Why Do You Write?

What am I working on?

I’m wrapping up (HA ha…sigh) a novel right now. I started it on Nov 3rd during NaNoWriMo. I didn’t write 50,000 words in 30 days. I wrote +75,000.
I’m not bragging. It completely got away from me. It was like being dragged backwards through a hedge by a Great Dane.

I didn’t have it planned out at all.

A summary. “A successful woman writing a torchy historical romance trilogy grows to hate her characters and kills them in the final book. Not everyone is happy with that decision.”

Now the blissful early days of me saying ‘Ooh, a writing contest. That sounds like fun…’ are behind me. And I’m paying for it. Turns out I know how to use the language but I don’t know how to write. There’s something, there must be something, that makes this easier to keep track of, right?

I have to get the ending right. I’ve gotten everyone just where I want them. (It’s like herding cats) The denouement is at hand! But…but…wait a sec. I have another idea. I’d have to re-write whole chapters, sure I would, and introduce another character and it could use some editing, of course. But it could be done! It WILL be done.

Right now, I could end it in 5 pages. Why don’t I just end it? I don’t know….

SO…I decided to put it aside to percolate. Right now I am working on a young adult novel on behalf of my tween niece who is fascinated with all things magical.

It’s very fun to write it but I am not making the same mistake twice. Oh no…not THIS time. I’m going to plot this thing. I’m going to have a list of characters and NO ONE is going to come wandering in and screw up my nice neat plot line. Unless…unless it’s a really great character. And the plot calls for some action. But only then…

How Does My Writing Differ?

This is an easy question for me.

My writing doesn’t differ.

There are a million other writers who struggle everyday to put what gives them joy into whatever language they speak best. Whether it’s a cookbook or a mystery novel or a blog, I’m not different. I struggle to find the sweet spot. I grapple with the intricacies of the english language and walk around swearing and staring out the window and drinking too much. Sometimes I pretend I have a cigarette. God, I miss smoking.

I’m not Tolstoy. I’m not Austen or Cather or Faulkner or Pynchon. I’m not Thomas Hardy or Henry Fielding or Salman Rushdie. No. Because I’m not destined for greatness. The hand of God (or whichever deity you prefer) has not reached down and touched me with genius.

My writing is sometimes about how much the same we are. I write about love, joy, heartache, fear, sickness and the mundanity of the day to day. The stultifying frustration of routine.

Those things, unfortunately, I know about.

So, like millions of other writers, I escape. I do just what I shouldn’t do. I write about what I don’t know. I don’t know what it’s like to experience magic first hand. Unless you’re talking about the guy doing card tricks on the Amtrak to Portland OR. I couldn’t tell you how to behave if you come upon a body in a locked room. Personally, I’d immediately feel as if I were guilty of something. If a tall, dark, handsome stranger gave me a penetrating stare, I’d look over my shoulder to see who was behind me.

So I pretend. I pretend there’s a special place somewhere here on Earth that magic happens.

And I’m there to see it unfold.

Why Do I Write What I Do?

I write what I do because…ha. I just sat there for 15 minutes staring out the window. It’s a good question.

ummm…it’s the only way I can experience magic.

The horrid, boring blender that life dishes out can be slightly mitigated when I write. I know that because other writers have taken me out of my scary, nasty, real cancer life and transported me places I’ve never imagined.

I want to DO THAT. I want to forget this day. I want to pretend I’m well, and young and beautiful.This isn’t MY life, this one with illness and poverty and exhaustion. Fuck it. I want to write the joke that makes you laugh out loud on the subway car. I want to dress beautifully and fall into the rooftop pool and be rescued by a millionaire.

I didn’t know I could write until I started this blog. And at the risk of sounding falsely modest, I can’t really really write. Not like my heroes. On the other hand, I got a bit of a late start. I didn’t try writing until I got sick. I know there ARE a few tricks I wouldn’t mind having up my sleeve. But in a nutshell?

I write to make magic real. To make love real. To make adventure real.

It’s a fantasy. But it’s real to me.

How Does My Writing Process Work?

If there is any method to this madness-or what authors and experienced writers call process- it has escaped me. I believe you need to know what you’re doing to have a process. If I had a process maybe I would be calmer, clearer, more able to look people in the eye without thinking ‘YOU look like the kind of person who squirts whipped cream in the ear of a total stranger.’

And I think that look worries some of those who don’t know me well.

I think of it as a Divine Lightening Bolt from somewhere out in the ether ( I picture this guy).

He occasionally reaches down and fries my circuits. I can’t think of anything but my characters. ‘How did they end up like this? How do I get her out of the raging, storm tossed ocean? Really, Laura?! Someone threw a rock? Seriously? Who fired that shot? Jesus! Everyone STOP IT!’ They fight and argue and quibble and refuse to DO WHAT I WANT! What kind of process is that? I used to think writers who said that were jerks. So, I’m a jerk.

My goal for the new year is to learn a process. It sounds like heaven. No more waking up at 3am and thinking ‘hmmm…if she ran through the woods in a southwesterly direction she’d end up at the cabins. She could HIDE there until….”
and so on.

Please God. Give me a process. And I’m not talking about my hair so don’t get any fancy ideas!

 

This interesting process was begun by the lovely Kate at MaisonBentley. She included in me in this Blog Hop and in return I would LOVE to hear what Nate over at Corvidae in the Fields has to say about his writing.

Since there must be two on this Blog Hop-and I can’t resist….I have to send this Andra Watkins way. She’s published a fantastic novel recently called ‘To Live Forever: An Afterlife Journey of Meriweather Lewis” and she walked 444 miles of the Natchez Trace by herself and is probably busy working on her new novel. But I would love to hear what Andra over at The Accidental Cootchie Mama has to say about her writing.

Saving My Life

‘People don’t know how the people who love them save their lives.’
Robin Quivers

It’s ovarian cancer awareness month.

