Comments on Comments: First Week of November

When I threatened to become more extreme than "old ladies who wear purple," Helen asked if I plan to head to a nudist beach in Florida.

I've thought about it. But having gone through one kind of cancer, I can't imagine putting myself at that much greater risk for another. e.g. Skin. Florida sunshine.

Do nudists have a higher rate of skin cancer than the rest of the population? Do they buy sunscreen in bulk? Do they apply it. . .everywhere?

Speaking of sunshine, Amanda testifies to the delight of Colorado sunshine. 300 days of it a year and, I hasten to add, no humidity.

Now that Bryan and I are looking to stay here for the long term, I find that common military-family mechanism of "detachment" sloughing away. As we've moved around so much, I naturally kept a little piece of my heart back from wherever we were, because we were never going to be anywhere very long. I haven't done that with the people I've known in each place, just with the place itself.

There's no holding back now. I am growing to love Colorado Springs. I might even make a weekly feature about it if the rest of my life becomes boring enough, and that feature would begin with the climate.

Gwen posted here about giving an NHS speech at good ole Immaculate Conception. Gwen is married to Larry, my friend who survived "ventricular" cancer, and she was in our graduation class, though Gwen and Larry were not high school sweethearts. (Which I've always thought was sweet--that they connected further down the road. . .)

Hearing from Gwen prompts me to comment on something I've been thinking for a long time now: Part of the fun of having cancer is being in touch with so many people, some of them from way back.

I've gotten many, many e-mails from friends who weren't in my life daily anymore. You know the kind: nothing bad ever happened. There's no water under any bridge. You just fell off each other's radar. Maybe military folks have more of this than others because of the moving around. In any case, it's been really neat and wonderfully encouraging to hear from folks. I'm still working on writing back to everyone, so if you happen to be, say, Beth from Korea, I'm getting there. :-)

Sarah gave a Huzzah to the homemade costume. She mentioned that Babs, her mother, made her son's Swiper costume, which was amazing and adorable.

To which I say: Yes, Hoorah for homemade costumes, but double and triple hoorah's for homemade costumes that GRANDMA puts together.

To whit: My mother was in town helping me as my ankle was broken during the weeks before Halloween last year. I'd had the plan for Gemma and Joshua's costume. Had even gathered most of the materials. And then Anne arrived and actually, you know, made the things.

I realize now that my surgery was ill-timed. I should have delayed a few months so the seamstress would have been in residence again.

Finally, more flytrap discussion.

Spiders in Colorado? Yes. We do have a few of those. But I couldn't bring myself to capture one.

a) Spiders eat flys. It seemed an upset of the natural order for a plant that eats flies to eat a bug that eats flys.

b) While I don't like spiders, I respect them. Their amazing little creatures, what with the webs and being able to spell out words above pig stalls. . . No spider deserves the horrible demise of slow digestion inside a flytrap.

Amanda offered to send ladybugs. But ladybugs are among the good guys of the insect world. I couldn't do that to one. And Gemma captured a ladybug this summer and made a pet out of it. We looked up what it needed to survive and she built a little habitat for it. After a few days, she released it into our garden willingly, though it made her sad to do so.

I know there will a come a time when Gemma realizes that I'm not a perfect person who only ever thinks and does the right things. But I don't want that moment to be when I suggest feeding her former pet to a plant.

BUT, the other night, we were playing in our family room when a hapless fly landed on a toy right next to Bryan. He said, "Oh. . .yeah. . ." and swiped it up in his hand!

Then he plunked into one of the terrariums. We gathered around to watch, but the fly hardly moved. It was stunned from its smack-down. And dinner was ready. When we came back to the plant 20 minutes later, there was no fly.

The next morning, one flytrap stood stiff with the sun behind it and there within was the dark outline of the fly.

Flies. They're filthy, disgusting animals. I had no problem participating in that feeding frenzy.

On Friday, Bryan got home early from work and we made a little trip to Green Mountain Falls, a cute little town just up Ute Pass. They have a big pond where we fed the ducks and where the kids played for a while. We ate lunch at a restaurant called the Mucky Duck, which is amusing, because there's a Mucky Duck on Sanibel Island, FL--and what are the chances two places would come up with a name like that?

