Hair-ful

It's growing back.

I've told you Joshua's observations. First I felt "poky," then "like a caterpillar," then "like a cat." I got home from my family reunion weekend last Monday and he gave me a good pet. I asked him, "What do I feel like now, Josh?"

He said, "Like Mommy."

I know that's really sweet. Believe me, for the first twenty minutes, my heart gushed. But then. Well. Come on, Josh. When has your Mommy's hair ever felt like this? Get real.

(Oh, take it easy! Of course I didn't say this to him!)

It is about half an inch long now. Seems to be as thick as before. I have a solid patch of white hairs right above my forehead, slightly to the left. They were there years ago, but were easy to hide.

When Dr. Markus saw me and remarked on the new growth, I pointed to these white hairs and said, "Do I have you to blame for these?"

Was that mean? Making him think it was a chemo thing? Meh. He didn't seem to care.

He did say, "I think it's very distinctive!"

Oh?

"Yes! Are you a reader of science fiction fantasy?"

What? Do I look like a 15 year old boy? Wait. Don't answer that. . .

"The very powerful are often marked by a streak of white hair. You would be, well, like a sorceress."

Moment of silence. I'm fairly certain I'd never been compared to a sorceress before. What does one say to this? What did I say?

I shrugged and whispered, "Behold!"

He then said, "I've revealed what a nerd I am." I wanted to tell him, "I think being a nerd is very distinctive!"

And one of these days, I will tell him, "I'm glad you are a nerd. I'm a nerd. I'm working hard to turn my children into nerds. This world is a better place because of nerds!"

But his comments do make me think of Rogue from the X-Men. Check out her streak of white hair:

I'd often thought that if I had that much of a concentration, I'd go for it. But my clump makes a streak about a quarter of that size on just one side. Before I lost my hair, I colored just this streak.

Then, just this weekend as I watched the Olympics, I saw a Pantene commercial on which the model--a hair model!--was a dark brunette with a long streak of white hair.

And it wasn't even for the old-lady version of their formula. So maybe, friends. Just maybe. . .

Half an inch seems to be the length that people interpret to be a chosen hairstyle, and not a side effect. I was wearing a hat on the airplane and a woman remarked, "Fantastic hat! Where did you get it?"

I told her and then added, "I saw it, liked it, was bald at the time, so I bought it."

She looked surprised and said, "I was bald once, too!" and we high-fived. (Note to self: Is there a secret Survivor's handshake I should know about for these moments? Google it.)

My point is that she didn't have the "Oh, you've got cancer!" look that I've learned to read pretty quickly.

A 16-17ish old girl in the Commissary stopped me to tell me how "cool" my hairstyle was and how "awesome" it was that I "went for it."

So, I inspired one of our nation's youth this week. What have you done, slackers?

I also have all of my eyebrows back. That was an awkward few weeks, waiting for them to come in. When you have just stubble up there, they look like two smudges, like hobo make-up mis-applied.

And stubbly eyelashes! They looked so icky for a while. But they are back now, too.

All further proof that we are finished with the hard treatment and that my body is getting on with the show.

Speaking of which, a photo below, taken at our reunion. I'd started entering the game room by sliding in front of the entrance a la Tom Cruise in Risky Business (a movie I've never seen, but who hasn't seen that scene?)

Mom, ever the faithful photo-historian, insisted that I do it once for the camera.

Here I am. Take those old records off the shelf. . .

Breast Loose and Sugar Free

I have a lot to share from the last week or so, but Bryan has been out of the country this week, so I've had extended kid-duty on top of the extreme fatigue from radiation.

After reading that, I know what you want to know, so I'll tell you: Naples.

He's due home in an hour. I'll be sure to tell you if he got me anything nice. . .

Speaking of promised reports, perhaps there is a question among you about my hair. It is coming in. 2 weeks ago, Josh felt my head and said, "You feel poky." One week ago, he felt it and said, "You feel like a caterpillar." Yesterday: "You feel like a cat."

It seems to be as thick as before. It also seems to be the same color, though this is deeply disappointing for Gemma, who was hoping for purple. It's not long enough to know yet whether it is curly.

My body hair is back, too. Up until a few days ago, I had gone 5 months without touching a razor! Of course, I went longer than that once while in college, with a very different result, but that was not cancer-related.

The shocking part about the Return of Hair are my eyebrows. There they are! I had gotten used to seeing my face bald, and had been drawing in thin brown lines when donning a wig. But here are the real things again and can I just say that eyebrows are strange. Go ahead and look in a mirror right now. Stare at your brows. What are those things all about??

But enough chit-chat. Time to turn to our title for the day:

The radiation is burning through the layers of my skin such that I cannot wear any supportive garments. Way too uncomfortable. Instead, I've been wearing Bryan's big denim shirt over a top and that has at least protected me against an appearance that is both immodest and freakish, what with one swinging free and all.

I've been able to exercise each day (so the fatigue can't be as bad as that from chemo, I keep reminding myself), but even then, athletic support is not an option.

I happened to explain all this to Mandy who expressed utter disbelief. Wasn't I completely uncomfortable on that side? Wasn't it killing me not to be supported?

Hmm. Come to think of it: No. And that's odd. I figure it's because my breast is trying to stay under the radar right now, kind of like, "Hey, girl, don't mind me. I'm totally fine here. Not going to bother you at all. Not going to turn cancerous on you. So, like, there's reason to cut me off or anything. It's all good."

"Yeah, well, you know what, breast? I appreciate your co-operation and all, but next week I'm calling Mayfield's office to schedule your date with destiny."

So now you all understand the phrase "Breast Loose."

As for "Sugar Free," let me back up to about 3 years ago. In January of 2007, I started experiencing screaming headaches and throwing up a lot. I saw a few doctors. We ruled out things like ciliac disease and lactose intolerance. And I eventually figured out that I couldn't tolerate refined sugar. There was something about the chemical used to refine it that was toxic to me, and even a small dose of it sent me into the same symptoms as food poisoning.

