tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51288462026330433192024-03-19T02:18:51.652-07:00Chuffed: My BC Adventure
When I start a new class at the college where I teach, I always refer to it as an adventure. An adventure isn't always great, and it doesn't always go where we hope it will go. But there is always something to be learned, and something to be gained by having taken it. Many times, there are unforeseen, unexpected riches. So I'm calling this my Breast Cancer (BC) Adventure.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658326099552254641noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128846202633043319.post-85442382372454409572016-01-01T07:10:00.000-08:002016-01-01T11:51:37.864-08:001/1/16<b>Some 1/1's feel brink-like, standing over the chasm, wondering if your wings work. Some 1/1's feel wrapped in that over-sized, over-worn, tattered sweater you can't bear to slouch off yet. Regardless of what 1/1 feels like, surprises are going to come.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>My brink of 2014 had a new husband, red wedding amaryllis still blooming, but by the end of the month, also had a breast cancer/melanoma diagnosis. My brink of 2015 held as clean a slate a post-treatment patient can have, along with the inevitable ravages of surgeries, chemo and radiation, both body and brain. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>By spring, though, a new project first hovered around me, even as far as Seattle, then landed home at the semester's end: an enormous, immeasurable chasm of possibilities and potential for social change in education. I often ask myself what I was thinking; why didn't I want rest and routine and recovery? Was it flattery for being asked or fear of going back to the same old? </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>But teaching is never "same-old" - one of the best things is the perpetual potential for continuous revision and renewal. Revision and renewal can come with opportunity, too. So while I'm teetering on the brink of the second half of this project, the years of what has come before, the knowledge and experience, is lofting up the work of this first half year; we have been building the plane while we are flying it, but it is flying. Endlessly exciting.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Do I know what I should to go forward this 1/1? I've come to know some of the most committed and engaged and fascinating faculty and administrators around this state, a state I didn't really get to know until now. I've learned to turn the other cheek, deflect the shot aimed at the messenger, keep my friends close (and "frenemies" closer...?) I've learned that having lived through cancer is pretty good preparation for a project that is filled with questions and unknowns, requiring trust and engagement with people you never knew, and that some of the same things help: family, friends and colleagues to hug and laugh with when it works and when it hurts, plenty of self-forgiveness, and the positive benefits of getting sleep. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Adopting an alternative haircolor means there is always an ice-breaker at the ready, perhaps only psychologically possible after extreme baldness. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>So the gift, breast cancer, that keeps on giving is still giving this 1/1/16. And 16 is my lucky number. Happy New Year. </b>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658326099552254641noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128846202633043319.post-53311711251630546242015-07-07T22:05:00.000-07:002015-07-08T16:49:15.824-07:00This is your brain on chemo drugs...any questions? It's been awhile. Things have certainly been happening. Big things, and little things, too.<br />
<br />
Cancer is full of gifts; there is such a universe of caring and kindness during the treatment, and so much pain and confusion and despair that everyone involved in the process works to resolve.<br />
But what happens after the treatment rolls to a close? Not many people talk about this, or maybe they do, and it is too hard to hear during the crisis.<br />
<br />
Once I began to feel physically better, more like my former self, the more I began to notice the cognitive effects of the whole process: chemo brain. I've never experienced anything so frustrating, or real.<br />
<br />
As a hard-working college professor, I have some baselines in place: how long it takes to learn all my students' names, how efficiently I respond to their emails and questions, giving grades and feedback, and being sure each student feels like I'm paying attention. Can I make spontaneous leaps in sharing content because I know it so well? Do I support my colleagues as a department chair, finishing the myriad of tasks efficiently? I have the before-cancer baseline, and then, the spring semester of <strike>2016 </strike> 2015 (see?) benchmark revision: not good, sometimes shambolic, especially learning names. And it goes beyond my work; gradually it became a daily struggle to think of words, names, why I came into a room, what I meant to do next. My typing is scrambly and I burn myself on the hot stove, putting me somewhere between being geriatric, and a toddler. <br />
<br />
Now couple this with the opportunity to spend a year on a breathtakingly exciting project, working with ed-tech pioneers, a project that rallies all of my energies, instincts, experiences, and interests. Imagine the fear of diving into a project like this, not knowing if your trusty brain would be there to support you.<br />
<br />
I decided to do research, and approach my doctors with ideas from only the best sources: Mayo Clinic and MD Anderson Center. For the first time, my cancer treatment became a bit wacky. A call to the oncologist's office turned into over-the-phone-nurse-advice resembling a game of "Telephone" from childhood. I started all over again, and booked an appointment (more co-pay) to discuss this in person. The Oncology NP thought it was worth a shot to try a medication. The next day, when I saw my internist, she seemed shocked that the NP prescribed that drug, and implied that it would probably make my head explode (she didn't use that exact term, but...) and she thought a different drug would be better. I filled that prescription, too, only to have her nurse call two days later and say that it might interfere with the Tamoxifen I take to prevent a recurrence of cancer. She put me on a drug similar to the one the NP put me on in the first place. So far, my head has not exploded, and the meds may be making things considerably better.<br />
<br />
The new job is so filled with learning curves, every day is a winding road, and sometimes my brain responds to this and cooperates with stored knowledge and muscle memory. Everyone here (well, there - they are in Portland, I'm in VA) is younger than I am, so I've cultivated the sage-like slow answer (madly scrambling in my head for thoughts) and other times, it seems I can coast a bit on my instincts. I do think that jumping into a new world, given the past year, is pushing my brain back into shape, along with medication. I'm loving the adrenaline of challenge. Maybe the adrenaline, along with the prescription, will bring me to an even newer baseline, one well ahead of my pre-cancer self.<br />
<br />
