Back at it Again

I know it has been a long time since I posted anything here, but feel as if it's time to get back to it even if it is only for me and a few friends who follow my blog. So, here goes.
Lately I have been thinking a lot about writing. Why we do it and why we don’t or can’t. Even though we may have something to say, we don’t always have the discipline and courage to put words on paper. I guess I should speak for myself instead of using the royal “we”. For a time, writing came easily to me. I could sit down at my computer, bring up a blank page and the words would flow. Simple as that. Now that isn’t happening for me.
Favorite authors have published several books while my creativity has lain dormant and I stew about all the time I have wasted which only wastes more time. I try to let myself off the hook by saying that I have been through a rough patch. I had breast cancer in 2009 complete with surgery, chemo and radiation. That got me well into 2010 and some recovery time which brought 2011 along. Then my back hurt and I had lots of physical therapy and drugs to distract me. Things got worse and sitting for any amount of time just plain hurt too much to bear. My concentration was affected. Finally, I had back surgery followed by more physical therapy and drugs.
Now, here we are in 2013 and I feel I am just emerging from a fog of drugs and fear. My biggest fear was that the pain would get worse and I wouldn’t ever be able to think straight or feel normal again. These fears haunted me--another waste of precious time.
Finally, I am reading again. My retention is improving and I am enjoying the pleasure a good book can bring.
When I was a kid, I loved going to the San Mateo public library on Saturdays and checking out as many books as the librarian would allow. It amazed me that you could read books for free. The librarian was amused by my enthusiasm and would often make recommendations of new books or authors she thought I might enjoy. I thought she was the smartest person I had ever met and wanted to be a librarian when I grew up. I would sit behind the huge desk and shush people and talk about books in a quiet voice. I would have all the answers. My dream job!
I could get lost in a book so easily. My mother was always saying, “Get your nose out of that book.” Or “Clean up your room.” Or “Set the table.” Or “Fold the clothes.” It was amazing how many things I could do while reading a book. My mother thought I should put the book down and just do the assigned chore. She was convinced I could get it done faster without the book. I couldn’t see her point. If I finished one chore, she would just assign another. I would rather stay in the imaginary world my book helped me create. Thus began my love affair with writers and their craft.
I have been wondering about the connection between being a reader and being a writer. I am convinced that most writers are readers although the reverse isn’t true. Still, I believe that even the most casual readers know the difference between a writer who captures their imagination and carries them away and someone who just tells a story. Good story tellers and good writers are different things altogether but the best of the best can do both.
I have attended many classes and seminars and had my writing critiqued and repaired any number of times. One memoir teacher stopped my memoir cold. After her attempts to impose her way of telling my story, I was paralyzed. I felt I had lost my voice. I want to go back and write it my way but can’t even seem to open the box where I keep my notes. I’m afraid it will all look like garbage to me now.
I just finished a book by Brian Doyle called Mink River. It takes place on the Oregon coast and is about a small town occupied by Native American Indians and Irish immigrants. The book has no quotation marks, little punctuation, sentence fragments, long run-on sentences, strange lists and it moves back and forth between present and past with total disregard for cues or transitions. Some scenes take place simultaneously with sentences alternating between one scene and the other. Sometimes they have common dialog. Oh, and one of the pivotal characters is a talking crow named Moses. (A bear talks too, but mostly he grumbles). The book was captivating. I only learned later that a reviewer recommended it be read as an epic poem rather than as a novel. So what? He wrote the way he wanted and it worked.
Another difference I have observed between readers and writers is that readers want to get outside themselves—to imagine other lives and situations. They want to enter other worlds and explore alternate lives. They want to see the world in all it’s variety from their armchairs. Writers want to go inside and find the other worlds within themselves and flesh that world out and share it with others in their writing. They create a reality that readers can believe and become part of and share if only for a while. How do they do that? They build it word by word.
A house may be all about its foundation and structure, but that’s not what we think of when we think of a house. We think about the things that happened there and the people who lived there. What’s going on there? Maybe it does matter if the house is dilapidated or well landscaped, but those are just clues to the character of the occupants. That’s where the meat is. No matter how lyrical the descriptions are, it’s the people we want to know about. What they do and why they do it or maybe even “who dun it”. Those things fire our imagination as no description of a meadow or sunset ever can. Not that I have anything against meadows (more interesting if a body is found there) or a sunset (pretty background for an ominous assignation).
I think what really feels good about writing is the sense that you have created something different. You have put words together to express your thoughts in a way that has never happened before--at least not quite this way. So you can sit back and say, “Yes, that’s what I think, that’s how I feel, that’s the way I imagined it.”

Pain Chronicles

I haven't posted in quite a while because I have been laid low by back pain. I couple of people have told me to write about it, so I did. Here's what I wrote...

Sated with sleep,
like a soggy sponge unable to absorb another drop.
The escape hatch of sleep closes
leaving me to feel the pain that sleep masks.

It hurts to stand and sitting is worse.
My buttocks are on fire as warring nerves
ignite the battlefield that is my butt, my back, my legs.

Lying on my stomach is painful.
Lying on my back is worse.
That leaves my poor hips to bear the brunt
of too much pressure for too many hours.

My focus has fled.
My mind stutters through alternatives.
Pills that don’t give enough relief.
Or last long enough.
Is their power waning?
Or is the pain just getting stronger?

