Honkytonk-cajun-hippiebilly-blues

The chemo treatments have changed my normally active life… I just don’t have enough energy for clearing brush anymore (as I did last year) or for a long hike in the woods. So to keep in good physical shape we have started to walk each evening. Last night we returned to Boulevard Park to walk along the waterfront boardwalk. It was a busy place and off in the distance we could hear the sound of live music. We didn’t know it then, but we were heading towards an end-of-summer dance sponsored by the Bellingham Parks and Recreation: As a token of appreciation to the community, Bellingham Parks & Recreation invites everyone to the annual Dance on Taylor Dock on August 30th. Enjoy the “honkytonk-cajun-hippiebilly-blues” of Jon Parry, Joe Paquin and friends in a truly scenic location. What fun! It was mostly an “over the age of fifty” crowd who clapped enthusiastically and tried to remember how to dance the hustle. A younger couple wowed us all with their break-dancing. Two people listened to the music from a small boat tied to a piling. We ended our walk at Wood’s Coffee where we enjoyed an iced drink called the Mudslide… a combination of espresso, iced cream, white chocolate, dark chocolate, and toasted marshmallow. As we left, we watched the sun set over Bellingham Bay. And we were just going for a walk.

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A Great Day

It is a beautiful Saturday in Bellingham. More than fifty sailboats cover the waters of Bellingham Bay, their colorful sails filled with a gentle breeze. (We can see them from our Loft windows.) The Farmer’s Market fairly buzzes with energy, perhaps because today is Kid’s Vending Day. It’s always great to see these young entrepreneurs with their card tables and hand printed signs. They are nervous, sometimes shy, but when I compliment them on what they have made or grown, their faces light up with pleasure. Today I purchased a bouquet of flowers from a young redhead. When I asked if she had grown the flowers herself, she pointed to her longhaired brother and said that he had. The cloth-covered table was filled with herbs and lettuce and small bunches of vegetables. Other kid vendors had hand-painted flowerpots, jewelry, and cards.

I saw the first of the local corn… still a bit small. There was cauliflower in purple, green, and peach tones, heirloom tomatoes, and older varieties of apples and crab apples. We bought cheese curds from a small dairy vendor, and peanut butter from a bread vendor. And of course, another basket of organic raspberries for my morning granola.

We continue to explore our new city home and are always finding surprises. Last night we walked a paved path in Boulevard Park (a park that edges the Bellingham Bay waterfront), watched the sun set, stood on an overhead pedestrian bridge while an Amtrak passenger train zipped beneath us, and found the Woods Coffee shop, which we plan to go back to later. And yesterday I read this in the Bellingham Herald - “Ridership on Whatcom Transportation Authority buses has grown faster than in any other major U.S. city, according to recently released Federal Transit Administration statistics.” Way to go Bellingham!

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Follow Your Dreams

I grew up devouring my grandparent’s collection of National Geographic Magazines. I dreamed of trekking through jungles and riding camels across deserts. I had plans to take passage on a tramp steamer after high school and ride a bicycle through Europe, staying at youth hostels. But college intervened, then marriage and the years of raising a family. But the dream wasn’t abandoned, merely postponed.

In 1982, I took my first international trip. At the age of forty-three, I found myself climbing down out of a small plane in the African republic of Zimbabwe. Having only recently achieved independence (formerly the British colony of Southern Rhodesia), military personnel operated the airport and the bus ride to the Victoria Falls Hotel took us past manned armored tanks. For a small town Oregon girl, this was an eye-opening introduction to the rest of the world. It was also the first time I had ever experienced what it was like to be “the minority.” My white face set me apart everywhere I went, and the stares I received were not necessarily friendly. But I walked in the thundering mist of Victoria Falls, one of the most spectacular natural wonders of the world, took a moonlight cruise down the Zambezi River, and rode in a Land Rover through Wanki National Park (now Hwange National Park) to see lions, giraffe, wildebeest, zebra, and some of the largest herds of elephant in Africa. I have to admit that along with the thrill of being in a strange and unfamiliar place came butterflies in the stomach and the doubts, “What am I doing here?” But the trip to Zimbabwe only whetted my desire for more, and in the intervening years my childhood dream of trekking through jungles and crossing deserts has been amply fulfilled.