I'll keep you posted.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiusMAe3ukeQtuZxNV-3sK-gzSJ55eYeD-9vDZ6Py25znHQi2Y_UPlZ_z3TPTTgNZ8yuzgX3mzGNeRsAWM5ujgYZRFHG3URIVwjCmwXI4WmQqNL2VgFBvukrJ_tw0AlMWuRpaTEsYiMKys/s1600/chemobrain+the+book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiusMAe3ukeQtuZxNV-3sK-gzSJ55eYeD-9vDZ6Py25znHQi2Y_UPlZ_z3TPTTgNZ8yuzgX3mzGNeRsAWM5ujgYZRFHG3URIVwjCmwXI4WmQqNL2VgFBvukrJ_tw0AlMWuRpaTEsYiMKys/s320/chemobrain+the+book.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658326099552254641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128846202633043319.post-18091241320090098412015-03-18T14:38:00.001-07:002015-03-18T14:38:58.362-07:00Therapy dropout....I tried. I really did. But I had no faith. The lymphedema therapist was brand-spanking new. Super friendly; a little school-marmish. She had to do everything three times to get it right. Which is fine if you are an intern, or trainee. Unfortunately, she has been turned loose on patients with no visible supervision.<br />
<br />
Both times she wrapped my arm in the bulky layer of bandages, I was awoken in the night by stabbing pain, purple fingers, red blotches. Her main training has been on arms, and so she wanted to treat my arm. But my arm is not the problem - it's my breast, and around it, which is more rare. It reminded me of an old Bill Cosby routine about a football player hit in the groin while on TV, and he is told he has to grab his head, instead, which they bandage.<br />
<br />
So I talked to my oncologist and he gave me enough of an out to quit. Today, I went to my much loved and trusted massage therapist, Zaida, and told her the story. She worked on me for 90 minutes, in her focused, intuitive way, and the swelling was already down when I left. Zaida has gifts that go hand in hand with her deep faith, and I've never known a healer like her.<br />
<br />
Having been the compliant patient throughout, I took it hard that I didn't ace lymphedema therapy. But I have learned lessons here. Instinct matters. Trusting myself. Combining the allopathic and the wholistic/integrative world is positive. I do believe there are many different ways to keep on healing and strengthening my body, if I focus on making them happen. <br />
<br />
I even had a green juice today.<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658326099552254641noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128846202633043319.post-31120771694714499932015-03-03T15:19:00.002-08:002015-03-03T18:09:09.748-08:00What's next? (Again.)When I was growing up, my mother often told stories about how colicky my oldest brother, her first child, was, and how, had someone come to the door certain nights to take him, she would have handed him over. (She didn't, and he outgrew it, and she had three more children, so I guess it was possibly worse in hindsight.) When I became pregnant, pretty much my only big fear was that my child would have colic. So of course he did, and I survived it, too. (I didn't have three more, but that's a different story...)<br />
<br />
My biggest fear in having breast cancer surgery was that I would get lymphedema. I know, it sounds ridiculous, given the other horrendous possibilities, but there it is. I dreaded the idea of it, and I watched for it. Then at some point, I stopped worrying - lots of other bits and bobs came up to distract, and I thought I had dodged the whack-a-mole mallet on this one.<br />
<br />
So recently. when I went to see my radiation oncologist for a follow up, and he told me the swelling in my left breast was lymphedema, I felt blindsided. Wait - I don't have a giant marshmallow arm. My skin is not rupturing. No. Nope. Not. Kindly, Christy the nurse walked me over to the physical therapy office and helped me set up my first appointment. Surreal things were said: I would have "bandaging" and "garments" which sounds like both Egyptian and Mormon religious rituals. But there is no getting around it by disassociating: what's next is physical therapy for lymphedema, which is a big, ugly word for swelling somewhere because of blocked lymph flow in a body. My body.<br />
<br />
After a few missteps in making time for treatment again, I went to my first appointment yesterday. My therapist is new and well meaning. She measured me up and down my arms and confusingly described the coming treatment. There will be massage (good) and big bulky bandaging, briefly (bad) and spandex sleeves, which I can get in black, hot pink, and leopard, according to my internet search. None of this is a big deal. Truly not. So why did I sit there nearly having a panic attack about the whole lymphedema mishegas?<br />
<br />
Because, for the first time, I started to feel like I had something wrong with me. Bear with me. I know that I spent last year in aggressive treatment for cancer, and it should be transparently evident that I have something wrong with me. But, honestly, I never thought I did. I thought it was obstacles, and hurdles, and hard work, and I put my shoulder into it and did it, as we do. I always thought I would go back to being me after, with weirder hair, but me.<br />
<br />
This diagnosis made me wonder if, should I decide to, I could up and train for a 100 mile bike race (as I did, twice) or an 8K run (did) EVER AGAIN. And I'm not ready to think of myself that way yet, as someone who could not do that. Do what she wanted to with her body, if she chose to.<br />
<br />
So I did what any panicking woman should do: I went to a yoga class.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658326099552254641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128846202633043319.post-59500252608148422532015-02-15T11:29:00.000-08:002015-02-15T11:29:51.267-08:00The World is Too Much With Us...I may teach English, but I don't quote Wordsworth much; nonetheless, this line keeps popping into my head. The reasons have nothing to do with what this William meant. Or at least not so much. <br />
<br />
It is in my head because I'm feeling too much of the world, too much of the sorrows and sadnesses, so much loss and death and hurt. My dear friend's brain tumor has taken her away; except for the occasional smile, she is lost. I can hold her hand and talk to her, but she is no longer there. A steady and spiritual woman, she comforted me over the years far more than I comforted her, and now the roles are reversed; when she seems anxious and confused, I can calm her. But I cannot calm myself.<br />
<br />
Maybe the "getting and spending" part is about this, the realization that the quotidian slog of the profession means we don't say "I love you" enough to friends, or go out for a fun, gossipy lunch of laughter and forgetting. We don't push to enjoy the connected moments like we push for other things we think mean more, the success things. This is not a terribly original complaint, but now it is so evident, in every waking minute, suspended in the air like those <a href="http://www.wired.com/2014/10/4-acre-spider-web-engulfs-building/" target="_blank">four acres of cobwebs in Delaware</a>. Loss is miasmic: personal, associational, flooding the media with tales of terrorists and terror.<br />
<br />
This sounds despairing, but truly it is the opposite. I'm so flooded with daily gratitude I practically slosh: my friend has excellent care, as does a friend's brother who is in hospice. They have loving family and friends. I have loving family and friends who got me through some terrible times, frightening times. The comfort lies in knowing how much it helped, so I can possibly help now, choosing not to lay waste my powers.<br />