I’ve been meaning to write a post about this. I kept putting it off. I don’t quite know why. I think, upon reflection, that I just don’t want to admit that this cancer might still kill me. That I’m not ever going to be able to ‘go back’. I don’t want to give it power over me. I don’t want it to be a chronic condition. I want this to end. Now. Today.

Today.

Today I have my big appointment. It’s hard, a lot of you know how hard it was, to admit that I needed help. More help than I was getting, simply not recognizing the emotional drain on my family and caregivers. The trips to chemotherapy every week. The bad news, the good news, rush hour traffic, putting off trips and vacations, the lack of money and healthy food, hiding things from me, from themselves, worrying, wondering, being scared and wanting to scream with frustration. The emotional drain is exhausting.

I try to keep things upbeat. I have tried to hide what I feel because I thought I understood how hard it was on my caregivers. They are not recognized. The person with cancer gets all the attention. Sometimes ,it seems, by everyone. I just want to say, I know now. I know what has been given to me. Now I know.

Those of you who have followed this blog from the beginning know how scared I was. How confused and beaten down by my emotions I was. I started this blog because I really didn’t know how to speak to my family and friends about my cancer diagnosis.

That is where I found you.

Yes, you. You wonderful supportive people from everywhere around the globe who have taken a moment out of some crazy busy schedules to encourage and support me. My caregivers here who helped me learn to speak about what happened to me. Who just listened and let me have my meltdowns and walked me through some of the hardest days of my life.

Losing my kittens. Losing my dog. The betrayal and accusations recently by my niece, which I am still struggling with. The cancer. The chemo. The fear of death. The pity I felt for my mother struggling to make ends meet, to keep abreast of the paperwork, to get me to chemotherapy every week. My sister, my beautiful sister, who is terrified of sickness and doctors and who lived every moment with my diagnosis. Trying to overcome her fears, overcome her fear of losing me. Of losing another loved one. As if what she went through in 2008 wasn’t enough to break her. She had to go through this too.

My brothers and their wives all trying in their own separate ways to support me from so far away. To talk to their children, their daughters especially, who are condemned to carry this cancer marker all their lives. Who will have to be extra vigilant because of it.

My cousin who has gone through this, who lost so much, lost a brother and a friend. Had her own diagnosis and fought like a tiger to win. And won.

My uncles and aunts who knew, I never understood how well, what it was to see a member of your own branch, torn away by the storm, so young and vibrant, so many chances to grow and learn from mistakes, to have that chance ripped away. The chance to see your children grow up, to see your brother again, your father, your mother.

It’s agony sometimes to see all the lost opportunities I’ve had throughout my life to support them. My family. I didn’t, you know. I just didn’t. Now that I see what a crucial role that family and friends play in a life disrupted by sickness and loss I am ashamed to say I didn’t know. But now I do.

All I can offer now is a chance to help you by sharing what I’ve learned this past year.

Women have a 1 in 38 chance of getting uterine or endometrial cancer. If you have ANY bleeding whatsoever after menopause, it needs to be evaluated. It’s a straightforward check up. They believe that before menopause, taking birth control pills will reduce your chances of contracting these forms of cancer. There are other health risks associated with the use of any kind of hormone treatment and this is something you need to discuss with your gynecologist. Be aware that family practice doctors are not educated in women’s health very thoroughly. Don’t make my mistake and listen exclusively to them. Find and establish a relationship with a gynecologist, if you don’t already have one, after you are 40. It’s extremely important that you recognize early signs and symptoms of something gone wrong. You can save yourself and your family heartache and, potentially, loss, by simply becoming familiar with these signs. Please do it. Don’t let embarrassment and ignorance drive you down the road I’ve been on. It’s a terrible path that I would spare you.

There is some scientific evidence that curcumin and turmeric are excellent at reducing C125 levels in men and women. Make yourself familiar with this ugly little root. It can be a lifesaver. Familiarize yourself with routines that include familiarity with your body and what you can do. If you notice swelling in your lower abdomen, shortness of breathe, heaviness in your legs, exhaustion and/or bleeding or spotting GO see your gynecologist, not your family doctor.

I just got out of my appointment. I am not ‘clean’. My marker is elevated, still, but going down, slowly down. I don’t have to go back to chemotherapy. No more dense dose chemo. Do you know how that makes me feel? I can go back to work on Oct 1st! Do you know how long I’ve waited to hear that? I’m healing. And I want to thank you.

I’ve tried to heal my spirit on this blog. To release some of the demons that have plagued me for the last year, not always successfully. Many times I’ve just cried. Sat and cried my eyes out, realizing what I’ve lost.

And what I’ve gained.

You.

Be Kind to Strangers: Day One

It’s all good!

http://www.gofundme.com/3yfbqg

Today was my Be Kind to a Stranger day.

It’s a lot harder than you think. Especially when you look like I do. I look like I have cancer and I have people pushing and shoving to get a chance to be helpful. To be nice to me. To let me in front of them in the supermarket line up.

It got to be a comedy routine.

At Safeway, The bag boy carried my groceries out and wouldn’t even let me take the one with the bread in it.

Another girl who worked there saw me staring into the refrigerated case with weird juice in it. The kind that looks horrible and sounds worse. Kombucha Mushroom Mango Life Restoring Organic Reawaken Revitalize juice with chia seeds. Or something brown. A bad brown. And the label assures you that there is NO SUGAR. It’s ALL Green. It has Benefits. I don’t even have benefits anymore so I was thinking ‘hmmm….’ She offered to get me a case of it from the back. In an effort to be kind, I bought one. Fortunately, they were out of the Kombuca Mushroom flavor….but it’s on order.

Then there was the tiny little lady, about 93, who saw me getting laundry soap and offered to put it in the cart for me. She looked pretty good, though. I almost let her.

