Just Joan

Waiting for the Boyfriend to Call

2011-11-04T02:36:00.000-07:00

Do you remember when you were single? Go back into the memory files of your brain. Think back to the time before you had a husband, a significant other, or even the steady boyfriend. Think back before your husband would call just to say he was on his way home and did he need to pick up your child from soccer practice. Go way back in time, before you were comfortable with your special someone. The person you could call twenty times as work to tell them about the crazy day you’re having and why won’t the principal call them instead of you when their daughter has taken a political stand and dyed their hair blue. (And then calling them back and asking – why is blue so political) Think back to the first meeting. Wade through the foggy memories of being single. Remember meeting that certain someone, the person you thought you might want to give your heart to or at least have a cup of coffee at Starbucks with. You smile, they smile, you chat, they say something witty, your eyes twinkle with laughter, they nod their head with confidence. The age old dance of getting to know each other is played out in a matter of minutes. Numbers are exchanged and you go home to wait for this new person, this new potential boyfriend to call.

And then there’s the wait. The first day goes by. And you were sure they were going to call you sometime between 7 and 9 pm that first night. You stuff file folders into your briefcase, telling your boss some made up story why you would work better at home tonight than staying late at the office. You watch “Friends” (remember this is awhile ago – and “Friends” wasn’t a re-run yet) while trying hard not to look at the clock or the phone. The second day comes and goes, and you begin to wonder if maybe you should call them. The third day, you finally go to the laundry mat to do some wash otherwise you’ll be wearing your underwear for three days in a row. You rush home, hoping the red button on your message machine is blinking. Nothing. Day four and five, you begin to practice your “oh, I thought I’d ask whether or not your heard about blab blab” lines over and over, trying to be cool, upbeat, confident and not a stalker. You can do this, you can make that first call – only to chicken out and eat the last bit of Hagen Das Cookie Dough Ice Cream. Day six comes, no phone call from them – but yes your mother calls and wants to know if you could have breakfast tomorrow morning with her and Daddy as they’ll be in town (which everyone knows is the covert language of I’m going to check up on you and try to get you to move back home). Day 7 rolls around, and they are beginning to be a distant memory to you. You’ve got plans for next weekend with the girls involving dancing, drinking and dishing up the gossip. The phone rings……life changes courses and you move forward.

So now if you’re asking yourself what does all of this have to do with the price of tea in China? I’ll tell you. I got to play go see the doctor this week. Remember, I’ve got several new tumors to deal with and got to play pin the tail on the doctor this week. My oncologist tells me I need to see my radiologist, which doesn’t bother me because he’s drop dead gorgeous and I never listen to what he says cause all I can think about is……oh my lord, why couldn’t I be about 10 years younger and 50 lbs lighter. My radiologist refers me to a new radiologist who specializes in bone cancer. (I don’t really like her as she comes in and starts with in a sing song voice – you know you are stage four and you’re going to keep having tumors until….that’s when she realizes she should have had a little bit better bedside manner as the hostility I fell is coming off me in waves). She’s worried about my sternum and whether it can handle another bout of radiation. So Ms. Bone Cancer Radiologist refers me to the Big Machine Radiologist. Now…..just so you know…..this isn’t happening all in one day. I’m schlepping over to Seattle via the ferry each time I see a new doctor. $30 a trip, and over a $100 dollars gone is days, I finally get to meet with the Big Machine Radiologist. I like her immediately. She doesn’t play games and lays the facts out clearly (and analytically – remember I was an accountant in a previous life) so that I can understand them. My sternum can’t take the radiation – but Swedish has a new machine that will direct “a thousand points of light” at my tumors. It’s shaped like a huge arm that moves around the patient. She explains that instead of radiating my whole sternum (which is very bad as what’s going to protect my heart let alone hold up what’s left of my boobs) the machine targets just the tumor. The machine was developed down in California at Stanford and she herself got to use it last year when she was diagnosed with breast cancer that had leached over into her sternum. Lucky me……instead of 2 to 10 minute blasts of radiation to the general area over 20 days, I get to have 60 minutes of intense radiation on just my tumors over 5 days. Woo-hoo, aren’t I lucky.

I know, I know…..what does this have to do with the boyfriend call. I’m getting to it. Ms Big Machine Doctor explains the procedure. I will have surgery to implant 3 pieces of gold into my sternum (ouch). Five days from the surgery, I’ll have another CT Scan to see how big the tumor is and they will use that coupled with my earlier scan to calculate the growth of the tumor. Seven days after the surgery, I begin my 5 days of radiation therapy. The Big Machine uses the gold implants to target the tumors. And here’s where the boyfriend call comes in…… Ms. Big Machine Radiologist tells me, you get to go home and wait until the hospital can arrange a surgical room and get procedure approval from my insurance. The hospital will call you very soon I’m sure. Hmmm, what’s that……what happens if they don’t call? I’m sure they will, however if you don’t hear from a week from today…..call me.

And so I sit…..waiting for the boyfriend to call. The first day, I didn’t go anywhere in fear that I’d miss the call. I’m up to day 4 and now have the irrational fear that my insurance won’t approve the new fangled treatment. Is it “Death Panels” that are holding me up. Each day that goes by, my tumors get larger and larger. And I wait for the phone call. The call that will start the ball moving and hopefully will keep me alive for a little longer.

The Wait is Over

2011-10-27T22:24:00.001-07:00

Yep, the wait is over – my cancer has returned. Cancer, the Sequel. Sorry, you’ll have to excuse me I don’t really have my game face in place yet. It’s only now after a week and half that it’s beginning to hit me. It’s back. It looks like you have more tumors, Joan. Where,there, there, yes there….why, who knows, I don’t know…..third base (my daughter and I say that to each other whenever someone says I don’t know – it’s an Abbott and Costello routine)

For the past week I’ve been asking myself, how do I feel? The answer so far is……I feel nothing. No tears have leaked from my eyes, no panic fear has clutched my chest and interrupted my breath, arms have been not yet been flung into pillows with anger. I just move, go forward. Get out of bed, get dressed, tie my shoes, hustle the girls off to school, do dishes, knit one, purl two. Feed the dogs, the cats, the fish, the goats. Wear socks because it feels cold. Pull the covers over my head because I don’t want to think of what tomorrow will be.

I’m seriously good at rationalizations, though. Well, I’d better cancel my hair appointment – since I might lose my hair again. And damn, wouldn’t you know I finally have a cut and color that I’m happy with. It will be okay…….we knew this was going to happen. I have stage IV cancer, sooner or later it’s going to kill me. Hey, don’t worry – it’s not like this is going to be the “kill shot”. You know, I really did want to take some of this extra weight off before Christmas. Looks like I’ll have no problem loosing it.

The fact is I do know what to expect. I wish I really could stay in bed and make tomorrow never happen, but I can’t. No change in chemo, just get to go through the whole regiment of radiation therapy again. Oh joy. I get to look forward to my skin turning lobster red and ooze with whitish pus, massive fatigue that will wear my body, my mind and my heart down and trample all over it, green bile from my mouth while diarrhea cramps the rest of me over in half. Loneliness will plague me from the isolation of being with friends and family.

A friend recently said, “it looks like you’re going to do anger this time, Joan”. I’m not sure if she’s right or wrong……I just wish I’d feel something.

But hey……it will be okay (keep your fingers crossed) I should be fine soon (in 6 months if I’m lucky) We’ll manage (I seriously doubt) I don’t need any help (Hahahahahaha……I guess it’s time to re-activate TeamJoan)

Gardening

2011-08-20T23:43:00.001-07:00

Summer is finally here on Bainbridge Island. It’s hot – around 80 degrees, clear blue skies, frogs croaking in the Alder tree infested woods, chipmunks chatting to each other from tree to tree. Summer is iced sweet tea, melting popsicles, juicy seed spitting watermelon triangles. Sun hats, sun screen, sun dresses, sun kisses in the form of freckles on your face. Summer is also a time for gardening.