<br />
<div class="poem" style="background-color: white; color: #505050; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 24px; margin: 25px 0px 0px;">
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658326099552254641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128846202633043319.post-77777741903006922572015-01-13T04:50:00.003-08:002015-01-13T04:50:48.218-08:00Feeling is healing...Two surgeries and then radiation for breast cancer left me with large areas of numbness on my left side, in my arm, armpit and shoulder - nerve damage from cutting and zapping. This is strange to live with, but not hugely disruptive until recently, when some of the feeling has started to come back. Sometimes it is almost painful, a waking up - what the cancer world calls "zingers" - like small electrical shocks dancing up and down my arm or shoulder. Sometimes it is almost a Charley-horse: a cramping, or spasm, like after you've mucked out a dozen stalls in a barn, or carried tons of book boxes in a move. Distracting, but not unwanted, and it serves as a reminder that I am healing, coming back to a new normal, to a new life. Feeling is healing.<br />
<br />
This week, I realized the same was happening, being married again. When my late husband died young and very suddenly of a heart attack, it was like an amputation of love, a massive severing of nerves and feeling. I did, eventually, for survival, go completely numb to the intricacies of intimacy with someone so beloved, someone with whom all the joys and pleasures of coupling seems endless, but clearly isn't. Luckily, I soon had a child and found rich fulfillment in the kind of love we can and do grow with our beautiful beings, these lovely incarnations who deserve the lavish outpourings of our hearts and minds. Not the same, but a gift.<br />
<br />
Now I am married to my dear husband, my mate, the feeder of my heart and soul, and I feel the numbness quickly abating, the nerve endings knitting up and healing after so long. It isn't that I didn't begin by loving him, almost from the start, but now, living in a true marriage of two, I feel the tingles of deep intimacy, the joy and laughter, with the sensation of truly being known and cherished that comes in this kind of pairing. I once told a friend that I delight in marriage because it is like being in a private and exclusive club of just two members. I feel those zingers of intimacy, the tingles of deep love - the joy of being in that club of two. Feeling is healing.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658326099552254641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128846202633043319.post-46554320514070923632015-01-07T03:37:00.000-08:002015-01-07T03:37:11.664-08:00Eat the peanut brittle...My friend has a brain tumor. This happened: she worked incredibly hard, innovatively, teaching math in classrooms and online, mastering instructional design and technology, gathering data and perfecting what she did, until she could show that students can learn math online, often better than in the classroom. She chaired committees with intense organization and productivity. She took on a five year project with me that influenced the college's re-accreditation - you know, the ones that wake you up at 3am, heart pounding - and propped me up when we had little idea of how to go on, or tell unpopular truths in changing a culture.<br />
<br />
She did all this for years and years, also supporting and caring for a disabled husband, a mother with Parkinson's, a daughter with mental illness challenges, and her own bad knees. In mid-December, at the end of the fall semester, she officially retired, seeking the rest and reward that is meant to bring. On December 16th, we gave her the small luncheon she requested instead of a large party, and gifted her with bags of art supplies; she is a math teacher who paints and draws beautifully. Last weekend, she was admitted to ICU with a large tumor, causing blood to accumulate on her brain.<br />
<br />
Getting this news on Monday made me feel worse than I had felt all throughout my cancer adventure. I never once asked "why me?" but this has me screaming "why her?" I don't know what is going to happen next, as if I ever did, but something did happen.<br />
<br />
My dear friend Liza sent us back from North Carolina with the Christmas gift of the most delicious homemade peanut brittle. I ate a few pieces when we got home and thought, whoa - that is just too good. I'm going to begin this new year with some restraint, some constraint (those "ain't" words...) and ration out that peanut brittle. Something that good needs to be controlled.<br />
<br />
Monday, after hearing about my friend's hospitalization, I ate the peanut brittle. A few pieces; not all. But I gave myself permission to have that pleasure, a pleasure given by another friend. This is the only possible lesson - enjoy all the good you have, especially the good that is a loving gift, because the time comes when you can't, and you don't know when that time will be. This lesson so often needs retelling. Eat the peanut brittle.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658326099552254641noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128846202633043319.post-70038779998728078482014-11-30T14:11:00.000-08:002014-11-30T14:11:52.117-08:00Post-traumatic Newlywed Syndrome...My man moved in on Halloween 2013, and we had Thanksgiving, our wedding, a honeymoon, my birthday, and Christmas, then New Year's, 2014, and the spring semester started, with both of us teaching, and then: screeching brakes. At the end of January, the plans we had to kick back and relax after the fun whirlwind were swept up into another whirlwind, a scary one, one with mortal coils, spirals of fear and worry. Cancer is confusion, and irony, and self-blame, and vulnerability. It is also the strangest gift, one that keeps on giving: the most ordinary days and events become rewards and blessings, grace sprinkled on generously, with light and warmth, and unmitigated joy.<br />
<br />
The past few weeks, at last post-treatment, have been filled with a flurry of delayed newlywed gratification. We have moved furniture, and spackled, and shopped for paint, and painted, and today, we went to IKEA. This sounds like trite, consumeristic nonsense. But for the past months, though I pushed myself to do many, many things that had to be done in spite of the hideous treatments, I could not rally the physical or psychological energy to go up to IKEA and make my home better suited for three of us, no matter how often I thought of it, gazing longingly at the catalog and website.<br />
<br />
