Dope Slap

I’ve been cancer-free now for a few weeks and well, it was just too dull. I missed the doctor’s, I missed hospitals, I missed getting jabbed with needles that really hurt, and so I devised a cunning plan to stab myself three times, simultaneously in the same hand and to bleed as much as possible. No easy feat... I’m not sure how this was actually possible, but since replaying it in my mind trying to figure out the chain of actions and reactions makes me queasy, I’ll leave it a mystery. However, it seems that if you combine chemo-brain {poor decision making abilities}, brand new, very sharp paring knife from IKEA and a bag of chestnuts, you get emergency room, puncture wound in palm, stitches in thumb, lot’s of bandages and a tetanus shot. I am now officially a drama queen, reluctant, but none the less, I think I qualify.

I’ve been wholly infatuated with roasted chestnuts the past few weeks. I bought some at the farmer’s market recently and scored them with an X on top, roasted the little angels in the oven and then sprinkled with sea salt, and accompanied by a couple of juicy clementine's they were intoxicating. When you roast them, the X opens up making a little pouch that you just peel away, they’re gorgeous, the perfect snack -- aesthetically pleasing, delicious and nutritious.

A few years ago, when I had a working fireplace I tried to roast chestnuts by wrapping them in foil and tossing them in the fire. I didn’t know you had to score them first to avoid launching a volley of flaming projectiles. One by one they exploded, sounding like gunfire, and shot across the room taking refuge under the couch. There were no casualties, but not everyone was amused and burnt carpet doesn’t smell good.

I was at Stop & Shop the other day and was thrilled to see an overflowing bin of chestnuts so I stocked up. They were harder to slice this time and the very minute I thought “girl, you are gonna cut yourself,” I cut myself, duh.

Yet again, disabled, I’m taking a few days off of work to holiday shop which I didn’t get to do last year because I was already so sick from chemo. My hair fell out a couple of days after Christmas. I wandered aimlessly around target today, tomorrow I’m going to the mall, I need to ogle some Apple products and buy some presents. On Saturday, I’m throwing myself a Birthday BINGO party which the boys are really excited about and that makes me happy beyond words. The tall one keeps offering to help {!} and they both have lot’s of suggestions for the guest list which I think is sweet as can be. I’m not used to celebrating my birthday because in years past I left it to someone who wasn’t interested and last year I had chemo on my birthday and so a party this year, the last of my forties, seems necessary. I want my kids to learn how to celebrate. Celebrate well and celebrate often.

Thanksgiving

It’s a fine line between informative and narcissist, as it is between observant and redundant. Straddling that line is tricky business especially when your memory is shot. None the less, here I am, blogging again.

I was driving up to Vermont on Thanksgiving morning enjoying the scenery, and the autonomy of driving myself and my dozing boys to the place of our choice in Sparky, our safe and comfy new car. I was feeling really grateful, and powerful for getting us packed and out and on our way. I used to be the passenger and now I’m the driver. I don’t know what the heck we packed, but we all had socks and underwear and really, everything else is optional, right? I had my iPod loaded with occasion appropriate music, Alice’s Restaurant and Pete Seeger’s This Land is Your Land. I was writing blog posts in my head about my gratitude and they were poignant and elegant, uplifting and you’ll have to take my word on that as those words are long gone. My brain is still a sketchy thing, it doesn’t retain information for long. J is always asking if I remember this or that and I don’t... I really don’t, even though it was something we did or talked about only weeks or months ago. This unsettles him, so now I pretend -- I know, honey, that was so funny, I could never forget that.

It’s so much easier to be positive and optimistic when you’re feeling better, which is a good feeling, but maybe a trap. There’s a woman named Laurie Cordeiro from Bristol, RI who was diagnosed with Triple Negative Breast Cancer 2-3 years ago. I don’t know her but I know several people who do {or sadly, did}, and so our common cancer and those six degrees of separation make her seem real {as of course she is} and personal to me. She went through the same treatment as I did at the same age and after her year in hell, she had a year or so of triumph and optimism and took a job at Gloria Gemma Breast Cancer Foundation, helping other patients and families and then her cancer returned and I got an email in tribute to her yesterday speaking of her death a few days ago. It’s hard not to wonder how many green smoothies she drank and how often she exercised. She makes all those statistics turn flashing neon, the statistics I’m trying so hard to stay away from.

