like any other day

My dogs are asleep, Nicole is in the attic, sleeping or applying for great jobs available to beautiful young women, Kurt is at work and I am getting well enough to be bored. I took down the drapes and washed them all hung them on a self-installed clothesline (dog run); shampooed the carpet so it smells more like us than the dogs for a minute; organized my closet and packed a b'zillion boxes for our upcoming yardsale. Be there!

I am hosting a brunch for the local women who have supported me through the little cancer blip on my screen (Nina, g/r and Asha, wish you could be here. Truly. Your support was and is so very appreciated.) I'm making two quiches, a baked praline french toast (screw gluten) and lots of fruity salads. And good coffee. Great coffee. Tea for the weaklings. And new linen placemats I got at a yardsale which will establish the blue and white Delft-ish theme which is very important to me. Gotta have a theme. And good linen. After all, I am Martha Stewart, criminal background and everything.

I need a job. The dogs are in danger of redecoration.

I don't think I'm getting the job I applied for. Shocking. I'm always surprised by rejection. I usually at least get an interview. But... the older I get...blahblahblah. It looks like they're hiring from within, which lessens the sting a bit. Am I ready to go back to work? How will I know? This job just came my way -- I hadn't started looking. So, I think I'll begin poking around to see what's out there.

My mother in law just had back surgery and I stayed with her the first night after surgery. She did not arrange to have help and knew she needed it. She did not ask me for help, but her failure to arrange help left her in a tight spot and her very elderly sister was going to fill in, "because nobody else will." (The sister can barely walk, falls at home, should be in assisted living, etc.) It forced my hand (emotional blackmail). I've been pretty clear that I'm not interested in being her caregiver as she ages and has various surgeries, etc. It is a slippery slope. I know I sound like a terrible person, but I've taken care of the elderly for a thousand years, including my mother which was my pleasure, but she allowed very little help. But this woman is not like the women in my family. She wants a servant. She is vain, desperately chasing the ever-disappearing tail of youth. Now, another elective surgery is coming up and I think we need to have "the talk." I am not going to empty her bedpan.

Why I bring this up, other than pure irritation, is because while she was in the hospital, a demented woman was roomed across the hall from her. I just fell in love. The staff were way out of their depth, behaviorally speaking. She had Capgras Syndrome- a paranoid symptom of Alzheimer's wherein the person thinks, for example, that her dead husband was there. A conversation may go like this:

Patient: My husband just left.
Nurse: I thought your husband had passed away?
Patient: No. Alot of people think that, but he's here.
Nurse: I don't see him.
Patient: Some people can't. But they have him in that phone. Hand it to me.
Nurse: (hands her the phone which she begins to dismantle.) Oh, no! (nurse tries to take the phone , calls for backup and sedating medication.) You can't do that. We'll need the phone. (power struggle ensues.)
Patient: (now very agitated, screaming) This is what they use (the phone). Now I know you're in on it...." and so on.

 How it might otherwise go:

Patient: My husband just left.
Nurse: Oh, okay. What are we having for dinner?

To make matters worse, she had a huge mirror over the sink which faced her bed, so when two staff came in, she saw four. When she saw herself in the mirror, she thought it was a visitor. She called them angels. I recommended they cover the mirror. But they didn't. I just went in and hung out with her. Listened and laughed and helped her hands find something else to do as she tried to dismantle the phone and nurse-call lines. By the time I left, she was tucked into bed, her poor little blue feet elevated for a change. She'd been up all night. I think I'd like to have a job as a sitter in hospitals to keep the crazy people calm. I could do that. You just have to learn how to be invisible.

That's my week. Today, I'll find the strength to take both dogs to the p-a-r-k. Shhhh. Don't say it outloud or they'll stare at me until I cave.

clamfest 2014

Our anniversary celebration is always held on the weekend of the best spring clam tides on the Oregon Coast. This is our tenth and the clams this year are huge. A limit of 15, carried in my mesh sack, weighs three times as much as in previous years. Fukushima. I know. On the upside, the clams glow in the dark, so if you start clamming before sunrise, you. can do without a lantern.

