Thoughts on Family

It's an odd subject for me - more-so than most people, I think.  I started thinking about it because of this Olympic "moment" they had, with a paralympian who was adopted as a baby from Russia because her mother couldn't take care of an amputee baby taking a trip to Russia to meet her birth family. 

I have a number of definitions of "family".  Heck, I even have different versions of my Portland family, but...First off, a little history for those who met me later in life.  I'm my mother's only daughter (She and Dad were married very young - she was 16), had me and then were divorced by the time Mom was 19.  So, I'm an only child... but then my father went and got married again (a lot.  Trust me on this.)  So, I had several step brothers and sisters that I can't really remember that came and went with the various stepmothers, and then I also have several half-brothers that are a little more permanent (I do remember their names, at the very least.)  Dad, incidentally, was also one of 12 kids, some of whom were about as bad at staying married as he was, so there was no chance of me keeping track of my aunts and uncles, let alone any of the over 200 first cousins.  Although he did do me one favor - the last woman he married happens to be my mother's cousin, so that at least cut down on some of the cousin-age.  I can remember at last one of them - technically, I'm my own first cousin once removed.  Of course, Gail also happens to be one of 10 kids, so that's another 18 aunts and uncles to remember.  Anyway, due to various life events, I don't really consider myself a part of the Humphries clan (I'm pretty sure they also don't consider me a part of the clan.)  But I suppose you could call them my blood-kin.

My mom's family are my heart-kin, though.  Grandma and Grandpa helped mom raise me, Aunt Sandy and Aunt Sherri were always part of my life when I was growing up, I know and love them all, but more importantly, they feel like family (even Uncle Jim, who I still haven't forgiven for the water pistol incident.  My memory is long, Uncle Jim.  Very long.  Good thing you love my Aunt Sandy and treat her right.)  But though they are all family, I've always been the neon-pink sheep of the family - not black, per se... just very bright pink.  I'm the one who moved out of Utah and stayed out, I'm the one without children, the non-homemaker.  I know that I belong to them, and they belong to me.  They've never condemned me for who I am, and I'm eternally grateful for that, but I just have felt a little outside.  Perhaps because for so long, it was me and mom, always on the road to the next place.

Until the next place was Portland.  My town.  25 years of running, and then I landed here, and I've stuck here ever since.  Here's where I've built my families - my work family and my family of the soul.  My soul-kin - the ones I've chosen.  Some of them I knew from other times and places (Eugene, Tongue Point, Avatar, Rocky Horror), some of them have moved on to other times and places (Miss you, kiddo...)

And then there's my life-partner - the one who breaths with the same rhythm as I do, and the one who brings yet another family to me.  Gene, who taught my husband to be that kind of man.  Ruth, who I still miss every time something reminds me of her.  The brothers and sisters-in-law that I never thought I'd have - not to imagine the nieces and nephews that are still a surprise to me.

So... any conclusions here?  Not really, although just the realization that I'm very blessed when it comes to family.   

I really have gone over to the veg side...

(Plans for tomorrow.)

It's been a real wench of a week, so since I was having to spend time in the nuclear torture chamber today, I declared this to be a free day, diet-wise.  After I stopped glowing and it was safe to leave, Roger and I stopped by the grocery store, and I went insane (never, ever go food shopping after a fasting procedure.  Definitely not healthy for your wallet, if nothing else.)  Anyway... running wild through the aisles, pushing my scooter to the max, and what did I come out with for lunch and dinner? 

Lunch was some sesame noodles, with Shanghai tofu.  (I did also get a spinach ricotta frittata - palm sized, which I split with my mother, but still - it was semi-naughty at best.)  And for dinner?  I picked up various root veggies (some golden beets, some regular beets, some brussel sprouts) which we roasted up and served alongside the beet greens.  Mind you, this wasn't what I was told to eat, this is what I actually looked at in the entire store and thought "Oh!  That sounds good!"  I fear for my sanity.  It might have been the radiation - maybe I was bitten by a green bean or something while I was stuck in the tube? 

At any rate... the scan went well-ish (hurt like hell, but they gave me warm blankets, and that goes a long way.)  I made it through, but next time, I'm definitely demanding Ativan (that is, if I can figure out who my cancer doctor actually is.  I sent another message today, saying "The lab says the scans will be ready this afternoon, and by the way, am I still supposed to contact Dr. C, or since Dr. S (my first Dr) is back from OB leave, should I be talking to her" and was told my doctor is out of clinic today, and they'll get back to me sometime early next week - and telling me that she's not sure either, but it looks like I talked to Dr C last.  Yeah.  I did.  Back in AUGUST!  I know I don't fit into their protocols, and my other, non-cancer drs have been great, but I really do feel like a red-headed stepchild when it comes to the gyn-onc section.) 

But anyway... early night and late morning, and I'll see if I can finally kick this stupid head-cold out the door. 

Little bit terrified...

I'm scheduled for a PET/CT scan tomorrow.  Assuming it works out, this is a move in a positive direction - we'll be able to get a much better picture of what Hank looks like, and what he's doing in there (stuff we couldn't find out from the initial scans because I couldn't fit on the tables). 

So, why the terror?  Bunch of things could go wrong here - for one thing, I'm right at the limits of the table, and they may decide I can't fit.  I really don't want to go through that special little sort of humiliation yet again.  Also, this is a "don't eat anything for 6 hours before the test.  And don't take your diabetic meds.  Oh, and if your blood sugar level is over 200, we can't do the test."  Right.  I'm an insulin dependent diabetic (my body does not create insulin), with a really strong dawn phenomena (my body puts out a flood of sugar right when I wake up - most people's body does, it's just mine is extra strong.  I can go to bed at 110 and wake up in the morning at 220. And no, I'm not midnight sleep-snacking.) Oh, and I'm on a pill that is trying to keep Hank under control called Megace - two of the side effects are a) it's an appetite enhancer that they give to cancer patients to try to help them gain weight and b) it messes with your blood sugar.  I mean shooting up to 360, then dropping down to 70 in the course of about 45 minutes.  So, trying to guess what the heck my blood sugar is going to be at any particular moment is a little like attempting to plan a luge run on my old red flying saucer after an Olympic Village after-party.  What I'm saying is that precision is not exactly on tap here.

Then, if I do manage to thread the weight and blood-sugar constraints, we get to the fun part of the morning.  They put me in a quiet room, dump radioactive dye into my veins and make me sit quietly, by myself, for 45 to 60 minutes.  I have to sit by myself because at this stage, apparently, I could poison any small children, dogs or husbands who are in the same room with me, just by glowing at them.  Heck, people... I'm a down-winder (well, I'm a down-winder's daughter).  We laugh at radioactivity! Then, they put me on a table, with my hands over my head, and I have to stay like that.  For 2 hours.  Rotator cuff screaming, back aching, muttering vague imprecations about the entire medical profession under my breath - I know, it's not them, it's me.  But I'm the one writing this rant, so I'm going to be complaining loudly. 

