is burned into my brain.
I motioned to my companions and wandered under the shade of a large oak-like tree, dropping myself to the base of the tree’s broad trunk. One of the things I like about my doctor is that he’s direct and to the point. With tactical and technical precision, it took him less than three minutes to make my body physically deflate and fill with that brand of fear and dread that makes one think that their innards have just emulsified to pure liquid. It wasn’t until I finished with the call that I realized I was crying, or that my friends were all gathered near me.
Someone said, “OMG, what’s wrong??”
Someone else, who shall remain N*amy*less (oops!) said, “Dude, can’t you tell? She just found out that her s**t’s all f**ked up!”
What made that comment so hilarious is that I’ve never in all the years I’ve known the woman heard her say so much as ‘darn’ or ‘shucks’, let alone s**t or f**k. I laughed.
While I was laughing, Dave said, “So, you still have cancer?”
I laughed again, not because of what Dave said, but because I was still thinking about what Amy said, and trying to decide if I should classify it as a cute-yet-inappropriate euphemism, or considering the exact nature of my current circumstances, a deeply sardonic metaphor. My mind is a strange place, I know.
Before I could even fully finish that thought, I heard a big smack as JC threw a punch at Dave, saying, “She doesn’t HAVE cancer, you moron. She’s kickin’ it’s ASS!”
As Dave swung back, both men fell to the ground and began that peculiar wrestling between males that seems so odd to me. I began to laugh again, tears still streaming down my face. Everyone turned and looked at me.
Points to JC for so fully investing in my vision. Demerits to both boys for hitting a friend. Violence solves nothing, so said Ghandi, MLK, and ME.
At that point, it seemed as if we’d all been sucked into a vacuum. I didn’t hear the traffic from the highway, the breeze in the trees, or anything at all. For just a moment, I felt like JC had swung and landed that punch by proxy, for the damnable way I felt as the words of the doctor filtered through my brain.
“Am I supposed to be honored that the two of you are fist-to-cuffs over my ‘shit’? How chivalrous!”
Somehow, as the sarcasm oozed, I felt the life begin to creep back into me, as if now there was more adequate room for it.
Slowly, as the shock wore off, I stood up, dusted myself off and said, “The mission hasn’t changed. Just the length of time required to accomplish it.”
As we drove back to Redding, I began dealing with tactical details—scheduling additional doctor appointments, extending medical coverage, strategizing over how to traverse another month of treatment.
Honestly, the fear only lasted but a split second. What I think I initially succumbed to, was just disappointment. I had been so hopeful that I would be done on Monday. I had put my faith to work and made plans—sky diving weekend, house hunting, etc.
This is far from the first time in life I’ve suffered a large-scale disappointment, and it’s sure not to be my last. I refuse to stay mired in that setback, though. The things I’d planned will keep until I’m done with this phase of life.
I’m choosing instead to embrace the opportunities before me. I have the chance now to discover how much greater a degree of endurance I possess within me. I have the option of prevailing through the unexpected. I have the privilege of continuing to learn to live life in ways I’d never considered.
Since my locks will be ‘vacationing elsewhere’ longer than I’d anticipated, I think I’m gonna go ahead and find one of those shirts that says, “I’m too sexy for my hair.”
I think I’m gonna continue taking advantage of the opportunity to write.
I think I'm gonna continue enjoying the scope and focus of the work I'm doing, because for whatever reason, its is a huge component of sustaining my good outlook through all this.
I think (KNOW) I’m gonna drink some really great wine tonight.
And all the rest of my ‘shit’ can take a holiday while I continue to kick ass like a ninja, because that’s what I’m gonna do. For another 30 days. Or however long it takes.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Attitude is Everything, Even if You Have to Borrow Someone Else's
Last week I was in Shopko, trying to find a swim top that would contain my busty self. I learned this is not an easy task in August in Redding. I just wanted to find something that would stay put, convey comfort, and that was C-H-E-A-P.
Consumer options are limited on the best of days in the Redding retail world. I believe that the presumption on the part of retailers in Redding is that by August, everyone who’s gonna be suited up, is suited up. And maybe that’s true. It wouldn’t be the first time I didn’t deal with the season’s wardrobe needs until half past the season’s change.
The swimsuit selection was narrowed down to a single small rack of suits that clearly just weren’t going to sell. There wasn’t a single top in my size. Frustrated, I wandered over to the sports bras and found something attractive, which honestly, meaningfully covers more of me than any of those swimsuits would have.
By this time, I was feeling pretty burnt out. Shopping wears me out on a good day. I was tired and nauseated to boot. And then there was the whole seeing myself in the dressing room mirror thing. I look fat(ter) without my hair. My skin hangs off my face. The dark bags under my eyes make those orbs look haunting. I dragged myself to the checkout counter feeling like 180 pounds of death-warmed-over-crap-on-toast. No matter, it was really the perfect accompaniment to the pity party I’d been pitching myself all day like it was time for high tea with the queen.
As I approached the cashier, a smile drew across my face as she commented on my head scarf—a blue, yellow and green number with a “Peace” and “Love” design on it. “You really do that scarf some justice,” she said.
Noting her name on her name tag, I said, “Thanks, Val.” I wasn’t feeling too hospitable. I just wanted to get out of the store.
“My sister wore scarves like that when she was getting rid of her cancer.” This made me perk up. It’s not all that often that I hear people use vernacular similar to mine. I refuse to say that I “have” cancer, because it feels like then I’m admitting that it has me, too. I’m not going there.
I smiled at Valerie again as she handed me my change, and told her to have an awesome day. Valerie looked at me again and said, “You smile just like Aimee did, too. You’re gonna kick this thing.”
I thanked her and walked toward the door. Like Aimee “did”?
I exited the building, bracing myself to take on the next challenge of recalling where I parked my car. As I was scanning the parking lot, I felt someone’s hand on my shoulder. Startled, I turned around and faced Valerie.
Quickly, almost furtively, Valerie asked me, “Can you come back in on Wednesday or Thursday next week? I have something I want to give you.”
I was a little confused as I answered her tentatively, “Sure?”
Recognizing my reluctance, Valerie explained to me that she wanted to give me a scarf that belonged to her sister, Aimee. She told me how Aimee fought off cancer and lived another two years before she was randomly hit by a drunk driver while crossing a street in Sacramento.
I didn’t even know what to say to that, but agreed to come back and meet her.
When I returned to Shopko earlier this week, I met up with Valerie, and she gave me the scarf, as promised. Upon reflection, I don’t know that I had any expectation of exactly what kind of scarf she was talking about. As Valerie handed me an ordinary looking white bandana, I was struck by its simplicity.
I listened as Valerie told me about how much Aimee’s battle with cancer changed her own perspective on life, and how rich it made Aimee’s life as she made the most of two more years of “life’s second chance” by traveling, finishing her master’s degree, and designing her own home.
“We all live on borrowed time,” Valerie told me.