I made reservations a bit late, as is my custom, and we ended up in Venice, an RV park turned crack 'hood. "Venice" because it is set along the tidal canal that wanders through Seaside. Word has it that Venice used to be one of those upscale mobile parks that only accepted newer mobile homes, must-have aluminum skirting in place, no vehicles-in-progress, no faded plastic flowers in plastic pots. Well, not anymore. Now, an old woman with COPD struggles to breathe through her memorized tourist script, including how to tell if the tide is going out or coming in. We know this, of course, but were afraid to interrupt her lest she run out of air completely and fall over. I believe that she is being taken advantage of. The drunkards and addicts run amok, all stopping by her place daily, which is next to our place. I hear snippets of conversations, "...yeah, it'll be here on the third," and "No, really. I'll be out by the end of the month...." For all I know she's selling meth.

I can't imagine, given the general entropy of Venice, that she gets many cash customers. These days, any remaining "permanent" trailers are in utter disrepair and have become rentals. The maintenance man is drunk, driving around in a front-end loader/backhoe that the crackheads refer to as his hovercraft. No one has pulled a weed in years and the blackberries have thus far consumed the Spanish-style wrought iron trellis, a set of concrete seagulls and the compulsory wooden sea captain with their persistent, thorny vines. Crackheads don't mind the ambience. All the better to hide in plain sight.

As with any three day tide set, the first days are the best, because the clam beds are being revealed -- this is the first real set since last year -- so the clams are plentiful. By day three, they were over-picked and a small storm had blown in. No self-respecting clam would put up with such a beating; they stayed under the sand. We had to work for our take on the final day, but came home with 74 clams.

It was all work for me. With my right breast still smoking from the radiation burns, it was all I could do to get through the hour of physical labor each morning. But I prevailed. I will not give up my life. Not yet. And good news! A possible job has come my way. It is something I think I would like, and does not involve death except to the extent that human beings are involved. I am not quite ready to work though, and I hope our time frames can co-exist and they will wait for me. Either way, all is well. I've done my part and the outcome is not mine to fret over.

A radical hailstorm followed us back from the coast and tore through my sweet little spring flowers. They will bounce back. We finally made it home (the hail stopped freeway traffic) and I fried a big batch of clams. Kurt's mom and Nicole joined us. Nicole is staying here these days and was such good company during the post-radiation inferno.

And that's the news from Clinton Street.

over

I am now in the surreal place of having completed cancer treatment. Eight months have passed with little participation from me except survival efforts. Important, to be sure. My breast is like an eight pound Judyroast that seems a bit on the well-done side. Pain is unignorable. I realize this is not a word, but it is my current experience. My MD said, "You are doing as expected given your anatomy." Read: more tissue = more trouble. The right breast, the one reduced by surgery, is now nearly twice the size of the left. The skin on skin truth of my anatomy offers many square inches of tenderness now occupied by searing, weeping flesh.

Enough.

My arm is responding well to the compression garment and I am being fitted for a permanent sleeve. Being a chicken about tattoos, I'll decorate my sleeve instead.

radiation, succulents and anniversaries

Down in the bowels of Providence hospital, beyond the bounds of cell service, we arrive, one after the other, for our daily dose of cell-killing rays. We sit and wait our turns. I've been showing up earlier to grab a cup of coffee with an older couple who like to chat. We all have our stories. She got to keep her hair, I didn't. I miss my hair most of all. It hasn't really started growing back yet. I hope it will. I have lymph edema in my right arm because the lymph fluid can't find its way back to my heart since the surgery. Instead, it leaks out my eyes and I bloat up like a whale. I have physical therapy appointments, radiation appointments, and any day without one is a gift. I want to sleep, but life calls me. I have a garden, after all.

Today the physical therapist said (of the edema), "Well, since this is something you'll have to manage for the rest of your life, blah blah blah." I pretty much stopped hearing at that point. "What?" I may have yelled. "The rest of my life?" "Yes," she said, very nicely, "It is incurable." Was anyone going to tell me this? I've had it for months. Now, turns out I have to wear an arm length ace bandage-ish thing, two of them on top of each other, to get the swelling down to the point where they can make a permanent one for me. f-o-r-e-v-e-r. What a bonus, eh? And now, in addition to breast-shrivelling radiation, I get a permanent elastic sleeve to wear. Even in the sun, which has been out for two consecutive days, only to slink back to wherever it goes when it isn't in Portland.

