Comments on Comments

Welcome to a new feature at The Big "C," where I'll be commenting on your various comments from the week. I'm doing this because I miss this kind of interaction from The Name Game posts and because I so appreciate the comments y'all leave.

B, G and J Day! My mother commented that it took her a while to figure out what those letters stand for. But we have Mom to thank for this new Friday feature, because she is the one who commented earlier that she loved reading stories about her grandchildren.

I had hesitated writing much about them because I didn't want to be that kind of mother--the kind who thinks there's nothing more fascinating than her own kids. I'd rather be the kind of mother who thinks there's nothing more fascinating than herself. But Mom weighed in, and so you are all stuck with B, G and J stories.

Some Flood stories came in. I realized after reading KQ's comment that--oops!--neighbors who know the neighbor I disparaged in my story are actually reading this, so suggesting that said neighbor had a lover was tantamount to gossip. I've since scrubbed this neighbor's name from the post.

Nor did I realize that KQ thought Sister #3 was like a Barbie doll. You are all dying to know, now, what Sister #3 look like and/or what prompted a comparison to Barbie. Sorry. You'll have to ask KQ to expound.

MLQ e-mailed a Flood comment--that the same neighbor I disparaged a) hogged sandbags and b) posted a "No Wake" sign in their yard.

Could they have posted it as a joke? Sure sounds like a joke. . .

MLQ also reports about Pink Month in Pinehurst, NC:

"(T)he Spa at Pinehurst offered free treatments (facials, massages, mani-pedis) to breast cancer survivors and 50% off to their "breast friends" on October 1. Each participant got a goody bag and there was live music and a pink balloon launch - way to kill the birds! I cringed at the thought, but mellowed when I saw how the participants enjoyed it. It occurred to me that the locker room and lap pool were probably more comfortable when everyone had a badge of honor of some sort."

AP!: Clearly, I should be living in Pinehurst. Recall, also, that the policemen there don't give tickets to cancer patients and their families. . .

And the locker room comment gives me an idea for Sunday's story time. I have a word or two to say about Koreans in the locker room.

Also, MLQ explains:

"I understand putting the girls list on hold, but I plan to still add to it as memory serves. . . . Do you remember the Japanese story about folding 10,000 paper cranes? That's what your song lists remind me of. I can't fold worth a dam, or do anything requiring manual dexterity - ask your mother - but I have a steel trap memory. It's my way of participating in your support staff."

Well, thank you for that support. I shall endeavor sometime this weekend to update the Name List with about 4 weeks' worth of submissions.

Parin also had a flood story to share. She e-mailed about the time it rained so much, the sewer on base blocked up and her side of the street flooded. It was just weeks before Jason deployed to Iraq. Just days before Christmas. A disaster, though at least USAA came through very well for them.

She wrote, "The funny thing is that when Sarah talks about the flood she talks about it as an adventure. While Jason and I were dealing with insurance adjusters and clean up people; she was hanging out with all her friends in the neighborhood, going from house to house playing in candle light houses. She got to eat pizza and make decorate gingerbread houses. She still talks about the flood and how fun it was. I hope she always has that memory. And I remember how wonderful our neighbors were taking care of our kids while we dealt with all of the mess."

All of this--both Sarah's fond memories of a tough time, my own fond memories, KQ's. . .--it all makes me very hopeful that Gemma and Joshua will think of these chemo-days as a fun adventure, too. After all, they've spent weeks at Miss Betsy's, where Betsy and Amy make thorough plans to entertain them all day, and they get to spend their Monday's with someone who either plays with them or has kids who play with them. Many mornings, I cannot get out of bed and they get to watch movies until I do. What's not to like about chemotherapy?

I notice, too, from the comments that both Mom and the Adventure, a.k.a. Vonnie, have uploaded photos to accompany their comments. Well done, ladies!

And, of course, this week there was a lot of poop talk. I can now add, to the list of "Un-expected Benefits and Blessings of Cancer and Chemotherapy" the following:

Educated myself and my sister (perhaps others, too?) about a helpful medication for toilet issues.

Amanda also commented on the Venus flytraps. It doesn't surprise me that she had them growing up, nor that her daughter gives them as gifts because Amanda is a great example of someone who makes a literate home.

I, however, didn't even know these things could be bought in this country.

She suggests feeding it ground beef. But I've read up on the plant and all the Internet sites strictly prohibit this practice. They say the fat content will kill it.

