Last week I had my cursory check in with my surgeon where she not only told me to join weight watchers, but to do so by the end of the day. Man, that is harsh. I shared that I'm not a real group person, not a joiner, but she was having none of it, so I nodded compliantly knowing that while I know I need to loose weight, I am not joining weight watchers, let alone by the end of the day. My surgeon is a petite and formidable woman, she tells me that I should be worried about heart disease and strokes, as they are the number one killers of women. I straight out told her, "no, sorry, I won't do it, I worry about cancer and that's all I'm willing to have on my worry plate." Heart disease and strokes are just going to have to take a back seat in my worry van. She doesn't like this, so we've had to agree to disagree.
I wouldn't say I'm a hypochondriac, as if I were, I would have gone to the doctor as soon as I felt the planetoid sized lump in my breast instead of ambling in two months later and I would have been insistent that yes, there was something awry and puleeze send me to a specialist instead of telling me it is nothing and not to worry about it. I chose the not-worry-about-it option, as it was so appealing, even though deep down, inside, well, not even all that deep, I knew, I guess I just wasn't quite ready yet, having just begun divorce mediation, I didn't feel ready for that too, but eventually, I realized, I had no choice.
I think what I am, what I've become, is a cancercondriac. No matter what my symptoms, I don't worry about heart disease and stroke or MS, or diabetes, or even being struck by lightening or eaten by sharks, in fact, I dare you shark, I just dare you... I worry about cancer, every day... every minute of every day. Not in a debilitating way, but in a real way, that sometimes induces panic and often not, but is a revolving fear, on a loop de loop. Everyone I know has been sick this season. Lingering viruses and flu's, my little dude missed a week of school and is still coughing, my studio-mate laid low for weeks. I haven't had more than a sniffle and I think that has to do with being allergic to my xmas tree, but I take it as a sign that I don't have metastatic cancer. I've decided that as my immune system seems to be functioning well, it must also be keeping me cancer free. It's maddening not to know what's going on inside my body. I am consumed with aches and pains and there's no way to know if it's age, effects of chemo and radiation, lack of exercise or imminent death inducing metastatic cancer.
The flip side of that is I feel like crap. I've been gaining weight, my LiveStrong days at the gym seem a distant memory, not a few months ago, and I'm developing syndrome after syndrome which is wearing me down. I've become my own worst enemy. I've been diagnosed with lymphedema in my right arm, my dominant arm and hand are now 3cm larger than my left and my handy-dandy lymphedema therapist wants to wrap my entire arm up to the fingertips in bandages for 6-8 weeks and I just can't do it, I refuse. I've been compliant for two years, I've done everything each and every cog in the medical wheel has asked, but this I just can't do. Next best thing she says is to wear a compression sleeve and glove 12 hours a day. Glove? no way, so we settled on gauntlet which is like a glove that has the fingers free. I have one of these get ups already that I've worn on airplanes to avoid getting lymphedema and they are murky beige, depressingly geriatric looking and very uncomfortable, and so I've been in denial. I even had to explain that I was in denial to my sweet specialist and she said she just had to mark my chart, that I knew I was in danger of a permanent and worsening condition by ignoring it and I said "yes, yes I understand, I just can't deal with it, I've reached my limit." I don't usually do denial, but I guess we all make exceptions.
I promised I would deal with it after the holidays and I just paid out of pocket for a fuschia sleeve which is more bearable than beige, I picked it up at the medical supply place today. My insurance would have paid for the beige one, but it's just too depressing so I paid extra for color. The cost of color. My fuscia is more pepto bismol than cheery purple/pink, but it will have to do. Thus far, I can't even bring myself to open the box.
I tried to carve a ham on xmas eve and neither hand could grip the utensils well enough to do it. It was surprising and dispiriting, what an odd thing to have to ask for help with. The neuropathy and the lymphedema are a bad combination. My hands cramp up and are stiff and weak, writing with a pen is increasingly difficult. So it's time to cut the crap, I suppose and return to being a good patient and get myself in that horrible garment. Boo, hiss, whine, complain. Tomorrow will be my last day of cookies {I really need the tall one to come home and eat them all which he will do quite efficiently, and any minute now} and I'm going back to the gym. In fact I'm putting my whole life secondary to getting in shape, O.K., kids still first, but work is going behind health on the list. Being a clever girl, I've decided the best exercise is the funnest exercise and that is in scuba-town, so I'm planning a trip for the end of February. I have between now and then to get scuba ready. Those wetsuits are tight and the tanks heavy and I couldn't possibly manage it right now, so I have slightly less than two months to get in shape. Between now and then it's gym, gym, gym, yoga, wearing the sleeve, and eating healthy.
My boys should be home any minute and we will commence our yearly holiday Lord of The Rings marathon. We have the extended version DVDs, so I am not exaggerating when I say marathon. The geeky darling has challenged me to a game of Doctor Who Yahtzee which is what Santa brought me this year and tomorrow we'll all go see the Hobbit. It's so rare that the three of us are on the same page at the same time, but indeed, this is the movie for us all. Popcorn for all!
Thursday, December 26, 2013
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
Return of the Blog
And on Christmas day, my blogging hiatus ends as I am sitting in front of a fire, in a quiet house, with a newly purchased, long overdue, refurbished MacBook on my lap. I can now return to the soothing tippity-tap, tippity-tap, as opposed to the vertical fingered bang, bang, banging required of my old companion. I can now type "9"s and "M"s with reckless abandon without cutting and pasting them from other documents. There is, of course, a "9" in my zip code, so it's been annoying enough over the past many months to just put the device down and walk away. This toy is quiet, no grinding sound, recently accompanied by an unsettling tick, tick, tick of an ersatz bomb waiting to go off, documents up in flames, or at least melted from the heat, increasing in fortitude from the bottom of the machine. No more children yelling "mom, get a new computer, it's time, just admit it." As one application after another stopped working, I have finally admitted it.