I went for a stagger along Winslow Way, our main drag, all 3 blocks of it, and couldn’t find a single person to be kind to. Everyone was perfectly happy and didn’t seem to need any kindness. I sat and drank a weird juice, the chia seed one, which was actually pretty good (97% Kambocha) but had a strange texture, like tiny little balls of jello were in it.

I had nothing to do now that my grocery shopping was done. No one was crying or even looking pensive. Lots of healthy, happy people walking in the sun. Cute kids all over the place eating ice cream cones and not even dropping them so I could get them another one. I briefly considered taking one off a kid and throwing it on the pavement so I could, but decided against it.

I went to the local espresso joint and got mobbed by people trying to be nice to me. Offering me their table, newspaper, water, a ride on a unicorn…what the hell?! I just wanted to help them. Be nice to them. Then it hit me. Oh…

I WAS being nice to them. By being there and letting them be nice to me. It was a strange feeling. Again. It’s not easy letting people help you. It’s a lot easier to help than to be helped. So I took the high road. I took the newspaper too.

http://www.gofundme.com/3yfbqg

Trying to be kind…

Thank you, Mr. Mandela

The deck

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

 

Nelson Mandela

 

This made me cry. I am not certain if I wept for shame or from joy. 

 

Can I stop?

 

I grew up when cynicism was the fashion but it was a suit that never fit me. I lived as if I were going to find my other half and be whole. I felt as if I would never find that in myself. It was crazy to feel that way. To hide everything that meant anything to me. 

 

Now that I am beginning another round of chemotherapy, I am beginning to suspect that this is my way of telling myself to start NOW. Start admitting that I’ve been unhappy and that I’ve repressed myself and that I want things to be different.  

 

So I have to start. I have to get over all the losses in my life. 

 

I have to accept that I have to shine. Work harder. Be a better friend. Find something I love and really work at getting it. 

 

I am sick. I need to heal my spirit or I will not beat this. Pain and weakness are no excuse. I want to laugh again. I want to laugh so hard I cry. I want to look forward to something and get it done. Not just a vacation. I can live without that. I’m going to have to, it looks like. 

 

But I can’t live without looking forward to something. Like school. I think I want to go to school. I want to learn something. 

 

What? I don’t even know. 

 

The thing that brought this on was something I saw in a magazine somewhere. They asked a question. ‘What was the best thing that ever happened to you?’ and I couldn’t answer it. 

I sat and thought about it for days. There are things I am grateful for. Things I have done that I am proud of. Things that I have gone through and come out of well. I was strong and I got what had to be done, done. 

 

…but the best thing that ever happened to me?

 

I can’t think of one thing. 

 

So I thought ‘What about the best thing that I made happen?’

 

My flower garden. My happy cats. My good job and the work I do there. 

I made those things happen. They are small. But they are mine. 

 

Now I need a goal. I want to make things happen. Start small and work my way up to something meaningful. 

 

Today. Today I will walk more. My feet are all screwed up but today…I am going to walk around and since there is no end in sight for the pain and I may have to live with it, today is the day I start. 

 

A small start. Maybe I’ll have my brother and Mom over for a bbq and some badminton. I wont play. I won’t set myself up for that kind of failure. But I can cook some burgers and sit in the sun. I can have a laugh. 

 

And I can think about my little light. I can fan that flame. I can get over this. 

 

 

Still here…Searching for my Aplomb.

The Family

Yes, I’m here. Looking for a little poise. My aplomb is intact.

I’ve had a bit of a set back. However, I am descended from strong British Irish American Canadian stock and if ever there was a time for a chin up, bear it with a smile and go ahead, I’m here, I’ll catch up, keep calm and carry on, this is it.

It is my white bloody blood cell count again. Way too low, they stopped chemo. No more transfusions. I was feeling very sick. But it’s alright, it’s done now. I didn’t need anymore. And I bought my nurses the BEST gifts. You ladies out there, and maybe some of the guys, will appreciate how wonderful it feels when you get everyone the exact right thing. It’s a great feeling. Unfortunately, neuropathy is rampant and treatment isn’t working very well. Whatever…

It’s all good!

It’s my feet. They are not functioning properly and I can’t have that. So I decided, unwisely as it turns out, to celebrate my last chemotherapy regardless, who wouldn’t, right? I’d just be careful.

Right. So I went to an auction, I love a good auction and we needed some things-well, we did once we saw them there.

Fancy hat could fix me right up…

I felt good. Really. But here’s the facts, it was really hot, I shouldn’t have been on my feet that long, I was tempted and succumbed and I’m not a bit sorry.
I found my little dream car. I can drive again, soon. Road trip here I come.
It’s a Subaru. It has reverse. (I can hear the cheering) I used the rent money (the cheering dies down) but that’s okay because I can make it up by penny pinching for the next couple months. It is a nice little Subaru.

1994 Subaru-all mine

I feel great about that.

On my way out of the auction I injured my right foot badly enough that my sister almost fainted. It was bleeding fairly badly and I started laughing because after all, what are the odds AND I was freaked out AND I had no bandages AND the First Aid tent was way the hell and gone over there on the other side of the school.

Screw it. I was going home, deal with it there. I am not sick anymore. I am well. Damned if I’m not! I had to drive my new little car-which I am christening the Old Bat Mobile because I am an old bat now, (can I get a hallelujah?) and it was great. What’s a little blood. Laugh if you don’t want to cry (and you’re not at a funeral.) I laughed and laughed. I told my sister jokes and I got all my stuff home and I got my poor right foot all bandaged up, with neosporin and hydrogen peroxide and hibaclins and bandages. Hurts like hell, I tore the big toe nail pretty much off.

But the other one (seriously?) the left one had to act up all of a sudden, out of sympathy, maybe? Anyway, last night it went haywire and swelled up. I am now relegated to bed, feet -yes, both of them- elevated and it’s hotter than hell outside.