For the past three years, I haven’t really been able to garden. The pain in my chest from having my muscles, underarm, and breast ripped from my chest has made it almost impossible for me to raise my hoe. Tumors in my ribs, in my hips and sternum make it extremely hard for me to listen to loud rock music through earplugs as I walked back and forth mowing the dandelions and grass down on our lawn. Poor Rainer has had to do everything – mowing, weeding, hoeing, planting, digging. He’s been so overwhelmed – we moved from the Bay Area – where if you were lucky, you had a postage stamp for a garden. To see tall trees you had to either head north to the redwoods to eww and ahhh or find the nearest park and be happy with the occasional non deciduous tree or two. However thanks to wonderful friends, my church ladies have given me not only someone who helps to keep my house in order but someone to take the stress of the yard off Rainer’s shoulders. While my wonder woman, Cecile, gives me laughter and a sparkling house, her friend Ruben mows the back forty and whacks down the tall weeds. And because my dear friends have given me a gift I can never repay, they have also given me back my beautiful garden as Rainer is still weeding, hoeing, digging and planting - but more for pleasure than for the drudgery of always being behind on the massive weeds that were overtaking our house and septic system because the chief weed officer was out of commission.

I not only used to be a Vice President of Finance but I used to also be the Chief-Weed Officer of our little family company. I used to love to weed. I had very cool tools, a well sharpened red hoe to turn the soil and pave the way for seeding, the four finger claw that I used to hack not only the slugs but could break up the root systems of the dreaded Himalayan blackberries, a trowel that with one swoop dig down and get the deep roots of the pretentious dandelion. Weeding was my source of relief from the ins and outs of working as an executive and playing the party politics games that one is forced to play when being the chief bread winner of the family. Each time I raised my hoe, dug with my trowel, or raked through the soil with my trusty claw enabled me to put away the frustrations of work and helped me to still keep my chin up even in the chaos of working. I enjoyed seeing the fruits of my labors – the year we grew corn – it was deeeelicious as my Nana would say, or when we built teepees and grew tomatoes, planting seven different colors of red nasturtiums and collecting their seeds in the fall for yet another year’s crop of little flowers. But that pesky cancer has prevented me from doing what I love, however this year……I’ve been able to do very small tasks and those small tasks and Rainer’s back breaking hard work has given me my garden back.

This year I decided that if I couldn’t garden at least I could become the Director of Planting. Poor Rainer, my bullheadedness is probably driving him crazy but he loves me unconditionally and has given me the beautiful, deep, rich colors of our garden back. Since he was no longer playing catch up, he’s been able bring our garden slowly back to life. It’s not as huge as it used to be…..and there are more perennials and self seeding plants as we used to have. But he has given me little patches thriving greenery and smiling faces of flowers that I can see from my window when I sit in my rocking chair trying to take my mind off the pain in my bones. And I have even taken of the role of weeding clerk. I no longer can swing my hoe or claw, but I can sit crossed legged and with a little hand held device I can turn the earth and get rid of the pesky weeds and flower eating slugs. I can only work on a small patch, usually no bigger than a square foot or so (for which I still pay the piper in the pain department – and usually take the next week to recover from). And now when Rainer tackles a huge project of a new bed or a planting a hydrangea or two, I sit in my chair outside and play at being the Director of Planting.

I wish all my friends both near and far would come over to our little slice heaven and sit with me outside on a hot summer day, drinking lemonade, watching the hummingbirds sipping nectar from my many shades of red flowers. I thank my church ladies for giving me back the ability to garden even if I never actually lift a hoe.

Revelations

2011-08-05T01:47:00.000-07:00

No, this isn’t about God or anything like that. It’s more about memories. The other day it was blistering hot, about 75 degrees. (Now many of you who are sweltering in 100+ weather may think that 75 degrees is a welcome respite – but here up in the Pacific Northwest – a sunny day over the temperature of 60 degrees is hot……75 degrees and we’re passing out on the sidewalks). I had made a deal with my girls – two chores – and then a trip to Battle Point Park and its wonderful playground.

It took awhile for my girls to do their chores. Not because the chores were herculean tasks, but because my girls are typical children. Mom, do I have to. Why does Emma always get the easy job? Hannah, if you want to scrub toilets you are more than welcomed to. Mom, I finished my chore – can we go now. Did you do X, did you do Y……I did X; I’ll do Y when we get back. No, you’ll do it before. Okay…..two hours later. Can we go now, did you do Y. Not yet. Hmmmm, maybe you should do it now. Ten minutes later, a girl comes rushing upstairs…..Mom, Mom, Mom, where are you. Oh there you are – naturally, I’m on the toilet – God forbid I am able to use the bathroom without an interruption. I’m done. Can we go now? As soon as I am finished here, we can go. Yippee!!! My eight year old exclaims. And then those faithful words come out of her mouth, hurry up Mom – it’s time to go.

We piled into our car, windows rolled all the way down, rooftop open, tunes on the radio. Their brother opted to stay home – quiet time for him. I brought bottles of water, knowing that sooner or later my girls would be begging for drinks. I got lost while driving over to the park; I turned when I should have gone straight. The girls were in the back seat chanting their mantra, are we there yet. Oh well, my zig zag was an adventure – and I must say those mansions on the southwest of the island are pretty spectacular.

Finally we made it to the park, the girls practically jumping out of the car before I had even parked it. My girls were off as I scrambled to get my cane, the bottled water, my knitting (hey, I get pretty bored while they’re off frolicking on the monkey bars), and my hat. I found a place in the shade and began knitting while they we off at a hare’s pace up the play structure to cross the rope bridge.

I knitted and watched them. The sun was beating down. I had ceased to exist for them as my girls were in playground nirvana. Swings, rope bridges, hot steaming metal slides, and bars to practice being Tarzan as they swung from bar to bar.

My mind was wandering from the playground and off to the left I started watching teenagers on the tennis courts. Knit one row. I noticed two teenage boys were getting lessons from a tennis pro. Purl one row. It was obvious who the pro was and who wasn’t. Knit one row. The pro was slamming balls at the boys like some gangster shooting his Tommy gun. Purl one row, pull out more yarn. As I watched them, my mind drifted back to my early twenties. Knit one row. I used to play tennis. I was terrible at the game in high school. I was rather gangly and my legs were about as coordinated as a new born fowl trying to take its first steps. However, in my early twenties – when I was just a mere accounting clerk – I developed poise. I remembered how I used to play a mean game of tennis with a fellow accounting clerk on my lunch hour. I had a wicked serve and a seriously mean backhand. Purl one row. As the instructor lobbed the ball up for a serve, I thought back to my own serve, throwing the ball up and crushing it down with my right arm. Knit one row. Immediately I was ready for the return service from my friend. Purl one row. My mind was drifting, I was the one playing tennis, I was the one running around the court ready to slam the ball back to my opponent. I was the one sweating in the heat, laughing with my friend, running, jumping, making silly lobs, Knit one row.... Mom, I’m thirsty.

I was back in the real world, pulling cool water bottles from my purse, being the mom and my children were calling out – look at me mom, look what I can do. I realized I will never be able to lob that ball up in the air. The pain in my chest, the lack of muscles that were taken out during the mastectomy, the living with stage IV cancer will never allow me to run and play. And so, I looked away from the tennis courts and smiled at my children as they bounded from slides to swings to hanging upside down like monkeys on that playground bars.

ticking

2011-04-06T00:33:00.000-07:00

I was chatting with some good friends the other day. We were discussing life, the usual way that friends discuss life. How was your spring holiday? The weather was warm in California. Did you hear that blab; blab was playing at the Pavilion. Gosh, I’m hungry…..here, have a bite of my scone. Do you think the skies will ever change from gray to blue again? When a friend turned to me as said that proverbial phrase I hear so often……. How are you doing, Joan…..really.

Normally, I make some flip remark, I’m medium, oh I had a hard night last night but I’m okay today. Or I just turn the edges of my lips up in a soft smile and say…..I’m hanging in there. But, I’d had caffeine and just hanging in there wasn’t working for me on that particular day. I wanted laughs, so I told them about my recent tests……and my new prognosis. (I’m sure you’re all waiting with bated breathes). So I guess I’ll not only update my friends, but the world out there who might read this.

In 2008, I was given 18 months to live. In 2010, I was given 18 months to live. Now nearly three years later and numerous claustrophobic PET/CT Scans, MRI’s with blue barium, sharp, pokey, needle drawn blood tests, tight mask head exams, etc. I now have been given 24 months to live. Now you have to admit, my prognosis is hilarious. If I’m lucky, I’ll live until I’m 90 and then still be given another 12 months to live.