Next topic: For ten years we have been fighting a battle to maintain a spot of lawn in our backyard. Just a little bit. Ten by ten. And each year we begin anew, sod or seed, it doesn't matter. We plant, water, baby along the soft green fuzz, and enjoy it for the summer. But each year, the encroaching moss takes more than its fair share and gobbles up the grass. This year has been darker and wetter than usual, which, for Portland, is saying something. The interminable, dreary gray of day after day after day has invited a moss revival. We finally gave up. The moss won. I wasn't sure what I would do in the absence of grass, but decided on a rock and moss-like plant garden instead. As it happens, as soon as I made this decision, my cousin, who had just moved from inner Portland out to the Sandy River (their place is lovely -- their own state park complete with waterfalls and river frontage) she no longer had a need to landscape the place, so she gave me nine flat stones, each about the size of a very large coffee-table book each. No -- they're bigger. About two of those books side by side. Anyway, they are big. So now it is a design question. I've considered placing the stones in a circle; making a path to nowhere? Well, its too late for input. Time has passed, it is now two weeks later and the path is laid. I decided to be practical for once instead of purely ornamental. I made the path to correspond where I walk when I water. That way, all of the "steppable" plants I have planted (I think I got one of everything) won't get crushed and die when "stepped" on.

So, today is our 10th Wedding Anniversary, We took a long drive through the gorge and the waterfalls and around the base of Mt. Hood. I stole a big chunk of moss from one of the waterfall parks. Horsetail Falls. It was already on the pavement and sprouting ferns. Not exactly theft, but I'm still glad we weren't accosted by the tour bus of elders from "Friends of the Gorge."

Ten years of marriage and I am so happy. This past year has been a beautiful demonstration of our commitment to each other. He kisses my bald head and tells me I'm beautiful. Always marry a liar.

news poetry

I am home daily, watching daytime TV instead of writing for my life. There is much to complain about, but I won't embarrass myself by outlining the shortcomings of Kelly Rippa or Ozzie Osbourne's wife. Its the news that drives me mad. Here's a tiny example: "She was released from prison after 28 years and her family released its joy." Do they need an editor? Is the news so pressing it has to go out for wholesale consumption before anyone can reel it back in for a literary check? Or, conversely, is the news so bland that journalistic poetry might save it? Might keep consumers from seeking straight talk on the web? I'm just wondering.

The other menace is the barrage of  pre-news questions posed by newscasters: "What did one family find in its closet that left claw marks on the front door? We'll let you know on our midnight newscast." Why do they do this? Do they really think their questions are so intriguing that we'll stay riveted to our 50" screens until the tell us it was a cat? Maybe they do. Maybe we will.

I feel better now.

mood

Been down so long it looks like up to me. I think Bob Dylan said that. I am so near the end it feels like coasting. In three days my last chemo can have a week or two of my life then I'm having it back.

fait accompli

Chemo is over. I am feeling better every other day, climbing out of the abyss, clawing, grabbing, each handhold familiar as I transition into the light of spring. I'm so glad I planted bulbs two years ago. Daffodills are opening, the Daphne is amazing. I looked up in my Western Gardner book to see about pruning them. Most nursery plats are pruned after blooming or in fall, but "Daphne is Different." She needs to be pruned while still in bloom. So I found my pink pruning shears (clippers, really) put on my gloves and chopped off all the weird growth that happened over the cold snap of winter. My garden is otherwise a poster of neglect, the neighbor you don't want to have. Thank god for perrenials.

As this part of the process draws to a close, my old pal bladder infection arrives. Again and again, just to remind me that I am still human. It doesn't seem fair, but then, what is fair? So, I spent the morning offering urine samples to the uro gods to do with me what they will. I'm just tired of being sick and sick of being tired. Ah well. On to spring and radiation. I will ask somebody to clean my deck, find me a lawn chair and lay back and enjoy the sunrainsun that is Portland in the springtime.

I don't have cancer, though. That is good.

long time gone, redux

I have two scarves and three hats on the floor next to my unmade bed. I have a thousand other scarves and hats on hangers and in lovely shopping bags in my closet room. I have a closet room. I have so many skeletons in my closet its no wonder I don't hang up my clothes.

I watch movies every day, Nina. Thank you. I pick up the phone when I'm feeling under it except for this one time when I was certain I had contracted an exacerbated form of dementia due to chemotherapy and then I didn't dare tell a soul. Not about that. God. I can't be trusted to cook eggs. Let's see. I only have one more chemo to go. Thank you Jesus. I'll just thank Jesus because I couldn't possibly name all the people who have sustained me through this calamity. I'm not sure its a calamity at all but I so rarely get a chance to use the word. I think synchronicity is more the truth in play.