Our booth was next to a window, and on that window, two flies strutted about. Bryan captured them in an empty plastic bottle. Before I could stop him, he put one into the other plant terrarium. "Stop him" because Gemma and I were conducting an experiment. We wanted to know if the plant that was given protein would do better than the one that had to go without.

Well. So much for that investigation.

Again, we gathered around to watch. This fly was robust and on his feet quickly. Hmm. . . The attraction of sweet nectar in this pink thing here. . . Then SNAP!--only the fly tumbled out and knocked up against the terrarium wall. It seemed disabled and there was goop on the wall where his wing hit. I wonder if the enzyme from the trap was already about its work on him.

All four of us, at the moment of that nap, were like, "Ack!" or "Doh!" or, other reactions common to people who, say, watch football games and react at the moment the amazing catch is almost made.

The fly wouldn't go near the plant again, so we went about our business. Later: no fly.

I mentioned our plants to Mr. Colorado, our neighbor, and he said he used to feed bologna to his.

You know what the most amazing thing about venus flytraps is? That so many people have had one! Amanda, Teresa, the librarian at East Library, Mr. Colorado. . . Here, I thought this would be the kind of thing one had to have a license to own, or something, and I'm finding out they're as common as goldfish.

Well. This is the beauty of comments. I learn so much about you all.

B, G and J Day: Vintage

B:

He has become a Craigslister. This is mostly because of me. Our garage was full, you see, and our basement full and our barn in MO not full, but somewhat filled with stuff.


Too much stuff.

Stuff that Bryan agreed we needed to get rid of. But stuff that was "worth something."

Oh yeah? Fine. I've got a friend, Stephanie, who sells things on Craigslist. I talked with her about selling our stuff for us and I'd share the profit with her.

Then I told Bryan that this friend was on deck to begin the liquidation and he said, "I'll sell it myself!"

Oh yeah? Well, you got through the weekend to get started, pal.

And he did. He began with the 5 ficus trees he bought at an auction 2 months ago, when I asked him to buy me one ficus tree for our master bedroom. But at 2 bucks a piece, how was he going to pass up a whole forest of them?

He sold them for 20 bucks a piece, at which point, he was likin' the Craigs list. . .

Since then, he's sold a lot of stuff at prices a lot better than one would get if yard saled or auctioned. Part of my deal with him is that he can keep his profits in his own "auction fund" to do with as he pleases. I have a dream that his auction-going will become a self-sustaining hobby. . .

So. One of the items he sold was a vintage Coca-Cola cooler. It was metal. Not very thermo-efficient. But classy in that banged-up vintage way.

The buyer first asked Bryan if he'd come down in price, but Bryan said, no, he was pretty sure he could get that much for it.

The buyer still wanted it, and wrote,

"Just to give you a snapshot of this cooler's future life with me: I have a ranch outside Denver and I use my '63 Chevy pick-up to get around. Your cooler will ride in back and have a couple of cold long necks waiting for me at the end of a hot day. Big Red, as I call her, is going to look great with a cooler from her day."

Charming, right?

Bryan read this and didn't want to sell it to him. My husband thinks that such vintage items should be displayed somewhere in a cool, dry place away from direct sunlight. This guy was going to use the cooler? As a cooler???? What was his problem?

My only thought, after reading this "future life" spiel, was that the guy was going to show up and try to dicker down the price again. That he was trying to soften us up with his tender vision.

Bryan arranged for the sale. The guy drove down during the day and I was sure to be wig-less when I answered the door. Who's going to try to dicker the price with a cancer patient?

He turned out to be a very nice, very wealthy man. Signs of wealth:

1. He lived with his wife and newborn son on a horse ranch while working as a lobbyist in DC. I didn't ask what he lobbied for because I didn't want him to tell me something horrible. . .

2. He told me about his '72 Mercedes, of which only 600 were made, and how he kept it completely original, right down to the television set in the back seat.

I received these data points with a polite smile and thought, "I'm glad Bryan didn't come down on the price."

