La Shannah Tova - Happy New Year. Today is Rosh Ha Shannah, the Jewish New Year. A day a of renewal, new beginnings. It is said to be the birthday of the world. I am taking the morning off of work to go to services at synagogue, but will not go until a little later. So Jessie and I went to the park.
It was a particularly beautiful morning in the park. Heavy dew on the grass, the hint of autumn coolness in the air. A lovely sunrise. There were many joggers. More than usual, even on a weekday, but we were a little late in arriving; it was 6:15 before we got there this morning. Possibly because of the joggers, the wildlife seemed subdued, hidden. There was a single Canada goose near the pond. Sitting in the morning sun by itself, stretching out its neck from time to time. I wondered if it were a juvenile, left behind. Or an older goose, not able to keep up? The ways of the world.
I am reading a book of essays by E.B. White that I bought at the Wooden Boat School's store. Who knew the author of Stuart Little lived in Maine. He had lived in NYC and written Talk of the Town for the New Yorker, when he and his wife (also a writer or editor for the New Yorker) and small son moved to Maine very near where the Wooden Boat School is. Eventually the son, Joel White, became a very well known boat designer and builder, running the Brooklin Boat Yard. Joel White was also on the board of directors of Mystic Seaport at some point. He (Joel) passed away from cancer about 6 or 7 years ago. Anyway, E.B. White's book of essays are drawn from columns he wrote for Harpers after he moved to Maine. They are wonderful, in so many ways. Acerbic. Funny. Delightfully spare prose. I'm trying to read slowly, to savor his words.
There is a pastor in Gainesville, FL who has advertised his plans to burn the Qaran on Saturday, which is September 11th. He has some crackpot idea that doing so is some sort of protest of terrorism. Of course, crackpot or not, he has obtained more free publicity for his 50 member cult-like church than he could have hoped for in his wildest dreams. Just about the entire world has told him, asked him, suggested to him, threatened him or begged him not to do this. Army generals tell him doing this will endanger US troops. Bloomburg in NY - needing to be consistent (Hobbes: consistency is the hob-gobblin of small minds), feels the need to say that this pastor "has the right" to burn the Qaran, but shouldn't, a neat 180 degree position from Bloomburg's views on building a mosque/community center in the vicinity of the World Trade Center location. The Gainesville Fire Department says there are local ordinances against burning ANY book, at pains to try to explain that this is because the INK in books is somehow toxic when burned. They assure the public they are "making preparations" to prevent any violation of this law. Obama called the guy a nut and said what he is doing is anti-American. (Anti-American? Since when is decency an "American" concept?) The pastor has received death threats, including some that sound very serious.
What is it about we human beings? Do we really have to have multi-billionaires on the one hand and impoverished millions on the other hand? Do some men really have to believe that women should walk around covered from head to toe in black? Does one pastor in Florida really believe burning a book he admits he has never read does anything positive whatsoever? If he does it, will some other man really feel the need to kill him? Or blow up other men (and likely women and children) in protest?
Where is Rodney King when we need his eloquence? Can't we all just get along?
They reported on the news last night that 2 asteroids passed between the Earth and the moon yesterday. That is a distance of 250,000 miles. They said it was the equivalent of threading a needle. One asteroid was big enough to have caused incredible destruction should it have missed the eye of that "needle." The scariest part was that scientists didn't know about these asteroids' proposed path until Sunday! Is that what we human beings need? A poke in the "eye"?
Let's wake up. Let's be kind. Let's wage peace.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
Monday afternoon (Labor Day)
Just a quick note - Jessie and I went to the park this morning. A beautiful morning. Two feet or more of fog lay - gray, misty and mysterious - across the surface of the pond and the meadow between the pond and the rose garden. We walked both loops and as we came back toward the larger part of the pond, there was the heron standing in the water next to the larger island in the center of the pond. (I couldn't stop myself from thinking of the ick-factor as far as the "water" she stood in, but she's a heron so I guess it doesn't bother her.) Anyway, a lovely morning.
Later David and I took Jessie to Barkhamstead to walk where we could let her off leash. She led the way. We went up quite a hill, and scrambled over and then down rocks. A good hike. It was good to see Jessie being a dog-like dog.