Then again, the fat content of beef is supposed to kill humans, too. I eat beef all the time--iron content!--and haven't died from it.

So the Internet sites must simply be hysterical.

We re-potted the plants into 2 different Good Will glass containers, each with a lid, and each a lot prettier than a terrarium. The Internet sites say to keep it humid for them, and there's only one way to make that happen here in Colorado.

Into one of them, we put a piece of pair, hoping to attract fruit flies for the plant to catch. (Sister #2's idea!) The other, we plan to feed only water. We want to see whether the plant actually needs protein to live.

But the pear, as of yet, Day 4, has not attracted fruit flies. Maybe none will come now that it's already frosted and snowed outside? Maybe we will have to do the ground beef thing. If so, we shall do it with courage because it apparently didn't kill Amanda's plants.

Finally, Renee commented that a friend of hers who has had reconstructive surgery says "they" look terrific.

Reminds me of a story the genetic counselor told me when I went in for the blood draw for that screening.

He said he was in a seminar on reconstructive surgery, and was surrounded by 14 other nurses, all female. He sat in the back during the slide show of before and after photos and just kept his mouth shut.

Then one woman raised her hand and said, "I don't want to sound like a pig or anything, but it's not just my imagine, is it? I mean, these women look amazing!"

Which was this genetic counselor's way of telling me, without risking offence by owning the opinion himself, that he had seen the photos of post-restorative surgery, and that it looked pretty great.

Now confirmed by Renee's friend.

And I tell you: That moment with the genetics guy is one I have thought of many times and taken much encouragement from in the following months.

That's the round-up! Enjoy your weekend--I plan to enjoy mine now that I'm feeling great and know that Round 5 is on Monday.

B, G and J Day: Mostly Bathroom Stories

B:



The exercise finished up on Thursday. I asked Bryan, "Did we win?" --it's a war game, after all. He said, "Sure. . ."



Bryan told Colonel Putko that he had a medical appointment for his allergies on Friday morning, first thing, so he'd be in a bit late.



Colonel Putko said, "Wait. What do you have to do tomorrow?"



Some post-exercise clean-up stuff.



"Don't come in," he said. "Spend the day with Amy! Hold her hand."



Bryan kind of looked at him and then said, "Well. . .thank you, sir. . ."



"She's sick," he went on, "you need to spend more time with her."



This is a direct order from a superior officer. What choice does Bryan have? Colonel Putko. I love that guy!





G:





We pursued potty training in earnest with Joshua this week, and Gemma appointed herself the Quality Assurance Officer.

Joshua will come out of the bathroom shouting, "I did it! I whizzed in the toilet!"

("Whizzed." Bryan is responsible for this word.)

And I will say back, "You big boy!! Great job!!"

Gemma will say, "Let's see if he really did it." And then she'll go into the bathroom to inspect.



J:

Part of this training is an addition to Joshua's wardrobe. Underpants. The one item in the world of apparel that is cuter for boys than it is for girls.

Thomas the Tank Engine briefs. Are you kidding me? So stinkin' cute. I wish they made them in men's sizes. . .

We opened his Spider Man underpants to find that they are not briefs, but boxer briefs. Underpants with legs. And because we have to get a bigger size to fit his girth at the waste, the legs come down almost to his knees.

Joshua put a pair on, checked 'em out and said, "I don't have to wear pants!"

These also have patches of glow-in-the-dark design on them. I held a pair up to the light as I told Josh I had a surprise for him. I had just finished showing him what happens when you take them into a dark closet when Bryan came home from work.

"Daddy!" they both shouted. "Come into the closet!" and they whisked him away, all 3 cramming into the coat closet.

I heard their muffled voices:

"Josh's underpants glow!"

"Wow. That is really cool. . ."

Indeed. What's even cooler is that Josh is pretty much potty trained in the daytime. There has been much rejoicing in the land.

Theme Song Thursday: Ohhhhh. . .Sweet Thing. . .

Practically any song by Van Morrison would be a great song to listen to on any given day. I wanted to post "The Philosopher's Stone," one of my all-time favorite songs ever by anyone, but it's not on Youtube.

Come on, Youtubers!

Here, instead, is a live version of the ever-lovely "Sweet Thing." He performed it along with other songs from Astral Weeks, one of his earliest albums. I read up on this concert and learned that

a) He led this full orchestral band through several improvisations that night and
b) They had only one rehearsal before performing.