The buyer did say something that will stick with me the rest of my life. He explained how he and his wife really enjoy antiques from all over the world, and that he is just passing through history. As such, he's the care-taker of these items that will belong to a different place, time and person after he's gone.

What a lovely way to think of antiques.

I shared the thought with Bryan, who said, "Yeah, well as caretaker, he probably shouldn't fill the thing with ice!"


G:

The other night, Gemma arranged in the afternoon to have chicken tenders for dinner. It was a pre-emptive request as she realized that I would be preparing big salads for Bryan and myself.

Sure. Chicken tenders. No problem.

As the dinner hour approached, she saw the literature packet regarding my PowerPort--that valve thing implanted in my chest. What was this for? she wanted to know.

I explained. Or tried to. Wasn't sure if I'd done a good job making it clear. I finished the explanation and then asked, "Capice?"

Long pause. She looked at me and then said, "You mean 'chicken tenders.'"



J:

He came into my room one morning, too early. Had his jammies off. His pull-up off. His underpants up around his knees, which is about as far as he can go when dressing his bottom.

"Good morning," I murmured to him as he stood by my bed. "Did you get yourself dressed?"

He nodded and said, "A little bit."

Bonus J story:

We were reading on the couch today, a child on each side of me. He turned towards my ear and said, "What's this?" and started poking his fingers in.

Kids do this when they're 3. They notice that human beings have ears and that ears are full of contours and it's just a major discovery.

So I answered him, "That's my ear."

He glanced at me with a look that kind. . .waived me off. Like of course he knew this was my ear. And he kept fiddling, his brow furrowed.

Then he pulled out the little white cushion that was on my ear bud from the ear phones I wore while working out this morning.

"No, this!" he said.

Oh. That. Yes, that is a real discovery. . .

Theme Song Thursday: The Stand

Beautiful metaphor in this one.

How is it that I can stand?


I'll stand with arms raised and heart abandoned
In awe of the One who gave it all
I'll stand, my soul, Lord, to You surrendered
All I am is Yours

Tissue

The theme of this post is "tissue."

But don't let that put you off. I really just have 2 items spawned by your comments that I didn't get to in Saturday's Comments on Comments, and as I try to justify throwing them into one post, I find a common link:

1. There's the tissue that venus flytraps eat. Are the inside guts of inverterbrates considered "tissue"?

In my house, in Colorado, in October and now November, there are no inverterbrates to be found. Some of you suggested a banana would work when the pear failed.

(I pulled the pear out a few days ago, when Gemma happened not to be around. Yesterday, she noticed the pear-less terarium and said, "I guess the flytrap ate up all the pear!")

But the banana did not work. No fruit flies to be found. So we're going to go with the raw beef plan. Amanda swears it did not kill her plant for at least 2 years. Plus, the beef we eat is grass fed and hormone free. I don't know of another flytrap in captivity that will eat this well. . .

A few have asked what the kids thought of it. When I first unveiled it to Gemma, with Josh not present, I told her, "Stick your finger in there," and she did, and the trap closed up on her. She yanked her finger out, very startled, very mystified.

I explained a lot right there and she thought it was wonderful. She wanted to poke it again, but I told her that this weakens the plant and de-sensitizes the traps, so she couldn't.

The next day, it was Joshua's turn to meet the pet. Gemma said, "Josh, put your finger right there," and he said, "No. Those poky things will grab me."

Huh! Funny how he knew what would happen. I let Gemma demonstrate with her finger and Joshua has not gone near the plants since.

#2. Also about tissue. Breast tissue. (How many of you saw that coming?)

A friend e-mailed with an interesting reflection: She was trying to imagine what the loss of a breast would mean to her, and wondered if, as a small-chested woman, it would add up to less grief in some way.

I'm pretty sure part of her point was that she doesn't bank a whole lot on her bust size right now/doesn't pick out clothing that celebrates it/doesn't see "hourglass" in the mirror and so wonders how big a deal it would be if what little is there now weren't there at all.

Hmm. It is interesting. And I have 2 thoughts about it.

a) I used to wonder, too, what it would be like to lose a breast or two. Long before the diagnosis. Long before feeling "that swollen lymph node." I didn't think about it often. But there's a lot of pink around, people, and on a few of those ocassions of seeing pink, I thought about it.