I don’t know that I agree with that. I believe we live in our appointed time. Our allotted time. But sometimes, I think we keep that appointment on borrowed faith and hope. I am grateful for those who share.
Consumer options are limited on the best of days in the Redding retail world. I believe that the presumption on the part of retailers in Redding is that by August, everyone who’s gonna be suited up, is suited up. And maybe that’s true. It wouldn’t be the first time I didn’t deal with the season’s wardrobe needs until half past the season’s change.
The swimsuit selection was narrowed down to a single small rack of suits that clearly just weren’t going to sell. There wasn’t a single top in my size. Frustrated, I wandered over to the sports bras and found something attractive, which honestly, meaningfully covers more of me than any of those swimsuits would have.
By this time, I was feeling pretty burnt out. Shopping wears me out on a good day. I was tired and nauseated to boot. And then there was the whole seeing myself in the dressing room mirror thing. I look fat(ter) without my hair. My skin hangs off my face. The dark bags under my eyes make those orbs look haunting. I dragged myself to the checkout counter feeling like 180 pounds of death-warmed-over-crap-on-toast. No matter, it was really the perfect accompaniment to the pity party I’d been pitching myself all day like it was time for high tea with the queen.
As I approached the cashier, a smile drew across my face as she commented on my head scarf—a blue, yellow and green number with a “Peace” and “Love” design on it. “You really do that scarf some justice,” she said.
Noting her name on her name tag, I said, “Thanks, Val.” I wasn’t feeling too hospitable. I just wanted to get out of the store.
“My sister wore scarves like that when she was getting rid of her cancer.” This made me perk up. It’s not all that often that I hear people use vernacular similar to mine. I refuse to say that I “have” cancer, because it feels like then I’m admitting that it has me, too. I’m not going there.
I smiled at Valerie again as she handed me my change, and told her to have an awesome day. Valerie looked at me again and said, “You smile just like Aimee did, too. You’re gonna kick this thing.”
I thanked her and walked toward the door. Like Aimee “did”?
I exited the building, bracing myself to take on the next challenge of recalling where I parked my car. As I was scanning the parking lot, I felt someone’s hand on my shoulder. Startled, I turned around and faced Valerie.
Quickly, almost furtively, Valerie asked me, “Can you come back in on Wednesday or Thursday next week? I have something I want to give you.”
I was a little confused as I answered her tentatively, “Sure?”
Recognizing my reluctance, Valerie explained to me that she wanted to give me a scarf that belonged to her sister, Aimee. She told me how Aimee fought off cancer and lived another two years before she was randomly hit by a drunk driver while crossing a street in Sacramento.
I didn’t even know what to say to that, but agreed to come back and meet her.
When I returned to Shopko earlier this week, I met up with Valerie, and she gave me the scarf, as promised. Upon reflection, I don’t know that I had any expectation of exactly what kind of scarf she was talking about. As Valerie handed me an ordinary looking white bandana, I was struck by its simplicity.
I listened as Valerie told me about how much Aimee’s battle with cancer changed her own perspective on life, and how rich it made Aimee’s life as she made the most of two more years of “life’s second chance” by traveling, finishing her master’s degree, and designing her own home.
“We all live on borrowed time,” Valerie told me.
I don’t know that I agree with that. I believe we live in our appointed time. Our allotted time. But sometimes, I think we keep that appointment on borrowed faith and hope. I am grateful for those who share.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
I Don't Know What to Call this... Must It Have a Title if I Wish to Speak?
Really and truly I have some much more lighthearted things lined up to write about, but this has been streaming around in my head for a few days, and on the ride home from Hayfork today, it just sort of finally gelled.
I know that it may seem like a fine line to some, the emotional place I’m walking these days. I think of my present state of mind as grace and acceptance. Others like to call it denial or delusion. As much as anyone, I would like to have answers to most of the questions that burn in my head lately—why am I sick? Why me? Why now? I cannot get my friend Heather out of my mind, thinking of how in 2007, she lost her two year-old daughter Rebekah to a long struggle with cancer. Why?
At no other time in my life, do I think I could have continued functioning in any practical manner without obsessing over all the question marks.
A few months back, when I began dealing with my health issues, I had a strange memory that I have been clinging to lately, like a precious gift. I think of this seemingly insignificant event almost daily, seeing the careful seed that was planted then, bearing fruit that is sustaining me now.
Back in the spring of 1995, I was at a Board of Supervisors’ meeting in Quincy, CA. That season had brought a lot of nervousness and unrest to our region and our nation. It was the time that the Oklahoma City bombing occurred. I lost a friend and mentor in that event. It was in that same time that the Unabomber struck at the California Forestry Association and killed its president, Gil Murray. Even strangers Gil had never met lost a friend as he opened a mail bomb in his office.
As the Plumas County Board of Supervisors commenced their meeting that day, Supervisor Bill Coates gave the ritual invocation that started every meeting. I’ve been to hundreds of meetings where the prayers, whether due to nervousness, politics, a busy agenda, or other unknowns, seem to come out full of pomp and pretense.
In the time I knew Bill, one of the things I truly appreciated about him was that he had that kind of comfortable relationship with his god that was illustrated in prayers that came out warm, intimate, and sincere. He didn’t throw up a bunch of words to the heavens and hope they’d stick. His prayers were those of a man who knows the God he serves. That day, Bill prayed, “God, I ask that you help us all find peace, even in the face of not having answers to the questions that burn in our hearts and in our minds.”
Back then, they were words that brought comfort in a time of grief and stress. Lately for me, they have been words that have challenged me to prove that I can be a good steward of the grace and peace and faith that I am finding in such superfluity.
I don’t think it matters where one’s spiritual compass exists—whether you believe in a Christian god, a karmic universe, the Golden Rule, or guide your life by the list of ingredients on a box of Cap’n Crunch—at some point in time, we are all faced with dilemmas in life that we cannot control, cannot answer, or cannot sometimes even fathom. We all have to find ways to accept the things we cannot change, preferably with enough grace and courage to propel us forward to better things and as better beings.
Most of my life I have not been one to let things lay. If it’s broken, I want to fix it. If it’s unjust, I want to seek justice. If it’s wrong, I want to make it right. I want to seek information, formulate a strategy, and implement a plan. It’s not easy to be still, listen, and wait. I’ve never given those tools the merit or respect they deserve until now.
I’m learning a lot about grace and patience these days. I don’t need to know why anything around me is the way it is in order to be who and what I’m called to be. I don’t need to know how things are going to turn out in order to make the most of the gifts I’m given in this present day.
I know that it may seem like a fine line to some, the emotional place I’m walking these days. I think of my present state of mind as grace and acceptance. Others like to call it denial or delusion. As much as anyone, I would like to have answers to most of the questions that burn in my head lately—why am I sick? Why me? Why now? I cannot get my friend Heather out of my mind, thinking of how in 2007, she lost her two year-old daughter Rebekah to a long struggle with cancer. Why?
At no other time in my life, do I think I could have continued functioning in any practical manner without obsessing over all the question marks.