I've been watching videos on line of Christopher Hitchens talking about his escophogal cancer.
Peace.
Later David and I took Jessie to Barkhamstead to walk where we could let her off leash. She led the way. We went up quite a hill, and scrambled over and then down rocks. A good hike. It was good to see Jessie being a dog-like dog.
I've been watching videos on line of Christopher Hitchens talking about his escophogal cancer.
Peace.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Saturday morning
Birds in the air.
Jessie and I went to the park this morning; downgraded "hurricane" Earl had passed by Connecticut in the night and at 6:00 a.m. the dew point was busy dropping. The sunrise was beautiful, the sky clear. Probably in my mind, but it seemed as if the park itself, its garments of grasses, trees, shrubs and flowers, and its creatures all sighed with relief. We walked the eastern (shorter) loop. A couple was sitting on bench in the perennial garden near the rock garden where we often stop and I sometimes practice T'ai Chi. I thought, do I want to do my T'ai Chi where they can see me? Then reality dawned: this couple did not have an interest in a 60 year old woman and aging dog unless perhaps I stripped naked and paraded in front of them. So we went to the rock garden. Jessie lolled. And I did T'ai Chi.
Something I think doing T'ai Chi on my own has taught me is that whenever we do an activity under the authority, guidance and watchful eye of a "teacher," we don't really make it our own until we do just that. Do the activity on our own. I personally think it would benefit us in our T'ai Chi class if our instructor would have each of us do the form individually (e.g., in front of the rest of the class), not necessarily for critique but so that each of us experienced the form individually. I think if she had us do that, the others in the class would be sooner to go off on their own, apart from the class, and try it. As far as I know, only J (and possibly D) have done so besides me.
Back to birds in the air. After we walked both the shorter eastern and longer western loops, it was so lovely out, I decided to walk around the pond itself. I didn't expect to see any of the wildlife that has been in hiding lately - the foxes, the muskrat, the heron - but still thought it would be a nice walk for Jessie. As we walked along the northern edge of the pond, suddenly movement over the pond caught my eye - about 20 feet away from us, the great blue heron had leaped into the air. I could see the feathery fringes along her head. She was so close. Her neck in an S shape, legs out behind her. Yellowish beak. Two birds overhead in two days. Wow!
A good morning and good beginning to a 3-day weekend.
Peace.
Jessie and I went to the park this morning; downgraded "hurricane" Earl had passed by Connecticut in the night and at 6:00 a.m. the dew point was busy dropping. The sunrise was beautiful, the sky clear. Probably in my mind, but it seemed as if the park itself, its garments of grasses, trees, shrubs and flowers, and its creatures all sighed with relief. We walked the eastern (shorter) loop. A couple was sitting on bench in the perennial garden near the rock garden where we often stop and I sometimes practice T'ai Chi. I thought, do I want to do my T'ai Chi where they can see me? Then reality dawned: this couple did not have an interest in a 60 year old woman and aging dog unless perhaps I stripped naked and paraded in front of them. So we went to the rock garden. Jessie lolled. And I did T'ai Chi.
Something I think doing T'ai Chi on my own has taught me is that whenever we do an activity under the authority, guidance and watchful eye of a "teacher," we don't really make it our own until we do just that. Do the activity on our own. I personally think it would benefit us in our T'ai Chi class if our instructor would have each of us do the form individually (e.g., in front of the rest of the class), not necessarily for critique but so that each of us experienced the form individually. I think if she had us do that, the others in the class would be sooner to go off on their own, apart from the class, and try it. As far as I know, only J (and possibly D) have done so besides me.
Back to birds in the air. After we walked both the shorter eastern and longer western loops, it was so lovely out, I decided to walk around the pond itself. I didn't expect to see any of the wildlife that has been in hiding lately - the foxes, the muskrat, the heron - but still thought it would be a nice walk for Jessie. As we walked along the northern edge of the pond, suddenly movement over the pond caught my eye - about 20 feet away from us, the great blue heron had leaped into the air. I could see the feathery fringes along her head. She was so close. Her neck in an S shape, legs out behind her. Yellowish beak. Two birds overhead in two days. Wow!