Then, Roger gets to take me home, where I can't do the usual "console myself with chocolate" routine (despite when anyone may tell me, broccoli is *not* the same in this instance), and we wait for the results.  I don't know why I schedule these scans on Friday - it just gives me two more days to worry, but that part I will admit fault for. 

It's been almost a year now since the whole Carrie remake that introduced me to Hank.  At the time, the cancer doctor didn't want to make predictions, but didn't sound really positive about me lasting more than a couple of years.  But then again, I don't think she thought I would ever be able to lose anywhere near 140 pounds (heck, I didn't think I would be able to, at the time.)  But I still realize that this is a race, and each time the scan comes up, I'm terrified to look at the scoreboard.  Best case scenario - the sheer volume and variety of veggies has scared Hank into submission, he's retreating, all is good with the world.  Ok scenario - he's stayed stable and I've still got more time to try to beat him.  Worst case - he's growing again.  I don't want to think about worst, but funnily enough, when I'm lying there with my eyes closed, that's about all I can think of.  Maybe now that I've written it out, though, it'll be out of my head and I'll be able to sleep.  Goodnight, all.

Adventures with Tri-Met Lift

I went in to the office today (normally I telework, but we had our monthly All-Hands meeting - last one was in August, I think).  I knew there was no way I could wait around to carpool with Roger - when we carpool, he drops me off about 6:00, and then it's frequently 5:30 or so by the time he picks me up.  I was having a hard time with that when I was healthy - what with Hank's extra ballast and my head having turned into a flaming ball of sinus-snot this week... just not happening. 

Approximation of the inside of my head

But!  I finally got signed up with Tri-Met Lift and thought "Ha!  I'll set it up for them to pick me up at 3:00, get home about 3:30 or so... it'll be great!  Well, not necessarily great - but survivable."Around 3:30, I started getting nervous.  Finally, 3:45, the bus arrived, driven by an arthritic 62-year-old woman (guilt!  guilt!) who proceeded to hit most of the backroads in Portland (and quite a few of the potholes.)  Finally home by 4:45 and went straight to bed with the Moose - didn't come out until Roger made me eat dinner and update the blog, and now I'm heading back to bed.  My boss wants me to start coming in to work more often, and I thought that this would be a great way to do it, but I think this is going to need some refinement.

Incidentally, I'll leave you with a fun homework assignment - google "flaming ball of sinus snot" and switch over to images.  For one thing, it's not a google-nope.  At least one other person has typed in that exact phrase before.  For another, you get some of the oddest random images - a bottle of cocaine, a picture of a golden retriever, Sneezy, something from coveredincathair.com, something called a "baby nasal aid"... very, very random.

Still sort of off-line here - need help with some mojo for Mom, though

She's not feeling as good as she has been - very tired, puffy and her innards are hurting if she moves around much at all.  She saw the doctor today, and they've got her on antibiotics just in case, but she could use some good thoughts.

As for the rest of us, Daniel is starting to feel better, I'm still reduced to being a mouthbreather/dealing with a sinus cold that's got me on the ropes, and Roger is doing well, but avoiding looking at any of us, let alone getting close, I think. 

Had an odd night last night - I was in that sort of Nyquil twilight, and Moose and Daisy kept jockeying for position to see who could sleep closest to my face, while Dancer was down at the bottom of the bed, occasionally letting out this pitiful "meep" - turns out that Mom's door had blown shut, and Dancer had been accidentally locked out overnight.  She was quite upset about the whole thing.

Sorry for the temporary interruption of services - we'll be back

Stole/borrowed/appropriated this one from Facebook (it's from www.robot-hugs.com) - fits my mood today.  I'm still struggling a little with a bit of depression/angry/being worn out, along with a cold that's kind of kicking my butt.  Fortunately, tomorrow is a day off, so I get one more day to hide under my purple furry blanket with a couple of puppies snuggled up close (Moose's standard position is tucked in right behind my knees, head resting on my ankles, Daisy tends to snuggle in on the curve of my neck).  And I had a leftover piece of mom's birthday cake (no worry - it's plant-based.  Chocolate, but plant-based.) so that should go a long way to improving my mood. 

This is the same furry purple blanket I lent to mom when she came home from the hospital.  It was a big hit with her (and with the puppies) - enough so that we ended up getting her one to have permanently.  There's just something about a furry blanket to make you feel like everything is going to eventually be ok, or if not, at least you have a comfortable place to survey the carnage from.  I highly recommend them - Berkeshire makes them, and sells them on QVC for about $35.  (Less than a therapy session - you can't beat that with a stick.)

Valentine's night out

Roger and I went out to the Ambassador (pictures coming of the outfit).  I've been starting to slip into a little bit of a depression (throat was all scratchy, dealing with more humiliation regarding scans, worrying about Mom, reminders of the fact that I've got cancer, etc...) so Roger decided I needed a night out, just the two of us.  It was lovely - I broke training for one night and had a couple of drinks (something called a "Barbie Girl" - yes, it looked and tasted just like a "Barbie Girl".  Pink and plastic, innocuous looking but a serious hazard to your moral character.)

Almost no one was there for the first part of the night, so I got to sing 3 times and Roger got to sing twice - I did my traditional "Whatever Lola Wants" (Sarah Vaughn works well when your voice is gone), and Roger sang "Little Red Riding Hood" to me, and made me melt again.  Almost 19 years together, and he's still the only one I want to go home with... must be love. 

Contrary to Karaoke tradition, there were no old guys singing Frank Sinatra, but there was one old cowboy singing... well, massacring old 80s country songs (what he did to "Living on Love" was a damn shame), and some giggly 20somthings who did things to "Double Vision" that they should be arrested for, but it was a blast.  I'd forgotten how much fun it can be just to lose yourself in singing in a crowd.  At any rate - I'm going to stumble off to bed, after drinking a bunch of water and taking aspirin to try to stave off the coming morning Barbipocolypse.  (Nothing that pink is ever benign - I know I'm going to pay, but it was worth it.)  Happy Valentine's Day, y'all.

***stumbling off to bed humming "you're no exception to the rule.  I'm irresistible, you fool... give in."***

Valentine's Day Tips

I saw a commercial including Valentine's day tips, and while some of their ideas were too bad (if it's next to beef jerky, it's a no - stainless steel is never a good idea, you know...), I thought we could improve on them.  Here's some of mine - please feel free to add or challenge any of these...