Her death makes me realize that you never get out of Cancertown because while you were there, you’ve met so many, heard so many stories, and our outcomes will all be different. The lovely Kim I met at radiation, lost her husband and soul-mate a few weeks ago to Multiple Myeloma and there was nobody more optimistic than they were, he was barely 40. Once you visit Cancertown you experience more death than you’ve ever known, even if it’s not your own, it affects you surely. You lose your innocence in so many ways. You have more joy but it comes with corresponding sadness. You have to live every day like it’s your last and plan for the future at the same time. Reconcile that dichotomy. I suppose that’s what we all should aim for our whole lives, but cancer makes it imperative. Little boy has been telling me all weekend how grateful he is for me and we’ve been having such a nice time together and I can’t imagine how he would react if given the bad news I can’t speak or write and try not to think about. He’d look at me with those great big beautiful eyes and say “but what would I do without you? who would take care of me? who would understand me?” It’s unfathomable to me, unthinkable, it’s an experience I could not bear, but we don’t get a choice, do we? I don't like that... I like to have a choice, we get used to excessive choices in our lives, but when it comes down to it, we don't have a choice at all... it's almost a foreign concept... I guess we deceive ourselves with all these small choices. Some children lose their parents, they do, they really do. Oh please, oh please, oh please, let that not happen to mine. If I didn’t have kids, I really think I could be graceful and philosophical about dying young. I wouldn’t like it, but I would go quietly. But I have kids, kid’s that without a shadow of a doubt count on me more than anyone else and who are loved so purely and without reservation in a way that could not be compensated for by any one any where and so leaving is just not an option. Just not an option!

How does one incorporate all this knowledge and foreshadowing into a happy life? I don’t know, but you do, you have to, somehow. You have to learn how to live without thinking I suppose, just forge ahead with blinders on and leafy greens in the fridge.

We're leaving Vermont later this afternoon, have had a lovely time, but I'm resentful for the undercurrent of reality and loss that has followed me here. Was feeling almost carefree last week, so aiming for that again, footloose and fancy free and the stamina to drive home. Grateful and thankful as we’re zipping through the green mountains.

Cork Pop

I’ve been meaning to post for days. I’ve written posts in my head, none of them terribly compelling, but not sat down to write them, because i’ve been really busy and it occurred to me that real life should take precedence.

I got my shop opened and it looks beautiful! Each and every one of my consignee's is a lovely and talented person, many of whom I’ve come to count as friends and the new one’s have been dreamboats to work with. I had a grand re-opening party which was fun and then I was getting ready for Craftopia which is a large event I host {with two lovely partners} twice a year. It’s stressful and always crazy busy as the event gets closer.

I had a bottle of champagne sitting in my studio mini-fridge, kindly given by an unlikely source at my re-opening party, but I didn’t open it. It was a really good night, but I wasn’t feeling celebratory enough, there just wasn’t the right moment.

Craftopia was yesterday, I’m so tired I can barely walk, but while exhausted, I’m content. It was the best event we’ve put on yet. We got a crazy amount of media attention, we were on the morning news, featured in the Providence Journal and in every local paper, we have built something from nothing and to me, that is a beautiful thing and incredibly rewarding. I remember how hard it was, the first few shows to even get a simple listing and now we are routinely featured and reporters actually call me. We were on the morning t.v. news, how nutty is that? We were jam-packed from the minute we opened the door to when they closed. Set-up was a breeze because we have the best vendors and I love when customer’s tell me how cohesive the event feels. High quality, with a distinct feel, YES, that’s the plan, it is a carefully curated event and I love that people notice that!

My beleaguered, neglected business is off to a good start. My posse of teenaged boys got themselves up at 7a.m. and came to help and their good nature and dependability touches me deeply. These boys I’ve watched grow almost into men. My son, of the larger variety, and his friend-who-is-a-girl and our tenant, turned housemate, turned member of the family worked the front entry table all day and they did a great job and had a blast. I always wanted a big family. I could tell my son was really proud of me, lot’s of high fives and even a great big hug as he departed which is a rare and special thing.

As vendors started the long process of packing up, I had my cork-worthy moment. This was the first week in such a long time where I felt better every day instead of worse. While I have a calendar full of follow-up appointments, there are no procedures scheduled, no ghastly new treatments to begin and it had been a great, great, successful day. So I popped my cork, grabbed a bunch of cups and visited as many of my favorite crafty peeps as I could and said “take a cup, we’re toasting to ME, and my upward trajectory.” And finally, I could hug without being in pain and I could kiss without being immuno-suppressed and fearing germ exchanges. I had my perfect moment. My bottle ran out way too soon and before I knew it I was laying on the couch of my comfortable, familiar, friendly house feeling like this day had been a turning point. Truly, the beginning of my upward trajectory. Without constant medical appointments, I can finally establish a new routine, join the living instead of the dying. That is my choice, to live every day instead of dying every day. Today I could go into work and start cleaning up or I could leave that until tomorrow and bundle up and spend the day in my yard cutting back plants and enjoying the fresh air and my sweet, sweet neighborhood. So that’s what I will do. I will slow down and smell the proverbial roses and start my new life, or at least the newest chapter in my old life, which most mercifully, is a LIFE.

