Quietly, into the Sunrise

So much change, so quickly. My head spins when I think of all that has come about in the past 6 months since I last wrote and of all the mystery that lies ahead.

• Pete’s unexpected but “blessing-in-disguise” employment layoff in May.

It had always been an unfulfilling job, and all along Pete hoped only that it would someday soon serve as a “bridge” to something better. So there was no real profound disappointment, just a greater sense of urgency.

• Pete’s whirlwind, speedy, dazzling employment back in Albany, New York, where we both grew up.

Who says you can’t go home? East coast, eastern time zone, Red Sox baseball, the cottage, family. This is something Pete and I had always hoped for but never truly believed would happen. Now that it’s reality, it feels, well, oddly foreign. The thought of returning home, at age 53 and 30 years later, is having sort of a “stranger in a strange land” effect on me, and I'll admit to being a bit apprehensive. And what about the kids? For Pete and me, St. Louis, like San Diego and Tulsa, has been where we live but never “home.” Chris and Shannon know Albany only as an occasional Christmas or Thanksgiving. They’re 21 and 19 now and have spent most of their lives in St. Louis. Will they feel “homeless”?

• A job offer in Albany for me as well.

A technical writer position. At the risk of sounding like Maxwell Smart (I prefer the original Don Adams version), it’s Top Secret, so I cannot talk about it. (I love getting to deliver that line, but, truthfully, I really know very little about the job myself.)

     Timing is everything, I guess. I can’t help but wonder about the amazing timing of these opportunities. Jobs in my field are tough to come by in Albany, especially in the current economic climate. Jobs in Pete’s field, at his level, are hard to come by too. For both to happen at the same time and in our hometown is, I believe, more than just coincidence.

• House for sale.

I have to, resignedly, laugh about this. Pete and I have never had much luck in the housing market, always being transferred, and having to sell, during the most sluggish of times for the cities where we lived: Boston in 1991, San Diego in 1994, Tulsa in 2000—and clearly there is little room for optimism that this move will be any different. So we paint the walls, polish the floors, shine the granite, and hope for the best. And pray to St. Joseph.

• My ovarian cancer officially in remission.

It’s been 1 year since my diagnosis. Not that I recommend cancer as a life-changer, but this most recent, lengthy experience has been a gift for me in many respects. For starters, it has sharpened my senses: I think that I see more deeply; touch more meaningfully; and smell and taste more appreciatively. And though I don’t necessarily listen better, I know I hear more acutely. Even quiet is exquisitely quieter.


Pete left St. Louis 3 months ago to start his job in Albany. I am still here, along with Minnie the cat and Ziggy the dog. The house is always quiet. I found it discomforting at first, this stillness, this quietness, 24 hours a day, day after day, with very little to disrupt it. No CNN news chatter coming from Pete’s television, no heavy footsteps as he comes up the stairs, no ear-piercing screech from his broken top dresser drawer as he yanks it open to get a pair of socks, no robust sneezing that echoes throughout the house, no business calls just barely audible through the floor vent from his office to mine, no thud followed by cursing as he bangs his head yet again on a kitchen cabinet that he forgets is there. No laughter as he plays tug of war with Ziggy, and no gentle voice reassuring Minnie, while he coddles her and rubs her ears, that, even though she's tiny compared with Ziggy, she was here first and, therefore, still rules the roost.

     Funny how you can miss people’s “noise” patterns. The noises are comforting, I guess, but you don’t realize this until you don’t hear them anymore (or maybe it’s just me).

     I miss the kids’ noises. Shannon came home for about 34 hours a few weeks ago. I couldn’t help but smile every time I heard her toss around in her bed as she slept—until midday—in the next room, adjacent to my office. I could hear that she was home, here with me. I didn’t have to see her, didn’t have to touch her, hug her, or brush her hair from her face to take pleasure in her presence. Just hearing her noise filled me ... my whole body felt full and happy. During the night, while I slept, I could hear her scavenging—as she always has done—for a midnight snack, anything edible and not fat-free. Shannon’s a voracious carnivore, and I knew she was hoping to find a big hunk of leftover steak. I could hear the fridge door unsucking itself open, a pantry door slamming, the crunching of ice tumbling down from the icemaker, and then the steady stream of water splashing over the cubes, taking forever to fill Shannon’s tall glass (most of which will later inevitably flood the carpet after Minnie paws at the glass, toppling it, so that she may, too, get a drink). The next day I hear Shannon’s laughter as she plays with Ziggy and tries, in vain, to teach the dog to roll over. I hear Ziggy yelp with devious pleasure: She steals the proffered treat and runs, trying to instigate a game of chase instead. Later I hear Shannon say “Love you too” as she pulls out of the driveway, heading away from me, back to Colorado.

