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.

I Did It

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

The ‘real’ albeit temporary, me.

I finally had to do it. I had to ask.

A prayer from the heart is gratefully accepted as well.

I’m sorry to say that the past couple of treatments have left me worse than ever BUT…I’m still standing. I’m still here and I’m still fighting.

I am going to go on vacation. Really. I’m going to my brothers house and I’m going to shake this feeling off and I’m going to have fun. See my nieces and nephew.

Try to start to live again. I signed up for a program called go fund me to help me pay my bills. I have lost quite a lot of flexibility financially. What a funny way to put it. I’m SO broke and now, me and the dogs and the cat all eat the same thing. Rice, hamburger and carrots all cooked until edible. Very tasty. I can’t buy dog food with my food stamps so they get to eat people food. The cat is NOT thrilled.

Trying to find support is not easy for me or any sick person. There are a lot of organizations out there, but they are inundated with requests. My voice is not heard.

When I feel a little better I will write a longer post.

Love reading yours.

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

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.

“It takes all the running you can do to keep in the same place.” Alice in Wonderland, Through the Looking Glass’

It was 1991. I spent a lovely week in Paris. Alone and loving it. I didn’t worry about the fact that Europe was exploding around me.

It wasn’t exploding in Paris. At least as far as I could see. Only in Eastern Europe, Russia and where I was heading. And that was okay with me because I didn’t read the papers. And I barely spoke the language. They could have dropped a bomb on Barcelona and I would’nt have known it. I was in my own little heaven. Like some kind of jerk.

But that’s a tourist, right? Oh man. I could go to Syria right now and be placidly drinking coffee and eating fattoush in Latakia while people shot shells across the street because I was ON VACATION! That ticket is NON-refundable and I’m going. Like a jerk. I’d be asking people
‘Pardon me? Do you speak english? Czy mówi Pan po angielsku…no? Not Polish either? Darn it.’ Then I would be sure to shout ‘Where’s the beach? THE BEACH…EL SWIMMING POOLIO…’

‘Oh…I’ll bet they just said that screaming it doesn’t help. That was TOTALLY my boyfriends look when I served the creamed corn spaghetti sauce.’ (HEY! It could have been good. I mixed it with cream cheese and…oh never mind…honestly.)

‘Patiotism is the virtue of the vicious.’ Oscar Wilde.

I am just going to say here that I don’t know what to think about Syria. I think, personally, that Assad should step down. Or be shoved off his perch. But this post is not about Syria. I’ll leave that to the people who know what is going on over there. If anyone over there or here does. Obama and his People seem to think they do. Sending over weapons? Is that good? Is peace at any cost good? Should everyone just let Assad…no no no..I will NOT start spouting opinions as if I know anything or as if I am Jim Nachtwey (have so much respect for him-also tiny crush)

Here is what is germane to this post.

In 1516, the Ottoman Empire invaded the Mamluk Sultanate of Egypt, conquering Syria, and Damascus was made the major entrepot for Mecca, and as such it acquired a holy character to Muslims, because of the baraka (spiritual force or blessing) of the countless pilgrims who passed through on the hajj, the pilgrimage to Mecca. Tourists.

Essentially, they were tourists. Syria is a place I’ve always wanted to go and now I might have to wait!

Did you know that Damascus is the oldest most continuously occupied city in the whole world? As in lived in, not ‘Occupied’. Although they had thier share of that, too. THEY had the first tourists! Poor Damascus…I can imagine them 10,000 years ago.

Some yahoo like me screaming “POOLIO!! EL POOLIO!’
and..
‘Can you draw a PICTURE of me and my husband? Here’s a pen…”
and…
‘Is this SPICY?! I have an ulcer…’
and…
‘Was this fruit washed? WASHED?! DO you speak ARAMAIC!?’