A few months back, when I began dealing with my health issues, I had a strange memory that I have been clinging to lately, like a precious gift. I think of this seemingly insignificant event almost daily, seeing the careful seed that was planted then, bearing fruit that is sustaining me now.
Back in the spring of 1995, I was at a Board of Supervisors’ meeting in Quincy, CA. That season had brought a lot of nervousness and unrest to our region and our nation. It was the time that the Oklahoma City bombing occurred. I lost a friend and mentor in that event. It was in that same time that the Unabomber struck at the California Forestry Association and killed its president, Gil Murray. Even strangers Gil had never met lost a friend as he opened a mail bomb in his office.
As the Plumas County Board of Supervisors commenced their meeting that day, Supervisor Bill Coates gave the ritual invocation that started every meeting. I’ve been to hundreds of meetings where the prayers, whether due to nervousness, politics, a busy agenda, or other unknowns, seem to come out full of pomp and pretense.
In the time I knew Bill, one of the things I truly appreciated about him was that he had that kind of comfortable relationship with his god that was illustrated in prayers that came out warm, intimate, and sincere. He didn’t throw up a bunch of words to the heavens and hope they’d stick. His prayers were those of a man who knows the God he serves. That day, Bill prayed, “God, I ask that you help us all find peace, even in the face of not having answers to the questions that burn in our hearts and in our minds.”
Back then, they were words that brought comfort in a time of grief and stress. Lately for me, they have been words that have challenged me to prove that I can be a good steward of the grace and peace and faith that I am finding in such superfluity.
I don’t think it matters where one’s spiritual compass exists—whether you believe in a Christian god, a karmic universe, the Golden Rule, or guide your life by the list of ingredients on a box of Cap’n Crunch—at some point in time, we are all faced with dilemmas in life that we cannot control, cannot answer, or cannot sometimes even fathom. We all have to find ways to accept the things we cannot change, preferably with enough grace and courage to propel us forward to better things and as better beings.
Most of my life I have not been one to let things lay. If it’s broken, I want to fix it. If it’s unjust, I want to seek justice. If it’s wrong, I want to make it right. I want to seek information, formulate a strategy, and implement a plan. It’s not easy to be still, listen, and wait. I’ve never given those tools the merit or respect they deserve until now.
I’m learning a lot about grace and patience these days. I don’t need to know why anything around me is the way it is in order to be who and what I’m called to be. I don’t need to know how things are going to turn out in order to make the most of the gifts I’m given in this present day.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Great Expectations -- My Own
In recent days, I’ve had a few things happen to me that have brought me an amazing insight into my interactions with others. Since I’ve been dealing with my medical condition, I have been almost militant in my decision to march through this thing like I’ve got no business but to be victorious on the other side. This has required me to really step out of my comfort zone. I’ve had to lovingly remind others that this is my life, my ‘fight’, and I am the one most impacted by the decisions.
By nature, I am a pleaser. Getting sideways with people is not really my thing. I will generally avoid conflict at all costs. In sticking to my guns about some of my recent life decisions, I’ve had to be a bit bolder with folks. That does not come easy.
I don’t know if it’s because I tend to avoid conflict, if it’s because I have a way of coming off more casual than I should sometimes, or if it’s my appearance or something else; but I’ve realized recently, that a good number of folks over the years have underestimated me. It’s been frustrating, disappointing, and even hurtful at times, and I’ve never really known how to deal with it or address it. Unfortunately, I’ve pretty much just let bitterness and disappointment in others take the reins in these situations.
People have dismissed my ideas because they do not come with the full force of a college education. People have discredited my ability to parent because I was a single parent for most of my children’s upbringing. People have sold me short in what I bring to relationships or partnerships.
What I’ve learned in the past few days is that none of those things really should have mattered, then or now. The key thing that I need to change is what I do with that kind of information. To what extent I let others’ perceptions of me impact what I can and should do is MY RESPONSIBILITY. The fact that someone else does not see the full force and effect of what I am doing or what I have to offer should not deter me from actually putting forth everything I have to give in a situation.
That’s gonna change from here on out.
Today, I was pent up in a doctor’s office all day long, waiting for my five minutes with a specialist. I worked from my Droid and some other borrowed technology in the lobby all day. The office manager was very disapproving. I remember thinking, “This lobby may not be my office, lady, but this lobby is also not my LIFE, and you’re treating me like I’ve got nothing better to do.” My consulting work may not be of consequence to that office manager, but my clients don’t feel the same. Miss Wendy, for instance, was rather panicked.
I try not to make a big deal of these things, but I pulled the C-card on her. I told her that I may not have long to live and debating how I use my time in ‘her’ lobby was silly.
Later, when I FINALLY got out of that place, I was able to convince JC, my 23 year-old lifeguard friend, to go out to the lake with me for a quick swim. We went to one of the more deserted trail areas across from Oak Bottom.
I am sensitive to the fact that my decision to go for a swim in public right now has the capacity to make people uncomfortable. It’s part of why we chose a more secluded area. We walked about a quarter-mile down a trail to a place where there’s lots of water, sunshine, and a fair amount of privacy. I stripped down to my bikini swimsuit—stretch marks, ass fat, cellulite and all; and took off my jewelry and my head scarf. Just about the time we were getting in the water, an older woman, in probably her late 50’s, walked by, and stood looking aghast at us (me).
The woman shouted down to us in the water, “Should you really be out here swimming in your condition?”
I looked at her and said, “Actually, swimming is really therapeutic for me right now.”
JC and I looked at each other and turned to start swimming on our predetermined route.
“Do you realize you have no hair?”
I laughed. JC looked at me with wide eyes and said, “OMG, you have no hair! Susanne, is there anything else you’re not telling me???”
The woman on the shore then said, “Obviously, you’re sick. Should you really be swimming?”
JC told her, “Uh, that’s why I’m here. I’ll help her if she gets stuck.”
The woman then stomped off. JC and I began swimming to a small nearby island, I, stroking methodically, he, pulling along a floaty in case I got tired, and both of us still laughing about the “you have no hair” comment.
When JC and I got back from the island, our woman friend and a park ranger were waiting for us at the shore.
Apparently, the woman had gone and found a ranger to ‘tattle’ on me for being in the lake while bald and in poor health. Of course, upon our exit from the water, the old gal was doing all kinds of back pedaling.
“I was just really worried for her safety. What if she would have drowned?”
Upon assuring the woman that I appeared none the worse for wear, was in the company of a strong, qualified swimmer, AND had a flotation device, the ranger hiked back out to go find more worthwhile ranger-like things to do, and thankfully, took the worry wart with him.
I sat on the shore with JC and thought some more about the woman, realizing that she too, had underestimated me. The swim today was one of the best things about the day, after being cooped up in a doctor’s office, and stressing over work stuff. It was nice to move, it was nice to be in the water-- a place where my body hurts a little bit less. It was nice to be tired because of my own exertion, and not because of what’s going on inside me. And it was nice to swim a good distance, because I KNEW I COULD. What someone else thought or expected of me was not relevant. A year ago, I probably would have gotten out of the water to placate the woman. I would have missed a nice swim, and the fulfillment of my own great expectations.