A lot of good came out of this. For starters, I broke what was actually an addiction to sugar. I had been swamped buy a post-pardem depression that just wouldn't go away--until I stopped eating sugar. On the whole, I was very, very glad to be free of it.

And I could eat organic sugar, which is not refined in the same way. So it's not like I've had nothing sweet to eat for 3 years. The difference is that once broken of the addiction, I had few cravings for a dessert. Chocolate no longer held power over me!

The intolerance was still evident as recently as this past Christmas, when I did a lot of baking with the kids. This required testing the batter (and I wasn't using organic sugar), and just a lick would trigger the start of the headache, so I knew not to eat more and trigger the rest of the consequences.

Then. Then. Then. . . The kids decorated a Gingerbread Train. And the jelly bellies on the rim of Gemma's box car called to me. Surely one wouldn't cause a headache. And one did not. Nor did two, nor three, nor, well, that was the end of the box car trim. I ate them all. To no ill effect.

Hmm. Maybe the makers of jelly bellies don't use refined sugar. Maybe it's all fructose corn syrup. How about Twizzlers? Josh had slapped a few onto the side of his car with great abandon. And. . .nope! No problem at all!

Boy, this was strange. Last week, there were Holiday MnM's leftover from our baking that were having such a fun little party together in my cupboard, I couldn't resist joining them. I loved to eat them! They loved being eaten! I tried just a few. . .no headache! Later, I ate several more. . .still fine!

And so it is. No more intolerance to sugar. I feel like I've been healed. (Yes, that's a little rich, coming from someone who has escaped the grip of Stage III breast cancer.) And I've been having a great time revisiting my favorite deserts of yore: Culver's Chocolate concrete with peanut butter cups; molten lava cake from AppleBee's--not to mention their spinach vinaigrette salad I'd had to forgo because the dressing is made with sugar.

Ah. . . The week has been delicious.

I don't at all know what to make of this. I don't think I'll know, this side of eternity, what was going on inside of me. And I don't think I would mind if the intolerance returned, though it is nice to partake of some yummy things.

It's a good sign that, though I've been Sugar Free (e.g. free to eat sugar!) for a week, I am actually down 2 pounds of weight. I have the ambition to avoid an addiction this time around--the secret of which, I think, will be to eat only the sweet things that are really terrific, and to avoid the myriads of other sugar sources ever present.

In short, I think I'm going to be OK.

The Last Round

A week ago, Sister #3, Leslie, and I went to the chemo barn for Round 6.

Before the chemotherapy comes a blood draw from my port and then an appointment with Dr. Science to talk about the lab work and any other issues.

Sister #1 didn't get to meet Dr. Markus during her visit because I had a substitute doctor that day. This is only relevant to the extent that Laura, sister #1, is. . .very. . .normal. She behaves normally. She quite reliably doesn't say or do anything outside of normal parameters of American middle class society. So even if she had met Dr. Markus, I don't know that there'd have been anything to report.

Leslie is normal, too. No, really. She is. But sometimes, just to have a little fun in her day, she chooses to take half a step outside of normal and just let it ride. Just see what happens. Because it's fun. Because it's entertaining. Because, why not?

You're wondering: Like what? I don't know. It's hard to describe. She just has these. . .feminine wiles that distract and charm most men, causing them to get idiot looks on their faces.

And she's reading this blog. I don't think I'm saying anything that's not making her smile right now.

Going into my appt with Dr. Science, I couldn't help thinking, "Is this going to be one of those slightly-outside-the-envelope kind of moments for her? Could she reduce this brilliant man to an idiot look?"

He came in, I made the introductions, we got to talking about Round 5 and how I was feeling fine. He and I high-fived over starting the last round. All very normal.

I sat up on the exam table so he could listen to the heart, lungs, etc. . . I asked him a) how long after radiation one had to wait before having surgery and b) whether I could have surgery while taking the protein treatment, Herceptin.

A) 4 weeks
B) Yes

So, Leslie, who was sitting on the side chair as Dr. Markus and I were by the exam table, started doing calculations. 4 weeks this, radiation lasts that long, then this, then that--running these numbers, Dr. Science and I just staring at her, waiting for her point to emerge.

"So by early April, Aim," she concluded, "Poonph!!" and she motioned her hands by her breasts, making small ones into big ones.

Dr. Markus and I turned from her to look at each other.

He, not quite with an idiot look but at least one that was a bit bemused, and I with a half smile and a shrug.

I told this story to others, in front of Leslie, and she said, "I totally toned it down, you have no idea."

And for this, the good doctor and I are thankful.

As for the medical portion of the appointment. . . what next?

Radiation, which I shall explain tomorrow.

And then the big question: How do we know for certain that the heebie jeebie cancer is gone/has not come back?

1. I'll continue to go every 3 weeks for herceptin through August, at which times, they'll do a full blood count and monitor my blood chemistry. Sometimes, cancer in the system will register in those numbers.

2. I'll keep track of my own body, and if something feels different or seems to hurt or seems off, I'll tell him about it and have a scan of some sort.

"That's kind of intimidating," I told him. Having such a serious consequence predicated on my own judgement? Yeesh.

But he explained, of course, that I'm the best judge of my own body and that I "am not a whiner" so when I tell him about something he'll "believe me."

Not a whiner?

"Well, sometimes people come in with a long list of ailments and it's hard to know what has to be addressed. You're not like that, so if you complain about something, we'll know we have to look into it."

Here that, everyone? I'm not a whiner! I'll take that as the day's compliment. Though I note here that Dr. Markus is the one physician attending me so far who has yet to tell me that I'm thin. . .

Finally, unrelated to my own condition, is Dr. Science's, the day we saw him. I noted that he'd gotten some sun. He pulled out his finisher's medal from the San Antonio marathon. 26.9 miles. "This is why I'm walking funny," he said.

We congratulated him, wanted to hear all about it. And had his family gone with the for the weekend to cheer him on? No. He'd told his wife he was leaving for a medical conference.

What?

She doesn't like for him to do stupid things, he explained.

But how did he train without her knowing?

