tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16579098417427818442024-03-04T23:36:39.338-08:00Ann's AnnotationsWell, I thought it was funny.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07560129474758095785noreply@blogger.comBlogger202125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1657909841742781844.post-71636215351913822782016-02-22T12:36:00.000-08:002016-02-22T13:00:41.207-08:00Amygdala, Medula and the Frontal Lobe (it's about a dog)<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">[Parts
of the brain are important in this blog post.
I mean, not in the way we read, understand
and laugh, which is the usual way but in a more basic way. To
this end, please remember that the frontal lobe is part of the cerebral cortex involved in,
among other things, making plans and </span>judgments<span style="font-size: 12pt;">.] <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">In
one way, my daughter is a chip off the old block. Sure, she’s smarter and cuter and more
motivated than I am, but she does have the same dark humor, so when she Face Booked
this story about her dog, I asked her if she would guest post it for me. I need to tell you that my darling girl is a
neuroscientist. (I mentioned she was
smarter than me, right?) Yes, she’s a
clever thing, so while the amydala is the part of the brain linked to emotion,
more importantly, it can conveniently morph into a FB handle. This story is written by Amy G Dala or, as I
like to call her, Dr. Smartie Pants.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">So
Amy G.'s family recently got a puppy that is the spit and image of the
RCA Victor dog. Anyone remember good ol' Nipper? Being into Mom’s neuroscience
stuff, the family. named their dog Medulla which is the part of the brain that controls heartbeat
and breathing It was an apt name as the puppy excels at these things; no training needed. They are training him for the harder things like
sit and stay and off. All training,
though, is subject to mishaps, so let’s begin by saying the dog is okay. The dog is fine. The story goes like this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">My 6-month old puppy,
Medulla, is still house-</span>training<span style="font-size: 12pt;">. I took him outside where he pulled away from me Sunday morning and ran straight into traffic on
the highway, where he was instantly hit. Twice. By two different cars.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">By the time I ran out
onto the road, the man (car 2) who had hit him was standing over him crying, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry" and sobbing. Cars were whizzing by us
and I realized <i>we</i> were going to get
hit. I tried to lift my dog, but he fell out of my arms (me imagining torn
organs, broken spine - collapsing and stressing and tearing), and I half dropped
him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> "Help me lift him, please" I gasped, and the flapping man did
as asked (still babbling at me). We lowered Medulla onto the grass in front of
my house. Blood was gushing from his mouth, his nose, everywhere, and he
gurgled with every breath. (I was imagining his lungs collapsing, throat
crushed, jaw broken). He lay there, breathing and gurgling, as the man flapped
around "I'm SO sorry, I'm sorry." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">This is his last breath,
I thought, petting my dog. No, this one. ("I'm sorry" sobs the man,
"gurgle gurgle" bubbles the dog). No, this one. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">And then, know what? The
dog raises his head, licks his face with his bloody tongue, and looks around
with interest and tries to stand up. I just about killed him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">So we got away with a
VERY broken femur in a hind leg, which meant a surgery, and broken toes all on
his front leg, which means a cast, and a broken tooth and bruised mouth and his
neuter stitches torn open, BUT - the dog is home. The dog is fine. The children
are Thrilled. We are reeling but okay. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">My husband is absolutely right, though: we
should have named him Frontal Lobe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKcMoqn9r4qgF1zDhYEuELZyriOjz0k9d1z-afc0MZCiij-eua-SBFznC-bextccGHbZfQOZv8HzsgxruuwD0DJYVBqo8ietYLD_k8mYk2H47eIUStvIKxhLkihkbQq_SoFgqRRBpm8Dug/s1600/2016-02-0312.29.08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKcMoqn9r4qgF1zDhYEuELZyriOjz0k9d1z-afc0MZCiij-eua-SBFznC-bextccGHbZfQOZv8HzsgxruuwD0DJYVBqo8ietYLD_k8mYk2H47eIUStvIKxhLkihkbQq_SoFgqRRBpm8Dug/s320/2016-02-0312.29.08.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Medulla associated beginning to piddle </div>
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in the house with getting hit by a car. </div>
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He is now completely house-trained</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07560129474758095785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1657909841742781844.post-22002760654956299052016-01-18T12:36:00.000-08:002016-01-18T12:39:01.960-08:00Boys: good grief!<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
What is it with boys? In heaven's name, what are they thinking?</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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We are one of four houses off a pipe stem driveway. Our front yard ends in a 50 degree slope
composed of sand and ruts and roots. As
the person who planted over a dozen flats of ground cover to prevent its
erosion, I’ve had the experience almost spraining an ankle when preventing a slide toward the street. Kids in the area know they’re not allowed to
climb on the slope. They’ve never been
allowed to climb on it. The slope is treacherous. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Last summer the number of boys in the cul-de-sac climbed to six. The average age declined to 9. After several rampages onto our
flower beds and my across-the-pipe-stem neighbor’s bushes, one sorry day, at
the urging of Pipe Stem Neighbor, I informed the gaggle of boys I had to ask them not to play in our or Pipe Stem’s yard any
more. This should not have proved a
terrible hardship. They have three huge,
adjoining back yards of their own that adjoin parkland. I reminded them that the slope was dangerous
and forbidden, but in the excitement of new playmates, old rules were
forgotten The slope was a temptation beyond resistance. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I rounded up the gaggle and wash, rinse, repeat. Boys!
No going on the slope! <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Boys on the slope.<br />
<br />
No boy is that stupid that he's forgotten. I sighed and visited parents, awkward for all
involved, but I don’t want anyone getting hurt.
I’d only spoken to the new neighbors when I brought welcome
cupcakes. What a way to have a second
conversation. However, what were they
going to say? That they wanted their sons to fall onto their heads on the pavement?
Another mom, a long-time neighbor, was really upset, saying “There’s
roots. They’ll get caught and
fall!” Um, yesss.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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A couple of weeks later, Pipe Stem caught boys in
their bushes and told them that was not a good idea. The boys needed to stay out of their
yard. They’ve got double jeopardy
because they’re trying to sell their house, and they work hard to keep
everything in pristine condition. Bushes
askew with broken branches does not raise the property value. </div>
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<br />
The next week, there's the eight-year-old running across my
yard. His friend, who’s known me since
he was born, was being extraordinarily self-controlled, shadowing his cohort
from the street. Okay, I’m not going to lose my mind. Ol’ Ace was passing through, not cruising in
the flower beds or crashing into shrubbery, but later that day, Pipe Stem reported
seeing Ace climb up my erosion channel. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As mentioned, our slope is quite sandy. I’ve worked hard for 20 years to prevent erosion. One spot, however,
has been a lost cause, and last summer we had two workmen put in a drain and an
erosion channel covered with river rock.
It was a day’s hard labor and cost many hundreds of dollars. The next morning when I went down to get the
paper, I checked, and there were rocks strewn in the ground cover. *Sigh* I replaced them as best I could, slipping and
sliding up the sides of the channel. </div>
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<br /></div>
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About an hour later, the boys were out with their
scooters. Fortunately I had gotten
dressed, as a grandma in her ‘jammies is far less authoritative than a grandma
in her jeans. I steeled myself as Ace’s
brother and friend were bound to give him avid support. Um, not quite.</div>
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<br /></div>
By the time I walked to the street, they were headed
toward one of their garages. “Boys, come
here a minute. I want to talk to
you.” One glance back, but hoping to
avoid me, they kept going. Un uh,<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7eFFtsjRwgIIXhiLSVC9DKFJDL_4FjFn9x68mz9NxShu_aW-l02Z6w2STct1wPeflt-XALhGOU7HUIQhYCGlbMwxnpHlIBtrWGW0QumC71zh-FAjyfNJ2JU1v0uwg_KLRdqDZAsM1qy9c/s1600/IMG_20160118_1510401_rewind.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7eFFtsjRwgIIXhiLSVC9DKFJDL_4FjFn9x68mz9NxShu_aW-l02Z6w2STct1wPeflt-XALhGOU7HUIQhYCGlbMwxnpHlIBtrWGW0QumC71zh-FAjyfNJ2JU1v0uwg_KLRdqDZAsM1qy9c/s320/IMG_20160118_1510401_rewind.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px; text-align: center;">This is our slope. Stay off it!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
not on
my watch. “Boys, come here. I want to talk to you for a minute.” Glances all around as they gathered in front
of me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You boys know you are not allowed in our yard. Ace you <i>know</i>
you’re not allowed anywhere on the slope.” <br />
<br />
Did brother and older friend offer defenses and rationalizations? Oh, no. The two bigger boys threw Ace under the bus
as fast as they could talk. Brother and
friend denied any and all involvement, brother going so far as to point a
straight arm replete outstretched finger. “I didn't do it; it was
him!” Boys, boys, boys, this is no way
to help your friend. It was all I could do
to supress a wide grin and form a serious expression.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Ace hangs his head.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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The others continue gabbling away. “I only went up there,” said the friend,
“to get my drone when it crashed.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Well, I appreciate that.
It's fine to go up there to get a toy, but Ace, you were climbing up the
rocks.” I explained the effort and cost that
went into their placement. “Why did you
do that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Now the two other boys are speaking so quickly and feverishly that
I can’t understand a word they say. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“No, don’t answer for him. He’s a person; he has a voice.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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All Ace has right now is a sniff. Oh, no, Ace my boy, I have been a school
teacher. Easy tears will not get you off
the hook. “Why did you do it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The other continue with all their might. They are reassuring me that <i>they</i> would <i>never, EVER</i> set foot on my yard.
<i> </i>I reiterate, "Don't answer for him. He's a person; he has a voice." <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Ace’s is searching his mind for an acceptable
answer. He is coming up short. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Finally, after a few moment’s torture, I take pity on
him. “Were you playin’?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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A nod.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“All right,” I say at my strictest, “I believe this will not
happen again. If it does happen again,
we will be marching to your parents to discuss consequences. And, boys, Pipe Stem is trying to sell her
house. You can't go playing in her
bushes.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“We needed sticks for a fort.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Well, I understand that is important, but you know where
there are plenty of sticks? In the woods
<i>behind your house</i>! Okay, go on and play.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The two bigger boys are still telling me how good they
are as they skedaddle out of there as fast as they can go. </div>
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I managed to make it into the house before I burst out laughing. <o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07560129474758095785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1657909841742781844.post-10442214314313350232015-10-29T11:52:00.001-07:002015-10-29T11:53:37.606-07:00The Plan<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If
we were to move, it would be so hard. There is tons that has to
be done, and, well, only us to do it. You can't just plop a house on the market, at least not where we live. You have to prepare it and stage it. It is supposed to gleam and glisten and sparkle. For heavens sake, it must not look <i>lived</i> in!</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For
35 years, the woodpeckers and squirrels have had their way with the
back deck, and so we did get that re-built last summer. Check. And
we got the erosion channel on the front slope seen to. Check. What
could possibly be left? *Sigh*</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If
we were to move, what would we do about the downstairs bookcases, the ones
with those runners mounted directly into the wall. Do they have to
come down? If they do, the room will have to be patched and painted.
All the articles say the front door should be painted, too, but what
else? And how many pictures can you leave up on one wall when you show a place, anyway, 'cause I'm pretty sure we have too many. If we take
them down, well, then that wall will have to be painted. Do we have
to paint the entire house? </span></span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If
we were to move, we wouldn't want all this furniture. Is it worth the
hassle of selling it, or does it all just get donated? Can I deal
with the annoyance of a garage sale? </span></span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If
we move, can my husband and I possibly agree on what to keep and what
to get rid of? He really wants to downsize, but if I hold up any
single item and ask should we get rid of this, he doesn't want to let
it go. Not one thing </span></span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If
we move, we won't have to spend so much time traveling to our
grandchildren. We could help our daughter and son-in-law with child
care emergencies; they could wipe the drool off our ever-aging chins.
We could catch some of the grandchildren's activities before they
grow all the way up. (Suzie's already in middle school!) They could
join us for movies and parade-viewing and afternoon tea. We could
enjoy our son-in-law's cooking. </span></span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If
we move, we'll have to interview agents, and keep the house and yard
immaculate. We will have to, you know, actually organize the
endeavor. We will doubtless have arguments, er, I mean discussions.