It’s time to celebrate…

YEE haw!

Me and Hugo last year

Canada Day on July 1st AND July 4th, Independence Day, fireworks, bbq’s, parties, bar hopping, dancing, eating, badminton, the beach bonfire waiting for the fireworks….

Beergardens+Mom+Me and Chubaca

blast it! I stopped myself from using strong language…just barely. But here I am. In bed for my own good. It’s sweltering in here.

I’m supposed to be on a float July 4th and I’m going to be. I’ll get better.

I have felt terrible for the past couple of weeks. It’s blood count crap…but I can face this, THIS i understand. Bloody swollen, torn up feet.

I can do this. With aplomb. I spent the day drinking green tea and planning a fabulous red, white and blue outfit, complete with hat. While lying on my back. With blurry vision. And numb fingers. And no energy…I’m going to show this son of a bitch cancer how it’s done in the Thompson/Davidson clan.

You CAN’T STOP me! I’m done with chemotherapy, how dare you try and wreck my celebration?!

Screw you, cancer. I’m going with a walker and a fabulous dress and if i have to use a wheelchair i will. And that’s that!

But I miss my fabulous shoes…

The Courage to be a Coward

The Friday morning commute to chemotherapy

My posts are intermittent lately because, I don’t mind telling you, I feel like crap. Truly. It’s getting harder and harder. I just want to admit to you all that I am a coward and I am admitting it, here and now. I tell myself I only have a few more to go. I am ready for some good news. I really am. I tell myself that I deserve it. I did everything right and that means I should be rewarded, right?

But it’s not like that with cancer. You can’t hope that it’s going to ‘be nice’ because you did all the right things. It’s not like a diet, where you eat the right things and exercise and you lose weight. No. There is no telling how this is going to go. I’m in a car, buckled into the back seat, blindfolded and I don’t know the driver. But he’s a drunk bastard.

I was hoping to think about everything tomorrow. To write about Europe, because today sucks so badly. But then I thought maybe I’ll write it out. Get it out, but ya know what? To hell with stress…I don’t believe in it. This thing they call ‘stress’? This is my life. It’s not stress, it’s living.

I was stressed about my pets. All 3 of them, two cats and my dog, they’re all dead. If that kind of stress isn’t enough to just carry you off on a flood of tears, like some Alice in Wonderland version of Ophelia, then stress has sweet fuck all to do with whether or not I am cured.

I hear about stress. I hear about how cancer people shouldn’t be stressed and yet I live in a very stressful house, find myself in the most stressful situations, poor and flooded with paperwork and I’m sick as hell and it hasn’t killed me yet. So…

…Things are going to be different. For better or worse, this kind of stress has reached critical mass and I no longer give a hoot-to put it politely. I am going to start, in the words of Tim McGraw was it?, to “Live Like You were Dying.” I really don’t care for that song, but whatever, I’m there now.

I plan my days carefully while I’m lying in bed. Going to get a cup of tea, not too hot, because it hurts my mouth. Seeing how my drawing goes (not too good-but maybe a different style will come out of this.) My writing…drink tea. Look out the window at summer. It’s here. Listen to the silent house. Just the sound of the fish tank pump kicking in, a bird call. Silence. Cars and trucks driving by. The chickens start a fight. Silence. It makes me wonder why I stressed out. I have nothing to lose. My life is not important. It isn’t even lived lately. And I’ve had such a wonderful, interesting, fulfilling life, with so much love and beauty.

I’ve seen Halley’s Comet rising from the ends of the earth from Joshua Tree Nat’l Monument. Just me and the geeks from Cal Tech, Harvard, MIT and Stanford. I watched it and we drank and danced and THAT alone was a night to make all the rest of my life worth living. Even when the guys from Norton Air Force Base did a low flyover at first light. I thought the frickin’ comet had hit the earth but it was just a bunch of pilots 30′ above our heads in their F14’s. Ha fuckin’ ha guys…very funny.

I’ve seen David Bowie, The Stones, Springsteen and The Who. I saw U2 play on top of the roof in downtown LA and my boss almost fired me when I ran out to see them. I said go ahead, I’ll be back in 1/2 hour. Music, I’ve seen so much good music. I saw Benny Goodman play with Joni Mitchell at the Hollywood Bowl.

I’ve met Steven Hawking and Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. I met Chuck Yeager! I shook the hand of the man who broke the sound barrier. His hand! I’ve drank with Ann Miller and I still think watching her dancing to Shakin’ the Blues Away from The Easter Parade is one of my favorite tap dance routines.

Ann Miller

I ate in the same restaurant, at the same time as Fred Astaire, at Ma Maison and almost passed out I was so excited. My blase date was mortified when I forgot where I was and gushed to the waiter. This yahoo, who was supposed to be a sophisticated architect, couldn’t understand why I was so excited to see that little old man (his words!) I ordered a double Mai Tai just to annoy him. In the best French restaurant in Los Angeles and I think our waiter was a fan of Mr. Astaire’s, too. It came with an umbrella and an orchid (a frickin’ ORCHID!? Where the HELL did they get an orchid?)and it was so beautiful that heads turned, including Mr. Astaires, as it came to the table.

I shook Katherine Hepburn’s hand and I’ve eaten dinner with Barry Gordy. I’ve toasted with Milton Berle and made him grin and had a very famous man pinch my bum and laugh when I slapped him. Actually we both laughed.

I’ve been a waiter, a bartender, a postal clerk, a cook, an accountant, a construction worker, a barista, a bouncer, a manager, a clerk and a housewife.