The thing is that I am ticking down. I use a cane now to walk. I find that by the afternoon if I didn’t have my tiny white pills of Percocet with ibuprofen on the side, I would curl up into the fetal position on my bed because my ribcage hurts from the bone cancer. Although I loathe doing housecleaning and used to have the ability to write a check with the best of them for a housekeeper, I now would kill to be able to get down on my knees and scrub my wooden floors as the grim keeps building up on them day after day. I am slow and no longer at the top of my game.

But we’re all just ticking down……some of us just at a little faster pace.

Sadness for an inspiration

2010-12-07T01:44:00.000-08:00

I was very sad to hear that Elizabeth Edwards is nearing the end of her journey. She has been an inspiration to me, and helped me to keep going. I know, I know……I can hear you thinking to yourself. Why her, why not some other famous person with cancer. It’s because Mrs. Edwards was diagnosed with the exact type of cancer I have, she’s just four years ahead of me.

In the past I used to think…..OMG, I’m dying of cancer. My heart would pound, my brain would race, the anxiety I felt would stop me dead in my tracks. However Mrs. Edwards would just go on, her mantra became my mantra. Instead of dying of cancer, I would say…..OMG, I’m living with cancer. Not much changed, my brain still races, the anxiety still at times stops me, but my heart stopped beating so loud and I could turn around to notice my children’s smiles, the sun shining on my face, the music of laughter with my friends and the joy of seeing another season pass.

My heart goes out to Mrs. Edwards’s family and I think of her young children. Is this what my children will experience in the future? And when will the cancer cells in my body say that my journey is at an end?

Why?

2010-11-03T19:20:00.000-07:00

Emma is in her room, playing with her Webkinz animals. Hannah’s downstairs doing the dishes, singing songs at the top of her lungs. Rainer’s playing sad music in the room below me. And I sit here softly crying, wondering why.

Why did I get cancer, why did it spread to my bones, why do I hurt so badly? Why can’t I vacuum the floor anymore, why can’t I get out of the bathtub without help? Why do we have to have money? Why does my heater break down every two years? Why must it get cold in November? Why does the refrigerator no more automatically defrost? Why must I use a cane? Why is the water guy going to turn off our water in 10 days? Why does money have to be important? Why can’t people just get along? Why am I so selfish? Why are my toes and finger numb? Why can I no longer work? Why does God no longer answer my prayers? Why must I sit listless in this chair? Why am I getting older in my children’s eyes? Why does is rain? Why can’t I fly to Tahiti and surprise my best friend? Why are my bones crumbling? Why is it so gray? Why do the tears roll down my cheeks spotting my sweater?

The more I look for answers the more questions there seem to be. And I keep moving, trying to dodge the fates that are continued to throw at me.

I can smell the lasagna wafting its flavor up the staircase to where I sit. I hear dogs running up and down the stairs. I feel so old. I am so tired. But they call up to me, Mom dinner’s ready. I answer back; I’ll be down in a sec. I am going to go wash up my face and pretend some more.

Why is this life so hard?

The other day

2010-07-07T22:04:00.000-07:00

I started writing this in the fall. I finished it today. Please let me know what you think of it.

It’s fall. The days are beginning to turn gray. The gray facade on the Island comes in with the tide. It sneaks out at the water’s edge, circumventing the sleepy sailboats tucked away for winter. It climbs out of the water, slowly spreading its blush to fading fallen rose bushes only to tag the evergreen trees with its color. The gray stretches up its fingers, running up the bare branches of alders and maples, twisting upwards to touch the sky. The rain comes down; sometimes a foggy mist, at other times straight lines connecting the ground to the sky. Right now, I love the rain. However ask me in a few months how I feel about the rain. My feelings change, just as seasons change. Now though, I sit in my rocking chair and stare out at the soothing gray and think.

I think about this summer and how every once in a while I got to be Joan’s Taxi Service. You know what’s that’s like – Dad’s, Mom’s, Grandmother’s, or the backyard possum who carries her babies around on her back, we all get the joys of schlepping our monsters around. Our children sit in the back seat of our cars – aka their taxi, laughing loudly with friends, fighting to see who gets the window, toting cellos, bouncing soccer balls against the seat or passing (or not passing) electronic beeping games back and forth.

My girls had had a sleep over, two sides established – the 8 year olds, who think they’re 17, listen to confounded loud rock music (I’m sure that the rock music in my day at least carried a tune and had poignant lyrics – you remember, Bruce Springsteen, Tom Petty, Elvis Costello, Neil Young, DIVO). The 8 yr old, pubescent girls bouncing around from one game to the other, their mouths clucking faster than the Taylor Swift songs they were listening to. The second side, the younger girls, 6 year olds, who like being the babies, were into the make believe games that go on forever. Each girl had at least six snugglies (aka webkinz, small stuffed animals that are tied to an online computer game – now whoever came up with that idea must have made a fortune).

Joan’s Taxi Service had snuck the older kids out of the house while the younger children were upstairs in their imaginary castle lair with Dad. The 6 yr olds had a DVD on the TV, only to ignore it as they play a wild medieval game involving every stuffed animal owned. The bits of the game I think about, involved a shiny knight who was there to defend the lions from the swimming penguins. Oh, the innocent minds of 6 year olds. The older kids had hopped into the Joan’s Taxi Service and made a clean get away. We were on our way to T & C, the local market, to get milk for the later midnight reading of Harry Potter by their Dad. But Joan’s Taxi Service had decided to make a side trip down a darken alley to Mora’s. (For those who don’t know about Mora’s – you don’t know what you are missing – Mora’s – bright Neon in a back alley, just off the main artery of Winslow. In Summer, it’s “the” place to go for a creamy taste of heaven – Mora’s the must taste place for ice cream).

Hannah tells her best friend, Olivia, about her recent summer adventure as the two taste test the fabulous ice cream. Armed with double decked, mint dark chocolate, waffle ice cream cones, Hannah goes on to tell her friend about the “Relay for Life” she just participated in. She talks about how magical it was and how she got to walk backwards and forwards on the High School track. She talks about twinkling lights and boast about how many laps she walked for her mom.

I, my children, my husband, my mom, and some of my incredible friends had joined together in a ….dare I say…..creating a memory. We had walked in the American Cancer Society’s “Relay for Life”. Cancer kills; it destroys the breasts, colons, lungs, livers, etc. and sometimes can even destroy souls. I have cancer; according to my doctors my life expectancy is short. So I live. I will do anything to live. I will have chemo until it stops my heart, I will pop pills for the pain in my bones, I will walk with a cane, I will live….for as long as I can. And my soul will create memories for my children, my husband, and my friends as I continue to live. Memories such as waking my children up at the crack of dawn and rush them off to school, drag Hannah to piano lessons, cajole Emma to practice her cello, fly across the Sound on hot days with friends in a fast boats, sneak ice cream late on warm summer nights, holding hands with friends as we walk around the high school track in celebration that one more year of life has passed for me.

Our memories of the “Relay for Life” are dear to my heart and hopefully to those that participated. I remember the Waite Boys running backwards around the track. I remember my mom flying in from California where my dad was undergoing cancer treatment himself just to hold my hand as walked in circles with friends. I remember two he-men who started running on my behalf at midnight and ran until 6 a.m. in the morning, legs feeling like melted rubber as they finally came to a stop. I remember glittering lights magically spelling out the words “hope”. I remember dimly lit candles lighting the way for many as they laughed and danced with friends. It was a celebration, a celebration of continued birthdays, a celebration of living. I know that my children, husband, friends will carry the magic with them for many years.

Olivia and Hannah had slurped down their ice cream cones. We were off in Joan’s Taxi, the milk run continued. I could see Hannah in the rear view mirror. She was still going on about the “Relay for Life” as kids do when they tell their tales. She caught my eye in the mirror and looking straight into my eyes said to Olivia, it really was a night to remember.

The gray of fall has now given way to winter, spring and now summer. I sit in my chair staring out at the green grass; I see tall weeds with bright flowers peaking through. It’s hot and the sweat is rolling down my back. Seasons have changed and I keep on living for now. Tomorrow is yet another chemo treatment and I cringe with fear. More needles, more poison. But I live. I say dying is easy; it’s living that is hard. The “Relay for Life” is a week and a half away. I am going to walk again, and hopefully celebrate another year with friends. I invite my friends to walk with me. I will be walking at 10 p.m. (that’s when my cancer hurts the most) at the Bainbridge High School track. To sign up or just find more about it, please follow this link, look for “TeamJoan” and . I hope to see you there under the twinkling lights.

http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR?pg=entry&fr_id=25059

or

http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR?fr_id=25059&pg=teamlist

Pain, Pain, go away. Come again some other day

2010-06-22T01:52:00.000-07:00

It's either very late at night or extremely early in the morning. I hurt so bad. Prepare yourself I'm about to go on a whining binge. My sternum, my back, my legs, my hips, my fingers, my chest, my toes, they all hurt. I've taken about as much as I dare to take as far as pain pills go. I've done the deep breathing. I've gone to that little happy place and have tried to focus on that.