By nature, I am a pleaser. Getting sideways with people is not really my thing. I will generally avoid conflict at all costs. In sticking to my guns about some of my recent life decisions, I’ve had to be a bit bolder with folks. That does not come easy.
I don’t know if it’s because I tend to avoid conflict, if it’s because I have a way of coming off more casual than I should sometimes, or if it’s my appearance or something else; but I’ve realized recently, that a good number of folks over the years have underestimated me. It’s been frustrating, disappointing, and even hurtful at times, and I’ve never really known how to deal with it or address it. Unfortunately, I’ve pretty much just let bitterness and disappointment in others take the reins in these situations.
People have dismissed my ideas because they do not come with the full force of a college education. People have discredited my ability to parent because I was a single parent for most of my children’s upbringing. People have sold me short in what I bring to relationships or partnerships.
What I’ve learned in the past few days is that none of those things really should have mattered, then or now. The key thing that I need to change is what I do with that kind of information. To what extent I let others’ perceptions of me impact what I can and should do is MY RESPONSIBILITY. The fact that someone else does not see the full force and effect of what I am doing or what I have to offer should not deter me from actually putting forth everything I have to give in a situation.
That’s gonna change from here on out.
Today, I was pent up in a doctor’s office all day long, waiting for my five minutes with a specialist. I worked from my Droid and some other borrowed technology in the lobby all day. The office manager was very disapproving. I remember thinking, “This lobby may not be my office, lady, but this lobby is also not my LIFE, and you’re treating me like I’ve got nothing better to do.” My consulting work may not be of consequence to that office manager, but my clients don’t feel the same. Miss Wendy, for instance, was rather panicked.
I try not to make a big deal of these things, but I pulled the C-card on her. I told her that I may not have long to live and debating how I use my time in ‘her’ lobby was silly.
Later, when I FINALLY got out of that place, I was able to convince JC, my 23 year-old lifeguard friend, to go out to the lake with me for a quick swim. We went to one of the more deserted trail areas across from Oak Bottom.
I am sensitive to the fact that my decision to go for a swim in public right now has the capacity to make people uncomfortable. It’s part of why we chose a more secluded area. We walked about a quarter-mile down a trail to a place where there’s lots of water, sunshine, and a fair amount of privacy. I stripped down to my bikini swimsuit—stretch marks, ass fat, cellulite and all; and took off my jewelry and my head scarf. Just about the time we were getting in the water, an older woman, in probably her late 50’s, walked by, and stood looking aghast at us (me).
The woman shouted down to us in the water, “Should you really be out here swimming in your condition?”
I looked at her and said, “Actually, swimming is really therapeutic for me right now.”
JC and I looked at each other and turned to start swimming on our predetermined route.
“Do you realize you have no hair?”
I laughed. JC looked at me with wide eyes and said, “OMG, you have no hair! Susanne, is there anything else you’re not telling me???”
The woman on the shore then said, “Obviously, you’re sick. Should you really be swimming?”
JC told her, “Uh, that’s why I’m here. I’ll help her if she gets stuck.”
The woman then stomped off. JC and I began swimming to a small nearby island, I, stroking methodically, he, pulling along a floaty in case I got tired, and both of us still laughing about the “you have no hair” comment.
When JC and I got back from the island, our woman friend and a park ranger were waiting for us at the shore.
Apparently, the woman had gone and found a ranger to ‘tattle’ on me for being in the lake while bald and in poor health. Of course, upon our exit from the water, the old gal was doing all kinds of back pedaling.
“I was just really worried for her safety. What if she would have drowned?”
Upon assuring the woman that I appeared none the worse for wear, was in the company of a strong, qualified swimmer, AND had a flotation device, the ranger hiked back out to go find more worthwhile ranger-like things to do, and thankfully, took the worry wart with him.
I sat on the shore with JC and thought some more about the woman, realizing that she too, had underestimated me. The swim today was one of the best things about the day, after being cooped up in a doctor’s office, and stressing over work stuff. It was nice to move, it was nice to be in the water-- a place where my body hurts a little bit less. It was nice to be tired because of my own exertion, and not because of what’s going on inside me. And it was nice to swim a good distance, because I KNEW I COULD. What someone else thought or expected of me was not relevant. A year ago, I probably would have gotten out of the water to placate the woman. I would have missed a nice swim, and the fulfillment of my own great expectations.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
OMG, is that YOU?
Call it a coincidence, a divine appointment, or whatever else suits your tastes, but I just had an encounter that I would never have envisioned in the rest of this lifetime.
I was downtown this evening, the obligation of taking my dad and his dogs to the vet being canceled at the last minute. I took a quick stroll around Marketfest, a bit disappointed that I’d managed to arrive there while Los Penguos were on break, and lacking the energy to stay for their next set.
As I was walking back to my car which was parked in front of Market Street Steak House, I was momentarily immobilized by the view of someone out of the corner of my eye. I watched as this man strolled into the vestibule of a building across the street. I was cognizant of the breath that finally left my body as I unlocked my car door and got inside. Could it really be him? I was desperately trying to think of the last time I’d seen him. 1988? 1989?
I started my Honda and whipped a U-turn in the middle of Market Street so that I could negotiate a left turn onto Sacramento St. Before I made the intersection, I saw that he was two cars behind me in traffic. I pulled into a diagonal parking spot on Market. I use the term “parking spot” loosely, since the curb at my front bumper was blazing red.
I opened my door and got out of the car, standing like an idiot as I watched his car pull up to the light. His brake lights went on well short of the intersection, and then he backed up and rolled his passenger window down. I couldn’t believe I was staring at him. He looked older. How could either of us not, with the two decades that had passed?
Ultimately, he pulled into an adjacent parking lot and got out of his car. The gaze we initially shared was some strange combination of, “Is it really you?” and “Doesn’t this seem like the most natural occurrence in our vastly separate lives?”
This was the first man I’d ever loved with that wholly irrational, unconditional, follow-him-to-the-ends-of-the-earth kind of devotion. We’d met when I was working at the Big Wheels in Shingletown and he used to make vendor deliveries there. We dated off and on for over a year. The “offs” were as deep and dark as the “ons” were high and mighty.
He walked up to me and hugged me like only mere minutes had passed since the last time we shared an embrace. He has grandchildren now. I have grown children. He has hair that is more gray than not. I have hair that is more fake than not.
As I gazed at him through our conversation, I realized that I still felt 100 percent of that same spark that united us when we were younger. The difference today is that I am about another 1000 percent more of a person now than I was back then, as he is, too. The love that once filled almost the entirety of my existence, now only covets a small spot, for the expansion that decades of life does bring.