1.  About the whole flower thing - while it's romantic and all that, what it really is, is a chance for her to count coup on her office enemies.  Either go really big, or go really obviously sentimental.  One perfect daisy just isn't going to do it unless there's jewelry tied to the stem.  And have it delivered to her at work - preferably early in the day, so that every other woman has to walk past them on her desk and die a little inside.

2.  Pajama-gram is a cruel, cruel trick played on guys.  Ditto with the bear-o-grams.

3.  The right card can make a woman melt for years afterwards, every time she sees it.  (Ask Roger for hints on this one - he's hit me with several that managed to make me cry.  Ok, that's not that high of a bar - I've had country music songs make me cry - but still... it works.)

4.  For certain women (generally my friends), something that beeps is much better than something that gleams.  I'm talking serious electronics here - I'd much rather get a flash drive than a flashy bracelet.

As for guys... no clue.  Still trying to figure out what to give Roger for Valentines - any suggestions, guys?

Ice (machine) Follies

Apparently, the year of bad plumbing is continuing, because our ice machine went on the fritz.  But it did give me a chance to read the oddest instructions I've seen for the new machine...

"Warning:  This appliance is not intended for use by persons (including children) with reduced physical, sensory or mental capabilities, or lack of experience and knowledge, unless they have been given supervision or instruction concerning use of the appliance by a person responsible for their safety."

This, for a machine where the instructions are basically pour the water in, wait, remove the ice.  Trying to figure out whose turn it is to be responsible which day is going to be the hardest part of using this machine.  I call "not it".

Ok, maybe this is a little harder than I thought...

Thank you guys! And a Moose portrait...

I just want to thank those of you reading this blog.  It means a lot to me that you all continue to come back to read my words - it's keeping me writing and thinking and creating, which has kept me from screaming at times the past few weeks. 

But anyway...  I was going to write something deadly serious about how I'm starting to feel like a bit of a Jerry Springer panelist whenever I meet someone new who hears my story and says something like "oh, how awful!  I don't think I could handle that".  But frankly, I just don't have the fortitude for that tonight.  So, instead, you get a word portrait of my boy.

Moose.  My little Teutonic terriorist.  He came into my life 9 or so years ago, smuggled into Oregon from the Utah Dachshund Rescue Society (aka my Aunt Sherri).  He was originally named Peter the Great, Junior (son of Peter the Great and Lady Zelda the III), but really... look at this face:

Not the face of an aristocrat

 So he became Moose.  Our little bruiser (literally - trust me, when he lands on you from full flight, you feel every ounce of that 17 pounds.)

He has certain self-appointed duties, like every dog.  His main job, of course, is to guard the house with ruthless determination and efficiency.  There's not a Fed-Ex or UPS guy in Portland who doesn't know his battle cry (sometimes the battle cry emits from under a blanket on his mom's lap, but it's a battle cry nonetheless).  He's a Hoover like no other - the first human word he recognized was "Ooops".  He also makes laps during the night, just to make sure everything is going smoothly - around midnight (and two, and four), he'll struggle out from under the blankets, roam the house, checking there's no raccoons that have snuck into the house (they're tricky, you know), and then whine at the bottom of the ramp until I move over and let him back up on the bed. 

I'll write more about him later (you really can't stop me - he's my boy!), but for tonight, again, thank you all.  You're helping me with one of my bucket list items, and I appreciate the heck out of it.

Quick update on Mom

She had her checkup appointment today (the one that was delayed from Friday by Snowmageddon), and they removed her drains and staples, so she's appliance free now.  It hurts for today (pulling the drains out is not for wusses, apparently), but it looks like she's healing well - thank you all for the good thoughts/prayers/mojo.  We're even going to try to get out to the group tomorrow - I think it'll be good for both of us to re-ground.

Listicle - why my new stalking obsession is Prince Hubertus Hohenlohe

1.  He's on the Mexican ski team at 55.  Actually, he *is* the Mexican ski team.  And their entire Olympic team. 

2.  This is his 6th Olympics.  That's right, 6th.  You have to admire that kind of stamina.

3.  He used to ski downhill, but apparently that worries his mother, so he's switched to slalom.  I admire a man who listens to his mother (just as long as he has his own castle as well.)

4.  Mariachi-themed sportswear.  That's right. 

5.  Which only slightly beats his previous Olympic outfit - a Pistolero...

6.  When he's not skating, he releases pop albums under the name Andy Himalaya. 

7.  He's the second-oldest male Winter Olympian ever (the record is held by a 58-year-old curler from the 1924 Olympics.)  Reportedly, he's planning on quitting because "oldest Olympian" is not a record he wants.

8.  He can actually ski - his highest Olympic mark was 28th, but he's done better than that in the World Championships.
 
9.  He's got a home in Lichtenstein.  I've always been a little fascinated by Lichtenstein.

10.  I love dreamers - and this is sort of the epitome of dreaming, isn't it?

Not quite the Iditirod

Our Daisy Mae - not quite what Jack London had in mind, but she's just as fearless as those huskies. 

Snow Day Recipes

Our backyard from the last big snow (we haven't got the camera out yet for this one)

We're still surviving Snowmageddon - in fact, we're heading into Snowmageddon 2, Electric Boogaloo - but for some reason, snow days always make me want to cook.  Well, not just cook, experiment.  I saw a recipe that looked interesting, but ended up taking it in a completely different direction, and it turned out really terrific (at least, Mom and I both thought so.  The guys were reluctant to try it.  Their loss.)

At any rate... this one is dead simple.  It does have avocado, so it's definitely a snow-day kind of food, although I think it also might be my next pot-luck contribution - really, it's that good.  Take a can of chickpeas (drained and rinsed), mash them up with a fork (we're looking for rustic here, not completely pulverized), add a can of mild roasted green chilies (or whatever heat quotient you're comfortable with - I'm a bit of a wuss), and mash in one avocado.  Add a couple of teaspoons of lime juice, salt and pepper to taste, and you're good to go.  Works as a sandwich filling, would be terrific with sliced cucumbers/carrots/peppers as a dip... if people weren't watching, I'd be willing to just scoop it into my mouth, but that would not be polite. 

Last night, we did up a basic potato/leek/mushroom soup - also turned out good, but next time, I think I might want to add a little barley or something - needed some textural interest.

Tonight, we're going to make up a good vegan chili -  http://blog.fatfreevegan.com/2012/01/healthy-super-bowl-party-chili.html is the base, although Roger adds a little Snappy Tom mix to give it a bit more kick - and use it on some oven-baked fries for vegan chili fries.  We're watching the Opening Night Ceremonies for the Olympics, and this seems to fit the theme. 