When I compare what I'd imagined it would be like to what it's like, I realize that this is just one of those things that can't be accurately imagined. There's just no other experience that compares to or mimics losing a body part, though I suppose I share a little common ground with someone who's lost, like, a finger or something. . .

On the one hand, it's not as horrible as I'd imagined it would be. But in some ways, it's a lot worse. I guess I just look forward to a time when no one has to know what it's like. I'd love to be like the last blood-letting patient the world knew, reminiscing as a 90-year-old what was done and why while first year medical students listen and say, "You're kidding me. . . "

b) Here's an even bigger chunk of insight: You would all be amazed to know how much breast tissue is on your body!

Women and men, boys and girls--everyone has breast tissue!

Without it, and I almost wish I could show you a picture, but I won't, so don't every worry about that, the human body is a touch concave.

There's the pectoralis muscle, and below it, where the breast tissue was, is now a rib cage with a layer of skin over it. Nothin' else. Nothing else to make it "flat," as I say, the contour is actually concave.

I'm picturing right now my male readers, if any remain, and I wouldn't blame them if they didn't, feeling their chests right now, saying, "No way, man, I'm a rock up there."

No, you're not.

Your pec occupies a different space on your body from your breast tissue. And body builders get so big, the pec encroaches upon the breast tissue's territory, but it's still there.

All of which is meant to demonstrated to small-busted ladies out there: You might be pretty close to being flat-chested right now. But without those A-cups, you'd be concave. And there's no shirt out there that could flatter that line.

I'm glad to share this with you because I found it to be a fascinating anatomical observation that, I'm pretty sure, you'd otherwise not know about.

I'm also glad to share it because I think there's a lot of uncomfortable curiosity about what "it" actually looks like, one we're driven to the more pink our world becomes, and yet one we just can't imagine if left to our own devices.

Halloween

I hate Halloween in Colorado Springs. The don't do it right.

#1. They don't trick-or-treat until after sunset. In Elmhurst, we started at 3:30. We were done in time to eat dinner and do homework and go to sleep at a normal hour.

No, it wasn't dark during the bulk of our efforts. But we were warm.

#2. Which leads to an addendum objection: Because the trick-or-treating doesn't start until nightfall, it's so freaking cold. My kids are little! Josh is only 3! He might be meaty, but even a juicy 3-year-old should be inside when the temps are in the teens.

#3. People around here celebrate the occult.

I know you're thinking: Uh, yeah. It's Halloween.

But in my day, people had carved pumpkins and, like, corn outside their houses. There was one family on Hawthorne down the block from us who made their front door very scary and Janice and I knew to skip it.

Here, there is no skipping. There is a lot a lot a lot a lot of dark, gruesome decorations. When I was a kid, the holiday was about creativity and work ethic.

The creativity part--well, come on, who bought a costume? Practically everyone put together one of his own. And it was a day my own mother really shined: she made more than a few awesome costumes. And then we grew up to make our own.

I now rank coming up with a great costume for my kid right along side baking a really great chocolate chip cookie. It's a Gold Star of motherhood that should count for nothing, yet it's a star I want.

And the work ethic? This was our first experience of putting labor in to get reward out. Nothing more pure than the labor of trudging house to house; nothing more motivating than candy.

You want to stop working? Fine. Go home.

You want more candy? There's the doorbell, kid.

Now I look around and people are celebrating, and innocent as I'm sure many think it is, they're celebrating the heart of darkness.

Skulls. Skeletons. Figures strung up in effigy (In years past, of our own President; but of course, no, no, not now. . .) Cauldrons. (!) Houses with tape recordings of incantations being chanted out in haunting voices. (!!) Mock graveyards put up in front yards. (!!!)

And so, so, so many people dressing up as witches, which is a little rich considering that Manitou Springs, Wiccan capital, is right next door. I mean. Where's the multi-cultural sensitivity, people? Are we going to co-exist or not?

Bryan and I want our kids to enjoy Halloween the way we used to. But there's a lot to protect against. The elements. Satanists. People who aren't Satanists but who decorate their houses as though they are.

