Cancer Teaches You Can’t Always Get What You Want

“But if you try some time, you just might find, you get what you need.”  (M. Jagger and K. Richards)

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“What most heroes don’t realize when they stumble on the Road of Trials is that this is where you find your faith.  Your ego will do anything to cling to the illusion of certainty, to grasp at comfort, and to believe that you can control your life.  The tendency to avoid uncertainty is rampant in our culture.  Uncertainty is un-American.  In reality, avoiding uncertainty is the goal of 90% of your ego’s choices.  The search for certainty is an addiction, and it’s deeply related to the pursuit of comfort.  We’ve been programmed since childhood to believe that if you’re successful, you have comforts—big homes, good food, nice cars, a big nest egg for retirement.  But what if we’ve been sold a booby prize?  What if living a meaningful, fulfilling life is about recognizing there is something beyond comfort and certainty, that uncertainty is a gateway to possibility?”

–Lissa Rankin, M.D., The Anatomy Of A Calling

Today is Sunday, July 3, 2016 and I will be having double mastectomy surgery in 2 days.  My dog has diarrhea and is a nervous wreck.  I explained to her last night, holding her cute fox face in my hands, that I am going to be fine, it’s a little, treatable thing I have called invasive lobular carcinoma, and she does not need to be so fucking nervous all the time.  I said it gently and did my best to hope she really understands English after nearly 9 years with us.  But then then the redneck mothers in my town of Golden began setting off M-80s and fireworks and she started shaking so hard she almost fell off the bed.  I hate the 4th of July.  I love the party in my hometown of Crested Butte and wish I was there now celebrating but I hate what the fireworks do to animals.  This morning Lhotse woke up early and needed to go out because of the diarrhea.  The doggie valium we gave her last night did little to quell the terror brought on by all the explosives in my neighborhood.  By this time next week I will also be on valium if I follow instructions from my doctor.  So the dog and I will be drugged and happy lying in bed.  That seems like a good plan for healing.

I woke up with some fear, and fear seems to dance at the edges of my vision these days, never really going away.  One of my dearest spiritual advisors, Alfred, listens to God all the time and really understands Him.  Me not so much.  I do say the “Our Mother” prayer with regularity though, and praying seems to take away the fear, or at least push it to the edges so I can get on with my day.

I’ve set a schedule for myself these next few days that clearly borders on the absurd.  I am making bone broth by the quart as I write this, and will be making mayonnaise, chocolate pudding, an egg—veggie bake, fresh lemon ginger popsicles and beef veggie stew, all of it sugar free and ketogenic diet friendly of course as I continue to starve my cancer.  I need to spend a few hours at work honing my explicit instructions for my staff, instructions they already know.  There is a trial on July 18th I cannot attend and there are clients who need things next week.  But that’s why I have an associate attorney and a paralegal (and co-counsel for the trial).  I have to let go.  I am not just entering a level of uncertainty right now with this big surgery; I have been in it all my life.  But denial runs deep and a little luck and tons of help and some success feeds that denial.  My ego likes to take credit for everything, well except the unfortunate life lessons of course.  And this ordeal is shaking me down to the core.

“There comes a time on your hero’s journey when your ego gets cornered and starts to panic.  You feel busted.  The jig is up.  There’s no place to hide anymore.  Your ego and your soul will battle it out to see who gets control of the wheel of YOU, and it won’t be pretty.  When it’s time for your Ordeal in the Innermost Cave, you’re going to be tempted to run screaming in the other direction.  Fear will rear up like a Tyrannosaurus rex.  This is your initiation, the test of your mettle.”

–Lissa Rankin, M.D., The Anatomy Of A Calling

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Fear is a liar.  It is seductive though, and probably addictive.  I am tired of fear.  Instead of acknowledging I am full of fear today, I have made up a schedule that would daunt 7 of the most enlightened personal assistants to the Dali Lama.  It involves cleaning and laundry and visiting with my dad and stepmom and sister’s family, walks, yoga, meditating, making enough food for an army, watering plants, gassing up vehicles, oh and washing them, somehow making my home office perfect, answering well wishes on Facebook, by phone and with handwritten thank you notes, making sure my electronics are all plugged in, organizing the 9 inches of medical papers into neat files, drugging my dog some more (fucking fireworks are happening at 9:00 a.m. on a Sunday around here), and possibly planning my memorial service so Fred won’t have to in the event of a problem on Tuesday.  But maybe that list is too big, and maybe I’m being a drama queen.  Spiritual advisors have suggested I turn to my higher power.  I heard I am on the list at a mosque, St. Joe’s (Catholic), a Baptist church in Texas and other places.  I have been sent prayers for Jesus, Rumi, Buddha, the Mother Goddess, Mother Earth, the grandfathers and grandmothers in a Native tradition, and others.  I’ll take them all and thank you for keeping me in your prayers.  I hope I am saying thank you enough.

My general surgeon, Dr. Stephanie Miller, is about as awesome a human being as I can find to take 98% of the breast tissue from my body in 2 days on July 5th.  We met last week for the pre-op appointment and went over all the worst things that could happen, as well as the expected outcomes.  Sort of like what I do in my head around 4:30 a.m. each day, by myself, with Fred sleeping next to me, and just as dawn is coming.  Only Dr. Miller is more positive.

She told me she asked her assistant about me once a week, and understood I had to go through my own process interviewing multiple oncologists and plastic surgeons.  She said “This process is harder on women who are intellectual.”  I told her Dr. Bateman, my plastic surgeon, told me that his patients who are “hyper type-A’s like you Marie” either do really well or really poorly, depending on how much, if any, of the process they try to control.  He told me that my intuition was correct 100% of the time, to listen to it, and once I made a decision about the type of surgery and treatment and doctors I was choosing, to then let go of the details and trust the professionals involved.  He told me to remember that he does this every day all day and so does Stephanie Miller.  He said to me that I was creating an art project with my body and the cancer, and that I just needed to choose what to do.  Fred almost gave him a standing ovation.

Dr. Miller ran the Colorado Marathon and said that all the way down the canyon she was thinking of me (and, I think, my funny story of having finished dead last out of about 300 people in that race about 5 years ago, a story I told her when we first met).

Because I don’t trust Anthem Blue Cross Blue Shield, even though I pay $547 per month for a “Silver Plan” with them, I called to make sure the general surgeon, the plastic surgeon and the anesthesiologist are covered.  They are, but Anthem will not put that pre-certification in writing.  In addition, both Dr. Miller and Dr. Bateman will have surgical assistants in the operating room and Anthem will not cover those persons.  Anthem did not give a reason and I spoke to a supervisor.  So in spite of paying $547 per month in premiums, paying $3,250 in a deductible plus 20% of the next $5,500 plus other costs that keep creeping in, I will have to pay $250 per hour for a general surgical assistant and $150 per hour for a plastic surgeon surgical assistant in the operating room for a number of hours on July 5th.  Ridiculous.