What was enormously comforting about the entire encounter was his comment, “As soon as I saw those eyes, I knew….” With so many changes going on about and in me lately, I’ve been struggling in some regards with who I am, on multiple levels. It was truly awesome to connect with someone who could look into me transcendently—through decades of time, births of children, failed marriage, sickness, successes, failures, obstacles, and victories, and see into the memories of a time we shared that was cherished, and beautiful, and apparently, resilient.
I was downtown this evening, the obligation of taking my dad and his dogs to the vet being canceled at the last minute. I took a quick stroll around Marketfest, a bit disappointed that I’d managed to arrive there while Los Penguos were on break, and lacking the energy to stay for their next set.
As I was walking back to my car which was parked in front of Market Street Steak House, I was momentarily immobilized by the view of someone out of the corner of my eye. I watched as this man strolled into the vestibule of a building across the street. I was cognizant of the breath that finally left my body as I unlocked my car door and got inside. Could it really be him? I was desperately trying to think of the last time I’d seen him. 1988? 1989?
I started my Honda and whipped a U-turn in the middle of Market Street so that I could negotiate a left turn onto Sacramento St. Before I made the intersection, I saw that he was two cars behind me in traffic. I pulled into a diagonal parking spot on Market. I use the term “parking spot” loosely, since the curb at my front bumper was blazing red.
I opened my door and got out of the car, standing like an idiot as I watched his car pull up to the light. His brake lights went on well short of the intersection, and then he backed up and rolled his passenger window down. I couldn’t believe I was staring at him. He looked older. How could either of us not, with the two decades that had passed?
Ultimately, he pulled into an adjacent parking lot and got out of his car. The gaze we initially shared was some strange combination of, “Is it really you?” and “Doesn’t this seem like the most natural occurrence in our vastly separate lives?”
This was the first man I’d ever loved with that wholly irrational, unconditional, follow-him-to-the-ends-of-the-earth kind of devotion. We’d met when I was working at the Big Wheels in Shingletown and he used to make vendor deliveries there. We dated off and on for over a year. The “offs” were as deep and dark as the “ons” were high and mighty.
He walked up to me and hugged me like only mere minutes had passed since the last time we shared an embrace. He has grandchildren now. I have grown children. He has hair that is more gray than not. I have hair that is more fake than not.
As I gazed at him through our conversation, I realized that I still felt 100 percent of that same spark that united us when we were younger. The difference today is that I am about another 1000 percent more of a person now than I was back then, as he is, too. The love that once filled almost the entirety of my existence, now only covets a small spot, for the expansion that decades of life does bring.
What was enormously comforting about the entire encounter was his comment, “As soon as I saw those eyes, I knew….” With so many changes going on about and in me lately, I’ve been struggling in some regards with who I am, on multiple levels. It was truly awesome to connect with someone who could look into me transcendently—through decades of time, births of children, failed marriage, sickness, successes, failures, obstacles, and victories, and see into the memories of a time we shared that was cherished, and beautiful, and apparently, resilient.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Courage and Bravery, With a Side of Noodly Knees? Please...
I have been mightily blessed by so many people sending prayer, positive thoughts, and well wishes my way lately. It is humbling to hear people talk of their perceptions of my courage and bravery. This is in part, because even managing the mental piece of this situation is a daily struggle, sometimes on a minute-by-minute basis. I often feel more like a scared little mouse than a roaring lion.
Today was a really stellar day. I drove out of town to do some work for a client. My driving companion and I had a blast on the way there. And, good news, I didn’t even get sick. That alone was enough to make me feel like Wonder Woman by the time I got to the job site.
It was really nice to spend the day thinking and focusing on something besides a body that’s trying to fail me. While I don’t really see myself as a control freak (any more… that’s what my 20’s were all about), I do tend to do better when I can occasionally delude myself into thinking that I am the master of my own little universe. Today was one of those days. It was fun.
On the way back from the mountains, my ride buddy JC and I stopped at Whiskeytown Lake for a quick swim. Winding around one of the paths near Oak Bottom, we swam, unfettered by others, and enjoyed the beauty of our surroundings. JC amused me with details of his raft trip down the Trinity earlier in the day, and his angst over whether or not to call the ‘smokin’ hottie’ who was in the raft with him for most of the trip. Just how many people on the planet get to end their work days in such perfect surroundings? I fully realize how fortunate I am, and resolve to remain focused on those kinds of joys in life.
I am also in awe of just how well 150 SPF sunscreen works. I didn’t even know sunscreen could be that protective, and yet, here I am with the same uneven truckdriver tan I’ve had all summer, no darker, no lighter.
By the time I got home, I was tired, but in a really good way. I made it through the day only getting sick once. I was overjoyed. As I began to unreel through the evening’s rituals, I received a phone call from my doctor’s office. This week’s tests are not what any of us had hoped. Tumors have showed no additional shrinkage, and according to the doctor, my bloodwork doesn't indicate that my "body is fighting the fight the way it needs to be.”
I couldn’t believe that the doctor used a fighting metaphor, because his words, at that moment, threw me the equivalent of a sucker punch. My mind raced as he continued talking, and I began readjusting my strategy and game plan as he explained things in loathsome medical jargon.
Bottom line, I will be doubling my medication for the next three weeks. Increased and new side effects will likely follow.
I’ll be honest. These are the moments I don’t feel so brave. It is extremely difficult to not succumb to fear, despair, sorrow, anger, and righteous indignation. Since I've started treatment, I've had to learn to adjust to life's interesting indignities, like apologizing to a high-ranking official for vomiting on her at a meeting in the Colorado state capitol. And dealing with the laughter and horror of a group of teens in Target when I threw up into my own handbag, lacking any other discreet means of managing the situation. I've lost all my hair, I can't drive on my own, sleep comes only in doses of too much or not enough, and the list goes on. And maybe that's part of what keeps me in the mental game of this-- do I really want to add unmitigated whining and blubbery tears to the list of personal embarrassments linked to this situation? I think not.
Ever the planner, these moments make me want to start working on plan B. What if the drugs don’t finish the job at all? What if chemo after that doesn’t work? What if surgery fails, too?
It is practically a physical effort to put that kind of speculative planning out of my head. I’m an analyst by nature, designed to constantly be looking at options, trade-offs, building contingencies. Then I remember that at the beginning of all this, the one thing I decided to predicate all other decisions upon was the fundamental notion that I WILL NOT GIVE THIS ‘THING’ PLACE OR PRESENCE.
In all of my contemplation over how best to deal with this situation, I resolved that I would stick to that one principle. As such, I do my best to only talk in terms of this thing leaving my body. I have refused to even let the doctor tell me the ‘formal’ name for what is bugging me. I decided that it would be easier to eradicate it if I don’t become friendly with it. I told the doctor, “I don’t really need to know who the invader is, just help me tool up so I can kick its ass.”
My logic is similar to how we deal with unwanted humans. If someone invades your home, you do what must be done to remove that stranger, up to, and including killing it. Shooting someone, harming them, or otherwise incapacitating them, are not normal actions in our daily context of life. In the same vein, I can’t imagine pointing a gun at an intruder and saying, “Hey, before I shoot you, can you tell me what your name is? Exactly how long were you intending to stay? Do you have an ETA on when you were planning to kill ME?”