"Judyfest Northwest" was stunningly beneficial. I think 6K at final count. Something like that. I'm still paying bills with it. And it was FUN which turned out to be at least as important as the money. The music was so good. An all girl Merle Haggard cover band called Gerle Haggard, and a jazz standards singer named Lura Griffiths of Women with Standards.

I brush my dog, I thaw food others have prepared to feed my husband so he can go to work to keep me in insurance. Alone I am a sinking ship. Maybe we all are.

phone

Well, I will try to explain the non-blog entry titled: phone. I thought I was in the search bar and was looking for the post entitled "one good line" but knew only that it was about the purchase of a phone. Obvously, I was in the title line of a blank page. I will blame all errors of this nature on chemo-brain for the next, oh, year or so. If you want a good laugh, see "one good line."

lazy river

For me, home will always be the Applegate River. I love Portland. I do. But I had to run away last week, make sure my mom-out-law was okay -- she's getting on in years -- and sit in one of her two recliners for four days. I called no one, visited none but my son and his aunts, her daughters. But when we were finally by ourselves, we did a Breaking Bad marathon. Hours and hours of non-stop episodes of meth drama. Rita, she's 83, is the one who got us started watching it years ago.

I kept saying things like, "Are you sure you don't want to go for a walk?"
"How about just one more," she'd say.

Two hours later we'd come up for air or a bowl of chicken soup or a bit of dark chocolate. Old women don't eat much, so we didn't occupy ourselves with food. I did have Duffy to contend with, so had to walk him from time to time.

Her place is exceptional. Acres of riverfront property, well cared for, with an enormous front yard guarded by fir trees and lilac, cattle in the acreages across the highway. You can hear them from the porch. Duffy did not get skunked this time around. The second evening we were there I opened the door to let him out, leash in hand (not on Duffy) and as soon as the cold evening air hit my nose it was fresh with skunk. He started to bolt, but hesitated (remembered?) and I caught him just in time.

It was good to get away and not sit in my home consumed with the third coming of chemo. I wanted to absorb the good days in the best place I know so far.

saturday morning home day

We are watching Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, eating scratch-made biscuits and gravy, just home from an early run to Costco where we bought a nice slab of meat for the holiday and if I wasn't so freakin' sick, I'd think life was normal. I am tired. I was up the entire night, Ambien and all, with post-chemo yuck. Round two. I still think I'm winning.

Days bleed into each other, separated by visits from friends, gifts and treats delivered: a beautiful blanket, a growler of kombucha to tame the tummy. time spent chatting instead of lingering in morbid reflection as I am prone to do.

I only know it is Saturday because Kurt is home with me. I know it is getting close to Christmas because the tree has been up for awhile and it hasn't been christmas yet. We bought ready made fruit breads at Costco -- a sin in my house -- but I'm just not up to baking, or much else. I made biscuits and gravy from scratch and about passed out. I just have no stamina. I love to cook, but don't have it in me right now. Smells gag me. I went to Fred Meyer yesterday and found myself wandering over toward the dairy section which, it turns out, is near the seafood section. I couldn't get turned around fast enough and there I was, stalled in shrimp and day old fish land. Typing brings it too close.

Day after day I live with two dogs who keep close watch on me. They are learning to be less noisy, less demanding. I think they like having me home, but I miss my peeps, the crazy little grayhairs that loved to sing Christmas carols with me, who didn't remember my name but knew the words to every verse of Away in a Manger.

Menu for Christmas Day: 

Late Breakfast

 Scrambled eggs
Twisted Brioche

Early Supper

Cauliflower and Cheddar Soup

Beef Roast, rare-ish with Au Jus and Horseradish Sauce

Roasted Winter Veggies

Dessert

 Apple-Marionberry Pie with Vanilla Ice Cream. 

Show up!

cynicism

Me? Nah.

I ordered a bunch of slouch beanies. I did so because I wanted a floppy, hangy cap that would not call a great deal of attention to itself and, by association, my bald head. If you've been following along, I last said "we left a little (hair) to keep out the cold." That didn't last. The 1/2 inch of hair that remained, kept falling out. And it itched. The whole "take back your power" about cancer was appealing, but the sentiment was over-sold, as is usually the case. I feel less empowered than bald, sad and cold. So, back to the beanies.... In the pictures they looked floppy. In fact, they are beanies. Just beanies. Which is fine. Beanies are fine. But I didn't need plain ol' beanies. I needed floppy. So now I am the proud owner of six beanies of various dull colors. But scarves... now they are pretty. I have a pile of lovely scarves, and I know how to tie them so its like a ponytail.