In the meantime, I'm awake. Will this never go away.

I'm just tired. Perhaps if I lean back and close my eyes and pretend I'm something that I'm not. Maybe I could loose myself in the dream.

Pain, pain, go away. Come again some other day.

I just sit and wonder.....why me!!! Was I so bad.

Paging Dr. Weitz, Paging Dr. Weitz

2010-06-05T01:42:00.000-07:00

Can you believe it’s been over a month since I had my surgery? I feel like I’ve been on this wild roller coaster, up, down, around tight curves pulling g-forces only to find myself and my body completely upside down. And through it all, my constant has been my best friend and all-around great husband, Rainer – remember it rhymes with finer – or at least that’s what he told me when we first met.

You need to know something about Rainer to understand what I’m talking about. He’s seen me at my very best, the day when we first met and couldn’t stop smiling at each other under an umbrella in the middle of a San Francisco November rain, at our wedding rehearsal when I was carrying a makeshift bouquet of daisies leaning down from the second floor and over the stair case banister watching him as he took his place in front of our dear friend (and did you know a universal minister via the internet) Trigby or on the day our first child was born as she was laid across my chest – her little head wobbling as she listened to her new parents coo and say I love you to her and each other. He’s also seen me at my worse, when I was so sick from chemo, radiation, and cancer begging him please to just let me go, from anger when I was forced from the job I loved for reasons that only attorneys will eventually do battle about, at the sadness, depression brought on from the daughter we grew to love only to find out that we couldn’t help her nor did she really want our love or help. His coping mechanism throughout my journey, battles with cancer has been plausible denial. If you don’t talk about maybe it will go away. It makes him uncomfortable, but yet he’s been there fighting with me all along. Together I know that we will just keep fighting each battle together until the very end and perhaps a little bit more. Complacency isn’t in neither his nor my vocabulary. If you have cancer – you fight. Remember, dying is easy – it’s living that’s hard.

So after being laid out on a cold operating table at 7 am in the morning, surviving a brutal 10 ½ hour surgery – where the bad was scoop out and the shiny new boob was put into place. My first words to my husband was……okay, how do they look and it’s 10 pm you need to get on that boat. Can’t tell that I love him can you. I’ll try to say that it was the anesthesia that made me so bossy. Yah, that’s the ticket. It was the anesthesia that was making me a bossy broad. He kissed me on the head, said don’t worry about the children, I love you, they look great and see you Saturday morning. Off he trotted and there I stayed in the hospital for your basic different forms of torture.

Torture you say…….Didn’t you know that hospitals are known for the sadistic methods of torture techniques. First up, sleep deprivation. Yes, you’ve been given drugs to ease the pain and knock you out, but I ask you why they won’t let you sleep. First up, your night nurse comes in at the top of the hour – she’s actually your nightingale for she brings gifts – drugs. Thank god, and give them to me now. She fixes your sheets, closes the window even though you’d prefer it to be open. Next, the nurse’s assistant – he shows up at the 15 and 45 of the hour. He wraps a torture device around your arm and proceeds to take your blood pressure. The device is a machine that diabolically pumps air into the cuff around your arm. More air, more air, more air. You begin to think you arm is going to fall off. Then suddenly it stops, loud ticking is heard. Hmmmm, are you sure you’re not dead. I don’t think so. Well your blood pressure is 75 over 39. He calls the nurse, she comes in. Thinking that he’s totally inept, she rewraps my arm and trys again. Pretty much the same results, my arm has fallen off my body and lays helpless on the floor and I’m dead. She says try the leg, it’s a little better. But she says to me, are you sure you’re not dead. She picks up the phone and dials the doctor on call. Muffled voices, no she’s not dead…….okay. Next thing I know I’ve got tubes up my nose and an oxygen tank next to my bed. Finally it’s the physical theraphist turn. She shows up on the half hour. Okay, you need to get out of bed and start walking. Huh, didn’t I just have surgery. I know, I know but we need to get you moving. I.V. pole acting as my crutch, pee bag pinned to my robe, she walks me down the hall and back. Throughout this hour after hour of the same nonsense, I was fortunate, I only had to endure 36 hours of the sleep deprivation. I pity those heart patients who are in for a week. That alone would give me a heart attack.

Next form of torture, catheters. I think the nurses who shove those things up inside you really don’t like their jobs. Now I understand the use of them during surgery, I mean who wants to have stinky urine splattering all around your operating room. But when you’ve been forced to get up and around, tell your nurse to get rid of it. My catheter kept falling out and instead of letting me go to the bathroom this particular nurse would just make me use a bedpan – not pretty, change my sheets and re-insert the stupid thing. Ouch. Finally after 3 sheet changes my nightingale aka night nurse decided to leave it out. What a relief, although it was pretty comical to go to the toilet. My I.V. pole was my best friend. It was the crutch that got me to the toilet; it was the hand that helped me down and up.

Anyway, let’s get to the more important stuff when my superman husband saved my life. I unfortunately had several complications from the surgery, staph infections, racing heart, and the big one….blood clots. Due to the 10 hours on the table, my legs developed some pretty big blood clots. So they decided to put me on lovonoc for the next 5 days to start the curing process. I had been released and had come back to the hospital due to the pains in my legs – the blood clots. Lovonoc can only be given my injection. So rather than having me stay at the hospital for treatment, my doctors sent me home with syringes galore, my own needle disposal box and Dr. Weitz. Rainer had to give me a shot every 12 hours for five days. Believe it or not, he got pretty good at giving the shots. Now, I’m on cumin din for the next 6 months. I guess the worst part of this is the stupid blood tests I have to have every week. It’s too bad Dr. Weitz couldn’t give me all my shots. They don’t hurt when he does it, plus I get a sweet little kiss afterwards.

Oh, now for the most excellent piece of surgery that Dr. Weitz performed. I had come home with 3 drain tubes. They cut stuff out, but our stupid lymph nodes keep making fluid for those parts no longer there. It takes awhile for the body to shut the faucets off. So I think it was the third night I was home. I woke up in the middle of the night and the bed was wet underneath my back. I got up and turned the light on. There on my bed was a large pool of blood on my bed. And as I turned toward the mirror in my bathroom to figure out what was going on, I was surprised to see blood gushing out of my side. I noticed that my heart was pounding loudly in my throat and the blood was gushing out of my body in the exact same tempo. I woke Rainer up and he went to work. It turned out that one of my drain tubes had stopped working and had scrapped on some internal organ. He packed off the whole in my side with (get this) a feminine napkin. Then I called my surgeon, she got on the phone with Rainer. He handed the phone back to me and started going around the house to gather supplies. She was going to have him do a little bit of surgery. (Well, it was going to take me over 3 hrs to get to Seattle between ferry ride, etc and this needed to be done now). Rainer came back with Alcohol, needles, some of my silk thread, scissors, and gloves. They talked a few more minutes – it was decide to forgo the gloves as these were my toilet gloves. Just what I need another infection. He went into the bathroom, scrubbed himself and his instruments up. Meanwhile, I’m talking to my surgeon getting more hysterical by the minute. She’s working her mojo calming me down. With me holding the phone to Rainer’s ear, he starts his procedure. Snip, snip – I feel nothing – I guess I was in shock. He slowly pulls the drain tube out of my back, at one point he asks my doctor, how long is this thing – 18 inches she says. Okay, tube out. Now with a needle and thread he stitches me up. More like put needle in pull thread through, tie knot. He does this a couple of times more. He smears the wound with neo sporin, dresses it with large pieces of gauze and then packs it off with another feminine napkin. My doctor calls it a field dressing, I call it a big “owy”.

Isn’t he amazing. I love the big oaf who snores loudly in the bed next to me. What’s happening now, more chemo, both chemo lite and chemo medium, plus perhaps some slight radiation. I think because they caught this tumor in its infancy. We were lucky.