Now the dreadful task of updating costly software, inputing all my addresses, one by one, as the old address book was corrupted and can neither save or export. Figuring out if my older backup system will work and the laborious process of moving over documents and music and pictures and whatever else. Getting a new computer is not fun. Sure, it's shiny and pretty, but it's deceiving, there is so many nerve wracking tasks involved, I dread it, so I put it off as long as possible. My old faithful served me for seven years, it was my first laptop an some change I don't like one bit. I miss the way the old keyboard felt, I miss the way the outdated desktop worked, but sometimes you don't have a choice. New computer, divorce, cancer, sometimes you just don't have a choice.
I've had a lovely holiday season. I always forget I work in retail and so am always surprised by how busy and frazzled I get, but the fact that we've all finally admitted Santa is a fable, some of the pressure is off and it's more fun making up who the gifts are from. Little boy got gifts from The Great God of Good Socks, Gandalf, The Doctor and yes, some from his mom. The tall one got lots of very warm clothing to take with him to college in Maine next year. This time next year, he will be home visiting for the holidays, wow. Our Colby College dream has come to fruition with an early decision acceptance, but our expectation of a "need blind" experience, where the financial need of all those accepted is fulfilled by this prestigious, well-endowed school, turns out to really mean, they are blind to our need. While I am doing my best to negotiate some more funds, the dream is now going to include massive quantities of loans and debt. This is very disappointing. I still, however, fully believe that this is the right college for my boy and will offer him a life-changing experience and opportunity for positive personal growth and building of character. How do you walk away from that? He remains, smitten and in love and wanting to play college football and baseball while getting a world-class education, how does he walk away from that? I don't think we can, I think we will need to find a way for it to happen.
It's been a while, I've had some issues, I'm spending a lot of time in rehab, of the physical therapy variety, not drug and alcohol. But that's for another day, because I love the holidays and it's been a holly jolly month. I threw myself on the mercy of a friend with a truck who carted me home a frozen sold tree which thawed nicely and looks festive as can be. I learned that next time I plant a frozen tree, indoors, in a stand, I should not fill stand to the top with water because frozen, implies moisture, and all that water is going to soon start dripping downwards and there is a lot of it and if your stand is already full, well, you get the picture. We had our yearly festive xmas eve gathering last night, with the old friends who over they years have become family and some new ones for good measure. It is such a beautiful and powerful thing to see kids grow from babies to the precipice of launching. Stressful, fragmented evenings filled with diaper changes and temper tantrums are now relaxing and mellow with everyone doing their own thing, the generations and age groups interweaving naturally, sans anyones interference or orchestration.
This was the first christmas morning the boys father chose not to come over which surprisingly freaked both boys out but we wound up having a perfect festive morning. We were all glad Aunt Ivy slept over as she always does. We're a small group, but it was perfect. It was also the first year I wasn't invited to the in-laws, or ex in-laws, which freaked me out. It's an odd thing how you can know people for 25 years and then just be exiled, but I guess it's time for new traditions and it turns out I'm perfectly happy home alone today and fine with the boys having a holiday tradition without me. They'll be back tomorrow an our annual Lord of the Rings marathon will begin and well go see the Hobbit to top it off. I've gotten a lot of cleaning up done, I'm doing a laundry marathon, it's warm and cozy, I'm eating leftovers, way too many cookies, and using my new computer. It's just gotten dark and I'll flip around and find a movie and I'm at peace with the universe. I have local friends in on who I could drop, but I'm feeling no need, I'm quite content and hope you are too.
Now the dreadful task of updating costly software, inputing all my addresses, one by one, as the old address book was corrupted and can neither save or export. Figuring out if my older backup system will work and the laborious process of moving over documents and music and pictures and whatever else. Getting a new computer is not fun. Sure, it's shiny and pretty, but it's deceiving, there is so many nerve wracking tasks involved, I dread it, so I put it off as long as possible. My old faithful served me for seven years, it was my first laptop an some change I don't like one bit. I miss the way the old keyboard felt, I miss the way the outdated desktop worked, but sometimes you don't have a choice. New computer, divorce, cancer, sometimes you just don't have a choice.
I've had a lovely holiday season. I always forget I work in retail and so am always surprised by how busy and frazzled I get, but the fact that we've all finally admitted Santa is a fable, some of the pressure is off and it's more fun making up who the gifts are from. Little boy got gifts from The Great God of Good Socks, Gandalf, The Doctor and yes, some from his mom. The tall one got lots of very warm clothing to take with him to college in Maine next year. This time next year, he will be home visiting for the holidays, wow. Our Colby College dream has come to fruition with an early decision acceptance, but our expectation of a "need blind" experience, where the financial need of all those accepted is fulfilled by this prestigious, well-endowed school, turns out to really mean, they are blind to our need. While I am doing my best to negotiate some more funds, the dream is now going to include massive quantities of loans and debt. This is very disappointing. I still, however, fully believe that this is the right college for my boy and will offer him a life-changing experience and opportunity for positive personal growth and building of character. How do you walk away from that? He remains, smitten and in love and wanting to play college football and baseball while getting a world-class education, how does he walk away from that? I don't think we can, I think we will need to find a way for it to happen.
It's been a while, I've had some issues, I'm spending a lot of time in rehab, of the physical therapy variety, not drug and alcohol. But that's for another day, because I love the holidays and it's been a holly jolly month. I threw myself on the mercy of a friend with a truck who carted me home a frozen sold tree which thawed nicely and looks festive as can be. I learned that next time I plant a frozen tree, indoors, in a stand, I should not fill stand to the top with water because frozen, implies moisture, and all that water is going to soon start dripping downwards and there is a lot of it and if your stand is already full, well, you get the picture. We had our yearly festive xmas eve gathering last night, with the old friends who over they years have become family and some new ones for good measure. It is such a beautiful and powerful thing to see kids grow from babies to the precipice of launching. Stressful, fragmented evenings filled with diaper changes and temper tantrums are now relaxing and mellow with everyone doing their own thing, the generations and age groups interweaving naturally, sans anyones interference or orchestration.