But I've ranted so long, you've probably forgotten my talking points:

The Ideal Halloween includes:
1. Homemade costumes.
2. Not being out all night.
3. Avoiding the occult.


Got all that? Good.


A week ago, I found myself staring at the Costume Wall at Party City, feeling like a failed woman mowed down of her potential. Because I was bald and menopausal? No, no. Because I was telling my kids to pick out a costume.

What do we got here? We got princesses whose skirts light up. We got a ladybug. We got a doctor. Whatever you want, Gemma. Except a witch. You cannot dress up as a witch.

She chose to be a pirate. "High Seas Buccaneer" was the official label. Because Joshua chose to be a pirate and she wanted to be something along with him.

I thought to myself, as I paid too much money for this garb, that I could make them into pirates if. . .if. . .if I had any mojo whatsoever. But I was out of mojo. And one day, my kids will be telling their college friends that the best Halloween was the year they got to buy costumes in the store because their mother had cancer.


All week long, we'd planned on trick-or-treating at the mall. It is indoors and warm. It is not decorated ghoulishly. The kids could wear their costumes without coats and get candy and avoid the guy who dresses like a mummy and jumps out to scare children!

But come Saturday, the weather was so nice, the kids were able to put on sweatshirts under their costumes and stay plenty warm. And we knew where the mummy lived, so we could just avoid him.

At 4:30, with the sun still shining, I took them out to the neighbors' houses. Yes, it was almost 2 hours earlier than the time others would start. But my neighbors wouldn't complain. As that was Day 6 of chemo round 5, I was done walking after our brief tour of the cul-de-sac and one other close-lying home.

Then I ate dinner while Bryan left with the kids for the real trick-or-treating. One friend asked, as his kids were at my door, "Is Bryan going for the marathon this year?"

I shrugged and said, "I have to let Bryan be Bryan." And if the kids were up for it, then just think of the work ethic they were cultivating!

I sat in front of our house with two of my neighbors and our bowls of candy on our laps, saving the trick-or-treaters the trip to our front doors. Bryan got back with the kids just as the sun was setting. They ate dinner outside and helped hand out candy and played with their friends on the cul-de-sac and Bryan built a fire in our portable pit.

Night fell and it was brisk, but toasty enough by the fire and a lot of parents warmed themselves by it while their kids completed the circuit around the sac. It was all so friendly.

And the costumes! One brother and sister dressed as robots, complete with silver boxes and HVAC tubing on their arms, lots of doo-hickies painted on the front as controls. I gave them each a huge handful of candy as a salute to their effort.

Lots of cute kids cam along. Including one tot whose mother said, 'Now what do you say?' He responded, 'I want more!' Stephanie, the neighbor sitting next to me, gave him a huge handful of candy in a salute to his effort.

She also kept a tally: 112 trick-or-treaters.

At some point in the night, Bryan said, "Should I go out with them again?" Gemma and Josh gave a rousing cheer and off they went, taking their friend next door with them.

As to our contact with the darkly decorated houses? At least our kids didn't get scared, really. And the occult came to us, in the form of more than a few costumes.

Most notable was an 8-year-old girl whose lips were black and whose face was white. She was wearing a black, flowy dress and wings that were patterned with silver spider webs.

"What are you?" I asked.

"A Goth fairy princess."

"Oh." Is what I said.

What I wanted to say was, "What does the word 'Goth' mean to you?"

By 8 O'clock, the fire was doused and we were headed in.
Somehow, not the Ideal Halloween.
But somehow the best Halloween I've had in a long, long time.





















With some of their cul-de-sac friends, Kate and Joshua. Kate is a "60's Girl," and Joshua is a cowboy.

Comments on Comments: Last Week in October

Yesterday's Saturday feature gets moved to today. So, no Sunday Storytime.

I didn't write yesterday for two reasons. The first, on the downside, is that my fingers become increasingly numb from the "T" portion of the "TCH" chemical cocktail. I've felt it each round, with each round being a little bit worse. This time, I finally reached the point where I wouldn't have been able to type well enough to avoid frustration.