Surgery looms—a fearful long and complicated thing.
My surgeon is confident.
My brain counsels caution.
My back begs, “Bring it on!”
Anything, anything would be better than this half life.

My physical therapist pleads for patience and more time.
My heart hopes.
My back scoffs.
My body grows weaker.

The future looks too full of pain to contemplate.

A gentle voice reminds me,
“One day at a time.”

It Is Impossible To Die Alone

“Do not be afraid. It is impossible to die alone.” Those are the final lines of the play “White Snake” and I found them enormously comforting. This play is an epic tale based on a very old Chinese legend. The legend has changed over the centuries but is as common and well known in China as Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty is here. I saw the play last weekend in Ashland with a group of friends. The after-lecture led to a discussion with a friend who had attended the play with me about death and end of life experiences. Our mothers each had experiences in their final hours that convinced us that they were seeing something that comforted them and drew them to leave their bodies and reach out for something else. They didn’t so much leave their bodies as move on to something compelling and desirable. Char Lee’s mother told of speaking with her dead husband who was impatient for her to join him. He said “Hurry up old woman. What’s taking so long?” or words to that effect. My mother sat up in her hospital bed, a feat that should have been impossible considering that she had been in a drug induced coma. She saw something that made her happy. Her face was relaxed and full of joyful anticipation. As Char Lee and I tearfully shared these memories, we were comforted by the certainty that it is true, we do not die alone. Even if we don’t have family close by, there will be something amazing and wonderful to ease us when we transition into the next reality. I think that when that happens, this life will all seem like a dream that passed in a few minutes. The things we thought were important will fall away and we will see with new eyes. Even if we witness it happening, we cannot truly know what waits for us but I am convinced that it is good. When we let go of all we love here, there will be something better.

Japanese Dock-Newport, Oregon

Our June visit to Yachats coincided with the arrival of a floating cement dock from Japan. The dock is part of the debris from the tsunami that struck Japan after the Miyagi earthquake on Friday, March 11, 2011. It washed up on Agate Beach near Newport. The dock is seven feet high, 19 feet wide and 66 feet long. It looks a lot like a boxcar. It is the first official tsunami debris to reach Oregon. Kizzie and I thought we might see a barnacle encrusted wreck but instead found the structure had been scraped clean and was being blasted with fire from what looked to us like flame throwers. We saw workmen loosen hatches and proceed to scrape off the barnacles and mussels.

The ton and a half of marine organisms that had already been scraped off were bagged and buried inland. Experts didn’t expect so many of the organisms to survive the journey across the Pacific. They fear that the organisms may be invasive species that could destroy local marine life. Officials estimate that 5 million tons of debris washed into the Pacific Ocean after the tsunami and that about 70% of that sank. That leaves about 1.5 million tons floating our way. That’s a lot of scraping, burying and burning. What does it mean to have another country’s debris washing up in our front yard? What obligations do we have to sort, return and honor this enormous loss? I think we have the same duty we would hope for if things went the other way. I heard that a soccer ball found in Alaska was returned to the boy who lost it in the tsunami. My daughter, Kathy, lost her wedding ring and many other treasured possessions in Katrina after a hurried evacuation. I can’t help but think what it would mean to her to have even one of them returned intact. Instead, they are buried in toxic mud or already scraped up and added to some landfill. I hope we can do better by our Japanese neighbors.

Who doesn't love a swing?

 

What can make you feel younger than a swing?

Aging Gracefully Part II

I’m still thinking about this aging business. When you find that your own personal end of life is sooner than you had thought, it changes things. There are all those stages you go through—denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Somewhere between denial and anger I find myself wanting to run around waving my arms in the air and shouting, “No, no. It’s all going too fast. I’m running out of time and I’m not done!” Then when it turns out that I’m actually not out of time, I forget all those important things that I thought I didn’t have time for and settle back into real life. Of course I did make a bucket list and I even managed to cross off quite a few of the things I put on it. Riding a Harley, zip lining, getting a puppy (two actually). Check, check, check. But right now this idea that I will soon enter the “old-old” part of my senior years is unsettling me. Last night I read an interview that Bill Moyers did with Sara Lawrence Lightfoot and think I like her views on aging better than the gerontologist’s view. She had dubbed the quarter century of life between the ages of fifty and seventy-five “the third chapter”. I like that because it implies a “forth chapter”. Yes, I know that implies living to the age of one hundred but since I’m not in the forth chapter yet, I won’t worry about that technicality. Ms Lightfoot says that this period is one of focusing energy, finding new means of expression and defining our personal passions. We can take time to step back and see what really matters to us and how we can cultivate our own creativity. She believes that maturity can help us be more innovative and purposeful. That all sounds good, but the danger for me, once the crisis is past, is that I will pop my metaphorical thumb back in my mouth and like Rosann Rosanna Danna say, “Never mind”.