And it's been 23 years. I think we have roots we don't even know
about that will hurt when they are pulled.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If
we move, what would be the Master Plan? Yeah, right. We never have
a Master Plan; we never even have a Minor Plan. To have a plan takes making Big Decisions. I am not one for Big Decisions; I
prefer to get positioned and let them make themselves. Steve is
quite willing to make Big Decisions provided he can re-make them at
any given time. No, there is no Master Plan. However, we do have
the kind of plan that works for us, the Wishy-Washy Plan. </span></span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The plan is to jump around and do everything we need to do
to sell this house, but, aha! here's the genius, but not buy a new place. We'd rent. We'd rent and give ourselves a year to discover, explore, try it out. If it works,
hooray!, we'll buy a home in the neighborhood. If not, OMG, what
will we do? Who knows? We'll come up with a new plan.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Meanwhile,
if we were to move, would I need every scrap of quilting fabric I
own. Yes! Yes, I would! Steve would have to get rid of some golf
stuff instead. That is, if we were to move.</span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07560129474758095785noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1657909841742781844.post-14996387138933514252015-09-03T08:19:00.000-07:002015-09-03T08:20:09.146-07:00How Do You Know You're Alive?<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, serif;">There's
sky diving and bungee jumping and motorcycle racing. There's that
thing where you hold your breath and try to go deeper underwater than
anyone else has without dying. There's bull riding and bull <i>racing
</i> (you know, the men running in
front of the bulls in Pamplona, the idiots). There's Parkour, every
seven-year-old boy's dream. Don't forget hang gliding and hurricane
chasing. Does the adrenaline rush verify existence? What's
it take? </span></span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, serif;">I have a
young friend who is a record-holding slack-liner. There she walks
between mountain peaks, wind buffeting her, rope swaying under her
feet. She'll take a little bounce on the line; for heaven's sake, is
she bored? She climbs sheer rock with nothing but pitons and boots.
I can't even make it to the top of a climbing wall. She says no one
else can say how much risk is too much for her. For her, the
exhilaration outweighs the danger. </span></span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, serif;">Allow me
to digress. I promise to return to the question. </span></span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, serif;">Have you
ever felt exasperated with your computer? I mean, are you human? My
computer crashed a few weeks ago, but is that aggravating enough?
Noooo. Nope. It turns out my back-up drive failed last December.
Oopsie. To add insult to injury, when they transferred my stuff to
a new hard drive, oh, well, Microsoft Office – originally installed
from a no-longer-to-be-found disc – was lost. My docs transferred
to the new drive, but there was no Word to read them. (I was saved a
heart attack as all my blogs were saved to Dropbox.) Microsoft had a
two hour wait in their phone queue, so I sent them an e-mail.
Fortunately I did not expect a response so I was not disappointed. I
was NOT going to buy a new Office Suite for an old computer, so what
to do? Hello, Open Office, you beauty, you! </span></span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, serif;">A
week after fussing with my documents, I went to transfer a CD onto my
drive, and, oh, iTunes was gone. The tech thought my music had also
disappeared, but I showed him where I'd seen it. He reinstalled
i-tunes and my own tunes. It took me two weeks to get close to the
starting point, <i>TWO
WEEKS</i>
of thorough, time-wasting exasperation.
Now <i>everything</i>
is saved to the lovely Clouououd. (I have a metaphor as the Cloud as
God, but perhaps that's a topic for another Post.)</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, serif;">Let's
talk about the bank. We are so spoiled. Gone are the days when a
bank drive-through window was the great convenience. (Of course,
also gone are the days when I walked into my bank, and the teller
said, “Good morning, Mrs. Simon.”) Do you need cash? Pull over
to the nearest ATM. Easier still, get some back at the grocery
store. But if someone sends you a big check (you can only hope), or
you need a to your bank. We put the errand off. We think, it will
be easier to do it tomorrow. It niggles away at the the back of the
brain, <i>I have to go to
the bank</i>.
How can one errand so irritating? What has the bank ever done to
us that we find it so annoying? </span></span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, serif;">Oho,
then make a phone call, any call to any institution. Listen to the
menu, push a button. Listen, push. Listen, push. By the time
you're put on hold, you're so ticked off, you are screaming at the
muzak. When a person finally answers, you are so fed up and grateful
at the same time, you almost forget why you called. </span></span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, serif;">Traffic.
Need I say more? What are all those people doing out on the road?
Don't they know I want to go somewhere? Don't they know I have to
park? Don't they know I'm <i>in
a hurry</i>?</span></span></div>
<br />
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Arial, serif;">Now,
remember our original question? You don't have to be an adrenaline
junkie to know you're alive. You don't have to do anything at all.
Every daily irritation is existential proof. You know you're alive
because you're annoyed.</span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07560129474758095785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1657909841742781844.post-56279478755198722072015-07-22T14:12:00.000-07:002015-07-22T14:15:41.397-07:00Cancer: Genetic Testing<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The
instructions I received before (free) genetic counseling (and my
insurance covered the testing) was that there would be no drinking
water, eating anything or chewing gum during the hour to hour and a
half appointment? What? I mean, first off, would you NEED to eat and drink during an hour and a half? And second, WHY NOT?</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 100%;">One also has to fill out an extensive family history
form. I left a lot of
blanks. My folks </span><span style="line-height: 16px;">didn't</span><span style="line-height: 100%;"> report to children about causes of death much, even if they knew them. I
thought my form was sparse, but the counselor said it was pretty
good. What I particularly noted was that while there </span><span style="line-height: 16px;">wasn't</span><span style="line-height: 100%;"> a ton of cancer
in my family, people were dropping like flies from heart attacks! All that
tasty pastrami, liver pate and tongue took their toll.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The
reason my doctors strongly recommended genetic testing is that I am
of Ashkenazi (eastern European Jewish) decent. One in 40 Ashkenazi
Jews carry the BRAC 1 or BRAC 2 (breast cancer) marker. This figure
is somewhat higher than the general population. Okay, I took notes as fast as I could, but the exact percentage difference fell through the cracks. Gimme a break! </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;">The counselor noticed on my family history is that we
don’t have a lot of girls which may be the reason why we don’t have a lot of
breast cancer.. The other thing was that breast cancer in the </span>30s and 40s tends to indicate presence of breast cancer genes. <span style="line-height: 100%;">Our instances of breast cancer had later onset. One mark for me on the positive side of the ledger. (Or, hmmm, the negative side, depending on how you read it. Oh, never mind!) </span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 100%;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 100%;">While BRAC 1 and BRAC 2 are the
most common genes, there are a total of 24 genetic markers! Yikes! They’re not really genes, though,
they’re genetic mutations, </span><span style="line-height: 100%;">and they’re discovering more all the time! Is this a Darwinian way of winnowing the human herd? That seems harsh.</span><span style="line-height: 100%;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Should I
have one of the high risk cancer genes, my direct blood relatives
would each have a 50% chance of being
carriers. Along with breast cancer, these genes indicate a higher
risk of ovarian (but not cervical) cancer. Not many males get breast
cancer, but they would be at a 20%-50% higher risk of prostate
cancer. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A lot of
research has been done on the four highest-risk cancer genes. Less
is known about the others. Whether you choose to be tested for any or
all, it's done at the same time with the same sample, no further fuss
for you. I choose to be tested for only the top four:</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <u>Gene</u> <u>Associated Cancer</u></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> BRAC 1
and BRAC 2 45%-87% increase in breast, ovarian, pancreatic, prostate and male breast cancer</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"> CDH1
breast, 39%-52% increase in breast, gastric and colorectal </span>
</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> PTEN Up to 50% increase in breast,
thyroid, uterine, colorectal, kidney</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> TP53 no % assigned, significant increase in breast,
sarcoma, brain (!), adrenocortical, and others (and OTHERS?!!) </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The
most surprising thing I learned during counseling was
that even if you carry the BRAC 1 and 2 genes, there are two methods
of treatment with EQUAL OUTCOMES. Yes, if you are young and want to
be sure you don’t have a lifetime of worry ahead of you, you may
opt for a mastectomy. That removes absolutely all risk of breast
cancer and, obviously, metastasis. However, you can also opt for
twice-a-year mammograms, MRIs and clinical exams, keeping on top of
the beginning of any cancer. The outcome to your health and
life-expectancy are the same. Wow, I did not know that. I was surprised at what a relief that was.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You will
receive one of three possible results.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Guess
what? Testing is not about blood at all. Now my veins like to play
roll-away from a needle, and no blood flows out. Sometimes the
needle hits the vein wall which hurts, and no blood flows out. If
I’m pretty well hydrated, a skilled phlebotomist with a pediatric
needle can zoop right in there, but otherwise, I’m in for a
prolonged, multi-stick session. Score! They don’t take blood for
genetic testing.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They
don’t take a cheek swab either. This is not a crime show. Nope,
instead the counselor opened up a compact case to reveal two small
tubes with mouth pieces. You have to fill each one with spit. At
least now the no-gum/water/food rule makes sense: they don’t want
anything to taint the results.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You spit
and you spit and you spit. Although I’m sure this would be quite a
treat for the counselor to watch, she turned to her computer. My job
is to fill about a ¼ inch space in each tube with saliva. It takes
a while, and it’s messy. The box of Kleenex I thought was for
weepy patients (and it might well be) was what I used to keep spittle
from running down my chin. Not much did, though. The task was
daunting enough for me to make sure that no drop is wasted. </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7HqMKANyKa6y-jCy5Ivn7r-kIf_5vK45nXr8cyvnY3sYpNADtLfZlwBR08q3Ycq-JkPsUs16l6jFoM3hZ8UZflRh4Qm_lSoGDsBuxpklDt-Vdc_fbRid0oKeI9Pg4IFRgLzVCBAFDJ56s/s1600/spit+tube.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7HqMKANyKa6y-jCy5Ivn7r-kIf_5vK45nXr8cyvnY3sYpNADtLfZlwBR08q3Ycq-JkPsUs16l6jFoM3hZ8UZflRh4Qm_lSoGDsBuxpklDt-Vdc_fbRid0oKeI9Pg4IFRgLzVCBAFDJ56s/s320/spit+tube.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: center; widows: 2;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The first line is just above the white label area.</span></div>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; text-align: center; widows: 2;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You have to fill it to the black line.</span> </div>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The
counselor showed me how to seal each tube as it was completed. Now I
wait.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 16px; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There are three possible results.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 16px; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Positive: a clear genetic mutation with associated cancer risk.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 16px; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Negative and winner of the prize: no genetic mutation.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 16px; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Variant (under 10% of the results, and the one most likely to make you crazy): This is not the basis for a movie plot. It means they found some weird genetic change, </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 16px; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> something they’ve never seen before and don’t know what it means. I have already</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 16px; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> decided that if I get a Variant result, I am totally blowing it off.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And
wait.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Still waiting -- for two to three weeks.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I am
not going to make you wait because that’s just the kind of person I
am. In any case, my results came in early, and I only had to wait two weeks. I am not a
mutant </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Most of my relief is that I don’t have cancer-related
genes. The rest of my relief is that I won’t have 50 million more
medical appointments to deal with! Yay!</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>
<span style="color: black;">Have I
been bored in the weeks between completing radiation and getting my
genetic test results? Oh, no, I have not been bored. During that
time a very dear friend, one for whom I hold Powers of Attorney,
climbed up on the railing of the Good Ship Sanity and fell overboard
into the sea of massive infection and mental confusion. You know,
just so I don’t run out of material to blog about. Oh, yeah,
that’ll be next.</span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07560129474758095785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1657909841742781844.post-46443625937833851502015-06-27T11:25:00.001-07:002015-06-27T11:36:33.015-07:00Cancer: Radiation<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Each
day is a calendar square, each square empty except for my afternoon appointment written neatly in purple, the occasional lunch date added in black.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Dance
classes are marked at the top of the day columns. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Nineteen carefully
blocked days with 15 minutes extra noted every Thursday.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Thursday is the day I meet with the
radiologist.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTFPsrauYKejnPOc_NBchGcdyl-iNsE5Ge2JJNZiEp4OwytlJHxVDnBbDYarBqb7QP8oMiDGdVn0JsZ3Eqkvc7BLXM4ilH63ml2VfZPrzxGa2N3xn9nqiqz6BaMaS66PPIpEkytytWLgp2/s1600/Linear+Accelorator.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTFPsrauYKejnPOc_NBchGcdyl-iNsE5Ge2JJNZiEp4OwytlJHxVDnBbDYarBqb7QP8oMiDGdVn0JsZ3Eqkvc7BLXM4ilH63ml2VfZPrzxGa2N3xn9nqiqz6BaMaS66PPIpEkytytWLgp2/s320/Linear+Accelorator.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Is it a Space Pod?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Today’s
Science Lesson: (there will be a quiz later, so listen up). The Space Pod is the machine that effects
radiation treatments. Right, right, it
isn’t really a Space Pod (in case you were in any doubt), or a Radiator or a
Zapper (I’m just sayin’). It’s a <i>linear
accelerator</i>.<span style="color: #c00000;">
</span>Electrons from an energy source shoot (accelerate) down a tube
where they impact an angled metal plate.
98% split away as heat; the other 2% radiate photons (radiation) down
the adjoining tube and spray them at my breast.
You can also send the un-split electrons down the tube. Electrons kill cells really well, too, but
they don’t penetrate very deeply and so don’t need a metal plate to catch them
on the other side of their target.
Radiation hits any stray cancer cells that might have avoided surgery
and damages their ability to repair themselves or to multiply. It hits normal cells, too, but they are
better able to repair themselves and so heal afterwards<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
linear accelerator is HEAVY and so is located in the basement of the Cancer Care Center,
but there are faux skylights in the Rad
room so it always seems airy and pleasant.