So, what food do you turn to on snow days?  Is soup your style?  Pizza?  Grilled cheese and tomato soup used to be my go-to, but I have yet to find a good cheese substitute for melting cheese - although we have found a reasonable tasting Mac'n'Cheez that has Daniel search everywhere for the cheese-bag (he refuses to believe it's vegan.) 

Defending my home city

Mom has been over in the chair next to me, disparaging Portland's tendency to freak out when it snows. Ok, so she has a reason to disparage - her doctor called and cancelled her follow-up appointment for today at 2:00 because a snowstorm has been predicted for this afternoon (actual line from the conversation - "How's your bandage doing" "It's starting to come apart" "Well, abdominal bandages do that - don't worry about it".) 

Don't worry about her, everyone - the doctor was very careful to check, and she hasn't been running a fever, her drainage is almost non-existent, she's been able to get up and around a bit more - she's doing ok, and she has another follow-up scheduled for Monday.  But being a Utahn, she doesn't realize how the sight of white, flake stuff fascinates and appalls us here. 

It only happens once or twice a year at most - some years we get zero snow at all.  In fact, we even have a website - isitsnowinginpdx.com (it's currently wrong, but still...) And this particular snow event is supposed to be a doozy - it's coming up from the south, and there's already been a 20-car pileup down between Albany and Salem.  Plus, Portland snow is just weird.  The wind effects from the Gorge are currently making the snow outside my window fall up. 

But more importantly - we know how to act when it snows.  First, the night before, you stock up on toilet paper, milk and bread.  Second, while the freeways may be clear, you don't stand a chance of making it to the freeways unless you live on a main artery, so you stay off the road (and you make fun of the idiots who are sliding down the hill in their car.)   Third, you have to appreciate it while it's here.  Being Portland, it never stays around - by Sunday, it'll be raining again. 

Mom's back

It's so great to have her back home again, but I find myself thinking "but, things were supposed to be back to normal".  Never mind the fact that the woman just went through a couple of surgeries, some transfusions, being sawed in half with the staples still holding her together...  Normality is going to be a while.  Actually, I think I realized this before she did (have I mentioned our genetic ability to brick wall anything we don't want to acknowledge?)  She's probably going to be sleeping out in the living room for a while - we've got a wonder recliner that's much more comfortable at this point than her bed. 

The puppies were very happy and a little clingy at first.  Ok, very clingy.  I don't think Dancer moved for about 3 hours straight.  But apparently, they've bounced back - it's currently Psycho Puppy Hour, and the blondes are tearing up the living room, while Mom, Roger, Moose, Dixie and I just try to stay out of the way as much as possible.  When PPH hits, there's nothing to do but hold on and try to ride it out. 

So, schedule for the rest of the week - I'm going to be back at work tomorrow (thank god for teleworking), and Roger is likewise returning to work.  I don't think Mom is going to be up for group tomorrow.   I've got to try to get my 3-month scan scheduled (I'm hoping for Friday, Roger's Friday off), and then Mom has a return checkup Thursday.  At some point in there, we need to fix the ramp for my scooter on the back of the Element (did I happen to mention that it broke down just as Roger was pulling up to the hospital Wednesday?  Have I mentioned how much I am ready for this year to be over with?  We're really hoping that it was going on a Lunar new year, so starting up again Saturday.  I'm really tired of living in interesting times.)  Mom's birthday is coming up on the 15th, Brigid's wedding is in April, various other social events...  Other than that, smooth sailing ahead  .

Still gloating - but I can multitask and update at the same time.

Ok, Mom kicked me out of the hospital room and sent me home for excessive gloating. (Not really - but she might have thought about it. She's a Broncos fan.) At any rate, she's doing well, just ready to shut down and be quiet for the night. Still hoping she gets to come home tomorrow - she's able to walk around, just getting tired easily.

As for the more important part of the day (the commercials) - my favorite was the Silverado "I Believe In Miracles" ad.  Although the Doritos ad was cute as well...

Update again

Today was not quite as good as yesterday, although not horrible.  Good news - the doctors are still thinking that she might be able to come home tomorrow, which would be wonderful.  Daniel has her room all ready for her, fresh fluffy sheets on the bed, a stereo moved in so that she can rock out (judiciously, of course - no head banging the first week), the puppies are more than ready...

But she had to have a transfusion of a couple of pints of O-neg, and she's feeling pretty punk at this point.  Understandably - it's been a long week, but I still worry.  Her skin is looking a lot better, though, and the nurse did say that the second day after surgery is frequently the worst - it's been two days since they had to go back in to fix the hematoma.  I'm choosing to focus on the good news, and ignore the worrying news at this point.  I took my laptop in to the hospital, and we watched a couple of vintage '80s Jeopardy episodes, but most of the time, she was pretty twilighted, so mostly I just crocheted.  I did get a doggie-pad finished, though, so that's sort of productive. 

Update, and thoughts on cancer once I watched Bones

Mom is doing well so far - she's walked up and down the hall, she's fairly mobile, she's hurting some, but not too bad.  She's looking a lot better today than yesterday - it was a real relief to me.  I was worried yesterday, more than I'd be willing to admit at the time.  I know that she's a tough woman (boy, do I know she's a tough woman), but she was looking vulnerable, and I just can't believe that she's got any cracks in her armor, because if I do, I have to admit there's a chance that I might have to live in a world without her in it.  I can't do that.  It's selfish as hell, I admit, but I've managed to convince myself she's immortal - the fact that her mother is still going at 95, and *her* mother passed away in the 90s as well, gave me good reason to believe it. 

So, how does this have anything to do with watching "Bones?"  A couple of weeks ago, one of the characters was diagnosed with bone cancer, one with a fairly high mortality rate (sounds familiar, right?) and had to make a decision on whether to stay and fight it - chemo/radiation/blech - or whether to take the time left to see the world/sleep his way across Europe/live like he was dying.  I'm actually a little relieved that I am not at the point yet where I have to make that choice - since chemo and radiation haven't been effective on my type of cancer, I'm still at the point where I can go ahead and fight my own fight (plant-based diet until I can get the hysterectomy), leaving the option open to withdraw my retirement fund and go wild if Hank wins our race. 

But it's something I've been thinking about.  What is the value of the long, drawn-out fight, when you're likely to lose, vs the value of a fast but exciting exit?  But then again, considering my recent brush with mom's cancer - if she needed chemo or radiation, I'd hope she would take it, just because I would hate to lose her a second sooner than I had to.  But then again, I'd also hate to think of her in pain. 

So, any conclusions?  Just that cancer is a jerk. Same as always.

Another very quick checkin

Mom's still doing well - there was a little bit of a hiccup today, but nothing serious.  She's still sailing through this like the rockstar that she is. 