Ode to Disneyworld

Can there be too much happiness in the land of happiness? Just find a viewing spot and watch it unfold for yourself. Enthusiastic parents only wishing to make their children the happiest children on earth, tow them from attraction to attraction--ignoring the warning signs until disaster strikes. Happiness overloads lead to dramatic meltdowns. Vesuvius could take lessons from the molten wrath of a furious three year old. “Oh, my God!” the parents say with their eyes as they stare at each other, bewildered. "Who is this child?” The child is so angry he can’t articulate his needs, his glassy eyed frenzy stuns them. They can’t begin to guess the cause of his flailing fury. What is this Magic Kingdom anyway? There is organization seldom seen in our everyday world. Keep things moving, amuse, distract, amaze. And all the while billfolds leak money. A bottle of water costs $2.50. That’s a bargain with temperatures in the 80’s. Themed park wear tempts with hats, shirts and key chains. We need these things to confirm we were there. Everyone has a camera. Sometimes two or more cameras. Hundreds, maybe thousands of cameras recording every activity so that later we can see what we saw and remember what we did. Cuisine? No, afraid not. Instead we have expensive institutional food served up with extreme efficiency in exotic looking food courts and restaurants. Somehow it all tastes much the same no matter the setting. Rides excite and make the most jaded adult gasp and scream, a child again for a few minutes. All is coordinated to facilitate maximum traffic flow. Indifferent audiences clap and file out to hurry to the next attraction on their intense program of calculated delights. All perfectly orchestrated to preserve the theme and deliver lessons in recycling, conservation, ecological responsibility and sensitivity to all creatures great and small. All good things, of course, but does the cost of running the park and staging giant pyrotechnic shows seem ironic to anyone? Anyone? Each area exists free of religion, strife or worship except for a brief “Namaste” at the beginning of the bird show. Here the African Kings and Queens get to sing and dance together. Genocide? Never heard of it. Why would we do that? God, Allah, Yahweh all absent. Unless you count the tourist shirts that say “Jesus Rocks” or “Birmingham Baptist Convention” Visitors are captured forever in their happiest moments of gaiety and celebration. Parades, spontaneous songfests, mandatory smiles, giggles optional. Disney characters meeting and greeting captivated fans of all ages. Color, music, sounds all synchronized to heighten the experience. Is this a better place? Could Disney solve our differences? Control traffic? Improve attitudes? Quite probably he could. Would we be better for it? Or would we, like the overloaded children, suffer a breakdown from too much of a good thing?

Aging Gracefully

Aging gracefully--whatever that’s supposed to mean. I think it means getting old without making a fuss or embarrassing your children too much. Like the time I was camping on the Oregon coast with my son and his wife and we went to Newport for a little shopping and lunch. I spotted a storefront with a donut machine churning out mini donuts. “Mini donuts” I shouted gleefully and proceeded to trip over the curb and fall flat on my face. I remember that we had lunch after I got up off the sidewalk and brushed myself off but I can’t recall whether I got any of those tempting mini donuts. It really is a shame how this little waterfront area can’t afford proper curbs and have these super tall ones that trip seniors. It’s a wonder they haven’t been sued. Or maybe it’s the mini donut people who should be sued for their tempting fragrance and the allure of the contraption that pumps out donuts by the dozen. Or maybe little old ladies shouldn’t be running for donuts. Nah, that can’t be it. So, what is “old” anyway? Anna Quindlen says, “Old is whatever you haven’t gotten to yet.” I think that’s usually about 15 years from where ever I am. Gerontologists say that now there is “young-old” (55-74) and “old-old” (75 and older). That might have seemed fair to me some years ago although I don’t think I ever thought “old age” began before 65. But now—now that I’m pushing 72, I resist the thought of being two years away from “old-old” age. My friend Vera is in her 80’s and is the furthest thing from elderly you could imagine. She drives almost two hours each way to get her hair done in Florence and then stops off at the casino for a little R & R. She defies definition. I shoud be more like her. Why should this aging business bother me in the least? Why should I care if I get automatic senior discounts and people yield their seats to me on a bus? If I slump a little and move slowly, almost nothing is expected of me. No one knows I’m 36 inside. Maybe it’s better for all of us if I take the discount and the seat and just smile.

Time Away

Time away is so very precious--not only for writing but for nourishing the soul. This weekend my friend Kizzie and I are in Yachats at the Overleaf Lodge, one of our favorite places. She is here to put the final touches on her book, "A Tall Tale about a short Long Dog: How Dachshunds Came to Be". Kizzie shared a mock up of her whimsical book with me. Her story and the art work by Scott Ward are captivating. The best part for us is that the whole thing started with a writing exercise we did several years back while staying here at the Overleaf Lodge. We had lunch at a local restaurant and I gave us the assignment to write a tall tale. Kizzie has been perfecting her story ever since and now she is preparing for a book launch in October. Amazing and inspiring. It makes me want to jump start my own writing which has been not only on the back burner but moved off the stove altogether for some time. If you can't write here, you can't write I tell myself. There are no chores, no responsibilities and no need to even look at clocks. The tides dominate--low tide for exploring and high tide for dramatic, crashing waves. The sunshine wakes us in the morning and when we can no longer see the waves, it's time for wine and conversation. Here we are not interrupted by every day oughts and shoulds. Conversation drifts from topic to topic and sometimes come full circle--leapfrogging along from tears to laughter to moments of quiet introspection. Inspired by the beauty of water, trees and wild life and nurtured by the easy pace, I feel untethered and blessed.

Signing Back In

I know I said I was done, but it turns out I'm not. It seems that, like it or not, some part of me is still writing. Even if I don't write it down, the writing continues. So, I might as well write it down because sometimes it's interesting to read what I was thinking after I forgot about it. Tricky thing this thinking business. I read that the difference between a writer and an author is that writers write and authors are published (for pay presumably). That puts me in the writers camp which is fine with me. I think that writing is a solitary sort of activity. It's nice to have someone read what you write and give you 'atta girls' or respond that they feel the same way and thought they were the only one who saw things quite that way. At the heart of it, at least for me, writing is just another way of talking to myself. So here we go again. This image is my Guardian of Hope, a gift from my friend Kizzie.