Finally, one of the things I enjoy most about Van is his voice. It's not great. It's in tune, of course, but other than this, he just. . .sounds like Van. And sounding like Van never stopped him from singing. He didn't get someone else to do that job in a band for him.

This means a lot to me because I, while I can carry a tune, sound like Amy!. Granted, I don't perform at the Hollywood Bowl, but I play my guitar at home pretty often as I worship the Lord. And if Van's voice is good enough for him to sing, then I'll keep on singing, too.


Here is the link to the youtube video. It won't permit me to embed it here.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4BYvoH2_XuA


And this is an interview with the man himself, for all you Van Fans out there. Pretty interesting in that it is mostly music industry talk, and Van's experience with it.

The Weekend Report

Today, finally, I felt 100%. Or at least the chemo-version of 100%. So we have a few days to enjoy before the next round on Monday. The timing is nice because Bryan is in the midst of an exercise and his shift goes from 3 AM to 11 AM, which means he gets home around 3 PM. (Not exactly a strict shift. . .) So this week, we have all afternoon together as a family and then he and the kids go to bed at the same time: 7 PM.

Anyway. I'm ready to report to you on my weekend. Which was really horrible.

The cramping I described from Friday continued on to Saturday and I spent all of Saturday evening and night in the bathroom with you-know-what. So frustrating.

48 hours into it, I called Dr. Markus on Sunday, mid-morning. That's always uncomfortable. It's the guy's weekend.

Not as uncomfortable as severe cramping, though, so ring-a-ding-ding.

To his immense credit he was totally fine with it and didn't sound the least bit annoyed. I described the situation and he said, "This wouldn't be a side effect of chemotherapy, you're too far away from your last treatment. It sounds like you have an infection."

"An infection?" What was he talking about? Seriously. I had no idea what he could be talking about.

"Yes. . ." he proceeded, in a tone that conveyed, "Why do you sound confused?"

I had an infection in my GI tract and "The best thing is really just Immodium."

"Immodium?" What the hell was Immodium? Seriously. Maybe I'd seen a commercial for it once. . .

"Yes. Immodium. And ignore the package that says take only one every 8 hours or whatever. You should take one an hour until things slow down."

Well. OK. I thanked him, he said to go to the hospital for a blood check if I spiked a fever and otherwise call him if I didn't feel better in the next few hours.

Bryan got this Immodium stuff for me. And after just one of them, I felt better. After 2, I felt completely human. After 3, I felt cured.

Of course, it's now 48 hours later and I still haven't pooped.

Oh, I'm sorry. Did you not want to know that?

Who knew there was a magical pill called Immodium out there? Hooray, hooray for Immodium!

I related all this to Sarah and she said, "There are some people whose lives are like this."

"Like this" as in "People who take all kinds of medicine all the time."

And this, I realize, is one of the Top 5 Annoying Things about chemotherapy. Things that, I think, She Who Shall Not Be Named should tell patients about during their chemo classes. Things that, though immeasurable, are really difficult to live with. The thing is this:

I've always been a pretty healthy person. When I did get sick, it was always a cold/congestion kind of thing. I don't remember the last time I've ever had a fever. The only time I have bathroom issues is when I've been food poisoned or, closely related, sugar-poisoned.

It's not that I've been living a life deprived of Immodium. It's that I've never needed it.

Sometimes part of the struggle now is my sheer inexperience with the symptoms. Feeling like this is all just so. . .surprising. I spent the week leading up to the weekend with a right eye full of styes. (4 total, actually, all on the upper lid.) My eye was nearly swollen shut. Extremely painful.

Styes! Who wants to deal with styes??? Especially when the first and last one I've ever had before chemo came around 11 years ago. I am not a person who gets styes.

But. I guess I am. Being that person is somehow an assault on my pride. And you know how pride is. Whatever opposes it invariably makes the Top 5 List of Annoying Things, no matter who are.

The Long Road

In the last few months, many have asked the "What's next?" question, sometimes phrased as, "You're having more surgery?" Today, I'm fielding all such questions by telling you what I know.

My last round of chemo will be, God Willing, 16 November. I will continue to get the Herceptin treatment every 3 weeks for the remainder of the treatment year--that is, through August of 2010.

I'll probably get 3 weeks of radiation, 5 days a week. I say "probably" because I haven't met with the radiation guy yet, but this is what Dr. Science mentioned. We hope to do this in December so that we'll be done with all this stuff by the new year.

