Cardinals

In the stillness of early morning, Sugar and I lazily ambled down the sidewalk, taking our time and enjoying the mist that hung mysteriously over the dewy grass. The cacophony of bird song had died away to the occasional chirruping of a robin or wren, a few raucous squawks of a jay or crow.

I yawned while I watched Sugar sniffing about, and out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw something move. Yes, a flash of red in the pines across the street. Two of them, accompanied by the unmistakable metallic chipping of a cardinal. There they were again, flashing out of the shady wooded area into the light. Two bright red birds dipping and darting, turning and swooping.

Wait, that can't be right. Two males? Shouldn't that be a bright red male and a dull brown female? For a few minutes they were out of sight though I could still hear them calling. I wondered if a stray male had somehow inadvertently wandered into someone else's territory and was being chased out, but there was no malice to their flight pattern. For a long half hour we watched them winging about, zipping in and out of the trees, chirping and playing.

How unique! I wonder if there are two females sitting on nests somewhere close. Well, we will have to keep an eye out for babies - unless the second male is a son being taught how to fly! Too bad I am not more knowledgeable. I'll bet any bird watcher worth his/her salt could tell me!

LPGA Madness

I have never attended the week long annual LPGA event that Wegman's sponsors, but there are a number of people from church who make a yearly event of it, going for the whole week and following along with the excitement. This year was no exception for them, and I heard them discussing plans, arranging who would drive and where to park.

I thought of them briefly as the week ended up very rainy. Several times the news anchor announced delays in the schedule as they had to halt due to the heavy downpours. Even after the rain ceased, fairways would be soggy and uncooperative. But since I was safely tucked indoors, I didn't loose any sleep over it.

Imagine my surprise when two of the ladies who sing in the choir asked if they could come by and bring me something - they sounded very excited on the phone and I wondered what they were up to. Little did I realize that the whole week they had been plotting and scheming to include me in their LPGA adventure in absentia!

Those two thoughtful people had approached the players and asked them to sign a baseball cap for me - and the hat was loaded with signatures legible and otherwise! They proudly produced the hat and I was overwhelmed that everyone had been so willing to stop their busy schedules to sign a hat for me! One player even donated a signed golf ball.

As if that weren't enough, they also gave me a book/program so I could relive the events and connect the names with the faces. Further, they had asked at all the vendor tents and displays for samples for me while they were getting their freebies. Wegman's does a bang up job with samples and promotion. They came loaded with literally bags and bags of goodies, some edible, some medical, some practical and others just plain fun.

It was like Christmas going through everything and hearing about how they came to acquire it and their thoughts about the week - they actually toughed it out in spite of the weather to the very end! What fun we had partying after the event! It was a huge morale booster and after they left, I laughed and cried and went through the program page by page. Even Kiel was thoroughly impressed and got caught up in it when he got home.

I am so touched that they included me - it brings tears to my eyes just thinking about their kindness. How lucky I am to have such marvelous friends. This is one hat I shall wear often and with great joy. THANK YOU!!!

Shut Up

I've been one of those obnoxious cheerful morning persons all my life. I can't help it. I try to tone it down around others, but I love being up in the early morning to help the sun rise and get started on all the wonderful potential happenings the day promises to bring forth.

But not today. Today I wake at 4:17am just before the bird cacophony begins. I know it's coming. I usually find joy in listening to the various songs weaving together in one grand symphony. Today I want to strangle the warbler who begins, that horrible early morning rooster songbird whose rich chirruping wakes the others.

She is joined in moments by the clacking disapproval of a jay and for one brief moment I am hopeful that he will convince her to shut up. Too soon they are both drowned in so many different melodies and timbres that it is as if all the treetops have St Vitus disease and are wobbling and vibrating at uncontrollable unpredictable frenzied rates.

Go away! Leave me alone! I pull the pillow around my ears. It doesn't help. How is it I ever thought this was so wonderful? I am beginning to understand the dour faces of my kids who resist mornings with all their might. What is wrong with me? Oh, yes. Five days of prednisone. My emotions are way out of whack. Yesterday I sat in the chair and cried crocodile tears over absolutely nothing. Gack. How distasteful.

I am swinging farther along the continuum than last time. I am experiencing sudden inexplicable bruising - huge purple marks where no injury has occurred. My tastebuds have all died and I can taste neither salty nor sweet, sour nor spicy. All food is bland. OK enough kavetching. Let's focus on what is pleasant and good.

I love the sound of rain swooshing outside my window and being warm and cozy inside - and it has rained a lot lately. I love the green green leaves on the trees outside my window especially when they sway in a gentle breeze. I love standing outside when the sun breaks through the rain, feeling the warmth on my naked head. I love the softness of Sugar's fluffy coat when she snuggles up in the chair with me.

I am grateful that I can get about on my own, that I have wonderful friends who take good care of me, that people have brought me such delicious meals and sent cheerful cards and mailed me care packages with great surprises inside! I am happy to see pictures of my grandchildren playing and being happy and to have access to uplifting books that I can actually read on my own without help. I have a marvelous job where people are truly understanding and cut me a great deal of slack. I have great doctors who provide excellent care, good insurance, medicine to deal with all the problems, and I have HATS! Tons of beautiful hats to cover my extraordinary wig that makes me look twenty years younger. I have a piano in my apartment and can make music when I want to, and I have an iPod loaded with music to lift my soul. I have so much more than most of the rest of the world. I am not dealing with the consequences of some natural disaster nor unemployment. My kitchen and bathroom are clean and organized. I have lots of clean towels and a sparkling shower with all the hot water I could want. My toilet is inside and flushes! I have a closet full of clothes for all seasons and occasions. I have pretty scarves and comfy socks and what else could I possibly want!!!

No, no. It is not the birds I am yelling "Shut Up" to this morning. I am telling all those negative thoughts on which I inadvertently focused for a moment to be quiet. I am extraordinarily blessed and I choose to hold on to the good things and know that better days are ahead. And indeed, they are!

Anger Management

3:28 am. I have been tossing and turning all night in a prednisone-induced inability to sleep. My legs keep contorting with chemo side effect tingling and numbness followed by bone pain which I imagine comes from the cancer cells being attacked. My scalp hurts. I swaddle my legs in pillows for a moment of comfort only to have to reposition in minutes. Heat helps, but soon the hot flashes force me to toss the hot water bottle and blankets aside and dangle my legs over the edge of the bed.

Worse yet, Kiel finally comes home after promising to be back around midnight. He piddles in the kitchen getting something to eat, wakes the dog who barks, lets her out of her crate and she immediately jumps in bed with me, landing on my poor legs. I drag myself out of bed to shoo her from the room and close the door. Now the room will turn stuffy with no cross ventilation and no air conditioning in my bedroom. I am angry.

I lay back down, my mind shouting angry comments. They spew up inside faster than I can think them. How could he . . . rant rant rant. I am in full blown anger mode. I hear in my heart that calm gentle voice I have heard so often before. "If you could just set this aside for a minute, I'd like to share some thoughts that will help, give you some needed insights." But I don't want to set my anger aside. It feels good to vent my frustrations. I feel like being angry. After all, I am justified. I am right. I have a valid point or ten. Besides, if I can't express my anger to God who already knows how I feel, well. You get the gist. "OK," the voice says. "Rant on Daughter. When you are ready to listen, I will be here."

I think about that. My interest is piqued. I'd like to set my anger aside, but I don't seem to be able to turn it off. I am stuck. I can't stop. There seems to be no end to this ugliness. Now what? "I can help with that," the voice inside me says.

Immediately, the angry thoughts disappear. Evaporate. Gone. In their place, I suddenly see a panorama of information laid out before me showing family heritage, family lines of training and thought patterns. I had been well aware of the facts, the knowledge about the various families that are part of our background, but somehow I had never seen the interrelationships I was beginning to see for the first time, to get a glimmer of understanding of the complicated interactions of so many factors and thought patterns and habits and heritages. Most of the grandparent generations had never even met each other much less interacted. How could I have never thought about the confluence of such disparate streams and experiences?