"I'd go out for a run and come back 3 1/2 hours later. . . But I do so many stupid things, this hardly registered with her."

I asked if he'd let his kids in on the secret--they are 7 and 6.

He said, no, they'd have blabbed.

"Oh," I commented, "They've got tight shoes."

What's that?

"They're shoes are so tight, it forces the truth out of their mouths." --shout out to Uncle Fe, who brought that expression into our family. . .

At the end of the appointment, with tears, I told him what an excellent physician he was and I thanked him for his compassion and for always making me and Bryan feel like he had all the time in the world to talk with us. I know some people do this cancer thing with doctors whom they don't like and don't trust. I'm so thankful that I am not one of them.

But before the appoinment ended, I asked Dr. Markus a probing question: what percentage of his job was sad work? He's an oncologist. A lot of his appointments probably carry sad news.

His eyes teared up and he said, "Quite a bit of it. We get really attached to our patients."

Did he carry that sadness home with him?

"We have different ways of coping. Some of us run until our legs fall off. . ."

So, a hearty congratulations to Dr. Markus on finishing his marathon. Not a stupid thing, in my estimation, but an heroic one. Especially if it's therapy to aid an heroic work.

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.

A Look Inside

Time for some girl talk.

But this is also for you men, because it will provide a window into the American, middle-class female psyche that might well change your world.

What I'm about to post is not just an Amy! thing. I'm pretty sure a vast number of women in my demographic, at least, would find a lot in common with what I'm about to reveal.

Interested yet? Here goes:

I think women go through various stages of relating to their own looks. And I'm not just talking about bodies, but the whole package. The person she sees in the mirror, both dressed and un-dressed, hair done and un-done.

It's not just the past few months that have precipitated my thinking about this. I've always found it to be a really interesting topic because I notice that men don't really have stages like these.

For instance, when I taught college Composition, I'd always ask a Question of the Day as the students filed into the room each morning. A little something to get them talking, get them thinking. One day I said, "You do not have to answer this question. You are free to refuse to answer. I refuse to answer it myself. The question is this: How much do you weigh?"

And, as I had predicted would happen, the guys all answered--without hesitation!--and the women did not. Until the last one walked in--she was usually almost late--a tall, thin, very pretty party girl type. I posed the question to her as written above and she said, "110, baby!" and kissed her fingers before slapping her own butt.

So there was one exception.

My point being that I'm not writing out of a one-breasted obsession. I've been obsessed with the subject for a long time.

The stages, I think, are these--though maybe there are more, but there are at least these:

1. Pre-22 stage. The teens-into-college-freshman 15 concerned-who am I?-stage. Let's not even talk about this stage. It is what it is. It was what it was.

2. Then we kind of become adults. In our 20's. Our worlds get bigger. Our responsibilities get more serious. Some of us get spouses, or at least a pet--something to take us outside of ourselves. We get real jobs, and get to know real people who are living real lives--a lot of times, lives much harder than anything we'd ever known.

And the men around us kind of start to grow up, too. They start to realize that looks only count for so much, and they start to pay attention to to qualities like, say, personality and intelligence. And then, interestingly, those of us who always had lots of personality and intelligence, see our stock rise.

But all the while, the voice within that's looking at the woman in the mirror is not saying, "Damn, you're gorgeous." It's saying, in the words of Springsteen, "You ain't a beauty, but, hey, you're all right."-- and it was all right, because you see that life is about so much more than how you look. Your life. Other's lives. The person you fall in love with. The marriage you build. All these massively important and wonderful things find the question of physical beauty to be largely irrelevant.

Meanwhile, that husband who loves you is continually mystified that all the lovely comments he gives you don't seem to count for very much. Why isn't his voice louder than the one in your head? I guess it's because you figure he has to say those things. Or that a big part of the reason he says them is that he's simply blinded by love. . .

3. The next stage happened for me in the mid-20's. I found myself hiking with friends. And coaching a 7/8th grade boys basketball team and, because our numbers were so few, actually playing on the court with them and running lines against them.

Gemma came along after this and with all the physical activity of these few years came a new realization: A body is not just about form. In fact, it's a lot more about function. You get to this point and suddenly the size of your jeans doesn't matter nearly as much as whether you can play outside with your kids all afternoon and still have the energy to cook dinner.

Then you, I don't know, break your ankle, or something, and experience several weeks with dramatically reduced function and you promise yourself, "I will appreciate my health from now on!" and you tell that voice in your head, that is still not thrilled with how you look, that it just needs to shut up because you happen to be enjoying your life a lot.

3. Thrown in there, I think, I hope for most of us, at some point, is the place where you stop counting calories and playing that game with the scale--you know, the one where the scale tells you whether you're going to have a happy day or a bummer day--and instead really tune into your body and discover what food makes it work well, what foods makes you feel crummy, when you are filled up, when you should eat something.

For me, this really happened with the sugar allergy thing almost 3 years ago. And I am so thankful for it.

4. And then, the next stage. The one I just reached 3 days ago. Here I am, at a place of pretty grim physical decimation. The body, the hair, the loss of eyebrows and eyelashes, the palid skin, the reduced muscle tone all over. I'm a real mess at the moment.

I brought some negatives in to be developed. Do you remember negatives?

I had to use them to make baby photos from Josh's birth, back before my mother went digital. And, to boot, I had to develop one of those instant cameras from my trip to Hawaii to see Parin, back in November of 07. (Isn't that pathetic, Parin??? Finally!!)

I got the photos back. There I was. In Hawaii. A "recent" picture in that it's what I looked like just before the diagnosis--hadn't changed that much in 1 1/2 years. And I saw this woman in the photo and thought, "Wow! I am so pretty!!"

In my normal state. The state I'll be getting back to in a few months. . .

Bryan looked at me like I was just. . .crazy. Has he not been telling me this for about 12 years? But that little voice just wouldn't believe it. Until 3 days ago, when I saw it in contrast to what I'm living with now.

So. I think this all totals up to a solid piece of advice, for those of you who would also like to get to this 4th stage:
a) Take a photo of yourself.
b) Get an illness that will leave you temporarily disaster-ized.
c) In the midst of your low point, look at that photo.