This was the first christmas morning the boys father chose not to come over which surprisingly freaked both boys out but we wound up having a perfect festive morning. We were all glad Aunt Ivy slept over as she always does. We're a small group, but it was perfect. It was also the first year I wasn't invited to the in-laws, or ex in-laws, which freaked me out. It's an odd thing how you can know people for 25 years and then just be exiled, but I guess it's time for new traditions and it turns out I'm perfectly happy home alone today and fine with the boys having a holiday tradition without me. They'll be back tomorrow an our annual Lord of the Rings marathon will begin and well go see the Hobbit to top it off. I've gotten a lot of cleaning up done, I'm doing a laundry marathon, it's warm and cozy, I'm eating leftovers, way too many cookies, and using my new computer. It's just gotten dark and I'll flip around and find a movie and I'm at peace with the universe. I have local friends in on who I could drop, but I'm feeling no need, I'm quite content and hope you are too.
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Gotham City
Last night I walked past the little {not so little anymore} guy's room and he peeped "mim" which is what he does when he wants me, but knows he's supposed to be staying put, the day officially over. So he peeps "mim" instead of outright calling "mom", and he does it extra cute, so that somehow, it doesn't count and well, he's got my number, I can resist, especially when he gently patted a spot on the bed and said "have a seat, let's have a little chat". He was lamenting that he was having trouble sleeping lately, waking in the middle of the night and knowing he should stay in his room, but winding up in mine. He wanted to stay in his room and didn't know why he couldn't manage to, he was frustrated. After telling him not to worry about it and all that, I shared that I felt all confuddled too, I don't usually share my worries but I'm starting to because I don't want them to be blindsided. Confuddled is one of our words, a hybrid of confused and befuddled, every family should have their own words, I believe. This I believe. I told him I just didn't know how to do all the things in a day that I was supposed to do and I felt badly that every afternoon I was falling asleep on the couch when he came home and then making dinner late and everyone being hungry and gabbity gab, and he said "you're like a rubix cube, but one of the colors is on the wrong side." I agreed, but said it wasn't just one square, the whole thing was jumbled up. And then I stroked his forehead and his hair while he closed his eyes. Whenever I stopped for a second, thinking I was going to leave, he made a frowny face, so I kept going. I was plotting how to escape and then I wondered why would I want to? I'm sitting here in the dark, looking at this angel face, feeling his warm, soft skin and making him feel loved and safe, why would I want to do anything else, and what could possibly be more important.
I went to the lymphedema clinic today at the hospital because of my swollen hand and arm. I thought the goddess Jessica would do her usual massage thing, loosening up my lymph nodes, moving them around, and give me a pep talk about not needing to worry about it. Instead she was kind of alarmed. She measured all up and down both arms and compared them to six months ago and my right arm is 3 cm larger. She wants to wrap my whole arm and hand in tight bandages for 6 to 8 weeks. Say what? 6-8 weeks? And have me come in 3 times a weeks, aghhhh. I asked if I could just wear the compression sleeve like on the plane, but she says that only prevents lymphodema, doesn't help improve it. Not happy, not happy at all, I'll admit to squelching the tears in my eyes, because I don't want to get sucked back into the system, and I'm already freaking out about how to earn money and I'm already without my feet, without my hands, the paradox deepens. I told her I just couldn't leave wrapped up, I had to finish some projects this week and I'd go buy a compression glove tomorrow which I guess, with the sleeve is better than nothing and I'd come back next week. Just, ugh! Jessica told me to not go home and start googling lymphedema, I laughed, and said "I'm going home to google it right now." Jessica doesn't know me very well. I didn't go home, I went into work for a bit, then I picked up J at his dad's because he needed to print something here and now I'm writing this, but at some point... I'll definitely be googling.
In between now and then, I ran into someone I hardly know, but who, well, due to logistics, I run into a lot and who always wants to talk about her close relative with stage IV cancer. Today she shared that the chemo was no longer working and there was nothing else they could do and I told her I was really, really sorry about this, and I was also sorry that I just wasn't the one she could talk with about it, because, I'm just not.
It's unusual for me to speak up like that, and normally I'd have felt terrible, just terrible, filled with guilt for letting someone down, but today I just felt like, you know... I have limits too and I am full up right now. I just don't want to hear about anyone else dying of cancer, just don't. I want a Make a Wish Foundation for adults and I want to go to the Galapagos Islands and see lots of critters. On Nov. 15, San Francisco is going to become Gotham City for a 5-year-old with cancer who wants to be Batman. It's going to be huge, flash mobs, the Police Captain, faux bad guys to capture, City Hall ceremony with a key to the city. Amazing.
This country spends 707 billion dollars per year on defense, $51 billion on weapons alone. $51 billion spent on ways to kill people and only $4.9 billion on curing cancer. We spend 10 times more of our tax dollars on ways to kill people over ways to save their lives. If I were talking about the whole military budget it would be well over 100 times more. We spend less per year now on cancer research than we did a few years ago. We spend $47 billion a year on homeland security and a hell of a lot more people have died of cancer than by terrorists. And I won't even start on how little we actually spend on the food stamps everyone keeps bitching about, but it's not much, barely a needle in the haystack. You know, those food stamps I'm gonna wind up on despite having supported someone on their road to affluence for decades, thinking it was our road. Heck of a thing to realize that it was never your road at all, you weren't even on the map.
I'm turning my own stomach with all this whining. Today started off really well, brand new day, I chatted with familiar high school students at the café across from their school because I was dropping off son and there was parking so I went in for tea. Shortly after, I stood in a parking lot with my face in the sun, soaking up some vitamin D, having a moment, but then I got off track again. Two lousy days in a row, I resent that universe, I do.
I went to the lymphedema clinic today at the hospital because of my swollen hand and arm. I thought the goddess Jessica would do her usual massage thing, loosening up my lymph nodes, moving them around, and give me a pep talk about not needing to worry about it. Instead she was kind of alarmed. She measured all up and down both arms and compared them to six months ago and my right arm is 3 cm larger. She wants to wrap my whole arm and hand in tight bandages for 6 to 8 weeks. Say what? 6-8 weeks? And have me come in 3 times a weeks, aghhhh. I asked if I could just wear the compression sleeve like on the plane, but she says that only prevents lymphodema, doesn't help improve it. Not happy, not happy at all, I'll admit to squelching the tears in my eyes, because I don't want to get sucked back into the system, and I'm already freaking out about how to earn money and I'm already without my feet, without my hands, the paradox deepens. I told her I just couldn't leave wrapped up, I had to finish some projects this week and I'd go buy a compression glove tomorrow which I guess, with the sleeve is better than nothing and I'd come back next week. Just, ugh! Jessica told me to not go home and start googling lymphedema, I laughed, and said "I'm going home to google it right now." Jessica doesn't know me very well. I didn't go home, I went into work for a bit, then I picked up J at his dad's because he needed to print something here and now I'm writing this, but at some point... I'll definitely be googling.