In fact the Rad area is about the most pleasant place on earth. The
staff learns my name, respectfully Mrs. Simon and never Ann. There’s never more than a few minutes wait
for treatment. The changing room (I
remove my top and bra and put on a short hospital gown) and waiting room are quiet and comfortable. There is hard candy in the
outer office, but in the inner sanctum of the radiation anti-chamber, there are
Dove chocolates. All questions are
answered. Everyone strives to make me
comfortable. It’s like a spa -- well,
almost. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvT0rIFo0dOaByHDdzVGE8i474ibcw3jKvlIQ6x7MnuDKYAvSI4KoRxDeSL5yCslFS6wo51NB3DRtayurxxtLW9PGCRVBIWd3F59vmaty1LyIoVzHDIkjBz3RCWNT9CdPfo3g8YVVIVm2I/s1600/skylight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvT0rIFo0dOaByHDdzVGE8i474ibcw3jKvlIQ6x7MnuDKYAvSI4KoRxDeSL5yCslFS6wo51NB3DRtayurxxtLW9PGCRVBIWd3F59vmaty1LyIoVzHDIkjBz3RCWNT9CdPfo3g8YVVIVm2I/s320/skylight.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">This skylight has dogwoods. The other one has cherry blossoms.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">When
I’m called into the anti-chamber, the merest possibility of radiating some
extraneous body part is prevented as they check my face against the picture
taken during preparation. (They
promised not to put it on the Internet.)
While I eye the bowl of chocolates, I state my name and birth date and
identify the left breast for treatment.
They’re thorough in all things so measurements and body placement are
precise and are adjusted every week as needed.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">When I lay back on the
oh-so-narrow table, the nurse and assistant help me remove my gown and drape it
modestly over my right side. I place my arms in the brackets. If I
like, the technicians wrap my arms in heated towels although </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">I've</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> declined since the temperature hit the high
80s. The technician and nurse carefully align my tattoos with the
sensors. Once in position, I must not move. I am an itchy, twitchy
person, but they are strict! They tape the funny black plastic box over
the stickers on my tummy. Everyone leaves the room (but me), and the
gurney slides me into the Radiator, er, linear accelerator. </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
space wings rotate around me and lock into position. The square wing seen
on your right swivels out of the way.
It can be used as a soft-tissue CAT scan.
The rounded wing on your left,
is the one that will fry my cells. It is
angled so the rays travel through my breast and hit a metal plate beyond.
It has a rectangular screen with a smaller screen inset, and it if from
there that the photons whoosh out. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I hear a
mechanical hum; the nurse’s voice through the speaker directs, “When you’re
ready, inhale and hold your breath.” Holding
my breath pulls my heart millimeters out of the radiation beam. If I exhale before directed, the sensors in
the black box detect the movement, and the radiation automatically stops. The
first zap is 21 seconds (not that I’m counting, but 21 seconds is a bit of time
to hold your breath, I can tell you); the second discharge is seven. The wings rotate to a new angle. I hold for 12 seconds and then eight. The gurney slides out of the Radiator. Repeat once a day for 18 more weekdays.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><u>2<sup>nd
</sup>Treatment</u>: I can feel occasional sparks along the
surgical lines where the nerves were cut.
They are trying to re-grow, but the radiation keeps killing them
off. The little twitches tell me the
invisible, unsensed rays are working. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><u>6<sup>th</sup>
Treatment</u>: My consultation with the
doctor goes well. My breast is sometimes
sore, but there is as yet almost no reddening of the skin. Depression hits on and off. Today I </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">probably f</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">eel down because I slept
badly last night. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I have been obsessing
over the oncotype test which showed an 8% chance of metastasization years down
the road.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">This weighs on me.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">For the first time I get why they call
it the </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Life</i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> with Cancer Center.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I had thought it a horrible name, stressing
that cancer would always be part of your life, but</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I am constantly aware that
death shadows me.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">(Later
that day) I had lunch with my neighbor, a
nurse and another breast cancer survivor.
She told me that breast cancer migrates to particular places. They will regularly check liver and
lungs. Should the cancer metastasize,
they will catch it early. I feel the
black cloud lifting.<span style="color: #c00000;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<u><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">9<sup>th</sup> Treatment</span></u><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: It takes me five minutes to drive from
my garage to the hospital parking lot, seven if the traffic’s bad. How
great is that? I’m fine in the mornings and still happily flail my way
through ballet class, but I've been pretty tired after the last
couple of treatments. I’m very tired of the whole cancer thing. I’d
like to do something else now, please.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><u>11<sup>th</sup>
Treatment</u>: Today the nurses attached a cone
to the accelerator. (Well, they called
it a cone; it’s an open-sided box with a metal ring set in the side
that points at you.) They positioned it a couple of inches from the lumpectomy
site. They drew a new target on me and
put on a new sticker (new sticker, yay!) in preparation for my last three
sessions. These are called booster
treatments and will consist of electrons (rather than photons) bombing right up
against the lumpectomy site, the area of greatest risk. (Remember how the linear accelerator
works? I told you there would be a
quiz.) Yesterday and today I have not been at all
tired.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">After
my treatment, I asked the nurse more about the oncotype test. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I didn't take notes, but I believe this is the gist: </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">stray cancer cells
can be in our bodies.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">They just
float around suppressed by the immune system until or unless something triggers
them to multiply. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">More
relief!</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">It’s a <i>coulda, sorta, maybe</i>
scenario rather than a screaming <i>you’re gonna die!</i> scenario.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I no longer feel doomed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><u>12<sup>th</sup>
Treatment</u>: The effects of radiation are
cumulative, and I feel the burn.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><u>13<sup>th</sup>
Treatment</u>: While I’m in the Zapper, I think, hey, I’d
like an end-of-treatment, sticker-off ritual.
I think of wearing gauzy scarves, skipping through a field of daisies a la
Isadora Duncan, stripping off the stickers and strewing them to the wind. I shout, "Sticker off! Sticker off!" and move in slow motion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><u>15<sup>th</sup>
Treatment</u>: My fatigue level is up and
down. This morning was the first time I
did not finish dance class which was sad for me. After class I had a phone call, and I would
just like to say that my friends should put off having crises until I’m done
with mine. I mean, what’s up with that?!
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<u><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">17<sup>th</sup> Treatment</span></u><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">: I've been quite fatigued (as
opposed to sleepy) for the past three days. Today, aha!, was the first of my
Booster treatments. They fitted the “cone” onto the Radiator, snugged it
up close to my lumpectomy scar, and the big, dopey electrons dripped out.
(You know that’s a metaphor, right? The electrons are tiny, they don’t
drip, and if they did drip, they’d fall right on the floor since the cone is
targeted from the side.) Anyway, the important thing here is that it
signals the beginning of the end. I have the weekend to rest (except
the Perfect Grandchildren and their attendants are coming to town, and my
sister is having a big anniversary party and then brunch the next day), and
then I’m in for my last two treatments. The skin right under my nipple is <i>really</i> red
and sore. I have gotten no further in creating a plausible sticker-off
celebration. </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’ve been tired all
weekend. Like really tired. Like napping tired, and I<i>never</i> nap!
I am tired of being tired, and now my lumpectomy site is stinging a <i>lot</i>.
I say Bleh! </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><u>19<sup>th</sup>
Treatment</u>: I was stoked all day because
this is my LAST treatment! Then driving
to the hospital, I was a little sad, maybe because I will no longer be actively
fighting the cancer. Anyway, I was over
it as soon as the treatment was over. The
nurse gave me a certificate of completion almost as if I’d actually done
something! I got instructions for
follow-up care (continue the same breast care for a couple of weeks) and will make a
follow-up appointment in two months. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We
grilled steaks tonight in celebration. My private celebration was in the
bathroom (alas, no Isadora Duncan) as I unpeeled stickers and chortled, “Sticker
off! Sticker <i>off!</i>” The newest sticker will have to wait a bit as
tugging at it pulls the sore skin.
However, its day is coming.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Next
week I enter the black hole of genetic counseling. There seems to be very little to available about that in advance. One quirky thing about it is that the genetic counselor got her masters degree at my old college. What do you think of that? She will
probably test, and I hope they are able to take the blood right then. It is so hard to go back and back and back
some more. Once they draw the blood, I
guess, deducing from the oncotype test, it will take about 10 days to get
results back. We’ll see, or rather I’ll see and
report back to you. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Sticker
off!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07560129474758095785noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1657909841742781844.post-67377663048301654012015-06-07T11:54:00.000-07:002015-06-08T09:07:13.565-07:00Cancer: Preparing for Radiation (the simulation)<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">They TATTOO you! </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Yes, tattoos.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">And it </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">hurts!</i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I asked for a kitty, but they only do
dots.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Then they put stickers on your tummy.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">It’s a three-year-old’s dream.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">You lie back on the CAT scanner gurney, hands secured in brackets overhead
a la <u>Fifty Shades of Gray</u>. When you
are positioned just so, they draw arcane lines and dots on you with black and red magic markers.
Who knew the preparations for radiation involved so much body art? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">After the radiologist approves the signs and symbols, the
technician tattoos all-but-invisible guideline dots, one under each arm, one on
the sternum. How do people bear those
beautiful tattoo sleeves? <i>Yikes!</i>
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Next comes the black box which is positioned on the tummy stickers. Of all the strange things that diagnosis and treatment entail, having a
black plastic box taped to my belly is right up there. Will I disappear inside the machine so they
have to use the black box to find me?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">The gurney slides into the CAT scan. This time a nurse, rather than a robot, tells
me when to breathe. She takes x-rays while I hold my breath, and some while I
don’t. The radiologist will analyze these to
determine if holding my breath also pulls my heart out of the radiation beam. That is worth knowing! I breathe -- or not -- on command. I do not move no matter how itchy the corner
of my eye gets. For once in my life, I
am more than willing to be perfectly obedient.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">This appointment is called a radiation simulation. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It’s not a simulation as far as I can tell, since the radiation
does not take place in the CAT scan or even in the same room. The process is rather a graphing and
mechanical preparation. The red rectangle
they drew around my breast shows exactly where the x-rays will redden and
burn. There is no guessing, and there
will be no stray radiation.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Once I’m up and dressed, I’m shown to an ordinary exam room where
the nurse gives me “the talk.” No, not that
talk. It is a talk about rules. There are always rules once you are plugged
into the medical world. In this case,
there are creams and powders and when to use each. Vitamin C and Co-Q10 and high C multivitamins
are prohibited during and for six weeks after treatment (antioxidants feed
cancer cells). I’m not permitted an
underwire bra. She says to wear a cami
or a sports bra. A cami? She's kidding, right? I’d expire from bouncing! But, see, this is why god created
catalogues. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I discovered a soft, cotton
bra which has both darts and front gatherings (lots of support) with a front clasp
of four hooks and eyes. I also learned that
sports bras have come a long way since I last tried one. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Stretched out, tested, prepped, and shopped. I’ve cleared my calendar for the month. I will back out of activities if I suffer the
vaguely warned-about fatigue (which will also, you know, be a good excuse if I
just don’t want to do something.) I will show up five days a week for 19 treatments. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I’m more
than ready; I’m eager. Nuke the damn
cells; nuke 'em all! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07560129474758095785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1657909841742781844.post-67423838955273342312015-05-20T11:53:00.000-07:002015-05-21T06:00:00.409-07:00Cancer: Medical Oncology<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FFF9EE;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There are good
surprises and bad surprises. A month after my lumpectomy, I sat down with
my oncologist expecting to get a prescription for tamoxifen . Instead, I
got a bad surprise. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FFF9EE;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FFF9EE;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I have never
been an overachiever. All through school, my report card had the
comments, “Does not live up to her potential.” (In my defense, I think
they were looking at the wrong potential. I’m just sayin’.) Ace my
SATs? No. Four point GPA? No. Have a glamorous and
high-paying career? Nooooo. Get a high grade on my tumor?
Yeah, here’s where I exceeded expectations.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FFF9EE;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FFF9EE;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The early
biopsy indicated a Stage 1, Grade 2 cancer, but when the entire tumor was
removed, the pathology was a Grade 3. <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>[Science
lesson for today: Stages 0 to 4 refer to how far the cancer has
spread. I was at Stage 1. Grade describes how much the cells within
the tumor have changed. Grade One means the cells look pretty normal and
grow slowly. Grade Two cells are somewhat deformed and grow faster.
Grade Three cells are both abnormal and aggressive.] <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FFF9EE;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FFF9EE;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A Grade Two with my other signifiers --
clear margins, no lymph node involvement, accompanying biopsy data -- indicated
I did not need chemo, but a Grade Three meant reevaluation. Instead of
hustling an IV in my vein to pump me full of life-saving poison, my oncologist
sent my tumor to a special lab in California. </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FFF9EE;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FFF9EE;">
<i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Wait.</span></i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>They
saved the tumo</i>r<i>?! <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></i>I
envisioned a Raiders of the Lost Ark warehouse filled with shelf upon shelf of
squishy blobs floating in formaldehyde, perhaps intermittently wriggling with
an alien life force. I was almost sad when nurse-friend informed me that
all excised tissue is saved by being frozen. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FFF9EE;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FFF9EE;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">They pulled my tumor and
sent it off for an oncotype test. This is a relatively new method of
analysis that examines 21 genes in the tissue (Pretty skippy!) and predicts the
probability of the cancer’s recurrence<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>anywhere
in the body</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>ten years into
the future. A low score means you go straight to radiation therapy.