Understanding how the facts connect is only step two in gaining true godly wisdom. The next level is knowing what to do with that understanding, how to act on it. Knowledge, understanding, wisdom. That's the formula. I wanted to immediately jump to wisdom, but God knows I am no where near ready for that step. I need time to thoroughly explore the interactions, to meditate on how we got where we are, to clearly see every indicator. That will take time and a lot more sessions (which, btw, the progress made in this little half hour session would have taken a dozen years of therapy to reach).

With this overarching perspective to consider, my anger at sleepless inconvenience had dissipated. What a much more beneficial perspective and behavior. I wanted to contemplate these wonderful new insights, but instead I slipped into a deep, peaceful and refreshing sleep. Sigh. Why didn't I start there in the first place!

The Real Work

Its easy to fall into the trap of being so consumed with battling cancer that I forget about other things that are important too. I don't wish to become like athletes who spend so much time training for a sport that they don't do anything else, or a musician who practices to the exclusion of living. I don't want to ignore the important by merely focusing on the immediate.



I found myself unable to sleep last night, and realizing I hadn't done a thorough praying of my list of loved ones for a few days because of the tyranny of symptoms. Immediately guilty, I began at the very beginning (where else?) and started praying up a storm for my friends and family. My mind twisted and turned, trying to jump off track and I was frustrated at my inability to concentrate.



After repeated attempts to pray like a good Christian, I felt the Lord gently nudging me. Pay attention. There are things you need to take care of. Uh-oh. I quieted myself, emptied my mind and just lay still, feeling a bit like Samuel of old and hoping I would "get it" OK. I know full well I am not the nicest of persons and have done or left undone lots of inappropriate stuff. I'd like to take care of any sins now, please, before I find myself unable to clear up any overdue accounts.



Patiently, the Lord walked me through several situations that had always puzzled and frustrated me, times when I just didn't understand the dynamics of the events unfolding. He showed me things I had never realized, not in a condemning way, but helping me gain more insight.



It reminded me of when I was a girl playing in the back yard and got my long hair tangled up in burdock. We kids were playing hide and seek, and I found a marvelous hiding spot underneath a tangle of wide leaves and undergrowth next to an old oak tree on the path by the garden. As I sat still, my tummy tingled with delight thinking how I was outwitting them all and that they would never in a million years find me!

Little did I realize that I had backed up into a tall burdock plant that towered over my head. A dozen spiny brown pods had reached out to caress my brown hair, barely brushing against my head. As I turned my head this way and that looking for seekers running right past my stellar hiding spot, they became entangled deeper and deeper in a wadded mass. What a mess. When I went to stand up at the call of "allee, allee, oxen free," I was so webbed in by the burrs that they yanked me backwards, tangling more burdocks into my hair.

I tried to pull the spiny round burrs out to no avail. They were too matted. I started crying and tearing out strands to loosen myself from the tyrant plant. The more I tried to untangle the burrs, the worse they held on. In desperation I ran screaming into the kitchen holding the mess as best I could. I was hysterical, convinced that I would never be free of the horrid seeds and that I would have to cut my long tresses off.

Dad saw the problem and picked up a comb from the counter. He sat me on a stool and ran the comb straight down my head toward the tangles. I howled and pulled away. Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow! Stop! He stepped back, laughing a bit at my predicament, knowing there was no other way to undo the damage.

Thank goodness Mom intervened. She wrapped a towel about my shoulders, and holding my hair up near my hairline to prevent pressure on my scalp from yanking of the comb, carefully wriggled fine black teeth down through my hair, sometimes stopping to untangle a strand, other times taking a small scissors to release a particularly obstinate snarl.

It took her hours of patient work to finally remove all the burrs and soothe my hair into place. That's a labor of love not soon forgotten! Just in the same way, thinking myself to be clever and witty, I entangle myself with sticky and tenacious problems in life, not even realizing the pain they will cause. Then I try to untangle them myself and end up desperate because I cannot figure out how to do so without doing more damage.

Thank goodness God is waiting to patiently work on us, taking care to inflict as little pain as possible while working through the knots and only cutting when absolutely necessary. All I have to do is sit still and cooperate, not pulling away until He is able to soothe my trouble soul and restore some measure of beauty. Now that's the REAL work I dare not suspend just because I have some physical issues to tend to! After all, I am so much more than just a body.

Grandma's Attic

Today is a bad day physically. I can do little more than sit and breathe. I choose to retreat into memories of better days, and am happy to share with you one of those. Much more entertaining than listening to me moan.

The door to Grandma's attic looked like every other door in the upstairs hallway overlooking the stairway banister - stained black, austere, with dark brass knobs. You would have thought it the door to just another bedroom. But oh, the adventures that lay beyond its solemn sternness! We rarely were allowed the privilege of even peeking through the keyhole much less ascending the steps to the realm above where lay treasures of the highest magnitude just waiting to be discovered.

Once in a blue moon, usually on a rainy afternoon, when we kids were visiting for the summer and bored from being cooped up inside, Gram would make some excuse to go to the attic. Looking back, I suspect it was all a plot to get us out of her hair when we had become particularly grouchy or boisterous and wild. She never let on, of course, but we would suddenly find ourselves huddled quietly behind her as she bent over the lock, breath baited as she s-l-o-w-l-y turned the key with that scracky sound of metal resisting metal.

She would pause with her hand on the knob for just a second before pulling the door open. The foul air rushed up our nostrils, forcing us to step back involuntarily until it swooshed on by. We peered up the dirty white steps that seemed to arise straight upwards into the dim light above. All was silent except for the pounding rain. We shivered collectively while Gram stepped on the first step, testing it a bit before trying the next one. There was no hand rail here, no risers covering the plaster slant of the wall beneath the stairs, the wall which formed part of the closet in the bedroom just next to us, the one with the four poster bed and the metal crib.

One by one we crept up the stairs on hands and knees, frightened of falling headlong to the hall floor below. As our eyes peered over the top of the attic floor, we could see Gram fussing and mumbling beyond us, her hands flailing the air as if chasing bees. We knew she was reaching around for the pull string for one of the four bare lightbulbs that hung suspended from the bare rafters in the eaves. Eventually she managed to grab one and give it a yank.

In the dim light that barely emanated from the single bulb, the dark shapes and mounds about us became more recognizable. Of most interest to me were the steamer trunks that were plopped here and there in between stacks of old pictures still in huge ornately carved frames and broken old fashioned tricycles, tall mirrors that sported long and serious cracks in their glass, and boxes of various decor and detritus. If I were lucky, Gram would open one and examine the contents, holding this item or that and telling us little stories about what the thing was and how it got there.

What glorious history lessons we drank in! This was way better than visiting a museum. Where else could you put your finger in the mouth of a doll a hundred years old to feel the delicate porcelain teeth or examine an old fashioned straight razor complete with leather sharpening strop? What curator in their right mind would allow you to try on clothes from decades ago, all yellowing and musty in their carefully wrapped tissue paper or actually have a pretend tea party with the smallest china tea set I have ever seen, all rosy pink with hand painted flowers and real gold leaf trim?

Oh, the hours we spent up there while Gram pretended to look for some long forgotten item, the likes of which she could not specify? What did it matter that the whole space smelled hot and dusty or that the paper wasps battered their angry wings against the windows, forgetting that the crack right next to them would have granted them freedom anytime they wished? Who even noticed when Gram wandered downstairs to the kitchen to begin supper preparations, boiling up water to douse fresh corn, slicing the juicy warm ripe tomatoes, frying up hamburg?

Not us! Our little fingers explored worlds long gone and yet to come for hours on end until someone suddenly shouted "Hey! The rain stopped!" and everyone bumped down the ragged steps on their hinneys to dash outside and explore new wonders opened up by the rain. I was always the last one down the steps, standing on my tippy tippy toes to reach the light string and pull it out, to shut the lid of the last open trunk, to tuck the broken trike safely out of harm's way. I would stand for just a minute at the bottom of the stairs as I turned the key in the lock, tucking away the look and feel of our adventures for the next rainy day when I am prevented from the normal course of life by storms.