I’ve picketed for unions, marched for civil rights, women rights and acted as escort to women trying to enter abortion clinics. I proudly spit at those evil men who were trying to force women to step into the gutter to get into the clinic. I’d do it again. I’ve been arrested, sorry Donofalltrades, it was for littering and thats another story, beat up and slapped around and not once did I lay down and cry about it. I got up, sometimes dizzy, sometimes bleeding but I got up-and usually went home, cleaned up and went out dancing.

I’ve lived in Hollywood

and in Canal Flats (pop.900)

Canal Flats

I’ve swam in glacier lakes and oceans and rivers and streams and I’ve jumped bonfires and fell asleep in the desert with nothing but my sand covered lover in my arms.

I didn’t stress out.

I’ve figured out stress management. Just accept that my life is crap right now, it has been for quite a while and I am not going anywhere. The part that I miss? It’s the courage with which I faced my day. Every day I did it. I faced things and I smiled at adversity and all that shit. Courage. I wish I could just scoop some up and eat it. I’d like to roll in it, like it was a glittering silver sand, douse myself in it. I imagine it as a warm golden syrup that absorbs into your skin leaving you glowing, brave, warm and ready to face the world-and the stress it generates.

I don’t have much courage left right now. I just don’t care as much as I used to. That courage I had has seeped away. It has been replaced with some kind of ‘reality’. One that leaves me lying in bed and trying to find the stupid courage to not lie. Not to myself, not to my family, not to my friends. But I’m a coward. I’m so incredibly tired of this. I’ve had such a good life. I need to be done with this and heal and I really really really need a vacation. To gird my loins and marshal my forces and assemble the generals and address the troops.

‘Never interupt your enemy when he is making a mistake.’ N. Bonaparte

I want courage to fall in love again.

I want to have the courage to own a dog again. That will be hard. I really miss Haida. I wish I had gotten him when I was healthy, not like this. I saw him born. I didn’t know what a shitstorm was about to rain down on me. Haida was only 2,almost 2. It was his birthday on June 16th. He loved me. Even when I was sick. He saved my stupid life and I couldn’t return the favor. He never saw the good side of me. He only really knew me when I was sick. I can throw the hell out of a ball. I can run in the sand. I can take him to the Redwood Forest. I could have done all this with him. I could have.

Haida

I want courage. This is breaking me.
The courage to face what they tell me. Whatever it is. The courage to face a short life. Or a long life.

Haida is Gone…

Haida at a hat party.

My dog is gone.

Last seen May 27th, at 8am, running into the bushes behind the house to retrieve a football. Today it will be two weeks. I’ve spent the ensuing days searching for him. I’ve done everything, including keeping my hopes up and thinking positive and looking and looking and driving around and looking and putting up posters and talking to people.

Please do not condole with me. Please just accept that this post is a lousy one, that my dog is gone, like my kittens, and that I am hoping that by putting this out there it will stop hurting me so badly.
I know you feel for me. That’s accepted. I really couldn’t feel worse at this moment so I am not going to read any comments attached here or come back and look at this post. I’ve spent the past two weeks thinking positive and I was so sure I would get him back for the first 5 days. Then hope turns to doubt. Then the worry turns to agony. And you stop believing and start thinking horrible things. I can’t look at pictures of him yet.

I watched him be born. I could hold him in my hand. I taught him to play games. He was really smart. He learned ‘Target’ where I would put a plate or a toy or anything on the ground and point to it and say ‘This is your Target’ then I would walk away and he would be bouncing around, excited, and I would call him over and have him sit and then I would say ‘Go see your Target’ and he would run over and touch it with his paw. He learned that game so fast. It was a good one cuz we could play it in the house. I would put his target down and go into another room and say ‘Go see’ and then we would both run over to whichever room it was in because sometimes he would just tap in the direction of the target, he wouldn’t touch it. That was cheating. So he would smile at me, he knew he was supposed to touch it, just trying it on to see if I would let it slide this time. He had learned all silent hand signals for ‘sit’, ‘stay’, ‘come’ and ‘go see’ which meant he could go see the people or dogs he wanted to go see at the beach or where ever. He learned voice command by the time he was 2 months old. Sometimes I would be feeling horrid because of the chemo and he would lay his head on the bed and sigh really loud. Just staring at me and looking so worried. He would bring me things to make me feel better. Gross dog things. His drooly toys, his bone, his deflated football…

his chewed up bone, sure fix to make me feel better

How do you get over these things? It’s so wrong. I had good numbers and now my white blood cell count is so low they are thinking of stopping or delaying chemotherapy. That was my good news yesterday. I was boarderline so they gave me it…and now we are waiting and seeing and I can’t help them because I am so stressed out and unhappy. But I can’t keep on like this.

I have run out of pre-written travel posts. I have to write about other things and start to accept this. I just feel like I’m letting him down.
I’m never going to give up, though. Never. I’m going to write about other things and when I go out for my daily drive to find Haida I will put up more flyers and do my crying then.

I will never give up hope. He might come back, but after two weeks, I no longer believe he will. Someone had him or he’s dead. I hope it’s a nice someone but frankly, who would steal someones pet dog. He was wearing tags etc…he’s dead or someone horrible who would steal a dog has him. Oh god…no. I can’t think of it. He’s probably dead or something…right?

I’m not the only one who misses him. Otis is Haida’s brother and he is partially blind. He used Haida as a seeing eye dog and frankly it was because of the bond between the two that I chose to keep Haida. That and because I loved him so. And Otis needed him. Now, Otis lies on the floor at the foot of my bed and chews all his fur off. I can’t make him stop except by putting vile lotion on it and he hates it and now he cringes when he sees me. If I take him out he runs in circles. If I take him to the beach he digs a hole in the sand and lies in it until we leave. It’s breaking my heart. I can’t be his eyes.

Otis is very sad

They were never too far from each other.

Vanished like Shizuka. I’ve resigned myself to her loss, as I’ve done with Maru. At least I could bury Maru. At least I have certain knowledge of where she is and what happened to her. Horrid knowledge. But I accepted it. With tears. To this day. I cry.