Today, we drove there, roamed around the maze of color and texture, laughed about ourselves and people there, ate gravlax, hoisted flat-pack, braved the snail checkout, and put it all in the car. Today, I stopped dozens of times to feel the rush of lucky roll over me because I don't think it would ever have been possible to enjoy the divine ordinary of a trip to IKEA if I hadn't gotten cancer. Today, ambling through with dear husband, planning rooms to comfortably hold us all, making a home, making a life, just like normal newlyweds, was a hard earned gift.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658326099552254641noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128846202633043319.post-18549474001977779512014-11-12T06:35:00.000-08:002014-11-12T06:35:05.206-08:00Joy to the world, all the boys and girls...My slightly scatty ability to self-analyze seems to detect a liminal shift in my stage of cancer recovery. I'm rapidly approaching delirious joy, though I will try to keep the delirious part dialed down. It may be some kind of post-chemical/radiated response of my body and brain, but honestly: colors are brighter, music and words more moving, air smells amazing, cooking and eating bring pure pleasure, and everyone is beautiful. Not just in their own way; really beautiful. Cranky people who formerly drove me nuts are simply not, even when they are selfish and neurotic; I figure they need a smile even more than most. If my son has dropped to a B+ in English, so be it - this fall, he learned to be a distance runner who constantly improved his time, and now he is busy living his dream of being in a pit orchestra for a musical; he can pull up his grade later. But most of all, he is beautiful: a fully formed human who came to earth via me, and light shines out of him. My husband is beautiful, heart and soul; light shines from him, too, and music. My friends and family are better than any riches on earth, and they are beautiful, light shining from them all, lighting my way through this adventure, this life.<br />
<br />
My gratitude for life is off the charts, and this joy, should it prove sustainable, may be more powerful than the Tamoxifen, could be the secret to long term cancer survival, learned late in life, but better late than never.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658326099552254641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128846202633043319.post-40686696165131599832014-10-29T19:04:00.000-07:002014-10-29T19:05:50.215-07:00Dubious Gift Dear Left Breast,<br />
<br />
Don't think that I blame you, or that you have been singled out and punished. I know you have been squashed in countless mammos, ultrasounded, and pierced for a biopsy. You've been surgically sliced and diced, had a wire jabbed into you, as well as an implanted metal marker. You've been stitched and attached to drains. You've been flushed with toxic chemicals, squashed some more, then trussed up into plastic and velcro and radiated by the VARIAN True Beam until you resemble a brown coconut, blistered and spotted. All this is true. But we have been in this together, all for the best and we can hope it will be the last of it, after today's scans. This body has sometimes felt like a battlefield, with skirmishes breaking out: shin, shoulder, armpit, scalp, tummy, tongue - but peace will come.<br />
<br />
Eventually, I'm told, you will go back to resembling Right Breast again, smoother and pinker, and less mottled. You will be poked and prodded less frequently. We shall both forget the indignities of illness, the receptionists who called us "Hon" and only remember the compassion, humor, and sweetness of the professionals who helped heal us. We will think of all the loving family and friends who gave us prayers, smiles, cards, gifts, and laughs, especially the laughs. We will remember the colleagues and students who showed their kindness in myriad ways.<br />
<br />
We will never again go sunbathing topless in the South of France, but we probably wouldn't have anyway, at this age, even without the dubious gift of a life adventure like breast cancer. We will instead cherish every sunrise and sunset over the lake and river and sea, fully clothed, and grateful.<br />
<br />
Love, me.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658326099552254641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128846202633043319.post-25088952028708276242014-09-06T08:06:00.000-07:002014-09-06T11:18:46.416-07:00Step ThreeIf I've been quiet here, it is because I'm just beginning to raise my head up out of the foxhole. Okay, not a great metaphor, because there has been no hiding from enemy fire. A better metaphor would be getting off a merry-go-round, those metal ones ubiquitous in playgrounds before people worried so much about children's ability to play safely. Kids would load on, someone would spin it by holding the bar and running fast right next to it, and then jump on. The world would blur by if you looked out, familiar but lacking essential detail. Gradually, it would slow down, and you would climb off, reeling and tipsy, centrifugally altered, but still in the same place. <br />
<br />
Going through two surgeries and six rounds of chemo in seven months required my hanging on through a swirl, looking out at a sometimes blurred world going by, dizzy, often nauseated and disoriented, precisely at a time when thinking clearly would probably be a good idea. Then the chemo ends, things stop swirling so fast, and smelling weird, and the hair starts growing back, altered, but still on my head.<br />
<br />
So now that I'm done swirling, landed in the same place, I have possibly too much time to reflect on what the hell just happened. Getting from one appointment to the next was in many ways easier. I used to love Jed Bartlet in West Wing when he'd say to staff, "What's next?" but I console myself now that I don't have to answer anything except "radiation," the Step Three after surgery and chemo.<br />
<br />
Radiation offers those bizarre moments unique to breast cancer treatment. I am having a new form of super high-tech radiation, with a Star Trek-like machine, and in case you think I'm exaggerating, it is called the VARIAN TrueBeam High Energy Linear Accelerator (THELA). I have a team of three highly trained technicians who make this thing work with admirable precision, including playing jazz on Pandora while I'm on the table. Mandy is an artist of alignment, and her two handsome assistants tug and shove me to her requests like "left hip 3cm right" with fervent devotion.<br />
<br />
But the first day was slightly intimidating, and I walked into the vast room with the <strike>plutonium-powered DeLorean</strike> THELA machine with no idea what happens next. I looked up at a monitor next to the machine and saw large photos, including a side angle shot of my left breast, trussed up in the plastic and velcro thing they fitted me with for these treatments. My face must have done something because Mandy said consolingly, "That is just so we know we have the right treatment location. Probably not what you expected to see this early in the morning." I answered, "Well, as long as you don't leak it on the internet with Jennifer Lawrence's naked photos..." There was a second of silence, and then three loud guffaws. From that moment, I figured it would be fine.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyPqhCVJceAw9RfOhlYf0syUTZpT7b_JBMfYWRmjhZ0b9LXnUfWHIWvI-fNeHweS88HjDRtD-kO0DYTBBCGX77VTQ7jxKr3KEzK8hEu_9oJS5ycUGEOwnvr50vPUGCJZU3GSP3tISzTuM/s1600/variantruebeamsscbctilted.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyPqhCVJceAw9RfOhlYf0syUTZpT7b_JBMfYWRmjhZ0b9LXnUfWHIWvI-fNeHweS88HjDRtD-kO0DYTBBCGX77VTQ7jxKr3KEzK8hEu_9oJS5ycUGEOwnvr50vPUGCJZU3GSP3tISzTuM/s1600/variantruebeamsscbctilted.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658326099552254641noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128846202633043319.post-30330802911445404122014-08-13T05:14:00.000-07:002014-08-13T05:14:18.748-07:00Cancer cures wrinkles...One of the great things about cancer treatment is that it refocuses priorities, at least for the patient. Rather than worrying about the long-term effects of a bad haircut, I worry about the long term.<br />
<br />