     I miss the shuffling sounds of Chris’ feet across the carpet when he first gets out of bed in the morning and lazily, sleepily makes his way to the bathroom. Then he shuffles himself to my door to say hello. The springs on the daybed in my office groan as Chris throws his 6’2” frame on top of it and rests for a while longer, clearly in no rush to jumpstart his day. He makes small talk; I listen. Chris typically generates a lot of noise around the house: banging pans as he fries up an egg and bacon sandwich, yelling from his favorite TV chair to his dad in the basement about how the Red Sox might not suck this season after all, hammering in the garage as he builds a beer pong table or some other valuable project. In my mind, I can hear him grunting on the living room floor as he does his push-ups. He collapses in defeat and laughter when Ziggy climbs on his head and licks his face, trying to get in on the action. Chris is always laughing, always talking, always making noise, rendering his presence in the house even bigger—and his absence bigger still.

     With no one else around, I talk to the dog and the cat a lot, though the conversations tend to be lopsided and boring after a while. They cock their heads when I talk (sometimes simultaneously and to the same side, which is pretty funny). I used to think this meant they were trying to understand what I was saying, but I’ve come to realize that instead they’re thinking, “Why are our food bowls still empty?”

     We've had an amazingly long string of absolutely gorgeous fall mornings here lately, so, partly to offset our isolation, Ziggy and I walk, to where it’s not so quiet but still peaceful, reassuring even, with the early sounds of life resuming, picking up where it left off the day before. Sometimes we get so caught up in the moments of our walk and in our rambling thoughts—Ziggy’s may not be quite as depthful as mine but she’s just as easily distracted (so many bunnies and squirrels)—that we keep walking, and walking, and walking. Yesterday morning we walked more than 9 miles; 8 the day before. At the risk of sounding preachy, not a day goes by when I don't remember where I was, how I was, exactly 1 year ago, and every day I am grateful for the ability to stand upright and move my feet purposefully, for the energy that propels me forward, for my good health so that I can not only walk but walk for miles and miles and explore, see, hear, smell, and touch.

     My favorite route takes us up and down and around to Still Creek Pass, a perfect name for this peaceful street: tree-lined, so that the morning sun breaks through in bits and pieces, streaking the vibrant gardens of autumn marigolds and mums; impeccably manicured lawns; fine but unpretentious homes. It’s a little bit off the beaten path, so there’s like a blanket of quiet as we walk here. The noise is gentle: the crunch of fallen leaves under our feet; moms calling to their kids to get moving; neighbor dogs barking playfully at each other as they sit at the corner with their boy or girl, waiting for the school bus to come; the screaming brakes of the bus as it approaches and slows, the bus then rumbling by. A happy black lab retriever lives in the corner house. Sometimes he’s on his back deck observing, guarding his domain, when Ziggy and I pass by. He’s excited to see Ziggy, but unlike every other dog in the world doesn’t bark his enthusiasm: He instead starts running round and round in an endless tight circle, maniacally. Reminds me of the Tilt-a-Whirl amusement park ride, where you’re spinning so fast you can’t see straight and all your brain matter collides inside your skull. And you get off the ride, dazed, maybe a little thrilled, your head still spinning. I think that’s how the dog must feel; I can relate. I love walking this street. From my perspective, the people who live here are really lucky.

     Next week Pete flies in, and then we’re packing up and heading East. Quietly, into the sunrise; quiet no more.

Next

April 5, 2011

Today I am 3 weeks out of chemotherapy. And I’m pleased to report that all is quite well. It feels good to be able to write that I have no complaints that are worth putting into words. My last round of chemo was a walk in the park compared with the one before, and mentally and physically I was quickly ready to move on. To celebrate this final-chemo milestone, Dianne and Mike Foye gave me a bottle of wine decorated with yellow ribbons, yellow being the color I chose early on for my healing energy. The wine was appropriately named “next:”. I love the optimism of that word.