Maru

But when you lose a pet and you can’t FIND her. When she gets out a screened window and you never see her again, you wonder. Every day you ask yourself what happened. Was it fast? Did it hurt? Was she scared? Is she still out there? Is she lost? Hungry? Does someone have her? Maybe she has a better home. Maybe she is alive and well. Maybe…
but you know she isn’t. And you wonder…again. Was it fast…

Shizuka

Now my dog is gone.

Haida and my nephew

Where is he? Why is this happening to me? Why are my pets disappearing?

Swimming at the beach. He loved the beach.

I have put up signs, I have posted his picture on line, I’ve gone to the SPCA. Where is my DOG!? WHAT HAPPENED!!! I’m totally not equipped to deal with this right now. He was the reason I got out of the house. I have to take Haida for a walk. I have to take Haida to the Commons for a biscuit. Haida needs to go to the dog park, the beach, the library the market the ice cream store he was my dog. He was my dog. Haida went everywhere with me. If I started the car he got in. There was no question of leaving him beind. Ever. Except now he’s left me behind.

Haida wondering why we haven ‘t gone to the beach yet.

So you ask yourself was it fast? Did it hurt? Was he scared? Is he hungry? Is he out there? Where is my Haida pup?

Why is this happening to me? Why?

My Favorite Number

Here is some great news.

My C125 count is down to 248. To put that in perspective, when I was hauled into the hospital back in January it was over 9000.

Chemotherapy is working-I could have told them that just based on the side effects, frankly.

I went to see a doctor, still don’t have just one doctor, they share me, and she looked at my chart, rather puzzled, and said ‘Do you want to know your numbers?’ I was with my Mom, who wanted to know the numbers. I could tell. So for the first time I said yes. Hit me with some digits.

248

Pretty good number. I didn’t want to know my numbers because this isn’t about numbers for me. IT’s a day to day, get through it, don’t play games, age is not a number and neither is cancer reality for me. I will not care about those kinds of numbers until they are zero for 5 years.

That’s my kind of number. Don’t get me down, telling me they are UP this week or DOWN this week or steadily going UP or steadily going DOWN or whatever. That’s depressing and debilitating. If they are good enough for my doctor and she is satisfied with my course of treatment and am contributing and participating through eating well and getting exercise and staying positive then I am happy.

My number is ONE. Just one more day. I’ll take it. One more day to throw a ball really hard. One more day to sit in a cafe and drink espresso and write. One more day to walk up that steep hill to Vito’s and sit and listen to that cool quartet and drink martini’s at happy hour. One more day punching the clock at 5 am and getting the shop open and being ready and happy to see my customers lining up. One more day of irritation and laundry, trying to pay rent and bills, borrowing money I can’t pay back. Yet. But guess what? I’ll take it. Even one more crappy day. And I’ll look forward to the good days. The days of camping and cookouts and dinner parties and dancing at the casino…

One more Friday with Michele and the Girls drinking and talking. One more week of vacation to ride the train to San Francisco. One more birthday cake. One more Christmas. One more Spring. One more Summer. And I’ll wish for that for the rest of my life. Just one more of EVERYTHING. It’s not much.

I know it’s not much because I have things I want that I can’t have ever. I can face that too.

Maru and Shizuka

I want my kittens back. And that’s not going to happen. So you take something like that and you make it the lowest low. It was for me. That was awful it’s the worst thing that’s happened this year. Not getting cancer. Seeing your kitten get run over. Having the other disappear. Within weeks. That’s the worst because you can’t DO anything about it.

Cancer? That I can do something about. I can fight and scream and kick. I can cry and be brave and fake it and pretend I am stronger than I am. That the side effects aren’t that bad. I can do this…but I can’t stop missing my kittens. I can’t stop seeing Maru in my arms. It hasn’t been that long I guess. I am allowed to grieve. And I still have Mr Jones and Ryka. I can keep them safe. I can still pet them and love them.

Yes. Things are good. My numbers are good. I can still be sad and cry but the tears end. This will end.

This will be one more good day.

Ramblings…it’s the Drugs. I don’t expect ANYONE to read this. I’m afraid of the word count.

So, I’m going to apologize in advance for the length. I am just pretending that someone is sitting here letting me talk their ear off. Some of you read my post yesterday and I have to say it was a good feeling to be able to say what I said.

It goes against the grain for me. I had to force myself to complain. To whine. I usually just internalize it – a little – and decide how to gone on. That’s why I called this blog Kicking and Screaming. It used to be Whining as well but I took that out when I realized my title was running into 2 paragraphs. No. I started this so I could complain and no one who knew me would know what a coward I was. What a complainer and a totally mean and bitchy whiner I was. I usually would channel this stuff into other outlets. All I needed to do was prioritize. What has to be done right now. What can be done tomorrow. How do I do this without troubling people? God forbid anyone feel sorry for me. I have my pride, right?

So wrong…on so many levels.

First off, thanks to the wonderful person who responded to my whining, no. I’m not going to call it that anymore. It’s not in the title. I’ve learned my lesson. The person, the lady in all senses of the word, who responded with a list of things I can do for myself. I wrote some things down which made me feel good. I took notes, people!

I did well at chemotherapy and the nurses were all in fine form. We were sharing YouTube videos and horrid tattoo websites and laughing so hard I had to sit down.

I got there early and was able to start early and we caught the 1:00 ferry home. I bought the dog food and cat food and milk for tea. I went to HelpLine House and got 2 eggplants and tomatoes and pears. Fantastic.

I’m all jacked up on dexamethasone so there will be no sleep tonight. That’s okay. I’m used to it. Saturday is my sleeping in day. These Friday posts are a reflection of the drugs. A little disjointed. A way to keep myself company without relying on surfing the internet.