I've thought of a million things to blog about, but am tired, and any effort is 10x as hard as it should be. Going to the store is hard. As I wheel the cart from aisle to aisle, my endurance fades and I feel like a cancer patient. I'm spacier than usual, have nearly burnt the house down twice. Maybe should stop cooking for awhile. At least not when I'm home alone.

day fourteen

The nurse at the chemo lounge said it. On day fourteen your hair will fall out. She said it like she knew, like she had some insky with the cancer gods. I didn't believe her then, but today is day-fourteen and my hair is falling out around me like snow.

I don't know if this will make sense, but in 1972ish I rode with some guy down to Santa something -- Rosa, Barbara, Clara -- some big city in California. I'd never been to a real city before. I'd never done much. We went to visit some people who lived in a huge apartment complex. I'd never seen an apartment complex before. The carpets were futuristic white, the ceilings solid panels of light. In the middle of the grassy hills of the common yardspace was a fake pond and in the fake pond was a fake sunken ship. I was a little hippie chick back then, categorically opposed to anything unnatural. The entire place filled me with a sickening awe, such a contrast to my au-natural life in a tree on the Applegate river.

Oh, and I forgot a pretty important part: we were smoking PCP. 

So... As we left the apartment, high as kites, the manager said, "Be careful where you step. The frogs come out at seven."

Way back then I remember thinking, much the same as I did when the nurse said, "Your hair will come out on day fourteen," I thought, "Bullshit. How can you know what time a frog will do anything?" But sure enough, at precisely seven, a b'zillion frogs began careening over the grassy hills toward the fake pond and the fake sunken ship, leapfrogging over one another in their daily seven o'clock frenzy. Big frogs, little frogs. I remember collapsing in a puddle of forlorn hippie chick tears, certain that the whole of civilization would become one of timed frogs and ceilings of pure light in honeycombs of mass humanity.

And as much as I'm sure the PCP had something to do with my moodiness, I scurried back to my cabin in the woods and stayed there.

For awhile. Until Portland.

I cut all my hair off this afternoon. Like many women, I couldn't tolerate the waiting, the knowing that the chemo would take it, a chunk at a time. I drove to town, bought three beautiful scarves, learned how to tie them so it looks like a ponytail, and whacked off my hair. When Kurt got home from work, he took the clippers and evened it up and told me I'm beautiful. We left a little to keep out the cold.

debacle

I think debacle is the appropriate word for "What I Did On My Thanksgiving Vacation."

I can't tell you how many of my friends and family asked me in voices rife with supportive and logical concern, "Are you sure you think it's a good idea to travel south (the day after your first chemotherapy treatment when you have no idea at all how it will affect you; where you'll be happily off the grid, no cell or other service, where the lovely little cabin is frozen solid, thus no running water or flushable indoor plumbing without lifting and dumping a five gallon bucket each time, where the wood fires are still burning, only the intrinsic smells of sulfur and kerosene that once comforted are suddenly noxious to my now-sensitive nose, where walking over hill and dale for the eggs I forgot and to see people I love is part of the culture) for the holiday?"

"Might as well go while I still have some strength," I said. "Most people say chemo isn't that bad at first." And maybe it isn't, but on the continuum of "that bad" are things like: queasy, don't get far from the bathroom, continual hot-flashes, no sleep, dehydration, and bedridden.

"I'm sure I'll be fine," I said. And I am, but I'm not. After three nights of zero sleep, we came home two days early. I would do just about anything to sleep. I'm exhausted, but sleep is not for me. I just lay there and lay there. With the chemo, they dump in a bag of dexamethasone, dex and meth being the operative syllables, and I haven't slept since Tuesday. In another life I could've made some serious money with that shit.

So, I'm respecting my treatment and taking more thoughtful care of myself. I'm stubborn. Born that way.

portals

Feeling a little John Malcovitchy today. Getting a port installed in my chest, on my chest. They say it won't hurt. How silly is that?

"We're just going to carve a hole in your body, fish around in there until we find the vein that runs (happily, undisturbed) under your collarbone, ask it very nicely to hold still and stuff a tiny little hose down it. Then, we'll stitch you back together with fishing line and send you home with some Ibuprofen."