Signing Off

My blog is two and a half years old. That means so is my breast cancer. The odds of triple negative breast cancer recurring after two years are very slim. I find myself struggling with what to do with this gift of time and opportunity but I think that is an entirely different blog. I would like to travel and explore. I would like to write my memoirs and finish my novel and do something to make a difference in the world. I may not accomplish any of those things but its time to decide which of those things matter enough to command my energy and attention. Now that I can start thinking longer term, who knows what the next two and a half years will bring? What I know for sure is that my blog has served its purpose for now and its time to move on to other things. Thanks for reading and sharing this experience with me.

If you haven’t won the prize, redefine the prize

Here We Go Again

Here we go again. That’s what I thought any way. More lumps. This time I had no desire to write about it. I kept thinking I might and then I didn’t. This time the news was good. After a mammogram, an ultra sound and a needle biopsy, the results are in--fatty necrosis. Couldn’t I at least get a diagnosis without the word “Fat” in it? I should just be grateful that the word cancer isn’t in it and leave well enough alone.

The good news came last week and I was elated. Now I have crashed for no reason I can determine. I feel wiped out. My friend Ginny suggests that I was geared up for battle and when they cancelled the war, I suffered some sort of withdrawal from my heightened preparedness. I guess that’s as good an explanation as any. Maybe I’m in an adrenalin slump.

I keep thinking that I should do something important with this new gift of time. The problem is that I don’t have the strength or energy for anything important. It’s about all I can manage to water my potted plants, putter in the garden a bit and get a meal or two on the table every day. If I’m not “sick” then why don’t I have more energy? It’s depressing and sad. I feel so whiney. I certainly have nothing to whine about. I think the losses of September 11th took a toll on my thinking. I think about all those useful people who were lost and are still missed.

I guess that’s part of the confusion for me. It didn’t make sense to me ten years ago and it still doesn’t. What a horrible waste of potential. Of course that doesn’t mean I should necessarily feel guilty for surviving and yet somehow I do.

.

Today I Am 71

Holy cow! How did that happen?

I am in a beautiful rental house on Lopez Island in the San Juan Islands with my friend Kizzie. We are on a writing retreat which doesn’t stop us from touring the island and enjoying all the sights and shops and eateries. Lopez has a wonderful bakery where they should know us by name already. We visited Agate Beach and hiked out to Shark Reef. We ate Halibut tacos with mango salsa and went to a jazz concert at a local winery. Today we took the ferry to Friday Harbor on San Juan Island and wandered around the shops there. I had a delicious crab BLT at the Downriggers restaurant with a view of the harbor and marina. What a wonderful life they live here. The pace is slow and everyone seems to have time to wave and take time to talk.

We have a lovely view from our rental and have converted the kitchen table into our computer desk. I can write and look up to see the ferry go by as well as numerous small boats and sail ships. The water is a lovely shade of blue and calm with just enough of a breeze to fill the sails of the little ships tacking around the bay. The only sound is the quiet lap of water below our perch on the cliff and the occasional toot from an arriving ferry.

I think I could get used to this. I suppose the charm would diminish when winter arrives and the storms roll in, but even then the view would be beautiful. A quick look at the local real estate magazine reveals that I can only live here if I win the lottery so I will have to settle for an occasional visit and store up sweet island memories of a slower, friendlier life.
.

My Grandson is Rated "M"

I visited my grandson Douglas in sunny Arizona last week and got to thinking about all the things kids are exposed to today that we never even imagined when I was young. Kids today hear things and see things that were either forbidden or beyond the imagination of most of my contemporaries—at least until they went to Viet Nam. There’s more blood, violence, sex and verbal trash than I can get my old mind around. And don’t even start with the piercings and tattoos. (Not that Douglas has any--yet.)

When I was 19, my husband went to the San Francisco airport to buy a copy of "Peyton Place" which wasn’t available any place else. It was titillating and everyone was reading it. I found it shocking but now it would be laughable, even to me!

I think “old folks” have been complaining about the youth of the day ever since we lived in caves. “Yeah, the mastodons were bigger when I was learning to hunt. We had to drive them over the cliffs with sticks and now the modern kids have spears. They have no respect for what we went through and no appreciation for us inventing spears. Lazy, darn good for nothings…”

They complained in ancient Rome and American settlers did their share of complaining too. “Oh, yeah, I walked from Boston to Oregon territory and now these kids just want to loaf and live off the fat of the land. Always off fishing or chasing some Indian girl. They don’t know what real hardship is.”

Well, I could go on, but you get the idea. It’s a built-in mechanism that seems as sure as joint deterioration and forgetfulness. Maybe we don’t die of old age but just get sick of our own obsolescence. We need to make way for a new generation of complainers.

Meanwhile, my grandson still enjoys a spirited game of UNO and so all is not lost.

.

Accidents Happen

That’s why they call them accidents. We don’t plan screw-ups. We don’t look for them. But somehow they find us and when they do we feel a whole raft of emotions. We feel embarrassed, stupid, mortified, frightened and definitely sobered by the realization that everything can change in an instant. We question our abilities. We wonder if this is the first signs of senility, Alzheimer’s, dementia or whatever our own personal deterioration looks like.