Storms like this one I am living today, far away from a house long since torn down and people long since gone. Still, I find myself standing at the foot of the attic stairs, my hand on the key, willing to reopen those adventures of my childhood, to recall the smells and textures of centuries past. I can almost feel the swish of Gram's summer dress and the roughness of her fingers brushing my bangs from my face. How amazing that she can still take the sag out of the disappointment of a storm interrupted day and turn life into an adventure worth jumping into.

The Day After

5 am. The nausea is bad. I drag myself from bed and stumble about for the bottle of compazine, trying not to wake Sugar. I am in no shape to take her out yet. I manage to choke down the pill and flop back in bad without rousing anyone. I toss and turn for over an hour and finally admit defeat. Besides, Sugar is whining to be taken out. Sigh. It's starting out to be a bumpy day.

The compazine finally kicks in and I am able to take the next round of meds and sit in the blue chair. I am an emotional mess today, tears spilling for no reason down my cheeks, follow by ridiculous bouts of giggling over silly stuff - the prednisone must be really kicking. At one point I was recounting whether I had actually done anything constructive, and my poor brain did this:

Take the yellow pill so you can keep down the pink pill which you need to take the two white pills so you can be awake and sturdy enough to tolerate the blue pill which you desperately need in order to take the yellow pill so you can keep down the pink pill . . .

See what I mean? Messed up. It will do me no good to try the Einstein stuff now. I am beyond hope for today's intelligence quotient. Might as well give in and watch mind numbing movies. Ah, yes. The movie disaster plan! Got it covered. Went to the downtown library and checked out several Cadfael flicks along with a documentary on Benjamin Franklin, one on the apostle John on the island of Patmos, a movie about good old JS bach, a Charlie Chan movie, a Nancy Drew, and something called Intermezzo with Ingrid Bergman. THAT ought to give me a variety to pick from without being too mind numbing.

I forgot one teeny weeny little thing. Most of what I checked out were VHS, and I had forgotten that our deck was defunct. Well, shoot. Poor Kiel had to run around trying to find a VHS machine which of course they don't make anymore. He finally got a double deck (VHS, DVD) with the thought that we were going to encounter this little predicament again in 3 weeks.

By the time he got back with it and hooked it up, the real trouble had begun - the pains and body reactions to the chemo were flaring ferociously. I was very happy for the distraction, but didn't have the stamina for much. I finally gave up and went to bed to rock myself in the quiet of my own room. Einstein will have to wait. Coherence will come another day.

Round 3

The day began at 7:30 am as a volunteer picked me up to transport to the cancer center. My sister Deb had just sent me a box with 2 new hats, and I decided that I would prefer not to wear my beautiful new wig and expose it to germs and yuck, so I selected the aqua blue cool boy hat - the color was delightful and cheery.

After the usual drill (check in, vitals, blood draw, start IV through port) I got the good news that my white cell count was at 289! Yeah! The nurse discussed symptoms from the first two rounds, and decided to see if we could use different meds than the benedryl that gives me headaches and makes me feel like I am passing out. Yes, we will try hydrocortisone.

Just as things were settling, my friend Baiba, who happens to be a chaplain at Strong, came to chat. We had delightful conversation, and she brought me some good books in case I felt like reading (one of which I ended up taking home). The Rituxan drip had to stay slow as I was experiencing side effects - tingling in my hands and feel, nausea, itching. Sigh. Another long day ahead.

After Baiba left I was delightfully surprised when Diane peeked around the curtain! How nice to have a friend stop by. She brought her game Cranium (not craniotomy! got that wrong last time!) but we chatted our time away, so she showed my how to play and let me take it home to give it a whirl. We will set up a time to play some piano duets when I am feeling better.

I exchanged cancer stories with the patient in the recliner across from me. She has been undergoing chemo since December - 6 months! Wow. How difficult a time she is having. At the tender age of 33 with 2 young children, her breast cancer has metastasized to her liver. If the 12 month chemo doesn't help she is out of options. But so far most of the 50 tumors have either shrunk or disappeared. At least she doesn't have to work outside the house - she was happy to be spending time home with the kids.

As the day wore on, I grew more tired, took on more meds, ordered a disappointing cottage cheese and fruit plate lunch that ended up being a small container of the cottage cheese and a sealed cup of fruit cocktail, dozed a bit, did my dot to dots, played with Einstein (a new electronic brain stimulator my friend Sissie sent me! - I love it), listened to some new CDs I checked out of the library - I especially like the Tallis choral works and the Prokofiev piano sonatas) and watched the clock slowly work its way past first shift into the second one.

At last I was able to call my new friend for a ride home, getting there at 6pm, hungry and exhausted. One more infusion down, three more to go. Getting there.

Look Good, Feel Better

My sister Mary told me about the American Cancer Association's cooperative program called Look Good, Feel Better. You sign up for a session, and local cosmeticians and beauty care experts show you how to care for your skin during chemo and radiation - everything from applying makeup to tying scarves to wig care. You are presented with a red zipper case filled with all sorts of skin care and make up products, and they work with you to show you how to use everything.

I signed up for a session and we met in the Wilmot Cancer Center's Patient and Family Resource Center. The room was at capacity with women in all stages of all kinds of cancer. Most of us were hairless, and all of us were a bit unsure of how to proceed. Our hostesses soon put us at ease and we opened our care bags with all the excitement of Christmas. The room filled with "oooh's" and "aaaah's" as we tore open the sealing packaging around eyeliners and lip gloss, concealers and foundations. It was sort of like being at a good old fashioned pajama party with all the excited conversation about 'girl' stuff!

I have to admit, I am not much of a makeup wearer and haven't worn foundation since high school experimentation. But as the experts talked about how our skin reacts to the therapies and how we develop brown splotches (I have my share already) and pale zones, dark circles under our eyes and white lips, their suggestions made more sense.

We watched a short movie showing women before and after, and I have to admit, the before pictures were just like those of us in the room - pale, tired, colorless and definitely sick. The after pictures showed vibrant women smiling, still sick, but looking less worn out.

As the morning unfolded, I was surprised about how much I don't know about cosmetics and how to apply them. There is a real art form to application so that you end up looking natural and not painted. First the concealer, then the foundation. I was repeatedly surprised at the name brands of the products that had been donated. Even the cosmetologist raved about the Chanel mascara - she loves it, one of the best on the market and WAY too expensive for her pocketbook, lucky lucky us! We all had table top stand up mirrors and good lighting so it was easy to see if you were applying things too heavily or leaving lines.

Eyeshadow involved brushing on V's in just the right places, and eyebrow decor demanded precise measurements from nose to edge of bone - ever important for those whose eyebrows have already fallen completely out. After all, an eyebrowless face lacks the proper boundaries and just plain looks funny. And who knew there is such a thing as lip foundation? It sure makes the color go on evenly and works out all the cracks and bleeding spots.

Funny thing is, when I was done with all the steps, I looked like I always look! Nothing glitzy or brazen. Just a nice healthy glow of normal color. With the new wig, it was a nice effect. (btw, no one even realized my hair was a wig! they all thought how lucky I was that I still had my hair and that it looked so nice!).

It was a morning well spent, though I was very glad it was a week 3 for me and I had enough uumph to get through the whole thing. The women were so understanding and kind, the tips very helpful, the products amazing. Man, sometimes you are just blessed from the bottom of your blistering feet to the top of your scaly head! I will definitely be telling people to sign up for a session. What a nice program. Thanks to the people who work hard to put this together. And thanks to my sister for cluing me in.

Life Rhythms

There was something special about Sunday at Gram's house. True, it started like every other day. Hub (my grandfather) would head downstairs around 6am and read the paper in his aqua colored recliner. At 8am sharp, he would part the curtains at the foot of the stairs and in a slightly raspy voice, call up the stairs "Mate! Mate!" (his pet name for my grandmother). Gram would roll over in bed, her long hair out of its usual tight head circling roll of a bun, and sigh.

She slid on her faded pink chenille robe and plodded to the upstairs bathroom for a quick splash before heading to the kitchen to fix the oatmeal and coffee. I lay wide awake in the twin bed in Aunt Lillian's room from the first stirring of my Grandfather as he tiptoed downstairs, but I didn't dare arise until Gram was safely in the kitchen.