I, on the other hand, am a bundle of nerves and sore bones.  (I know, whinewhinewhine).  I was thinking initially that "Mom doesn't usually wake up early, I can put in 4 hours of work, then go over to the hospital, no problem!".  Woke up this morning at 5:00 (standard time for me), and my body said "what the hell do you think you're doing?".  I did manage to triage my email and get bombs defused, but there's no way I can do half days and give Mom the attention she deserves, so I'm scaling back work until she's back home.

With all that said... good night, happy people - update you tomorrow, and next week, I'll get the blog back on track.  I had a great idea for Themesong Thursday (medical songs, starting with "You put the lime in the coconut", but I'm just too braindead (although, if you'd like to add to the list in the comments or on Facebook, I'm always up for some interactive themesong lists...)

Home from the hospital, quick checkin

Mom came through the surgery just fine (in fact, it was quicker than they thought it would be).  They think they got everything, but they won't know for certain until next week - but it's looking good.  She's out of recovery and resting (and a little loopy, but then again, she's had a rough day!)  The puppies are a little lost, but I bribed them with a treat and that seemed to have consoled them some.  I'm going to go pass out, though - it's bee a really long day. 

Die Gedanken Sind Frei

I grew up during the 60s and 70s with a hippie mother, so of course, I'm a Pete Seeger fan.  (Mom exposed me to a lot of folk singers, and given the choice between listening to Joan Baez and Pete Seeger, it's Pete all the way.)  I can still remember the feeling of drawing the album carefully out of the sleeve, balanced between my hands so that I wouldn't put a fingerprint on the vinyl, and dropping the needle on the album. 

I loved most of his stuff, although when I was younger, I must admit the funny ones drew me more than the hardcore - it took me a while working for the Corps to really appreciate "Waist deep in the Big Muddy, and the big fool said to push on".  I still know the all the words to "The Pill" and "Queen Anne Front and Mary-Ann Behind".

But what song to say goodbye with?  I've seen a few people going with "Where have all the flowers gone?", but for me... it's got to be "Die Gedanken Sind Frei":

Die gedanken sind frei
My thoughts freely flower
Die gedanken sind frei
My thoughts give me power
No scholar can map them
No hunter can trap them
No man can deny
Die gedanken sind frei

I think as I please
And this gives me pleasure
My conscience decrees
This right I must treasure
My thoughts will not cater
To duke or dictator
No man can deny
Die gedanken sind frei

Tyrants can take me
And throw me in prison
My thoughts will burst forth
Like blossoms in season
Foundations may crumble
And structures may tumble
But free men shall cry
Die gedanken sind frei

Mom's set for surgery

The pre-op consult went well, and she's all set for surgery Wednesday at 11:30.  She'll be at the Providence at 48th and Glisan, and they're anticipating her being in hospital for 5 or 6 days. She'll be recovering for around 6 weeks - she won't be able to lift anything larger than 10 pounds at most (now, how are we going to convince Moose of this?)  Fortunately, the post-op diet is low-fat, high-fiber, so we're golden there. 

I'll go ahead and update everyone here Wednesday night, letting you know that she's doing well, but my posts may be a little short for the next couple of days. 

Commercial Whiplash

I don't know if this ever happens to you, but I hate being wrapped up in a show, intellectually captive, thinking deep thoughts about whatever topic is being discussed, then thrown into a tailspin by a completely inappropriate commercial.

The worst example that I can think of was watching the Daily Show the other night - they had a journalist on from the PBS NewsHour, he and Jon were having a conversation about the nature of news, then all the sudden there's this obnoxious Kroll Show ad (ok, any Kroll show ad is pretty obnoxious, but this one was particularly bad).  Only slightly less strange was listening to an MSNBC panel discussion on income inequality and being tossed to an ad suggesting that I might want to move to the Cayman Islands, due to their permissive tax stance. Or the time that I was watching a particularly gruesome crime drama and was kicked out to a Toys'R'Us ad - I think it was for something pink and Barbie-ish.

And while I'm busy sounding like an old coot - I'm watching the Grammys.  When did it become de rigueur for women to do a virtual strip tease while performing their nominated hits?  First there's Beyonce grinding on a chair, and then Katy Perry shows up doing a pole dance on an upended witch's broomstick. I don't see the nominated guys stripping down to their skivvies and doing a Chippendale's routine (not that I really want to see that, I'm just saying that there should be some kind of parity here.) Heck, even in the Chicago/Robin Thicke set, the men are all dressed to the nines in full on suit and tie, and the female backup singers are in skin tight red pant or skirts and abbreviated black tank top/halter top sort of things.  Plus, I want to know just who had the pictures of the members of Chicago with farm animals?  That's the only way I could think of for them to agree to perform "Blurred Lines".

And now, if you all will excuse me, I'm going to take my battered old body and mind off to bed.

Prayers/Good Thoughts/Mojo Needed

Mom with Beauty and the Beast (and Moose)

 
Mom finds out Monday what the plan is for her cancer surgery (probably be sometime next week, but we don't know for sure.)  Any good thoughts/recommendations for recovery from a hysterectomy/ ideas for how to keep the puppies from jumping on her stomach would be gratefully received. 

She's generally not the kind to ask, and I try not to ask for her because of that, but frankly, I am asking for me at this point.  I know, I'm 48, but... she's my mom. 

Deci Classic - Kaleidoscope

I have this trouble with my eyes.
I can only see myself through someone else's vision of me.
It's never a complete picture, more a Frankenstein creation.
Bits and pieces of a kaleidoscope that fit together.  Occasionally.
With a few edges sharp enough to rip my ego to shreds left over.

My mother's chaste daughter wars with
My lover's chased woman, who is jigsawed with
My friends' cheerful companion, who has apparently never met
My employer's grudging wage-slave.

I bend for him.
I stretch for her.
I form and I mold and I seek out eyes
That make me feel more than I am.
But then, inevitably, I go home alone.
I search the floor of the closet of my soul
For the me that fits
And end up going with the view that needs the least irony.

Themesong Thursday - Angry Woman Edition

So... still working on my bucket-list items, going back to careers that were on my "I want to be x when I grow up."  Writer, research librarian, stand-up comedian, dj... DJ!  I loved being a DJ at Tongue Point, I have put together a music library that doesn't fit on my Ipod at this point, I still love putting together mix-tapes... I'm going to use Thursdays to curate various playlists. 

I'm feeling particularly pissed at cancer this week - not just Hank, I'm angry at Mom's cancer, and my group-mates' cancers, and Edward Carter's cancer (he's this puppy that I've been following on Facebook - don't judge me!)  At any rate...  playlist for kicking cancer to the curb. 