My immediate “next” was a road trip to Colorado to visit the kids. Along with Shannon, Chris, four or five of his college pals, and another set of parents, Pete and I stayed in a charming little house, built in 1898, in the heart of Breckenridge with incredible views of the mountains. Naively, given the setting I kind of anticipated a relaxing, mind–body healing, healthy-glow, fuzzy-warm, John-Denver-Rocky-Mountain-High sort of week, buoyed periodically by a nice, calming glass of cabernet. What I got instead included high-charged beer pong tournaments, cutthroat gambling card games, skiing with—or, better put, trying to keep up with—risk-taking, mogul-chasing, ramp-jumping speed demons on the powdery trails at Keystone (along with my sister Kathy and her family, no slope slouches themselves), aprés-ski happy-hour margaritas at a lively downtown pub with same demons, who at the end of the day still had enough energy (perhaps beer-fueled) to build an enormous igloo in the yard for sleeping out that night. I forgot how much energy college kids have, and it was easy—and freeing—to get caught up in it (though I did draw the line at the Hotel Igloo experience). Much more effective therapy than whatever I had planned on. All that vitality—not to mention the breath-taking surroundings—was invigorating, and for the first time in a long time I felt really good. I began to remember what “normal” felt like. Not surprisingly, though, by the end of the week, my body—running on the fumes of adrenaline—crashed. But it was a good kind of crash; for all the fun and laughter and energy, it was well worth it.

My next “next” involved the goal of propelling myself (and Pete) back to the gym with some regularity, which I committed to as of last week. While the exercise is certainly healing me physiologically and clearing my cobwebs physically and mentally, what is even better is seeing all my Y pals again. The hugs, well wishes, and “welcome backs” were amazing and tremendously heart-warming. I am truly grateful to be back among them.

Beyond this, I have no clue what the next “next” will be. But after what felt like endless weeks, months, and seasons spent in recuperation lying on the couch—the cushions having by now given way to the shape of my body, much like Thanksgiving mashed potatoes do for a puddle of gravy—and with no ambition other than to get through the day, it sure feels good to be able to think in terms of “next.”

I’m really excited to see the physical parts of me that were lost now returning, albeit slowly. My hair is starting to grow back. It’s about 1/4 inch long maybe, pretty thin but sprouting nevertheless. It’s not coming in blonde like I had wished for. Not wavy either. But what nature won’t take care of, L’Oreal will. My eyebrows…well, they’re another story: I was always artistically challenged—Sister Mary Reparata prophesied this to me in second grade and reaffirmed it in sixth, when I had the incredible misfortune of being assigned to her homeroom again—so it comes as no surprise to me that I never quite mastered the art of eyebrow penciling. Invariably, one brow always turns out thicker or longer or more crooked than the other. And then there’s the pesky problem of accidentally, and unknowingly, rubbing off an eyebrow, or part of it, which, it goes without saying, looks pretty weird. I’m hoping that my eyebrows will grow back fully so that I won’t have to rely on my drawing skills every day for the rest of my life. I started using Latisse® on my eyelashes. Brooke Shields used to be the spokesperson for this product. According to the product instructions, properly applied, it’s supposed to make eyelashes grow longer and thicker. But “proper application” eludes me a bit also, since I can’t keep one eye open to see how or where I’m applying the solution to the other. Regardless, I’ll try anything if it’ll give me Brooke Shields’s eyelashes. In fact, I’ll take her eyebrows too. (And while I’m at it, if there’s a product out there that’ll give me even just a little of her height, I’ll sign up for that as well.)

I can report also that food no longer tastes like dusty metal, which frankly has its pros and cons. With my 5’ 2” frame (at my age, probably by now a generous estimate), any extra pounds don’t have much body length with which to distribute themselves equally and unnoticeably. Having food taste like dusty metal for brief periods now and then would be a great diet tool. And, notably, the vineyards of California should start seeing an upswing in their market, but I’ll be careful to not make too much of an impact on that economic trend.

As always, thanks so much for your love, prayers, and support, not to mention the amazingly positive feedback to my blogs. I am blessed.

Onward and upward. Live and learn. Moving on. No looking back. Full steam ahead. Next.