Oh. Okay. How 'bout I do the same to you?

I mostly love doctors. I've moved along the periphery of their world all my life, and I'm pretty comfortable with all the medical ins and outs, but the whole carving=no pain? I'm not buying it. While I'm screaming about the painful swelling under my arm (post-lymph node-carving) my surgeon says, "It's not supposed to hurt like that." Well, I agree completely. Com-fucking-pletely. And yet it does. But, I don't want to piss off the surgeon prior to portal installation with a sharp object, so I'll just smile and say thank you. Thank you for hurting me while you save my life.

Ah.

Wating for Jessica to pick me up at ten:ten. My friends. Wowzer. It almost makes me believe in the intrinisic goodness of the human race ala Rousseau. Almost.

so far

so good. (this post is out of order. Written prior to lumpectomy, just to clarify.)

All xrays, radioactive injections and bloodsucking done. Everthing so far is negative. I'll learn about my bones on Monday. Boy, the staff at the surgeon's office is really in a hurry to get the information back to you. Most women must be in a hurry and easily frustrated by the eternal wait that is western medicine. But me? Nah. I can wait. If I was a doc, and people were rushing me, I'd probably lie just to shut them up. "Yeah, you're fine. Now go away." Be happy I couldn't afford med school.

It is somewhat anxiety provoking, made all the worse by life without estrogen. I'd rather do life without oxygen. And, it turns out, that is my choice. I've argued with Szeto (my doc) for years about the suck of menopause, my general impatience with the anxiety I experience in the absence of HRT. I may be finished with menopause for all I know, but will still have to experience withdrawal from estrogen, hot flashes and sleeplessness. I guess its better than death.

disclaimer

Disclaimer

Now it is not the best of me

that glorifies the worst in me

and it is not the east of me

that contradicts the west of me

nor is it just the first of me

has changed to suit the last of me.

the last of me has not yet been

the worst has never given in

or given up

or ever will

or even can

or has the will

to go beyond

the who I was

and still may be

and without pause

I celebrate the rest of me

I celebrate what’s left of me.   jk19??

I don't remember why I wrote this poem, or when, but asha asked me to call it up from the shadowy ethers of my past. I think she knew it would make me cry. 

I am less. I am 1/2 of one boob less. Boob and Bob.

Today I thought I had an appointment with the radiation guy, but it was the chemo guy. Probably best that I was surprised. I didn't want chemo. But these are the decisions of my life these days. You can have chemo or you can die. Oh. Well. Since you put it like that. 

So, there I was, sitting in the oncology office. The awareness that everyone sitting next to you has cancer is profoundly unsettling. A sad little woman came in and she was escorted by her giant son, and her cancer was consuming her face and he had to suction her so she could breathe and she should have been somewhere safer, somewhere she could have been treated tenderly. but she was one of those odd little people who have probably known little tenderness in their lives. It broke my heart at the same time I nearly vomited in my gucci bag. 

I don't have a gucci bag.

But the thing is, I am frequenting these places now. And when I need an appointment, they don't ask, "what's a good day for you?" They give you a card with the next available appointment on it and you show up. Cancer is in charge. I'd like to get ahead of it, but it is calling all the shots these days. The first appointment that got MADE for me, I said, "I'm not sure about thursd..." and before I could finish my sentence, the scheduling woman looked at me with such -- I don't know -- not disdain? incredulity? that it put me quite literally in my place. Your little tea parties are backburnered for the time being, bitch. Its a good thing I don't have a job. They wouldn't care. But the thing is, they do care. And I am simply expected to adjust. Its kind of like I unwittingly stepped onto that conveyor belt -- you know the one in I love Lucy, where the chocolates keep coming faster and faster and she is trying to keep up.Only in this scenario, the chocolates are doctor's appointments and I am still Lucy. And there is really important information to be gleaned at each one, and I'm functionally deerintheheadlights. Let us not forget I was diagnosed on the 17th of October and surgered on halloween at which point my husband thought he would draw a jack-o-lantern on my tit. It hasn't been a month.

I am having a port put in near my clavicle next Thursday so they can just back a truck up and dump the chemo into it. I always wanted something like that, only not for chemo. Where were these devices back in the day?