An intermediate score means more indecision as you and your doctor figure out
what treatment to follow (and you’d probably want a second opinion which means
more difficult waiting). A high score and you have to face chemo.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FFF9EE;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FFF9EE;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The test takes
10 business days, and the doctor cleared personal time to see me 14 real days
later. I worried the results would not be in by then, but his next
available appointment was a whole month off. I am incredibly lucky that he
cared enough to set aside time for me. </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FFF9EE;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I had already
scheduled my radiation simulation for the afternoon of my oncology
appointment. There wasn't time to cancel, but in the four hours between appointments,
the oncologist had already called the radiologist! We went ahead
with a consultation, but if I needed chemo, radiation had to follow
it, and any preparation done now would have to be re-done. There was no
point taking extra rads with a possibly useless preparatory CAT scan. We put the simulation on hold. I waited. </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FFF9EE;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FFF9EE;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I felt like
I’d been thrown in monopoly jail: no passing Go, no collecting $200, no
moving forward: just sitting idly in my holding pen trying to mentally
parse out possible futures. Fourteen more days waiting. Waiting is
all fear and anxiety. It sucks.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FFF9EE;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FFF9EE;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ll take pity
on you: I won’t make you wait until my next blog post for the results. At
3:30 on a Saturday afternoon, just as I was counseling myself that I’d
waited 12 days and could make it two more, the oncologist called. “I have
an early Mother’s Day present for you.” My oncotype was <i>low</i>.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i> Low!</i> Low was
happy and safe and unambiguous. No worrying, no waffling, and best of
all, no chemo. </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FFF9EE;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FFF9EE;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We were
finally able to discuss medications. If you’re, ahem, younger, you get
Tamoxifen (an estrogen blocker). I am not younger. I am on an
aromatase inhibitor. (It’s not called an estrogen inhibitor. I don’t know
why.) I got my prescription and with it my Get Out of Jail Free
card. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FFF9EE;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The Monday
after Mother’s Day, I called for my radiation simulation appointment. No
one was ever happier about it than I! </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07560129474758095785noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1657909841742781844.post-59131275990748756662015-05-10T16:38:00.000-07:002015-05-17T06:47:21.935-07:00Cancer: Surgery<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
So I had a week before surgery, just enough time for a
quick trip to see the Perfect Grandchildren (still so very Perfect) before Steve
drove me to the hospital for my big morning.
They make you get there forever early, but before I entirely gave up hope, I was called to
pre-op. The nurse there asked if I knew
what procedure I was having done. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“A lumpectomy with removal of the sentinel
lymph nodes.” </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The next nurse asked.
The anesthesiologist’s assistant asked.
The anesthesiologist asked. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My surgeon asked.
Then she told me I was going to do great. Really? All I was gonna do was lie there
unconscious. Yeah, I guess I can do that
pretty well.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The person who was in charge of wheeling me to the operating
theater asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Don't you people know yet what you’re doing to me?”
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Unfortunately this person didn't realize I was kidding
(yeah, sometimes I should watch my sense of humor). She explained -- rather at length -- why they asked everyone. She told me I’d
have to answer again when I got to the operating room.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Maybe they asked when I got there, maybe not. I can’t say.
The anesthesiologist or perhaps her assistant -- I wasn't taking notes
-- gave me something so I wouldn't get anxious.
People were praying for me.
Candles were being lighted. There
was a shamanic healing group going, and I’m pretty sure a drum circle had
convened. There’s a kid who’s doing a
breast cancer run and is including my name.
Go, kid, go! I figured all my
bases were covered, plus I had complete confidence in my surgeon. Was I supposed to be anxious? </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
She fed my IV anyway and wheeled me out of my
cubical. It was just like being on an
episode of “House”! I lifted my head from
the gurney to see pre-op rooms slide by.
Big double doors opened before us, and we turned down a hall, and then,
and then I definitely wasn't anxious; I wasn't conscious. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My nurse friend says, no I was conscious, and I would have answered what my procedure was. I would have gotten
myself off the gurney and up onto the operation table. Okay. If she says so, but I have no recollection of any of it.
It makes me wonder, though, what do they do if you can't answer your question? Are you
sent to a remedial pre-op study group for slow patients? Do you have to have your operation after
regular school hours?</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I guess I answered okay, because I woke up in my same cubical. The surgeon reviewed procedure (lumpectomy and removal of the sentinel lymph nodes already!) and told
me how well I’d done. Well, <i>she</i> did well. Thanks to a nurse dosing my IV, the
surgical wounds troubled me very little.
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Before I was sent home, the nurse gave me a little
rectangular pink pillow. “Some people
like to hold it under their arm,” she said.
I thought it was the stupidest thing I’d ever seen. Why would I want to hold a little pink pillow
under my arm? </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Let me tell you, I LOVE my little pink pillow. Even after a month, the scars occasionally smart rather like a mild rug burn, and that little pink pillow can be placed to change
the pressure points. I love it almost as
much as I loved the stuffed elephant my father brought me when I was seven after I had my
tonsils removed. I used to burrow my
nose into it to block out the smell of the ether. (Yeah,
ether. I know, right?) I slept with that elephant for years, and I
foresee a long, comforting future with my little pink pillow. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The two main things to know about post- surgery are that
(1) people brought food. They brought a
lot of food. They brought really good
food. Hey, the damn operation was almost
worth it. (2) I am not a person who is
good at being tired, but I found myself lying on the couch every afternoon, too
weary to think. Thank goodness for junk
TV which was all I was able to attend to.
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Ten days later, I went for my follow-up appointment. My surgeon told me how well I’d done. (<i>Again</i>,
didn't do nothin’.) She cautioned me I’d
be tired for from four to six WEEKS!!! She
reminded me to see the medical oncologist.
I’d forgotten entirely about the oncologist, the fellow who would
prescribe either an estrogen blocker (like tamoxifen) or an estrogen inhibitor
to ward off future breast cancer. He
was a busy fellow, but I scored an appointment two and a
half weeks off. Oncologist for meds in
the morning, radiologist to set up my radiation simulation in the
afternoon. Check everything off my list in
one day.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Except when I saw the oncologist, I learned that the
tumor held a nasty secret. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07560129474758095785noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1657909841742781844.post-33328117512483102312015-04-30T08:47:00.000-07:002015-05-17T06:47:42.522-07:00Cancer: Diagnosis Part II<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Waiting is the worst. Then the results are the worst. As warned, my MRI showed a lot of little marks. Cysts here, cysts there, blebs all over the
place. (I have no idea what a bleb is, but the pathology report says I have them.) It noted the scoliosis in my lower spine
which I have long known about and showed -- woot! -- minimal degenerative changes;
it showed some old scarring in my right lung.
And then, because life wasn’t complicated enough, it showed two nodules
in my lung, nodules where no nodules should be.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I completely freaked.
The nurse who should have reported the findings to me was away for the
day, and the woman who I spoke to left me with the idea that these
nodules (even after I cleared up my confusion that nodules weren't the same as nodes
as in lymph nodes -- and what would they be doing in my lungs, anyway? I was distressed and confused.), those nodules could be
cancerous. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“But it has nothing to do with the cancer in your
breast.”</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Oh, thanks, lady, thanks a lot. Like it’s comforting knowing that my lung
cancer isn't related to the cancer in my breast.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?! From
there it didn't matter that she told me the scarring was nothing and the nodules
were probably inflammation. Nothing
mattered except that lung cancer is very, very bad indeed.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I knew better than
to go trolling on the internet, but that didn't stop me. I can be as much of an idiot as the next
person, and I was. After about half an
hour, I realized that reading about how awful lung cancer is was not helpful, and
I set off for quilting workshop.
Normal, yes, normal is what I needed, and what could be more normal,
more apple pie, than quilting. I lasted
an hour. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
When I returned home, my husband and my wonderful friend
had researched the Cleveland Clinic and Web MD -- you know, decent, informed
web sites -- and reported that there was a lower than 4% chance that I had lung
cancer. They read that something like
90% of stuff (I’m using the scientific term here) in the lungs showed up
when people were imaged for something else, like I was.
To put it even more clearly, a lot of you are walking around with little
medical things in your body that you should be glad you don’t know about.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The mean lady (or, more accurately, the clueless lady)
from the doctor’s office (and she is the only bad experience I've had so far) said
the surgeon wanted me to schedule a CT scan of my chest for a better look at
those nodules. Just, you know, to be sure. My appointment was 48
hours later. (See? Dire medical issue = fast medical attention.)</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
But, hey, that left a whole 24 hours in between. No need to be bored. I had a consultation with my radiologist.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My radiologist, what can I tell you? He has a big intellect and puppy dog eyes. Who wouldn't love that combo? To top it off, he likes gin and tonic, a thing perhaps
not discussed in all radiological consults, but, hey, that’s the way I roll. He reassured me that the size of the lung nodules
made them almost certainly insignificant and promised me the short, 3 1/2 week
course of radiation. I was to line up a preparatory simulation three weeks post-surgery, and he’d see me then.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The rules for the CT scan were firm: nothing to eat drink, chew or swallow from
midnight the night before. No gum, no
meds, no nothin’. I asked if the scan
was going to be with contrast, explaining my vein issue. The scheduler didn't know but, bless her,
suggested I drink two glasses of water before going to bed which I did. The next
morning, the needle slid in like silk.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The technician warned me that the dye, as it infused,
made patients to feel like they’d wet their pants. What kind of weird side effect is that?</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Since the CT scan is a three dimensional picture, you can lay on your back. Your arms
are placed just so, and into the machine you slide. A female voice orders, “Breathe in. Hold your breath. Relax.”
And do you know what this proved to me?
Forget science fiction: the robot
revolution has already taken place, and the robots won. You think you’d resist? You would not; you do exactly as the robot
says. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Half way through the scan, I felt warm liquid seep down
my urethra, and I would have guaranteed you, I WET MY PANTS! I mean, it felt like I was laying there with
warm, wet pants. Did I move? Did I protest? I did not!
The robot was ordering me to breathe and hold, and in case I
was tempted to resist, the female robot took a break only to be replaced by what psychologist probably determined was more a authoritative male robot voice.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Breathe in. Hold
your breath. Relax.” The stakes are high, and you are not going to
blow it by disobeying your Robot Overlord.
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The scan was over.
I had not, in fact, wet my pants. The nodes
were reported as inflammation, probably left from a bronchial infection (ah,
that time I had walking pneumonia). The
test would be repeated in six months for safety and to ensure my aggravation factor did not
drop below the requisite level. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I called the surgeon and scheduled my surgery.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07560129474758095785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1657909841742781844.post-4121843516133738902015-04-27T10:05:00.000-07:002015-05-17T06:47:56.629-07:00Cancer: Diagnosis Part I<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I deliberated long and hard about posting this
entry. Not everyone shares my sardonic
sense of humor. (In fact, have you noticed, some people have
no sense of humor at all.) I do not want
to upset or offend anyone. I was hesitant,
even with this disclaimer. However, a
friend of mine with a similar experience urged me to go through with it, so here we go.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I became apprehensive when they completed my follow-up
mammogram by walking me down the hall
for one with ultrasound. The ultrasound exam room had a lot more fancy equipment, but the exam table was the same. I lay down on it and turned on my right side so the technician could view
my left. Her wand looked a rather like a
grocery store scanner, and I asked her to turn the screen so I could see the
image. As she scanned my breast,
even I could discern the distinct mass on the image.
I wanted to schedule surgery right then; if there was any kind of lump
in me, I wanted it out. The technician
reasonably told me that they had to learn more before digging around. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Two days later I was back at the hospital, a capable
nurse explaining how, once my breast was numb, the guide wire would be inserted
and the biopsy tool would follow, making a loud click-clack each time she took
a sample. Three truly loud clickety-clacks
followed, with me craning my neck to watch the screen. I know, I know, not everyone wants to see
their medical tests being performed, but I like to KNOW!</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
When they called me with the results, I walked around in
shock. “I have a lump in my breast, and it’s
cancerous. I have a lump in my breast,
and it’s cancerous.” After 24 hours the
news sunk in with a thud: “Holy $*#%! I have
breast cancer!”</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I had a Stage 1, non-aggressive, invasive ductal
carcinoma. In person-speak, this means
the cancer began in a milk duct and then seeped out. The lump was small and slow-growing
(relatively speaking. I learned that a on
<i>average</i>, a breast tumor doubles every
100 days!). This was good news as far as bad news
goes. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The speed with which medical things happen is in direct
correlation with the severity of the illness. It took me less 24 hours to get an appointment with the breast surgeon. (And just a brief note of appreciation
here: the nurse at my primary care
office called me back within an hour with a recommendation that matched one
from the hospital, and my physician called me that evening just to talk!) </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My breast surgeon is fantastic. She is both skilled and nice. I would much rather go out for cocktails with
her than bare my breast, so to speak. Her first step to removing all doubts about my
diagnosis was to send me for a breast MRI.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The breast MRI is a unique and bizarre test. I mean, I’ve had MRIs before. I am not claustrophobic. I crawl inside that tube with complete
serenity. I get so comfortable, in fact,
that the MRI drum beat puts me to sleep.