In between now and then, I ran into someone I hardly know, but who, well, due to logistics, I run into a lot and who always wants to talk about her close relative with stage IV cancer. Today she shared that the chemo was no longer working and there was nothing else they could do and I told her I was really, really sorry about this, and I was also sorry that I just wasn't the one she could talk with about it, because, I'm just not.
It's unusual for me to speak up like that, and normally I'd have felt terrible, just terrible, filled with guilt for letting someone down, but today I just felt like, you know... I have limits too and I am full up right now. I just don't want to hear about anyone else dying of cancer, just don't. I want a Make a Wish Foundation for adults and I want to go to the Galapagos Islands and see lots of critters. On Nov. 15, San Francisco is going to become Gotham City for a 5-year-old with cancer who wants to be Batman. It's going to be huge, flash mobs, the Police Captain, faux bad guys to capture, City Hall ceremony with a key to the city. Amazing.
This country spends 707 billion dollars per year on defense, $51 billion on weapons alone. $51 billion spent on ways to kill people and only $4.9 billion on curing cancer. We spend 10 times more of our tax dollars on ways to kill people over ways to save their lives. If I were talking about the whole military budget it would be well over 100 times more. We spend less per year now on cancer research than we did a few years ago. We spend $47 billion a year on homeland security and a hell of a lot more people have died of cancer than by terrorists. And I won't even start on how little we actually spend on the food stamps everyone keeps bitching about, but it's not much, barely a needle in the haystack. You know, those food stamps I'm gonna wind up on despite having supported someone on their road to affluence for decades, thinking it was our road. Heck of a thing to realize that it was never your road at all, you weren't even on the map.
I'm turning my own stomach with all this whining. Today started off really well, brand new day, I chatted with familiar high school students at the café across from their school because I was dropping off son and there was parking so I went in for tea. Shortly after, I stood in a parking lot with my face in the sun, soaking up some vitamin D, having a moment, but then I got off track again. Two lousy days in a row, I resent that universe, I do.
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
Scruffy the Cat
Someone I didn't know all that well, but whose music I loved... someone I hadn't seen in thirty years but can still see vividly in my mind, someone who was my age and had much to live for and many who loved him, died today of cancer.
The person that broke the news, has had cancer, the person through whom I knew the songwriter and musician, has had cancer. What the fuck is with all this cancer? We're not in our 70s and 80s, we're in our 40s and 50s, is this normal? Was it always this way, or is this a glimpse of the future where some are living longer, but so many of us aren't.
This hasn't been a good week for me and cancer. I'm trying desperately to get back to work, my savings are dwindled, I don't want to uproot my family, I can't even imagine the process of that, so I need more income and I need to stay put but stinky cancer after-effects keep getting in the way. My tumor, and hence lymph node dissection and radiation were on my right side and I'm right handed. I made a display two weeks ago and drilled about 70 holes into wood and then screwed in cup hooks with my thumb and first two fingers, it hurt, I got a blister, that's fine, but two weeks later my fingers are still numb. My hand is swollen and my arm just feels kinda dead. I work with my hands... this is a problem. That shoulder hurts, I bet you didn't realize that you pull your dominant arm backwards to put on a coat. I didn't realize it until it hurt like hell to do it, and now I'm trying to learn how to put on a coat like a lefty, which is harder than it sounds.
I missed a Friday Night game on a beautiful night last week because I'd hit the wall of exhaustion and my neuropathy feet were screaming and my hand was throbbing. Missing things I want to do makes me mad. Before I got sick, I was pondering the paradox I find myself in. I'm supposed to be self supporting or working towards being self supporting while also being a full time, single parent with miniscule assistance from other parent. It was untenable then and now it's even less tenable and I'm just not sure how I'm supposed to be solving this conundrum. What is the secret code that deposits more hours and energy into every day and makes my hand work, my body work, and keeps me healthy instead of burnt out and eating badly because it's quick and easy? I don't like not being able to figure something out no matter how long I obsess over it, I don't like defeat, but I just can't figure out this equation, it does not compute.
I'm complaining, what a waste, someone died today, it wasn't me, someone faced what I'm scared to face cause they had no damned choice, and maybe someday I'll have no choice, so I hate wasting time, but I just can not seem to figure out how to make my circumstances fit into a box that works.
Someone died today. Hearts are broken today. And it's just another day like any other, people die every day, and they're gonna keep doing it. Every day.
The person that broke the news, has had cancer, the person through whom I knew the songwriter and musician, has had cancer. What the fuck is with all this cancer? We're not in our 70s and 80s, we're in our 40s and 50s, is this normal? Was it always this way, or is this a glimpse of the future where some are living longer, but so many of us aren't.
This hasn't been a good week for me and cancer. I'm trying desperately to get back to work, my savings are dwindled, I don't want to uproot my family, I can't even imagine the process of that, so I need more income and I need to stay put but stinky cancer after-effects keep getting in the way. My tumor, and hence lymph node dissection and radiation were on my right side and I'm right handed. I made a display two weeks ago and drilled about 70 holes into wood and then screwed in cup hooks with my thumb and first two fingers, it hurt, I got a blister, that's fine, but two weeks later my fingers are still numb. My hand is swollen and my arm just feels kinda dead. I work with my hands... this is a problem. That shoulder hurts, I bet you didn't realize that you pull your dominant arm backwards to put on a coat. I didn't realize it until it hurt like hell to do it, and now I'm trying to learn how to put on a coat like a lefty, which is harder than it sounds.