A Reprieve, Sort of

March 3, 2011

As my oncologist has so often told me, my postoperative course these past 6 months has been anything but typical, and she has come to expect the unexpected from me/my body. But even this latest event took her by surprise and has confounded her.

I was scheduled for my final chemo treatment last Thursday but found myself back in the hospital instead. Before going in for my last appointment, I knew something wasn't quite right with me, something outside of the ordinary that is. In the weeks following treatment 5, I just never felt that I had rebounded at all. When typically in the weeks between treatments I would start to feel almost human again, this time I was still physically exhausted and chronically tired and, later, was experiencing internal pain and violent nausea/vomiting. Simply put, even my best days were pretty miserable, to the point where, I'm sure, depression was becoming an issue for me. I thought it was the chemo that was taking its greatest toll to date. Turns out I developed a flukey abdominal abscess/infection, which apparently was the source of many problems. Six days, two blood transfusions, an abdominal drain, many antibiotics, and two snoring geriatric roommates later (not including Pete), I’m feeling much, much better, ready and fired up to challenge the next, and final, round. My sixth chemo is now tentatively scheduled for next Tuesday (assuming the infection has cleared up) or Thursday. Although I’m disappointed in the delay, I am very optimistic that this extra time between treatments has been good for my body and mind, giving me a chance to heal even more and, I hope, in the process making my final rebound that much easier and speedier.

As you can imagine, more than ever before in the course of my treatment, these past few weeks have put me to the test. Fortunately, I’ve had some fantastic cheerleaders to push me. Pete, Dianne and Mike, Kathy and Dave, Barb, Freddy, Mom, and Joanne, thanks for lifting me up and keeping me there when I couldn’t do it myself.

More later...

I'll Follow the Sun

February 3–February 9, 2011

Session 5 of chemo was last Thursday. Although there were times since that day that I doubted I’d ever surface for air, by Monday I had and it was a welcome surprise. If I had had to write a post anytime before Monday, it would have been short and not so sweet, reading something like “My body has been assaulted, and I don’t want to do this anymore.” And, at the risk of sounding theatrical, I would have been crying while writing just those few words. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately, which I hate to admit. Not to imply that the act of crying is foreign to me. It’s just that I rarely cry out of pity, sadness, or misery; my tears usually always come from loftier sources: happiness, laughter, pride, even overwhelming peace. And to know that my tears stemmed from weakness really undermined a lot of what I thought I knew about myself. This last battle is still so raw in my head that even writing about my chemo-tears is enough to make me cry still. Frankly, right now my eyeballs are as dry as the Mojave Desert from chemo (just one of its myriad unpredictable side effects...see, for example, photo below), and I certainly don’t need to compound the problem. So I will share the good news and then move on: (1) I have five treatment sessions under my belt and only one more to go and (2) prior to session 5 my cancer protein level had decreased even further, from 16 to 10.1. I know that it is only a matter of time before I will feel normal again, that I will feel whole, that I will feel warm.