Thinking about your death brings life into greater focus. Perhaps that accounts for the popularity of the “things to see and do before you die” books. As I look back upon my own life I realize how fortunate I have been. The world has become a more dangerous place since that first solo adventure in 1982. “Zimbabwe Violence Reaches Crisis Level,” an Amnesty International headline proclaimed in May of this year. It is best not to wait. Follow your dreams, whatever they may be... even if it means tying balloons to your lawn chair.

Lawn Chair Balloonist

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Happy Birthday

Today my son Jeff celebrates his 47th birthday. Like the passing years, the paved miles of Interstate 5 stretch between us, helping to keep us connected. Jeff weighed only 4-pounds 3-ounces when he was born and was placed in an incubator until he reached the grand size of a five-pound bag of sugar! He was small, but packed with enough energy and enthusiastic curiosity to keep me on my toes all during his growing up years. It’s hard to believe that that little boy is now approaching the half-century mark. Happy Birthday Jeff!

Jeff chooses an early birthday gift… a bar of sea salt soap.

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Putting Everything Into Perspective

Bob and I sat at a picnic table at the Farmer’s Market on Saturday. It was hot and we were enjoying glasses of strawberry-lemonade. The tables were filling up and a bright-faced woman with gray hair asked if she could share our table. Perhaps it was the straw hat I wore. Perhaps people who become participating members of the cancer world just recognize each other. Whatever the reason, we soon learned that Martha was an ovarian cancer survivor of three years. I am too much of a loner to feel comfortable with support groups, but on a one to one basis such as this, it was encouraging to sit with someone who has “been there” and come out the other side. We laughed knowingly and agreed “Cancer certainly puts everything else into perspective.”

When she reached the age of seventy-seven, British mystery writer P. D. James took the advice of another British author, Samuel Johnson (1709-1784) - “At seventy-seven it is time to be in earnest.” James began writing her autobiography in the form of a diary. She writes in her prologue:

So tomorrow, on 3rd August, I shall write the first entry in a record which I propose to keep for one year, from my seventy-seventh to my seventy-eighth birthday. Will I persist with this effort? Only time will tell. And will I be here at the end of the year? At seventy-seven that is not an irrational question. But then is it irrational at any age? In youth we go forward caparisoned in immortality; it is only, I think, in age that we fully realize the transitoriness of life.

TIME TO BE IN EARNEST was published in 2000 for her 80th birthday. Fortunately for all of us P.D. James fans, writing her memoir hasn’t stopped her from continuing to write and publish Commander Adam Dalgliesh mysteries.

Melanie, a friend who shares my love for nature sent me a story (and photos) about one’s man amazing experience with black bears… He writes that Native Americans have a saying to describe this kind of experience between man and animal, "We have walked together in the shadow of a rainbow." Even though Melanie and I no longer live in wild places, we both feel blessed to have known that feeling. We too have walked in the rainbow’s shadow.

Past, present, and future. It is time to put my life into perspective.

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Moving Day

Saturday proved to be a bigger day than I expected. After a couple of down days from my last round of chemo, I was looking forward to the weekly Farmer’s Market. This time we planned to pick up fresh produce to stock the empty refrigerator at the Loft, our soon-to-be new home. Bob, who loves to cook, could hardly wait to get into the beautiful modern kitchen. Living in an off the grid log cabin has its charms, but cooking on a woodstove is not one of them.

Last week local tomatoes had just begun showing up at the market. Today the heirloom tomatoes arrived in all their varied colors, shapes and sizes… and packed with flavor you will not find in the supermarket. We bought a small container of them to add to the mixed salad greens we also purchased. Fresh broccoli, small red potatoes, a Walla Walla sweet onion, a flat of mixed berries (raspberries, blueberries, and boysenberries), a tub of sweet butter, and jar of honey… all went into our cloth shopping bag. We had planned to get some fresh baked goods too, but my energy level suddenly dropped to zero and we drove the two blocks to the Loft instead.