I missed a Friday Night game on a beautiful night last week because I'd hit the wall of exhaustion and my neuropathy feet were screaming and my hand was throbbing. Missing things I want to do makes me mad. Before I got sick, I was pondering the paradox I find myself in. I'm supposed to be self supporting or working towards being self supporting while also being a full time, single parent with miniscule assistance from other parent. It was untenable then and now it's even less tenable and I'm just not sure how I'm supposed to be solving this conundrum. What is the secret code that deposits more hours and energy into every day and makes my hand work, my body work, and keeps me healthy instead of burnt out and eating badly because it's quick and easy? I don't like not being able to figure something out no matter how long I obsess over it, I don't like defeat, but I just can't figure out this equation, it does not compute.
I'm complaining, what a waste, someone died today, it wasn't me, someone faced what I'm scared to face cause they had no damned choice, and maybe someday I'll have no choice, so I hate wasting time, but I just can not seem to figure out how to make my circumstances fit into a box that works.
Someone died today. Hearts are broken today. And it's just another day like any other, people die every day, and they're gonna keep doing it. Every day.
Sunday, October 13, 2013
Jellyfish
I don't know what I will do next fall without my weekend football games which I've grown to love, irrationally. I used to sit quietly, tentatively, worried about injury and not thoroughly knowing the game. Fast forward four years and I spend the game jumping and clapping and screaming at the top of my lungs, I look forward to them and I don't look at my watch hoping they'll be over soon. I'm just fine never going to another baseball game, or basketball game, but I'm really gonna miss football, yet still have no regrets not allowing the tall one to play until High School.
It's an incredible thing to think back to that tiny boy who dreamed of teams and uniforms from the time he could walk. When he started soccer at four, he yelped all day about how this was going to be the best day of his life, and then spent the whole practice curled in my lap sobbing. He wanted so badly to go out there and play, but just couldn't do it, for whatever reason, for so many reasons. We went week after week, and occasionally, he'd go on the field for a minute or two, but then was back in the lap. What a difference a year makes, and he hit his stride in t-ball a year later, but took it so much more seriously than the other kids that if he didn't get a good hit, he'd pitch a fit behind the pine trees. Working on the sportsmanship, everyone has an achilles heel has been the project of our lives.
So that so many years later, to see this confident young man, strut onto the field wearing that uniform, the shoulder pads and cleats, the helmet, his little boy dream come to fruition and lead his team effortlessly, in complete control, entirely in the moment and in possession of himself, is an astounding thing to watch. He's got the moves, damn, that boy's got the moves and how many of us get to participate in our fantasies in the flesh, even if only for four high school years. He doesn't just play, he's the star and he pulls it off, time after time. In real life, he walks with the slouch of someone who got tall too quickly and has the inherent awkwardness that comes with self-consciousness and and slightly pidgeoned toes, but when he's on that field, or any other, he stands tall, he's graceful, he's just gorgeous to watch, gorgeous. He walks up and down the sidelines, whispering in ears, patting helmet heads, he's the conductor and there's nowhere else he'd rather be and I think of that little, little boy who dreamt of this moment night after night, in one fantasy after another and how many dreams come true? Throw on the image of him completing pass after pass to his childhood friend, a boy I adore and who knew football could make a mama cry. Who knew football, horrible, violent football, the antithesis of all my values could be so beautiful. I'm so nostalgic about this senior year, the end of so many things, the end of an era, but so proud, so damned proud and enjoying it so much, because this ending will merge with a grand new beginning. Turn the page and everyone starts a new chapter.
The little one is really enjoying the theater class I forced him into and he's becoming a performance art piece in progress. He likes to employ a russian accent and spout non-sequiturs when other kids talk to him at school, "sandvitch, sandvitch." What a crack-up, he cares not a whit if people think he's from mars, in fact, he takes it as a fine achievement and compliment. Beautiful. He's on a lego stop-motion movie making binge and I love when I can see his little wheels spinning as he runs upstairs to film and downstairs to edit. He just turned down an ice cream, because when he's on a tear, he's consumed. It's a beautiful thing to be consumed by a project. He's so much happier when he's a mission and it's been a while.
I completely forgot to share my recent experience with jellyfish. I've always been scared of them, didn't know that they don't all sting, but really just thought they were gross. When I went diving off of Jamestown the water was full of them, some as small as a nickel and some considerably larger. I had gloves on and my teacher told me they didn't sting, so I started scooping them up and I thought they'd be like goo dripping off of my hand, but not at all. They look all flimsy and shapeless in the water, but when you pick them up, they make a perfectly round disc in your hand and are rather solid. A hand-sized one is like a tennis ball you've flattened down to about 1/2" thick. Clear and with pink strands in the middle. It feels exactly like a sac of silicone, a silicone breast implant, I kid you not. It's a whole ocean full of silicone implants!
And now it's October, breast-cancer awareness month, the commercial scam of the century. My son's watching his beloved Green Bay Packers on T.V. and the players are all decked out in pink. Pink socks, towels, wristbands, accessories, the goal posts are wrapped in pink, but does any of that translate into money for research? For a cure? I would suggest that women are more aware of breast cancer than of heart disease and heart disease is more likely to kill them. This obsession with breast and breast health is so disturbing and I find it very anti-woman, as in whole woman. As in, no our breasts are not that much more important than the rest of our body parts. No one cares about our colon's because no one is enjoying our colons. I get it, breasts are lovely, I miss mine immensely, but this pink nonesense is out of control and so contrived, so meaningless, shouldn't we want a cure for all cancer? Breast cancer doesn't suck anymore than any other kind of cancer, it all sucks. This pink thing is commercial and it's making money for most everyone other than people dying of disease, which is not one singular disease at all, but comes in many flavors. Everyone gets to feel good except the people who actually have the disease, and certainly any less "popular" cancer. Pink might make survivors feel good, but I'm more concerned with the women who are not going to survive because so much money raised for the "cure" goes to parties and feel-good celebrations. KFC and any other processed food packaged in pink isn't any healthier than when it's not, and these products are a big part of the problem, so as Breast Cancer Action says, "think before you pink". And if you must, go fondle a jellyfish : }
The pink makes me uncomfortable, it encourages people to identify with their cancer. I don't want to be "a breast cancer survivor" decked out in pink ribbons, I just want to be alive. I want to celebrate being alive with everyone else who's had a close encounter with anything. I don't like this hierarchy of cancers, of diseases, and I don't even like breast cancer being viewed as a singular disease, it's too simplistic. As I've learned, breast cancer is quite complex, there are many different kinds of it, some are lethal, some are not, some need a lot of treatment, some not so much, some have more in common with other cancers than with other breast cancers. Let's just fight cancer. Let's stop having parties and glorifying it and making it pretty and fun, let's fund a cure. And let's stop making those struggling with other types of cancer or diseases feel like second class citizens.