That’s why when we fall we will jump up, brush ourselves off and assure everyone around us that we are FINE. Maybe a small fracture or sprain, but really, just fine! We aren’t losing our balance and coordination. No, that pesky obstacle appeared out of nowhere and ensnared us. We are the victim of outside influences, nothing to do with our impaired abilities whatsoever.

I am well acquainted with falling. I fell twice in Alaska, breaking bones both times. I broke a bone in a fall in Mendocino and a girlfriend had to drive me to Redding to meet with friends there and my husband had to take a bus to Redding to retrieve me and our car. I broke my teeth in a fall in Redding on my way to a weekend with my siblings in Napa Valley. I went anyway, after kind treatment from my friend Donna’s dentist. I broke my glasses when I fell while loading the car for a trip to Alaska to testify at a trial. I fell in Newport while on vacation with my son Jim and his family, racing for mini-donuts as I recall, but I may have been the only one in that race. I’ve broken toes more times than I can count, each time vowing to wear shoes and be more careful. I’ve slipped and slid and suffered more scrapes and bruises than I care to recall. Ok, I’ll concede, maybe I’m just a little bit clumsy.

Yesterday I had my second automobile accident in fifty years of driving. My first accident was a skid on black ice in 1960 that ended up with us upside down in a ditch on the I-70 between Denver and Grand Junction. I got a ticket for being on the wrong side of the road because the highway patrolman said he had to issue a citation at every accident. Jim was just a baby, sleeping in a nest in the back seat, and he ended up without a scratch. My husband and I had seat belt bruises and walked away from the scene under our own power. The car was totaled.

My second auto accident was in 1996. It was also on an icy road, the 1-5 near Tacoma where I worked. One of the other drivers who started the bumper car mess got the ticket that time.

Since that first accident, I have been a careful and competent driver. One accident and no tickets. Until yesterday.

A quick early morning trip to the store changed my excellent record and shook my confidence. I was driving home in the early morning rain and made a perfunctory stop at the red light on Main and Hwy 99 in my home town. As I turned right onto Hwy 99, a grey pick-up truck side-swiped me and damaged the left front end of our little red Acura. We both pulled over and I called 911. A local policeman came and took our statements. He issued a ticket for failure to comply with a traffic control device and there went my 50 year record. Now I have an accident AND a ticket on my driving record.
I am trying to be grateful that no one was hurt and that our deductible is low. Insurance will cover the financial cost of the accident. I’m still not sure what will cover the cost to my ego and confidence. It helped that my husband’s response was calm and reassuring. He tells me I’m still a good driver and that accidents happen. Well, yes, but not to me. Not in cars anyway.

Writers Write

That’s what they say. Writer’s write. It’s not whether or not you are published or paid or have a certificate or a degree. It’s whether or not you put pen to paper or fingers to the keyboard. By that definition, I sometimes despair and think I can’t possibly be a writer.
Writers get up early or stay up late just to capture their thoughts in those moments when everyone else is sleeping and they can pour their soul onto paper or at least onto cyber paper. Writers would rather write than eat, or shop or watch tv. Again, I don’t qualify.
The idea of simply devoting time to writing seems self-indulgent. I should be cleaning something or cooking something or tending the garden. I can write when the chores are done. Except that when the chores are done, I’m too tired to write or the inspiration has fled or I need to check my e-mail.
It seems it’s just not enough to think the thoughts and write things in your head as you fall asleep or take a walk. You have to get it down on paper. Another soul has to hear or read it. Who says? Really, who decides such things?
If I create it, I own it. Even if I can’t remember it the next day, it’s still mine. I have made it so and rolled it around in my head and it matters. At least it matters to me. It may be self therapy or self indulgence, but what difference does that make? I still own it. I write for myself. Not for posterity. Who is this posterity anyway? I don’t know them and don’t really care all that much if they know me. I write for myself and sometimes for my writing group or my blog but if that’s all the further it goes, that’s just fine with me. Write on!

Down Memory Lane in White Buck Shoes

My high school friend Ruth called recently and asked me if I remembered our white buck shoes and the little pillows of white powder that we used to clean them. Of course I do. We powdered our shoes much more frequently than we powdered our noses. Nowadays I suppose those white pillows might rouse more than a little suspicion but back when everyone was swooning over Pat Boone singing “Love Letters in the Sand” or Marty Robbins rendition of “A White Sports Coat and a Pink Carnation”, things were different.

Those little white powder pillows were vital to keeping our white buck shoes looking fresh and were as necessary as the starch we used to keep our net crinolines stiff so they could hold our poodle skirts out at the appropriate angle to show off our petticoats. What’s the point of dancing if you can’t twirl and flounce? Watching American Bandstand kept us clued in to the coolest looks in fashion. Of course we never showed our underwear like some of those girls did, but they were from Philadelphia and were wilder than we would ever dare to be.

Talking to Ruth got me to thinking about the things we took for granted “back then” that would be complete mysteries to most young people today--skate keys for example. We had skates that clamped on to our shoes and we tightened the grips with a skate key. Now kids have skates built into their shoes and can zip around on wheels as easily as they can walk.

When we skated, it was a much more athletic endeavor. Getting the skates on and properly adjusted was just the beginning. We kept the skate key on a string around our neck just in case we needed it to tighten our skates back up when we took a tumble. We skated in a bent over posture with our arms swinging like speed skaters as we navigated the treacherous sidewalks of our neighborhood. We always kept the next patch of lawn in sight in case we had to do an emergency stop. When there wasn’t grass nearby, we got those amazing knee scabs that we usually had in one stage or another of healing. We picked so many scabs off our knees it’s amazing there is anything left but scar tissue. No wonder my knees are so cranky now.