We have furniture now. Bob put together the new bed on Thursday using his Leatherman (all of his tools are still in Canada). We put the fresh produce in the refrigerator; I watered the Peace Lily and the herb pots on the kitchen windowsill. Then I sat on the sofa, watching sailboats skim across Bellingham Bay. It definitely felt like we were at home except for one thing. “Let’s go get the cats.” Once the cats were here it was all over; the move we planned to make on Sunday came a day early. Of course we didn’t have much to move.

Bob got busy searing a couple of tuna steaks while I put together a fresh salad. The cats explored… well Misty explored. Meadow hunkered down at the back of a closet until much later in the evening. We watched the sun go down, boats steaming in to port, and the city lights come on. Somewhere a clock tower chimed the hour. And unlike our first night at the B.C. cabin where we heard a great horned owl hooting from a nearby tree, and deer mice scurried unembarrassedly across the floor, here we listened to train whistles.

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A Second Opinion

Everything I have read about the treatment of cancer strongly recommends getting a second opinion. This is Bob’s update to friends and relatives on just such a second opinion, and a wonderful confirmation on the treatment that I am currently receiving. … PLM

Yesterday (19 August) we drove to Seattle for a second opinion on Morningstar's condition and treatment. It was a rainy, dark day and the traffic was heavy, but the news was good. We met with a Medical Oncologist at the Puget Sound Cancer Centers. He was highly recommended and the PSCC are well thought of in the medical community. We had sent copies of her chart materials the week before and he had set aside 75 minutes for the consultation.

After a brief exam and history taking he said that Morningstar's response to treatment was remarkable, he had only seen one other person in 5 years actually have a collapsed lung re-inflate and experience tumor shrinkage after only two chemotherapy sessions. This allowed the Doctor to conclude that if all went well, Morningstar could certainly expect both more time and a better quality of life than had originally been projected. He also felt that the treatment regime was not only adequate but admirable and asked our permission to write a letter to Morningstar's physician commending him on his work.

We went away reassured and certainly more hopeful. So why was the second opinion necessary? Our current physician is obviously technically very competent, but must have been trained in people skills by Eeyore. Hope is a vital part of any treatment process and while the Doctor we met with yesterday did not in any way minimize the awfulness of this disease and gave no Pollyannaish predictions, he did point out the remarkable results so far, reassured us about the current treatment (and our physician), and brought compassion, humor, and expertise to the discussion.

Now we must make the effort to re-engage our own doctor and work to open up more substantive communications. The letter from the PSCC Medical Oncologist will help, but the real work will be ours. The treatment Morningstar is getting is leading edge stuff and the results are exceeding expectations. Now we need to get us all acting as the team that is promised in the brochures. Go team.

… Bob

Round Three

Yesterday I had my third round of chemotherapy, hooked up to an IV from 8:30 in the morning to 2:00 in the afternoon. The first drip is Benedryl and an anti-nausea drug to get me ready for the high-powered chemo to come. When the Benedryl kicks in I am a pleasant state of drowsiness like I have just enjoyed a couple of glasses of wine. I can’t focus on reading or writing in the notebook I had optimistically tucked into my bag, so I look around the infusion room at all the other patients sitting in cushioned chairs like mine. There are twelve chairs, three on each side of the large room, all facing towards the center. There are curtains between the chairs that give the illusion of privacy, but as I look out across the room I can see the others, bald headed or wearing caps and scarves, sleeping or visiting with a friend. The room is full today… eleven of the twelve chairs occupied. I see familiar faces and some that are new, younger patients. We smile and nod at each other, ask how the last treatment went. For a day we become family, and we are all here for one reason, because we want to get well, or at least to live a little longer.