Having lost most of my hair, including eyelashes, eyebrows, and other bits, I am freed up to worry about having lost some cognitive function, like finishing sentences.<br />
<br />
When I look in the mirror at my fuzzy head and puzzle over what look is coming next, I realize no one ever knows what is coming next. I should already know this, given my life history, but clearly I need big, heavy hammer reminders. Nothing subtle.<br />
<br />
Last week, while arranging a consult with a dermatologist because of the former melanoma on my leg, my oncologist joked that it could take awhile to get an appointment for cancer follow up, but if I wanted Botox, they'd see me fast. So this got me thinking about the wrinkles and creases meandering around my face as I slide down the slope to sixty...maybe that is the look that is coming next?<br />
<br />
Absolutely not. All earned, all me. After enduring a multitude of things shot into my body for the past six months, nothing unnecessary will be, well, necessary. Cancer has eliminated wrinkles from my worries. Both my wrinkles, and yours. Cured.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658326099552254641noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128846202633043319.post-76922548808679538862014-07-24T11:41:00.000-07:002014-07-30T19:47:15.141-07:00Not lol. Loll. I don't lol. I don't mean laugh out loud - if you know me, you know I do that raucously. I mean I don't write "lol" to signify I am laughing out loud. I am nearly 57 and it isn't becoming. I would have cringed had my mother said "far out" as an exclamation in my youth, and no doubt Love Child would cringe at my writing "lol" in social media or anywhere else. (I do write WTF in text messages, but he doesn't usually read my texts, so he is spared embarrassment.)<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In any case, I do not lol, but I do loll, as in around. As in lollygag. Summer increases my need to loll, particularly in the sun, and Vermont has only intensified the need this summer, because the air smells so darn good, like green, like cool water. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Right now, I'm staying in a lovely house with a screened porch, complete with a sun-loving kitten who shows absolutely no guilt about lollygagging. He works hard and fast in the morning, knocking things off the shelves, chewing on my computer, spinning a pen across the floor, licking my breakfast, then curls up in the sun by me and yawns. He is an excellent teacher; now I work hard and fast in the mornings, too, and when the sun starts leaning in through the screens, I curl up and yawn. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Chemo has given me a very particular justification for lolling. When I feel horrid, I need to focus on something to both remember and look forward to, and on the scale of great things to remember and look forward to, lolling in the sun in Vermont ranks in the nosebleed level of the range, way up there. I'm grateful for my teacher. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxGxn5VQHFjJGBJ6glHwx6fq3RWUgNLaeQPLvF0FMbQP6XEDZz_0Sh99M25iYwNI_y7WUAgaohkwyTZSECssX-JXm188ikGqdxNHMAKqJgt9WPQPp0f9z-RcgtfCnsmjnfV5YMBzACCeY/s1600/meow.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxGxn5VQHFjJGBJ6glHwx6fq3RWUgNLaeQPLvF0FMbQP6XEDZz_0Sh99M25iYwNI_y7WUAgaohkwyTZSECssX-JXm188ikGqdxNHMAKqJgt9WPQPp0f9z-RcgtfCnsmjnfV5YMBzACCeY/s1600/meow.jpeg" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658326099552254641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128846202633043319.post-3892109257442969622014-07-17T05:41:00.000-07:002014-07-17T05:41:24.705-07:00If I were you, I wouldn't read much further...Really, this is just going to be more chemo grumbling; useless venting.<br />
<br />
I seem to have reached the point of fed-up a bit short of the point of finished. My patience is worn not only thin, but off, like the soles of my favorite Merrells. I've worn through two pairs so far, replacing them when the soles had turned to holes, but for this, I have no idea where to go for replacement.<br />
<br />
I'd like to stop complaining and catastrophizing, and I'd like my real life back, the one with normal chaos and annoyances, like dog hair and the service light on in the car. I'm weary beyond reckoning of being bone tired, feverish, weak, nauseated, brain-addled, and in pain.<br />
<br />
I'd like to once again be a nice person to live with: one who is cheerful, helpful, generous, positive, and cooks good things, instead of someone who runs from the smell of coffee or lettuce (chemo and lettuce: very VERY bad) Who wants to live with a retching wretch? Certainly not me.<br />
<br />
So, yes, I understand that I have to do this one more, one last time. July 31. But I don't have to like it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWWcl6YbzJpZKO4oVI28v6OWnP8PUWs8tm7pYO0Sqt1F_JmVpscQ6Lq0pxpjigoSx_7Q9HVel7SroAp6zkr5HaUYQDivLts6HATY_HYU86YIoGPKuEKs5BdeLD6LbmbgqsuqVOCIch_B8/s1600/Merrell+.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWWcl6YbzJpZKO4oVI28v6OWnP8PUWs8tm7pYO0Sqt1F_JmVpscQ6Lq0pxpjigoSx_7Q9HVel7SroAp6zkr5HaUYQDivLts6HATY_HYU86YIoGPKuEKs5BdeLD6LbmbgqsuqVOCIch_B8/s1600/Merrell+.JPG" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658326099552254641noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128846202633043319.post-52234472078275201132014-06-22T07:16:00.000-07:002014-06-22T07:16:50.013-07:00Restoration Software...Waves lap softly over the shale beach. My shoulders soften back down to where they should be, lower than my ears, which can hear the voices of the fishermen in the small boat, softened by the distance. Birdsong is a soft murmur from the huge trees on shore.<br />
<br />
Nothing restores me like staring at water, and I gaze across it, confirming my refusal to let the chemo schedule cancel our journey to this house perched on Lake Champlain, booked before therapy began. Basking here in the reflected shimmer of the water is a powerful form of therapy.<br />
<br />
My respect for the chemicals pumped into me is endless, as well as for the brilliance of the scientists who created this regime which allows so many women to survive, when years ago, they wouldn't. When I feel outright dreadful, and even when that subsides and I simply feel off, strangely riddled, I still cheer the toxins doing their work that is saving me.<br />
<br />
But I deeply respect other cures, too, and this vista, the glory of this sleek lake, framed in the distance by hazy mountains, helps me breathe and let go, remember that I'm more than a damaged body. Everything in nature has its own cycle of damage and renewal, including me.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658326099552254641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128846202633043319.post-22719618830340635422014-06-10T05:43:00.001-07:002014-06-10T05:43:12.943-07:00Spoiler Alert: The Bletchley Circle, Season 2 - Reborn or resumed?As an unashamed lover of British telly, I am hooked on several BBC series; luckily, I managed to convert dear husband to fandom, too. Love Child notes, eyes rolling, how predictably dull we are, hunkered in of an evening, with our "Midsomer Murder" marathons, and "Foyle's War" post-show analysis. We don't do sports; this is our sport. <br />
<br />