Then you, too, will appreciate the great height of your own beauty. And when you get better, that little voice will be gone and you will be free to enjoy yourself just as God's made you.

And this will probably be a very nice relief for the man in your life as well. . . .

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.

Missouri

A 5-year-old talked me into driving 9 hours to Missouri only minutes after writing that I had no intentions to go.

We told her she had the choice of staying home with me, or going with Daddy, and he'd bring her to the Red Barn Farm in Weston. Joshua announced, "I'm staying with you!" but Gemma was torn:

On the one hand, she really wanted to see the chickens.

On the other hand, she really wanted to be with Mommy.

"Why can't we all just go as a family?" she whined.

Is 5 years old too young to explain, "Look, it doesn't matter if you don't like either of your options. Look at me! I have to choose between chemotherapy and death! And yet I try not to whine. . ."

Bryan did all the driving. We arrived late on Friday and stayed at Helen and David's house. Saturday was supposed to be crisp and sunny. Instead, it was cold and damp. But we still went to the Red Barn Farm and saw the animals, enjoyed a hayride, shivered through the cold.

I spent the afternoon at the house with a hot cup of tea while the other 3 did some little projects with the barn on our land. Sunday morning, we drove the 9 hours back. Found that we missed an ice storm here in the Springs while gone. So there's that.

A few remarks:

1. We listened to Lincoln, on tape. It was hard for me to concentrate, though Bryan liked it. I used a lot of the time to think. And mostly what I thought was this: I am kind of done being a cancer patient.

Seriously.

There's more treatment, of course. But I'm tired of how it feels physically, how there's always a battle to be fought emotionally and mentally, how there is a biochemical oppression raging inside me, and how much sadness creeps around the corner.

Enough. In 2 1/2 months, I hope, the chemo and radiation will be finished, I hope. And that is not too long a time to spend in denial.

Me? Cancer? No. I'm fine.

2. Many of you know that we own a tract of land in Weston, MO. We had plans to spend Bryan's last tour there and then retire in the area. The story of why that didn't happen is for a Sunday. Suffice to say that we had still been planning to get back there, even while detoured through Colorado Springs.

No longer. It really looks like we'll try to settle here in the Springs. Many, many reasons why. But this trip--while it was supposed to be a quick, beautiful visit to lovely Platte County in Autumn--kind of felt like a Farewell Tour. We'll still visit David and Helen, of course. But it doesn't look like we'll try to move there.

3. We don't have television in our home. So when we find it someone else's home, it's a pretty big treat to watch it.

I am already used to seeing pink ribbons everywhere, and on everything. (Coming soon: A post on the most peculiar "pink"--items issued for sale in a special breast edition.)

I was not prepared to see a commercial featuring an artists who made casts of women's breasts before they were removed. The model of one of these--a double-breast removal patient at age 26 (!)--explained to the camera the story behind the making of the cast.

I thought, as I watched her:
1) How many takes did she have to do before she could talk about all that without crying? and
2) What kind of surgery did she have afterwards? Because she's wearing a tank top and she looks great.

4) Also about TV. Bryan and I watched an episode of Dirty Jobs, with that hilarious host. There he was, helping to close up a mine shaft in the California wilderness, shoving debris and other gunk down into the hole that he would later climb into.

"We're going to be standing in this in a few minutes, aren't we?" he asked.

The experienced guy replied, "Either that or you pull it all up and we stand around in it up here."

The host said, "I'm looking for a world with more options."

Amen to that, you hilarious host.

But you'll keep scooping the gunk into your own hole. And I'll drive 18 hours round trip and then rest a day and then get a Herceptin treatment on Tuesday. (But not because I have cancer. . .) Because there is no Option 3. There's only your next dirty job, or whatever it is your life looks like 2 1/2 months from now.

Note From Vacation

I'm back from my blogger break. Has a term for that been coined yet? Or should we just call it a "blogger break"?



It is Thursday, so the standard is to post a theme song. But you've all been without me for an entire week, and I'm not sure you could bear not hearing from me in a chatty post. Besides, tomorrow is a Friday round up of The Name Game and I'm going to have to beat you up for coming up with a whopping, what?, 3 names so far??? So I'd better be nice to you today.



Mom, Dad, Uncle Fe and Aunt Jill came and went. They had a very nice vacation and got around to see a lot. I do have a few niblets to report:



On Thursday, Bryan, the kids and I went with them to the Air and Space Museum at Peterson Air Force Base. They had a pretty impressive collection and our docent was very chatty, so it made for an informative, longish sort of morning.



We went from there to the commissary, a place that I've been wanting my Dad, Master Grocery Shopper, to experience. Mostly, I just wanted to brag about our awesome prices.



And, oh yes, he covetted.



We had the kids with us while Bryan and the others were down the corridor at the Base Exchange, the military version of a department store. Dad was pushing the spaceship cart, the kind where the kids sit up high and face forward and pretend to drive with their little, fake steering wheels.



Dad ordered the volpi salami and prosciutto from our deli and this brought out the Italian in him because he then turned to the imported cheese bin, looked for the provolone and, when he couldn't find it, shouted to the guy stocking the bin,



"Hey, que sedice!!"



The guy, a grown man, not, like, a 16 year old punk with earphones stuck in his head, looked up at Dad with an expression that read, roughly, 'What the hell is your problem?'



And I kind of don't blame the guy. This is a military commissary in Colorado Springs. Who goes around shouting random Italian phrases at people?



I asked Dad something along these lines and he said, "It means, 'Pay attention!'"



Yeah. And the cheese manager of the Peterson Air Force Base commissary is supposed to know that?



Dad got his cheese. Then struck up a conversation with an old lady who grew up in Germany. That is, Dad was commenting aloud at how cheap our meat is and she overheard and said, "It is crazy, out in town, how much they charge!" with a thick accent.



So where was she from? Oh, that's right by where he was stationed years ago. What year did she leave? Blah, blah, blah, yaddy yaddah. . . I was glad he was having such a great time.