So why is another $1000 or so for a surgical assistant so annoying?  I don’t know.  I don’t need a Go Fund Me barn-raising for medical bills but I do need to continue meditating, doing yoga, being in nature, resting more than I ever have, staying calm, talking about my feelings when they come up, reaching out to people to try to be of service (without caretaking of course!) and I need to pace myself before this surgery.  And after too.  I wonder if being angry over an extra $400 per hour in the operating room is worth it.  Probably not.

People love to bash the Affordable Care Act, and it is certainly full of flaws to be sure, but prior to the ACA, at every law firm I worked at, health insurance premiums were going up every year no matter what, sometimes 30%, always at least 20%.  So the ACA didn’t change that, it just stayed basically the same it seems to me.  I do not believe that any kind of insurance should be for-profit.  Why?  Because you cannot have a duty to the people paying premiums, the insureds, and also have a duty to your shareholders to make a profit.  It’s a direct conflict whether it’s health insurance, property insurance, car insurance, life insurance or any other kind of insurance.  Period.

I am grateful today that Fred is on Medicare, that he was able to keep his great doctor, and that his insurance premium costs are a third of mine every month.  I’m also grateful that we can pay for the medical costs I am incurring, at least so far, and that is a luxury that I’m guessing more than 80% of Americans don’t have.  It is unlikely we will have our shelter or food or any basic needs placed in jeopardy because of medical bills, or have to have those medical-related debts discharged in bankruptcy.  It is unlikely I will be unable to continue to buy high quality organic food.  Eating extremely well has been for years a priority, but it is also an expense so many people don’t even get to consider.  Although my income is temporarily a little tenuous due to the inevitable slow down due to recovering from surgery, Fred is getting a job and we will be fine.  And clients will need help.  I have to just stay in the boat and ride out some stormy seas for a few months, maybe a year.

There is a lot to be grateful for these days.  I am grateful for clean sheets, going to bed early, good books, waking up to the first, tentative streaks of light around 4:30 a.m.  I’m grateful for Fred and his insight and telling me to take it easy (I sometimes even listen to him about that).  He is good at reading me and he is saving me from myself daily.  I love that man.  I’m grateful for my sister Kate coming to all of these appointments and for listening to me whine, cry, laugh, be scared, be happy and just be me multiple times per day.  I really don’t know what I would do without her.  I am so grateful for Sherrie, my old friend from Crested Butte, and her sister Debbie, for being there for me no matter what.  There are too many people to name who keep checking in and seeing if I am ok as surgery looms.  I might have to just list all the good things people have said and written to me and read that over and over again.

Last Friday my friend Steve Glazer died.  He outlived his pancreatic cancer diagnosis by over 3 years.  We’ve known Steve 44 years this summer.  He owned the Princess Theater in Crested Butte.  I saw Harold and Maude there, Bless the Beasts and Children, Sleeper, Slaughterhouse Five, King of Hearts, Midnight Express, Five Easy Pieces and Fantasia, among others, all by the age of 10.  I know, I know, not appropriate but those were different times.  We brought our sleeping bags to the Princess to lie down in the areas where there were no theater chairs, near the big potbellied stove, and we passed around huge bags of homemade popcorn and watched movies with a bunch of adults who were often as not, passing joints or tripping on acid, or both.  Tapley manned the projector and always let us in the theater no matter what the rating of the movie.  It was so much fun.

Steve gave me career advice all the time, beginning when I was a little kid.  In 7th grade I remember him saying, “You know Marie, two dishwashing jobs is not a good long-term plan.”  I told him, “Steve, I’m only in 7th grade!”  He told another, younger friend, when he “hired” her at age 11 to sweep the Princess, that “dinner was included” with her job.  Her parents were always in the bars and she was always hungry so of course Steve fed her.  What a treat to hear that from her this week.  The last time I saw Steve, last summer, he told me he was proud of me and that he “liked the direction the firm was going in” and told me to keep up the good work.  I remember so many things about him, mostly his kindness.  He let my sister and I housesit his geodesic dome when we were deeply untrustworthy teenagers.  He gave us Oreos when our mother, who was a hippie and very anti-sugar, didn’t allow it.  He gave us rides into town when we lived at Wildbird for a few summers.  He clucked over us when we were left to fend for ourselves early on.  He always told me I would be ok, that good things were coming if I worked hard.  He was right.

Steve knew my mother was not going to show up at my high school graduation in Colorado Springs in 1981.  I was “asked to leave” Gunnison High School my freshman year after Social Services discovered I was living alone in a trailer at age 14.  So I moved in with my dad in Colorado Springs, somehow made honor roll, and was awarded an academic scholarship to a college in Oregon.  Steve continued to check in, and showed up at my high school graduation along with my friends Debbie and Sherrie.  He drove nearly 4 hours to make sure an unsure kid knew he was proud of her.  I will miss him so much.  He championed us and loved us for a long time before we even knew he did.  Vaya con Dios Glaze, you made a difference.

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Cancer Teaches Patience

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Cancer is teaching me to let go of timing.  My surgery has been rescheduled for three weeks later, on July 5, 2016 at 2:00 p.m., not June 17th.  Why?  Because my original plastic surgeon was out of network and therefore very expensive.  Even with my “silver plan” health insurance, the plastic surgeon specializing in DIEP flap reconstruction would have cost me $8,000.  Plus a DIEP flap is an intense surgery to volunteer for.  In addition to the surgery after the mastectomies, where abdominal fat creates boobs, there will be 1-3 other surgeries, all under general anesthesia, to do liposuction to obtain more fat from “donor sites” in order to “shape” the breasts.  Sounds painful but it is possibly the only way a committed feminist such as myself could achieve a coveted mommy makeover without actually selling out to the patriarchal ideal of female, you know, because of the breast cancer trump card.

Implants will be just fine and there is just one more surgery after July 5th.  But then there is a “nipple-creating” surgery.  Oh and tattooing the areola.  I wonder if I should get rainbows or stars or a series of tiny paw prints.  But I will probably just get the recommended pinkish circles.

I went to my hometown of Crested Butte, Colorado a few weekends ago, narrowly avoiding the frenetic summer tourist energy that descends earlier and earlier every year.  I ran into my friend Sue who had breast cancer 11 years ago.  She generously showed me her rebuilt breasts and they were beautiful, as is she.  Then we talked on a big bed in her house while her son, who graduated from high school that morning, enjoyed the fun party she was throwing just upstairs.  I suddenly burst into tears talking to her and she just drew me close and told me, “This is what we do, we help each other.”  Such generosity in the middle of a very big milestone for her family.  But that is her nature.  It is good for me to hear good stories and know people who are now recovered and cancer-free.

The next day I ran into my friend Diner who also had cancer 11 years ago.  She chose not to have reconstructive surgery and she is so happy with her results that her enthusiasm is infectious.  She gave me a ton of hope and a huge, long hug.  She was the perfect person for me to run into right before I drove out of town back to my life on the Front Range.  Her story has a happy ending too.