But I still stay up into the wee, dark hours wondering…….when will we not be so lucky.

Surgery - Round 2 - Ding.......

2010-04-14T22:21:00.001-07:00

My body has been tattooed, marked with black and red dye. It looks like a side of beef – rump roast here – breast there. I’ve had my blood drawn – viciously by a Pakistani nurse – even now my arm is dripping blood. I’ve been photographed, pumped full of drugs, eaten the last proverbial meal – only clear liquids until 6 a.m. And I guess I’m ready to go. (Of course, I’m really hoping that I don’t really go – if you get my drift)

Round 2 begins promptly at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow. Much longer surgery tomorrow, I don’t even get out to recovery until sometime around 4 p.m. Rainer gets to pace the waiting room – armed with his Zune, Blackberry and computer. Kids are accounted for. Dogs will be peeing and pooping on the floor of my house. I lose a couple of pounds of yucky flesh; they move some of my back to my front…..and ta-da…..smaller breast on one side, new breast on the other side. And I’m a bright and shiny new.

But I guess the question is…..am I ready to go, am I ready to be bright and shiny new. I still morn for my old breast. You know I was firmly attached to it. But cut, cut, cut and it was gone. I’ve been walking around lopsided for nearly two years. I think it’s time to balance out.

Am I scared? You bet your last dollar I’m scared. I still have all these yucky cancer cells swimming around in my body. I wonder will the chemo continue to keep it at bay or will it now infect my new shiny appendage. When they open me up, will it be like “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” and I’ll have tons of cancer pods growing in me ready to pop out. (Yes, I know I’ve been watching too many horror movies). I was looking around my yard today. It was bright. The sun and haze were fighting amongst each other to see who would win. I think the haze won as it was a bright warm gray spring day. I admired the pretty little baby buds covering the trees. I wonder will I open my eyes tomorrow night……will I see the leaves blossom to green, sparkle to orange and red, and fade away….all yet to be reborn next season.

Que sera, sera……oh lord – Don’t start spouting Doris Day songs. I tell myself…..I’ll be fine, it’s okay. Hopefully, I’ll still be the champ after Round 2.

p.s. Unfortunately, I get the pleasure of a several day stay at Chez Hospital. I invite all my friends to either post their thoughts here on my blog or better yet…..send me your best jokes. You know a smile is good ju ju, but laughter is great medicine.

Chemo.....yet again

2010-03-21T02:30:00.000-07:00

I had chemo on Thursday. Yuck, Yuck, Yuck. I hate chemo. First you can sleep, and then you can't sleep. I know it's only chemo lite.....but it still plays havoc with my system. No I’m not losing my hair – it just thins a bit. Chemo lite makes you crave food, whereas chemo hard makes you throw up food. Hmmm…..which sounds better?

One of the big side effects of this chemo is that my bones and joints are now killing me…..the pain is so intense for about 4 to 5 days. It’s sort of like polyjuice, it grows bones. (Harry Potter term) Just think, I’ll never have osteoporosis. Who knows, maybe I’ll start growing taller. If I get real lucky, maybe my bones will glow in the dark after I’m gone.

Don’t tell anyone, but it’s really hard. I’m trying really hard to be the all around good sport and super woman mom even though I have cancer. Right now, I have tears quietly falling gently down my cheeks. I’m wrapped up in my warm robe, shielding me from the cold night. I close my eyes and try to think of anything other than the pain, sunshine, running with my children, baseball. However, it hurts to lie down, it hurts to stand up, it hurts to sit down. My fingers, my tailbone, my ribs, my toes, they feel as if large knives are being jabbed into them. I’m not allowed to cry anymore in from of my family. They get too upset. So I wait until night, after they all have gone to bed. Then all the sorrow pours out of me.

I know that this part of my journey moves very slowly. And I’ll be a good sport about it whenever you see me. However, at night, when everyone is asleep…

Sleep, and lack there of.....

2010-03-10T01:21:00.000-08:00

Okay, stupid question. Why am I never asleep at one a.m. in the morning? I know it’s a rhetorical question. But this lack of sleep is killing me. Laughing out loud…….actually rolling on the floor in hysterics. The shooting gun is the alarm that is going to blast at 5:30 a.m., less than five hours from now. (Although, I really sort of pretend to sleep until 6:45 a.m. – the early bell is for Rainer to get up and at em – the second bell is for me to haul my but out of bed and try to somehow cajole my two little ones out of their warm, snuggly beds……you know school for them……and who knows what for me now that I don’t work anymore……but that is another sorted tale to tell at a later time).

Right now, the orchestra is playing. Let’s see we’ve got Rainer on the trumpet, playing loudly the Snore Be-Bop. We’ve got my two dogs – one, who snores, the other dog who just breathing in and out in stereo. I can hear the refrigerator click on downstairs – it should be good for a whoosh or so for a half hour. Even my laptop fan seems to be chiming in every now and then.

I don’t know where I’m going with this. And I guess that’s what not sleeping is all about. You don’t know why you are awake. You just are. Your mind is flowing with nonsensical thoughts – hmmmm, the lottery is up to $133 million, maybe I should break down and buy a ticket, but that would cost a dollar or two, which is something I don’t have these days, I wonder what I would with the money if I won. Immediately, the accountant in me wakes up and starts calculating, let’s see I would probably get X% of $133 million, then after I paid the IRS 50% of that I’d have Y. I’d pay my mortgage off just to get rid of those pesky bankers, and hire someone to mow my lawn so I would never have to ask Rainer to do it again, of course I’d buys some of my crystal goblets for myself because even though I ask for them every year for Christmas I never get them, I’d buy my parents a condo so they’d be forced to live near me. Thoughts of green lawns, remind me of sunshine and warm faces lifted upwards, weeds to pull and hoping flowers will bloom. Of course, dreaming about flowers blooming, IRS and mortgages immediately pulls out the worry wart in me. I flash upon Molly digging up my tulips and little green people coming to take my house and family away, hee-hee, hoo-hoo, ha-ha. Oh let’s stop this before I’m climbing the walls.

Gosh, I wish I could go to sleep.

Just another day.......

2010-02-13T01:43:00.000-08:00

So yesterday was Thursday; it was just another day for me. We all had to get up early as Rainer and I had to catch the 7:05 ferry. That meant we had to be out of the house by 6:10 so we could get the children to before school daycare. This in turn meant we had to get up around 5:15 in the morning; so we could get the kids dressed and hair combed for school. (My kids have notorious tangles in their hair). Showers were taken, kids were dressed or at least forced to get dressed and ready for school. Thank god, I didn’t have to feed them – the daycare would take care of that one – or we never have made the queue at the ferry terminal.

But we made the ferry, and I had a few extra minutes so I dropped Rainer off at work after the ferry ride – instead of him hoofing his was up the hill, to catch a bus to his office. I was off to the Arnold Pavilion, the cancer center at Swedish hospital. It was going to be just another day for me. I’d park in my usual spot on the fourth floor of the Nordstrom Tower, stop and get a quick cup of tea at the corner Starbucks, take the skyway over to the third floor, drop off one of my many prescriptions to be refilled, take a quick elevator down to the second floor to see my oncologists, get blood work done, and have my port flushed out. Another quick elevator and I was on my way to the third floor for a fast track treatment and extra fluids (as I’m always dehydrated), then the dreaded elevator to the fourth floor to see my surgeon. My surgeon insisting that I hike up to the fifth floor for a quick MRI and to make sure I take the express elevator up to the fifteenth floor to make another appointment with another surgeon who also will be involved in my upcoming surgery. I would then take the express elevator to the third floor, pick up my prescription, take the skyway to the parking facility. I would pretend I was an Indy racer and race down the hill to the ferry, where normally I would write a three page text to my BFF who’s meandering somewhere down in the South American way. But this Thursday, I was exhausted so I actually sleep on the ferry back to BI.

But let’s back up shall we. It was when I went to get my tea from Starbucks that gave me pause for the day. I had a good half hour before I was supposed to be on the second floor, so instead of tea, I got a warm caramel macchiato with whipped cream and a small piece of banana bread with nuts. A very decadent choice, don’t you think. I sat down at a table and slowly drank my coffee. (Which I normally don’t have because it does weird things to my mouth – translation – I become a blithering idiot that can’t be shut up – another story). I was watching the people go by, when my focus was diverted to a young mother and her infant son sitting at a table in the corner near the door. Her son was sitting in a high chair, his hands waving frantically, his mouth up turned in a big smile, his eyes brightly shining at everyone who went in and out the coffee shop. The mother was a young woman, probably late 20’s, blondish, a bright smile to match her sons. There was something off about the mother and son…..but I couldn’t quite place it.