I have done extremely well with my chemotherapy so far. Very few side effects - none debilitating – and the last CT Scan showed that the upper right lung has cleared and the tumor has been reduced slightly. The weekly blood draws show everything within normal range. I am grateful, most especially because I realize what a fine line it is. After all, as Leroy Sievers wrote in 2006 on a My Cancer posting, “My doctors are trying to poison me. Oh, they have the best intentions. They call the process chemotherapy. The idea is to poison the body enough to kill the cancer, but not quite kill the patient. Best I can tell, it's a difficult line to walk.”

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No One Walks this Road Alone

This morning I read a sad NPR headline, “Journalist, 'My Cancer' Blogger Leroy Sievers Dies.” I discovered Larry Sievers' My Cancer blog on the NPR website soon after my own cancer was diagnosed in late May. By that time he had been blogging for over two years. In the short period of time that I have read his daily postings, I had grown to admire and appreciate his courage and honesty in writing about a subject most people don’t want to talk about. As Ellen McDonnell, NPR’s morning-programming director said, “Leroy gave voice to a topic that we are very uncomfortable with – death and dying. My Cancer had a face and a heart and a smile.”

NPR reporter, Shomial Ahmad, writes, “In his radio essays, in his podcast commentaries and on the blog, Sievers addressed the polite silences that surround cancer. He described his early internal debates about whether it was worth it to buy new pants and shoes. He spoke frankly about his hope that he would live long enough to read the final installment in the Harry Potter series. (He did, reporting avidly on the 759-page volume in a blog post written late at night, immediately after he finished the book.)”

As I write about my own experience with cancer, I hope I can continue in this kind of open and honest discussion about what it is like to find yourself part of the “Cancer World.” I don’t always feel strong, or optimistic and I believe that is as important to reveal as it is to talk about hope and maintaining a positive attitude. The message is not to get stuck in that drama of anger, self-pity, and depression. It is a waste of valuable time. In 2005, Larry was told that he probably had less than six months to live. Instead, for 2 1/2 years, he was able to treat the cancer with surgery, chemotherapy and radiation. And with his blog he became the voice for others dealing with cancer, “speaking the words that they’re feeling.” He was often asked "What do you get out of writing the blog?" He concluded one My Cancer post with an answer: "A daily reminder that none of us walks this road alone. What could be better than that?"

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Cheerful Day

My son Jeff arrived last night from Corvallis. He has been here before and we wanted to show him something new. So this morning we took him to breakfast at the Little Cheerful Café on the corner of Holly and Railroad. It is hard to describe this place, but it is a little piece of 1960’s hippy, with the addition of 21st century body piercing and tattoos. They specialize in breakfast, claiming they serve the world’s best hashbrowns. For lunch you can order the half-pound "Myocardial Infarction Burger.” The back of the menu features a tongue in cheek philosophical statement that ends with, “Please keep in mind that nobody really likes a whiner. Remember: Everybody who comes in to the Little Cheerful brings joy – some when they enter, others when they leave.”

After breakfast we enjoyed another round at the Farmer’s Market. The weather is hot… perfect for ripening the Early Girl tomatoes and the first of the apple crop. We bought a bench made of recycled wood, and pots of herbs to sit on the kitchen windowsill at the loft. We hope to be moved in by the end of next week.

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In Search of an Unscheduled Day

There is a painting by Salvadore Dali called “The Persistence of Memory.” The melting clock faces suggests that the theme is really about time and I guess that is what brought the Dali painting to mind this morning. There is an 8 1/2 by 11 paper calendar on our refrigerator door, held down by magnets. Penciled in by a nurse at the Cancer Infusion Center are the scheduled appointments for the month. Blood tests are taken once a week. Zometa (to strengthen the bones) is given once a month. Chemotherapy treatment is every three weeks, as is a brief consultation with the oncologist. The three weeks that fall between chemo treatments usually give me one bad week and two good weeks. So we try to schedule visits from friends and family during those two good weeks and around other scheduled appointments. The paper calendar quickly becomes a maze of dates, times, names and notations. That is what my life has become, what OUR lives have become, because Bob’s life has changed as much as mine.