With human relationships, a whole different social order exists once you become acquainted with someone. You learn names, you discover backgrounds, you find common points of interests, you begin to compensate for them and sometimes even justify their behavior. In no way do I wish to establish that kind of kinship with what’s inside me. I just want it gone.
So, despite today’s news, I’ve decided to see this as an opportunity. A former co-worker encouraged me last week by saying, “This trial you’re going through will change you, and it’s up to you whether that change is for the better or for the worse.”
I’m choosing ‘better’, come what may.
Today was a really stellar day. I drove out of town to do some work for a client. My driving companion and I had a blast on the way there. And, good news, I didn’t even get sick. That alone was enough to make me feel like Wonder Woman by the time I got to the job site.
It was really nice to spend the day thinking and focusing on something besides a body that’s trying to fail me. While I don’t really see myself as a control freak (any more… that’s what my 20’s were all about), I do tend to do better when I can occasionally delude myself into thinking that I am the master of my own little universe. Today was one of those days. It was fun.
On the way back from the mountains, my ride buddy JC and I stopped at Whiskeytown Lake for a quick swim. Winding around one of the paths near Oak Bottom, we swam, unfettered by others, and enjoyed the beauty of our surroundings. JC amused me with details of his raft trip down the Trinity earlier in the day, and his angst over whether or not to call the ‘smokin’ hottie’ who was in the raft with him for most of the trip. Just how many people on the planet get to end their work days in such perfect surroundings? I fully realize how fortunate I am, and resolve to remain focused on those kinds of joys in life.
I am also in awe of just how well 150 SPF sunscreen works. I didn’t even know sunscreen could be that protective, and yet, here I am with the same uneven truckdriver tan I’ve had all summer, no darker, no lighter.
By the time I got home, I was tired, but in a really good way. I made it through the day only getting sick once. I was overjoyed. As I began to unreel through the evening’s rituals, I received a phone call from my doctor’s office. This week’s tests are not what any of us had hoped. Tumors have showed no additional shrinkage, and according to the doctor, my bloodwork doesn't indicate that my "body is fighting the fight the way it needs to be.”
I couldn’t believe that the doctor used a fighting metaphor, because his words, at that moment, threw me the equivalent of a sucker punch. My mind raced as he continued talking, and I began readjusting my strategy and game plan as he explained things in loathsome medical jargon.
Bottom line, I will be doubling my medication for the next three weeks. Increased and new side effects will likely follow.
I’ll be honest. These are the moments I don’t feel so brave. It is extremely difficult to not succumb to fear, despair, sorrow, anger, and righteous indignation. Since I've started treatment, I've had to learn to adjust to life's interesting indignities, like apologizing to a high-ranking official for vomiting on her at a meeting in the Colorado state capitol. And dealing with the laughter and horror of a group of teens in Target when I threw up into my own handbag, lacking any other discreet means of managing the situation. I've lost all my hair, I can't drive on my own, sleep comes only in doses of too much or not enough, and the list goes on. And maybe that's part of what keeps me in the mental game of this-- do I really want to add unmitigated whining and blubbery tears to the list of personal embarrassments linked to this situation? I think not.
Ever the planner, these moments make me want to start working on plan B. What if the drugs don’t finish the job at all? What if chemo after that doesn’t work? What if surgery fails, too?
It is practically a physical effort to put that kind of speculative planning out of my head. I’m an analyst by nature, designed to constantly be looking at options, trade-offs, building contingencies. Then I remember that at the beginning of all this, the one thing I decided to predicate all other decisions upon was the fundamental notion that I WILL NOT GIVE THIS ‘THING’ PLACE OR PRESENCE.
In all of my contemplation over how best to deal with this situation, I resolved that I would stick to that one principle. As such, I do my best to only talk in terms of this thing leaving my body. I have refused to even let the doctor tell me the ‘formal’ name for what is bugging me. I decided that it would be easier to eradicate it if I don’t become friendly with it. I told the doctor, “I don’t really need to know who the invader is, just help me tool up so I can kick its ass.”
My logic is similar to how we deal with unwanted humans. If someone invades your home, you do what must be done to remove that stranger, up to, and including killing it. Shooting someone, harming them, or otherwise incapacitating them, are not normal actions in our daily context of life. In the same vein, I can’t imagine pointing a gun at an intruder and saying, “Hey, before I shoot you, can you tell me what your name is? Exactly how long were you intending to stay? Do you have an ETA on when you were planning to kill ME?”
With human relationships, a whole different social order exists once you become acquainted with someone. You learn names, you discover backgrounds, you find common points of interests, you begin to compensate for them and sometimes even justify their behavior. In no way do I wish to establish that kind of kinship with what’s inside me. I just want it gone.
So, despite today’s news, I’ve decided to see this as an opportunity. A former co-worker encouraged me last week by saying, “This trial you’re going through will change you, and it’s up to you whether that change is for the better or for the worse.”
I’m choosing ‘better’, come what may.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Sounds Like Bigfoot… Smells Like Bigfoot… Tastes Like… CHICKEN!
So, today, I traveled to a small nearby mountain town to attend a meeting for work. One of my able chauffeurs, Julz, went along for the ride and the fun. This was the second trip she and I have made to said town. We went last week as well. On last week’s trip, she was driving, and I was riding shotgun on our return to Redding. At one point, we had to stop because I was going to be sick, motion sickness getting the better of me because of the medications I’m on.
Julz, ever the able helper, pulled into a paved turnout at the summit of a hill along the highway, and I rocketed out of the car, scurried into the brush, and deposited lunch all over a lilac bush. Unbeknownst to me, Julz was standing along side the highway, winking it up with these two fellows who were parked across the highway, eating lunch out of large coolers.
Apparently, when I was getting sick, these two guys looked at one another quizzically until one of them finally broke the silence with, “What IS that???”
Julz, looking for an entre into conversation with them, volunteered, “Oh WOW… it kinda SOUNDS like BIGFOOT!”
When I finally got myself back to rights and returned to the car, both fellows were staring oddly at me. Friendly sort that I am, I waved. They smiled and waved back, as Julz trotted back over to the car and got us on our way.
I immediately asked Julz, “What’s their story?”
“Oh, they route cables or some s**t like that, I didn’t really get into that much with them,” she reported.
Interesting.
“Feel better?” Julz inquired of me.
“Uh, yeah, a little,” I said.
“That’s good. You were yakking pretty loud. Those guys were kinda weirded out. I played dumb and acted scared and said that the noise sounded like Bigfoot.”
Bigfoot? Seriously, what’s not to love about this woman? She’s adorable.
So, fast forward to today. We left Redding around 11:00ish after my doctor appointment and headed for the same mountain town. I was driving, as I seem to do better through the curvy 8-mile stretch near the lake if I’m behind the wheel. Despite being the driver, I still got sick. Quickly, I pulled the car over in a turnout (about 12 miles away from the one the previous week) and proceeded to hork up whatever was left in my stomach.