            The sun was brilliant today, belying the wintry 13-degree air and ice-encrusted snow that stalked us outside the front storm door. Suspecting that my sun-worshipping cat and dog were on to something, as they lay prostrate, side by furry side, on the foyer doormat in the sun’s direct path, I joined them on the floor. And I let my face follow the warming sun, hoping for repair and replenishment. It wasn’t long before I found myself dozing in and out of a light sleep under the sun’s anesthesia, periodically surfacing long enough to scoot my body far enough along the floor to follow the trajectory of its rays. Enjoying this brief respite, I willed my lightly dreamy state of being to transport me back to Matunuck Beach in Rhode Island and—since it was my dream to direct—to a time when I was younger and healthier, when Pete was younger and hotter, when 10-year-old Chris and 8-year-old Shannon still thought their parents were "funner" and smarter. My mind took me to an early-in-the-season beach day when it’s still sweatshirt weather but the spring sun is strong enough and high enough to offer mind-fuzzying soothing and calm. I am dozing on the beach under the midday sun on top of an old woolen blanket my Dad found at an army surplus store, which, after serving its time in the military, had been resurrected to new life as a beach blanket. It feels like it weighs about 50 pounds and is more likely to crush a body than provide warmth or protection from the elements. But as a beach blanket, it suffices quite nicely, that is, as long as you can lift it. Having served many years of beach duty, this blanket has sand so firmly woven into its fabric that it is now less a protective layer between body and beach than just a piece of nostalgia for the long-gone days of my father. I let my feet dangle over the edge of the blanket to find the sand, which feels pleasantly warm and gritty between my toes. Closer to the shore, I faintly hear Pete, Chris, and Shannon laughing with each errantly tossed Frisbee that lands in the still-chilly water, followed by a loud debate about who is the loser who must retrieve it. (If I were to actually let this scenario play out in my head, Chris would have dunked Shannon in the water anyway, instantly rendering the Frisbee-retriever decision moot, and then Pete would have tossed Chris in the drink just to keep the scales of family justice balanced.) My sisters and brother are there with me, along with their families. Barb is convulsing in throaty giggles as her grandbaby looks on in horror at a seagull that has swooped down next to her to steal her sand-drenched Ritz cracker. Fred, my brother-in-law, is sitting in a beach chair, smoking a cigar; mixed with the wafting salty, seaweedy air, it smells familiar and good—just like my Dad’s pipe smoke—as it passes under my nose. Despite this being Red Sox country, he and my brother, Freddy, discuss the Yankees’ great chances this year, and my brother, who is older than I, complains that he still hasn’t been invited to spring training tryouts. I hear the flapping and crumpling of newspaper, defiantly resisting page turning in the slight ocean breeze: Kathy brought a stack of Washington Posts with her, and she fully intends to get through them all by day’s end. Everyone else is lulled into napping, like me. A noisy prop plane flies overhead, and I don’t have to open my eyes to know that a white banner trails on its tail, announcing that Mews Tavern is having a band tonight, along with fabulous drink specials. I hear seagulls squawking, fighting over someone’s leftovers from Cap’n Jack’s takeout snack bar. The increasingly faint music from a radio lulls me deeper into my reverie: I hear the song “Brandy” (by then a classic beach town tune, so it still got a lot of local radio time) and hum along in my mind. (You remember that song, right? About the girl who works in a harbor town laying whiskey down who loves a sailor man who’s not around who made it clear that, although Brandy is indeed a fine girl and what a good wife she would be, and, despite him leading her on by bringing her gifts from far away on a summer’s day, he couldn’t stay because his true life, lover, and lady is the sea and no harbor was ever going to be his home? As a teenager, I always thought to myself, “Really? This sailor’d give up Brandy for the sea?” For some reason, I envisioned the sailor man as looking like the Gorton fisherman, who was far too old and clearly too self-centered for cute, sweet, kind, hard-working, long-suffering Brandy. I concluded that Brandy dodged a bullet. ... But I digress.) I hear the rhythmic crash of the waves; as they break closer and closer with the rising tide, children squeal with equal parts delight and fear (though they wouldn’t dare admit to the latter) as they try to outrun these mini-tsunamis (all things being relative). I hear the blare of a ship horn as the ferry leaves its berth across the breach way in Narragansett, headed for Block Island. Oddly, I also hear a clearly displaced voice worriedly calling to me through cupped hands, “Are you okay? Are you okay?” For a flicker of a moment, in my shallow subsciousness, I think to myself, “Wow, how weird is it that Patty, my neighbor from Missouri, is here at the beach with me?” Within seconds, I know this dialogue doesn’t belong in my dream imagery. I bolt awake from my place in the sun, which I am surprised to find is no longer the front foyer but rather 5 feet away in the dining room. There I lay sprawled, and the sun’s path has long since detoured away from me beyond reach. Even Minnie the Cat and Ziggy the Dog Who Must Have Constant Human Physical Contact have abandoned me. Peering around my opened door, I see Patty looking toward me from across the street with some alarm in her face. Laughing at myself and at where Patty’s imagination must have taken her, I wave and call back through the door. “I’m fine,” I reassure her, “Just taking in the sun.” I look at the clock and see that, instead of parking myself in my office and working as I should have done, for the past hour I instead followed the sun. I am happier, and more healed, for it.

Like Charlie told me, I’m rounding third and heading for home. Outta my way, everyone. I can’t get there soon enough.