But a breast MRI? Oh, so
different.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
First of all, as I found out when I arrived at the hospital, this was an MRI “with contrast.” I discovered that “with contrast” means they
inject dye into a vein so that the MRI can be taken while the die infuses and
defuses. This might not matter for you,
but my appointment was first thing in the morning, and had I known, I would
have drunk two glasses of water when I got up.
When I’m dehydrated, my veins collapse like deflated balloons. It took two technicians and four tries to get
the line inserted. And, yes, I watched
every try. It didn’t hurt much, but it
was damn frustrating.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
You walk into the MRI room with your IV lines dangling
and arrange yourself on the platform which is slightly tilted head down. You can’t lie on your back because then your
breasts will pancake. To get clear
images, you have to lay face-down with a headrest rather like that on a massage
table. Unlike a massage table, however, there
are two square openings in the platform at chest level. “Square,” the nurse affirms, “must have been
designed by a man.” The square holes are
HUGE: designed by a man for sure. You fit yourself into the holes, and the
technician gently tugs your breast through and positions them for an optimum
portrait. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
There you lie, your round pegs dangling through the
square holes. The platform slides into
the MRI tube. You feel like the star of
some weird porn movie. The machine clicks and ratchets and pounds. Your sternum hurts because it is taking all your weight between the square holes; your forehead hurts because your head is <i>heavy</i>.
Between rounds, you try to subtly adjust yourself, but the nurse cautions you to
hold still. This is a half hour when
people pray or meditate or visualize or, you know, write blog posts in their
heads. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The test was to confirm that the cancer had not
spread. My surgeon warned me that a lot of little
things show up when they do an MRI, things that are not important and they are
not looking for. She warned me not to
freak out when such images were reported. The results were due back in two days. <br />
Waiting is the worst; at least, you hope it is the worst. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07560129474758095785noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1657909841742781844.post-5300007321987676192015-01-13T07:26:00.001-08:002015-01-13T07:33:30.111-08:00The Mother's Day HouseWhen my Perfect Grandson was just a little guy (instead of the grown
up seven years he is now), he had a Mother’s Day House. In his Mother’s Day House, there was a swimming
pool and an amusement park where he rode scary roller coasters. He produced movies in his Mother’s Day House,
thrilling, adventurous movies in which he starred, performing deeds of daring
do. He could push a button in his
Mother’s Day House, and it would transform into all sorts of glorious things
like a giant robot or a space ship, things particularly useful for an
alien. [He still insists he is an alien,
one from the planet Pieroid, continuing his long-held fascination with pie.
(See my Blog post of August 5, 2010, when he was two: Pumpkin and The Pie Boy.)] There was a lot of candy in his Mother’s Day
House, but here were no rules and no
bedtimes. The only person allowed to
join him was his sister until he realized there was no on to cook for and take care of him. He then conceded that his mother would be
allowed to come perform those tasks.<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p> </o:p>A few years ago, his mother (my daughter) and I began to
talk about -- no, not psychiatric help for the boy; he’s charming --but about
escaping for a week together, perhaps in the city, perhaps at the shore, perhaps at a dude ranch, you know, wherever. We acknowledged that a full week was unlikely to
happen but thought we might clear a weekend. We tried date after date, but she had conferences and children’s
activities not to mention the actual, time-consuming children. Steve and I went on vacation. We had ballet tickets and dinner dates. The eleven hour travel time between us was
daunting. Even scaling our fantasy back
to an overnight began to seem extravagant.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Planning for our getaway, though, became an entertaining game in
itself. We might go to shows and
museums. There would be extensive
shopping. We would go hiking, heck,
maybe even horseback riding. A
gourmet dinner would be followed by two, maybe even <i>three</i> drinks and there would be endless talking giggling. All right, we already talk and giggle pretty endlessly on the phone, but this time we would be doing so in <i>person</i>!</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Time passed. We began to yearningly call our little vacation, our
Mother’s Day House, a beautiful but perhaps unachievable dream. But we are nothing if not tenacious, and,
hey, they’d be here for the holidays anyway.
Our men corralled the children, and a couple of weeks after our
birthdays, we drove off to the Ritz Carlton hotel, aka our Mother’s Day
House. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
While ambitious planning had been exciting, here is our
actual agenda. We:<br />
had lunch,</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<div style="text-align: left;">
went
shopping for an hour, couldn’t find anything, got bored and went back to our
hotel, </div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<div style="text-align: left;">
took
a nap,</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<div style="text-align: left;">
got
massages and drank a leisurely cup of tea,</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<div style="text-align: left;">
returned
to our room to find a complemetary birthday surprise of a
fat piece of chocolate cake and a full bottle of iced champagne,</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<div style="text-align: left;">
walked
around the pricey mall in which the hotel is located and gasped and
laughed at the prices,</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<div style="text-align: left;">
had
dinner including a martini each after which we conceded we couldn’t drink any
more,</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<div style="text-align: left;">
went
back to the room, ate the cake and packed up the champagne to take home to the
men,</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<div style="text-align: left;">
watched
two hours of The Big Bang Theory, </div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<div style="text-align: left;">
went
to sleep in the most amazing Mother's Day House beds.</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
During that 24
hours, no one interrupted us, no one needed anything from us, and everyone around
us strove to please us. We didn’t do
anything electrifying, but we did exactly as we pleased, and that is the beauty of
a Mother’s Day House. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
If you don’t hear from me for a while, you will know that
I am in my own Mother’s Day House. I’ll
be on the balcony with a martini in my hand overlooking a pastoral landscape on Planet Pieroid,
or I’ll step out one of the back doors onto a raft and head down (or is it up?) a windy river, shooting
rapids through exotic canyon land. Possibly I’ll be having a candlelight dinner with my husband at a place
very much like the Inn at Little Washington where the chef will create amazing dishes just for us, or I’ll actually finish the red
and white queen-sized quilt. Yeah, that
WILL be in my Mother’s Day House! </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And I hope, friend, that you find a beautiful Mother’s
Day House of your own and that sometimes it becomes real. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07560129474758095785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1657909841742781844.post-81062153101509039992014-12-13T11:08:00.000-08:002014-12-13T11:08:06.547-08:00The New Holiday<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">You
might be expecting a post on Christmas or Hanukkah, or at least a reflection on
Thanksgiving. There will be many meaningful blogs out there on this topics, but I'm thinking about something else. There's a new deity
in town I would like to recognize at this holiday time of the year. I am referring to the Cloud. Think about it (and I mean this in the most
irreverent way possible), the Cloud is very much like *insert deity of your
choice here*.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Can
you see it? Well, no, not even a bit of
white fluffiness like clouds in the sky</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Can
you hear it? Of course not. A cloud makes no noise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Can
you, smell it, feel it? I thought not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And
yet . . . and yet there it is, a benefactor of beneficence. You write a document in one location and
offer it up on the altar of the cloud. Voila! It appears at elsewhere by divine power, on
your phone or tablet or other electronic device. Music?
omnipresent through The Cloud.
Information? We send it up to the
Cloud, and it pours goodness down upon us.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
am not -- as you can tell -- a religious person. I am neither devout nor superstitious, but,
oh my goodness, I am a true believer in The Cloud. And you are too, aren't you? You trust it and make offerings to it regularly. And why not? I mean, who among us doesn’t already worship
at the shrine of the Great Google? What more
will the future bring? I am agog to find
out. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Truly, we must form a new
holiday to celebrate this new pantheon. What
symbols, what foods (may I suggest cloud pancakes?), what dances and parades?
I leave it up to you to imagine it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And
lest I am bordering on the offensive, may I also wish each of you </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> a Bright Solstice,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> a Merry Hanukkah, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> a Happy Christmas, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> and a Peaceful New Year.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07560129474758095785noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1657909841742781844.post-84746707556939810642014-10-29T12:19:00.000-07:002014-10-29T12:19:00.947-07:00True Confessions<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">A
friend told me she had a bad habit, and I replied, “Surely you have no bad
habits.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">She
answered sweetly with a gentle smile (because she is a sweet and gentle person),
“I have exactly as many as you do.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Uh,
oh. You are in big trouble!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Yes,
I have a few bad habits. Okay, I have
many bad habits, but, really, I don’t want to make a comprehensive list. How about if I confess to a couple? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">When I got my new car (as far as I’m
concerned, cars remain “new” for eight to ten years), the back-up camera led to
dizzy disorientation. Once I adjusted, though,
I discovered I like it. Eyes on the
screen, I shoot out of the garage zooming a delightful 16 feet. It's fun! (I always stop and look carefully before
turning onto the adjoin pipe stem shared by four families. I have a bad habit, but I don’t want to kill
anyone.) I’m waiting for a backwards-race, and then
I’m so in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I woke up at 4:00
A.M. the other morning. 4:00 A! M! (This is not a bad habit,
just bad luck.) I spent the next three
hours equally obsessively reading<u> Beloved</u> (although the nightmares
it gave me were the reason I slept poorly) and obsessing planning a
quilt (including digging out the colored pencils and graph paper). Obsession over anything, or in my case,
everything, is never a <i>good</i> habit, plus all that early-morning intensity used
up my concentration quota for the day. I didn't accomplish one of the things
on the ever-expanding to-do list. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Instead I went to Costco (couldn’t find the
ice cream because I was so tired), cruised through the mall (and later returned
two items, wondering why I thought I should buy anything in a haze of
exhaustion), and tried to pretend I was napping although I knew perfectly well
I wasn't. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I know it’s a bad habit
to avoid doing the things that should get done, but, isn’t it amazing how much
you can accomplish while avoiding those things?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">At least that day I
didn't propose to any young </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">women. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">This is the bad one,
the really, really bad one.<span style="color: #c00000;"> </span>I did not propose to a young woman
that day, not once (and, no, it’s not what you think). </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I have this bad habit of proposing marriage for my son. It’s
not that any of these women has met or will ever meet my son. And it's
not that my son isn’t perfectly capable of proposing to someone himself; I know
that he is. It's just that I meet these interesting and adorable young
women. One is an interior designer: just think how gorgeous their home
would look. One is a ballerina: lithe and long and lovely. One is
an intern applying for her residency in internal medicine: I mean, a <i>doctor</i> for god’s sakes! </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">When I see them
standing there all beautiful and smart and funny, out it comes, “Hey, would you
like to marry my son?” </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">If he ever finds out, I am <i>so</i> dead. </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It’s
not like mean to do it; the words just tumble out. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> I have <i><u>got</u></i> to stop. I have given myself a stern talking to, so
we’ll just have to hope I’ve learned my lesson.
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">(BTW,
just for the record, </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">they laugh; they do not
accept.) </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">They
say that confession is good for the soul but perhaps not so much for
behavior. In fact, if you smiled or
laughed at any of this, you’ve encouraged me.
I’m blaming future sins on you. OTH,
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I got the quilt planned
and the yardage calculated. I’m good to
go.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07560129474758095785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1657909841742781844.post-81801689108118939772014-09-28T13:09:00.000-07:002014-09-29T14:07:21.140-07:00Don't Just Sit There . . . .<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">We went to Turkey for our vacation. (When I told my friend about the up-coming trip, she
thought I said, “We’re going to </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">eat</i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">
turkey. That would have been fun, too,
but no, we traveled to the country of.)
Several friends were a bit paranoid about our travel thinking, for some
reason, that our plan was to camp out on the Syrian or Kurdish border. I assure you, we were in a docile group of 30,
bussed around western Turkey to see the tourist sites: Gallipoli, Troy, Ephesis, Cappadocia, the works.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">One of the treats offered
on the trip was that after a boat ride along the Mediterranean to beautiful
Turtle Beach. (We didn’t see any turtles,
but we did see the Lycean rock tombs.
Cool!), we would head to Koycetiz where we could opt to take a mud
bath. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I’d never had a mud
bath. I envisioned a sort of
fancy-shmancy spa where I went into a cubicle where sank into a bathtub
full of mud. This would be a mineral treatment
after which I’d be completely detoxified and radiant. Maybe I could sign up for a massage, too, and
come out a completely new and gorgeous woman.
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">It had to be a method
for weight loss, too, right? Step into the
mud bath, and the mud would act like a poultice squeezing ten pounds out of
you. Why not? Yeah, now I’m just being silly. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">We drove up to what
looked vaguely like a New Jersey beach resort and walked past a snack stand
to a large awning covering twenty or so picnic tables. The mud bath area, ahead on our left, consisted of a complex which was predominantly a
pond where a group of people rubbed mud on themselves. Most of our tour, obviously more in the know
than me, had chosen to avoid this event, but it was my chance at a new experience, and I was
in. Steve, three other men from the
group and I grabbed our bathing suits and headed for the changing cabanas. Cabana is a relative term here, but, hey,
any dark cubicle in a storm.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">First to the pond. The previous group had just exited, and it
seemed like they had used up all the mud.