While I was dealing with that situation, I could hear Julz talking to someone. I was curious, of course, but still a little too distracted to scurry off to find out who she was talking to. When I was finally ready to continue on our journey, I walked back up to the car, as Julz was once again crossing back over from the other side of the highway.
I asked her what she was doing. She smiled, devilishly. “You won’t believe it, but those same two dudes were across the highway, so I went and talked to them. Don’t worry, I’ve got your back. I told them a-gain that those grotesque sounds must DEFINITELY be BIGFOOT!”
So, we get to the town where my meeting is, and I stealthily seat myself in a rear row of the hall next to a young youth corps member who was there, with about eight other cohorts, to give a presentation about the wonders of their youth program.
I think these kids must have been camping out in the woods somewhere, because they smelled—I’m not really sure of the right word—Strong? Burly? Musky? Pungent? Unshowered? As much as I love teens, I have to admit, I was a bit grateful that they left before I did.
When I finished with my meeting, I walked down the main drag to a small coffee shop where Julz was waiting for me. Between the youngsters in the meeting and the exotic and strong smell of brewing coffees wafting out the doorway, my stomach churned, and I lost it again. Right. On. Main. Street. By the time we got to the car, all I was able to utter was, “The smells… like Bigfoot!”
I slept most of the ride home, curves and all. I was tired. Julz slowed the car at the lake on the way home, and we decided to take a quick dip. As I changed into my suit, I noticed in the rear view mirror that I must’ve been touching my face in my sleep. A LOT. The eyebrows I’d carefully penciled on this morning were gone. Is it still considered your ‘brow’ when there’s no brows there?
The absence of brows was enough to make me adopt a devil-may-care attitude about our little swim. “Eyebrows gone, wig off, Julz let’s hit the trail and see who we can scare now!”
As we closed in on the shore of the lake, we encountered a small clatch of young 20-somethings from Louisiana. We chatted, we swam, and then, as any good youngsters from the south would do, they whipped out a small bbq and began cooking a feast.
I was still in the water, enjoying the relative liberty I feel there, where skin and bones seem to ache just a little less these days. When I finally got out of the water, Julz had something meaty looking hanging from a stick. She asked me if I wanted some, and I declined. She tried again, saying, “Give it a try. It’s ALLIGATOR! All the way from Louisiana!”
I’ve eaten it before, so I wasn’t that impressed. Julz, however, was chowing on that stuff like she hadn’t eaten all week. When she finally stopped for a second to catch her breath, I asked, “So, what do you think?”
“OMG, you have NO IDEA how bad I want to tell you that it tastes like BIG FOOT! But pretty much, it just tastes like chicken…”
Julz, ever the able helper, pulled into a paved turnout at the summit of a hill along the highway, and I rocketed out of the car, scurried into the brush, and deposited lunch all over a lilac bush. Unbeknownst to me, Julz was standing along side the highway, winking it up with these two fellows who were parked across the highway, eating lunch out of large coolers.
Apparently, when I was getting sick, these two guys looked at one another quizzically until one of them finally broke the silence with, “What IS that???”
Julz, looking for an entre into conversation with them, volunteered, “Oh WOW… it kinda SOUNDS like BIGFOOT!”
When I finally got myself back to rights and returned to the car, both fellows were staring oddly at me. Friendly sort that I am, I waved. They smiled and waved back, as Julz trotted back over to the car and got us on our way.
I immediately asked Julz, “What’s their story?”
“Oh, they route cables or some s**t like that, I didn’t really get into that much with them,” she reported.
Interesting.
“Feel better?” Julz inquired of me.
“Uh, yeah, a little,” I said.
“That’s good. You were yakking pretty loud. Those guys were kinda weirded out. I played dumb and acted scared and said that the noise sounded like Bigfoot.”
Bigfoot? Seriously, what’s not to love about this woman? She’s adorable.
So, fast forward to today. We left Redding around 11:00ish after my doctor appointment and headed for the same mountain town. I was driving, as I seem to do better through the curvy 8-mile stretch near the lake if I’m behind the wheel. Despite being the driver, I still got sick. Quickly, I pulled the car over in a turnout (about 12 miles away from the one the previous week) and proceeded to hork up whatever was left in my stomach.
While I was dealing with that situation, I could hear Julz talking to someone. I was curious, of course, but still a little too distracted to scurry off to find out who she was talking to. When I was finally ready to continue on our journey, I walked back up to the car, as Julz was once again crossing back over from the other side of the highway.
I asked her what she was doing. She smiled, devilishly. “You won’t believe it, but those same two dudes were across the highway, so I went and talked to them. Don’t worry, I’ve got your back. I told them a-gain that those grotesque sounds must DEFINITELY be BIGFOOT!”
So, we get to the town where my meeting is, and I stealthily seat myself in a rear row of the hall next to a young youth corps member who was there, with about eight other cohorts, to give a presentation about the wonders of their youth program.
I think these kids must have been camping out in the woods somewhere, because they smelled—I’m not really sure of the right word—Strong? Burly? Musky? Pungent? Unshowered? As much as I love teens, I have to admit, I was a bit grateful that they left before I did.
When I finished with my meeting, I walked down the main drag to a small coffee shop where Julz was waiting for me. Between the youngsters in the meeting and the exotic and strong smell of brewing coffees wafting out the doorway, my stomach churned, and I lost it again. Right. On. Main. Street. By the time we got to the car, all I was able to utter was, “The smells… like Bigfoot!”
I slept most of the ride home, curves and all. I was tired. Julz slowed the car at the lake on the way home, and we decided to take a quick dip. As I changed into my suit, I noticed in the rear view mirror that I must’ve been touching my face in my sleep. A LOT. The eyebrows I’d carefully penciled on this morning were gone. Is it still considered your ‘brow’ when there’s no brows there?
The absence of brows was enough to make me adopt a devil-may-care attitude about our little swim. “Eyebrows gone, wig off, Julz let’s hit the trail and see who we can scare now!”
As we closed in on the shore of the lake, we encountered a small clatch of young 20-somethings from Louisiana. We chatted, we swam, and then, as any good youngsters from the south would do, they whipped out a small bbq and began cooking a feast.
I was still in the water, enjoying the relative liberty I feel there, where skin and bones seem to ache just a little less these days. When I finally got out of the water, Julz had something meaty looking hanging from a stick. She asked me if I wanted some, and I declined. She tried again, saying, “Give it a try. It’s ALLIGATOR! All the way from Louisiana!”
I’ve eaten it before, so I wasn’t that impressed. Julz, however, was chowing on that stuff like she hadn’t eaten all week. When she finally stopped for a second to catch her breath, I asked, “So, what do you think?”
“OMG, you have NO IDEA how bad I want to tell you that it tastes like BIG FOOT! But pretty much, it just tastes like chicken…”
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Why the Hair is No Big Deal...
Or at least why I’m telling myself it’s not...