I don’t know if I’m ready to give up the blog completely, as it’s become such a presence in my life and so many people have asked me not too {which is so powerfully meaningful to me}. The downside of the blog is that so many people know me a hell of a lot better than I know them and you see, I want to know you too. I want to live a real life and not a virtual one. It would be easy to keep hiding in my cancer-cave, worrying and having people want to help me... but most essentially, that doesn’t suit me. The blog kept me connected to the world when I couldn’t leave my house, when I couldn’t partake of it myself, but it suddenly occurs to me that now is the time to make oh so many changes. I think I was waiting for that “cork-popping” moment and it has now presented itself. Life is short and you only get one, I most certainly know that, if nothing else. I want to be present in my actual life instead of always thinking about what I’m going to post. I’ve begun to continually write blog posts in my head and I think it would be better to be spinning other tales, be more present in the immediate instead of recapping the past.

I’ll post to the blog every now and again to let you know how I’m doing, so you don’t worry, but I’m going to place living over writing. It’s time to give my blog the big hug it deserves, it kept me going, kept me sane and connected through a dark and difficult time, so I’ll honor it by not letting it be a crutch, not let it keep me from living. I know I have a lot of work to do, I can barely walk a couple of blocks, I have to reorganize my life in a way that takes care of myself and not just other people, but I'm feeling confident that it will get done.

I’ll keep writing, I’ve discovered how much I love to write, but I’ll be posting, much {much} less frequently. Thank you so, so, so much for reading and for keeping me going. I will never forget or cease to appreciate all the folks who kept me company by reading the blog, or all the folks that fed us {literally} and who’s love and attention kept my precious little family going. Your attention and kindness has affected my boys {and me} in the most beautiful way, you have changed lives. Thank you, thank you, and let’s see each other in the real world, not just the virtual one. x o k t c

Milky Way

I posted to the blog a few days ago and immediately regretted it. Unfortunately, I didn’t have computer access when the regret set in and so It took a few hours for the post to come down. I apologize to anyone who read it, it crossed the line into pathetic. Finishing treatment {if one can ever consider themselves finished, with all the follow-up appointments}, has been anticlimactic to say the least. I don’t feel celebratory or excited, I feel tired, sore and alienated. I feel very uncomfortable around people, I don’t know what to talk about, how to just be, I feel different, awkward, a refugee from hurricane cancer. I feel heavy of spirit and heart. Maybe it’s that I’m still one big boo-boo. I’m burnt and sore. I’m peeling, but instead of new, healthy skin underneath, the peel reveals more burn. My feet are still numb, shoes are difficult, balance comes and goes, fatigue is overwhelming.

So this is my post from last weekend, but edited. I don’t usually edit, I blab and post, but maybe it’s time to exercise at least a spec of self-control.

I’m most comfortable at home and at my studio and I’m so grateful for these places. I was standing at my kitchen sink yesterday, washing apples and I almost cried, I was so grateful for my kitchen sink... that I have this home, this comfortable place {cluttered and messy as it may be}, HQ, homebase. I’m not worrying about the yardwork or the old water pipes, the paint chipping off the front porch, I’m just so fucking grateful I have a kitchen sink... and a bed.

I’m going to spend this gray day in the studio where I have specific goals and lists of things that need to be done, deadlines are good, without those I wouldn’t know what to do with myself or where to begin. I feel peripheral, like a shadow, a ghost... there, but not really there.

I went to a halloween party last night because little boy made me go, we’ve gone the past few years and it’s an elaborate affair. Months worth of decorations, endless food and elaborate costumes. Previously, I’ve wanted to stay and he’s wanted to leave and this year we were role reversed. I didn’t know who to talk to, or how, and if anything brings out cleavage it’s halloween costumes. Lot’s of skimpy costumes with boobus erectus. Everyone dancing and feeling sexy, I can’t imagine dancing and feeling sexy anymore. For all my talk of not being defined by my breasts, I miss them more and more, I feel like an amputee. I feel old and tired and quite thoroughly unsexy. I had dreams and delusions of dating and adventures when my marriage ended, but now I’m feeling lone, empty, depleted, damaged. Everything happened so fast and with such urgency, I didn’t have time to think about what it all really meant.

I want to find my footing, my bearings, but right now everything just feels alien. I'm disconnected, untethered, maybe the wind will lift me up and I’ll fly away. I feel lonely, so I eat junk food and then I feel a thousand times more guilty than you would, because I’m convinced I’m giving myself cancer. I’ve spent a year trying to stay alive and now I’m killing myself with sugar. Death by fried food and chocolate, I know what’s bad for me, and now it feels lethal, but no less appealing which is disturbing.