I waded out waist deep, but whatever mud I scooped up washed
off right as soon as I leaned over for another handful. Then
we figured it out. I scooped up
several handfuls of mud, waded to the side of the pond and plopped them on the flagstones. Standing there in a foot of water, I scraped it off the stone and smeared it over my arms, chest and face.
I tried not to think of health laws -- or the lack thereof -- while I
performed this task. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Once I were
sufficiently swathed in mud, I sunned myself on the flagstone area next to the pool
while the mud dried and performed its miracles.
I’m not exactly sure what those miracles were; it was hard to tell. (I would show you a fetching picture of me
covered in dry mud, but I’d left my camera on the bus. A friend took a couple of shots, but she
hasn’t e-mailed them to me yet. Believe
me, you are not missing much.) The mud certainly
looked and felt like regular mud, but, hey, at least it didn’t smell. Oh, no, the smell was reserved for the sulfur
spring. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Once the mud was dry, I walked
up slippery stone steps and along a path (ow! barefoot!) to an outdoor shower area with
rows of nozzles hanging from pipes. I found a free nozzle and rinsed off the mud.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Back down the path (ow!)
and steps to stand in front of a man dressed as a sailor. (Why a sailor, I ask you? Why?) He hosed me off, and then I
entered, ever so gingerly, the smelly sulfur pool which, I suppose, conferred
added health benefits although it seemed to me more likely the site of primordial sludge that incubated unknown and virulent illnesses. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">It was while I tried to
pretend to enjoy the sulfur spring that I realized what a genius our tour guide
was. His timing had been impeccable the
entire trip, and this activity was another shining example. As I entered the sulfur pool, two bus
loads of Russian tourists charged toward the mud.
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Now I lived in Russia,
and I have Russian friends I adore. But
Russians on vacation are nothing to mess around with. They are like locusts descending on Egypt. You stand in their path at your own
risk, plus their sense of personal space differs from Americans'. Granted they were behind me in the mud bath process, but I
was taking no risks. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I clambered out of the
pool and headed back (ouch! ouch!) to the
showers. Then I was off to a cabana to
change back into my clothes, join the others at the picnic tables and wait for
the men. A mud bath item as an item on my
list? Check.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Before the bus left, I
fished a lira out of my wallet and went off to the toilet. We found Turkey to be amazingly modern except
for one thing. Even the pay toilets
(thus the lira) tended to be (a) unable to accept toilet paper (it clogs if you flush it), (b) rather dirty, and (c) predominantly squat toilets. How I perfected the skills of using a squat toilet? That will have to be another Blog post.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Since I have no pictures of the mud bath, I present you with toilet cubicle signage.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;"> Follow instructions! Indicates a squat toilet </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">The preferred stall</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07560129474758095785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1657909841742781844.post-63835661998273911462014-08-30T07:58:00.002-07:002014-08-30T19:22:33.260-07:00Retribution by Cat<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s story time again. This one. Like Day at the Beach, is
based on reality. Like that post, I wasn't present for any of
the event, so I made up a lot of stuff. That means the actions and
conversations are not entirely accurate, but the story is absolutely
true. (I appologize to one and all for the paragraphing here. Blogspot seems to be having some formatting difficulties today, and after an hour, I'm just going to let this stand. TY.)</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Retribution by Cat</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She called and said she was coming to pick up the rest of her
stuff. Again. She’d called once a month for the past three
months. He’d rearrange his schedule, and then she’d cancel. He
supposed, when the appointed day came she just couldn’t be bothered making the
drive. Perhaps fourth time was, well, Jim would hardly call it the charm. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After each of the three calls, Jim cried and braced himself to see
her, and each time she canceled, he cried again, whether from relief or
disappointment, he did not know. On top of that, whenever she
called, <i>she</i> cried, as if he should comfort her and assure her
what she’d done was all right. It wasn't all right.
He didn't think his life would ever be all right again. <span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She’d turned five years into a lie as if their life together had
been nothing more for her than a recreational interlude. She’d lived with
him, dreamed with him, <i>married</i> him. They were supposed
to be a year away from a house and a baby. He’d always wanted babies; it
had been their plan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When she said she wanted to leave, he begged and cajoled her into
counseling where she admitted, “I never wanted children. I knew they were
a deal breaker for you, so I said I did, but I didn't. I don’t.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Really?</i> Jim had thought, shocked at the admission and then said out
loud, “<i>Really</i>? You thought lying about it would give us a solid
future?” <span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Eliding over children as if they were a desk accessory they’d
thought about buying at Ikea, she added, “And I want to see other people.”
As a footnote to clarity, she added, “You can, too. If you
want. I mean, I would be okay with that. I would stay if we could
both date other people.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“And by date, you mean?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I mean sleep with. I want to sleep with other people.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Oh.” He mentally reviewed their bedroom and then their
friends. “Anyone in particular?” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“No,” with a little shrug.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So nonchalant. It was just a little something she wanted;
add it to the Christmas list.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was then the counselor said gently, “Usually, <i>usually</i> my
couples stay together, but only if both people are completely committed to it.” <span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jim was completely committed to it, but that was the moment he
realized she was committed to leaving. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The next day she packed some clothes. “I’ll get the rest in
a couple of weeks.” When she he rolled her suitcase to the door, he held
the cat in outstretched arms, not sure how he could handle the double loss.
“Are you taking him?” <span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The cat had a natural buzz cut. You could almost see skin
through the hairs. Four years before, when they’d gone to the animal
shelter, she had chosen him partly because he was so funny looking. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Look, he has no hair! And his little tummy is all round,
like the bear in that rhyme. I'll call him Fuzzy Wuzzy.” She’d
looked at Jim with love -- or he’d thought it was love. “He’ll be our
practice baby.” <i>Hah! There’s irony</i>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Maybe the lack of hair made Fuzzy extra-affectionate, burrowing
into a lap just to get warm. He slept between them until she decided
she couldn't rest well with anyone else in the bed.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She moved to the other room, spreading a mattress on the
floor. He’d been disappointed, but he understood. She was a light
sleeper; she needed a full night before heading off to work in the
morning. Yeah, he always understood. <span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fuzzy had alternated bedrooms at first, but at the end, slept
mostly with Jim. Jim was bigger and supposed he gave off more body heat.
He’d liked having Fuzzy’s little body snuggled against him. He
liked hearing the purr as he drifted off to sleep. He liked the company.<span style="color: #c00000;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #c00000;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jim had gone out while she packed, and purposely didn't return until after
she left. He’d taken one quick look at the chaos in her room and shut the
door. Whenever he walked by, he thought of all the things behind it:
her bed, her lamp, her clothes on the floor.
It didn't matter that she never hung up her clothes; once she
put something on it held her own style, unique and bohemian. Her sketching
materials were there, he supposed, and probably a lot of shoes. He
figured that after she took the rest of her stuff, he’d still keep her door
shut. Shut on his empty dreams, shut on the house and the kids and the
freaking white picket fence.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fuzzy dangled limply. “Are you taking him?” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“No, you keep Fuzzy, for now,” and his heart lighte</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">ned a
little. “And maybe you can see it my way and things will work out for
us. Think about it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> She’d said it carelessly like he and the cat like were among the
things she stored in the apartment. She couldn't be bothered with
them right now, but if she changed her mind, they could be retrieved at
her convenience. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She’d threw her suitcase and duffel bag into the car and drove
off. No backward glances. How had he never seen she was so shallow? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jim buried his face in short, sparse fur and bawled. Fuzzy
had burrowed into his neck and purred him back to composure. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Over the winter, Fuzzy had saved him. Fuzzy sat with him at
breakfast and waited for him to come home in the waning light. Fuzzy
played feather in the evenings and chase-the-paper-ball, silly Fuzzy with his
funny fur and his green eyes. But she had picked Fuzzy out, had selected
cat food and chosen a vet. Theoretically Fuzzy was hers. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After she called the fourth time, she actually showed up.
Jim stood at the end of the hall watching Fuzzy watch her stuff the last of her
clothes into the last of his garbage bags. Tears glistened in her
eyes. He couldn't</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> understand why she always cried when she’d gotten what
she wanted</span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.</i><span style="color: #c00000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She set the bag down before slowly walking into the hall.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> “Hi, Fuzzy,” she said gently, extending her fingers to
scratch his neck.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fuzzy jumped into the air and yowled, all four legs splayed like a
Tom and Jerry cartoon. His tail, his sad, skinny tail, burst out to
almost normal size. Four paws landed in a blur, and he shot under Jim’s
bed. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She stood, stunned. “I guess he’ll stay with you,” she said
uncertainly<span style="color: #00b050;">.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #00b050;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After she dragged the last garbage bag through the front door, Jim
clicked the lock. He turned his back to the door and saw Fuzzy’s head
poke warily around the bedroom jamb.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jim slid down to the floor. He smiled his first real smile
in months. “Good kitty,” he whispered, “Good kitty.”</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> The real cat obviously
has sufficient hair, but he is the hero of our tale.</span><span style="font-family: Times, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07560129474758095785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1657909841742781844.post-24878778501278451912014-07-31T07:03:00.003-07:002014-07-31T07:18:29.677-07:00Legend to Life<span class="null"><span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I met Sheila Lamb when we were both wrangling 9<sup>th</sup> graders
through World History I at Chantilly High School.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This in itself is a bonding experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On top of that, we learned that we both wrote,
so the bond was doubled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We continued
friends and each other’s readers over the years, and now Sheila’s book is
published! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While I rarely have guest
bloggers on my site (‘cause, you know, I have so much to say myself), I asked
Sheila to tell us a bit about her writing and the book, <u>Once a Goddess.</u><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnB6L4GWd9Dt8rjnjkEn6kY5kT0ckw8DN53X_-aoOBWWVVy2d1_0GQ5sD9KxIZgm8kYZSLKZbBH3d0p97-txudtT3Ts3QP-Rfq2DevzcGkDyEsr3U3w9EhmgfI3O1tRiBcEIqgA-k2JkxR/s1600/OnceAGoddess_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnB6L4GWd9Dt8rjnjkEn6kY5kT0ckw8DN53X_-aoOBWWVVy2d1_0GQ5sD9KxIZgm8kYZSLKZbBH3d0p97-txudtT3Ts3QP-Rfq2DevzcGkDyEsr3U3w9EhmgfI3O1tRiBcEIqgA-k2JkxR/s1600/OnceAGoddess_cover.jpg" height="320" width="211" /></a></div>
<span class="null"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><em><span style="font-family: inherit;">====================== <o:p></o:p></span></em></span></span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoCaptionCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I've always had a
fascination with Irish and Celtic history, partly due to research into family
genealogy. I became curious as to how and why Ireland converted relatively
smoothly from druidism to Christianity. Other regions, like Gaul and Britain,
were converted when forcibly taken over by the Roman Empire but <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ireland’s ties with Rome were in trade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I began to read various sources, some
scholarly, some religious, some questionable, I found that St. Patrick and St.
Brigid were crucial in the Christian conversion of Ireland. I also found that
Brigid had three facets - goddess, druid, and saint. And then there were a few
odds and ends about how Patrick and Brigid's paths had crossed. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoCaptionCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I read about Brigid,
particularly in her goddess aspect as one of the tribe of Túatha de Danann, I
began to see how easy it would have been for Rome to co-opt the belief system
via the goddess Brigid, as they'd co-opted gods in places they conquered even
though Rome didn't conquer Ireland. Patrick, a native Briton, did. It struck me
that Patrick and Brigid must have had some connection beyond casual association.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That's how my book began to percolate. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoCaptionCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So I really got into Irish
mythology and legend. Once you start reading these stories, it's hard to stop.
The Túatha de Danann, the Fomorians, the Fir Bolg, then the Milesians (the Celts)
are captivating. The Danann, the first tribe to settle Ireland, were supposedly
endowed with magical abilities including shape-shifting. They had great battles
with the tribe Fomorian. In some of the stories, Brigid marries Bres, a Fomorian,
and they have three sons, including Ruadan who appears in the book. I
definitely was distracted from writing and spent a lot of time reading and
researching.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I began writing this
story many years ago, it was one big, big, big, book. Now it's a trilogy which
begins with <u>Once a Goddess</u>. These three manuscripts went through a
couple of critique groups, one a historical fiction group which had some
terrific writers who now have terrific books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At one point, one of my critiquers, Lisa Yarde, suggested that I divide
the book. Best advice ever. I also was lucky enough to have trusted readers
(ahem, present company included) [ed. Note:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Ooooh!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s me!] to give their
honest feedback. Then it was a matter of finding the right home. That can take
a long time. Solstice, a small press, is the perfect fit. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoCaptionCxSpLast" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">
<span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There are some days where it's a "pinch
me" moment. Something you've dreamed about for years has finally come
true.