Dear Jesus

January 13--January 19, 2011

Dear Jesus:

First things first: I thank you profusely for the great news we received last Thursday, right before my last chemo spa session. My oncologist took great delight in broadcasting my medical update, which Pete and I took equally great delight in receiving: that remarkably my cancer protein levels had decreased exponentially, from roughly 650 pre-chemo to just 16 after only three treatments. As a scientist, she was probably less likely to attribute these sudden dramatic results to prayer or a miracle even, but the way I figure medicine and miracles can coexist on the front line of healing, weaving their magic together. I continue to be blown away by both: Though not particularly religious, my more spiritual nature has enabled me to experience, and appreciate, the surreal power of prayer before, and I am sufficiently optimistic a person to believe that miracles happen every day, though I might not always recognize them when I see them. Because it makes me happy, I’m calling this a perfect synergy of healing efforts.

That said, Jesus, I now find myself in a really awkward position and must confess to feeling badly about certain personal flaws that I’ve exhibited over the past couple of months, which I am hoping that you (not to mention my mother and mother-in-law) will understand and overlook. I stopped going to church once the ovarian cancer was diagnosed in September (conceding, though, that my attendance up to that time was sporadic at best anyway). I don’t know why I stopped. Maybe I was ticked off because by that time it had already been a long, achy year (even by March 2010 the year’s promise of hope had begun to fade)—but probably not, because I can’t be bothered holding grudges: too much wasted energy, not to mention the toxicity factor. Maybe I convinced myself it was in my best interest to become a germophobe and avoid the masses (or, better stated, the large number of people who attend them). Again, I don’t think so: Germophobia didn’t stop me from heading to Vallarta’s for Mexican food when I was feeling well enough, to the Green Bay Packer Backer bar to watch football with lively zealots, or to high school and college swim meets, surrounded by undoubtedly the best of the best of fans. (And there’s no point in denying to You that I have been the recipient of more hugs, kisses, and handshakes at any of those places than at church.)

Maybe I was too lazy. Maybe I just didn’t feel like having to depart from my non-fashion-conscious comfort zone and change out of my favorite sweats. (In this particular case, note that the sole criterion for “favorite” is “it fits.”) Just like braces in a teenager’s mouth, these particular sweats get more comfortable with each consecutive day of wearing them, to the point where you don’t take notice anymore, and it’s been really hard to make the case for wardrobe change. In retrospect, though, perhaps I should have paid a little more attention to at least this one detail: Hindsight being 20/20, I now see that slovenliness may have gotten the better of me; I rationalize that, unfortunately, convalescing on the couch for weeks and weeks on end can do that. But this decline was so slow, so gradual, that I didn’t notice it until my 21-year-old son suggested I “dress a little nicer—jeans maybe” for our mother–son bonding activity ... at the rifle/pistol shooting range (my bad—did not know there was a gunwear dress code). Frankly, there seems to be a double standard afoot, and I’m not above pointing it out: My 18-year-old daughter can sport her über-fuzzy, über-cushiony UGG slippers—not infrequently accessorized with bold plaid flannel pajama pants—as daytime wear, pool wear, restaurant wear, probably even New Year’s Eve 2011 wear, and I get called out for dressing in sweats to go to the outdoor shooting range.

But maybe, Jesus, maybe I was just too damn tired. I know that to be true.

Anyway, now that my oncologist has actually declared the words “likely no recurrence,” as I mentioned, I do feel guilty for slacking off, in so many areas really, not just my church-going efforts. My care packages to the kids have all but ceased (I’m hoping that Girl Scout Cookies will arrive earlier in the season, like next week, so that I don’t have to bake brownies or gooey butter cake or send money for snacks and fast food). The act of creating empty-nest dinners has fallen by the wayside too, because no matter what I make it all just tastes like dusty metal, and what’s the reward in that? Metal I can handle; I draw the line at dusty. And this is embarrassing, but I acknowledge that even personal hygiene has taken a back seat to sloth. No hair to wash, less incentive to shower daily. No one seems to notice except Ziggy the Dog Who Loves All Things Pungent. She enjoys chasing the wafts of my aroma around the house (or at least this is what makes me laugh to think she’s doing; it’s hard to tell ... she could be just psycho). (By the way, just to clarify, I do make the effort to shower after every visit to the Y ... like once, maybe twice, a week. According to Pete, with solid evidence of my healing, maybe prayers would be now better directed toward my regular attendance at the gym.)

