Who can claim they see the reality!

I look for this post, always worried about this lovely young woman, she writes so beautifully about her country and her feelings, I wanted to share her words…

Little Miss Marker and the Troll

Little Miss Marker. That’s me.

It’s hard not to think about what’s going on inside me. It’s like being on a road and you know, you absolutely know, that there’s a monster, a troll, hiding somewhere. Crunching rocks, spitting, stupid mean, it’s my monster. I can walk slowly or recklessly fast. I can put on the flashlight or walk in the darkness. It doesn’t matter. There’s a monster on the road ahead.

From the Norwegian movie Trollhunter – see it if you can. It’s really good.

I like to think I’m getting better but the fact is that this is a chronic condition. It will never go away. I carry the marker. The fucked up strand of DNA that allowed the beast to incubate. It was the little marker that I lived with all my life. The sign. I lived in ignorance and bliss. Little Miss Marker was there. I didn’t know.

I can see her. Sometimes I picture her so I can destroy her. I can’t ignore the fact of this monster. I know now. She’ll never go away.

Today was so beautiful. The leaves are changing here in the Pacific Northwest. The sky is full of towers of clouds in every shade of soft gray and pale blue, with distant glimpses of white buried deep inside. Grey the colour of the ash of a hot fire. Ponderous moving pillars that tear apart stickily to show a sky that was a blue that isn’t cerulean, it isn’t deep, powder blue, or pink. It’s all that. Hail turned the road white this morning, pinging, then ripping and pounding and, finally, ticking ticking on the car. I drove out of it. It was like an invisible wall. Hail. Then nothing. A dry road ahead. I drove with my windows down, I like that. The feel of the rain and hail blowing into the car. The sound. The wind had picked up and I could feel it, smell it, blowing along the pavement. Sweeps of leaves, the trees were roaring. It sounded like the ocean. A red and gold and green ocean.

And I can’t help thinking that this will all be here next year. But maybe I won’t be. All the things I love will be here and all my past will disappear in a gulp. Some pictures left. Some stories that people tell even though it hurts to remember what happened.
A couple of times, every so often, people will raise a glass and say ‘Here’s to Laura. She was…’ Whatever they’ll say. It doesn’t matter to me. The only thing that matters is ‘was’. She was.

This morning I woke up and I was afraid. I drank tea and read some blogs and answered some emails and made an appointment with the acupuncturist…I stood leaning out my bedroom window, looking at the rain coming down, watching out for the big spider that is living in the corner of the frame. I don’t mind her. She’s just trying to survive. My cat, Mr. Jones, came and sat with me on the window ledge, watching the rain. He was purring. I like the way he smells. He smells like flowers. He doesn’t mind when I bury my face in his fur.

I decided to get out. Drive somewhere. I like driving. I put on Hank Williams and sang along with every track. I know every word to every song. All 24 of them. I went to the Goodwill and bought a sweater and a big plate. We don’t need big plates but I bought it because I liked the fish painted on it. It was only 5$. I went to Sears to pick up a pair of cheap waterproof boots I’d ordered online. They’re too tight but I took them anyway. I don’t know why. I stopped at the outlet grocery store and bought cheese and tin foil. Some organic coconut palm sugar, whatever that is.

Right now I’m sitting in a local dive called Helter Skelter. It’s got a picture of Charles Manson on the marquee and a nicely framed picture of him with the swastika carved into his forehead right inside the door. It’s next to a tattoo parlour. It looks scary but the logo was what made me stop the first time I saw it. I thought ‘They’ve gotta be kidding.’ The owner said the name and the Charles Manson logo keeps out the straight people. The un fun crowd who care about things like that. Ha. He’s right. This is a working class place. Its full of nice blue collar guys. I buy football squares here. Drink a beer with the regulars. Sit and write when I’m alone. Try not to think. Listen to the guys cussing and swearing and laughing about someone almost capsizing their boat last weekend, the problems with the fishing industry, the shipyard and whether it’s hiring, cooking for the kids. Nice, manageable problems. No monsters here.

Except Charlie.

I have to go home. I can’t sit here much longer. The ipad is losing juice and so am I. I like to think I’m going to stay here for a couple or three hours, drinking, talking, writing, but that’s not going to happen. I’m sick. I tire easily. My feet are on fire from neuropathy. I am tired. I have to fight even when I don’t want to. I want peace. Quiet. But I won’t stop fighting. The only thing I have is my rusty bent coat hanger. Like that girl in the movie. Like that post I wrote back when fighting this was easy. I’ve got to get away. Use whatever I can. Escape the monster and run away.

Screw all this. Being afraid of the CT scan, what the blood tests say, whether I’m doing everything I can. I don’t want to admit that even changing the sheets on my bed tires me out. Work is harder than I thought it was going to be. The whole year is shot. This time last year I was so sick. We were moving. It was a nightmare. At least I thought it was. I was wrong though. That wasn’t the nightmare…it was just gathering steam.