I'll also be taking some kind of drug once a day for 5 years that has to do with the estrogen supply to cancer cells. Something like blocking the e from the bad cells, but flooding my bones with it so they end up very strong, even after chemo. (?) I don't know. I'll be sure to fill you in once I learn about it.

Once the Herceptin is done in August, I'll have an itty-bitty surgery to remove the port. Mayfield says it can be done in the exam room. I look forward to this day because I plan to make a key ring out of it.

Now, early on, I mentioned my genetic screening for BRCa1 and BRCa2 (the unimaginatively named breast cancer genes). I did that screening before my surgery, and got the results back the day before surgery, at which time, I had other things on my mind.

The screening itself deserves a post of its own. Suffice to say here that if it comes up positive, the medical recommendation is to remove not only the other breast, but the uterus and ovaries as well because chances of developing cancer in these places, if one has one of these mutations, are through the roof.

And it's bad news for my daughter and my first degree relatives, and the daughters of my brother.

But my screening came back negative. So no one reading this has to worry.

(Note to sisters, however: You should tell your doctors at your next physical about me. My specific cancer is
1. ductal
2. HER 2+
3. estrogen receptive)

So, yes, thank God, there is not necessarily a genetic mutation lying in wait for Gemma.

I still plan, however, to have my other breast removed. It's very common practice to do a double removal when a tumor is found in one. (A young nurse during the port surgery told me this was her training and she was a bit confused as to why I had one breast. . .)

I asked Mayfield if we couldn't do a double at the time of my surgery. He said he would, but because the removal on the right was supposed to be a radical, including a portion of my pectoralis, and because I was also getting a port installed on the left side, there was reason to avoid the additional trauma of removing the left breast.

Why plan on this surgery now?

Two big reasons, both so big, there's no point in deciding which is bigger.

1. My chances of developing cancer in the left breast are now 4 times greater than normal. I'm 34 years old. Seems like we would look at those years and those odds and think, "It's not 'if,' but 'when.'"

And, sure, there's a chance I wouldn't develop cancer on that side. But do you know what I know for certain? I do not want to do this again.

No breast is important enough to chance going down this road a second a time.

2. The current state of my body--you know, being one-breasted--is pretty unacceptable. It's a disaster. It really is.

When a man goes bald, and has some hair, that hair can still look good. The head can still look handsome. I do not look at my body and think, "Well, you've got one breast. . ."

It's like. . . It's like a hand of beautiful, long nails, painted perfectly. Except for the pointer finger. That one's missing its nail and there's a scar running across the nail bed instead. There's no looking at that hand and thinking, "Don't those 4 nails look nice?"

Not that I'm explaining anything to you all because I feel the need to. No, unless you're missing one or 2 breasts or are married to someone who is, your opinion on this matter does not count.

I think I'm writing it all down because my kids will read this one day. And because a year from now, I may want to know my own thinking as of October 2009.

In any case, as I say, the current state of affairs is not, I dearly hope, a permanent state of affairs.

So I look forward to reconstructive surgery, which I shall call henceforth "restorative" surgery.

And what, I ask, is the point of being restored on the right side to the age of 20 or so while still being 34 and post-nursing-2-babies on the left side? That would be disastrous in its own way, no?

I say: go for the matching set. Guarantee your life as breast cancer free.

Back to the question of "what's next?"--at some point after radiation, my body will start to heal. When we deem it strong enough, I'll have the left breast removed. I'm not sure if this can happen while I'm getting Herceptin, or how long after chemo I have to wait, so the timing is uncertain.

And then, at some point after that surgery, we'll meet with a plastic surgeon and learn about our options for restoration.

The road stretches long. . . I wonder if I will blog the whole time?. . .

Pink

Time to weigh on Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

All the pink ribbons. Pink products. Pink yogurt lids. Pink shoelaces on NFL players. It probably all adds up to a net good.

I couldn't find a report of how much money is made for research through the sale of "pink." I do know that the pink ribbon is not patented, so we probably just take a company on its word when it says that a certain amount of money is donated with each sale of pink.

But regardless of the Benjamins, this whole "awareness" thing is probably, overall, good in that "awareness" is a code word for "make it OK to talk about."

And if it's OK to talk about breast cancer, and make the idea of self-examinations and yearly mammograms very commonplace, then probably a lot more breast cancer is found a lot earlier in the game.

For instance, I'd like to know if anyone ever told my mother to examine herself starting at age 18. In the shower stalls of my college dorm, there were waterproof cards with not only the reminder to check, but a diagram on how to do the checking.