Dear Jesus, I hope with this letter that I’ve made you smile, because, in your omniscience, you are no doubt aware that most of what I’ve written has been in jest (not all, but most). Aside from giving thanks for my physical healing, the second real point to this letter, Jesus, is to beg your pardon for failing to give attention to others’ needs when I have been too self-focused, which I know to be true. I don’t have to look far around me to have life’s events put into perspective, and more so than ever before I am grateful for all that is good in my life, especially loving family (though far too far away) and an abundance of amazing friends. I pray that when these people need me—and perhaps more importantly when they don’t—I will be there for them, with the greatest gifts of prayer and compassionate mindfulness in hand (and possibly even homemade brownies, Sheri’s fabulous chicken noodle soup, and Bailey’s Irish Cream if I can manage to change out of my sweats and get my act together before noon).

Yours truly.

Chemo Sucks

December 21, 2010–January 1, 2011

The long and short of it: Chemo is getting rough. Tuesday December 21 marked my third visit to the clinic, itself not a bad experience really. The room was festively decorated, platters piled high with homemade Christmas cookies lined the nurses’ desk, and the holiday excitement was palpable: Most women were chatting busily about all their other last-minute holiday errands that they had to see to; their visit to the chemo “spa” was just one of the myriad things on their list of things to do, treating it so nonchalantly and ordinary that one might have thought they were at a salon getting manicures and pedicures in preparation for a Christmas party that night instead of at the hospital being infused with body- and mind-altering chemicals.

What followed was three solid days of misery. I’m not going to lie. It was ugly: nausea that the pills couldn’t quite control, all-over bone pain from the Neulasta injection, an energy level that could only get me from bed downstairs to the couch in the morning and from the couch back upstairs to bed at night, and, as Pete would likely attest to, general bitchiness because I hated being me. Fortunately, I woke up on Christmas morning feeling like a whole new woman, relatively speaking, and we were all able to enjoy a quiet, calm, beautiful day blanketed in new snow. With a fire blazing all day, Pete, Chris, Shannon, and I watched old Christmas movies, played dominoes and cards, drank champagne, and had fun clowning around outside with the dog.

Clearly, chemo’s effect on the body is cumulative, and subconsciously I knew this would be the case but had hoped otherwise. I tolerated the first two sessions so well (and consistently) that I was optimistic the rest of the sessions would be just as uneventful. The fatigue and nausea/queasiness are still an issue but improve each day. What I focus on now is the fact that I am halfway to the finish line and ever so grateful that my treatment consists of only six rounds. It could be so much worse.

On the positive side, I am learning new skills. Never one much for makeup, I signed up for a makeup seminar sponsored by the local ovarian cancer support group. (I probably could have used these lessons 40 years ago but, as they say, better late than never.) My eyebrows and eyelashes have greatly thinned out, rendering my face pretty funky looking. Now I get to play around with makeup (thanks, Leslie!) and try on a new look each day. Practice makes perfect, and I will become proficient, but for now some days I look like a bad version of Elizabeth Taylor’s Cleopatra; other days it’s closer to Mexican artist Frida Kahlo's unibrow woman.

One thing I learned at my last visit to the spa—and in my case adding insult to injury—is that there is a syndrome called chemo brain. Those of you who know me well can validate that, even before my treatments, mental sharpness was never one of my better known attributes. Let me be clear: This in no way is a reflection of my intelligence (we all know I am merely one lightbulb shy of Mensa membership); I just tend to be disorganized, a tad forgetful, and, as I prefer to phrase it, verbally impulsive. So now, in addition, there’s chemo brain that I can add to my repertoire of syndromes. Symptoms include memory lapses (not wine induced); trouble concentrating, remembering details, and multi-tasking; disorganized thinking; and trouble using words appropriately. This does not bode well for me. I have to ask: On top of everything else, is this syndrome really necessary?

Speaking of wine, you’ll be surprised to learn that my diagnosis and subsequent surgery and treatments appear to have had an adverse effect on my profound appreciation for the grape. This is serious. Hell clearly has frozen over and I’ve lost my taste for wine. I don’t mean to alarm anyone, but the impact has had significant, unpredictable, and disturbing consequences: Although I’m still willing to suffer a glass or two for the right cause, suffice it to say that the Napa Valley economy has been hard hit by my current health circumstances. One of my more selfless resolutions for the New Year is to make sure that Napa regains its solid footing in the industry.

I wish us all a happy, healthy, prosperous 2011 surrounded by loving family and friends.