Fuck.

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.

“Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today is a gift. That’s why we call it the present.” ― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

Why does kindness make you cry? Why do I cry when I should laugh and smile?

It was one of those days. We all have them. Just one little thing after another, building up, until you just want to scream. Little things.

The mop head broke off. The top to my coffee pot is missing. I decided to make tea and the tea bag broke in the pot so I got a mouthful of leaves. I tipped a container of garlic, chopped garlic, a big container, over. Yes. Right in the fridge. Why wasn’t the lid properly screwed on? Because I was probably in a hurry last time I used it. So I had to take everything out and clean the fridge. It still smells of garlic. I locked Otis out of the house by accident, I didn’t know he’d followed me outside when I went to unlock the henhouse this morning. There was poor Otis, in a total downpour, raining buckets, thunder in one continual loop, booming overhead, and Otis was outside the whole time. We don’t even have a roof overhang for him to shelter under. He was scared and soaked. Nice work, Laura!

Otis is very sad and I did it.

(this picture was taken right after he had a bath and climbed on my bed a couple of months ago. I did not take it today while he was so scared. I’m a terrible person, but not THAT terrible.)

I dried him off, he was shaking with fear and kept his eyes locked on mine as if to say “Why? Why did you do that? Did I do something wrong?” I felt like a terrible terrible person. I went to let him lie on the bed in the guest room-normally a no no for the dogs-and ran into a huge spider web! Seriously? A spider web. In the house. From door jamb to door jamb. Face level.

How long has it been since I was in the guest room? Too long, I guess. But the million dollar question?

Where the hell was the spider? Was it ON me? OMG…WTF…IT WAS ON ME! “AAIIEEE!!! There’s a spider on my head, I know there is, its crawling on my bald head…it was there a second ago! Now where is it?! There’s a spider on me…”..jump in the shower, turn on the water, get my clothes off ( in that order) I’m certain there is a giant spider on me. There wasn’t. At least I don’t think there was. I think it was an empty web. I hope it was. I’m not afraid of spiders. Seriously. I pick them up and put them outside when I see them, but today? I freaked OUT!

And then I remember Otis. Poor little Otis who can’t see very well. Who I just finished drying off. He thinks I’m mad at him, while I’m screaming and running around like a maniac trying to find the spider. He is now trying to cram himself under the dining room chairs. One after another. He tries the sofa. Doesn’t fit. Tries the chairs again. Laundry room? Can’t hide there. I’m now chasing him all over the house apologizing to him, pleading with him to stop. He keeps running away from me. Lovely. I finally corner him and DRAG him to the guest room. HAUL him onto the bed. He doesn’t want to have anything to do with me. He hides in my closet. I let him be. I’m a terrible person. Just terrible.

Then I hear the doorbell. I was in the kind of mood where I just had to ask “What now?”.

It was a package from Mr. Sugarbear. From a sweet little family somewhere in North Carolina. They sent me dog toys and lip gloss and a lovely scarf. Chocolates and lollipops and a card with some cash.

The card enclosed said ‘Sometimes we all need a care package.’

Today, I needed one. And out of the blue, somehow, Mr. Sugarbear timed it perfectly. It really makes you believe in a Higher Power. But it was the pictures, drawn by her own family, that really got me. Of all 3 of my dogs and me. Even Haida. I just started bawling. It was exactly what I needed.

But to ask again…why do I cry? I just sat there looking at everything spilling out of that box and I cried. I couldn’t help myself. It was so incredibly kind and thoughtful.
I pulled myself together. Gave Otis a blanket so he’d be more comfortable lying on all my shoes, and took off. Wearing my new scarf. Feeling like a brand new person, even with tears in my eyes. I went and bought a new mop. Now I’m sitting Bainbridge Island Bakery, having a biscuit with honey and butter and coffee. It’s stopped raining for the time being. In fact it’s a really beautiful, cloudy day.

It’s a wonderful day!

And I had to ask myself…why do you cry when you’re so happy?

Back in the beginning…

Thank you Mr. Sugarbear and family!

My Love is Killing Me

‘The Water Lilies’
Monet

I just wanted to see the sights. Just wanted to do something. Just something normal.

Walk around. See a city. Plan my day.

With me there is, I admit, a certain desperation when I do this.
A conscious tenacity. A refusal to admit it might be too much. That I pushed too hard today. But I HAD to.

I can’t help it. I have to see it. I know San Francisco isn’t going anywhere and neither am I…but…I have to see it. It’s my favorite city in the world. I grew up in California. We came here for crazy weekends in my 20’s. I lived here in 1967-The Summer of Love, baby! I learned to throw a frisbee in Golden Gate Park, I can’t tell you how much I love this city.