First off... let's start out with the Ray-lettes (ok, so it's mostly Ray Charles, but I think the Raylettes are the heart of the song)

Hit The Road, Jake

Next we slide into country - I love this song (Brandy Clark - the ending line of the chorus is something like "The only thing keeping you alive is I don't look good in orange and I hate stripes")

I Hate Stripes

And of course, if you're talking about throwing off a man, you've got to have some Eartha...

My Discarded Men

And a little Martina

When God Fearing Women Get The Blues

Ok, so Aaron Tippin is not precisely like the others here, but the sentiment definitely fits...

Kiss This

Six angry women are better than just one...

An Odd Version of He Had It Coming

Although when that one is Pat Benatar...

You'd Better Run

Or two, if they're the Wilson Sisters

If Looks Could Kill

In a slightly more pensive mode

"Regretting what I said"

And wrapping up with Queen Bey...

Irreplaceable

There - should be something for everyone.  Have a great evening, all...

Hank (the Squeaky one) has had a reprieve

The pups get a monthly "BarkBox" and this month's shipment included some hickory smoked beef dog bones.  I've been living in the middle of World War XIII ever since - Moose will go over to steal Daisy's bone, which is unprotected because she's over stealing Dancer's bone, because Dancer was foolish enough to take a break to get a drink of water.  There has been smack talk, covert attacks, overt attacks, a couple of death threats - it's been ugly.  I'm off to bed, but I don't know that anyone is going to join me tonight.  I think they're afraid to leave their bones untended. 

Good night, all...

Tuesday Musings

Tuesdays are a mixed blessing for me - my cancer support group meets on Tuesdays.  It's a great group.  The people are a wide range of personalities and diagnoses - you can always find either an answer or a question you can answer (or just a pick-me-up - there are some people in the group that just make me happy to see. You know, the kind of people who you meet and feel like you've known all your life.)

However, Tuesdays force me to let the wall down and think about my condition - I get most of my insights on Tuesdays.I think I've realized what it is that has been bothering me the most about my particular cancer.  For some people, cancer is a bomb that explodes and completely rearranges their lives - they deal with the fallout and their lives then begin to settle back down into the new pattern. It's not always a good pattern (god knows, there are a lot of not good patterns available after a diagnoses), but there's a pathway - you have a certain protocol that you follow (surgery, chemo, radiation, palliative care, whichever is appropriate) and there may be setbacks or surprises along the way, but at least you're on the path.  I feel like ever since last April, I've been living with a live grenade shoved inside me.  I don't know when it's going to blow, and until it either blows or fizzles, I'm stuck waiting, desperately trying to find the pin to insert back into the trigger mechanism.  I don't really belong to the surgical oncology department (at least not until I lose the weight), I don't belong to the medical or radiological oncology departments because they can't do anything for me, I'm just waiting, holding my breath - and after 8 months, I'm starting to feel my muscles cramp up from holding this thing. 

Everyone else around me seems to be suffering from anticipation fatigue as well, especially at work.  How do you treat someone who is halfway out the door, but yet can't tell you when she's actually going to be gone?  I'm still contributing right now (thank god for telework), but at any point I could go boom, or I could be cured and be back at my desk. How do you write up performance objectives for that?  

Cancer is a jerk

Mom and I are both past masters at denial.  Our method of dealing with bad news is to slap a brick wall up on that section of our memory, and move on as fast as we can.  Cancer, however, is a jerk.  A jerk with a sledgehammer.  We'll be going along, smooth sailing, for days at a time when something or someone suddenly reminds us that we've got cancer and suddenly, we've got to deal with feelings again.  Not our favorite thing in the world.

It was actually easier for me to deal with when it was just my cancer.  But now it's coming after my mother, and I don't know how to deal with it.  All I know to do is keep going, try to maintain an aura of calm, keep a positive attitude.  But inside, back behind that brick wall, I'm a screaming little girl, angry at the universe for hurting my mother.

Her surgical consult is next Monday, and with any luck, she'll be having her hysterectomy and then be cancer-free next week.  But I can tell that this is going to be one loooooong week ahead for us.

Sunday was unexpectedly busy

So this is going to be a short post - but I'm trying my best to maintain a post a day.  Weight was back up a couple of pounds - I'm back in the bounce mode apparently - so I didn't quite make the 60 pounds in 4 months, but I will try again tomorrow.

We went to sacrament meeting this morning - I like my new ward, but the hymns leave a lot to be desired.  For one thing, the choir leader keeps bouncing around and coming up with obscure hymns that no one knows the tune of, and as a whole, we're not the best sight readers of music.  That, and when I can hear wrong notes being hit on the organ, it's not quality keyboarding. 

We spent most of the afternoon working on casseroles for one of the members of my group who is having a bit of a rough time of it.  She's late stage, and dealing with low blood counts due to the chemo, and dealing with a toddler at the same time.  I don't know how she keeps it together - I would be a quivering, crying mess.  Or else possibly just cursing the entire world and everything in it - could go either way.  But she's holding it together. 

I also watched the Seahawks/49ers game - normally, I don't watch football.  I get too into the game, start yelling and scaring the puppies (and my husband), tend to throw pillows when the opposing team scores - it's not pretty, is what I am saying here.  But post-season games I get a  pass on - I even have a small Superbowl party every year, but that's mostly because we want to get together and laugh at the commercials.  Generally, by the time the Superbowl rolls around, my teams are well out of it.  But this year, I've actually got a couple of dogs in the fight - a) the Seahawks - they're pretty much the closest thing I've got to a hometown team; and b) whoever is playing the Broncos.  Until my beloved Steelers actually manage to put together a winning team, that will have to do. 

We also had a couple of batches of visitors.  I think having the Greek Chorus of the girls has made Moose's Teutonic territorial tendencies even worse, if that's possible.  Even if he knows the person, heck, even if they live here (e.g. Daniel), he still has to announce their arrival with a zeal that no town crier can hope to match.  Anyone got a clue as to how to train him to stop?  I know that yelling "cut it out!" isn't going to help - he just figures that I'm joining in the chorus as well.  We've tried a time out (having them wait in the back yard until the guests leave), but that just switches the barking to whining until he gets let back in.

Ok, so much for the short post... I'm off to bed.  Have a lovely night, anyone who is reading. 

Thoughts on a new Driver's License

First off - Ladies, take out your driver's licenses or ID card.  You know how they make us put our weight on there?  How many of you are actually within 10 pounds of your listed weight?  Renewing my card this time was the first time in my life that I was actually under the weight listed.  It was a really odd feeling, going down by 80 pounds (yes, of course I was nowhere near listing my actual weight before.) 