These days I’m sure roller skating must require at least two adults to supervise and bring drinks and snacks as well as the knee and elbow pads and requisite helmet. How dangerously we lived!

I remember wanting loafers with little tassels and a slot for a coin in each one. I wanted them so badly that I swore that the much too tight shoes fit me. They didn’t have my correct size and I wasn’t about to risk waiting for another day and getting stuck with ugly leftover shoes. Deferred gratification was never something that appealed to me.

Those loafers used to be called Penny Loafers. I guess that was because people put a penny in the coin hole opening. But being a modern girl, I needed dimes. That was in case you had to make an emergency call from a pay phone, of course. You don’t see many of those any more now that everyone can carry their own private little pay phone everywhere with them.

On Saturday nights I went to the movies with my girlfriends. We would pool our change so that we could put a buck’s worth of gas in my old Oldsmobile and go to Dollar Night at the drive-in movie. We could hang the speaker in our car window and turn it up or down depending on how interesting the movie was. We brought snacks from home because the fifteen cents for a bag of popcorn and dime for a coke seemed ridiculous. After all, the going rate for baby sitting was 25 cents an hour. By the time we bought gas and paid our admission, we were reluctant to part with any more of our hard earned money. We brought pillows and blankets from home because nights in the San Francisco Bay area could get chilly and we spent the evening eating and talking and sometimes even watched the movie.

One of my favorite movie treats was Necco wafers. I hadn’t yet discovered my passion for chocolate and thought the best test of a candy was how long you could make it last. A package of Neccos could last a long time if you tried holding it in your mouth without breaking the thin wafer for as long as possible. Of course it was hard for me to go very long without talking so I usually gave in a broke the wafer. Once it’s broken there isn’t much to do but chew it up and start over. I can’t say they had much flavor at all, even though I favored the pink and brown ones, but they certainly did last.

Hair was not an important part of my teen routine. We washed our hair once a week and put it in rollers and that was it. I wore my hair in a pony tail for most of my high school years. My hair could retain the shape of a pony tail even without a rubber band. My hair knew its place. I didn’t even get a professional haircut until I was earning a full time paycheck.

My sisters’ generation had a totally different experience with hair. They were in high school in the 60s when hair was teased into extravagant bouffants. Their school pictures show every hair firmly in place, more like a helmet than hair. The hair was teased into high confections and then wrapped in toilet paper at night so they wouldn’t have to start all over the next morning. They could use the time they saved creating exotic eyes with lots of shadow, liner and mascara.

My best efforts at teasing my hair were dismal failures. My hair always looked more aggravated than teased. For most of the 60s every professional haircut included a through teasing after the curlers came out. No matter how I protested, my hair would get teased and I would go home to coax out the tangles and tame things back to my liking.

Another girly ritual I could never master was the plucking. I knew my eyebrows needed taming but those tweezings hurt. I marveled that my girl friends could pluck away and scarcely flinch. We would plop down on blankets in the grass and use magnifying mirrors and the harsh light of day to show the brows at their worst. The other girls would spread baby oil on their arms and legs and pluck away. I would only pluck two or three hairs before I gave up, retreated to the shade and buried my nose in a book. I hoped that my big framed glasses covered enough of my face that no one would notice my maverick brows. I know I was rationalizing, a talent I perfected over the years, but I would always rather read than pluck.

.

Breast Reconstruction

Yesterday I had surgery to repair damage to my right breast caused by my cancer surgery and subsequent radiation. At the same time, I had my left breast reduced to conform more closely in size and shape to the reconstructed right breast.

At first, I didn’t want to write about my decision to have this surgery. I was afraid that my choice might be perceived as vanity. After all, who cares? The only ones will even see my breasts, besides myself, are my husband and my doctors. Why should I put myself through a painful procedure for such a limited audience? I could just buy my usual 42D bra and stuff the right side to make things appear balanced. It’s been a very long time since I stuffed a bra, but there is no shame in that.

The thing is I want to be balanced and not merely appear balanced. I don’t like being lopsided and would prefer that my breasts jiggle in relative unison when I get on the treadmill. What’s so terrible about that? Being a big breasted girl from a family of big breasted girls, I was never able to get into the joy of running. Running was never a pleasure for me. While other girls were pumping their arms as they ran around the track, I was crossing my arms across my generous chest to reduce the painful bouncing. Of course I’m not suggesting that I will take up running now but a brisk pace on the treadmill with minimal bouncing sounds desirable to me.

I know there are women who live with the after effects of lumpectomies or even double mastectomies and don’t seem to give it a thought. Or, if they do, the thought of undergoing anther surgery discourages them. I certainly had my own pre-surgery jitters. Any time someone is going to cut into and remove some of your flesh, it’s more than a little worrisome.

I have heard from several sources that breast reduction can alleviate neck and back pain although I’m not sure if my neck and back pain are at all related to my breast size and weight. Still, it seems like as good a reason as any to get them reduced.

So, there are many factors involved when making a decision like this. After weighing (small pun intended) all of them, or as many as I could think of, it comes down to what I want. That’s what my husband tells me. I like the idea of having my breasts even and buying a bra that fits both sides. Maybe that’s all the justification I need.