At our cabin in northern British Columbia we rarely looked at a calendar… it hardly mattered what day of the week it was. The rising and setting of the sun was our clock, the seasonal changes and the comings and goings of plants and animals was our calendar… the first snow, the tree swallow’s annual arrival, spawning salmon in Kitwanga River, crisp days and birch leaves that turned to gold. Life was uncomplicated… down to the basics of food, water, shelter, and friends.

In our sailboat years there was a special place on Middle Rendezvous Island where I would go to be by myself for three or four days to meditate and write. I would pitch my tent in the protection of a cedar grove and sit on the mossy cliffs that overlooked the waters of Calm Channel. I named this place of hermitage “Silent Ground.” Today I looked back at words I wrote in July of 1997.

The natural world is quiet. Why do humans have to be so noisy? I am at home in this silence. And I am becoming attuned to the sense of timelessness that I find here. One moment flows into the next like the tide coming and going. A natural flow of time rather than that which is dictated by appointment books, or arranged into neat little segments, like the short and long ticks around a clock face, or digital numbers on the microwave oven, as if each second of every day needs to be recognized and recorded.

Then time seemed endless. Now my time is measured in months, and is nibbled away by the squares on a paper schedule hanging on the refrigerator door. Like Dali’s painting, time is melting away and I look in vain for the square that says “Morningstar.”

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Shared Memories

Two of my sisters are visiting; Nancy from Oregon and Annie from Alaska. Annie brought wild salmon steaks from the Kenai River. Nancy brought Bing cherries, blueberries, and strawberries. “We have to keep you healthy,” Nancy says. It is their smiles and laughter and shared memories that is the real medicine. We are all grandmothers, but the years melt away as we talk of childhood pranks, and family legends… the “remember when” stories, each person’s version a little different but enough alike to spark the flow of remembrance, both good and bad. With the passage of time we are able to see our experiences with better clarity. We compare notes, commiserate, and laugh at our foibles. No matter how different our lives have been, we are sisters and that is something to hold dear.

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A Day like Today

On a day like today when we are under a smog alert, and have spent an unproductive day looking to buy a simple pot and frying pan only to find too many choices, in sets of two or more and with mail-in rebate coupons; when I have endured an endless stream of cars and traffic snarls; on a day like today when the so-called news coverage is about John Edwards extramarital affair two years ago, and counter claims that either McCain or Obama is the Antichrist, and the polls show that most Americans believe that opening up offshore oil drilling will lower gas prices, I yearn for the sane, simple and uncomplicated lives that we enjoyed in northern B.C. If we were there at the cabin we would be watching black bears climb the crabapple tree in search of ripening fruit. But we are here; compromises are unfortunately part of life… so we went to the opening day of Bellingham’s “Sand in the City” event to watch teams compete in sand sculpturing. And tomorrow is the Farmer’s Market, which always helps to ground me. We will look for a couple of new coffee mugs, and potted herbs for the kitchen windowsill. It will bring a breath of fresh air.

The children's sandbox.

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Sadness

Every morning I read Larry Siever’s NPR blog called “My Cancer.” He is nearing the end now, and today his wife wrote a touching piece about the sadness that comes with cancer. My own first experience with that sadness came from my doctors. I could see the sadness in their eyes, and in their body language. It told me more about the seriousness of my condition than all of their words combined.

It is one thing to talk about hope, attitude, and learning to appreciate each and every day. It is quite another to look into the eyes of those close to you and see their worry and fear. It is often I who feels the need to comfort and reassure them. It is easier to be the one with cancer. I will not be the one to suffer when my last day comes. It will be those closest to me who will feel the loss, the grief… the sadness. And if I am sad about anything, it is that.