Last night was practically our Super Bowl: two episodes, back to back, of new season two of The Bletchley Circle, a visually powerful, factually based drama about four women who were part of the famous code-breaking and deciphering team that is credited with shortening World War II, saving countless lives. Much of the show is about how these women fared after, in post-war London, unable to tell anyone what they'd done because of the Official Secrets Act, now in ordinary jobs or married, with children and husbands who don't know Mum was a war hero.<br />
<br />
In last night's episode, Alice is arrested for murdering her former lover, also a Bletchley veteran, and we find out she is deliberately covering for her long lost daughter, whom she believes committed the murder. Alice refuses to fight the charge and is sentenced to hang. As her former Bletchley colleagues attempt to solve the murder, the prison prepares to carry out the sentence. In a bleak scene, she is weighed, her height is taken, and then, in a tight close up, a tape measure goes loosely around her neck; a voice intones: "fourteen inches." We see just her face; we can't - or won't - imagine what this feels like, having your neck measured for a noose.<br />
<br />
In the end (I promised spoilers!) she is acquitted and walks out of the prison (though not into sunshine, this being London) completely free.<br />
<br />
I could not stop thinking about that scene, wondering how it would feel. Would she now make her life completely different, dramatically throw off all that had been, and revamp the very basis of how she lives? Or would she immediately seek a swift return to the most ordinary routine, the comforting safety of exactly what she had before this traumatic event intruded?<br />
<br />
This resonated because I have the same questions. Cancer is a traumatic event, and getting rid of it is a long and sometimes frightening ordeal, too. Mortality looms. When treatment is done, will I want to be reborn, revamping all that led up to this, or will I want to resume the safety of all I have built, the life that came before, because it is comforting? I can see both, clearly, in opposition and in congruence. I'll keep you posted.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658326099552254641noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128846202633043319.post-54725245078046776602014-06-05T09:03:00.000-07:002014-06-05T18:54:01.261-07:00Making it...Walking around bald in public is like walking around with a cuddly cute puppy; everyone likes to come over and schmooze. They don't actually pet my head, but some of them would like to. I've never, until now, been told on a regular basis that I have a really nice, round head.<br />
<br />
Instead of tips on housebreaking and chewing disasters, I get advice like, "Baking soda can cure cancer." and "Watch this TEDTalk about wave therapy..." They also have stories about others they know who did this, sometimes admitting it didn't work; the chemo friend didn't make it. I don't much mind that - I know people who didn't make it, too, plus I read stuff.<br />
<br />
But I know lots of folks who are making it, in every sense of the word, with cancer and without. We are all making it if we get up and open our eyes. We've all got struggles and challenges, and truly, the only difference is mine is visible. And being bald is way low on the list; it is just the one I'm reminded of when I catch my reflection and remember. But I've got a really nice, round head.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658326099552254641noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128846202633043319.post-73490244232668593752014-05-20T03:31:00.000-07:002014-05-22T02:34:13.650-07:00Half full...Apparently, it is true: each round of chemo is, as one friend put it, a bit harder to climb out of. She demonstrated this by grasping and clawing the air above her, as if pulling herself out of an abyss. I appreciate drama; I study drama. Her enactment turns out to be maddeningly real for me this time.<br />
<br />
Staying calm when I feel horrendous is always the hardest part. I am a knee jerk catastrophiser, as the men who live with me would no doubt attest to. When something is wrong, everything is wrong: we are going to the poor house, someone who needs to study and practice more won't get into college, which I wouldn't be able to pay for anyway because of bad planning and profligate waste, plus we are wrecking the environment. And the house smells like dogs.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, the real problem is that I feel like a bus hit me, and my brain is foggy and doesn't snap to when I need it, and nothing, but nothing tastes good or even edible. There is pain all over, except in my mouth, which feels post-dental, Novocaine-wearing-off numb, and my stomach lurches around like a fighting drunk. The exhaustion and muscle weakness sneaks in, resisting my resistance. Used to being physically strong, capable, professional, independent, I buckle in frustration at trying to finish a task that would have been a doddle pre-chemo. Yet the tasks keep coming; work is non-negotiable.<br />
<br />
I know this won't last, I know I will get through this, I know it is worth it, I know only the strong are given such hard times - all the things people have been telling me over the months this has been happening. The kindness of so many, especially my men here, soothes and heals me. My cup is half full; three out of six rounds done and dusted. But I would like the coffee in the cup to taste like coffee again.<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658326099552254641noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128846202633043319.post-48417169263310243772014-05-13T07:02:00.000-07:002014-05-13T07:04:04.822-07:00Phantom Hair Syndrome...Last night, while climbing into bed, I reached back to pull the black elastic off of my ponytail, so it wouldn't bother me in the night, as I've done so many times in my life.<br />
<br />
The problem was, none of it was there: the hair, the ponytail, the elastic.<br />
<br />
Maybe that's why last night I had the first bald dream - in my dream, my baldness played a feature role. Or maybe because I had gone to an all day meeting with some people I know, who knew me with hair, as well as some new people, who have no frame of Cheryl-with-hair reference. One person I had spent two days with last year had trouble placing me. Then the look on her face went from confusion, to surprise, to embarrassment in about three seconds. I noted that she looked more tired - older and worn; I'm sure the look on my face mirrored hers.<br />
<br />
Another friend, who had not seen me in a few months, hugged me and said, "Last time I saw you, you weren't so....bald!" His warmth and frankness were better than averted eyes.<br />
<br />
At my son's school concert, reactions were a bit similar: non-recognition, surprise, but I also scared a few small children, who blatantly stared. I'm embarrassed to admit enjoying that suspicious look young kids get when they are puzzling out "what is this and why is it different from normal?" Dads can be bald; a bald mom is seriously fishy. The honesty of unsocialization.<br />
<br />
Phantom Hair Syndrome has happened before: I reach back to push my hair off my neck, or up to brush it out of my eyes, and find air. Disconcerting, but not all that weird. I'm adapting. My subconscious sometimes pushes up a message to my conscious mind that I should cover my head - bald is somehow shameful. Thinking of the ways shaving someone's head is used to humiliate them, I remind myself there is no shame here, no humiliation, merely self-care and healing.<br />