Surfing. I am a terrible surfer. I wrote a stern letter to our Senators from Washington and our Congressman regarding gun control and the filibuster. I went to some political sites and some health related sites and, in a totally mean spirited way, I made fun of the people who were just asking for it. In my opinion.

Because who wants to spend hundreds of dollars a year on Sharpies?

or what about this brilliant job…I think face tattoos are the worst and this guy? well…just in case he ever got out or wanted a job…now there is no need for a background check, right?

Yep, he’s a keeper!

Oh boy, two in the morning…

I look like crap and I’m trying to get used to the looks I get. I forget sometimes that I look sick. People look sorry. Not mean or even curious. Just sad. Sorry. I wonder why they look at me and their eyes slide up or over and then I remember.

Oh. Right. I look like a cancer person. Bald and eyebrows and lashes going. I look like that. hmmm…I try and smile if I can catch their eye in time. I’m okay. Don’t feel bad. Smile at me. It’s not catching.

It was weird in the supermarket today. I am so easily distracted and, like I said, I don’t get out much so when I do…I didn’t want to stop. Mom kept giving me Purell for my hands and I know she was worried a bit. But I have to use my brain. Doctors and Nurses orders. So there I was with Mom who could have gotten and paid for everything in 15 seconds and I was staggering around going

‘Wait…wait…okay. Hold on. Don’t say anything. What aisle is this? No. I can’t go down the soap aisle. It smells. ooh look, sausage. Wait…don’t tell me. I’m getting some…Corn?! It’s corn season?! Where is this corn from? Aren’t bananas pretty? Wait…don’t tell me. DOG FOOD. We’re here for dog food. What aisle is this? Did I bring my coupon? Should I buy a lotto ticket? I have a dollar. Wait…where are we? ooh look is that a free sample of sausage?

Poor Mom.

Rose, my favorite nurse, told me I have to read. Follow things on TV and understand them. Bleh. I watched a not very good, really really LONG movie. I was so mad. Everyone says this is a MUST SEE. It’s an essential movie. It’s pivotal. So I watched Giant. I was terrified it would never end. That I had died in the chair and my hell was going to be watching this never ending movie. 3 hours and 49 minutes. God I hate tv sometimes. Watching Liz Taylor ham it up. I could see Grace Kelly in that role. And maybe..oh whats the use, but damn it that role was so wrong for Liz Taylor. And not even using Sal Mineo. Although seeing him standing there next to Rock Hudson was funny. The two most flamboyant gay guys in Hollywood. hee hee…And Dennis Hopper? Really? In a Gee Dad gosh I wanna be a doctor role? arrghh…I kept seeing him in Blue Velvet. It was such a good book. They killed the best, most complex character, Luz Benedict, early on.

I thought Alec Guinness. You can’t go wrong…I’ll watch Our Man in Havana. Is it me?! That movie wasn’t funny. Now the one with him as the leader of the gang and they move into that old ladies house…what was that called? Hilarious…

God I was mad last night. Sitting on that sofa like a true sci fi geek and watching Giant. Watching a bad movie and it was Star Trek ‘Into Darkness’ opening night and I am a big fan of Star Trek. Well, I loved the tv series. And I even liked the movies, at the time. Now I watch The Wrath of Khan and I wince. And that’s considered the best one. It was great at the time though. And this new series with what’s his name and you know who, the first film in this new series was really good. So pissed. They had all the old movies on. Wrath of Khan. Star Trek V. Oh that was bad…

‘Written by Shatner. Directed by Shatner. It’s a big pile of Shatner. This was supposed to be the capstone to the big-screen Trek enterprise, at least for the original crew, wherein they went searching for God. Literally. On a god-planet. That nobody can go to except it’s easy to get there. Oh, and Spock suddenly has a brother, who’s a space-televangelist. And we learn McCoy killed his dad. And Uhura has the hots for Scotty. And Jim Kirk wants his pain. He needs his pain! Apparently, the actor playing Kirk thought we all needed his pain, too, creating the film against which all badness is measured.’

Just the best bad review ever. I remember walking out of that movie going ‘WTF?!’

And Star Trek; Generations? Oh god…I watched that in lieu of Into Darkness tonight so I was just sitting there FUMING.

The central plot device of the film — a time warp of giddiness called The Nexus — works only because the main characters are idiots. You can’t fly a ship into The Nexus because it’ll blow up the ship? But isn’t that how Dr. Soren got there in the first place? And who cares if the ship blows up so long as you get to where you’re going? And if you leave The Nexus, you can go anywhere, anywhen, so why does Picard jump back to a time when Soren already has the advantage, rather than go back to, say, a week ago when he had a full security detail and just arrest the jerk? (And why doesn’t Kirk go back to his time and stop Soren then, and also pick up where his life left off?) This is why Trekkies can’t have nice things.

But now we can. That’s right, we got some good actors. They blew up Vulcan. That’s right. Every time I think of the fact that they got rid of all that weird shit by the simple expedient of just changing the whole time/space thing and turning Vulcans into an endangered species. It was so shocking. I walked out of that movie thinking…HEY, can they DO that? Can they just kill every single time line and whoa…they did. So cool. All those bad movies I sat through are now gone from the timeline…what a gigantic sigh of relief that was. You aren’t Star Trek fans. I know. I’ve watched that show and it’s spin offs since the 70’s. It was like a huge burden was lifted when they killed every single thing about the old series. Whew.. good. Lets start over and pretend that all that never happened.

And I’m sorry but I LOVE Benedict Cumberbatch. He’s dreamy. The best Sherlock ever. He’s the villain. Can’t wait to see it. Soon. On Tuesday I am going. I got my check today and once I pay the electric bill and get chicken food and hay I have enough left over to see the movie. I am taking my nephews. Not to the 3d version though. I haven’t ever seen a 3d movie and I am afraid it will make me motion sick.