After paying, we headed for the door closest to the corridor we'd go down to meet the others. I hadn't realized this was an entrance only. Then I saw the big letters, "ENTRANCE ONLY NO EXIT" and said, "Ooops."



Dad saw the letters, "ENTRANCE ONLY NO EXIT," continued walking towards the door anyway, and rammed the cart right into them, knocking the right one off its magnets. Then he said, "Ooops."



I think in regular grocery stores, even when doors say "NO EXIT," they open anyway. Is this true? Because it would go a long way towards explaining. I should test it out. . . In the moment, though, I thought, "I cannot take you anywhere."



We went down to the BX to find the others and found instead a yo-yo demonstration in celebration of Duncan's 80th anniversary.

I had no idea that
a) one could do so much with a yo-yo nor
b) anyone over the age of 10 was making much of an effort to do so nor
c) that one could become a pro yo yo thrower and get paid a living wage.

Did any fellow graduates of Immaculate Conception (heh heh heh) remember Mrs. Field suggesting this was an option?

This particular guy was not at the BX, but I figure, "Why not post a video of the world champion if I'm going to post a video of a yo yo guy?"

Dad and I were captivated by the 3 yo yo guys there. They were all between 19 and 22 years old. Dad asked them if they ever thought about getting real jobs. I, on the other hand, wanted to know if they ever did their yo-yo thing to impress women.

The guy I asked, who was a slight fellow, sporting Elvis Costello glasses and black jeans with white socks and black wingtips, said, "Of course."

I asked if it worked.

He said, "Yes. . . in the sense that women are impressed." And not, I gathered, that it led to any, say, exchange of phone numbers.

But when your job in life is to travel the country throwing a yo yo around, it's OK if other parts of your life aren't going as well as you'd like.

We finally met up with the others. Mom, Aunt Jill and I went out to lunch and then shopping while the boys took a driving tour of Ft. Carson and Betsy and Amy took the kids out. We had dinner at home that night. Bryan retired early with flu-like-symptoms. While I felt some compassion for him, I mostly just didn't want him to get me sick.

So he moved down to the basement guest suite and was sacked out all of Friday and Saturday.

He was well enough Sunday to be out and about whereas I had a detectable cold by then and I decided to hunker down and drink gallons of fluid to ward off the worst. It worked.

So, while Uncle Fe and Dad both caught the germ from Bryan--and blamed him for it!--I offered up the following defense: No one's immune system is more taxed than mine is right now, so if I could shake the germ, all others should be able to as well. They just didn't drink enough fluids, as per my constant advice from the moment they landed. . .

Ah, well. Hope they're feeling better now.

As for some photos that Mom took and sent:

Here we are in front of the Air and Space Museum. The guy in the blue "Italia" jacket is Uncle Fe. The other guy is the docent. Dad is taking the photo.






On Friday, they took the cog railway up to Pike's Peak. We were supposed to go with, the kids were so excited!, but Bryan was so sick and I didn't really want to go for the first time without him. We would have had to wake very early to get there, and the kids and I all ended up sleeping until almost 9:00, so it's a good thing we sat it out instead.

Dad is wearing Bryan's pea coat and, apparently, holding up the train. Looks like a nice day for them, right?

Well, not so much. The Cog wouldn't go to the top. Stopped at 12K feet because of wind, snow and ice at the top. So I was very glad I hadn't hustled the kids out there for the trip.

A view from the window of the train. Note the goat!

At the Edelweiss restaraunt in town to celebrate Mom and Dad's 50th anniversary. Bryan was home sick. Uncle Fe got to telling his stories from his Taylor street childhood, stories that always make me laugh. It was a great night. Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad!

The Many Toppers of Amy Ponce!

To start with, this is how bald I am now:


Eyebrows getting fainter. Eyelashes still kind of hanging in there. . .

I took the opportunity of my sister's visit to have a little photo shoot of the various hats and wigs at my disposal. I brought them all down to the kitchen table and donned one after another before standing in the same spot outside my house for the pic.

In the midst of it, Laura asked whether I liked being able to do the wig thing. You know, change one's look in 3 seconds or less.

I kind of do. Specifically, I like that looking a certain way now requires such little time and maintenance. Maybe I'll keep my head shaved all the rest of my days. . .

To start with, because you are all dying to see the Pink Look:



I did wear this wig to pick Laura up at the Denver airport. She requested it! How could I refuse?

We had made contact my cell phone by the time I was at passenger pick-up, and I was out of the car, watching her walk down the long stretch towards me. She got within 4 feet and was still looking for me when I finally revealed myself.

Which is funny. Because no one else there had pink hair.

Now, this next wig is one I had high hopes for. Looked really cute on the on-line model. But something about the hairline doesn't and won't look right on me. Alas, I will just save it for Crazy Hair Day at AWANA.



Here is one of two hats I made this week. This is the one I made big enough to go over a wig, for the very cold days. It matches my wool coat, which is handy. But I realize now I need to make both a black one and a brown one so I'll have something to match each of my furs!



This is the other hat I made this week. Small enough to fit snugly without the wig. It's warmer than my baseball cap, but still breathes nicely. . .



This is a knit cap my neighbor gave me. I feel very artistic when wearing it. And I used to wear it a lot. But now it feels especially snug. Did my head get bigger? Seriously. It's really weird.



This is a jazzy number I found at the bookstore where Laura, Mandy and I went for lunch last week. I wear it whenever I'm wearing black, red or white or a combination thereof.



And this is the hat I found at Dillard's, the shopping trip I mentioned a little while ago. It's not clear in the photo, but there is a sparkly thread throughout that gives it a little extra sass. This hat is so comfortable and it covers a lot while still being dainty.



I do have another hat, a fabulous floppy sun hat that my friend, Tracy, sent. But the photo of it didn't turn out well and I'm too lazy to get Bryan to take another one. It's the one I wear when I'm sitting outside with the kids and when I'm wearing it, I feel quite at my leisure.

And, finally, my two "daily" wigs. You've seen them both before, but the blonde one really threw you all for a loop. I think when I'm wearing lipstick and not a grey sweatshirt, the wig is done a little more justice.



