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.