I ate my banana bread slowly as I watched the mother and son. It was raining outside and most everyone was huddle over their hot lattes. Every once in a while a wandering crazy would walk in and create a commotion that made most people huddled even closer to their cups of coffee. A man with very long oily gray hair walked in and came up to the mother. Have you seen Sarah, he said. No, she’s got a room for the next several days and plans to stay in out of the rain. Okay, the man reaches over and tickles the little boy’s tummy. I look closer at the pair and my eyes begin to notice things. Sure the mother has the proverbial fold up walker with her, but she’s also has a rather large back pack – the kind you would normally go camping up to the mountains with. The young toddler is a waif, his hair thin, and he looks to be malnourished. Another crazy walks in with his white snowsuit on, again questioning about the elusive Sarah. Out he goes even though he didn’t like the answer. The long hair gentleman is back, he drops a wad of cash on the table and says…..make sure the kid gets a big breakfast. The young mother quickly scoops up the bills to her purse. They are homeless.

Finally, it’s time for me to go and I notice a barista coming towards the young mother and son. Here, we had some extra warm milk today. She takes it and offers it to her son. I smile and go about my crazy day. Isn’t it nice, that strangers can sometimes help one another?

Wouldn’t it be nice if we had a health care program that didn’t discriminate again those who have pre-existing conditions such as me or that could help young homeless mothers care for their children? We need to do something……even if it’s a cancer ridden old mother standing on her soapbox saying, I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it any longer.

It’s just another day for me………maybe it’s time to make it just another day for yourself.

A walk on the beach.

2010-02-12T16:40:00.000-08:00

Not a great photo, but a fabulous day at the beach. It's raining out, and it's cold here on BI. Memories are nice to have and to share.

Port Salerno

2010-02-07T21:09:00.000-08:00

So today I’m at a Seafood Festival. We’re in Port Salerno. It’s a sleepy retirement community on the Atlantic side of Florida. Everything here is tired and old, not much really happens. However, today there are thousands and thousands of people at the festival. I haven’t seen many people since I came to Florida and find myself wondering, where all these people have been hiding. The economy is very bad, Madoff’s tricks have taken so much from so many that live here. However today, all of the masses have come to this little port to feed on fresh shucked oysters, fried shark bits, shrimp kabobs, crab cakes, conch strips and hush puppies.

It’s the first time I’ve seen young people since I’ve been here. And by young people, I mean people who are in their forties. But just as the Bainbridge forty something moms carry their babes in slings to one side, the women here shepherd their flock of children to horse rides, funny clown balloon makers, bouncy houses, and watch as their youngest lean over docks in hopes of catching fish.

I’m sitting on a pier under a long white canopy. I’m at a table clothed in white. I’ve got my legs up on a chair as I wait for Hilda, and her husband Dick and a friend to make their way through the throngs of people to return with their catch. Near me, elderly Italian gentlemen converse in their native tongue. Their hands wave in front of their faces as I catch pieces of their conversation – ma famila is repeated over and over. They sip their wine slowly while their words flow by me like music to my ears.

A soft salty wind whispers across my face as I watch the people mill by. The bright sun warms me and I think of my own “famila” and long to share this warm moment with them.

Palm Beach

2010-02-05T21:52:00.001-08:00

Palm Beach, Wow. Long stretches of white soft sanded beaches follows roads before you. The sun and sky bounce off the water, like glass reflecting the pristine world around you. It was bright, it was warm, it was beautiful. We were wandering, Hilda, her husband, Dick and I, winding down roads to catch sight of the elite world. Houses faded shades of pink, beige or sky blue huddled next to each other. Yards manicured with care. A light breeze and palm trees waved hello to us and we passed them by.

Soon we come to a wide open span of white beach; brightly colored parachutes dotted the sky. Surfer’s suit up or strip down, but the cars aren’t the beat up VW vans of California. These aren’t the California or even Hawaiian surfer dudes. The rich play here. Mercedes, X5’s, Rovers, Cayennes park parallel to the beach. Do you want get out Joan? No, No, let’s keep going. Too many beautiful people are playing on the sands; I know that I’m not one of the beautiful. However, the water calls to me. I have to see it, touch it. The beach is quieter down further, its winter in Palm Beach. Not many people are around; even the locals don’t show up until mid February.

I see a lone spot on the beach. Can we stop now? A quick U-turn, easy parking and before the engine even dies, the car door is open and I am out. Dick stays in the car to read, he’s done this before. Hilda follows me as I pull her toward the beach. We climb over the painted white scalloped concrete wall. For me, this is a minor achievement. Shoes in hand, jeans rolled up to the knee, we walk down to the water’s edge. Hilda warns me away from some dark blue balloons on the sand, they are jelly fish – and dangerous. At the blend between water and land, we walk down the shoreline. The sand is warm. The water flows between my toes as the waves lap in, it’s warm. A wave comes in and suddenly, I no longer can see my feet. The tide pulls the water away from the beach and I wish that I could go with it. I feel free and I wonder is this what heaven is like. Soon it’s time to meander to a different part of Palm Beach. As we walk back to the car, I see fluffy clouds and blue skies mirrored in the ocean waters. I know not what is top or bottom. A moment of heaven….. Dick looks up from his paper as we climb back in the car. He jabbers on about some silly article from the paper. Hilda and I smile and nod our heads as we have shared a good moment.

We wander further to the main drive of Palm Beach, the shopping market of the rich and famous. For a brief moment, we are going to try to pretend to be one of the elite. Tiffany’s, Saks, Neiman’s, all are there. We stop for a heavenly lunch at the place to be seen, the restaurant – Taboo. The food is divine, the people watching is even better. Rich ladies and gentleman abound. The ladies with their stylishly coifed hair, shiny objects at their throats, lovely sheer white and blue dresses dine and gossip together. Gentlemen with their fine Armani jackets and much younger trophies laugh loudly, eat and drink heartily. Beautiful models walk amongst the tables, hawking designer dresses, potent perfumes, and bling, lots and lots of bling.

Towards the end of lunch, I realize that besides being under dressed in a t-shirt and jeans and having no diamonds, rubies, emeralds of any size on me, that I am at the ripe old age of almost 50 (in a matter of days) am the youngster here. As I look closer at the ladies surrounding me, I notice that mouths spread from ear to ear, foreheads are high, the high cheeks and smooth skin are nothing but an illusions created by a plastic surgeon. The gentlemen too, have a nip or tuck or added hair or two. Even the beautiful models, when seen up close, are tired with makeup caked on their face to hide their years.

As we walk through the side alleys, visiting exquisite boutiques that make me think of Italy, I realize that this is nothing but a fantasy, a wonderful fantasy for the wealthy. We see an elderly lady in a wheel chair, accompanied by a well dressed man. He offers her a tissue and remarks to her about how wonderful it is to get out, dine on good food, and see her friends. I realize that this isn’t a doting son; no…..this is her paid companion. The fantasy is cracking.

After walking for what seems like forever, we find we are on a quest to find Richard a cup of coffee. How can this world exist without a corner Starbucks or Peete’s Coffee? Dog shops with diamond collars and bowls, yes. Fabulous purse shops with photos of Jolie or Aniston carrying their bags, yes. Rows and rows of bling shops, yes. Coffee, no. Finally, in a back alley way off the main drag we find a sandwich shop which sells coffee. The prices are reasonable; perhaps we have found ourselves back in the real world. I venture into a small boutique next to the sandwich shop. Fifty percent off everything, priced to sell, the signs scream loudly. This is my kind of place. I find a pair of hoop earrings with a small ball of diamonds that dangle freely on the hoop. For the first time in my fantasyland, I ask the price. In my mind, I say to myself…..if the earrings are $200 or less I am going to buy them, even though I have no idea how I would pay for them. The saleswoman rummages through paper, her reading glasses perched on her nose, she looks up over her glasses and says……these earrings are 14K hammered gold, (my resolve begins to shake), they are from a designer in Argentina, (my heart begins to sink) the diamonds are 5.6 karats (heart is now sunk), the price is $2695. I know that $2695 isn’t $26.95. I quietly but firmly say, so that would be about $1400 on sale. She nods her head and wants me to try them on. No, No……it’s time to go. As much as my heart wants to be one of them…..to live in beautiful places, to eat fabulous food, and live in warm weather……it’s not who I am.