And, of course, my brunette number.



There you have it! At any given moment, I look like one of these.

Wig It

I didn't post on Saturday nor Monday. This is mostly because the weather has been gorgeous and I'm feeling great. I'd rather take the opportunity to do things under these circumstances than sit at the computer.

The upside is that I have a lot of photos to show you from our weekend.

But before I get to all that, it's time for the Big Reveal: Amy!'s Wigs. I've mentioned them. Now you get to see them.

And before we get to that, a few comments on wigs:

It is crazy how many wigs are for sale online. Racquel Welch has her own line, and that alone features 74 selections. Look at this! That's a lot of wigs, and on this site, hers is only one of 6 major lines.

(Note, too, how Racquel models most of them herself. And I got to say, that woman looks great in a wig. . .)

And this web site is only one of a dozen big on-line stores.

Who is buying all these wigs? Are there that many female cancer patients in the country? I am told that it used to be the rage to wear a wig on top of your own head of hair. Women pinned their own back, wore a tight cap on top, and then fitted the wig onto all that. Really? Who would do that? Women still do that? To judge by the availability of product, I guess so.

I ordered one as a "safety" wig, one that I was sure I'd be glad to wear. I ordered a second, which didn't cost much, because it looked fun. When I got it and put it on, Gemma said, "You could wear that to Crazy Hair Day at AWANA!" Indeed. I'll be sure to take a photo of it when I do.

And then I ordered one that Gemma pick out for me. It's pink. And SHE can wear it to Crazy Hair Day herself. After I tried it on and showed her, she said, "When you're all better and have your hair back, can I wear that wig?" Ah ha. . . So, really, she picked it out for herself.

Each wig offers color selection, most of which come in 10 or more colors. It's kind of hard to tell what color you're going to get from the little swatch you see on your screen, which goes far to explain this first wig I'm wearing. I thought I was buying something mostly brown with a bit of blondish highlight, but the wig put all the highlights in front and all the brown in back, so, well, there you have it.

Joshua and I are at the Hot Air Balloon Festival, something I'll tell you about tomorrow.

I wore this wig to church last weekend, and nearly no one recognized me. (Except for you, Kim!) At one point, Carol, whom I've known for 2 years, walked up to Bryan and, while standing right in front of me, asked him, "Wasn't Amy feeling up to coming tonight?"

I tapped her on the shoulder. She did her double-take and then said, "Oh, I thought you were Amy's mother or something."

I said, "You mean, 'Amy's younger daughter, right?'"

I realized the potential for an amusing evening, and started walking up to people I knew with the obvious intention of hugging them. Each time, the targeted woman would kind of put up her hands and look bewildered as she struck a "Strange woman coming for me!" post. I'd ask, "Don't you recognize me?"

And each one would shake her head, still baffled.

So funny.

I wore this second wig the next weekend and was recognized by all. This is my favorite of the 2. I think it looks better than my own hair has ever looked. And do you know where it came from? My neighbor, Stephanie.

She and her family are new on the cul-de-sac. Moved in a week after my surgery. I went over to introduce myself and we were making small talk when another neighbor, Mark, walked over, too. Before cutting to the small talk, he looked at me and said, "Are you OK? How are you doing? Is everything all right?"

A little odd, if you were my new neighbor observing this. So I had to explain.

I turned to Stephanie and said, "Hi, I'm your new

neighbor and I have breast cancer and I just had

surgery last week."

She laughed and said, "Last time we moved into a place, my new neighbor told me her husband was on trial for pre-meditated murder."

So, really, this was nothing.

Stephanie had just finished her treatment for cervical cancer before moving here. How about that! Her friend had sent her a wig to use, but her hair never fell out. She passed her wig onto me. How great is that?

I know what you're all thinking: Where in Colorado Springs are you standing, Amy? That looks like a corn field behind you.

Ah, yes. Well, heck, here come a lot more photos:

Here I am, modeling in front of Bryan's cornfield. Directly behind me is the front of his tomato patch. In this area, he also grows his pumpkins, basil, carrots and parsley. A whole forest of parsley.

Parsley? Why did he plant parsley? Why that much of it?

I asked him and he said that I was the one who bought the seeds. Really? I just don't remember that. . .

As for the outfit, I went shopping with my friend and decided to make an afternoon of it. Of course, once I was in Dillards, where the women's hats were 70% off, I took the wig off and tried all the hats on. So much for the illusion.

Here Bryan tends his strawberry patch. He's pulling back the net that protects it from the bunnies.

The kids love to poke through and eat the red ones off the plant. I think I've eaten 2 strawberries this whole summer. Gemma and Joshua? Considerably more.

A view of our yard. Each little section you see outlined in pavers within the mulch is a garden bed. The near one is our lettuce. I don't know which kind he planted, but they are all on the bitter side. Very fresh, though. And they grow like crazy.

Most evenings in the summer, we have dinner and then Bryan and the kids go out to the yard and tend the garden. Well. Mostly, the kids play. But Bryan is very diligent.

Bryan installed the patio last summer. Along the fence are our trellises for grapes. In the corner, he planted several berry bushes, but this summer has been so wet, and that corner is at the bottom of a slight slope. They all drowned.

There you have it. Wigs. Gardens. The connection? Umm. . . Things That Cover Up Stuff That Doesn't Grow and Things That Grow?

A Note on Games

Yesterday was Monday, so I went to the chemo barn.

My friend, Chris, has been taking me to the protein days, and having her along makes it a fun afternoon. Last week, we tried sitting at the game table in order to play Scrabble, but the position of my port doesn't allow for sitting upright. I have to stay in a recliner, reclined.

Yesterday, I brought my Cribbage board and taught the game to Chris. She humored me. And caught on quickly. And before we knew it, my box was beeping the "All Done" signal.

I love Cribbage. Don't you? What's that? You don't know how to play? Well, get on it!

While on the subject of games, I need to tell you about our weekend's garage sale Find. Namely, The Game of Life. Mint condition. $2.