It's an incredible thing to think back to that tiny boy who dreamed of teams and uniforms from the time he could walk. When he started soccer at four, he yelped all day about how this was going to be the best day of his life, and then spent the whole practice curled in my lap sobbing. He wanted so badly to go out there and play, but just couldn't do it, for whatever reason, for so many reasons. We went week after week, and occasionally, he'd go on the field for a minute or two, but then was back in the lap. What a difference a year makes, and he hit his stride in t-ball a year later, but took it so much more seriously than the other kids that if he didn't get a good hit, he'd pitch a fit behind the pine trees. Working on the sportsmanship, everyone has an achilles heel has been the project of our lives.
So that so many years later, to see this confident young man, strut onto the field wearing that uniform, the shoulder pads and cleats, the helmet, his little boy dream come to fruition and lead his team effortlessly, in complete control, entirely in the moment and in possession of himself, is an astounding thing to watch. He's got the moves, damn, that boy's got the moves and how many of us get to participate in our fantasies in the flesh, even if only for four high school years. He doesn't just play, he's the star and he pulls it off, time after time. In real life, he walks with the slouch of someone who got tall too quickly and has the inherent awkwardness that comes with self-consciousness and and slightly pidgeoned toes, but when he's on that field, or any other, he stands tall, he's graceful, he's just gorgeous to watch, gorgeous. He walks up and down the sidelines, whispering in ears, patting helmet heads, he's the conductor and there's nowhere else he'd rather be and I think of that little, little boy who dreamt of this moment night after night, in one fantasy after another and how many dreams come true? Throw on the image of him completing pass after pass to his childhood friend, a boy I adore and who knew football could make a mama cry. Who knew football, horrible, violent football, the antithesis of all my values could be so beautiful. I'm so nostalgic about this senior year, the end of so many things, the end of an era, but so proud, so damned proud and enjoying it so much, because this ending will merge with a grand new beginning. Turn the page and everyone starts a new chapter.
The little one is really enjoying the theater class I forced him into and he's becoming a performance art piece in progress. He likes to employ a russian accent and spout non-sequiturs when other kids talk to him at school, "sandvitch, sandvitch." What a crack-up, he cares not a whit if people think he's from mars, in fact, he takes it as a fine achievement and compliment. Beautiful. He's on a lego stop-motion movie making binge and I love when I can see his little wheels spinning as he runs upstairs to film and downstairs to edit. He just turned down an ice cream, because when he's on a tear, he's consumed. It's a beautiful thing to be consumed by a project. He's so much happier when he's a mission and it's been a while.
I completely forgot to share my recent experience with jellyfish. I've always been scared of them, didn't know that they don't all sting, but really just thought they were gross. When I went diving off of Jamestown the water was full of them, some as small as a nickel and some considerably larger. I had gloves on and my teacher told me they didn't sting, so I started scooping them up and I thought they'd be like goo dripping off of my hand, but not at all. They look all flimsy and shapeless in the water, but when you pick them up, they make a perfectly round disc in your hand and are rather solid. A hand-sized one is like a tennis ball you've flattened down to about 1/2" thick. Clear and with pink strands in the middle. It feels exactly like a sac of silicone, a silicone breast implant, I kid you not. It's a whole ocean full of silicone implants!
And now it's October, breast-cancer awareness month, the commercial scam of the century. My son's watching his beloved Green Bay Packers on T.V. and the players are all decked out in pink. Pink socks, towels, wristbands, accessories, the goal posts are wrapped in pink, but does any of that translate into money for research? For a cure? I would suggest that women are more aware of breast cancer than of heart disease and heart disease is more likely to kill them. This obsession with breast and breast health is so disturbing and I find it very anti-woman, as in whole woman. As in, no our breasts are not that much more important than the rest of our body parts. No one cares about our colon's because no one is enjoying our colons. I get it, breasts are lovely, I miss mine immensely, but this pink nonesense is out of control and so contrived, so meaningless, shouldn't we want a cure for all cancer? Breast cancer doesn't suck anymore than any other kind of cancer, it all sucks. This pink thing is commercial and it's making money for most everyone other than people dying of disease, which is not one singular disease at all, but comes in many flavors. Everyone gets to feel good except the people who actually have the disease, and certainly any less "popular" cancer. Pink might make survivors feel good, but I'm more concerned with the women who are not going to survive because so much money raised for the "cure" goes to parties and feel-good celebrations. KFC and any other processed food packaged in pink isn't any healthier than when it's not, and these products are a big part of the problem, so as Breast Cancer Action says, "think before you pink". And if you must, go fondle a jellyfish : }
The pink makes me uncomfortable, it encourages people to identify with their cancer. I don't want to be "a breast cancer survivor" decked out in pink ribbons, I just want to be alive. I want to celebrate being alive with everyone else who's had a close encounter with anything. I don't like this hierarchy of cancers, of diseases, and I don't even like breast cancer being viewed as a singular disease, it's too simplistic. As I've learned, breast cancer is quite complex, there are many different kinds of it, some are lethal, some are not, some need a lot of treatment, some not so much, some have more in common with other cancers than with other breast cancers. Let's just fight cancer. Let's stop having parties and glorifying it and making it pretty and fun, let's fund a cure. And let's stop making those struggling with other types of cancer or diseases feel like second class citizens.
Thursday, October 3, 2013
How do you spell sofa?
I had an appointment with an ophthalmologist today, chemo can cause trouble with your eyes, and while there is no history of cancer in my family, there is history of certain eyeball conditions. I have undergone countless medical procedures, and am very good at remaining calm and detached, but eyeballs and the examination thereof, give me the deluxe hee-bee-gee-bees {x10}. I can't watch anyone put in contact lenses, my eyes water if someone else has red eyes and the doctor's plastic eyeball model made me queasy. But nothing was scarier than the waiting room before my appointment.