The renewal part that made me laugh was talking with the lovely lady at the DMV.  First off, there was the discussion about hair color.  Oddly enough, they didn't have an option for reddish-brownish-blonde with streaks of purple and occasional gray.  Next came the weight discussion.  I did give her my actual weight (it was 429 at the time), but she kindly bumped it down to 420.  Not sure exactly why - let's face it, over 200, it really doesn't matter - but I thought it was kind of her to make the effort.  And I'm getting closer - 426 today.  If I can manage to lose 1 more pound tonight, I'll be right at 15 pounds per month since I started the whole plant-based thing back on September 19th.  Not turbo-speedy, but I think I can make 399 before my birthday. 

Re-doing my license reminded me of a poem I wrote back when I first started driving - back when my car (the Bondage Bunny Mobile - yes, there's a story there, no, I'm not putting it down on the internet without a guaranty of full immunity) represented freedom and exploration and possibly the beginning of adulthood. So...

Daisy May, feeling the wind in her hair

Freedom:

I felt his hand on my thigh, my hand caressing the stick shift.
I rammed the shaft into fifth gear and finally achieved freeway.
The sun-roof open, my hair flowing straight up into the wind,
The sunlight gleaming from his smile
And the sound of some testosterone-based
Heavy metal, brain numbing, emotion altering
Paeon to youth and beauty and the American automobile
Screamed in our ears as we bellowed along with it -
Scaring cattle all along a 25-mile stretch of asphalt.
I knew that we were cruising along a path that led to his bedroom
But I felt secure enough to take my time.
For once, I didn't feel that I needed to rush to get there
In case the winds changed.
We climbed along the back road out of the gorge,
Feeling the smooth kick-out of the car as I caressed it through the curves,
And landed at the pinnacle at twilight.
Just in time to stand there, feeling his strong arms around me,
As the sun disappeared below the horizon, and we slipped smoothly into the night.
 

Random Observations

Is it just me, or does the new Grand Central Bowl commercial make it look just like an adult Chucky Cheese?  There's the games, the sub-par food, I think I may have even caught sight of a ball pit (but I'm not swearing to that one). Lord knows, from what I remember of the place back in the 90s, it was definitely a ball pit in one sense of the word.

There were just two commercials back to back - one for August Osage County, one for Devil's Due.  Guess which one Roger wouldn't be caught dead at, and which one I'm avoiding like the plague.

I know, this post is a little commercial centric.  I normally skip through the ads like a gazelle swanning its way through the savannah, but I was actually watching something without the DVR buffer tonight.  In personal news, I'm down to 427 today, so off the plateau and back on track.  I'm not sure why 427 seems so much more significant than 435 - I think it's that once you start on the 20s, you're finally in view of 400.  I'm at least at the point where it seems feasible that I might get into the 300s by my birthday.  Dinner tonight was home-made hash browns with onions, peppers and apple/sage "sausage".  Not the best option, but not horrid.

The Continuing Travails of Hank

The girls are continuing their efforts to wipe Hank out - a large hole has developed on his back, just above the buttock area (I keep telling them to lower their aim, but do they listen to me?)

Daisy in action - please forgive the bad photography

Action shot - blurred due to the frenzied speed of their attack

Not a lot else going on here - I was asleep most of the day trying to knock down a fever, so it's a short post tonight.  Dinner tonight was last night's carrot-tomato-ginger soup used as a pasta sauce over spaghetti, with some lovely wilted greens on the side.  Definitely one we need to make again, although it's frankly better as a sauce than a soup (a little thick for slurping, but just right for pasta.)

Aspirations

(One of my Deci-Classic posts - this was originally a free-form poem written back in 1994, but I think it works better as just an essay.)

There but for the lack of foundation garments went I

When I was eleven, my mother and I moved to Chubbuck, Idaho (a slightly less glamorous suburb of Pocatello).  That was when I realized what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wanted to be a scandalous woman.

I don’t know what you called them in your hometown - brazen hussies, scarlet women, or as my grandmother used to say “women who were not better than they ought to be, “ but you know the kind of woman I mean.  They’re pretty hard to miss. Florescent stretch pants frightened into submission, K-Mart cashmere sweaters straining over double-D chests, and six-inch come-get-me heels grinding out the butts of their Salems (‘Cause smoking menthols was more ladylike. No one ever accused them of not being ladies and left with his family jewels intact.)

We had a prime example of a scandalous woman living in our trailer court  (that’s where scandalous women tend to live – at least while they are waiting for their old men to get out of lockup.  He was framed.) I don’t remember exactly what her name was, Bambi or Trixie or Shelli or Debbie – Let’s face it, when parents hang that kind of a name on you at birth, you don’t grow up to be a rocket scientist. Some women were born to be bad.  She was one of those women. She drove a big-old ’67 Mustang.  Cherry red.  And she used to hire me to baby-sit for her every Friday night while she went down and kicked some ass at the local pool hall.

I used to watch her prepare for the evening, using a half a can of Aqua-Net and a pint of kiss-me-dead red nail polish, and listen to her tales of the men she loved, and the women she hated, and the friends she was going to get together with and go out and paint the town red.  I wasn’t quite sure what this meant. But I knew it sounded like excitement and adventure and life and… Like a huge party that I couldn’t join. Yet.

My desire to be just like her wasn’t hurt by the fact that my other role-model among the women of the Blue Moon Trailer Court was Bonnie, a sweet young thing just off her honeymoon with Max. She wore dresses with flower prints that came modestly below her knees and she wore her hair long because her husband liked it better that way. She used to bake me chocolate chip cookies with carob-chip substitutes – they’re healthier that way.  And more boring. At the time, I hated boring slightly more than I hated broccoli.

I knew that I was meant for better things – neon lights, rhinestone jewelry, fake satin everything. But, though I tried, I never quite made it to scandalous. I didn’t have the figure to pull it off.  Or the lingerie. Or the subscriptions to True Detective and Playgirl. But every now and then, I still manage to make the girls at the office say “You did what?”  It’s my little tribute to the Bambi/Trixie/Shelli/Debbie that still reigns inside me.

Savaging Hank (or Introducing My Canine Cohort)

One of the coolest Christmas presents I've received is a squeaky toy named "Hank".  I've been getting an unholy amount of amusement watching the girls trade off trying to literally (and yes, I mean that in the correct sense) chew his butt off. 

Dixie, our one-eyed pirate wiener dog, is the most effective weapon of mass destruction.  She has years of squeaky toy savagery behind her, and knows just where to target for maximum carnage, minimal effort. 

Dixie, plotting dark acts and squeaky savagery

Daisy Mae, our princess blonde (the one who reminds me of a southern belle), is desultory about it.  If she happens to be reminded by the sound of a desperate squeak or honk, she'll come over and tug it around a bit, but her heart isn't really into it.