50 years ago, did women check themselves?

I'd like to think that every woman I know today checks herself regularly. Why wouldn't we? We hear about it all the time.

And so do the men of the country, even more so thanks to the NFL. Good that they do. Because for each woman who finds a lump, there's probably a man around who will force her out of denial and make her get it checked out.

Bryan kind of made me make my appointment. I think I would have let it linger for a few months out of dread over what the news would be. I explained this to Bryan and he said, "That's the worst attitude you could possibly have. Make the appointment."

And, of course, if you're a woman under 40 with no family history of breast cancer, the only way a lump in your breast is going to get found is if you find it yourself, because you won't be getting a mammogram at your yearly physical.

So, yes. Awareness. Very good indeed.

But here are a few additional thoughts:

My neighbor, Stephanie, is a cervical cancer survivor, still dealing with the aftermath. Do you know what she says when she hears about the high school team in Arizona who wore pink jerseys and then auctioned them off?

She says, "Where's the teal and white?"

What's that? Teal and white? There's a teal and white ribbon out there? Yes. It's for cervical cancer awareness.

(By the way, if you see a pink ribbon, don't assume it's for breast cancer. It might well be for cleft palate.)

Her point being, of course, that breast cancer gets an awful lot of attention. But who ever talks about cervical cancer?

I see her point. Probably one reason for the disparity is that there are about 190,000 cases of breast cancer each year. And about 12,000 cases of cervical cancer.

And the good news is that the survival rate of cervical cancer shot through the roof once it became medical practice for women to have regular pap smears, which of course, increased early detection.

But I think an additional reason for the focus on breast cancer is that breasts are such a big deal to everyone. Either you've got 'em or you really like them on other people. And if you don't fall into one of these two camps, you at least probably have a mother who has breasts.

But the cervix? Who even uses that word outside of childbirth class? No one has any thoughts or feelings towards the cervix.

Also, we might think that breast cancer warrants all the attention because the treatment of it is so very horrifying. Not only is there chemo and radiation--hey, most cancer rolls that way--but in nearly all cases there is either the carving up or cutting off of the breast. And a lot of times, after the carving comes the eventual cutting off anyway.

Pretty horrifying. If we are still here 500 years from now, medical practitioners are going to look back at the practice they was we look back at the unfortunate amputations of 200 years ago. That's the best they could do at the time. . .

Treatment for cervical cancer? Very horrifying as well.

Two words: internal radiation.

Folks. I'd rather have a breast lopped off than go through that.

So why not make it "Women's Cancer Awareness Month" and remind women to get their pap smears as well?

Next thought:

Stephanie should not be too jealous. It's not like anyone is giving out discounts to breast cancer patients. ("For October only! Young women shoved into menopause by their breast cancer chemo eat at Denny's at the Senior Citizen's rate!")

How do I feel when I see a car with a pink ribbon magnet on it? Do I feel especially supported? No. It mostly makes me sad. I wonder whose cancer is behind that magnet. And when I see one on a minivan?? I think, "Oh, no, I hope it's not the mother of the kids in that van. . ."

But mostly why seeing all the pink does nothing for me personally is this: As a post-surgery woman in the midst of treatment, there's no thinking about breast cancer without also thinking about breasts.

They're not just mammary glands, as I've written.

They are a very big deal on many different levels.

And if you find it vaguely annoying to see supermodels on magazine covers--who you know have been plasticized and the airbrushed--when you're walking around in your normal skin, try doing it after you've had a breast removed.

If the Powers That Be really wanted to take a stab at breast cancer awareness, and being supportive to those of us walking the walk, and making a difference in public perception, then maybe the NFL could put sweatshirts on their cheerleaders for the month.

Or maybe, say, the GQ's of the country could take a month off from peddling flesh, and put together a cover that's actually worthy of a gentleman.

Talk is cheap, and so is pink.

Sunday Storytime: The Flood

The August before 7th grade, in Elmhurst, IL, it rained. A great deal.

Maybe it rained in surrounding suburbs as well. Or maybe it rained all over but only flooded in our corner of town.

On our corner of our corner of town, on Van Buren and Hawthorne, it became clear that what had always seemed like flat land was actually a slope. This intersection, the one my house sat on, stayed dry. It was an island. The ocean started in the streets in front of houses three doors down from ours in each direction.

I loved that flood!