Until I lost my hair I could pass through stores and restaurants with no one the wiser. I still looked “normal.” Now even the waitress looks at me differently… not in a bad way… but with a sad knowing that this woman has cancer. I don’t feel sad, but it is all around me. The only thing for me to do is to smile my brightest, laugh my loudest, and say, “Save your sadness for the many who have never truly lived. I have had a great life.”

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Drama Queen

Well, the trial period is over for our newest rescue cat, and the three of us have decided that she can stay. Actually Misty (rescue cat #1) has always accepted her, hissy fits and all. Misty would just sit quietly and observe the "Drama Queen" in action… sometimes walking up to her and touching noses as if to comfort her. It was Bob and I who weren't sure about the fit. Yes, she still hisses at the least little thing and looks grumpy morning, noon, and night, but she is a sweetheart with her plumed tail arched high over her back and her long calico fur looking like it has just been shampooed and blow dried. The markings on her face are quite unusual. Her name is Meadow, but we find ourselves affectionately calling her Muffin.

Meadow has very unusual markings on her face.

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View from the Window

We often see bunny rabbits and squirrels from the cottage windows, but yesterday we were treated to a doe and her two spotted fawns. While mom went for the ripening apples, her young ones nibbled on grass.

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High Spaces

I loved climbing my grandparent’s Bing cherry tree when I was a child. I could sit up there and spy on the world without anyone being aware, except for the birds of course. Then I dreamed of a tree house, an adult tree house. Books of tree house plans were as far as I ever got. I love mountains and high plateaus. I love sunlight. In this newest chapter of my life, many of those loves are being answered. We have a new home in the sky – filled with windows that overlook Bellingham Bay and downtown Bellingham. From the southwest windows we can see the San Juan Islands, and from the northwest window we can catch a glimpse of mountain ranges across the border in Canada. At night we see marina lights, the spotlighted brick towers of the historic Bellingham City Hall built in 1892 (now the Whatcom County Museum), and a bright red neon sign spelling out “Herald” on the roof of The Bellingham Herald newspaper building. If the windows are open we can hear train whistles as Amtrak passengers and loaded rail cars travel across the waterfront and beyond. We call our new condo “The Loft” (thank you, Greg).

When we moved 900 miles north to our cabin in British Columbia, we packed all of our belongings into a huge U-Haul truck, one with a pink squid painted on the side. It took us almost four days to get there and even more days to move everything into the cabin. We won’t be doing that this time. The cabin will be sold furnished, and so we start this chapter from scratch. We came to Bellingham in May with only a small duffle bag of clothing and toiletries. Which is why we had a good laugh when we saw the built-in California closet units in the master bedroom… multiple racks to store many pairs of shoes. Right now we have one pair each! We will take our time with the transition from cottage to condo as the necessary furnishings are purchased. It has been fun so far, and certainly helps to take my mind off my health issues. New places to explore and new experiences to share. After twelve years of trying to incorporate objects from Bob’s past with the accumulation of my own, this time we are creating “our own space.” And it won’t look like anything I have ever known before, unless sitting on a high limb in a cherry tree counts.

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Hair

I didn’t inherit my mother’s curly hair. I think it was a great disappointment to her because many of my early childhood memories have to do with her attempts to remedy that malady. At age three I sat on a booster chair so that my hair could be attached to one of those electric permanent wave machines. At five years I rode a bus from Oregon to Long Beach, California with my hair wound and wrapped in rag curls in preparation for meeting my new Dad. I think I have permanent ridges on my head from sleeping on metal curling rods all through high school. Then there were the bristle brush rollers, hot rollers, and finally a curling iron that tended to crisp up the ear lobes when accidentally touched. In the sixties I wore a wig to counteract the curl defeating humidity of the South. When straight hair was briefly in fashion, I couldn’t believe that anyone would actually iron their hair to make it straight. Now I don’t have to worry about straight hair or bad hair days. NO HAIR! The other good news is that hair grows back after the chemo treatments are finished, and according to Wendy at Tender Loving Hair, it grows back curly. Mother would be so happy.

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