That's a lot to pay for a garage sale game, you're saying. Surely you could have bargained it down to a dollar, Amy. Right?

Well I wasn't even going to try, that's how much I wanted it.

Because it was The Game of Life, old school. The kind Janice and I played at the McKellar's house when we were young. You know this game: First, you land on a space that designates your profession, and the ideal was the lawyer or doctor space, because they payed the most. And if you ended up as a teacher or, God help you, a journalist, then you wanted to land on the "do over" space so you could get a new profession, hopefully one that would pay more.

From there, you moved your car along the road of life. There were a few choices about which prong of the fork in the road to take. The way to determine which route was to count up how many "Have a child" spaces were ahead of you. The more, the better, because that increased your odds of landing on one, getting a little pink or blue peg for your car, and continuing on in Life with that child.

Why did you want so many kids? Why did you want to be the player who had to use a second car just to tote them around???

Because in the end, you would trade them in for money.

And in the Game of Life, she with the most money at the end wins.

I love this game. Only Americans would invent it. And then play it as a family. I love the big, multi-colored spinner in the middle, and how you have to have just the right touch to make it whiz around instead of skidding to a pre-mature stop.

I love that the worst thing to befall a player has to do with buying an uncle's skunk farm, which turns out to be a bad investment. Recently, I've come to appreciate also how no one ever lands on the "You Beat the Odds and developed a rare-er form of cancer at an improbably young age; if you have insurance, skip 3 turns, if you don't have insurance, skip 3 turns and pay $140,000!" space. (FYI: The military provides awesome insurance.)

And I love the box cover. Featuring the photograph--not illustration--of a Mom, Dad, son and daughter, all immaculately dressed and groomed in 1983 fashion, having the time of their lives playing this game.

But something tragic happened to Life a few years ago--something worse than being stuck with a skunk farm: They "updated" it. I've played this new version. It includes real estate choices, and "life experience" cards that are really just huge chunks of money that ultimately always decide the winner, regardless of how "well" he played the rest.

I can't stand the new version. It creates the illusion that the Game of Life (the game, not life itself) is more than just chance. That it requires several good choices to make. Old School Game of Life was all about chance, and that's why it was so carefree. Should we really be burdening 8-year-olds with the decision of whether to rent or buy a home? Especially when the Game of Life rules don't mimic, at all, the decision in real life, so it's not like we could even think of it as good, common sense training?

Well. The point is, I like Old School Life. And now I own it. And I look forward to playing it with our kids in about 3 years.

Protein Practitioner

I went for my Herceptin treatment on Monday. This is the protein I'll be getting every week throughout this Season of Chemotherapy. There is a lot to be said about Herceptin--so much that next week will be Herceptin Week at The Big "C."

For right now, it's only important to know that there's no side effect from this treatment and that it only drips for 30 minutes. So, though I will go to the Chemo Barn every Monday until Thanksgiving, every 2nd and 3rd trip is a much lesser deal than the poison days.

Today I met Rose. She is the nurse practitioner I'll be seeing on the days I don't see Dr. Science. I liked her a lot--very nice, seemingly competent person.

Of course, I still don't know what a nurse practitioner is. That's kind of embarrassing. I've been treated by many of them, and yet, I'm not really sure what their medical training is or, even more disconcertingly, what I'm supposed to call them. What's their title? We don't call nurses anything but their first names. We're supposed to call doctors by the title Dr., what am I supposed to do with nurse practitioners?

She wrote me prescriptions. So. She's more than a nurse. Is this the only more-ness to her, or does she have other super-nurse powers? And what is her less-ness to doctors?

What's even worse is that Bryan and I were acquaintances with a nurse practitioner while we were in Korea. "Worse," I say, because that would have been a good opportunity to get to the bottom of this. "Hey, John, what exactly IS a nurse practitioner and what kind of school did you do to become one? And what do people call you?"

But I felt as uncomfortable about asking that question as I would about asking an African American acquaintance, "How, exactly, do you have to care for your hair?"

Nothing wrong with these questions! But it feels like there's something wrong with not already knowing the answers.

In John's case, I had extra reason to tread carefully. I'd mis-spoken once and said, "How long have you nursed?" and he bit back, "I haven't lactated in years." See? Who wants to risk offending this kind of sensitivity?

Will I have the courage to ask Rose (or is it Practitioner Rose?) next time I see her? Well. It'd be easier if one of you knew and just told me.

As for the appointment, Nurse Robin accessed the port on the first try (Praise God!), and I hardly even felt it because this time I had the numbing cream to apply an hour before hand.

They drew blood and did the work-ups for all my numbers. WBC's, N's, H's, Platelets--oh yeah, I got lots of numbers. All of which I wrote down not because I need to keep my own medical record, but because I think it's going to be interesting to compare them to future numbers.

They were all very high/good today (Praise God!), and so we proceed with the treatment as planned.

My friend, Jen, picked the kids up today and took them to her house, where they had a great time. My friend, Chris, picked me up and took me to the appointment, where we had a great time. It lasted 3 hours total, but we gabbed the whole time. It was like going out for coffee with a friend, only instead of drinking coffee I was drinking herceptin and instead of sipping it with my mouth, it was being pumped into a hole in my chest. Other than this, we may as well have been in Starbucks.

In all, a pretty great day. It didn't end that well--what with the hard-boiled eggs I managed to burn--but that ending of the story is for the next post. I'm sticking with my original conclusion: a pretty great day.

Silver Bullets

What's your silver bullet?

The very thing that never fails to put you in a better mood? The thing that, though you have enough of it already, you are always happy to have more of?

I had a friend who asked this question once, in a quest for the "silver bullet gift" for women in general. His was a fool's quest, I think, because the whole point of a silver bullet is that it's individualized and cannot be generalized.

He said, no, this can't be true because men have a general silver bullet, that being anything sold in a hardware store.

Oh come on. That can't be true. I'm married to a hardware store kind of guy and if I wrapped up a bottle of Gorilla Glue for his birthday one year, he'd look at me askance.