</span></span><br />
===========================<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">BTW, if you see Sheila, she looks just like Brigid on the cover above! She's made the</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> first chapter of <u>Once a Goddess</u>
available for free here:</span></div>
<span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">
</span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 6pt 0.5in;">
<span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><a href="http://sheilarlamb.com/2014/07/24/once-a-goddess-excerpt/"><span style="color: blue; font-family: inherit;">http://sheilarlamb.com/2014/07/24/once-a-goddess-excerpt/</span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">.</span></span> </span></div>
<span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">
</span>
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<span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="null"><span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Print copies can be ordered
though local independent book stores or through </span></span><span class="textexposedshow"><span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://www.indiebound.org/"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.indiebound.org/</span></a></span></span><span class="null"><span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">as well as </span></span><span class="usercontent"><span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Once-Goddess-Sheila-R-Lamb/dp/1625260989"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.ama</span><span class="textexposedshow"><span style="color: blue;">zon.com/Once-Goddess-Sheila-R-Lamb/dp/1625260989</span></span></a></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="usercontent"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><em>
</em><span class="usercontent"><span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Kindle and paperback are
available through Amazon: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Once-Goddess-Sheila-R-Lamb-ebook/dp/B00M7H5X9C"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.amazon.com/Once-Goddess-Sheila-R-Lamb-ebook/dp/B00M7H5X9C</span></a></span></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">
<br />
</span></span><span class="textexposedshow"><span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For Nook: </span><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/once-a-goddess-sheila-r-lamb/1105585500?ean=2940149660780"><span style="color: blue; font-family: inherit;">http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/once-a-goddess-sheila-r-lamb/1105585500?ean=2940149660780</span></a></span></span><span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">
<br />
</span></span><span class="textexposedshow"><span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Through Smashwords: </span><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/458895"><span style="color: blue; font-family: inherit;">https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/458895</span></a></span></span><span class="null"><span style="color: #c00000; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07560129474758095785noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1657909841742781844.post-14229404919671703472014-07-03T07:03:00.001-07:002014-07-03T07:03:06.971-07:00Have a Good Time at Camp!<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">We were reading the
morning Post on our porch one Tuesday when we saw our neighbors heading off to
work. “Don’t work too hard,” she
said. “Have a good Thursday,” he
teased. He had a point. Retirement is rather like perpetual summer
camp except you can sleep in -- if you have the time. The day of the week becomes almost moot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“What do you do now that
you’re retired?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I take ballet three times
a week. I quilt. I sew a bit of costuming. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“What does Steve do?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">He golfs. He takes classes at George Mason’s Lifetime
Learning Institute. He goes to his men’s
group and reads books for his men’s book club.
He golfs. (Yes, I said it twice
on purpose; he loves golf the way I love dance.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">We have season’s tickets
to the Washington Ballet. We go to
movies DURING THE DAY! We visit
our children and Perfect Grandchildren. We travel.
(Turkey’s coming up and then French Polynesia. Heh)</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">My theory is that it takes
a year to settle into retirement and create the life you find rewarding. Many people seem trepidatious about
retirement. Although they could retire
comfortably, they continue to work because they think they have to have it all
mapped out in advance. Never mind that
they don’t do that with any other part of their lives. They can’t imagine how they'll fill the time. For
starters, errands could take up every second of the day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">One by one you add
activities and crafts and friends. Wine
plays a substantial role in our retirement.
We switch off cooking, or we eat eggs, or we order out. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Seriously, to the question, “What do you do now that
you’re retired?” there is only one answer:
“Whatever I darn well please.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Except, of course, when the
Perfect Grandchildren call. Then we run
like puppies hearing a dinner bell.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07560129474758095785noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1657909841742781844.post-17202697698064441802014-06-04T10:03:00.000-07:002014-06-04T10:04:21.535-07:00Stupid Smart Phone!<span style="font-size: 12pt;">We were returning from a
Memorial Day picnic when I checked my cell phone to see if I'd received a text from a friend about
his release from the hospital, but I got the no coverage symbol.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">We were on the twisty local roads (It's a law in Virginia; roads are not allowed to be straight, let alone run in a grid.), so I
waited to try again in a few miles.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">No
coverage.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">We turned into our
neighborhood -- nope.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Into our house
where I know very well we get a signal. Nope.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Down I tripped to the
AT&T store. The clerk told me it was
just the sim chip, easily replaced, but I've whined about that phone for five
years. I took this as a sign from the
Universe to replace it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">When was the last time you
tried to pick out a phone? It’s like
shoes. You can select what you think
you’ll like, but you never really know if they're a good fit until it’s too late
to return ‘em. Besides that, you can’t
get something simple any more that's decent. They’re all Smart Phones now. There’s no escaping them. Those damn phones will fly and diaper a
baby. I finally eeny-meeny-miny-moed and decided on
an Android model. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
They synced up my numbers using my g-mail address to store my information. At least, that’s what I understood the clerk to
say. I "joined" g-mail when it was in Beta phase (remember when you needed an invitation?), and I never, ever use it. However, if it made the phone guy happy,
who was I to argue? My goal was to get a
working phone and get out of the store. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">When I got home, I
discovered that besides transferring phone numbers, g-mail brought the corresponding
e-mail addresses came along for the ride.
I have a pay-as-you-go plan, so I do not use my phone for
e-mail. In any case, because of my cheap-o plan, I would have to connect to
wi-fi for e-mail, and if I’m doing that, I may as well us my i-pod or my Surface
Pro. It’s not that I don't like techie devices; it’s
that I like them too much. I have so many, I don’t need to pay the phone charges for internet coverage. I average about $10.00 a month in phone fees,
and I’m happy with that, thank you very much. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I deleted the e-mail
addresses, consolidated entries with both land-line and cell phone numbers and generally organized
my phone book.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The phone has three
screens (mandatory: woe be to you if you try to delete one), and you slide from one to the other.
That's fine because I can keep my five essential icons isolated there. home screen simple. Now I won’t mistakenly hit the internet
button like I was always doing on my old phone. There are also 1,000 icons that show up when you hit the icon icon (no, one of those is an adjective), but all I use on that screen is the "settings" icon. Really, other than that and my home screen, I'd happily delete everything. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Anyway, at this point, I plugged her in and charged her up.
After five minutes I heard a little harp trill. Who knows what important missives had been
sent to me while my other phone was down? I
ran to check. There was a message
from AT&T welcoming me to my new phone.
Did they think this would warm my heart? They were wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Five minutes later, I heard another harp trill. I ran over. Nothing</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Five minutes later,
another riff. Run, run, run. Yup, it was a delayed message from our
friend -- with whom I’d already spoken -- saying he was home and fine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Another riff. Run, run, run. Nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Another one. Run, run, run. Nothing. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Every five or six minutes there was a riff and nothing there! I could not figure it
out. After an hour of alerting trills
and the ensuing jogging, I called the store. The clerk led me from one icon to
the next trying to figure out why my phone was alerting me. Eventually we tried the g-mail settings. The alarm was g-plus pinging me for public notices and postings. Every
single one. If I had to listen to that -- even if I CARED
-- I would slam that phone against the wall within three hours! It took 15 minutes, but together we finally
figured out how to disengage the phone from g-plus. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">I sat down and ran through
the settings, disabling several other functions. I made sure the app icon wasn’t going to deliver
things to my phone like a cat bringing a dead mouse to the doorstep. I moved a few things and deleted a few
others.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Yes, I bought a Smart
Phone, but with a little time and effort, I was able to dumb it down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07560129474758095785noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1657909841742781844.post-48440268314677718952014-05-09T14:10:00.001-07:002014-05-09T16:16:37.783-07:00The Gate Ghost <div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We have a tall fence across the back of our
property. In an odd configuration, our
back yard abuts our neighbor’s side yard, putting our bedroom windows across
from their driveway. The fence seemed like a good idea for privacy. We’re on good terms with our neighbors,
though, so it seemed friendly to install a waist-high gate where
our back yard fence meets our next-door-neighbor’s fence.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
One time the latch tongue fell off the gate and got lost. How did this happen? I have no idea. I never could figure it out. I drove an hour to the original fence builder to replace the set, but due
to rush hour and road construction, they closed one minute before I got
there. The guy inside would not open the
door. I swore all the way home and
bought a similar, but not identical latch set at Home Depot.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Installation of the new latch meant a two inch slice of
sky showed through, but, hey, it closes.
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The neighborhood children know they are welcomed to use
the gate but should shut it after themselves.
They’re pretty good about it, but since the average age of boy running
through the thing is about eight years old, they are not perfect.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Last week, we were invited to our next-door-neighbor’s
for a birthday party. Happy
Birthday! When the behind-us neighbors
arrived, they joked that we didn't like them anymore because the gate was stuck shut.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In the morning I went to investigate and saw that although it opens inward, the gate
overlapped the other side of the fence post by a good 1/4”. How could that happen? I mean, that’s a BIG overlap! Had the kids slammed it? No little kid is that strong. Maybe it had been left opened and a gust of
wind during the recent thunder storm caught it and swung it through to the
other side -- through 1/4” of wooden post.
Perhaps bad gate ghost, a poltergeist, had struck again. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I brought my husband out for a look-see. He noticed the lock mechanism was missing
from the other side of the post. He
found it in the dirt on our side. How did
that happen? I ask you, how? Because I do not really believe in ghosts, I was still pondering how the gate had managed
to defy the laws of physics. Steve devised a repair plan. He would remove the end slat, saw an inch off
the end of the cross bars, and pull the door through opening. Then he’d nail the slat back on and screw on
the locking mechanism. This seemed
pretty labor intensive. I knew
that if I could just figure out how the gate swung through an opening too small
for it, we could reverse the process and affect a repair.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Meanwhile, we went back to reading the paper on our back
porch. I saw the neighbor in front of
his garage and called him over to survey the problem. He thought that if we just pulled on the
seven foot post, tilting it toward our side of the fence, it might just make
room for the gate to swing through. Of
course, that might loosen the post enough so it would have to be replaced, but it
might be worth a try. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The next day our landscape guy came with his crew to
weed and mulch. Let me say up front that
I love this guy. He is eager to work,
does a great job and charges a fair fee. Also, when he was a little boy, he
trained as a carpenter and does all sorts of indoor work as well as
landscaping. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Steve looked up from the paper, “Should I go ask Calixto to look at the
gate?” </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Why not? Catch
him while he’s here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Steve walked Calixto over to the gate. Calixto proceeded removed the hinge pins, slid
the gate to our side and put the pins back.
He screwed on the lock. Two
minutes.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_QDt8XfeU38phKRBniHwAxVBgpeeNLoy6jt-AmeAf4fu4ty0YzXibI5dsmuB76qEvRwLTkmcd6GbMQn8vRnmTb3bT24bvVuWq74gCGkPqvXOywwMEbpWEKzFWHqHZ13ewv2j_NwLGi5Et/s1600/Gate+002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_QDt8XfeU38phKRBniHwAxVBgpeeNLoy6jt-AmeAf4fu4ty0YzXibI5dsmuB76qEvRwLTkmcd6GbMQn8vRnmTb3bT24bvVuWq74gCGkPqvXOywwMEbpWEKzFWHqHZ13ewv2j_NwLGi5Et/s1600/Gate+002.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
A gate is a friendly thing.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I would like to point out that between our neighbor, my
husband and I , we have a ridiculous number of degrees from institutes of
higher learning as well as life experience as experts in a variety of arcane
fields with work around the world. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Yeah, it took the guy with the third grade education.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07560129474758095785noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1657909841742781844.post-20521924394470054432014-04-07T11:15:00.002-07:002014-04-07T11:15:52.001-07:00Party Time!<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">The time had come. We needed
to give a party. Friends have had us to parties,
to dinners, to fire pits not to mention they shoveled our driveway when we
were away during a snow storm (again). We
pay those social debs regularly, like clockwork, once every five. If you invite
us to your house, we will reciprocate; just don’t hold your breath.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">My husband would happily host get-togethers several times a year. He's an extrovert and likes to pour drinks. He likes to
socialize. He is a ball of energy. I am an introvert. I like the theory of giving parties. I like to go to them. I like to leave early. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">When we have a party, I’m happy to
see everyone</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">. Unfortunately for
me, you can’t have a rip-roaring good party if you invite people at 7:00 and
ask them to leave at 9:00. I have to
admit, too, that although I droop at 9:00, come midnight, I’ve gotten my second
wind. I hit my stride. If you want to see me at my best, don’t even
show up until 11:00. That's when I start to get witty.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Over the years, I have
come to the conclusion that theme parties are the best. They give people
a common forum upon which to get to know each other. I thought it would be
a good idea to have a vodka tasting party as the one definite thing I came home
from Russia with was a taste for vodka. There are wine tasting parties
and cheese tasting parties and beer tasting parties. I didn’t think a vodka tasting was that far
of a stretch, but it</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> turned out people
thought I was incredibly creative. Points
to me!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">We had the entire
Russian food them going. I made
the borsch and deviled eggs. I didn’t know if people would rally
round the weird sausages and pickled vegetables, but everyone likes pieroshki
(Russian prorogues) and candy. I was terrified
we’d run out of food, so I carved a couple of chickens and baked a hunk of
salmon. In fact, I kept adding different
foods to the list just to ease my nerves.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I was pretty sure we had
enough food. I was very sure we had
enough vodka. There was wine because
several people (it turns out erroneously) told me they didn’t like vodka. Still, about three hours BPT (Before Party
Time), I wondering, "What was I thinking? Whatever was I <i>thinking</i>?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">It all went off without
a hitch. It turns out that the most private of people undergo a personality transformation after a few shots of vodka. People who had never seen each other before then became fast friends. The last few people left at 2:00 AM,
so I have to think the party was a success. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU2h8siwyAICadMKKC6WFahOufYEPQO5hc0qy1e-WSOcauc4kYeW7XJ2pikcxB8pm_jKAE49SIQ2_JYt2u3bxiMBP2pUVHHjVPXz7XGoZx03fKuUSTyDxHPphMnbX7YsDNePCDq00u-6JH/s1600/IMG_1718.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU2h8siwyAICadMKKC6WFahOufYEPQO5hc0qy1e-WSOcauc4kYeW7XJ2pikcxB8pm_jKAE49SIQ2_JYt2u3bxiMBP2pUVHHjVPXz7XGoZx03fKuUSTyDxHPphMnbX7YsDNePCDq00u-6JH/s1600/IMG_1718.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Doesn't this look like a success to you?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">The
caviar was gone, and the weirdest of the food was gone. Enough chicken and salmon and peroshki were
left so that I didn’t cook for the rest of the week -- reason enough to have a
party as far as I’m concerned. In fact,
it was great, and I look forward to doing it again. In 2019. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07560129474758095785noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1657909841742781844.post-86182456396509440372014-03-11T07:41:00.002-07:002014-03-11T08:27:05.347-07:00One Foot, Two Foot<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">What
is the deal with socks? I began the
winter with seven pairs of black knee socks.