Meanwhile, my husband is pampering me and managing my meds-—Cephalexin (antibiotic), Celebrex (anti-inflammatory), Sinecch (homeopathic to reduce bruising) and, best of all, Vicodin. My pain levels are modest and I have a license to be lazy.

Life is Good!
.

Magazines Are Bad For Me!

I’m beginning to think that magazines are bad for me. Books are still alright because you don’t expect the truth from them. Books are full of exaggerations and adjustments to the truth—even the non-fiction ones. If they were truly factual, wouldn’t they be called that? Shouldn’t our books be fiction and factual? Why didn’t they call them factual and non-factual? That would make as much sense. But this is about magazines, not books, so I will leave that discussion for another time.

Magazines make me feel discontent. The people in magazines have such enviable lives. They go on wonderful vacations and live in beautiful homes with gorgeous gardens. They live in a happy state of easy cooperation and harmony. Everything is organized and spotless in their homes. The garden flourishes and looks like a sub-tropical paradise. Of course there’s a kitchen garden so they can pick fresh cilantro, basil and peppers for their creative meals. They can decorate their house with their own home-grown flowers and ferns. They entertain with such style. Their food is fabulous--imaginative and colorful but, of course, healthy. The table is decorated with flair and panache. The guests are a fascinating mix of people who smile delightedly and toast the host and hostess with enthusiasm for their creative entertaining. Who are these people anyway?

What happened to recipes for pot roast and apple pie with a picture of mom, dad, three kids (one in a high chair) and a dog nearby? The family looked happy to have a meal on the table. None of the kids were crying and mom didn’t look tired so we knew there was an element of fiction involved but at least this was a meal we could probably put together even if the kitchen in the background wouldn’t be quite so tidy.

A recent Better Homes and Gardens magazine had an article titled “Labor of Love” about a couple named Don and Chris who live in Snohomish, Washington. They are a lovely couple and love to garden together. Chris admits that she can’t resist perennials and every time she goes to the nursery she brings more home with her. Don indulges her just as she indulges his passion for roses and so their garden is lush and crowded and they like it that way. The article ends like this:

Nearly every summer evening, as the fragrance of petunias and Nicotiana scent the air, Chris and Don move quietly among the beds, weeding and pruning until the gold light of dusk fades from the sky.

Really? These people are smiling and indulging each other—no questioning about why more plants are bought or where they are to go or who will weed and feed—just moving about in heavenly accord. All they lack are filled wine glasses so they can toast their enviable amiability. Maybe that will come later after they pick their fresh herbs and grill chicken breasts and veggies on their covered deck with the obligatory happy guests. These are the same happy guests we see in every sort of commercial for everything from appliances to beer. Always a nice mixed race, mixed gender, age balanced group. Sometimes there is a child or pet in the background—deep in the background--unless of course they have made an amusing mess that can be instantly solved by the product being advertised.

So now it’s not just magazines, but advertisements in general that I’m complaining about. These articles and advertisements have got me observing couples I see in stores. I’m watching for that easy companionability I see where couples are eager to learn from each other about the relative merits of various cereals and sandwich spreads. If there is a disagreement, it is always humorous and easily resolved.
In real life, at least if Walmart and Safeway are real life, it’s not so easy. People get impatient with each other and with their children. Real people don’t stroll through the aisles amusing each other. Usually, one wants to get done and the other wants to compare labels and prices. Some people say unpleasant things to each other as if they were protected by a privacy envelope. I often wonder how they treat each other at home where they have real privacy.

Of course I know there are couples who live their daily lives with amicable good humor. I’ve seen it. They do everything together and dote on each other. There are probably trade-offs that I don’t see, but whether there are or not, they have mastered the art of paddling along in serene companionability. How do they manage that? Do they talk about it and agree on their rules of engagement or does it just happen? How come no one thinks about these things when they are in love’s first blush--when you want to be together every minute and never run out of things to talk about and agree on everything? When does the tide turn and it becomes safe to say “I don’t like those shows you watch”? Or, “I don’t like this meal—that friend—the way you load the dishwasher”? Darned if I remember--it just happens.

We claim we want the truth in our relationships, but do we really? Don’t we want to know if our pot roast sucks because we added carrots (which our partner hates) or left out the onions (which he loves)? Of course we do. Do we want to be in a phony baloney relationship where no one says what they want? Of course not. What sort of life would that be? On the other hand, just how much truth can we really bear? Truths about our appearance, our habits, our long held beliefs or our method of doing things may not be so welcome. What we do need is a little grace and indulgence. We can tell each other about the things we can change and accept the things we can’t change. AA gets it right. We need the wisdom to know the difference.

If we can muster the grace to forgive our partner’s flaws, wouldn’t we both be better off? Romantic customs hold that one gets on one’s knees to propose marriage. We truly might be better served if we got on our knees every anniversary to beg forgiveness and give it in return. Of course we don’t need to wait for an anniversary to make amends and try for a fresh start but if we don’t do it at all—ever—then where are we?

Forgiveness is a gift best given without fanfare. Apologize out loud and forgive in silence—in your heart. Let it flow like love which, in fact, it is. Being stingy with forgiveness is withholding love. My former mother-in-law was slow to forgive and it hurt. My brother-in-law once said, “She never lets you forget that she forgave and forgot”.