On normal days, Gramp wore his garage overall and suspenders and Gram wore a faded print dress. But on Sundays, Gramp wore his stiff gray suit and dress hat and Gram wore a fancy suit type dress. After breakfast was cleared away, Bibles were located and we all climbed into Gramp's big red truck for the short drive to the Glenville Community Church where Gram and Gramp were charter members.

The structure was gray stone with nearly blond hard wooden benches, the service long. It was hard to sit still for the whole time, harder to wait afterwards until Gram had greeted friends or taken care of whatever tasks were on her list. Then it was back home for the special Sunday dinner - usually a delicious roast of beef with boiled potatoes, some vegetable straight from the garden, and fresh wheat bread.

Everything about the day was different from the clothes to the food to the resting all afternoon and not working. There was no mistaking this day for some other day.

Somehow this morning, whether it was the plaintive call of the turtle dove outside my bedroom window or the lack of kids making noise or the new facility Community of the Savior is meeting in with stained glass windows that remind me a bit of the windows in Gram's church, this morning felt almost like Sunday at Gram's. It was nice to feel connected to the roots of my upbringing, to feel a part of something bigger and more far reaching than my own finite realm.

I drew much strength from the service, hearing the Scripture, confessing my sins, receiving communion, repeating the Lord's Prayer and being one voice among many. I was uplifted from connecting with good friends and making a few new ones. I like the rhythm of Sabbath. It's wonderful be part of such a large family!

Hair Today

When I was growing up, I got used to people remarking about my younger sister's hair. Not only was it a beautiful carrot red, but it was long and even in braids hung down almost to the back of her knees. She rarely wore it loose because it got tangled up on doorknobs and accidentally shut in car doors. Still, her gorgeous locks were a show stopper. At one point I started calling her Hairy because it fit her so well. Of course, she didn't appreciate the aptness of it and took offense at the moniker, so I stopped calling her that - at least to her face.

Though we shared a room almost all of our growing up years, we were as different as peas and carrots. She was neat and organized and quiet while I was loud and boisterous and thought of my room as a quick stopover place where I could shuck off one set of clothes and grab another. It was hard on her. I am a difficult if not insensitive person to live with.

Today she asked me to come with her to a wig salon. I explained that I wasn't doing wigs. They ones I could afford looked unnatural and tacky, so I had determined to forget them altogether and stick with hats and scarves which was working nicely. Still, she had done some research and was willing to pick up the tab, so I climbed into her van, sceptical at best. I suppose wasting a bit of time couldn't hurt.

I was amazed at the selection available. It was nothing like the cancer center shop or the online sites I had checked. The wigs were much more realistic - some of them had special inserts that made it look like real scalp showing when you parted the hair. We tried on every imaginable style and color just to see the effect. It didn't take long to identify what looked good and what didn't work well. My natural color of hair, the dark brown I was born with, no longer matches my skin tone.

Short and layered was my forte, and nothing too thick. Before long, one wig rose to the top of the list. There was no denying that while there were a few that looked OK, and several that worked acceptably, this one was far and away hands down the winner. I gulped at the price - a small fortune - but my sister said it was OK, so we got it. Truth be told, there was little in the shop I could have afforded.

The hairdresser spent some time fitting the wig to my head, and then shaping the hair to best frame my face. A custom job! She showed my how to put it on, how to take care of it, how to avoid melting it. Then she also showed me tons of ideas about how to wear scarves. She has helped many many cancer patients through this sort of situation.

I figured being bald was just part of the shtick. I was surprised at what a lift having hair again gave me. I found myself smiling a lot and admittedly the wig makes me look about 20 years younger. Who wouldn't feel better looking younger! Its a miracle - get chemo, look younger. Wow. Totally unexpected.

My sister could rightly call me Hairless instead of Hairy and get me back for being a snotty big sister back in the day. But she kindly didn't. She just thoughtfully gave me a new lease on life. Here's to sisters, big, little and in between!

Dinner and a Concert

Our songs had all been sung, our choir folders turned in, our hours of hard work ended for the year. We gathered in a small Italian restaurant where our accompanist plays dinner music on a battered old upright piano. We filled the whole back section, our conversation lively and spirited. It was good to kick back and chat, no deadlines looming, no early morning commitments.

The evening unfolded gently as we broke bread together, our chatter ranging from politics, weather, and unemployment to trips down memory lane. Barely audible in the background piano music wafted in and out of hearing range as the noise level rose and fell. I caught snatches of Cuban music along with Gershwin and Bernstein and a host of other wonderful tunes. What an enjoyable evening - great food, good friends, and a touch of music!

When the entrees arrived, the talk died away as everyone dug in. We played "guess that melody" and several people were excellent at identifying what our accompanist played. Once the plates were licked clean, the conversation resumed and I finally wandered over to the bar near the piano, grabbed a stool and dragged it close to the keyboard. Lourdes played Chopin for me, and the bartender came over to enjoy the piece as it unfolded beneath her most capable fingers.

You could hear her heart in the phrases, and soon the chef and the owner joined us in listening to the gentle caresses of Chopin's delightful lines. Our little group watched Lourdes' fingers dance over the keys, wriggling in a trill here, and skittering up the keys in a flurry of sound there. Too soon the song ended and I lingered to hear another piece before rejoining my table for dessert.

A magical evening. A wonderful way to end the choral season. We should definitely do it more often.

Surprise!

This is week 3, the week I am most energetic and least symptomatic. I pretty much know that the week of the infusion will mostly be spent at home letting my body detoxify. The second week I am at about 50% except for the prednisone crash day. I can usually manage to work half days and muddle through with less lying around time. Then the third week I am starting to feel better, but my immune system is at its most weak point so I can't risk being in crowds or anywhere that I might be exposed to germs.

That's why Kiel is staying with a friend right now. He has a cold and cough and I can't really be around that since I am so susceptible. So I am alone this week what with Drew in North Carolina and Kiel in quarantine. Good thing its week 3! Despite having Sugar with me, it's a bit of an adjustment being by myself. True, the house stays fairly clean, and I enjoy the peace and quiet. And I do stay in touch via phone.

But I do feel a bit abandoned. That is, until I came home tonight and found a box in front of my door. Who is sending me something? I have to delay satisfying my curiosity until I have walked Sugar, but then I tear open the box. It's fresh fruit from Harry and David - a gift from my sister in Tennessee. How thoughtful! Succulent peaches, juicy blueberries, sweet cherries - yum!

I peel a peach and slurp the golden flesh and suddenly I don't feel so alone. I call my sister and get her voice mail. I chirp a happy thank you and nibble some blueberries. Happy happy happy.

What a lovely surprise!

The Hat

Today I have an appointment with my oncologist (she will be at a conference next week so we meet early). I carefully select a nice ensemble, then head to my hat bin. People have graciously and generously loaned me their favorite hats and so far I have worn a different hat every day. Some are funny, some serious, some elegant, some cute, some particular to a specific occupation. But all of them cover and warm my bald head and make me feel less conspicuous, less of a marked woman.

Today, I select a light beige sportsman hat with a decent brim that snaps up on both sides. I select a scarf that matches my outfit and arrange it so that the ends of the scarf thread through the snapped sides and dangle softly down the back, almost looking like hair. Not a bad effect. I dab on a bit of lipstick and head for the cancer center.

It took longer to park than usual, not sure why there is extra traffic. I still take my time walking to the elevators and heading down the corridor to the center. These days I just don't move fast. Nothing I can do about it so I might as well enjoy the surroundings while I am ambulating.

As I walk along, I notice people are staring at me. I have forgotten about the hat, it feels so comfortable. I assume they are gawking at my bald head. I enter the elevator, greeted by big smiles on the couple already aboard. "Nice hat," comments the lady. "Oh, thank you!" I respond, touching the brim. All the way down the hall people compliment my hat. So does the receptionist who checks me in and several of the patients waiting for their appointments.

The nurse who took my vitals, the nurse who helped me clip those darn port stitches that have refused to rot and drop off like they are supposed to, and my doctor all remarked about my hat. Sometimes you just hit it right! It made my whole day float by with smiles and happy conversation. What is there about this hat in particular that makes people notice and affects them so?