…and there are people there who still do speak it…so there you have it. The literacy rate of Syrians aged 15 and older is 90.7% for males and 82.2% for females. That’s pretty damned good. As a potential tourist I am already ashamed of myself. So…where was I?

Oh yeah…my trip. God what a rube I was. But a rube with a naturally suspicious nature cultivated as a result of growing up in Hollywood
CA and realizing that men were pigs. Sorry men. It’s true. I made sweeping generalizations back then. Now…only some men are pigs. Like maybe 59.87% of them. Don’t give me some knee jerk reaction either. Just read Donofalltrades posts. Sorry Don. Love your blog.

However any European man trying to ‘make the eyes at me’, to quote Granny Mary, was in for a rough time. There would be NO making of eyes.

And then my mix tapes got stolen.

My mix tapes…I don’t have to tell you the magnitude of that theft, do I? This was before cell phones got small and there were cd’s. At least for the likes of me.

I spent months agonizing over songs, the order they played, the cover art. I made mix tapes for potential friends I would make, I made a special mix tape for me and my boyfriend, Leszek, whom I was going to meet up with in Gdansk. Yes…STOLEN!

By some Romany hunk with gorgeous eyes, green as glass, and eyelashes a mile long (I was thinking how like MY eyes they were and wondering if Granny Mary was correct about us being 100% Irish on her side) Yes I fell for the oldest damned trick in the book. As I pointed out the correct train platform (as IF I knew it!) I had my back to my suitcase, with my mixtapes case bungee corded on top, and Swoop! there they must have gone. I didn’t see it. He thanked me profusely and off he went.
While someone behind me stole my tapes. Boy was I mad. Hopping mad. Now I know what that means.

Fortunately, I had one tape in the Walkman and I had two more in my suitcase pocket. One of them was Buddy Holly and Roy Orbison etc…from that era. One of my ‘friend tapes’ to give away. The other was heavy metal, made at the request of Leszek, to give to someone he knew. So I had that. I hated metal. It was hard to make that tape because I had to ask around a lot and find people who had records I could tape off of. Naturally, that one didn’t get stolen. But the Talking Heads did. Van Morrison. Peter Gabriel. Chet Baker…all my JAZZ! Damn, it still makes me mad!

I was in EUROPE with no JAZZ! No music!

All because I didn’t listen to Granny Mary and I fell for the old ‘making the eyes’ trick.

Boy. I am a moron. Because Jazz may have started off in America, but the Europeans took off and RAN with it. There is some wicked good jazz over there. Good music period full stop. Even if they are singing in French. Or Spanish. German rock was…umm..hmmm…scary? They sounded like Rob Zombie, all of them. As if they needed a cough drop. Anyway the jazz was delicious in Germany. I listened to the radio everywhere I went after that and it was brilliant. I want to shake that handsome man’s hand and slap him with the other.

BUt that’s the way it goes. Tourists. I was a tourist and someone out there may have had their first exposure to excellent jazz because of me. And Big Band swing. They may have heard ‘Stompin’ at the Savoy’ for the first time or ‘One O’Clock Jump’ with Gene Krupa on drums and Harry James on trumpet. Or Count Basie or Duke Ellington. Maybe Dinah Washington or Billie Holiday. In return I got Edith Piaf, Djano Reinhardt and Stephane Grapelli in France. Germany I heard about Eberhardt Weber. Spain I discovered The Gypsy Kings and Paco de Lucia.

Yes. From bad things come good things.

Right?

So having cancer and sitting here getting a blood transfusion as I write this, Ive been lying here since 8:30 am and it’s now 6:06 and I STILL have blood dripping into me because my white blood cell count is sooooo low, it is a good thing. I know it. I can feel it.

Everything happens so you can learn a lesson. My lesson then? Listen to the radio, stop swearing and watch out for the ‘making the eyes guys.’

My lesson today?

Patience. Soon this too shall pass.

And I STILL don’t have anything to complain about…all I have to do is imagine the day there is peace in the Levant and I can go there and scream

“DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH??”