Palm Beach……wow. Bainbridge Island……home.

Stuck in Atlanta

2010-02-01T10:33:00.000-08:00

So here I sit in the Atlanta Airport. Lots and los of people - too many people. What's so surprising is that most of the people - no offense - are old. Where are all of these old people going. Of course, every now and then you see the young mother, her hair matted down, strands of the it hanging to one side of her head. She pulls two crying toddlers - on of which is either arching his back and he crys in her arms or laying flat on his back sobbing into the floor. She drags the two young toddlers with the best of her might, while being laiden down with suitcases, stuffed animals and huge diaper bags.

It's a weird world this airport life. You either see people decked out in their fine italian wool suits, women walking around in four inch feels with their stylish yet sedate coach bag. Or you see young men wearing either spray painted on black levies or cargo pants carried not on the hip but at the knee (I just want to scream out - pull up your frigging pants and put a belt on - I must be getting old).

But these wacky people all seem to be going somewhere. While I'm not sure if I'm going anywhere.

3 a.m.

2010-01-31T19:24:00.000-08:00

So here I sit, in an airport. It's 3 a.m. and I feel Like I'm on a different planet. I'm making my way to Florida to see my best friend Hilda. My flight leave around 5 a.m., so I took the last boat off the island. You know what the weirdest thing about being in an airport at 3 a.m. is?

Aside from the fun in the air all around you, the hum of row after row of fluorescent lights, the strange person who wonders in the airport in the middle of the night wearing wrap around sun glasses carrying three huge trunks (and you secretively wonder how many dead bodies are in those trunks) who can sit anywhere in the whole damned airport but sits two seats away from you with their over powering men's cologne that would choke a horse but instead pollutes your nostrils. Besides the blaring over head speakers proclaiming the free wi-fi internet service that doesn't work, or the chairs that are breaking what bones I still have left in my back.

The weirdest thing about an airport at 3 a.m. is listening to the escalator as it cycles over and over again. Lord save me.

Okay, so now it's 3:25 a.m. Hmm, what else should I tell you. A scary, very large couple, she in a hot pink sweatsuit, he in baggy pants hanging so low you just want to scream - pull up you pants - just came in and jumped on the luggage scales with themselves and their luggage. Needless to say, the lights begin to flash yellow - tilt - they are way over the weight limit. Big news flash there.

Florida should be nice, I think to myself......hopefully sunny and warm. I have to be honest with myself, I've never thought of myself going to Florida. Oh sure, I had the ideas of going to Disney World with the children...but Florida itself no. That's the land of old people. Yet, I'm just about to turn 50 and AARP is knocking at the door. Does this mean I have to get used to old folks land. Hmmm......how many Lincoln Continentals do you think I'll see?

Between the Land of Nod

2010-01-24T01:23:00.000-08:00

Sometimes we find ourselves thinking before the day begins. You know what I’m talking about…..the time between night and day. We are snuggly warm in our soft comfy beds between the rush of day and quiet dark of night. We lie under the covers of our bed thinking. The soft blankets warming hour hearts and mind, we think about our day. Our brain clicks off its mental check. We begin to live our day at work, the meetings fly by, the projects that we need to attack, and tedious chores we have to do around the house, trying to figure out whether or not our children have clean clothes to wear for the day. And sometimes as we are drifting amongst the clouds of sleep and wake, we are thinking about our daily chores….that lead us not into temptation…..we drift back to warmth of night and wonder about life and death.

Everyone has there own little dreams. The dreams are played out in the Land of Nod, between waking and sleeping. When we were young, we used to dream about being Dorothy Hamill of ice skating and gliding on the crisp edge of our ice skates taking us to another gold metal, or perhaps we are the Willie Mays of baseball making the one handed catch behind our back to win the World Series at the ripe old age of 12. When we are older our fantasies are more mature, now we’re now winning a Mega Million Jackpot of $225 million, or a hot night out in Paris, our husbands in tuxedos while we sport some exotic silky red thing with spaghetti straps. Don’t forget we’re in the Land of Nod……our husbands look good and we look fabulous and in a blink of an eye we are in Paris.

It’s morning. My eyes are closed, it’s dark. The last dream of the night, first daydream of the day begins. I hurt, my bones feel pain. What causes the pain? My mind is drifting on the clouds in the Land of Nod. If I squeeze my eyes shut just a little longer will the pain go away? My bones hurt, my ribs hurt. I start thinking about the cells coursing through my body. There is a plethora of cell characters within confines of my body, my castle. He men, strong men – the muscle cells, they walk, run, swim. The Einsteins, the thinkers, the lovers – the brain cells, they talk, laugh, love. The Suits, the protectors – the skin cells which lie flat all over your body and try to keep you warm even when you do your annual New Year’s swim in freezing water. The stomach cells which are always whining for something to eat even though they just finished a big bowl of ice cream just before you went to bed. The Red and White Blood cells, providing energy for most of all of the other cells but more importantly they are the defenders of the castle. They battle the villains, measles, mumps, infections, and even the dreaded cancer cells.

I have huge quantity of cancer cells running around my body. I know it, I accept it. I think of them, of what the cells are doing. Do they think, do they know they kill? Right now, they are just traveling free and fancy on their own. The “C” cells are zipping around through my blood stream, doing wheelies in my bones, causing great pain in their wakes. I can see them in the Land of Nod. The “C” cells are flashy, want something tasty to eat, and always, always want a good time. Sooner or later, those “C” are going to run into one another. I see them first, ganging up together, riding on top of the red cells until they come to some cool restaurant like Joan’s Liver. They get a party started, calling out for more “C” cells to join them. They slam down white blood cells for appetizers but they start to dig their claws in my liver. The “C” cells dance, bust up whatever come into their path. Red Blood cells will try to fight them off, but to little avail. The “C” cells pair up and make out. The next thing you know, pregnancy will run rampant. And where you had a little cantina of “C” cells, next you’ll have fast food franchises of “C” cells branching further throughout my body.

But, I open my eyes. The Land of Nod is gone. The pain is still there. The cancer cells are still in my body. However they are coursing through my body on their own, they haven’t ganged up yet. They will, but until then I fortify my red and white cells with chemo. There is a battle being played out inside me. All I can do is wait. All I can do is feel. No one tells us that cancer is painful.

My heart

2010-01-14T22:17:00.001-08:00

The other day, I was schlepping Emma home. I was the taxi service that picked her up from her afterschool program, crossed the island at break neck speed to get her to her cello lesson, and followed up with driving back up the hill to our house. It was raining and cold; the car’s windows were foggy. Emma was drawing animals and smiley faces on the window. We were both bopping to some silly girly song on the radio, when during the lull she said. “Mama, did you know that my real friends can see through my eyes to see my heart and know that I love them.” I looked into the rear view mirror into my daughters eyes and smiled. I turned the radio down as she went on to list her best friends of Haley, Amelia, Simon and others…..all of which could see through her to her heart. I then asked if there was any one who didn’t see her heart. Emma’s smile immediately turned upside down to a big frown. She venomously named a little boy, and listed all his faults against her. And I hid my laughter; my eyes were twinkling as I learned he wasn’t so bad, he was just not into Emma and her animal games. I even perceived that she really wanted him to see into her heart. Then there was silence and as we drove down the lane to our home, she said – you know Mama, you see into my heart the easiest – I love you Mama. I love you too, Emma.

Since our little conversation, I’ve wondered can my friends see into my heart and know how much I love them. I wonder if my friends know how truly shy I am and that sometimes it’s hard just to say the words. I have a really good friend who lives down in San Francisco; she’s a smart savvy, very cool blonde. Whenever we would get together, she would yell out - get that girl a drink – she’s funnier. I want her and others to know that I hope you can see into my heart and know that I love you. From the Pink Cadillac couple, the quilt heads I used to hang out with, the St. B Moms, my roadie friend, my world wander conscious, my poor peter rabbit friends, my island moms, my b-study goodies and everyone else out there…..I love you all and couldn’t live without you.

What's my line?