If we can’t forgive and let go of perceived offenses, what do we do then? Do we wait for the absolute end of the rope when truth turns into a weapon of relationship destruction? Do we seek counseling? Do we settle for what we have and try to focus on the good parts? How do we sort out what is worth discussion and what would be best left unsaid? How do we even bring the topic up? Too often, they seem to come ricocheting out of nowhere or angle in sideways in a discussion about something else entirely. They even get inserted into conversations when other people are around--maybe because it feels safer that way. But the point gets made even if there is no opportunity for response or real dialog about it. Then it gets quickly buried again.

Why should marital conversation feel like such a minefield? Shouldn’t it be easier to speak your mind after many years of marriage? Yes, it should. But what happens is that when things are good, it doesn’t seem worth the effort to bring up anything less than pleasant and when things are bad, it feels too risky. Perhaps we need a little signal flag we can put on the table when we want to raise a topic for discussion or a handkerchief we can pull out of our hip pocket and throw on the ground when our partner has committed a foul. Yes, we need better signals.

Or, maybe, we should just stop subscribing to magazines. I could at least try to remember that magazines are fiction and nobody really lives like the people depicted in them. Meanwhile, I’m going to read a good book where people have real problems and would be grateful for the life I lead. I don’t even care that they are fictional people. I’m confident they would trade their life and problems for mine in a heartbeat and I’m equally confident I would turn them down.

.

Dancing with NED

I have danced this happy dance before but that doesn’t make it any less exhilarating. It’s that heady feeling you get when the tests are done and the word comes back—No Evidence of Disease (NED). Then you can let out the breath you didn’t even know you were holding and inhale the elixir that is life.

After the first hours or so of gratitude and elation, I tend to resume my usual worrying ways. What am I supposed to do that is so important that I have been spared to live longer than I expected?

Today was my follow up mammogram. It has been almost two years since I discovered the lump that started my most recent bout with cancer. I realize just how often I have taken it for granted that my mammograms would be just one of those routine precautions that responsible women take. “Make Time for the Girls” and all that. Yet, even with a previous diagnosis of cancer, a new one still came as a shock. I was braced for a recurrence--not a brand new cancer. Once I got past my unreasonable expectations that I couldn’t get a different cancer, it all fell into a familiar regimen of surgery and treatments. I got into patient mode, stepped onto the treadmill and followed all the standard protocols. It worked for me in the past and so I did all that was recommended and hoped for the best possible outcome—NED.

Now, here I am, two years out and dancing with NED again.

It’s a very good feeling but it makes me wonder if I am supposed to do something in exchange for the blessing of finding myself once again cancer free. What do we owe the universe for the blessings we enjoy? Does God expect repayment of some kind or other? In my particular denomination, we believe in Grace, not works. So does it follow that if we can’t “earn” our way into heaven, we can’t repay the generous gifts we receive by doing earthly penance in the form or charitable deeds or kind acts? If that's so, what’s the point of doing good in the world? Is it enough to do good things just for the sake of doing them? Or maybe just for the internal satisfaction of being a good person? Or at least as good a person as you are able to be? I have wrestled with this question before and my conclusion has been that we should strive to be the best person we can be if only because we have to look at ourselves in the mirror and face ourselves in our dreams.

My idea of hell, if there is such a place or thing, would be to have to endlessly see all the mistakes and careless words and actions we have inflicted on others and feel what they felt. I imagine it as a grainy sort of bad U-Tube production that plays on an endless loop inside my eyeballs. That all by itself is enough to keep me in line most of the time.

But just NOT doing bad things is not at all the same as doing good things. It is merely protection from my private version of hell. What if by doing good things you can create your own version of heaven? What if you get to see the fruits of your good actions and know that you made a difference? Some people say that at the time of your death, your life flashes before you. It seems to have been said enough times to make me think there must be some small grain of truth in the idea.

I have also read that in the moments before death, the brain releases a huge load of endorphins that eliminate pain and create a feeling of euphoria. It is this effect that accounts for the many near death stories of seeing loved ones, experiencing comfort, warmth and other positive sensations. It may also be responsible for the perception that one’s life flashes before them. If this does happen, wouldn’t it be wonderful if that life was filled with good memories and satisfying accomplishments? There is almost nothing we can do about the bad memories or failings in our life so far. We can use the AA model and make amends where possible but while that might ease our conscience it wouldn’t change the fact that we have those bad memories.

Maybe if we layer enough good memories over the bad ones, it might work as a sort of “majority rule” experience and overwhelm the negative memories and experiences. Unfortunately, I know that doesn’t work and I have the bad dreams to prove it. So what can we do? What should we do? And does any of it matter anyway?

Here is where I have to fall back on a conclusion I have reached in the past. I would rather live as if there was a heaven and be wrong than to live as if there was nothing after this life and be wrong about that. Even if there is no great end of life accounting or heavenly reward for good behavior, we still have to account to ourselves and knowing the torture I can inflict on myself for even small transgressions, I think I would prefer to err on the side of good. It seems like a good way to live—to try doing more good and less harm. I really can’t see the down side--unless it’s my own overactive guilt-o-meter. I probably feel guilty about the wrong things anyway and hope those final moments will unravel all my misconceptions and set me straight. I do hope I get to see the people I love again, even if it is an endorphin induced illusion. And I hope all my amends are accepted whether I have spoken them aloud or not.

So I will be happy to dance with NED again and allow myself to feel the need to pay back a little to a universe that has been kind to me yet again.

.