<br />
Maybe I make some people uncomfortable with the reality of cancer treatment, part schadenfreude, part fear. If so, okay - we all need reminders that humans come in a fragile vessel, and life is tennous regardless of what we tell ourselves.<br />
<br />
And, wow, it is SO much cooler now that the summer heat is kicking in! I may shave my head every summer from now on.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658326099552254641noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128846202633043319.post-74816548209887504412014-05-11T16:01:00.000-07:002014-05-11T16:01:43.402-07:00The divine ordinary...It is Mother's Day. Before I became a mother, in spite of trying, when I never thought I would be, this was a very hard day each year. My delusions of being a mother were all wrong, but I clung to them - how would I know?<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Now I've been a mother for fourteen years and nearly nine months. As a single mother for fourteen years and four months, Mother's Day was somewhat optional. Sometimes I'd make a fuss, and sometimes I wouldn't. Like last year - I made the Love Child walk the Canal Path with me. With no one to prompt him to do things, they didn't always happen - no one saying "what should we do for Mom?". Two years ago, he got up early and poured boiling water into the French press for coffee; we ended up at his first ER visit. Like I said, somewhat optional. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So now I have cancer (you probably heard about that if you are reading this) and it's Mother's Day. I have had a divine ordinary day. This year, the Love Child gave me flowers he picked (I'm not asking where) and posted funny stuff on my wall: <a href="http://youtu.be/JG1_393MvaQ">http://youtu.be/JG1_393MvaQ</a>. It is the end of the semester; I've graded papers. I've procrastinated grading by posting too much in Facebook. I've done piles of laundry and bought dog food. I've spoken to my mother-in-law, to thank her for having dear husband, and my mother, who is out on the sailboat. Both husband and I marvel that we have both mothers, both parents, still married, at our age - our children don't. (Well, they have us alive, but not married to their parent.)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Divine ordinary makes me divinely happy. Cancer makes everything dramatic and uncertain, a whole new, unknown territory unchosen to travel, and many days I succumb to worry and uncertainty, and freak out. I'd venture to guess that a day of ordinary happiness is probably what most cancer patients want and need. So I'm grateful. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658326099552254641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128846202633043319.post-27906531932829644742014-05-03T14:57:00.001-07:002014-05-03T14:57:38.377-07:00Not even now...Okay, the post about Hitting Pause...? I lied. I admit it. Chalk it up to wishful thinking. The minute I believe the post-chemo super crud is abating, I tear around resuming and inventing tasks and projects for home and work. Making up for lost time.<br />
<br />
Today, dear husband and I walked up the sunny side of the street, on our way to the <a href="http://www.thefarmersmarket.co/" target="_blank">farmers market</a> and our favorite shop, <a href="http://www.oldetownebutcher.com/" target="_blank">Olde Towne Butcher</a>. Cooking projects top my list when my taste buds show glimmers of returning.<br />
<br />
We passed a doorway where a young man stood half in, half out. He puffed on a blue enamel pen-like thing, and a tiny cloud of white mist lingered. Dear husband explained it as we walked on: a marijuana vaporizer. I smelled nothing, but as he described it, I wouldn't - everything smokey disappears.<br />
<br />
An hour later, on our way back, laden with foodstuffs, I looked over at the same house and saw the young man lounging on the narrow porch, on a folding chaise, just listening to some Beatles wafting out through the open door. No book, no computer - not even a smart phone. Just chillin', enjoying some happy.<br />
<br />
My envy was wide and deep. Not for the high - the few times pot has been in my vicinity, I've wandered off; it isn't for me. It was seeing someone able to wake up on a Saturday, kick back, be so intentional about enjoying doing nothing. I wanted to wander in.<br />
<br />
That kind of permission-giving, the kind that says "go right ahead and joyfully do nothing," doesn't live here in my head, not even now that it's bald.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658326099552254641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128846202633043319.post-80816746442599613332014-05-01T07:45:00.001-07:002014-05-01T11:58:14.778-07:00Chemo patient walks into a bar...More and more, I'm finding humor allows me to deal with what is happening in my life. When I feel absolutely disgusting from the toxins pumped into me, somehow the absurdity blooms, and the humor is there, ripe for the picking. When I begin feeling better, and have to get back to the quotidian, I find even more to chuckle, guffaw, chortle, and snicker about.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I feel almost shameful about this reaction; it's a bit like being in 7th grade gym class, desperately not wanting to be there, but enjoying the potential for snark in every silly thing being required (you may not have hated gym as much as I did, but you must have known not everyone was having fun dribbling). It would be more proper to take it all seriously; it's a serious illness and treatment. Much of it is hideous. And yet, wow. Funny. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Maybe it began when the surgeon told me about putting this port in me, under my skin. It makes it possible to pump powerful drugs into my jugular vein. Or is it my carotid artery? I am a woman who has only fainted twice, both times when someone described their medical procedure. The fact that I could listen to her tell me about putting a bit of technology under my skin, and into my vein/artery, and yet not flop over and require those smelling salts taped up in every examining room means I am seeing the wacky in all of this. I suppose the best description is in David Byrne/Talking Heads song, "Once In a Lifetime": how did I get here?!? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I have found myself in another part of the world. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/o7pVjl4Rrtc?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658326099552254641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128846202633043319.post-61118685897993626582014-04-26T08:48:00.004-07:002014-04-26T08:48:45.201-07:00So, bald...so bald. I said I'd keep you posted at the end of Breaking Up With My Hair: maybe I jumped the gun, shaving my head - there is still plenty of stubble. Or would it have looked skimpy, and pasted on by now? <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Bald is both better and worse than I'd ever expected. Why do many things in life turn out that way?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Better: when a hot flash flashes, no big deal. Chemo stirs up hormones, starting a dance; flashes come mostly at night, and without layers of steamy hair, I'm quickly cooled. Showers are fast; so little to do! Hats and scarves prove exciting, challenging, altering, worth the effort. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Worse: I don't feel like me. No, that isn't true. I FEEL like me; I don't look like me. I look like a bald man. I see this in the mirror sometimes: </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC197M5e_saqhZp3-S4Da5gDUlKDxLoUBHYF6QfnYgoo1HRI1-trLfH9zqbNYUVed1WaEhNYEp6kiuTepnIzDzHDz6brMXPIEM8roEd_9sDTbXIMoPI9FL262bTFOiH-mPCpb_gjGqJ8U/s1600/daddy+wb.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC197M5e_saqhZp3-S4Da5gDUlKDxLoUBHYF6QfnYgoo1HRI1-trLfH9zqbNYUVed1WaEhNYEp6kiuTepnIzDzHDz6brMXPIEM8roEd_9sDTbXIMoPI9FL262bTFOiH-mPCpb_gjGqJ8U/s1600/daddy+wb.jpeg" height="200" width="165" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The other morning, dear husband walked in (I was in a chair, in my pink robe, huddled over my computer) and said I looked like Pema Chodron:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWaHywSiJss-uag1gKZ6Ywp-dLFt2uW_pu91Iu0FSZEbL19sO3-Va7IjcX2qoAh67zTkpLjnOTDWnQkibYhTZw56wjfmXCousBFV-vJJba5zQ9vS0ew8DCWmNsa3NPGaYnIrtWu-u0NfE/s1600/pema+chodron.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWaHywSiJss-uag1gKZ6Ywp-dLFt2uW_pu91Iu0FSZEbL19sO3-Va7IjcX2qoAh67zTkpLjnOTDWnQkibYhTZw56wjfmXCousBFV-vJJba5zQ9vS0ew8DCWmNsa3NPGaYnIrtWu-u0NfE/s1600/pema+chodron.jpg" height="186" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Both of these people are lovely; I just never thought I'd resemble them. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Confronting my whole face is surprising, confusing. Hiding behind hair for years, it was rarely all out there at once. Now, no hiding. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
This wouldn't be bad for like a week. But this will probably be the case until Christmas or so, when I might maybe have something like hair, to be determined. I'll keep you posted. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658326099552254641noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128846202633043319.post-38990173226226934072014-04-25T06:30:00.001-07:002014-04-25T07:35:25.645-07:00Two roads...<div class="MsoNormal">
When a
crisis comes along, roads diverge, reflection is inevitable – as when my late husband died suddenly, and five years
of achieving shared dreams diverged in one horrifying minute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After reflecting, I sold the farm,
boarded the horses, moved to Annapolis, and went back for a St John’s grad degree in the Great
Books, seeking answers to the Great Questions: the good, the meaning of life,
higher powers, purpose, desires, reality – all good stuff worthy of
reading, sharing the Great Conversation with like minded scholars. Life-altering results ensued: a vocation, from <i>vocatus</i>, a calling. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This cancer allows me two privileges I didn’t have then: I
can control the process of the crisis, rather than being the victim of the
uncontrollable, and I am privileged to have at hand the love and support of both my son
and my husband, two deeply kind men who feed my soul, stretch my mind, play me
music, and make me laugh. I have a flow of kindness coming from the most loving of friends and family, lifting me in myriad ways: flowers, food, handmade hats, silky scarves, gifts of prayers, poetry and service, baskets and bags of comfort and joy. I can take all this rich privilege and help myself to heal. I use "privilege" intentionally - as defined: "<o:p></o:p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 15.600000381469727px;"><i>something regarded as a rare opportunity and bringing particular pleasure."</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:TrackMoves/>
<w:TrackFormatting/>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:DoNotPromoteQF/>
<w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther>
<w:LidThemeAsian>JA</w:LidThemeAsian>
<w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
<w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/>
<w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/>
<w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/>
<w:OverrideTableStyleHps/>
<w:UseFELayout/>
</w:Compatibility>
<m:mathPr>
<m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/>
<m:brkBin m:val="before"/>
<m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/>
<m:smallFrac m:val="off"/>
<m:dispDef/>
<m:lMargin m:val="0"/>
<m:rMargin m:val="0"/>
<m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/>
<m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/>
<m:intLim m:val="subSup"/>
<m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/>
</m:mathPr></w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
DefSemiHidden="true" DefQFormat="false" DefPriority="99"
LatentStyleCount="276">
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="0" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Normal"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="heading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="35" QFormat="true" Name="caption"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" Name="Default Paragraph Font"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="59" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-priority:99;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<!--StartFragment-->
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that, as Frost says, has made all the difference. <o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658326099552254641noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128846202633043319.post-47837477651309321672014-04-17T04:23:00.000-07:002014-04-17T04:31:47.477-07:00The "C" Word<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s 4:30 in the morning, and I’m worrying about Amish
carthorses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t get to the mistreated carthorses directly. Before
that came the lost Chihuahua found running up the road, skinny and huge eyed,
probably confused as hell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before that was the report that my child has been getting
some C’s at school. My guilt at not paying more attention lately to his homework or
studying looms large. What kind of educator am I; like the shoemaker whose kids
have holes in their shoes?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But today, he is leaving for Costa Rica, a ten-day trip
without me, and yesterday, the woman cutting his hair, who comes from Korea,
was almost weeping as she told me about the ferry that sank, full of school
kids on a traditional Korean class trip. Hundreds of children, from the same
classes at the same school, from the same town, now simply gone. My heart
groans at the horror of this. It is so ominous to hear it, the evening before
he leaves with his classmates. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Children, classmates, Costa Rica, C’s, Chihuahua,
carthorses…I don’t have to be an analyst to see the connections of all these C
words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My own C word, the word people
used to whisper, hangs there, a conundrum in the midst of it all. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
For me, my 56 years would suffice, and I know my dear
husband would manage if he lost me, just as I did when I lost my spouse. But
because of my son, only 14, letting this take me is non-negotiable, not until
he is grown. That is, somehow, a comfort.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11658326099552254641noreply@blogger.com1