Oh yeah…sunday. Sunday is the fundraiser. God. I don’t know what to do. Here’s my plan.
I’ll walk up and there will be this ENORMOUS silence. Everyone will be wearing cool looking clothes and there I’ll be.

In my blonde Jessica Simpson wig with lipstick on my teeth wearing two big balloons stuffed down the top of my WalMart size 2 electric blue tight tee with the oil stain on the front and a pair of green lace short short shorts. And my sandals. The teal green cork sole high heel sandals. With a hot pink plastic belt and a big RED purse. And a flask. A metal flask with what could only be vodka. I’ll call it ‘tea’. I’ll have a tuna fish sandwich wrapped in squishy plastic wrap. Maybe a couple of hard boiled eggs. Unpeeled, of course. And lots and lots of make up and perfume.

Oh wait…that’s my friend Dharsea who is a model.
HAH!!!

LOTS!

Oh if only…

It’s good for a laugh but I can’t. Can I? Would it be in bad taste? Do I really have to ask that? Wouldn’t it be funny? No. Of course not. I’ll be good. I wish I knew what the sense of humour there is. I mean, it could be my contribution. I’m certain some people from work would laugh their asses off. No. Better not. But the curly wig? Yep. It’s only 8am it’s starting so…maybe just some Bailey’s.

On Monday I am going to be back to the paperchase and I couldn’t be happier. Until I get put on hold by the 7th person and then disconnected and…nah…that couldn’t happen again. Right?

Today is fun friday. I am having fun. Thank you to all of you. Now go and get some balloons and stuff them down your shirt. It’s actually pretty FUN!

The Truth About Me

I’ve been too ill to add to this lately. In other words, I’m really feeling the side effects of having cancer. Not all of them are a result of chemotherapy, surgery or having cancer. Some of them are the result of not being able to speak my mind. I started writing about my trip to Europe and I realized that I was hiding behind that. I want to tell that story, sure. It was a good time in my life and some of it was funny. But that’s not the reason I was writing it…

Too many people who I want to protect, to hide from, to assure and pretend with are reading this. When I write I have to pretend that I’m alright. Pretend it’s not scary. Pretend that all this is temporary. A blip. I’ll get over it.

The problem is that I just can’t seem to find it in my heart to agree.
Some days I just want to write how I feel. But I can’t do it. I can’t scare Mom, Cheryl and god knows who else has this address, this url, this blog spot. I just don’t want to tell everyone how shitty my days are. I wish I’d never given them this address. I wish like hell I only had strangers, and, now that I think of it, not really strangers. THere are people who read this blog that I like and respect. They know who they are.

They don’t worry me and that’s the point. I know they like me, care about me. But they don’t see me. They don’t know me the way my sisters and brothers and Mom does. My family would look at me differently. I don’t want them to. I don’t want them to be sorry. Or sad. I don’t know who else has this that can walk up to me in the street and know my feelings. I don’t know them. Some of the people who belong to Arms Around Bainbridge? My co-workers? It got handed around and now I don’t know. It means I can’t be critical or mad or sorry or sad. I can just be optimistic.

Well, fuck that. I am NOT FUCKING OPTIMISTIC!!!

I don’t think about the cancer often because when I do I freak out. I feel like absolute crap. I have no energy. My legs feel as if they weigh 500lbs. I’m losing my eyelashes and eyebrows and the steroids are making me bloated and fat. I have an 18″ scar to remind me of all the stuff they took out of my abdomen and I’m fish white except for that red red scar. My gums are receding and I’m losing teeth. I have no wind so it’s hard to walk. I look like a monster.

I can’t even draw or write. My handwriting! What happened to my handwriting? I used to have beautiful script. I loved writing. Not typing. I would write and then when it was good I would type if up. Because I love writing. Now my handwriting doesn’t even look like mine. It slants to the right and it’s not neat. I can’t draw either. That was shocking. I used to draw. I loved pen and ink. Now I can’t concentrate. I can’t make straight lines. I start something and it looks like a 10 year old did it. It scares me. If I survive this YES I SAID IF will it come back like my hair? What if it doesn’t? What IF?

So lately I lie there in bed looking out the window and I think of all the scary things and I want to write them down. I take a pen and write and I see my handwriting and it scares me. It makes it worse, being reminded.

I have shitty odds. Women are dying of this every day and I’m not ready. What can I compare it to that isn’t some hackneyed cliche?
Well, guess what? I write. So I can compare it to something and have it come out NOT sounding hackneyed and cliche. But not when I get people who correct me.

“Don’t say that Laura.”
“Oh, you’ll pull through. You’re strong.”
“Try and visualize a positive outcome.”
“Did you hear about _____? Their ____ beat ovarian cancer.”
“Don’t say that. Don’t say negative things. Don’t say anything bad it means we’ll have to think about it. DON’T SAY IT!!! Don’t say it, please pretend with us. Please don’t think about it. okay? Pretend with us that it is imaginary monsters. Please pretend you are alright. That everything is working. That you are the same.”

So can you just stop reading this? Please. I’m asking nicely. My alternative is to stop writing at all. I’ve thought about just changing it. Just take the blog and go somewhere else and not tell them. Not tell anyone. Just for the peace I feel when I write. To have that back.

Go read someone else’s blog. There are so many upbeat people here who truly believe. Who write for the best reasons. I am writing to save my sanity. Most days I DO believe. Really. I think about all the things I want to do, to change, to try, to really TRY this time. But that’s not all the time. Sometimes, when I can’t get up without breathing hard, I DONT NEED YOUR SYMPATHY. I don’t need your worry. I JUST want to get through the day, that hour, that minute. That’s all I want. So please anyone who knows me, who see’s me…stop. Stop reading this. I don’t want to lose this.