It doesn't hurt. More like a very, very dull sense of pins and needles in my hands and especially fingers. So. That was good for a day off.

The second reason is that yesterday was Halloween. Photos and post about that coming this week, I predict. It turned out to be a terrific evening, abnormally warm for these parts. The kids, Bryan and I all had a great time.

Now, to your comments:

One Gerri Dobry posted on line and caused much confusion among my family. Mrs. Jan Dobry lived 4 doors down from us for-practically-ever and this new "Mrs. Dobry" shows up and made them think, "No. Your name is not 'Gerri.'"

No, no, no sisters. My Mrs. Dobry is my literature and history teacher from 7th and 8th grade. "History," though they called it by that abominable term, "Social Studies," because, in truth, she is the first teacher I had who took history seriously and was serious about teaching it. (And the only, I might add, until Mr. Frank Andrew Zdun strode onto the scene my Senior year of high school. "Good luck on your exams." --That was for Sarah and Suzanne. . . )

Yes, yes, so Mrs. Dobry. Also, and more importantly, the first teacher who took literature seriously and opened that window into seeing the power of writing. Maybe a lot of kids have a moment like this at age 13 or 14, but it was in her classes that I saw for certain that writing was something I loved and that I wanted to do, without really knowing much more beyond that.

Well. I could go on. Suffice it to say that the one year I found myself teaching 5-8th graders--a job I got just 2 weeks before the school year began--I sat down and thought, "Square One. How am I going to do this? . . . Well. What did Mrs. Dobry do?"

And I went from there.

And I was a kick-ass teacher.

So how cool is it that Mrs. Dobry is reading my blog??? And has been e-mailing me all along, only perhaps just recently she figured out how to post in the comments. :-)

Speaking of confusion cleared-up, from your comments, we see that some have learned that "puggle," though surely a relative somehow of something Hogwartish ?, is indeed a baby platypus, and you also all know what AWANA stands for.

It's likely I'll go to the meeting tonight, even though chemo patients on day 6 of a round should not go. But aren't you paying attention? I'm done with all that now. And I'm going. I'll just stay out of the little rooms and hand sanitize 6 different times an hour. . .

A bit of discussion about Gramma's stuffed shells. Sister #3 is coming for Round 6, and she can replicate that famous and grand dish that I love so well. Meat? Cheese? Meat and cheese? It doesn't matter. What matters is that they are awesome.

Now, Bryan is leaving the Tuesday morning of Round 6 to help his parents down in Florida. I told him, too bad he's leaving, he's going to miss the shells.

He said why can't we just freeze some for me.

I said this is Gramma's stuffed shells we're talking about. Why not just. . .just. . .freeze the Mona Lisa?

He looked at me askance.

Then Leslie said I was a terrible girl and of course she'd make them while Bryan was here and of course she'd make extra to freeze for later.

Sheesh. You'd think the guy had cancer.

Ah, well, all the same to me. I'll be eating very well that whole week, regardless.

Some comments via the blog and e-mail regarding my conversation about the prettiness quotient. Sounds as though I'm not crazy, which is a relief. A toast to our mutual beauty, ladies!

And dear Helen suggests that I re-visit the topic at age 60. By that time, I plan to be on a completely different page that the mainstream. Old ladies who wear purple will seem normal compared to where I plan to head. . .

Finally, Mom notes that we Ponce's were romping around in a pumpkin patch full of snow, and yet not wearing full-on snow gear. Yep. It's the sun. So warm here.

A snowstorm this week, for instance. Schools were delayed on Monday, and closed on Wednesday and Thursday. By Friday, it was mid-40's and on Saturday, high 50's, all the snow and ice melted, and the kids trick-or-treated with just sweatshirts under their costumes.

Here is the thing I love about Colorado. Well. One of the things: The sun will come out tomorrow, or soon after.

The bleakest storm gets melted away.

Even if it doesn't melt, the wind stops blowing and you can play in it because the sun is so strong, it warms right through the cold air.

Did you know that Scripture calls Jesus The Morning Star--e.g. the sun? With 2 weeks remaining before the last round, that is an image I can bank on.