Is it that they want to look like an explorer themselves? Does it bespeak of an era gone by of genteelness and quiet splendor? Does it remind them of some event like polo or an African safari? Whatever it is, I hope they find a way to recreate some sense of that with which they so obviously relate. Meanwhile, I am having a wonderful time pretending to be a lady of means!

Cottonwood Blizzard

Outside our apartment building stands a tall cottonwood tree. This year it has been showering us for days and weeks with a delicate rain of white fluffies. Some days when Sugar and I poke our noses out the door in the early dawn, the grass is so covered in the white tree seed that you would swear it had snowed. As Sugar trots across the grass, the whiteness swirls around her like glitter in a snow globe.

How could one single tree shed so much? I look up and tons of long dangling white pods grace the branches, clusters of albino grapes awaiting the plucking. It must be a banner year for cottonwoods.

Today our tree outdid itself. Chunks of white pelt us as we venture forth for our morning walk. The blizzard is so thick I can scarcely see a foot in front of me. We stand waiting for the cottonwood storm to abate, Sugar shivering a bit in the early morning chill. Suddenly, I can resist no longer. I pirouette out into the yard, my arms outstretched, my face to the sky (resisting the temptation to stick out my tongue as I would in a snowstorm). I swirl and waltz about, Sugar jumping excitedly alongside until I collapse on the stoop, laughing and gasping for air.

The cottonwood blizzard shows no sign of slowing down any time soon. Sugar snuffles in the white accumulation by the steps, tossing it in the air with her nose. There is at least a two inch pile on each side of the railing under the bushes. It's like being in a twisted dream or a weird sci-fi. We finally run out of time and head inside, glancing wistfully over our shoulders as we leave the scene. It wasn't this way last year. Not sure if we will see this sort of odd nature event anytime soon again.

At least I have experienced one cottonwood shower in my lifetime! How unique. What fun!

It's What Family Does

It didn't make sense. She has two little girls ages 1 and 3 from whom she has never been apart. It wasn't logical. She has fibromyalgia and travel is very painful and draining. It wasn't reasonable. Who has an extra couple hundred dollars laying around to spend on a whim for which you will have nothing concrete to show? Besides, its not exactly easy or particularly safe to be doing such a thing alone.

Yet she insisted, despite the fact that she had never done such a thing before in her life. She had to convince everyone that she could and should drive by herself all the way from North Carolina, leaving her daughters behind, to New York just to support me in my cancer battle.

Why would she want to do that? Was it wise? I voiced my concerns, but she was undaunted. With Kiel away for a few weeks, she felt it was important that she come and help even though I am not yet helpless. It's what families do.

Yes, it is.

I held my breath while she drove up, the boys providing regular progress reports as she and DJ texted - she's in Virginia, now in Pennsylvania, finally in New York. It was gruelingly slow for her. What for us is an 11 hour drive took 18 hours with all the stopping to accommodate her aching joints. Tired but happy, she arrived and I hugged her. How proud I am of her accomplishment! What courage and sacrifice - how amazing that she put her own needs and concerns on the back burner and overcame so much just to be here with me! I am amazed and blessed.

She did all those cleaning things that girls understand and do so well (and that the boys never have quite mastered). She was very helpful. I appreciated the assist. And we talked. About nothing and everything. About her Mom who passed away from cancer last year. About her willingness to take Drew into her home if I don't make it. About girl stuff and wife stuff and daughter stuff. It was very satisfying and felt great to have someone to chew the fat with.

Too soon it was time for her to go. She was taking Drew home with her for a little mini-vacation for him. Once again I prayed and held my breath while she worked her way into Pennsylvania and Virginia and finally, finally, finally safely into the arms of her waiting girls and exhausted husband!

Now there's something you don't encounter everyday. An act of selfless caring that comes at great price. Perhaps she ended up with something better than some pricey gadget. She made an investment in our futures and set an example her children will be hard pressed to miss. Her actions clearly say that when there is a family member in crisis, love makes all the difference.

Symphonie de Psaumes

I have never thought of Igor Stravinsky as a deeply religious person. Not that I ever knew him personally, mind you. But in his music and his biographies he is portrayed as Russian gentry who began his studies in law and whose life was formed by exile and sadness, not faith or any personal relationship with God.

His music embraces crude and primitive elements as well as eclectic and intellectual forces, influenced by composers around him as well as events. Toward the end of his life, he returned to the Russian Orthodox faith of his childhood, and when he wrote the Symphonie de Psaumes in 1930 it was described as "ritualistically sacred."

Perhaps it is the eternal truth of the Psalms, that with which all humanity can relate. Perhaps it is in the dramatic, symphonic style of presentation. Perhaps it is because it abandons syrupy sentimentalism and shallow reflection for deeper more visceral truths. For whatever reason, this particular piece speaks to me at the moment.

Stravinsky begins with Hear my prayer, O Lord taken from Psalm 39: 12-13. Yes, it is where my prayers begin these days.

Hear my prayer, O Lord,
and give ear unto my cry;
Hold not Thy peace at my tears;
for I am a stranger with Thee,
and a sojourner as all my fathers were.
O spare me, that I may recover strength
before I go hence and be no more.

Can you hear me, Lord? Do you take note of my tears? Will you, by your grace alone, spare me?

Stravinsky then moves to I waited patiently for the Lord in Psalm 40:1-3. Yes, I am there. I am waiting, breath baited, searching for the response.

I waited patiently for the Lord,
and He inclined to me and heard my cry!
He brought me up also out of an horrible pit,
out of the miry clay,
and set my feet upon a rock
and established my goings.
He hath put a new song in my mouth, even praise unto our God
Many shall see it and fear and shall trust in the Lord.

Yes, I have experienced God's deliverance in the past, in the last bout of cancer. I look for that again in this round - let it come quickly!

Stravinsky chose Psalm 150 to close his Symphonie - a song of Praise for the answered prayer. Yes, I will sing that song too. I will remember God's greatness, his grandeur, his power. It will be well with my soul.

Praise ye the Lord.
Praise God in His sanctuary;
Praise Him in the firmament of His power.
Praise Him for His mighty acts.
Praise Him according to His excellent greatness.
Praise Him with the sound of the trumpet.
Praise ye the Lord
Praise Him with the timbrel and dance.
Praise Him with stringed instruments and organs.
Praise Him upon the loud cymbals.
Praise Him upon the high sounding cymbals.
Let everything that hath breath praise the Lord.

Check it out!

Singing Again

I dropped Drew off at one of his yardwork jobs and found myself alone in the car to run a few errands. I haven't been alone in the car for awhile, Kiel usually driving me where I need to go.

We play the "turn the music on when Mom gets out, turn it off when Mom gets back in and says something about it" game. I'm not crazy about his music preferences, nor he about mine! But with Kiel away, I manage to run errands earlier in the day when I still have enough energy to take care of things.

Today I need dishwasher soap, the kind I can only get at a particular store, a 9 volt battery because the smoke detector has been beeping like crazy for a fresh one, and more puppy food for Sugar. I think I can do that and get home before I run out of steam.

Traffic was heavy and slower than normal Saturday traffic because of the ever popular road construction. They are putting in a much needed turn lane at the corner of Chili Ave and Union, so I don't mind sitting through the light several times. I am not rushing.

Out of force of habit, the radio is off, and suddenly I realize I am singing. At first, just a little hum, but when I realize how long it has been since I sang in the car - or anywhere else much - I let loose with all I have! I had started with the Doxology, then moved into My Hope is Built and Great is Thy Faithfulness. It feels great to sing again.

I think back. When was the last time I sang just because? How sad to realize it was before the first chemo. How could I have let this miserable stuff steal my joy, take my song? I know sometimes I don't have the wherewithal to sing out loud, but goodness, I can always sing in my head! Well, now that its on my radar screen, I plan to indulge in music often and at least daily.

I was singing lots with PrayerSong rehearsals, choir rehearsals, voice lessons, church services, and chapel sessions. Everywhere I walked I sang as I went. Every drive was a concert, every afternoon slump a revival of music, every listening session a vocal warmup.

I am happy to get my song back. I hope you have a singing day yourself! Don't loose your music.