In those two days in Crested Butte I ran into so many people who gave me giant hugs and told me they loved me that I lost count.  I walked through town in a fog of that love, and it took me a few hours to walk up Elk Avenue because I kept sitting on benches talking with people or ducking into cafes for coffee with them.  I am so grateful for feeling at home there, in spite of having left 17 years ago.  It will always be special to me, always leaves me wistful and wondering what I would have done if we stayed, and how we would have survived.  In my deepest heart I still want to be there sometimes.  And that time will probably come again, with patience and timing if I am lucky.  I hope so.

My friend Kay is an ICU nurse from the Pacific Northwest and I met her on my first day of freshman orientation at Pacific University.  She was a smartly dressed Seattle sophisticate and I was a country bumpkin feeling out of place, thinking college was probably a mistake.  My fallback plan was always to be on ski patrol in Crested Butte, do construction work in the summers and be a fulltime writer.  I didn’t need college for that, or so my 18-year old self said.  At Freshman Orientation, as I was standing alone, talking myself out of college and my scholarship, Kay said hello to me and the rest is history.  And now, 35 years later, she decided to fly out to take care of me for the week after surgery.  As an ICU/surgical nurse, she deals with drains, bandages and pain management all the time.  I am so touched she is coming.  I am also touched by my friend Kitty’s offer to come help, and maybe she will be able to for the second surgery.  Even my dear friend Glo, who around the 4th of July is as crazy busy as I’ve ever seen her with her birthday, the Black & White Ball, the Fourth of July parade and other events, offered to drop everything and come help take care of me.  And Sherrie too, recovering from shoulder surgery, offered to come for a week.  You know how to make a chronic caregiver cry?  Offer to be her caregiver.

Still, reality crushes in on me a few times per day and I become teary.  It’s a little about the fear but a lot about the sadness.  I always liked my boobs and I am sad they are going.  I wonder if other women feel this way.  The boyfriend I had in Paris when I lived there my junior year of college called me yesterday to see how I was doing.  We talked for a long time.  Then my Paris boyfriend said he knew that somewhere, in his attic in Connecticut, he had a beautiful black and white photo of me naked in Paris, and that he was going to find it and send it to me.  I don’t remember him taking it.  I wasn’t exactly the picture of chaste young womanhood at the time but I kept my clothes on around cameras, generally.  So I feel a little embarrassed, but of course I want to look at 20-year old me, naked in Paris.  Especially now, three weeks before surgery.  So I told him I’d love to see it but to please not tag me on Facebook with it which made him laugh.  And then, because I was filled with both rigorous honesty and a bit of mischief, I told Fred a naked photo of me was coming in the mail soon from someone I have not seen in 30 years.  Fred laughed and said, “Bring it on!”

These days I am saying no to caretaking but it is an ongoing challenge.  It’s not personal, but I cannot care-take anyone right now.  My energy is devoted to healing and I just can’t listen to negativity, and even the news is tough to deal with much of the time.   I know I’m supposed to be of service to others, as a rule, but since my energy levels are so low (not from cancer, from stress), I can’t quite discern the difference between being of genuine service to those I love and to those who come across my path, and being sucked into an energy-draining, parasitic vortex of negativity.  So, I am going to have to say no for now.  And maybe I have to retreat inward in response to all the attention because I have to get ready for this big surgery.  It’s not personal, it’s self-preservation.

That does not mean I don’t feel joy.  I feel it every day, especially with my dog Lhotse.  Pema Chodron says, “Joy has to do with seeing how big, how completely unobstructed, how precious things are.”  My dog’s spirit is big and is so carefree.  She is happy just to be out trotting along a sidewalk, even in oppressive heat.  She is just happy to be.  And sometimes she brings me a stuffed bear to try to share her happiness.

Each day I try to wear life like a loose-fitting garment, but I often fail.  Instead I find myself wearing life like a pair of size zero biking shorts on a size 14 ass, as I am riddled with various fears and attempts at control.  It’s ok to wear both, and I am not averse to Spanx-like support garments when appropriate.  One moment I’m so full of gratitude I’m buoyant and the next I feel I am stepping through a field covered in a thousand cow pie-sized fears that stick to my shoes.  But shit washes off.  Eventually.

I am still meditating.  I am resting well.  I am also in a self-imposed news blackout, or somewhat of one.  I am battling nerves, bad dreams about a scarred up chest and my fear Fred will be repulsed and others too.  That’s a bad dream two nights in a row.  And who are the “others” I’m showing my chest to anyway?   I am battling vanity and my insidious ego that predicts my nature is essentially shallow and furthermore, will not forgive disfigurement.  My mother would not let them take her breast, would not consent to disfigurement, and it killed her eventually.  Not me.  I love them but I will love the new ones and still be loving them when I don’t need a bra at 80 years old.

I have a half-assed but helpful yoga practice that consists of 4-6 poses every day.  I am stiff and uptight in the beginning but 10 minutes later I am better somehow.  I haven’t gone to classes lately because I just don’t want to cry in front of other people.  Even though Gary my yoga teacher tells me it’s ok to cry in yoga class, that everyone does it at some point.  So I do my half-assed yoga practice and that’s ok for now.  I have to forage for serenity where I can.  My friend Leah said she went foraging for serenity in the mountains this past weekend.  I love that idea.  I am borrowing it.

Then there is a friend of a friend, a young pastor, with soft-tissue cancer and a lovely friend just last week diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer.  Their cancers make mine look like the common cold, if the common cold required a double mastectomy.  I feel weepy and say prayers thinking about them both.

I am beyond thrilled I will be at a 5-day writing retreat in Tahoe in mid-November.  I re-wrote the first 7 chapters of my book after my diagnosis.  This is a book I wrote a first draft of and then shelved for about 5 years.  So a month or so ago I submitted the rewritten chapters and was one of five writers accepted to this retreat.  So I am writing more and more these days with a goal to finish a good second draft of the manuscript by mid-September.  It hasn’t been that hard to write once I am writing but I tell myself stories about how much more important work is, and somehow writing then seems frivolous.  But it’s not.  It’s saving me like writing saved me when my mother left me in the Philippines one morning when I was 10.  I began writing a few days later.  And that is actually where the book begins.  It begins with heartbreak.  But it is really funny too.

The owls are here only intermittently.  The surviving twin baby great horned owl is a good hunter and around less and less too.  Her parents observe her and the surrounding neighborhood with patience.  I wonder if they have been having baby owls every January and bringing them back to the neighborhood every April and I just haven’t noticed for 17 years until now.  I have been so driven working as an attorney all these years and it is just in the last few that I am paying attention to the open space and trees and sky around me, really noticing all the animals.

Thanks again for all the prayers, for Fred every day, for the people of my hometown, for my long lost Parisian romance, for the card from my sister’s Paris boyfriend Jeremy, for the Mindful Lawyers group in Google Groups, for my steadfast family and friends and neighbors and co-workers and colleagues and judges who have all reached out.  You have helped me more than you know, and made me feel so much love and support that I am overwhelmed by the love every single day.  Thank you so much.  Now on to July 5th and what lies ahead.