The waiting room was crowded with a disproportionate number of morbidly obese, I don't mean overweight, I mean seriously, obese, very unhealthy individuals. After watching Michelle Bachman on the news ranting about Obamacare killing innocent babies and their little old nana's, I've become so disgusted with the state of things that I really can't stand it. I'm trying to be the apathetic individual that is at the root of so many problems, but sometimes, it's a matter of self-preservation, It's too insane, too depressing, I can't believe how low our national discourse has gone, and I thought I could dwell in my little blue state bubble for a bit. A woman across the room asked loudly "how do you spell sofa?", she repeated it a few times and her friend looked at her quizzically. I thought maybe she was doing a crossword puzzle and an answer was "sofa",admittedly, pretty shocked she needed help spelling it. Then she said to her friend "you know, sofa, the stuff they put in antibiotics, I'm allergic to," her friend replied "oh suffa, that's S U F A." Oh sulphur, you crazy chemical you, which I've learned since, has two acceptable spellings, Sulphur and Sulfur, both of which alas, have an "r" at the end. If you don't want to say the R, that's fine by me, but you just can't deny it's existence.
Right then, the ever-present wall mounted t.v. cut to news, of course of the government shutdown. The woman next to me hollered to the whole room, our small, intimate waiting room, that if we had to have Obamacare, the Congress should have to have it too. Maybe I should have kept quiet, but I aired on the side of polite political discourse, national conversation, and I explained, after someone else agreed with her, that the Affordable Care Act wasn't something you had to have, it was something that would be there for those who chose to utilize it. Congresspeople have employer arranged health insurance, so they don't need the assistance of the ACA, but that many people don't have employer coverage. I mentioned the self-employed, people who work for small businesses, people who work part-time, that the ACA allowed them access to an array of different plans, subsidized according to income, from which they could not be excluded for preexisting conditions, women would be charged the same as men, folks couldn't be dropped if they got sick, all good things that are not available to millions of people currently. And yes, people would be required to purchase at least minimal coverage, just as the government makes us buy auto insurance in case we damage someone's car or hurt someone, minimal coverage would mean that the rates of the paying, wouldn't skyrocket to pay for the care of the uninsured.
The woman insisted to me that despite having had cancer and diabetes and myriad other health issues she'd never been denied insurance, never, ever, and her rates were what she considered affordable and that Obamacare had already ruined her insurance. She was now being denied a lifesaving medication she needs every day because of Obamacare. I mentioned that the law only went into effect yesterday and didn't affect anyones current coverage, but that didn't convince her. Her insurance was great and she didn't need the government interfering with, you know it, you know it's coming, her Medicare.
And it went downhill from there.
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Certified!
Phew, I'm certified. Certifiably certified scuba diver and I get an official card in the mail and everything, so that if I'm hit by a car and someone goes through my wallet at the hospital, they can be duly impressed. Warmest day in weeks, I've been watching the weather forecast go up 1º per day for the last week, the gods were on my side, but Poseidon was a smidge testy.
Slightly rough day today, beginner scuba divers are not exactly graceful, not nearly at all. Today, we climbed down a rocky slope wearing our 6,052 lbs. of gear to get to the water, and if that wasn't harrowing enough, you have to walk into the water on wet, slippery rocks. My relief at getting to the water alive evaporated instantly as my foot touched the first slippery stone and it got pretty ugly from there, although, no doubt had there been a hidden camera, I'd be providing hilarity to someone right now. I got in up to about my knees and lost my balance and was tilting back and forth on a tightrope trying not to land in the net, I thought I had it, I had it... I never really had it and wound up on my back in shallow water on top of my tank. A turtle stuck on it's back fruitlessly waving it's stubby little arms and legs back and forth. Had I been alone, I would have been like that for the rest of my considerably shorter life, but my teacher, in considerably better shape than I, with much effort, helped me up onto me knees and for that moment, I really wasn't sure if I'd be able to get to my feet. Damn, this is exercise and I really need to get back to the Y.
When we finally got to deeper water, he swam down to plant our diver's flag and I laid on my back, warm sun on my face, catching my breath, calming down and it was a few minutes of bliss, pure perfect heaven. We had a great dive, staying down for about 35 minutes, but then we had to come up and do some test skills. I did everything fine, but I was kind of a mess. My mask was loose the first dive, so I broke the first rule and took it off to tighten it. I overt-tightened it and couldn't get it loosened up without help and diver girls want to be independent. Taking it off, caused it to fog up the rest of the time, so I descended either too fast or too slow because I couldn't see a thing, and we're talking pretty low visibility to begin with. I did far too much thrashing about, exhausting myself and swallowing mouthfuls of skanky salt water.
Exhausted after all that struggling in the water I was a little scared for the first time about not getting back to shore and well, I didn't really want to embarrass myself further. I knew I was in really safe hands, but I really, really didn't want to need more help. I already can't get my tank and vest on by myself, I hated needing help with something as dumb as my mask. The currents get stronger as the day goes on, so swimming back is definitely harder than swimming out and the same rocks are involved both ways. We saw a big flounder. next time I pretend to be camouflaged, I'm going to be a flounder.
My instructor is a peach. He's a really good teacher and has made me feel so comfortable. Usually the classes are twice a week for four weeks, but with my parenting responsibilities, there's no way I could get out two nights a week once or twice, let alone four times, so this guy, C.P, has enabled me to do something that has become so important to me on so many levels that I can't quantify my gratitude. He has two kids, High School Senior and one in college and he talks about his wife with the most natural and lovely sense of commitment and partnership, respect and affection. I can't think of anything better in the world than to feel that way about someone, or to have someone not only feel that way about me, but to be able to express it with ease to a near stranger. Of course with my constant issue with sharing too much and chattering too much, I guess if I spend a whole car ride with someone, they're unlikely to remain a stranger. I've always noticed people talking about their partners this way, and was simultaneously aware of the lack of it in my relationship. It was an intangible longing at first, just another deficit that made me sad, but I identified it some years ago and so always notice when people talk of their loved ones with such genuine affection and bonds either with or without them present, it's powerful either way. I know the people doing it take it for granted, but those of us who are never spoken of that way, notice it and personally, I always find it very moving.