So, I’ve been bracing myself. Optimist that I am, I had hoped that it wouldn’t fall out. At the end of last week, I had to face facts—my hair is one more collateral casualty in my ongoing conquering of cancer.
It was the oddest thing. I awoke in the middle of the night, because something was tickling my nose. I turned on the light, and noticed this chunk of hair was the culprit, and it was no longer attached to my head.
I was grateful that most of it was in this one single chunk, and that the splay of hair strewn across my pillow was at a minimum.
In the middle of that night, as I cleaned up the hair, and inspected the new bald spot near my temple, I came to some conclusions about my next moves. Practically speaking, I did not want to clean up a continuous shedding of hair. Emotionally speaking, I did not want the grief of watching my hair come out in stages. Spiritually speaking, I did not want the continuum of the shedding to give cancer more legitimacy that it deserves. It is an unwelcome, short-term presence that I intend to irradicate. Giving an ongoing acknowledgement to its side effects seems counter-productive to my objective of annihilating it from my body.
Hair is non-essential. Like hubcaps on a car, I can keep driving even if they fly off. And the hair, it in all probability, will grow back.
Early on Saturday, I went to Shopko and bought a baseball cap and some scarves for the short term.
Then, I went to one of the many quickie shops to get the rest of my locks shorn. I drove by several places, and tried to find one with as few customers as possible. I finally settled on one near the local Target store, and entered the shop. When it was my turn, I quickly sat down in the salon chair, pulled my hat off, and briefly told the stylist, “I’m going through medical treatment and am losing my hair. With a minimum of fanfare, I’d like you to just shave it off for me, please.”
The young stylist, sporting blonde locks halfway down her back, looked at me through the reflection in the mirror, horrified. “Really?”
“Yes,” I said, “really.”
She stammered some more. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
She turned the chair so that I was facing her, and said, “You’re positive?”
I began to tear up, without knowing why. I told her, “Look, if you can’t do this, I understand, but I need to get this over with. Is there someone else here who can help me?”
She grabbed her clippers, and keeping the chair turned away from the mirror, began to release my recently-dyed auburn locks from their station upon my head.
I’ve never had a ton of hair, and I’ve never really managed to find a style that works for me. It was too wavy to wear straight, and too straight to wear curly. It was, thanks to my mother’s genetic influence, frizzy, and not very thick.
Now, I’ve been released from a lot of fruitless and frustrating rituals. For the interim, no shampooing, conditioning, moussing, gelling, blowdrying, ironing, spraying, combing, fussing, etc. The loss and the liberty of it all exactly cancel each other out. Upon returning home from the salon and running my fingers over my head, I realized that I really had no feeling about it one way or the other.
What has gotten to me though, is everyone else. I was thoroughly unprepared for some people’s reactions. A close relative cried, saying that seeing me without hair makes my medical condition more real to him. Upon reflection, I guess I can understand that.
My daughter looks at me in a rather estranged way. She stands in doorways now, instead of talking to me up close. I guess I can appreciate that, too.
I had been extremely worried about appearances on the work front. I have an important meeting this week, and thought that the absence of hair would be a real distraction. I wound up looking at wigs on Saturday. My friend Maria came with me for moral support. I didn’t expect to find anything that would work for me. Surprisingly, four of the five I tried on all looked great. I settled on the one that had the most complementary color for my skin tone, and the one that most looks like my last hair style.
I think it looks great. I feel good in it, other than the discomfort of having something that hot on my head in August in Redding. I suspect that I will spend more time in scarves because of the weather. It’s what makes me comfortable in a time that is full of discomfort for myself, and apparently others around me as well.
I hope in time, others can be as comfortable with it all as I am.
So, I’ve been bracing myself. Optimist that I am, I had hoped that it wouldn’t fall out. At the end of last week, I had to face facts—my hair is one more collateral casualty in my ongoing conquering of cancer.
It was the oddest thing. I awoke in the middle of the night, because something was tickling my nose. I turned on the light, and noticed this chunk of hair was the culprit, and it was no longer attached to my head.
I was grateful that most of it was in this one single chunk, and that the splay of hair strewn across my pillow was at a minimum.
In the middle of that night, as I cleaned up the hair, and inspected the new bald spot near my temple, I came to some conclusions about my next moves. Practically speaking, I did not want to clean up a continuous shedding of hair. Emotionally speaking, I did not want the grief of watching my hair come out in stages. Spiritually speaking, I did not want the continuum of the shedding to give cancer more legitimacy that it deserves. It is an unwelcome, short-term presence that I intend to irradicate. Giving an ongoing acknowledgement to its side effects seems counter-productive to my objective of annihilating it from my body.
Hair is non-essential. Like hubcaps on a car, I can keep driving even if they fly off. And the hair, it in all probability, will grow back.
Early on Saturday, I went to Shopko and bought a baseball cap and some scarves for the short term.
Then, I went to one of the many quickie shops to get the rest of my locks shorn. I drove by several places, and tried to find one with as few customers as possible. I finally settled on one near the local Target store, and entered the shop. When it was my turn, I quickly sat down in the salon chair, pulled my hat off, and briefly told the stylist, “I’m going through medical treatment and am losing my hair. With a minimum of fanfare, I’d like you to just shave it off for me, please.”
The young stylist, sporting blonde locks halfway down her back, looked at me through the reflection in the mirror, horrified. “Really?”
“Yes,” I said, “really.”
She stammered some more. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
She turned the chair so that I was facing her, and said, “You’re positive?”
I began to tear up, without knowing why. I told her, “Look, if you can’t do this, I understand, but I need to get this over with. Is there someone else here who can help me?”
She grabbed her clippers, and keeping the chair turned away from the mirror, began to release my recently-dyed auburn locks from their station upon my head.
I’ve never had a ton of hair, and I’ve never really managed to find a style that works for me. It was too wavy to wear straight, and too straight to wear curly. It was, thanks to my mother’s genetic influence, frizzy, and not very thick.
Now, I’ve been released from a lot of fruitless and frustrating rituals. For the interim, no shampooing, conditioning, moussing, gelling, blowdrying, ironing, spraying, combing, fussing, etc. The loss and the liberty of it all exactly cancel each other out. Upon returning home from the salon and running my fingers over my head, I realized that I really had no feeling about it one way or the other.
What has gotten to me though, is everyone else. I was thoroughly unprepared for some people’s reactions. A close relative cried, saying that seeing me without hair makes my medical condition more real to him. Upon reflection, I guess I can understand that.
My daughter looks at me in a rather estranged way. She stands in doorways now, instead of talking to me up close. I guess I can appreciate that, too.
I had been extremely worried about appearances on the work front. I have an important meeting this week, and thought that the absence of hair would be a real distraction. I wound up looking at wigs on Saturday. My friend Maria came with me for moral support. I didn’t expect to find anything that would work for me. Surprisingly, four of the five I tried on all looked great. I settled on the one that had the most complementary color for my skin tone, and the one that most looks like my last hair style.
I hope in time, others can be as comfortable with it all as I am.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