If you’d seen what I had laid out in front of me. What a delicious fantastic brilliant choice. The America’s Cup is still on. I could sit and listen to the drum circle at Hippie Hill in Golden Gate Park. The San Francisco Botanical Gardens, The Musee Mechanique. The Ansel Adams Museum. I could go to Little Italy, Japan Town, the Tenderloin, Castro, Mission, Drive the Golden Gate, visit Napa and Sonoma, head south to Monterey…do so much, if only I had the stamina. If I could do it…I couldn’t. I just can’t do it. So I picked the ONE thing I love the best.

I went to The Legion of Honor

13th century all the way to modern art.

Picasso

Modigliani

El Greco

Bouguereau’s ‘The Broken Pitcher’

The suicide of Lucretia

Which is so beautiful that I had to serch out a photo on line to do it justice…

Joos Von Cleve ‘The Suicide of Lucretia’

Bugatti ‘s ‘Baboon’

I just couldn’t tell you, I can’t show you…you have to see it.

Obviously I couldn’t photograph any of my favorites properly. The colours GLOW! Centuries pass and they still reach out and grab your eyes.

I’m all worn out and PISSED OFF! Why did I take my one vacation in years and years when I am still so messed up? Why didn’t I wait? Why didn’t I wait until I could really see my lovely beautiful San Francisco?

Why? Because its what you do when you’re in love. You rush off half cocked and eager. Just to show your love. San Francisco…you’re killing me, baby.

But I STILL love you!

Sometimes I Think I Am the Cliff

I forgot my cane.

Don’t you hate it when you get somewhere and you realize you’ve forgotten something. I think, in my head, I thought I wouldn’t need it. Really, it’s a positive thing.

It’s hard to walk without it. I feel as if I might tip over. It’s more for balance than anything. So here I am in downtown Orinda sitting under a very lovely tree but sort of, kind of, unable to walk around.

This is a nice town, Orinda. I’m on a real live vacation. Even if I just sit a lot. But sitting? It’s not something I’m given to. The hardest part of my sickness has been being locked into a position of weakness. Mobility is strength and sitting is so anticlimactic. I can only observe.

So here I sit and wonder. Who am I? What a question to ask, so late in life. It’s something I’ve asked more often since…well, that day. January 11th.

I sometimes think that I am what I observe. ‘I observe myself observing what I observe.’ Nothing more. Is it so bad?

Sometimes I think I am like a rock that has chipped off of the cliff wall that is my mother. A scattered fragment, that’s what we all are, her sons and daughters.

So I sit here, lame, broken pieces badly put together. Not enough glue or not the right kind. Pieces of me, sitting there waiting to be put back in the correct spot. The correct way. Observing my failures, my triumphs. Some days it feels right and other days…I am just a piece of something that has more meaning than I can see. At least right now.

I’m like a deadly progression that has become more of a parade. More or less. So I sit here under this tree with my aching feet and my clinging to a cliff face balance, trying to fit myself back in. Join the parade. Stop the deadly progression. Wave a flag, but not that kind of flag. The kind that’s red. Not the kind that signals danger. No, my flag is just a flag. It says ‘I’m here. Come back, don’t leave me. Wait for me. I’m coming, too.’

I’m like the bull. I don’t know why I charge. I don’t. I just do it. I’m charging at everything that scares me. Even if its a leaf, a cloud, the moon…things that shouldn’t scare me. But I don’t want to miss them. If I go, will I miss them? Will I know? When will the fear stop? When will I know? It’s okay to sit. It’s not my last summer. It’s not my last anything.

That’s what I say to myself.

I’m am the cliff face now. I am the cliff. I cannot be broken, not completely broken.

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.

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!

Honesty-and the Side Effects of Being Honest.

Thank you.

You know who you are. You pulled me through (again) and I am grateful and trying to appear as if I am not completely insane or manic or as if I am a lunatic on the verge of nervous prostration.

Let me share, briefly, (oops, it’s long again but I just felt so GOOD talking about it) I swear, what brought on this feeling of despair and you can share how downhearted and depressed and nutty something like this is bound to make you…ready?

First of all, and most importantly, my other kitten died. Maru’s sister Shizuka. She had just turned 2 on May 5th. My sweet little girl. I nicknamed her Perfection, because she was perfect. Always had been. Easy to train, well behaved, pretty and sweet. Perfection.

she love’s the camera…

[caption id="attachment_4293" align="aligncenter" width="808"] Shizuka giving Mr Jones a bath.

I can’t even think of it without crying yet so I am not going to look at the pictures and I am not going to comment on how I feel. I know you can imagine. I tried to keep her in and she was not used to being an indoor cat and she got out. I never saw her again. That was a couple of weeks ago and I have given up hope. Please do not encourage me to keep looking. I have checked every day. I can’t bear to think of losing another cat, never mind that she was Maru’s sister and that I loved them both and promised to take care of them. I totally failed. Enough said.