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Cancer Is A Good Teacher

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Yes, I was diagnosed a little over a month ago.  Invasive lobular carcinoma of the left breast.  Probably the same cancer that killed my mother.  But if I’m honest, crack cocaine hastened her death by decades, at least as much as her untreated breast cancer that eventually metastasized.  My cancer is giving me the gift of remembering so much about her and about her hard life, her shitty choices, her addictions, her incredible intellect and sense of humor, and her deep love for us kids.  One of the last things she ever said to me was, “The best thing in my life, the best thing I ever did, was have you kids.”  And she meant it with tears in her eyes and a body like an empty bag of skin and bones.  She would be gone a few weeks later.  I was 24 and could not fix the unfixable.  And that time in my life was about as hard as it sounds.

Cancer makes me mad she’s dead, mad she made the choices she did not to seek any “western” medical help.  Mad she was flooding her body with carrot apple juice and orange juice and rice on the Gerson Therapy when cancer cells, we now know, have the highest amount of insulin receptors of any cell.  She was feeding her cancer with tons of sugar with all those juices on that idiotic vegan protocol.  I know this is stupid now.  So do the doctors I consulted, including the ones who have cancer-centric, integrative functional medical practices.  I didn’t know anything then, but I was just a kid trying to believe she would be ok eventually.  I was the queen of magical thinking.  Her death made me make a hard turn into a new life four months later, a new path away from her lifestyle of destruction that had become my lifestyle of destruction.  And now, more than 28 years later, cancer is teaching me I have to forgive everyone for everything.  Again.  And so I must revisit my mother’s untimely death at 53, and forgive her for dying, for leaving us, for every last little thing I ever held on to.  Again.  Doing so is helping me live at 53.

The day of my diagnosis, my doctor called me to tell me I have invasive lobular carcinoma in the left breast.  I was sitting down but felt like I need to sit down anyway.  She said something about genetic testing since my mom died at 53.  “I’m 53 and I’m alive” I want to say.  I am silent though, and instinctively started taking detailed notes.  I noticed I needed to breathe when I sucked in air involuntarily.  I didn’t know I was holding my breath.  She asked me if she can make some appointments for me, with her breast surgeon and her oncologist.  I say sure.  I need help.  Then I thought, “At least I know I need help.”

There are people I need to call, a list starting with my husband Fred.  My sister.  My dad.  My brother.  A friend who knows I was waiting on biopsy results.  I worry that they will have a hard time with this news but I start calling.  I swing from knowing in my heart it will all be alright someday to hot tears spilling out of my eyes on to the yellow legal pad, tears that create blue ink rivers in my notes.

After the many calls I go home and we talk again.  Fred is strong.  I don’t know what to say.  I am fearful and I am also fiercely determined.  I’m grieving my mother again, and her choice not to have a mastectomy.  Would she be here now if she had?  My Aunt Gloria, my godmother, calls me and says, at age 85, she wishes she could sweep me up in her arms.  And then she tells me her cancer story.  My Aunt Cathy calls and tells me she loves me; that cancer is survivable and then she tells me her cancer story.  Their stories have good endings.  I need them and I need their stories with good endings.  I am not my mother.  I am alive.  It feels like I have been studying health and cancer since my mother was diagnosed in the 1970s.  I have so much information.  I read my faxed pathology report where my doctor states I am “highly intelligent and well-informed, a reader.”  That makes me happy.  But it also says I have cancer.

That night I slept fitfully and woke up at 3 a.m. to the dog barking.  The moon was nearly full.  I walked to the front of the house and peered out the window.  In the yard and in the street are the elk, standing and shuffling in the cold air and looking at me looking at them.  I can feel their strength and power.  I can feel there are greater forces at work that I cannot possibly understand.  The elk move away towards the open space, coats rippling in the moonlight, liquid black eyes looking at me.  I feel such a cloak of comfort from them.  I am able to sleep afterwards.  And then they stay around me in the open space for another 4 days.

It’s just the first night.  So I don’t know what will happen or what I will decide to do.  I am meeting with a breast surgeon, an oncologist, a radiological oncologist and a functional medicine oncologist.  I had genetic testing and will know in 3-4 weeks if I have the BRCA-1 and BRCA-2 mutations.  I make lists of questions for these doctors.  I try to talk about how I am feeling with people I can trust.  Everything is different.  I have to learn the lesson of taking care of myself.  It’s a lifelong one.  But for those first four days after the diagnosis, I walked with the elk herd and felt so alive and grateful.

Cancer is a puzzle of genetics, what turns genes on (epigenetics), stress, diet, thinking, environment and other factors.  We all have cancer cells in our bodies.  And our immune systems dispose of them.  Or not.  Cancer is making me look at the stress I perpetuated in my life, from deep in my childhood through adulthood.  I am meditating again.  I am slowing down.  I am saying no.  I am back to writing.  I am speaking my truth without fear.  I am eating a strict ketogenic diet.  My doctors told me my nearly ketogenic diet for the last 17 months slowed the growth of this cancer, that they are certain of that.  Now I am more strict and testing for ketosis a few times a day, eliminating foods that throw me out of ketosis.  I am actively starving my cancer with ketogenic eating.

I already have a very positive attitude and I am grateful that is my nature.  Magical thinking is not all bad and it’s worked for me in a lot of ways.  But I do not like or appreciate the tyranny of the New Age movement that tells me I caused my cancer, that if I was just was more positive and had better thinking, I would not have it or that I can cure it solely with my positive thoughts.  Or that this is karma for past behavior and thinking.  If you believe that, keep it to yourself.  I don’t need your punishing New Age bullshit, thank you very much.

That said, I take responsibility for my treatment and healing.  I take responsibility for the road I am on, the road I am choosing.  Some of my doctors disagree with it (such as my well-researched choice not to take Tamoxifen for the next 5 years).  Some of my friends, vehement vegetarians or vegans, none of whom have ever had cancer, none of whom are doctors or healers, who are, God bless them, trying to control the situation, and want me to “cure” myself with you name it:  Rife machines, other kinds of electronic zappers, Reikki, the Budwig protocol (an unproven diet plus flax oil is totally contraindicated for breast cancer), the Gerson Therapy, high intensity heat therapy and other “cures” from German and Mexican clinics, shamans, biomats, aqua-chi, magnets to tape on my boobs, eating only raw food, rebounding, baking soda, cold laser, black seed oil, medical grade hydrogen peroxide, high doses of curcumin, $4,000 water alkalizing machines, etc.  I appreciate that they care and want to help.  I do.  I actually already utilize many of the things they are suggesting (I’m teachable sometimes in a laughable way) and have done so for years.  I still ended up with a cancer diagnosis.  Many of these therapies or methods may be helping me but they clearly don’t cure cancer.  I love all of them for wanting to help by the way, and I have been that person wanting to help too.  But please do not call me or email me with your latest cure, “proven” only with testimonials, that you read about on the internet.  I don’t need that information.  I have so much information.  I am an excellent researcher.  And maybe consider that I have been interested in reading about cancer cures for many years, maybe since my mom’s diagnosis when I was 15.  Please consider that I am tired of saying, “Thanks but no thanks” when you tell me I “should” do this or that and worse, imply that if I don’t do what you are suggesting I do, I’m going to die.  Not helpful.