On Beyond LaMaze

Before Sugar made a peep, before the church bells tolled 5am, before my brain could tell my eyes to open, pain interrupts my day. I have had various bouts of lower left back pain for a long time, but today is that knife edge not-to-be-ignored variety that demands immediate intervention.

I drag myself to the bathroom and wait impatiently for the water to run hot, draped over the sink with my head on my arm, my hand on the faucet willing the cold metal to blaze with heat. My breath comes in short bursts, my other hand cradling my side, massaging imaginary muscle knots. This pain runs deep, more the kidney stone variety. I take a deep breath and let it out with a shudder. Finally, hot water pours from the pipes and I fill the small red bag.

I flop down on my bed and jam the hot water bottle far into my side as if I could inject the heat like morphine. I begin to rock slowly side to side, curling into a fetal position. Uh, Uh, Uh. Instinctively and without realizing I am doing it, my brain combines two coping techniques and I begin something akin to controlled meditative Scripture prayer breathing.

Somehow, the focused breathing patterns I learned from Lamaze for controlling pain in childbirth and labor intertwined with the meditative technique of breathing a selected thought prayer and added in the strength that repeating Scripture has provided and I found myself inhaling and exhaling Psalm 23 phrases in patterns that matched the waves of pain.

Inhale, exhale.
Inhale, exhale.
The, Lord.
Is, my.
Shep, herd.
I, shall.
Not, want.
Deep cleansing breath. Blow it all out.
Repeat.

Pant, pant, pant, pant.
The, Lord, is, my, Shep, herd.
Breathe.

Next phrase.
Inhale, Exhale.
Slow the pace. Try to ratchet it down.
I, shall.
Not, want.
He, makes.
Me, to.
Lie, down.
In, green.
Pas, tures.

Rats. Lost my focus. Start over. The, Lord . . .

After twenty minutes, the pain is subsiding. I am breathing more normally. I continue to pray breathe Psalm 23 for awhile even after I stop rocking back and forth. Whew! Thank God that's over. Hey, maybe I should patent this stuff. Its way better than drugs!

Sugar AWOL

Drew had gotten a ride to his Robotics Team's final evening of the year. They were going to a go cart place for some fun and games. He zoomed out the door on his well deserved trip while I continued to rest. I had worked this morning, but come home in the afternoon to recharge so I would be able to do the final choir rehearsal of the season. Afterwards, we were heading to Lugia's soft ice cream place to celebrate.

I waited until the last possible moment to drag myself from the chair. I grabbed my shoes and purse and called Sugar to put her in her crate. No answer. I called again. Sugar! Come. Nothing. That's strange. Where could she be? I wonder if she got shut in Drew's room. I opened the door and called her. Not a peep. I opened the door to my room and the bathroom, calling her name. Not a sound.

Where on earth could she be? Suddenly I felt sick to my stomach. What if she had snuck out when Drew left? She could be wandering around in the hallway - or worse yet, someone could have let her outside. I ran to the hall and called her. Frantic, I opened the outside doors and called. Not a sign of her. I am panicked.

Back in the apartment, I call and call. Where could she be? How could she have gotten out? What if she was lost and frightened. What if . . .

I hear a tiny little whimper. She has to be nearby. I call her again. No sound. I try to think where the sound could have come from. I am tearing open closet doors, cabinet doors, everyplace conceivable. No Sugar. I stop and try to calm myself. I stand in the middle of the living room and call her again. She whispers a soft little whine.

Then I spy a slip of white beneath the recliner footrest. Oh, no! When I got out of the chair, she was sleeping on the floor underneath the footrest and got swept inside the blue recliner. All I could see was just the edge of her paw. I release her from her prison, relief flooding over me. I can't imagine why she didn't raise a huge fuss, but I am so happy to have found her.

Really, I must be more careful. After all, she is just a baby. Just don't ever do that again. Now into your crate!

Sticker Shock

Today I am not crashing. Today I am washed ashore, the surf lapping lazy and cold about my exhausted body. I haven't the energy to get up yet, but that will come. I am saving my strength to get to the drugstore and pick up my prescription. I will wait until Drew returns from work and we will go together. That way he can pick up a bit of snackage to tide him over until payday.

I am relieved to be sitting upright and slowly gaining in the wobbly leg department. I hope to be able to take Drew to youth group, but it will depend on my energy. I ask him if there is someone he could call to take him, but he decides he should stay home with me and not go. What a delightful and responsible young man!

We drive the 2 short miles to Wegmans and I head immediately to the drugstore part while Drew peruses the aisles for his treats. They always have lots of people there to help you, and the wait is not long. Yes, they have it ready. That will be $30! Yikes! I am used to paying only $3 or $4 for everything I have picked up so far, and I have picked up a lot of new prescriptions.

I look at the tag after writing the check. Good Lord! The darn meds cost over $200!!! Thank God the insurance paid over $170 of it. I can't even imagine having to pay so much for medicine. What on earth is this stuff made out of?? They better be magic in dealing with the mouth sores. No wonder the doctor was concerned that the insurance company might not be willing to pay for it.

I can already feel the rough places in my mouth where the sores are starting. On my left cheek, the entire top of my tongue, the lower right gumline. We speculated that it would be worse the second round. These little blue pills are my only hope of being able to eat and talk normally for the next ten days. We shall see.

Meanwhile, I need to finish quickly and get home. I am already sure I will go nowhere again tonight. At least we got supper taken care of!

Post Prednisone Crash

The drill is the same as the last chemo session. After infusion, you get 5 days of prednisone to help you deal with the after effects and give you a fighting chance of survival. Though you still feel somewhat yucky, you ride the wave and eventually begin to feel better. Then the prednisone runs out, and a day or two later, you transition to your own unstoked body resources.

Translation: you take a nose dive and feel really rotten. Then things level off and you are on your own. Sort of like shifting suddenly from fifth to first, and hopefully you don't drop your engine on the ground beneath you. Or surfing the wave of prednisone, then running out of water power and being dropped into the cold cold ocean. I managed to work part of the day today, but along about noon time I was beginning to feel a bit wobbly.

I had forgotten about the prednisone crash, but fortunately, my friend remembered and asked me if I had already gotten through that part. It was a wake up call! That's when I headed for home, and not a moment too soon. I just about got there when I started crashing. It felt like being punched in the gut and having the breath knocked out of you. All I could do was sit in the blue recliner and let my body deal with it.

I had meant to pick up my antiviral prescription so I could ward off any mouth sores, but there was no way I was going anywhere. I wasn't doing anything. I finally sent Drew to the nearby diner to get some supper while I managed to handle watermelon and chocolate pudding - the only things that I could even consider. And water. Gallons and gallons of water.

Shoot. Poor planning on my part. Next round I better mark the day and be ready. What was I thinking! Thank God somebody was paying attention.

Life Pegs

I have asked myself a hundred times - why a dog? Why now? In the past, with one exception, any dog in my house was a cast off from someone else, and neither my pick nor desire. This is hardly the time to be complicating my life with a puppy!

Those around me mistakenly interpret my choice not to have a dog as cold hearted, but it has always been a conscious choice on my part to share my resources, time, energy and love with my children, sisters, parents, friends, and those less fortunate rather than to indulge my own desire for companionship. So I have earned monikers about being hard hearted and uncaring when in fact, I always thought it was the more caring choice.

The only time I allowed a puppy in my house was when Michael had his first health crisis. It was a doozie and he remained unconscious for days while the doctors tried to figure out what was wrong. At one point, I leaned over his bedside in the intensive care unit at Albany Medical Center and promised him unequivocally that if he would fight to open his eyes and stay with us, I would get him a dog.

He had always wanted a dog. He had asked for one, begged for one, played unendingly with the neighbor's dog, looked longingly at them in the pet stores. But he knew my rule and he knew I was unbending on the point. Whether or not that had anything to do with his slow recovery, I was bound by my promise. True to my word, after he came home, we picked out a darling springer spaniel for him.

We called him Buster Brown, and he was all Michael could have hoped for - a handful indeed. I was still not crazy about dogs, but I cared for this one because he bonded with my son whose medical struggles continued to demand attention. After Michael died, Buster wouldn't eat. He would have also died had it not been for the ministrations of a kind neighbor to whom we gave the dog after he nursed the poor creature back to life.