Anyway, I really like this guy, and duh, not that way {get out of the gutter}, just did the wife thing... just a great guy and a great teacher and I hope we'll get to dive together again, which really, I'm sure we will. His current class is gonna do their open water dives at the end of the month and I'm going to tag along for one of the days. Now that I'm done with all the testing, I can just dive, none of this up and down, up and down nonsense, the pressure's off {o.k., I never felt any pressure} but the getting from point A to point B issue remains -- it's nice to just fall out of a boat like in Mexico. Grateful for this man's patience and knowledge and cheerleading. We met an older man in the parking lot who'd just emerged from the water and his wife was waiting there with her cup of coffee, they were adorable! She offered us food and it turns out that her husband is a post-cancer scuba diver. He was given two years to live and here he is 15 years later and living the life. I'm going to live the life.
I want my own wetsuit, I want my own wetsuit bad, my only impediment to living the life is I'm broker than I've ever been in my life. I want a black wetsuit with pink accessories. Pink weight belt, already have the pink flippers, and I'm getting a dive knife someday. They strap around your lower leg. I'll never use it, I'm scared of knives and for good reason, I know damned well I'd cut my own leg open with it, but I want a dive knife so I can feel like a bad ass scuba diver. You know, bond girl fantasy, and I'm at that stage in life where my fantasy life is pretty important. I have a great jellyfish story, but I'm too tired and I'm going to have to wrench myself out of this porch chair on this beautiful, gorgeous, fabulous day and go take a shower, cause not only am I exhausted, I stink.
Slightly rough day today, beginner scuba divers are not exactly graceful, not nearly at all. Today, we climbed down a rocky slope wearing our 6,052 lbs. of gear to get to the water, and if that wasn't harrowing enough, you have to walk into the water on wet, slippery rocks. My relief at getting to the water alive evaporated instantly as my foot touched the first slippery stone and it got pretty ugly from there, although, no doubt had there been a hidden camera, I'd be providing hilarity to someone right now. I got in up to about my knees and lost my balance and was tilting back and forth on a tightrope trying not to land in the net, I thought I had it, I had it... I never really had it and wound up on my back in shallow water on top of my tank. A turtle stuck on it's back fruitlessly waving it's stubby little arms and legs back and forth. Had I been alone, I would have been like that for the rest of my considerably shorter life, but my teacher, in considerably better shape than I, with much effort, helped me up onto me knees and for that moment, I really wasn't sure if I'd be able to get to my feet. Damn, this is exercise and I really need to get back to the Y.
When we finally got to deeper water, he swam down to plant our diver's flag and I laid on my back, warm sun on my face, catching my breath, calming down and it was a few minutes of bliss, pure perfect heaven. We had a great dive, staying down for about 35 minutes, but then we had to come up and do some test skills. I did everything fine, but I was kind of a mess. My mask was loose the first dive, so I broke the first rule and took it off to tighten it. I overt-tightened it and couldn't get it loosened up without help and diver girls want to be independent. Taking it off, caused it to fog up the rest of the time, so I descended either too fast or too slow because I couldn't see a thing, and we're talking pretty low visibility to begin with. I did far too much thrashing about, exhausting myself and swallowing mouthfuls of skanky salt water.
Exhausted after all that struggling in the water I was a little scared for the first time about not getting back to shore and well, I didn't really want to embarrass myself further. I knew I was in really safe hands, but I really, really didn't want to need more help. I already can't get my tank and vest on by myself, I hated needing help with something as dumb as my mask. The currents get stronger as the day goes on, so swimming back is definitely harder than swimming out and the same rocks are involved both ways. We saw a big flounder. next time I pretend to be camouflaged, I'm going to be a flounder.
My instructor is a peach. He's a really good teacher and has made me feel so comfortable. Usually the classes are twice a week for four weeks, but with my parenting responsibilities, there's no way I could get out two nights a week once or twice, let alone four times, so this guy, C.P, has enabled me to do something that has become so important to me on so many levels that I can't quantify my gratitude. He has two kids, High School Senior and one in college and he talks about his wife with the most natural and lovely sense of commitment and partnership, respect and affection. I can't think of anything better in the world than to feel that way about someone, or to have someone not only feel that way about me, but to be able to express it with ease to a near stranger. Of course with my constant issue with sharing too much and chattering too much, I guess if I spend a whole car ride with someone, they're unlikely to remain a stranger. I've always noticed people talking about their partners this way, and was simultaneously aware of the lack of it in my relationship. It was an intangible longing at first, just another deficit that made me sad, but I identified it some years ago and so always notice when people talk of their loved ones with such genuine affection and bonds either with or without them present, it's powerful either way. I know the people doing it take it for granted, but those of us who are never spoken of that way, notice it and personally, I always find it very moving.
Anyway, I really like this guy, and duh, not that way {get out of the gutter}, just did the wife thing... just a great guy and a great teacher and I hope we'll get to dive together again, which really, I'm sure we will. His current class is gonna do their open water dives at the end of the month and I'm going to tag along for one of the days. Now that I'm done with all the testing, I can just dive, none of this up and down, up and down nonsense, the pressure's off {o.k., I never felt any pressure} but the getting from point A to point B issue remains -- it's nice to just fall out of a boat like in Mexico. Grateful for this man's patience and knowledge and cheerleading. We met an older man in the parking lot who'd just emerged from the water and his wife was waiting there with her cup of coffee, they were adorable! She offered us food and it turns out that her husband is a post-cancer scuba diver. He was given two years to live and here he is 15 years later and living the life. I'm going to live the life.
I want my own wetsuit, I want my own wetsuit bad, my only impediment to living the life is I'm broker than I've ever been in my life. I want a black wetsuit with pink accessories. Pink weight belt, already have the pink flippers, and I'm getting a dive knife someday. They strap around your lower leg. I'll never use it, I'm scared of knives and for good reason, I know damned well I'd cut my own leg open with it, but I want a dive knife so I can feel like a bad ass scuba diver. You know, bond girl fantasy, and I'm at that stage in life where my fantasy life is pretty important. I have a great jellyfish story, but I'm too tired and I'm going to have to wrench myself out of this porch chair on this beautiful, gorgeous, fabulous day and go take a shower, cause not only am I exhausted, I stink.
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