Cancer is becoming a gift but it’s too new for me to understand in any complete way.  I experience such a range of emotion every day it is like a roller coaster.  I am no spiritual giant, and I have to let the emotional storms roll through.  And like the weather, this too always passes.  When I forget to pray, which is often, I am reminded to do so sometimes harshly; forced into prayer while I’m in the deep troughs of my fear.

But hey, the doctors think it is early.  I do too.  There is a lot of good news.  This cancer was detected via biopsies after not showing up in 2 mammograms, not showing up in thermography, not showing up in 2 ultrasounds and not showing up in an Oncablot blood test.  My internist told me I really needed to get a biopsy and then my doctor, Kelly MacAleese at Women’s Imaging, agreed and ordered an MRI.  Based on the MRI, she did five biopsies which resulted in my diagnosis.  So Dr. Lipper and Dr. MacAleese saved my life.  Thank you incredible women.  I am their patient but they are more than just my doctors.  Invasive lobular carcinoma is rare, and usually is found after it is in several places.  I am so lucky to have cancer, as odd as that sounds.  But it is just the truth.  I am lucky.

I am scheduled for a bilateral mastectomy on June 17th.  I’ll be in the hospital overnight and then home for 2-4 weeks, (I’ve been told a range of 3-6 weeks so I am of course trying to control that by arbitrarily announcing a change in the time frame because of my unique healing capabilities which have never been tested).  I’m also told I will be unable to drive for 30 days or lift anything over 10 lbs for 6 weeks (again, clearly absurd instructions for someone like me but I will try to keep an open mind).  I expect I will be working an hour or two a day during my time at home (and I may have just made that up as well but it seems likely).  I’m being funny because I can’t help it.  But I promise I will not rush my recovery.  Please remind me of this promise.

Approximately 3 months later I will have reconstructive surgery, be in the hospital 3 days, and that will have a 4-6 week recovery according to the docs.  What I think I am getting, subject to me changing my mind or the doctors determining I do not have adequate body fat, is what is called a DIEP flap reconstruction.   That means they will take my own fat and create boobs.  If they determine I don’t have enough fat, I will feel awesome about that and want that news in writing so I can frame it next to the bathroom mirror and read it every day.  If I chicken out because it is such a big surgery, I will get a smaller surgery that involves just implants.  We’ll see.  Regardless, my medical team has promised me I will have the boobs I always wanted in high school.

My spirits are pretty good; I’ve had second opinions in oncology and plastic surgery, and 2 integrative medicine oncological consultations as well, plus an assessment from a former cancer specialist in NYC who is a friend’s father.  I now just need to see both an Amazonian witch doctor and a Masai shaman to complete my preliminary research into my condition.  I guess I should not be surprised that one of my consulting physicians called me a “hyper Type A”.

So, I’m in good hands and will know more in terms of the stage of the cancer and prognosis after surgery.  I feel optimistic, scared, determined, weepy and grateful.  And very weepy the last few days now that I have a surgery date.  All the research and second opinions filled my head with facts and figures but now I have to be in my heart, because I need to have faith that this will go ok, and I probably need reminders and help with that.

One friend, out of the blue, had a beautiful blanket knitted for me (see photo above) and also had it blessed by his pastor.  Another friend gave me a gorgeous piece of Ledger Art by a Mescalero Apache artist.  My Muslim friends at our favorite restaurant told me they are praying for me, and so are some Buddhists I know and a ton of Christians.  My dear friends who are on the Red Road conduct a healing sweatlodge ceremony every Thursday night that I attend when I can.  I feel those prayers.  I want all of your prayers.  I am not afraid to ask for them.  So please pray for me, or if you do not pray, send good vibes.  Thank you in advance.  I know I am surrounded by good people and good doctors and good, healing energy.

I have a lot of people to thank already for all sorts of reasons, including Fred of course, my sister for coming to all the appointments, my dear, childhood friend Kitty for taking a week out of her life to stay with us after surgery to ease me into recovery, my associate attorney Angie and my paralegal Amanda for pitching in so much during this time to cover my ass at work, neighbors too numerous to name, friends near and far who have offered to bring dinners and drive me places.  I’d also like to thank Alison Gannett for paving the way with her cancer and helping me with ketogenic eating, Dr. Carol Lipper and Dr. Kelly MacAleese for saving my life, Dr. Nasha Winters for running extensive genetics and showing me I have a genetic mutation that would make Tamoxifen ineffectual and make me prone to side effects like uterine cancer, my extended family, my dear friends in Crested Butte where I grew up, my friend Gina who took me to Sayulita for a very needed fun-filled week, my wonderful friend Robyn who explains the inexplicable, Constance who keeps me beautified and is so upbeat, my brother Mike who is always checking in on me and also his beautiful family, my new friend Shelly who I met walking down the street watching the elk, who is 6 years into her cancer journey and helping me with such selflessness, my dear friend Barb who tells me she know the angels have this situation, and have me in their arms, the animals who have come around me to help on a level I do not understand and cannot explain, and all the other forces in the universe helping me to change my life.  It is overwhelming to feel these waves of love and help.  And humbling.  Please think of me on June 17th, and in the weeks after.

 

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The Bracelet

Even though I have a penchant for exaggeration, I did not make up anything in the following story.  I even have a witness.

On Friday, September 16, 2011, I woke up early, kissed Fred as he walked out the door to go teach, and finished packing for my long weekend in Taos with my friend Marty.  I walked the dog, watching the sunrise.  It was a perfect day for a long drive.  The aspens were just beginning to turn in the high country; the clouds shifted constantly and with them the light on the mountains.

As much as I like a long drive, packing is not my strong suit.  Maybe because of, or in spite of, having traveled extensively, I now seem to pack like a Kardashian, minus the Louis Vuitton luggage, publicists and personal assistants.  I took enough clothing for a three-week trip that might include hiking or running in snow, rain or sweltering heat, none of which were actually planned, plus a few cowgirl chic barn dance outfits and the odd black cocktail dress.  While I no longer drink, packing for this weekend trip indicated otherwise.

Once I was on the road to Marty’s house in south Denver, a drive I used to do five days a week, the sea of traffic parted and what used to take at least 40 minutes, took only 19 and I wasn’t speeding.

Marty packed a perfect, tiny suitcase and as I opened the trunk I said, “You know, I want to wear my mom’s jewelry for the trip.”  Marty loves Indian jewelry and I know she wanted to see those bracelets as much as I did.  So after I dug around in the trunk and found Mom’s Navajo squash blossom bracelet, the one she bought in 1954 when she was 20, and her Hopi silver cuff, I slipped them on my wrists.  I always feel closer to her when I’m wearing those bracelets.