My friends and family have been stunning. The food alone: chicken soup, chili, lasagne, spaghetti and meatballs, take out from our favorite bbq joint, Hagen Daas vanilla, and burritos and a "fuck cancer" t-shirt, banana nut muffins, beef stew. Rides here and there, help with shopping; and generously shared experience, not easy stuff. 

My son is so scared, and my husband... When he said "...in sickness and in health..." he wasn't kidding. He is broken-hearted. We have cancer. It is in our house and we will spend the next six months getting it out.

big day

I blog, therefore I am.

I have breast cancer. I've been wondering what my body was up to. No good -- that's what. When I showed up for the mammography, I had already made out my will, doomsayer that I am, packed the boxes, burned or deleted any writing that isn't good enough for posthumous gatherings, and said my prayers.

As they moved forward with the ultrasound and proceeded straight to the in-office biopsy, I could tell they were concerned -- in a hurry to know. I could see the pictures. They drew on my breast with a blue sharpie and poked "it" five times, no six, just to make sure -- then the same for the lymph node that has been conspiring with "it" to kill me. They even left a microchip in there for proof of biopsy. So in case I get lost.... I am sore. I appreciated her directness. Having lived in and around death and disease for soososososososo long, I couldn't bear the manners, the things we say to people instead of the plain truth. I didn't need the weekend to believe I had a lump of something else. I can only tolerate denial under certain circumstances. In the end I said, "Just tell me." She said, "You're gonna need a surgeon. Start shopping." I felt like I was on Jaws. "You're gonna need a bigger boat." Indeed.

So I am. Shopping. This is day one of having cancer.

I've always judged the people who refer to their disease as "My cancer," like it was their special friend. But as I looked at the image, the dark lumpy image becoming more familiar as she moved the scope around, as she identified the boundaries of what was mine and what was other, it became personal. I felt bad for the girl. She didn't want to tell me. She didn't want to be the one to find it. "It must be hard to be the one to find these things," I said. And she pushed harder into my armpit and found the lymph node. I'm glad she found it, although at the time all I could think was, "Why is she digging around up in there?"

So, although I'm eulogizing myself well in advance, little planner that I am, and probably for no real reason, I also wonder if maybe I'll finally get the breast reduction/lift that I've always wanted -- the hard way. I am grateful for insurance and a husband who really doesn't want me to lose my ta-tas. Isn't that sweet? Personally, I can take or leave the tissue. Its the beating heart behind them I want to preserve.

Now I think I understand why my life has been unraveling: To make room for this. To make room for the fight of my life. Stay tuned, but I'm not going to make my blog pink, I promise.

spiders

I tried to title this one arachniphobia, but am pretty sure, given the red line, that I can't spell it. But don't you just hate the end of summer, allegedly-ever-so-helpful, gigantic spiders that spin their webs across anywhere you are known to walk? I do. I did a project in the second grade, a science/art project and painted a huge garden spider. Mrs. Sherwood gave me an A. I was terrified of them then and now. In the new "Simple" magazine that I subscribe to, which does not make my life any simpler by the way, there is a girl dressed up for Halloween and covered with real-looking, fake spider tattoos. I would cut my skin off. In Safeway, there are furry black spiders all over the place for decorations. These are not decorative. Nothing about over-sized black widow spiders is appealing or food-related. I resent having to stand next to them in line. These spiders that weave their trouble all around my house are on an every-two-year cycle. Or so I hear. They get bigger the second year. I walk through my yard, the old washer woman next door, string-mop in hand, flinging and swatting, ruining the finely spun homes of my many-legged garden friends. Allegedly -- keep that word in mind. My garden is hardly pest-free. .

But the end of summer is upon us. Peaches are mush. Its over. The chill in the morning air is brief, but still, the sun has whirled itself away from us, or we from it -- I forget how all that works. We're all whirling toward the cold of winter. I miss school shopping for my son.

if you don't want no peaches, honey

It's a learning curve. Canning. Preserving. Putting up peaches. I've been holding my breath for the ripening of the Maryhill peaches, famous for their uniformity of size and flavor. Now finally ripe, they are good, but not so good as the smaller "Starfire" from Jossy Farms in Northplains. I've canned 22 quarts this week, and one peach cobbler. I tried baking a peach pie while on vacation, and it turned out okay, but not great.

The zen of peaches is all about getting the fuzzy skin off. If you like the fuzzy skin, then I think we would have little else in common.