The first morning of it, we awoke to learn it had rained all night. Leslie had not left for her Dean Whitter office because--lo!--the streets were already partially under water. She, John, Janice and I walked down to the creek about 200 yards from our house and found a lake that began at the last house's yard and yawned out for acres.

The woman who owned that house--a neighbor, I guess, but she was old and I never ever remember seeing her outside of her home--was standing on her porch, looking at the water, looking at us ooh and ahh over it. At the time, I didn't realize that she was probably thinking, "I am so screwed."

And in general, it didn't cross my mind once that there was an enormous amount of property damage afoot and that losing stuff to flood water really sucks. To me, it was just an amazing adventure.

Janice and I went in a row boat with Mike McKiernan and his uncle/our neighbor, Mr. Undine. We sailed swiftly up Jackson street, but found the current far too strong to row against, so we turned onto Spring Road and it was like. . .like a Red Neck Venice or something. There was literally boat traffic, among them was cousin Bill, who was dating "the girl next door" to us, on the her family'ss boat, standing like a gondolier as he rowed.

Both he and Valerie were wearing garbage bags swaddled diaper style. This was because the flood and the Salt Creek were now one. And the salt creek and the water treatment plant were now one. But come on. Gargbage bags?

We were one of the only houses that could get a phone signal. Remember these days? When there were only landlines and, in our house, that also meant a phone with a long twisty cord?

Neighbors and some strangers would come buy to use our phone, even though it could take several minutes to get a dial tone.

By the next morning, the rain had stopped, and the water was tall. Mr. Herline knocked on our door, looking for Dad.

I didn't make the connection that he was looking for Alderman Ferrone.

Mr. Herline said, "We need bags. I can get the sand. But we need bags for it."

Still, no connection.

But above all, hospitality, right? Be helpful, right?

So I walked over to the pantry and pulled out the Dominik's brand box of sandwich baggies-- Not even the zipping kind!--and offered them to him.

They got bags from somewhere else. And I loved making sandbags along with the whole neighborhood.

I spent a lot of time babysitting the Sorce kids while the parents were down on Fairfield helping to bag those houses.

A school bus came by to take people out to get tetanus shots. John ran along side it down Hawthorne with the mission of knocking on doors of elderly and others who weren't out at the sand pile with us, to let them know about their ride out.

Why, I wonder, didn't a nurse bring a case of shots in?

Mr. Sorce rowed a boat up Van Buren to the water's edge at Parkside, or so, to grocery shop for necessities. He came around with a pad of paper to take orders.

And Dad walked to church that Sunday morning. Mrs. Sorce said she thought this was so wonderful. That it made her feel "represented."

So much good will abounded. So much teamwork.

(Except Mrs. So-and-so, who wouldn't let one of our neighbors--I forget who--in to use the telephone, as they were one of the few others to get a dial tone. It was astounding: You mean she wouldn't let you in? Nope. She said she'd just washed her floor. Sorry.

When Leslie heard this, she said, "She had a lover trapped in there!"

And I thought, "Mrs. So-and-so is married with children. Women who are married with children don't have lovers." )

Yes, mostly good will and teamwork.

Though, I got to school a few weeks later, and learned from my classmate Alissa that she and her family had worked very hard on sandbags to. Had, in fact, bagged their house all around with over 300 of them. "And we needed every one!" Alissa said.

I thought, "On our street, we very specifically didn't bag houses individually. We made walls in front of all the houses, otherwise the water would get pushed from the one well-bagged house onto the less-bagged house."

A few weeks into the school year, the topic came up: consideration for the many over preference for the few. And our teacher said, "So, for instance, when a community floods, you can choose to put all your efforts into protecting your own house with an excess of sandbags, which creates more flood water for your neighbors. Or you can consider the many and sandbag along with the community."

This teacher, ahem, lived 3 doors down from Alissa. I thought, when the teacher said this, "Alissa has no idea you are even talking about her family."

But as for the Flood, it was exciting and wonderful to me. Turned out to be a pain in the ass for Dad, of course. Meetings about the Flood lasted the rest of his term. At one point, a woman shouted at him, "Your house didn't flood because you're the Alderman!"

And it was bad for so many who suffered a great deal of damage.

My friends who lived on Spring Road--Jorie Kenny, Larry Reedy--commented every now and again for years afterwards about such and such item that "floated away." I wonder if this flood is a bad memory for them now, or if they, too, look back it and think, "What an amazing thing to live through."