Daisy Mae, getting ready for her Playpet pictorial

Dancer, our blonde tomboy, is perhaps the most enthusiastic - she throws him around with great abandon - but sadly, the least effective.  Lots of sound and fury, very little stuffing, but it's so much fun to watch her play. 

 

 

 

Dancer, committing carnage on a Candy Cane

And Moose?  My boy?  Moose doesn't do toys.  He prefers to supervise from his mother's lap, preferably from under a blanket on his mother's lap. 

Moose cares not for your petty squeaky toy - he will take a rawhide cane, though

Good Morning

I was starting to get a little worried/anxious/depressed about the fact that for the last three weeks, I've been losing the same 5 pounds over and over and... well, you get the idea.  Part of it was the holiday - I stayed vegan, but may have played a little fast and loose with the "low fat" part of it - but even on days when I stuck to the straight and (very) narrow, I still kept bouncing back and forth between 430 and 435.  This morning, however, I finally reached the promised land of the sub-430 (428, to be precise.)

I'm conflicted as hell about this weight loss.  I know it's a necessary thing - I've got to get Hank out of here (for those of you who never read my other blog, Hank is formally known as Henry the VIII, the Tudor tumor.  He's my uterine leiomyosarcoma - I was diagnosed last April with what is currently an inoperable rare cancer.  Unfortunately, it's rare enough that it's an orphan cancer with a really lousy survival rate even if they could do a hysterectomy, which at my BMI is not a possibility.  Fortunately, it's the myxoid variant, which is a slow-growing but aggressive version.  So, I'm in a race to lose the weight so that I can get a hysterectomy before Hank starts spreading - I've lost 139 lbs so far, and have about 100 to go.  End of parenthetical explanation.)  So, yeah - have to do this, am doing it, will continue to do it.

But... there's this Spider Robinson quote - "... in our society, big, lush women and small slight men go through life wrapped around a softball-sized chunk of pain.  Some it destroys, others it makes magnificent."  I've spent my adult life refusing to accept that I am less of a human being than any woman a quarter my size, despite a metabolism that was obviously developed to laugh off famines.  I've worked to make myself essential to my office, so that I don't need to worry about weight discrimination in the workplace.  I've found a good man who loves me for who I am, not what I look like.  Hell, I've even scoped out which restaurants have chairs without arms and learned to deal with arcane airline rules.  Losing weight feels a little like giving in... like turning my back on the fight for fat equality.  Not that I'm trying to get all revolutionary (except when I make the mistake of reading comments on any article that mentions weight in any capacity whatsoever.   The trolls that come out there definitely make me long for a pitchfork) but I do feel like I'm letting the side down, some.

On the other, other hand, I'm feeling a certain amount of pride with every pound that drops.  I'm working for this weight loss (god, do I miss cheese), and it feels like a bit of a "take that" to my gynocological oncologist - I'm pretty certain that she didn't have a clue that I would actually be able to do this.  It was very much a "come back once you cut down the tallest tree in the forest with a herring" kind of feel. So... for that alone, it's worth it.  Anything I can do to disprove the medical establishment is a positive.  (Although, I have to say that the rest of my medical team have been nothing but encouraging.  It's been great to know that I'll walk in and not have their first words be "you know you have to lose weight, don't you?")

Dark Musings on Hank

(You have been warned - do not go past this line if you don't want to know)

People tell me all the time "You look so good!" Superficially, they're right - I'm thinner than I've been in 20 years, I'm starting to regain some mobility, my hair has been getting more beauty salon time than... well, ever. 

But on the inside, I can picture this malignant mass, like a beautiful red apple with a worm buried inside.  I'm slowly crumbling inward, maintaining a serene shell, but rotting from the inside out. 

I've been running a fever most nights - nothing serious, just somewhere between 99.4 and 99.9, but my normal body temperature used to be somewhere around 97 degrees.  I tire so easily - after four hours I'm wilting, by 8 hours I need to lay down.  I can feel my capability slipping away - I forget things (managed to blow a simple suspense two weeks in a row), I forget words, I have to rely on notes more than I ever have.  But mostly, it's emotional.  I'm snappy, I'm irrational, I don't have any patience. 

I don't know how people manage to get through bucket lists with holidays  abroad or skydiving or elaborate "bat-kid" scenarios.  But then again, I've never really been all that into physical achievements.  My bucket list would be more along the lines of make a blog that people actively subscribe to and enjoy, or do an open-night stand-up comedy set that brought the house to hysterical laughter.  Since progeny are out of the question, I want to live on with my words.  That's a form of immortality, isn't it?

Unearthing Memories

(crossposted from http:www.caringbridge.org/visit/decireynolds/journal - last crossposting, I swear)

We spent time a couple of  weekends ago cleaning out the garage (well, I say we - I was in more of a supervisory role.  The guys would unearth things and I'd be the arbiter of whether we are keeping it or sending it off to DI.)  What the heck - we've owned this house for 9 1/2 years, perhaps it's time to unpack the last of the boxes. 

We found a bunch of unfinished craft projects - some that I really should finish.  I quilted some pillow fronts that are a desert scene that I would just need to add a back to, and I found a treasure trove of cross-stitching books and fabric (and thread, but that may not be retrievable at this point). 

Daniel also recovered a planner that I had from 1994, the year before Roger and I met.  (Also the year that I found myself writing free-form poetry a lot.) I dove into memories and got lost for a bit - I miss writing like that.  This journal is a great way to keep friends and family notified, and lets me do a little playing around with words, but it's not really the same. 

Reading my old stuff reminded me of who I used to be - at the time, I still thought of myself as temporary, anticipating that I'd be moving again soon, having a lot of friends, but no real relationships.  Now, I've lived here in Portland long enough to consider it home (heck, I bought a home - definitely a change from the girl who was living in a one-room studio, and only spent long enough there to change clothes and grab a quick sleep.)  Roger and I have been together 18 years and counting (married for 14), and I really can't think of myself without also picturing him anymore. 

Maybe I don't miss the old me as much as I thought I did.  I wouldn't trade my memories for
 anything, but I wouldn't want to go back there either. 

Me Then

Me Now

Restart/Repurposing

So, I've been thinking that I need a place to post that's not as "cancer-centric" as Caring Bridge (or at least not as "update oriented", and then I remembered - I've got a blog!  Ok, so it's a blog that was set up 6 years ago, and that I have only posted to maybe three times (well, five times, but two were ill-advised and have been bamphed with extreme prejudice).

This will be a place to post old writings (warning - I've still got a few poems written back when I was in my teenage goth death poetry stage), any new writings, get a chance to get back in touch with my creative side... basically a brain dump.  I've been changing a lot in this last year, and it will be nice to have a place to remember both who I was and who I am becoming - and leave behind a memory in case Hank manages to win.