The other thing is that I have been snowed under by bills. It’s not something I am used to and, frankly, it’s humiliating. I’ve always taken a large part of my self image from my ability to face Life (read: pay my way) No hiding, no wishful thinking. Well, that’s over too. I wish I could hide. (That’s a bad joke…) Still, that’s another thing that I felt I couldn’t write about.

I was worried that if my Mom knew I was worried she would worry…so I tried to hide my worry so she wouldn’t worry.(another bad, yet rather funny, joke.)

I was short on the rent. Humiliation factor is pretty high there. I had to borrow money from someone I hardly know except in a social sense. I couldn’t think of a single person who had $75. Not anyone who I wanted to let know that I was so broke I needed to borrow money. Are you following me? I tried to hide it from my Mom and my sisters and friends. I sat up at night thinking ‘What am I going to DO?!’

This person gave me a personal check and I think they felt sorry for me and THAT just about killed me. I HATE to ask for money and here I am asking a virtual stranger for money, or my rent cheque is going to bounce. It was really nice of that person and I wish they hadn’t told me not to pay them back. SHIT!!! You BET I am going to pay that back. Fuck that. So mad. I paid everything so carefully. I had it all figured out and I forgot about the car insurance and it came out automatically and BOOM I was going to bounce the rent check. Which I had already split into two payments without even asking the landlord if it was alright. I just sent him two post dated cheques.

ahhhhhh…

It feels good. Honesty? You want to know? This is my life.

I’m totally broke. I have huge issues with side effects right now, I am only 1/2 way through and I can’t work. Simply getting up is exhausting. My bills are overdue and Puget Sound Energy doesn’t give a rat’s ass if I have cancer. They want $374 RIGHT NOW! When the phone rings, it’s a bill collector. So I don’t answer the phone. I creep over and look at it, waiting for the answer machine to pick up. I can’t make any more promises about paying bills right now. Sometimes it’s not a bill collector. Usually it is.

I am not getting visits anymore from co-workers or even the couple of people who were friends. No one comes over any more. Not to see the bloated bald monster. It was okay when I looked better. They could take pictures and post them somewhere and say they cared. Now? The bill collectors call, mostly from Harrison Medical Center where they took me when this nightmare started. They want $1800 that insurance doesn’t cover. I can’t cover it either. They leave nasty messages. I delete them because there is nothing else I can do. Honestly.

Feeling good people! Not joking here. I can deal with this. Death of a pet, empty fridge, bills over due, rent late, getting threatened with no electricity, stage 4 ovarian cancer, chemotherapy, side effects. Dealing with it. Just like before I got sick. Except it would never have reached this crescendo of shittiness if I were well. Period. I would have been ON TOP OF THIS SHIT and dealing with it. Because that’s what you do, right? You don’t hide, you don’t cry, you don’t pretend…you DEAL WITH IT. I hit bottom asking for the $75. It was the moment I dreaded most. I can’t pay my way.

Honestly?

I am living on $98 in food stamps and the local food bank. The stores aren’t giving up any compostable veggies so my juicing days are over until the garden gets going. I have no gas to go to the food bank. My credit card is maxed out. The dogs have less than 1/2 a bag of food. The chickens, less. The two remaining cats I have are down to crumbs and one can of Friskies.

That doesn’t feel so good, but I can deal with it. I have almost $30 in the bank. That’s a bag of dog food and a bag of cat food. Maybe not the good stuff, but hey…

I CAN DEAL WITH THIS…I made payment arrangements with Puget Sound Energy…(gimme a rimshot on the drums…thank you)

I will have to say good bye to the computer. But all that means is that I write in draft and post all at once on Friday when I go to chemotherapy. And thank you notdownandout, it was a great and timely idea!. TA DAH…(another rimshot, please. Thank you)

And the TV. That’ll have to go. Still, I can go to Mom’s house to watch TV. TA DAH…(rimshot, please. Problem solved)

I feel like Steve Martin in The Jerk (best movie EVER)

‘…And thats ALL I need…this ashtray and this tennis ball and that’s ALL I need…and this statue. This ashtray and this tennis ball and this statue and that’s ALL I need…and this chair…the ashtray, the tennis ball, the statue and the…’ and so on..

I’m going to get through this, pay my bills down and try and keep Mr Jones and Ryka and Haida alive. Just for today. Please let me keep the pets I have left. Tomorrow will come. I’ll deal with the next crisis and keep my pets alive…just for today. Please.

Oh…and some gas. That would be awesome.

OH…ummm…listen. I hate to ask but what about a couple of tickets to the Star Trek ‘Into Darkness’ movie that came out today? I’ve been REALLY looking forward to it and I saved that money so I could go…no?

Okay…I’m going to sulk in my room.

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.