2010-01-10T01:42:00.000-08:00

It’s late, everyone is tucked into bed. Dylan has been home for a couple of days, in less than 5 hours he starts his trek back to college, ferry, plane, bus. Rainer’s snoring in bed next to me as I sit in my rocker. The girls have collapsed on their respective beds. In the recess of my brain, I wonder if Ashley is truly happy in Missouri. I look out of my window. It seems very dark out tonight, I don’t see any stars nor shadows cast from the distant moon. It’s so dark, I wonder if there is even a moon tonight. Time is ticking by. I can’t sleep; I have cancer on the brain tonight.

Now, stop worrying…..no, I don’t have a brain tumor (at least not yet – arh, arh). I’m thinking about my cancer and my mind is racing a million miles an hour. Someone recently asked me what my “marker” numbers are. For the life of me, I can’t remember. Another newbie cancer person was talking about her Oncotype DX number – and it’s a vast darkness in my brain. As I toss and turn in bed, I remember at 12:05 a.m. that its the anniversary of my initial diagnosis – I’m sorry the test shows that you have three lumps in your breast, plus it looks like its spread to your sternum and lymph nodes. I knew it was bad, the radiologist had given it away earlier……it was about 5:45 pm and he had to get to the airport……he snapped at me,”I don’t know why your surgeon is so interested in your breast, I’d be more concern about that large holes in your breast bone” as he inserted a needle into my lymph nodes playing darts with my underarm as he tried to hit the target. Why can’t I remember my marker…..troubles me? At first, I want to say……ah ha, it’s 8 – but that’s not it. That’s my cell differential, I scored an 8 out of 9. Two years, interesting…..I was only given 18 months and now it’s two years. Ain’t dead yet – ha!
Wow, so many friends and family have started their own little cancer journey since I started mine. Two mothers, a friend, a cousin, my father. There have been joyous outcomes, recent unknown starts and my own ever uphill crawl. I’ve made friends with others like me, we’ve sat next to each other waiting for our blood to be drawn, hoping to get a good chair, sharing our most embarrassing throw up for the week story – mine, throwing up green slime in the parking lot of Bank of America after a dear friend drove me to Seattle for treatment. Why is puke always green? While I’ve watched others being declared “cancer free”, I trod onward.

I still have cancer, I still go for treatments, I still wonder why me, I still wish that it would end. Two years ago, I worked 10 to 12 hours a day, could get groceries, pick up the dry cleaning, pick the children up from daycare, write a check with the best of them to keep my house clean, could sew, knit, read, run upstairs and down a million times at my girls bed time, make my children laugh, feed the dog and love my husband. Now, I don’t work. Walking is laborious - I shuffle along like Arte Johnson’s old man from his Laugh-In days. Running is out of the question. Grocery shopping is a stretch, dry cleaning is out. I can’t clean my house, I can do wash, but can’t fold it. My dogs starve.

But I still can make my children laugh and love my husband. Yep it’s bad. But it’s been 24 months not 18. Getting a little sleepy, but still can’t remember my marker…..darn it.

Yes, I'm actually watching Star Wars Movies

2009-10-12T13:03:00.000-07:00

Yes, I’m actually watching Star Wars movies. This is an inside joke. Those that really know me understand this joke, so the question is…..do you really know me? I’m watching IV – The New Hope, one of the better films. I watched the end of the Sith film, nah, definitely not good. The best of the film series of course is V – Empire Strikes Back. I remember when I first saw IV back when it was I (Did you know that originally there were supposed to be a total of IX – but things don’t always turn out like you think they will). I was seventeen. Luke was young, dashing, blond locks shining as the sun set, his baby blues staring dreamily into space as he wished for the skies. It was an awe moment; similar to the one my own girls now have when they see their movie moment with some gangly, high school boy, with dark locks hanging in his eyes as he jumps up and down and sings about his teenage angst. Hmmm, I think my IV moment is definitely better than their teenage angst movie moment.

I haven’t written in a while. Things don’t always turn out like you expect them to. I stopped working in June. Things have changed. I find it hard to...... Smile. Think. Breathe. Laugh. I go through motions, I’m good at motions. Writing, a love, has become painful. So today I am writing gibberish in hopes that it will allow me to start taking baby steps. Move, walk. There is so much darkness and pain. Do you ever get use to it?

Okay…..it’s the big fight between Darth and Obie Wan…..need to go. It’s time to go back to the motions.

A walk in the moonlight

2009-07-06T00:51:00.001-07:00

Okay, the whiney little girl in me wearing triple thick glasses, long hair pulled back in pony tails and wearing too big sneakers says, I’ve been this on this so called car ride for over a year now and wants to know – are we there yet? The mature, suave, former San Francisco cosmopolitan, now islander mom, with red titanium hip glasses, seriously yet stylish short hair and wears bright pink, snake skin tennis shoes answers back – we’re on this journey for a long time, probably for the rest of our lives.

My journey originally started sitting at the Pub lifting a pint or two high in the air with warm friends. The journey is now over a year old and has a ways to go yet. Windy roads, and scary turns have I taken. I’ve gone through the land of hair loss, puking up my green guts day after day, turning neon radiated red. But I have not stopped, maybe paused a moment or two but have kept going down the path of cancer. The non-stop, Napoleonic woman who dreamed of being a CFO of a software company has given way to an introspective slow motioned girl who looks up to the stars and dreams now of days that will or won’t come.

The burdens can be tough to bear, sleepless nights of anxiety, debilitating pain as the disease seeps slowly into my bones, fear of facing yet another year let alone a day of needles and poisonous drugs, and having the children home for summer. Yet I have received so many gifts, the ability to hear the wind through my backyard trees and wind chimes dance in the night, friends whose strong hugs and hand holding have given me warmth on the coldest of days, and having my children home with me to enjoy the laughter that comes from summer.

I asked my friends to raise a pint with me, now I’m wondering if a few friends would like to walk for a moment (and not very far) with me. Bainbridge is part of a wonderful thing called the “Relay for Life”, sponsored by the American Cancer Society. I’ve decided to try to walk a lap or two. Yes, the American Cancer Society is all about raising money, but I’m not walking because of that. There is a deafening darkness that creeps into your soul every hour that you have cancer. I want to walk a lap or two in the night to show that I’m not afraid of the darkness and I will continue on with my journey no matter how much I’d just like to lay down on the track and call it quits.

I will be walking in the Relay for Life on July 18th at 10 p.m. at Bainbridge High School. I hope to be accompanied by a couple of fabulous runners – who are friends of my son – but I hope a few more friends will show up. My goal is to do at least one lap - slowly. The superwoman in me wants to do 5 laps, but that might be pushing it. For me, this isn’t about the money – it’s the doing. I was going to try to get a corporate sponsor and get some cool pink t-shirts with the TeamJoan logo on it….but, hey I’ve got cancer. I can’t take on the world anymore; I’m just taking on me. Please join me, if you can.

To register please go to…..

http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR?pg=entry&fr_id=17756

and look for me…

Stupid Question

2009-06-13T08:22:00.000-07:00

....Stupid questions. I'm wandering this morning. I couldn't sleep. It's Saturday, the one morning I should be able to sleep in. I woke up around 4 am, around 4:30 am I started doing leg stretches and stomach crunches. Tried to sleep again, but decided at 5:30 am to get up and take a bath. It was a warm, deliciously hot bath. Afterward, did I go back to sleep. No.

I downed my morning drugs, packed up my computer and now I sit in the Bakery with a cup of tea. I finished off my raspberry scone about an hour ago. I’ve drifted along on the internet at my corner window table, reading the headlines, drooled over shoes at Nordstroms, stressed over the lack of cash as I glance through my bank account online. Morning fog is burning off outside. Islanders are milling in and out. I glance up now and then from my computer to sip my tea. Occasionally, I see someone I know, however I just put my head down and continue drifting. Empty tables greeted me when I first came; Beethoven softly surrounded at I drank my warm tea. Now, seats are full, people are like sharks, grabbing the first open table as someone gets up to leave. I’m getting looks…..sole woman seated at a two top.

So my stupid question for this morning……and I have thought of many while drifting on my computer. Does anyone out there still read this stuff?

I’ll answer why after I get my results…….

It's nearly 9 am, I wonder how soon someone will answer my question.

I think I'll wander over to the Farmer's market......and someone can have my table.

A quiet good morning to all.