Fast forward a few days, It’s halloween, I’m splayed on the couch with the laptop while little boy watches cartoons and eats candy and the doorbell rings are dying down. I'm exhausted from strolling the neighborhood. Halloween seemed much more lowkey than usual, that’s his take too. I just gave all the milky ways to the last trick or  treater's so I wouldn’t eat any more of them. I only eat milky way’s on halloween, but I can eat a lot of them. I did eat a lot of them.

I’ve been working like crazy getting the store ready to open, I sure hope it’s a good year, I hope the farmer’s market makes me feel more festive. If nothing else, it will eradicate any excuse I have to avoid Kale and that will be helpful. So much to do in the next 48 hours, I won't have time to be morose, that's probably a good thing.

James Bond

I feel like James Bond who’s been tortured by being hung from ropes by his armpits. Not smooth nylon rope, but scratchy shipyard rope. After freeing himself, James would run a minute mile, kick ass, catch some bad guys and then have a “date” night. Not me, I’m whining and complaining. Tomorrow’s my last day of rads and I won’t be leaping across the finish line, champagne and streamers in hand... I’ll be limping across pondering the timing of my next nap, it's sadly anti-climatic.

It will, however, be heavenly, truly heavenly, not to have an appointment every single day. Next Thursday morning, because the boys go to their dad’s on Wed. nights, I can sleep late, as late as I want, sleep, sleep, sleep.

I know I sound mopey, but it’s been a good week, a lot is getting done in the studio to prepare for the store opening, which is more of a store/gallery this year and it’s looking beautiful. It’s gratifying to see it come together and I have a really lovely, wonderful group of artists consigning their work to me. Some I’ve known for a few years now and just love working with and catching up with as they drop off their inventory, and new one’s that have all been a pleasure. My new rule for vendors is I have to love your work and really like you too. No bullshit, no high maintenance drama crap... it’s got to be fun and easy. I’m lucky to be surrounded by such great and talented folks.

At radiation today, I criss-crossed in the dressing room with the always distraught russian lady. She saw my burns and volunteered hers and then started a muttering chant of “god help us, god help us,” probably long past my leaving. The techs, as usual were eating donuts and slugging down their jumbo sized drinks from Honey Dew. I usually ask them to turn the music off in the rads room when it’s my turn, it distracts me from zoning out and I prefer not to be there. Except today they had on Linda Ronstadt who was singing “poor, poor, pitiful me”, which just seemed too fitting. I need a new cast of characters, truly, I’m ready to move on.

Small World

If chemo is cumulative, so is radiation and it's hit me like a brick. I'm so tired, so sleepy and the burn has spread to my right armpit and hurts like hell. My happy countdown has morphed into an endurance test and I'm afraid of each new day and how increasingly tired and sore I'll be. The powers that be refuse to give me the last laugh.

I'm getting anxious about my reentrance to society after my parole is granted. I'm feeling alienated, detached from other people. Aside from the small circle of friends I saw regularly through this ordeal, I don't feel comfortable with people, I feel different. I've been bald and sick for a year, I finally have some hair and eyebrows, I look more normal than I did a few months ago, but I feel increasingly different and alone.

When I was in chemo, I kept being sad and disappointed about missing things -- events, gatherings, I so much wanted to remain a part of things, I still felt social, my world was bigger. Now I feel disconnected from these things. I don't want to be anywhere but home with my kids or in my studio -- my little world. I feel self-contained, in a glass bubble and I don't know how to be anywhere else, my world has gotten smaller.

I stole a johnny from the radiation place so I could be a mental patient {shock treatment} at a halloween party, but I don't really want to go anymore, don't want to be in a room full of people, don't know how to make small talk, would rather stay home, but I promised little boy... I'm hoping he forgets.

Breathtaking Excitement

I shaved my legs this weekend, need I say more? Drudgery? Oh no, it was glorious, if only I could have gathered the pretty dark hairs and grafted them to my scalp I would've been all set. I am damned sick of seeing my shiny head. I was fine being all bald, but this middle ground is driving me nuts.

I should be in the shower, I have rads in 45 minutes but I'm procrastinating because I don't want to go, I'm really sore and could do without this last week. I'm on a mission though, to steal a Johnny for my halloween costume, I hope there's some good ones in the laundry bin. I complained about the nasty signs and there was neither compassion or action, so they get what they get. Bad behavior begets bad behavior. I'm going to be a mental patient -- shock treatment, cause I got this patchy white hair sticking straight up why not use it? A few months earlier I could have put a lightbulb in my mouth and been Uncle Fester. Figure I'll wrap my wrists in bloody gauze. I'd rather be a prostitute or movie star in a sexy corset, worked the cleavage, but that ship has sailed, got to work with what I have. I'm actually regretting not working the cleave when I had it, ah well, hindsight.

I'm going to a party with a "hobo ghost" wearing a sign that says "will haunt for food". I started to ponder the political correctness of that, but stopped myself. Little boy can be whatever little boy wants to be.