So why did I think that giving Michael a dog would make him want to live? I am beginning to believe that there are certain connections on this earth that pin people in place; connections that act as pegs which hold us to life, make us fight to hang on even in tough circumstances.

It is often said that when people are in the process of dying, they will wait until some child has arrived, or that they will refuse to let go of life until they are alone. It was that way for my Grandmother. She was 90, ill, and ready to go. I sat with her at night so she would not be alone. She hung on despite all indicators to the contrary. Finally, a nurse encouraged me to get a bit of a break in the lounge, and when I left the room, Gram passed within minutes.

Perhaps I was the peg holding her in place. Perhaps Buster was the peg that Michael could hold on to while he was hanging between life and death. Perhaps Sugar is my statement that I will surround myself with as many pegs as I can to give me handles for hanging on to life during this bout of treatment.

Of course, I want to live and take care of Drew at least until he is done with college. Of course, I want to be able to spend time getting to know my grandchildren. Of course I would like to see my other children graduate and marry and settle into careers and houses.

But there is something about being responsible for a fragile and dependant being that has a stronger pull than even the normal pegs in my life. Yes, I know on some level that Drew would manage to do everything just fine on his own even though he shouldn't have to. And the grandchildren have their parents. And of course, Sugar will be cared for in my absence.

But I think there is something inside me, silly as it sounds, that identifies with the statement of taking on the care and dependency of a puppy at this specific time. I am shouting silently to my body that I will not give up, give in, lay down, let go, refuse to be responsible, or in any way tolerate an interruption in my life. I will keep "pegging away" until I have nothing left or until the good Lord calls time.

Either that, or I am just being silly.

Bad Day

I could no more stop consciousness from sliding into my head than stop the sun from rising. Resistance proved useless and I finally rolled over to stare at the giant red LCD numbers on the alarm clock through tiny slits in my eyes. 5:27am. Ugh. Normally I am wide awake by now, eager to jump into the day. Not today.



I calculate whether I can risk waiting to take Sugar for her early morning walk, but I hear nothing from her crate, so I - gasp - roll over and close my eyes, too exhausted to even adjust the covers. Its no good. I have to get up for yet another trip to the bathroom. I have had to rouse every 2 hours all night long, and not for the kind of trip you can sleep through. Every single time I feel like a stallion divesting itself of the entire contents of its drinking trough. One of the effects of the treatments. I sigh and force my legs over the edge of the bed. Good thing the bathroom is right next to my room.



A headache is tap dancing at my temples, trying to get a foothold. I stumble back to my room and take a long long drink of water from the container on my dresser. If I don't stay hydrated, I will have another migraine for sure, and I want to conduct at church this morning. Unfortunately, the copious water makes me nauseous, and I have no choice but to head for the kitchen to get the Compazine. That will rouse Sugar for sure, and the walk will be necessary.



After taking care of everything, I flop down in the blue rocker coat and all, cuddle up in the bubble blanket, snuzzle with Sugar and drift in and out of sleep. At one point, I thought perhaps I could find a decent church service on the TV, but after flipping through dozens of channels, I had to settle for one where they were at least reading some Scripture. Not anyone I was crazy about, but sometimes you just want the company of a voice.



Every once in awhile, I woke with a start and checked the clock. By my calculations, I could leave as late as 9:15 and still be on time for rehearsal. Back up the getting ready time to 8:50, and its still all good. I kept waiting to feel better, but feeling better wasn't rolling along at any good pace. My legs felt like rubber, the nausea didn't seem to want to die down, I had no energy.



About 8am I started the "argument in the head" part about whether I should be going to church at all. After all, the choir will survive if I can't get there, even though it would be like cutting off my arm. But I know that often when you just get moving, things calm down and you gain some strength. And I also know people are praying for me, and the good Lord enables where you of your own strength cannot manage.



I finally decide to go but take it easy. I sit through most of rehearsal, make sure I have my water bottle with me, and just take things slowly. I am feeling better, though I look like the wreck of the Hesperus. My skin is dry and flaking and mummified. My lips are white and pale despite the lipstick. I am sure my color is not its usual pinky self. But service begins, and the focus takes my attention off the Jello legs and onto the sweet little baby being baptized, being brought into God's family. It was a tonic.



It lasted well into the sermon which was an excellent encouragement about community and caring for each other even during the tough times. But the nausea, despite the medicine, would not abate. At one point, I wasn't sure that even if I left I would be able to make it out without incident. Pass. Pass, please pass. Let my tummy settle. Let my strength revive. Lord, in Your house, please grant me your enduring strength.



But it was not to be. I finally let the liturgist know and exited during the prayers. The choir would have to manage communion (good Lord, the thought of having to even think about food in any shape was more than I could bear), the final hymn and benediction on their own. And I knew they would rise to the occasion. Rats. I head for the car and the short 5 mile drive to the stronger nausea medicine on the counter in the kitchen.



The rest of the day is something of a blur until later in the evening, having been spent mostly sleeping and asking Drew to walk Sugar. But at long last I felt like I came out of hibernation and found my sea legs. Deep breath. Last time you had a bumpy day too, but its passing.



I call a friend and we chat. What a boost in the arm! I needed to hear a friendly non-cancer stricken voice with news of the real world. I am blessed to have such good and understanding friends who just let me interrupt their schedules when I need a lifeline!



Drew and I settle in to watch a movie and slurp watermelon (perfect for settling a tipsy stomach and keeping you hydrated). Long day, glad its over, get to bed early, look forward to a better time tomorrow!

Gulik Again

I open my eyes and test things out. Yes, the legs are stronger today, the head not so aching. I am tired, but not undone. I know I need to exercise if I want to stay strong and keep my immune system stoked.



Last night Mark and family appeared to collect Kiel and whisk him away to help out while they deal with the death of Mark's wife's grandfather, the man who raised her in her father's absence. I got to hold and kiss and hug my charming almost one year old grandson for a few hours before they managed to get Kiel packed and disappeared.



Today the house is quiet. It will help me to get out after almost a week's confinement, to slide gently back to the normal world. The YMCA is a good place to start. I walk Sugar, then pack my bag. I had hoped to do some water walking after the Gulik Gym, and I take my suit, but I am not sure I will be able to add it in just yet. I will see how things go.



When last I left the gym, I had worked up to level 3, and I intend to begin there at least for round one. Though tired, I snap my gloves in place and concentrate on moving through the stations in a thorough if somewhat slow mode. I make it fully around once, watching three or four young girls whip through the same exercises at twice my speed. Ah, to be young!



So far so good. I head into round 2, feeling OK. The music is quite engaging, a Latin beat, an invitation to dance, and a few of the ladies ahead of me get a bit zippy on the cardio steps. Its cute. But I resist the temptation to zip. I am afraid of being undone. As I round the final few stations, I debate about the water walking. I still have some reserve, but it is early in the day and I want to be able to do some cleaning in the apartment.



I am also concerned about germs. Right now my immune system isn't exactly at its zenith. I almost do it, but at the last minute, decide against it. Perhaps in another week after school is out and there are fewer people interested in being inside on a Saturday, there will be less risk of infection. But I am happy to have made it through the whole workout without any noticeable drop in strength. I actually feel as if I am breathing deeper. That's good.

Bumpy Day

Arghh! One step forward and three back. Today my throat is raw, my abdomen hurts, my legs are in pain, my muscles keep stiffening and cramping in my arms. Phooey. I had fully intended to go to work and be happy catching up, but instead, I crawl back into bed and rock myself gently to ease the pains.

All I can think of is how fortunate I am to have a soft comfortable bed to lie in, to have cool fresh water at my fingertips to drink, to have the beautiful comforter my Mom made me cradling me softly. How lucky to be able to see the green leaves waving outside my window, and see the blue of the sky high above me. How lucky am I to have plenty to eat and such a welcome variety, to have medicine to ease the discomfort, to be able to get treatments to kill this horrible disease.

There are so many people in the world so less fortunate than I. Imagine having to deal with the pain of cancer in some dirty hovel where the only running water you get is to run with it in your bucket after you hike down the hall to the community bathroom. Imagine what it is to lie on a hard lumpy mattress and not have the strength to roll over and get comfortable.