We drove out onto I-25 and Marty said, “Hey do you want to take the scenic route down 285?”  Looking at the traffic heading south down the Front Range, I said, “Sure, we’re not in a hurry,” and we headed off on Hampden.  Good conversation and the long, beautiful drive through South Park and the San Luis Valley loomed ahead.

At the base of Kenosha Pass, we were halted by construction for at least forty minutes, maybe longer.  But once we started back up again and the traffic thinned out, cresting Kenosha Pass, with the breathtaking expanse of South Park before us, made us both smile widely.  We passed fresh-cut hay rolled and ready to put up, at least five herds of antelope grazing, and red tail hawks drifted high above us.

We even forgot to put on any music because we were talking, with occasional interruptions to look at the shifting light on the mountains, the rolling rainstorms, yet another herd of antelope, and more hawks circling our journey south.  In no time we were at the junction of Highways 285 and 50, and Marty said she’d never been in downtown Salida.  It was 11:23 a.m. and I took a left towards town.  Sleepy little Salida is no more; and we could not find parking anywhere.  As we circled back away from downtown, I pulled into a side street and parked in the last spot I could find.  We stretched and noticed a small, Italian restaurant across the street.  We walked over and asked the elderly couple sitting on one of the benches outside when the restaurant opened.  “About thirty seconds,” said the woman.  Then she looked at Marty, “What an interesting ring.”  And she noticed my mother’s turquoise bracelet, “Did you know that is Navajo?”  I said I did and asked where they were from.  “Arizona,” she replied.   And with that the doors opened and we all went in.

Marty ordered her food at the cash register and sat down while I went to the restroom.  Then I ordered and, as I was walking towards Marty, I passed the elderly couple’s table.  I don’t pretend to know what prompted me to stop.  I just did.  And I asked them, “Where are you from in Arizona?”  The woman with the snowy white hair smiled and said, “Northern Arizona.”  “What part of northern Arizona?”  I said, now curious.  “Winslow and Flagstaff.”  So I said, “Did you ever know a woman named Nancy Martin?”  The woman looked at me hard and replied, “She was my best friend.”  I smiled, incredulous, and said, “I’m her daughter!”  The man with her laughed and said, “Look at her, that’s Nancy’s smile, of course!”  Turning to me he said, “You look just like her!”  My voice was gone, but then I croaked, overcome, “Oh my God!” and burst into tears.

I tried to compose myself, but that wasn’t happening.  “My name is Marie Drake, it was McHale.  Can I sit down here?”  Which I did and then I jumped back up to tell Marty I’d just met my mother’s best friend.

Their names were Lorraine and Gerry.  I sat with a thud in the extra chair at their table.  “When did you know her?”  Lorraine said, “From the time she moved to Winslow around age 10 until the time she went to the University of Arizona at Tucson.”  1944 to 1951.  Eight years.  I couldn’t control my tears.  It was like something was wrenching loose, something I didn’t even know I was holding onto.

Lorraine teared up too.  She told me her father and my grandfather, Step Martin, worked together on the railroad.  I countered, “Yes, he left the railroad when he got injured, that’s why he was called Step, you know, from the limp.”  “No, no, no”, she said, “He was fired for his drinking and he was a big drinker.  And Nancy’s mother Ruth drank too but I think they called that ‘nervousness’ back then.”

Lorraine talked and told more stories.  The heaviness in the center of my chest, the thing that formed and defined me in so many ways the morning my mother left us in the Philippines when I was ten, started to feel differently, lighter, as if I’d been doing a bunch of backbends in yoga.  Even eating Italian food for lunch, I felt lighter.  So I smiled and cried at the same time, because the world was cracking open.  Here was my mother’s best friend telling me stories about a tall, smart, well-liked girl with who was funny, had friends and dreamed big dreams.  So I listened.  For once.

Jerry said, “Your mom had all that trouble with alcohol and drugs and then the last we heard she was a ski bum.  I couldn’t understand it.  She was so smart and could have done so many different things.  You know your mom had a big crush on me in 8th and 9th grade, but she wasn’t my type, she was so tall and smart and us boys were all scared shitless of her.  Lorraine is my type.  You know Lorraine and I met again at Winslow High School’s 50th reunion of the Class of 1951 and got married in our 70s.  And Winslow High’s 60th reunion is next weekend.  Do you want to come down there and speak to all of us?  Also, I made a DVD for the reunion and Nancy is in it—and at all the reunions she is always on the Gone But Never Forgotten wall.  No one will ever forget your mother.  I’ll send you a copy.”  “Thanks” was all I could manage.  Then Gerry left for a previous commitment.

Lorraine kept talking and I started crying again, falling apart in a small Italian restaurant in Salida in front of people I didn’t know.  But I did sort of know Lorraine.  And she knew my mother when Mom was young and probably happier than most of time I knew her.  Hearing Lorraine talk about the fun they had started to round out Mom’s childhood for me.  The few stories I’d heard about childhood were not good ones.

Lorraine interrupted Gerry leaving and my blubbering, “She was my best friend.  She was a great friend.  I wish we’d stayed in touch more after her first year or so in college in Tucson.  You know she was fearless, right?  When we were sixteen, she drove me to the worst bar on Route 66, where all the Mexican knife fights happened.  She walked right in, bought a bottle of wine from the bartender and walked out.  We drove somewhere and got drunk for the first time.  God she was so smart too, you know she was valedictorian, right?”  “Yes.”  I’d become monosyllabic.

“She was already a drinker in high school,” said Lorraine.  “I’m not surprised,” I managed to say.

Marty decided to go scout art galleries while Lorraine and I sat on the bench outside the restaurant and talked for nearly an hour.  As we walked outside, she looked up at me and said, “My, aren’t you a great big girl.  How tall are you?”  Well 6’1” Lorraine.”  “Nancy was about that size wasn’t she?”  “Yes, 6 feet.”

After sitting down Lorraine said, “I can tell you love her so much.”  I nodded.  “Now didn’t you have a younger brother and sister?”  “Well, no, Mike is 3 years older and Kate is 18 months younger.”  Then I told her how proud I am of them and the families they have and the lives they’ve created.  Lorraine invited us all to come to Salida and spend time with her and with Gerry.  “You know Gerry would never say it but he won multiple awards from the Federal government and the Navajo tribe for his work with the Navajos.  He worked on the reservation for thirty years, maybe longer.  If he set his mind to it he could have been a millionaire!  But he has too big a heart.  Wasn’t your mother teaching on reservations?”  “For a while,” I respond.  “We couldn’t believe she became a ski bum.”  Silently I think about what could have been, but I feel now I was supposed to grow up how and where I grew up.  I finally feel like everything that happened, especially all the painful stuff, gives me so much in the way of experience to help other people.  Plus Mom wanted to have fun, and to impart that to us.  What better way for her to do that than to move to a drug-filled, no boundaries, ski town in the 1970s?

I was thrilled at every tiny bit of new information about my mother.  Lorraine was so generous.  I wanted to ask her everything she could remember.  It was like Mom was standing silently by, playing a loving little trick on me that day, here in the heart of the Rockies she loved.  And just when I was least expecting it, not that I could ever expect something this good.