Am I right to think each person has his or her own silver bullet? Probably. I'll leave it up to the comments section to correct or validate me. But let's get back to business, namely, my silver bullet:

Stationary supplies.

Pens. Paper. Variations of these.

Love them.

My favorite birthday gift of all time was from my 9th, when Mom gave me a Hello Kitty pencil case, fully loaded with goodies from the Hello Kitty store. I still have it, and one day, I'll pass it on to Gemma, who seems to really like stationary, too.

Given all this, you know why this is one of my favorite times of year: School Supply Sales! YAY!!!!

On Saturday, when I was still feeling yucky, had enough umph to get off the couch but not enough to exercise, per se, I took myself to Target to smell the Crayola aisle and fondle the boxes of Pilot gel pens and flip through the stacks of blank notebooks.

Ah. . . 24 count boxes of crayons for a quarter. It would have hurt me not to buy several. I loaded up, too, on little kid scissors, which have a way of going missing throughout the year. Threw in enough glue sticks to last until the sale next year at this time. Watercolor paints, too. Not on sale right then, but this is what the festive season does to me.

Here I was, kind of getting some exercise by being out and about, in a thoroughly good mood because that's what silver bullets do to you, and then I tuned into the parents and kids around me.

They were shopping for school supplies. The kids were universally glad to be about this business. The way they selected a box of crayons out of a huge bin of identical boxes. The way they chose carefully between the pink, blue or green supply holders. The way they lobbied with tepid eagerness for 24 count colored pencils over the 12.

And why the trepidation with their parents? Because pens were not their parents' silver bullet. Overheard, only variations of this theme: Let's get this over with. Shut up and let me concentrate. I'm trying not to spend any more money than I possibly have to. I can't believe I have to spend this much money just to send my kid off to school.

It was kind of heartbreaking.

And I'm on a LOT of drugs now. So it's not my fault that I nearly broke into tears.

It is my fault that I'm now writing about it. But maybe all of you are the good guys who agree with me in this and shake your head--for shame!--at these other parents.

What I was thinking was this: How much money do you waste on your child throughout the year????? And now you're going to whine about buying him new school supplies? The stuff he's going to bring with him for the coming year of free education that tax-payers are giving him?

Here your kid is, very excited to be getting new stuff. He's feeling the potential in those un-sharpened pencils. He's really digging the lime green binder he's picked out and he's looking forward to filling it with clean, lined notebook paper. And instead of celebrating that, and cultivating the enthusiasm, and marking this as a very happy day in preparation for a very important First Day of School, you are complaining.

And then you'll spend that much money on his hot lunches before the first quarter is even over. Yeah, we all have bills to pay, and other places we'd rather spend our money. But this is school. When a kid starts complaining about it a few weeks down the road, maybe it'd be helpful to have not given her an example to start out with.

I toodled away from the supply aisle. Picked out a cap to wear on my bald head that should emerge in T minus 2 weeks or so. Bought several bottles of hand sanitizer with the intention of turning my entire family into germophobes for the coming flu season. And by the time the cashier rang up all my silver bullets, I was feeling pretty good again.

Serious Progress

Sister #4 e-mailed me with some very pertinent findings:

Janice:

So what exactly is the criteria for the whole male name in a song thing? Does the song need to be about a man or just reference a male name?

AP!: The song only has to use the male name once, as we find in "The Joker"'s use of "Maurice." And, the reference need not be to a human, as we find in Mayfield's example of that Michael Jackson song that uses Ben, which is a rat.

(Note to Nick L.: You should know what song he's talking about. Any help on this, buddy? I can't imagine what else is going on in Minnesota that you haven't already gotten on this for us. ;)

Back to Janice:


If it's just a reference, Carlo and I just came up with a bunch . . . and while I'd normally ask if you were curious and make you ask for them, I'm sure I'd forget before I could share them.

Anyhoo - Madonna references Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire on Vogue (and maybe others, but those are the two I recall from Carlo's recent rendition).

And then Carlo said there is a song "Cool It Now" by New Edition - one line starts "Ronnie, Bobby, Ricky, and Mike" (apparently these are the guys in New Edition).

And there is also Buddy Holly by Weezer?

AP!: Why is there a quesiton mark here? Is the question over whether there's a song about Buddy Holly, or about who sings it?


Janice:

And what about Danny Boy?


AP!: No. That's an Irish folk song, and our search is limited to American pop tunes from, say, 1955 and forward.

Janice:

Oh, and at the risk of putting the most annoying song in your head, what about Henry the Eighth? If you don't know this song, don't go find it, just trust me, it's a real song and it's been on the radio, and it's one of the worst songs ever.

AP!: Dammit, Janice! Now I've got "Henry the VIII, I am, I am. . ." in my head. But no one ever said this was a secure mission.

Janice:

Carlo is ona quest now to find more songs, so let me know the criteria asap!

Of course as I write this I recall the whole thing started with Dr. Science's first name Maurice and he must be special because how many male names are in songs - so you would think you don't really want to find more male names in songs, but I'm hoping this quest has evolved - after all "Maurice" is a pretty special name in and of itself.

AP!: Hey. It's not about leaving some names in an elite category. It's about the truth. My overall hypothesis is that the number of women's names appearing in American Pop Music far, far out-weighs the number of men's names. If we get to, like, 25 men's names, then we'll have to generate a list of women's names and have to reach, what? 100 names to "far out-weigh" them?

So let's see what we now have.
1. Micky
2. Bill
3. Billy (as in "Billy, Don't Be a Hero" and Van Morison's "It Stoned Me"--but this doesn't count as 2)
4. Maurice
5. Jack
6. Ben
7. Gene
8. Fred
9. Ronnie
10.Bobby
11.Rickie
12.Mike
13.Buddy
14.Henry

What a monster day here at the Big "C." From 6 to a whopping 14 in just one post.

Overall, fine, fine work, Janice. I like the enthusiasm. Love it. And Carlo, I am crazy about how you are hitting this so hard, man. Way to be team players, you two. It's heart and application of available force like this that will make this blog a success. Great, great effort, guys.