Canning Peaches 101

Boil a kettle of water, prepare an ice bath in a deep bowl. I use one of those wire wok utensils to dip the peach in the hot water and transfer it to the ice bath. I've seen most websites tell you to leave the peaches in for 30 seconds. That's a long time. I think I leave mine in for ten or so, maybe 15, or the peaches cook. If your peaches are truly ripe and you're not playing god and trying to push your way to the head of the line, you shouldn't need more than 15 seconds.

Now comes the fun part: getting them out of their slippery little nasty skins. If you have 1.) patiently waited for ripening, and 2.) done the hot/cold baths properly, you won't even need a knife for this part. I just pinch the skin around the stem area and pull it away. I compete with myself to try to peel all of the skin off with one pull. It can be done, but I can't really explain it. I could show you, but you're not here. Duh.

So now you have a bowl of nekked little orbs of wonderfulness. Now you need to step it up just a bit or they'll go brown on you. You can toss them with lemon juice and they will stay nicer, or you can snap it up and toss a sixteenth of a teaspoon of ascorbic acid into each jar to acheive the same result without blurring the flavors. Nothing against lemons. Really.

So, now you halve the peach with a paring knife, and if it is a kind peach it will fall apart in two perfect segments into your hand. If it is a stubborn little bitch, you may have to pry it apart ever-so-gently, and what you wreck, you may eat. Then, I quarter the peach and just start tossing the quartered pieces in the pretty clean jar.

Pretty clean means it was boiled before you started this process two hours ago and was, at one point, damn near sterile, but not quite.

So, you keep tossing peach quarters into the jar until it is full. shake it around a bit to let them settle. Go ahead and push 'em in, just so long as you leave a good half inch of "head space" (we all need this.).

Then, oh shit, I forgot to tell you to make the syrup. So, make the syrup. You can can with plain water if you like, but the peaches will taste, you guessed it, watery. So a lite sugar syrup is indicated. You won't get to heaven any sooner if you skip the sugar and the peaches you eat will taste better. But, if sugar is your enemy, which it should be but I live in constant denial of this fact, then a couple cups of sugar in a gallon of water should do it. Most sugar syrups call for four or five cups. Yeesh. So you make up your mind to do whatever. Sugar doesn't do anything magic for preservation, it just keeps the fruit from tasting washed out. Your call. I use a little sugar. Sue me.

So set up your table with the sugar syrup -- hot, the ascorbic acid, a rubber handled spatula, a damp cloth and a magnet for lid-getting.

Pack the jar; add ascorbic acid; fill with syrup to leave a good half inch; slide the rubber handle down inside the jar to release trapped air bubbles; wipe the top of the jar; go get the lid with the magnet thingy; put on the lid without touching the lid.

So, the thing with canning peaches is putting on the lids. You do understand by now that we're not working in a sterile environment, right? Tossing just-cut peaches into a pretty clean jar and wiping the jar clean with a damp cloth is not sterile. Then you drag the hot but not boiling lid with a weak magnet across the kitchen hoping it doesn't crash to the peach-strewn floor, and dangle it over the rim of the pretty clean jar, land it like a robot arm on the moon, and voila! its ready for the ring.

Now for the rings:  "Finger tight" can have many interpretations. For me, I read it as: spin on the lid and give it a little push when you reach the end. NONONONONO!! If you tighten the lids too tight, here's what happens. As you lower your perfectly peeled and glossy yummy fruit that you've slaved over for two hours, down, down, down into the boiling water, you will hear this ever so subtle snapping noise. This, my lonely readership, is the sound of jars breaking. You'll know for sure as peach bits begin to float around in your water. So, without scalding your legs, pull the jars from the water as quickly as you can and undo the damage. Get them to solid ground and unscrew those lids. I don't need to tell you to dispose of the fruit from the broken glass, do I?

Turns out finger tight really means finger-tip tight. Really. Just barely. A butterfly could do it. AND, start those jars out in warm water. Not lava-hot boiling oil water.

So you get the jars into the water, boil them for awhile. At least ten minutes, maybe 15. The old ways would have you boil them to death. A good roiling boil for 10 to15 is fine. I didn't die, right? But then, I believe in bacteria. I'm a fan of dirt. I am immune.

Then, you wait for the good popping noises. The noises that mean it worked. It is not uncommon for a jar or two our of 20 to fail. If this happens to you, put these little personal failures in the fridge and eat them within two weeks.


I only lost one jar to breakage, all the rest of them sealed and I have 22 pretty little jars of peaches.