After nearly an hour I hugged Lorraine goodbye and walked to the gallery where Marty was buying an oil painting of two deer butts.  It was a nice painting, as deer butts go.  We went by Safeway for drawing paper and while I stood in line at the Starbucks there, I saw Gerry again, who told me he was going to send me the DVD he made for the 60th Winslow High School Reunion.  Then he said, “Nancy was a queen, did you know your mother was a queen?”  I shook my head.  Was he thinking she was like a queen because she had a regal bearing I never noticed or was it just the fact of her being six feet tall?  “She was a homecoming queen at the University of Arizona down in Tucson.”  “Really?”  “Are you sure you’re thinking of the same woman?”  I’d never heard this before.  No one in the family had.  Then Gerry added, “You know the last time I saw your mother she was in graduate school at Northern Arizona University in the early 1970s and I was teaching there.  She was going through a bad divorce and told me your dad loved his planes more than he loved her.  I wish we had connected more.”  “Me too Gerry.”  For the second time in 90 minutes we hugged each other goodbye.

The next morning I woke up at 4:30 a.m., unable to sleep.  I’d been thinking about this encounter, my mother’s life, how fleeting our time is here, and how I wished I’d known this younger, happier version of her.  Sneaking out of the motel room, trying not to wake Marty in the next bed, it appeared there was nothing going on in sleepy little Taos at 5:00 a.m. on a Saturday.  So I bought bad coffee at a gas station and watched the sun rise.  Then my phone buzzed with an email.   It was from Gerry.  He had attached a beautiful, two-page letter of memories of my mom, two pages that he’d written after meeting me the day before.  He wrote, “

“I want you to know the minute you told Lorraine and me that you were Nancy’s daughter it gave us such joy to reach back and capture once again, for only a short time, that persona that was your mother —a wonderful and unique example of what the crucible of Winslow has produced.”  He added, “I most often clearly see your mother that day in 1947, standing aside one of those little diners prevalent throughout the Southwest.  As I drove those many miles across the Navajo rez I entertained myself with songs that brought back fond memories of Winslow.  “Nancy with the Laughing Face,” (Sinatra’s song about his wife/daughter} was a favorite and always brought a vision to mind of your mother and for some reason, “How Are Things in Glocca Morra?” from Broadway’s “Finnegan’s Rainbow” also brings her back in my heart and mind.  It was later in life that I learned your Mom was Homecoming Queen at the University of Arizona that I reevaluated my chance to have been closer to your mother.”

Well I’ve reevaluated my chance to have been closer to her too, Gerry.  What could I have done differently?  Turns out a lot.  But I wanted to grow up and find my own way.  I was exhausted by her, exhausted way before she had cancer or fell into the deep crevice of her drug addiction, the one she never did climb out of.  I’d been taking care of her for a long time in many ways.  We all had.  Parents with mental illnesses mostly don’t mean to do that to their kids, but I sure felt seared with responsibility at young age, and by my late teens I was flat burned out.  I wanted my own life.  I was growing up, which meant growing away from her.  It’s just too bad that occurred in her last years, and that neither of us knew how to talk about it.  Plus I had the epic denial of the young; I assumed we had years and years ahead of us for interesting trips and visits, long talks on the phone, and eventually living in the same area again.  But we didn’t.  And she would not have wanted me to swim around in a sea of endless recrimination, I know that.  It’s a form of self-indulgence too.  So if there ever was a time to forgive myself, it might be now.

When I arrived at my office the Tuesday after the weekend in Taos, there was a package waiting for me from Gerry and Lorraine.  In it was the DVD Gerry made for Winslow High School Class of ‘51’s Sixtieth Reunion.  I watched it right away.  There was mom in a plaid skirt and bobby socks, in Thespian Club.  And again there she was in the group photo for the staff of the student newspaper, The Meteor.  And, to my surprise, a photo of the commencement program from the spring of 1951.  It said, “Nancy Ruth Martin, Valedictorian.  Her commencement address was titled, “Onward with Democracy.”   Finally, there was a photo of her in cap and gown, the future stretching out before her.

The class of 1951 had 76 kids in it and they include whites, Hispanics, two black kids, Navajos, Hopis and mixed bloods.  Lots are gone now sixty years later and I wish Mom wasn’t one of them.  I think they’d better start having a reunion every year.

This is not a story I can tell yet without crying.  And I find each morning, whether I put on a suit or jeans, I wear my mother’s bracelets, bracelets that were on her tanned wrists through thick and thin, from the early 1950’s on.

On the drive back to Colorado, Marty said to me, “Maybe this isn’t about some sort of healing gift for you, maybe it’s about a healing gift for Lorraine and Gerry.  Maybe you’re the gift.”

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Mamá, todavía te extraño.

Mom, I still miss you.

Twenty-three years later I still do.  I miss your laugh that started low and built up into something loud, contagious and hard to ignore, especially in public,  your ranting about how Reagan ruined the country, about the growing, callous disregard for the working poor which I’m sad to say continues, and the goofy way you danced at Grateful Dead concerts embarrassing us. I miss your talks about migrant workers needing help with pesticide and herbicide poisoning, education for their kids and access to basic hygiene.  I miss your anger about Native Americans and genocide, rich hippies and hypocrisy, gender discrimination and radical feminism.  I miss the wistful way you talked about a man who asked you to marry him in an Iowa cornfield and then died in a river in Vermont.  I miss your huge, impossible lists for the book mobile, and your huge, impossible lists of great books we had to read.  I miss your analysis of the failed promises of the 1960’s and the social change you were still waiting on.  I miss your loneliness over friends you thought you had who weren’t there for you.  I miss how you tried to insist we all learn Spanish because One Hundred Years of Solitude was so much better in that language.  Two of the three of us did and I wish I had.  I miss your self-righteousness about eating organic food and supporting organic restaurants and farms, your love of the Mother Goddess and your confirmed suspicions about hypocritical self-declared, California gurus who were really just sexist egomaniacs.  I miss the way you buried money in mason jars and and then forgot where you buried them and how you cooked pinto beans in the cast iron Dutch Oven on the roof of the station wagon in Baja because it was that hot.  I miss the way I caught you looking at me once, when we camped with Katie in the desert under huge palm trees near the only water for miles but not too close, because you wanted to make sure the desert animals had comfortable access to it.  In your look I could see, and I knew how much, you loved the three of us and how deeply you felt you failed us.  I miss the “No Bozos Allowed” bumper sticker on the Buick station wagon, the affirmations and Zen chants and prosperity thinking. I miss the beautiful clothes you sewed from seconds at LL Bean woolen mills, the faith you had in us and the impossible demands you made that tested the faith we had in you.  I miss your sense of adventure and the way you started surfing in your 50’s when the cancer went into remission.  And I miss your notebooks filled with long lists of people you needed to forgive for firing you, humiliating you, rejecting you, hurting you, especially the ones who fell out of your life once you had cancer.  And on those lists was even your father, for shooting your half coyote puppy when you were a tiny girl and for what he did to you and later, to us.  And how you never allowed him to see us again, until almost 20 years later at Mike’s wedding when we were grown up.  I miss the way you said, matter-of-factly, “If I don’t forgive them, who will?”