It makes me smile.

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.

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.

Thick as a Brick? Driving lessons for Morons

Okay, I wanted to just write a nice post. No getting all spiny. But I just have to say ONE THING!

To the Insane Cow driving the carpool van, (read giant thing that seats 12)

I don’t know where you get liquored up at 6:45 am. At that time of the morning the bars here on the island are closed, so I have to assume your drunk ass crazy driving was the result of you downing that bottle of your Grandmas green creme de menthe that you stole.

When the bicycles load, we wait politely. Then it’s the chance for motorcycles and riders…got it? We wait til they are on the ferry and stopped. THEN we get a wave and the car pool lane loads. There were only 3 cars with car pool passes. I have one because I get really really sick from car rides, car fumes and bad drivers. You were the 3rd car. In other words, you were last in line. So why you felt you needed to FUCKING WELL PASS US ALL ON THE FERRY, are you following me dimwit? You passed us ON THE FERRY DECK loading, you made everyone who works there dive for cover, you scared the bicyclists, you pissed off the motorcyclists and I suddenly decided I needed to meet you after you swerved in front of my beloved Mom and made her slam on the brakes, thereby shoving the seat belt into my chemo port (which hurts like fuck!)

Now my beloved Mom, who is the only one who drives me to chemotherapy EVER because no one else can be bothered, was rattled. And I was rattling her more because I was trying to get OUT OF THE VAN TO THROW YOU OVERBOARD. but mom said no. She said no several times until we were laughing. We had a muffin. With tea. So civilized.

However,

If you ever endanger my mother, the ferry workers, the motorcyclists and bicyclists who loaded before us -and just in case you didn’t know, they load them so they won’t be RUN OVER BY A GIANT VAN DRIVEN BY A PSYCHOTIC MORON- I will personally get out of the van the next time, I PROMISE YOU, and pull you out the window and throw you overboard. The guy who dove off the $20,000 Ducati to escape death would probably help me if the Gold wing Rider didn’t beat him to it. Also if the crowd of cyclists who were cowering behind their bikes decided to take matters into their own lithe and lean perfectly proportioned hands you’d be swimming to fucking Seattle, okay?

I’ve already written to Washington Dept of Transportation, The Bainbridge Island Ferry, The car pool you’re driving for and god. God was not busy. He and I had a nice talk while I was lying there getting chemotherapy. He really hates your driving and you are going to hell.

Also, when I pulled up next to you at the red light at Alaskan Way, did you happen to notice your shitty driving didn’t actually GET YOU ANYWHERE FASTER? No. There you were with the two other cars you passed doing 35 on the ferry deck, stuck right there in the carpool lane along with motorcyclists and bicyclists you endangered. Waiting with all of us…

And when you thoughtfully rolled down the window so I could tell you what I thought of you really loudly so your innocent passengers, who load when the ferry approaches Seattle and didnt witness your shit, could hear what they were in for, you responded in a breathy Marilyn Monroe voice ‘But I do it ALL the time. You have a nice day, now.’

You are SO lucky. Sooooo lucky the light changed at that very second cuz bitch I got a virtual get out of jail free card here. I would snatch you bald headed in one quick second and ya know what the sound track playing in my head would be…Stairway to Heaven. Yeah. Not cuz it’s appropriate, no. Not cuz I totally like it either. No it would be playing cuz it the longest song I know. Me and god agreed. It was Stairway to Heaven (he loves it) or American Pie-but we agreed we don’t want you to ruin either song, which you would. My personal vote for totally long song appropriate for a protracted beat down would be Thick as a Brick by Jethro Tull. Somehow appropriate, too. So we agreed on that.

So, dimwit, look out. You got lucky a couple times here. If I see you on the ferry again next Friday, we’re going to talk. Just talk. That’s all.

But just in case, I’m bringing my iPod and its going to have all three songs on it.

Laura