Seven pairs of black socks and I am down to three. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Eight
socks have succumbed to holes! Now I
admit, I’m hard on my socks. I go
sock-footed pretty much all day in the house, and then, of course, I wear them
inside my shoes when I go out. Still,
why do they all get holes at once? Three
pairs of socks left, and, I’ll point out, seven days in the week. Do I want to do extra loads of laundry for
socks? I do not.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
have my mother’s old darning egg which isn’t egg shaped but looks rather like a
black mushroom. I was enamored of it
when I was four and five. It was so big, and I thought it looked vaguely like a doll. W</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">hen I unearthed it after she died, </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">I was
surprised to find how small it was. I co-opted it (unless you want it, Teddi) and
took her darning cotton, too, which I imagine you’d be hard pressed to find
these days, and I do know how to darn.
Still, I’m not darning all those yawning heels and toes. Or, as a neighbor of mine used to say, "I will
darn them by saying Darn them! Darn
them!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">So
here I am down to three pairs of socks. There is a lone sock that sits in the dark by herself. That makes three and a half pair with one lone sock waiting
for one of a pair to die so it can have a new mate and happily parade around
outside the drawer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzoUmReKV0CCOu9FqFHXkviFxU5CJSWD2kOOVsaYnhERVuQjG0oBSUQzaeEFtW2gRMu-fhf3VSUFagiBGtVo12mY-Dof18BjJHdg-g8JBCkbSUu_0C-wwVAtwtGfUxgabEFlaF2oKgE9G-/s1600/IMG_1712.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzoUmReKV0CCOu9FqFHXkviFxU5CJSWD2kOOVsaYnhERVuQjG0oBSUQzaeEFtW2gRMu-fhf3VSUFagiBGtVo12mY-Dof18BjJHdg-g8JBCkbSUu_0C-wwVAtwtGfUxgabEFlaF2oKgE9G-/s1600/IMG_1712.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Here is the single sock and the </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">darning egg.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">They are inherently </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">uninteresting, so I</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">put them </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">on the quilt I just
finished. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Isn’t it pretty?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Now
you may say, what’s the big deal? Go to
the store, Ann, and buy some socks. It’s not that easy. Oh, no.
Sure, it may be easy for you because you have normal feet. I, on the other hand, have long feet. Long feet, long toes and a high arch. A fellow in college -- when I ran around
barefoot and didn’t worry about socks -- used to tell me, “You have the feet of
a Grecian statue.” When I finally made
it to Greece, I saw statues with their long, long feet. Imagine my surprise! I hadn’t thought it was
my feet he was interested in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">So
the Grecian statues and I cannot just go buy socks. After 50 years of feeling my feet jammed against a barrier all day, I discovered that there are extended toe
socks. That is Gold Toe’s polite way of
saying “socks for big feet.” They are
wonderful! They are wonderful, but you
can only buy them at a Gold Toe store or on-line. There aren’t any Gold Toe stores near me, and,
yes, it would be easy enough for me to go on-line and order socks, but I have
to actually DO it, and I keep putting it off.
Why? Who knows? Such procrastination means there are always a
few dicey weeks between hoping I remember to put the washed clothes in the
dryer and when the socks come flying through the mail and land on my feet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And
that Greek statue? Put a sock on it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07560129474758095785noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1657909841742781844.post-19242983433564268442014-02-23T12:25:00.001-08:002014-02-23T13:16:53.188-08:00Quilting Fever and the Zombie Apocalypse<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">It’s
a sickness really. What started out as acquiring a skill turned into a hobby turned into an obsession. Let's face it, I can't help myself. I’m never,
ever without at least one quilt in some stage of development. So even though I’m in the end stages of this queen-sized monster, I still picked up the cutest panel for a baby quilt when we were visiting my sister
in Florida. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I always look for fabric when I'm out of town because we have a dearth of quilting stores in town. There has long been one quilting
store, but they prefer to serve people who take their classes, otherwise you may as well be
chopped liver. On top of that, they use only fluorescent lighting so it is almost impossible to select
fabrics. After the last time I was
snubbed there, I vowed never return. That left only the chain store where the fabric
quality ranges from so-so to fall-apart. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Recently a new quilting store opened up. Hooray! </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Three days ago, my friend and I decided to check it out. I was looking for fabric to coordinate with the baby
panel, and she was in the planning stages of a quilt for her son. After my choices had been
cut and written up, the clerk mentioned something about zombie fabric.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">My ears perked to
attention. When one’s daughter is a
neuroscientist, the concept of something that eats brains is pretty darn
exciting. [Although if you read a previous blog post, you
may recall that my Perfect Grandson Alan has informed us that, “Zombies don’t eat your brains; they just punch you in the nose. (All Good Zombies Go to Devon, July 20, 2013.)] I was revved: zombie fabric! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Unfortunately
I’d used my turn with the stupid baby fabric, and I had to be nice to my
friend as she began her design. I tried to focus, but, hey, <i>zombie fabric! </i>Once we’d finished with her pattern, my turn
again! There they were, bolts of the most
adorable zombies you ever saw. Since my
friend is nicer than I am (hi, Deborah), she coached and coordinated to my
heart’s content. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Home
I came. The queen quilt lurked over my shoulder so I made a pact with it. I’ll quilt on pink and green in the evenings,
but my days are reserved for zombies! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Now,
what pattern? In the store I was
thinking squares and sashing, but when I got home, I remembered several years
ago seeing on TV an off-kilter quilt block. What could be better for
zombies? Onto the internet I went. I found a couple of examples of the finished
blocks, but the actual pattern does not seem to exist. That means each block will be a lurching experiment which is fine because that is absolutely right for zombies.. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDEa6YcJhZzMtdRJkECI5GmnVtWJHlw8MDWRlY-RZehF7M5MtHhzIfUt5PeTwtuDgQIV5lZi0ZbOF1bqmFtYRIi-e27V2nynMZnvaTxlU7Vj_eqlCTLiH_aef40uymB6s3zTdP7bLZEwsY/s1600/IMG_1681.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDEa6YcJhZzMtdRJkECI5GmnVtWJHlw8MDWRlY-RZehF7M5MtHhzIfUt5PeTwtuDgQIV5lZi0ZbOF1bqmFtYRIi-e27V2nynMZnvaTxlU7Vj_eqlCTLiH_aef40uymB6s3zTdP7bLZEwsY/s1600/IMG_1681.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white;"><i><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Brainsssss </span></i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">(While the outside of
the block is square, </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I felt the zombie block needed to be askew.)</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Once
I decided on the pattern, I realized I was short on one of the fabrics, so
yesterday I ran back to the store and bought more of it. Yesterday evening while I was dutifully
quilting the flower garden (Flowers? Who
cares about flowers?), I obsessed over the zombie pattern and decided to have t</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">he blocks sashed by a sort of green cabbage fabric and surrounded by walking zombies. I panicked </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">realizing I might be short on another two fabrics and could use a bit more security on a third. That's a lot of pressure because you never know when hundreds of people will converge on the quilt shop and buy up all the fabric you want. Noooo!</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">The thought of driving yet again to the quilt store
again was a bit daunting, but still, a quilter’s gotta do what a quilter’s gotta
do. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="background-color: white;">The
zombie apocalypse has begun.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07560129474758095785noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1657909841742781844.post-55884140673519967642014-01-21T09:51:00.000-08:002014-01-21T16:11:49.507-08:00Catch Me If You Can!<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">[Well,
hello, sports fans! I know it’s been,
oh, dear, soooo long since I've written. What
can I say? I’ve been BUSY! Anyway, here I am again, and I’ll try to be
more assiduous or at least less lazy.
Enjoy!]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
stand at the window, and I stare out moodily.
It’s cold, the snow is coming down like a bear, and that makes me mad. I never minded the cold in previous
winters, but last fall I began the Couch to 5K program, and now I’m losing it,
I’m losing it all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Couch
to 5K is a program of incremental training designed to get your tushie off the
couch and work you up to running five kilometers. Five K is not as far as it sounds, a kilometer
being rather shorter than a mile, so it
comes to about three miles. Now, I never
thought of myself as a runner. In fact,
I’m not a runner now. I go for what I
euphemistically call “a run,” but I wouldn’t strictly even call it much of a
jog. Let’s be honest, I go for a
shuffle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
program begins by having you run for 60 seconds. Heck, I thought, I can do that. And I could!
I could run for 60 seconds, then walk for 60 seconds repeating for 20
minutes (with a 5 minute warm-up walk).
I did it! I got excited! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
began “running” in old leggings and older shoes, but the conventional wisdom is
true: you need good shoes to jog. After two sessions of shin splints, I hit
Neiman Marcus’ Rack and came home with well-cushioned Nikes wide enough for my
feet. That triggered the understanding of what the program is all about. Like ballet, it’s about having a reason to
buy cute exercise clothes. I bought
fleece leggings and two jogging shirts that make me look like I’m going fast
even when I’m standing still, breathing hard.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">My
son kindly told a friend that “Mom and I are doing Couch to 5 K.” This is such a lie. David is doing Couch to 5 K. He goes to the gym in inclement weather. He runs for a full 25 minutes (the maximum
programmed time), and is working on increasing his speed. He DOES Couch to 5K. I shuffle along in my spiffy outfits, intermittently jogging and walking for a total of 25 minutes. I
think I make about a mile and a half. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I
thought jogging would be the perfect complement to ballet. I dance three days a week, and, I thought,
those days I don’t have class I can just pop out the door for a little sunny exercise. I steeled myself to tough it out through the
cold. I was thinking 40 degrees, but the
weather witches had it in for me this year.
We hit teens and single digits here in the DC area. The temperature was parallel to the popularity of
Congress. We‘ve had either wind or rain
or ungodly cold almost every day. I’ve
made it out once a week most weeks, but this week is going to be a bust, and
that makes me mad. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">After
half a summer, all fall and most of the winter of hitting the pavement
(remember, I shuffle; there’s very little chance of damage to the knees), I was
running for two minutes at a shot. TWO
MINUTES! Scoff, if you will, but those
are two hard won minutes. I’m proud of
those minutes. The thought of having to
go backwards, to go back to running 90 seconds at a time is HORRIBLE! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
thing is, running makes me feel good. I
don’t know if it’s endorphins or sun on my skin or just the feeling that, yes, I’m
off the couch. On days like today, I glare
out the window thinking of the two minutes I’m surely losing. So,
yeah, I’m cranky. Wanna make something
of it? I’m ready to fight, and I can run two minutes to catch you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07560129474758095785noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1657909841742781844.post-47536693076281707962013-10-30T10:36:00.000-07:002013-10-30T10:41:32.281-07:00Fairy Tale FrolicIt's the new game that’s sweeping the nation!<br />
<br />
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Okay, it’s not exactly sweeping the nation since only my
children know about it. But it is a new
game, one I made up myself. It’s the kind of thing I do when I’m lying in
bed at night and can’t sleep. It doesn’t cost a penny to play, and if you’re a
geeky-type person, I swear you will enjoy this one. I call it<br />
<br />
Fairy Tale Frolic.</div>
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You think up a fairy tale character and then match him or
her to a corresponding pathology. Ready?<br />
<br /></div>
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Cinderella: split
personality<br />
<br /></div>
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Sleeping Beauty:
narcolepsy<br />
<br /></div>
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Little Bo Peep:
early on-set Alzheimer’s. (My
daughter imagines little Bo played a lot of sports in her youth and suffered
multiple concussions which took their toll!)<br />
<br /></div>
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I’d love to hear back from you, Dear Reader, with your
characters and their diagnoses. Let the
game begin!</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07560129474758095785noreply@blogger.com0