I miss it all, even the shit storms of unmedicated manic insanity and the inevitable crashes into debilitating months-long depression, because if I didn’t have those parts of you too, I didn’t have all of you, and it was worth it to have all of you.  I wish I had made that more clear to you.

Mama, todavia te extrano.  Viente tres anos.  A blink of an eye.  I’d like you to know I’m working on forgiving everyone for everything too.  Once in a while, sometimes for just a moment, it feels as though I even have.

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New Habits Die Hard

I’ve subscribed to a fantastic blog, Zen Habits, by Leo Babauta.  He recommends getting up a little earlier each day, until one has enough unfettered time in the morning for exercise, writing and/or a spiritual practice.  Because he seems like a really cool guy, I decided to take his advice.  Plus I’ve been lately, as in the last few months, steeped in some dangerously ungrateful, free-floating  feelings of dissatisfaction, chronic hurriedness and Luftwaffe-strafing-take-no-prisoners-irritability.  Good times.

On my new schedule, I am showered and dressed for work, minus work shoes, by 5:45 a.m.  That way I have a leisurely 45 minutes to wallk and run with the dog.  It’s too cold to sweat and although my hair is often smashed down by a hat, it seems to make more sense, for now, for me to be ready for work before I exercise.  I tried it the other way and due to some sort of morning time warp, I found myself constantly in a hurry, trying to simply make it to work on time.  I suppose if I start running more than walking I will have to try the reverse again.

With daylight savings time I was sure I would ease into this new routine with minimal effect.  Instead of waking up a little earlier each day as Leo Babauta suggests, I naturally just set the alarm for an hour earlier and got up like I joined the military.  The ole “Buck Up” approach.  And it’s not working all that well.

But today I had a fun walk-run with the dog as the sun rose in the first November mist.  Granted I looked a little odd in a wool skirt, tights and running shoes, with a wool blazer topped off by a ball cap, but it was dark, then barely dawn.  Maybe my inner Babushka needs to come out to play.  At any rate I came home in  plenty of time to drink coffee, eat some oats cut with quinoa and a tablespoon of almond butter, and drive off to work so early I was stress-free.  But it was in my blissed out Zen state that I misplaced my cell phone, drove back home, still couldn’t find it and drove off to work, barely making it, all the while saying the F word repeatedly.  Not very Zen of me.

Now I just need to figure out how to incorporate writing into this new schedule.  Leo Babauta has advice on that too.  He is a writer who never copyrights anything he writes-not his blog posts nor his  his books.  And yet people are buying his books by the thousands, taking his seminars and signing up for his blogging bootcamps.  This is a man with, if I read the numbers correctly, over 200,000 people subscribing to his blog, Zen Habits.   I don’t understand.  And he appears to sail through all of this with what I perceive to be astounding serenity.

Back to my new habit of arising long before dawn.  It’s not working all that well because I seem to need to go to sleep around 8 p.m., which is not practical given my burgeoning holiday social schedule.  And I am fatigued much of the time, but that might be because I recently started eating about a pound of organic kale every day.  Superfoods can make you detoxify and detoxification can make you feel tired.  Then you become Super Food Girl.  While I’m only on day 4 of my delicious kale plan, I already feel better.  I am also so full of kale I don’t have an appetite for things that aren’t good for me.

My fatigue starts to set in just after 10 a.m. now that I am trying to be like Leo Babauta.  And as a 6’1″ woman, it is difficult trying to be a short, bald man from Guam.  Plus fatigue early in the day is not practical since there is an expectation by my employers that I will work at least seven hours past 10 a.m.  Maybe it will just take a few weeks to get in the swing of this new schedule and the kale munching, but I am determined to build these small changes into habits.

Also, if Super Food Girl keeps eating kale every day and getting up early, she will become an incredibly prolific writer, or at least get that damn book proposal finished and off to the very important person who was interested back in August.   So tomorrow I will rise a little earlier and write a little more.

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Gratitude List

Happy Halloween.

The photo is of a juvenile red tail hawk at dawn last month.  I took it with my iPhone.  This hawk, who I saw again on my walk this morning, is one of the things I’m grateful for today.

Last night Fred was returning from the Air Force Academy-Utah football game with my Dad.  After he dropped Dad off, he drove up I-25 and hit a bunch of debris in the middle of the interstate at about 75 mph.  Piles of wood or something that fell off a truck.  The impact sheered off the front license plate, dented and scratched up the right side of the car, did something to the alignment, ripped the side mirror and pushed some metal bar siding thing askew, but Fred was unhurt.  I’m so grateful for that, and that he took my big, heavy car down to the game instead of his Subaru.  I’m also grateful we are insured.

While Fred was at the game I went downstairs and discovered water coming out of the light fixture in the guest bathroom.  It could have been a broken water pipe.  I could have needed a plumber on a Saturday night.  But no, the drip was caused by condensation in the dryer vent which was packed with lint and a fire hazard.  The number one cause of house fires is lint according to my sister.  Easily fixable thanks to my brother-in-law Vince who came right over and pulled out the light fixture and used a flashlight and compact mirror to figure it all out.

I have so much more to be grateful for I can’t list it all here.  We are both employed and healthy, as is the rest of the family.  Bills are paid.  Election-related ads will soon be history.  And this might be the last, glorious autumn weekend before winter sets in.

But I’m sad today to learn of the death of my old friend Norm Patten, of cancer, on October 29th.   I’m thinking about his wife Christina, his daughter Emilie and his son Rewk.  I used to babysit Rewk back when he was called Rewkie.  Even at about 5 years old Rewkie was good at every sport he tried and a handful to babysit.  I also worked with Norm and Christina as a dishwasher and bus girl at the Elk Mountain Lodge when I was in 7th and 8th grade and I played softball with Christina on the Ruthless Babes.  They seemed so happy with my good work ethic-I was never late and even at 13, I felt compelled to sterilize every possible surface in the kitchen every day.  It was probably a sign of some OCD to come.  But by just showing up on time and wanting to clean everything with Clorox and a toothbrush I was clearly different from the average hungover hippy dishwasher.  My friend Tracey told me they took back-to-back river trips last year:  two and a half weeks in Alaska followed immediately by three weeks in the Grand Canyon on a paddle trip.

I think seeing the Pattens together as a family back when I was a kid was inspiring.  They were one of the few families in town staying together when all around me people were divorcing over alcohol, adultery, cocaine, money woes and the ubiquitous 70’s reason:  “needing space”.  I remember so few adult relationships that lasted or went unscathed by the turmoil of drugs, sex and rock and roll.  But the Pattens were a unit, a rare, solid family, and Norm was a good husband and wonderful father.  I saw that with my own eyes and it gave me hope.  I’m so grateful I knew him.

Rest in peace Norm.  Vaya con Dios mi amigo.

 

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