Even in America, there are many who can't afford treatment, who live with the pain, who must work despite not feeling well, who have no friends to help them when they are in need. Man, I have nothing to gripe about.

But a lot to pray for. So I recall the newsletter from Samaritan's Purse about the Russian Jewish women who are dealing with severe financial hardship and I pray that God will intervene and supply their needs. I remember the descriptions of the street people that Mother Teresa was helping in India and how they lived and died and I pray for them. I recall the two men who live in the intersection of the highway in North Carolina and I ask God to meet their needs. I pray for my neighbor who lives in pain that God will relieve the situation and help the doctors continue to find solutions.

I pray for the lady I met last week with the bad back pain and the young children who's mom just passed away and the family of the young boy who committed suicide, the bipolar guy whose Mom couldn't deal with his issues who has been living in the woods, a friend of my son's - the list is endless. The needs are overwhelming. The perspective is helpful. I am happy to count my blessings instead of my aches. Besides, its easier to drift off to sleep while you are praying! I am sure tomorrow will be better.

Up and At 'Em

Now this is more like it. My energy is returning, and even though I took the day off just to be on the safe side, I log on and scroll through email and answer calls. Yes, a touch of working is healthy. It feels good to accomplish a few little things and I watch that I am not overdoing. I know these flashes of energy can be short lived, and I know my system tends to be stronger in the morning than in the afternoon, so even though I am making hay while the sun shines, I don't push.

Sugar and I take longer walks, venturing farther from the building, chasing the millions of white pieces of tree pollen fluff that saturate the air. You almost need a mask to keep from breathing it in. Sugar loves in, leaping into the air and snapping at the white danglies, racing around in the piles caught in the grass and stirring up a regular snowstorm, then barking at the whirlwind as if she had nothing to do with it.

My legs feel stronger, less rubbery. My tummy is good, and my appetite is returning. I splurge and give Sugar extra treats for tolerating the longer walks without complaining. The sun even shines and warms my bald head as we amble along listening to the wind feather through the leafy green of the trees that shelter our building and are transported by the cooing of a turtledove to some mysterious era of intrigue and romance.

It feels good to feel better. I relish the gentleness of the day, the yellow sun, the quiet street, the softness of Sugar's puppy coat. Thank God for this peace and goodness. I wrap up in it and take it indoors for peaceful dreams during my afternoon nap.

Round 2 - The Day After

Based on the last chemo, I had planned to rest most of the day after, and that is exactly what I did. I was tired, yes, headachy, yes, somewhat shaky, but it wasn't bad. I sat in the blue chair most of the day and drank tons of water to flush the toxins from my body and keep them from doing any more damage than necessary. I had my raft of "coping chemicals" to help, and gentle foods to nurture my reeling cells. I read a bit, walked Sugar, watched a bit of TV, texted a few friends, and generally had a nice little vacation!

I almost felt guilty having taken the day off, but one thing I have learned about chemo is that you must allow your body the strength and energy to deal with it or you will pay the price. So I don't fret about the inactivity. I refuse to think about the little things that need to be done about the apartment - time will come to take care of it later. I refuse to fuss about outstanding assignments that I should be working on or whether things are running smoothly at work.

Yes, those are important parts of my normal life, but I work with great people who are wonderful about handling things and taking care of business in my absence and not involving me unless it's absolutely necessary. They are kind to cut me so much slack and understand that this is temporary and I will be back as soon as I know its safe to return.

Besides, I have a new wrinkle today. Nothing tastes right. Everything is bland, almost soapy or plasticy tasting. Like I have lost the ability to sense salt flavoring. Yuck. My tongue sports a new white coating, and I try to brush it off with my newly purchased-just-for-chemo-treatment-soft-soft-soft toothbrush, but stuff still tastes funny. Hope this passes soon. I have a vague recollection that one of the drugs might affect your sense of taste.

Well, no matter. Maybe I will lose a bit of weight to counteract the prednisone bloat! Meanwhile, back to snoozing.

Round Two

I carefully packed my new pink bag with my soft cuddly white and pink bubbles blankie, my new soft socks, my dot to dot book, the puzzle, the sudoku book, my iPod, and a novel to read just in case. I tucked a full bottle of fresh water in the pocket, climbed into my soft comfy sweat pants and zippered hoodie, grabbed a royal blue baseball cap and a warm snuggly bright yellow skull cap, and headed out the door at 8:00 AM.

As I climbed out of the car at Wilmot Cancer Center, Kiel said "Try not to die!" I flipped back "Not planning on it. I'll call when I'm ready for the ride home." I stepped through the doors, surprised at how cheerful and peppy I felt. No trace of last night's fear, no sense of being in any compromised state, no sense of impending trouble. My prayer warriors must be working overtime, thank God!

First, I see the both my oncologists - the lymphoma and rectal specialists. I chat with the nurse and hand her my symptom log I had kept to track the progress of the first round. Not bad. Though the immune system levels dipped low, overall, I had done very well and tolerated things fine. They were pleased with my progress, laying to rest my concerns of the night before.

We discuss an antiviral treatment to prevent further mouth sores. I am delighted to find a way to prevent that again. The rest of the symptoms I can deal with - a few headaches, a bit of nausea and tiredness, a bit of hand and foot tingling, some aches and pains. They draw blood from my port, and send me to the Infusion Center.

The process is similar to the first time, except this time they give me only the drugs for the Rituxan first and save the drugs for the chemo for later so they won't wear off. I was happy to discover that I didn't get a headache until they gave me the stuff for the chemo drugs so I didn't have the headache all day. Bonus! I still had some reaction to the Rituxan, so we had to still go slowly and check blood pressure every half hour. I had some trouble with foot tingling again, so they finally gave me IV benadryl which make me nearly pass out, but the feeling passed.

It took the full six hours to do the Rituxan and another hour for the chemos to be administered, plus an hour of saline flushes in between. Meanwhile, this round, I spent the first few hours doing my dot to dots and working on the puzzle while listening to my Hymns Triumphant CD on my iPod. That was uplifting. Then two of my friends came to visit with me. Diane and I caught up on the graduations and proms her kids had, and laughed over pictures. We chatted about stuff, and she taught me a game called Sequence which will be fun to play again. Next time she promised to bring Craniotomy.

Just as she had to go to work, Sherri came and we chatted while I worked through the benadryl issue. We are very excited about getting a new instrument for the church and are planning to go check it out Thursday evening before choir rehearsal. After she had to go for a meeting, I worked on the puzzle, getting the entire border done before I had to pack it in.

Not a bad day, but I felt loggy and full of toxic ammunition which I trust will go to work gently killing off only the bad cells and leaving the good ones alone. Especially I am praying for a cessation of the invasion of the bone cells and the bone marrow issues to reverse.

I will say that when I finally arrived home at 7:30 PM, I was ready for sleeping! One more treatment down - I am a third of the way there. Next time I will be able to say I am half way. That will be a good marker.

Pre-Chemo Jitters

I had been told about pre-chemo nausea - just the thought of having to go to the Infusion Center is enough to set off real feelings of nausea for some cancer patients. They even offer pre-treatment to help people deal with it. I haven't experienced that, but I sure had a bad case of the jitters today.

What set it off was the discussion about my immune system blood levels being so low and my mouth sore not healing very fast. I almost felt like I needed a few more days to get back to some sort of even keel. As I began to realize that each time I get a dose, I will be starting at a lower state of strength with more compromised systems, I began to fear that I wouldn't have enough stamina to get through the entire 6 rounds. If I am already having problems, what will the next one mean for being able to ward off infections and other issues? Even my port hasn't healed the way I would like it to have.

So for a few hours, I was sliding down the hope scale until I remembered that I am still in God's hands, people are praying for me, and nothing had changed except my mindset! How silly to let my fears get so out of whack. Still, it happens. So I concentrated on some Bible verses for awhile, repeating them to remind myself of God's promise never to leave me or forsake me, to be my fortress and strength, to walk through the valley of the shadow of death with me.

I know that tomorrow, he will be with me. I will feel His presence and peace, and know he is guiding the doctors and nurses who are helping me. So for tonight, I will both lay me down and sleep for the Lord is with me.