A good morning and good beginning to a 3-day weekend.
Peace.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Friday evening
Jessie and I got to the park this morning. I had planned to take the day off to have a long(er) holiday weekend, but ended up needing to go in 1/2 day. So I went in late - at least for me, 9:00 a.m. - planning to leave early -- at least for me - 2:30 p.m. So we got to go to the park. Not much going on there, creature wise. The Canada geese seem to have disappeared. I'm sure they're visible somewhere, but not in our park. Wonder if the heat has driven them northerly. The Mallards were out. Jess and I were crossing the little bridge that divides the larger northern part of the pond from the smaller southern part when a female Mallard flew right over us. I mean right over us as in 4-6 feet over us. She was just taking a short cut from the small side to the larger side of the pond (rather than paddling over all the way under the bridge). Even though we arrived fairly early - a little before 6:00 a.m. - there were already other people there. Must be the weekday routine, which seems very different. I guess I am among the strange human beings who think getting up at 5:30 on a weekend is a good and pleasant thing.
Anyway, that was my morning.
I spoke to my friend today who was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. She had her first chemo treatment and sounded good and strong. 11 weeks of once a week, followed by more weeks (I forget now how many) of treatment every 3 weeks.
I feel good, stronger all the time ... and guilty. So many other people are still going (or just starting down that dark path) through chemo, radiation, surgery, all three, and often with much more critical diagnoses. On a TV commercial I heard that some horrible number (of course any number is horrible) of children - 40? I can't remember - are diagnosed with cancer every HOUR. Can that be possible? That's horrible. Even one child with cancer is unacceptable.
What a world we live in.
Peace. Peace. Kindness. Health.
Anyway, that was my morning.
I spoke to my friend today who was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. She had her first chemo treatment and sounded good and strong. 11 weeks of once a week, followed by more weeks (I forget now how many) of treatment every 3 weeks.
I feel good, stronger all the time ... and guilty. So many other people are still going (or just starting down that dark path) through chemo, radiation, surgery, all three, and often with much more critical diagnoses. On a TV commercial I heard that some horrible number (of course any number is horrible) of children - 40? I can't remember - are diagnosed with cancer every HOUR. Can that be possible? That's horrible. Even one child with cancer is unacceptable.
What a world we live in.
Peace. Peace. Kindness. Health.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Tuesday evening
I'm home and back into the routine of work-life. I saw Dr. M today and he pronounced me "doing fine." My next appointment with him is November 30th! He seems to have very strong belief that I am (truly) "well" and, seeing that belief etched in his expression and tone of voice, gives me confidence. September should be a doctor-free month. Then in October (the 1 year anniversary of my surgery and cancer diagnosis), Dr. R and ... de dum ... first "real" CT scan (real in the sense of not immediately following 4 months of chemo/radiation/chemo).
My vacation was good. The Lofting class was a challenge but good. The instructor was really excellent. I learned a lot. I was able to go sailing one afternoon in a very small little boat - a lot of fun. Camping was good. The weather was warmer than either of the past 2 summers, and had been dry, which kept the swarms of mosquitoes to a minimum. I saw a toad, a bat. I heard about porpoises in the cove where the sailing class sailed daily, and seals, but did not see them with my own eyes. It was particularly good to disconnect from almost all "connections" - no TV, no radio (except NPR for literally 3 min four times a day when I drove from the camp site to the place where breakfast and dinner was served), no internet. I brought my work mobile phone and talked to David very briefly every day; that was the totality of my "contact" with the non-Wooden Boat School, non-Maine world. One cool morning with silvery dew still thick on the long grass of the meadows around the camp site, I wandered down near the water of the cove and did T'ai Chi in the wet cool long grass. It was a good vacation (and I stopped at LL Bean and found a pair of blue jeans that fit! Another important accomplishment as any middle aged woman who has tried to find jeans that fit will attest.)
I will try to post a few photos. One of the "shop" where my class took place (we were in the "loft" upstairs). A couple of the actual "lofting" - the 4-1/2 foot by 16 foot whitewashed plywood board on which we drew the full-size lines of the 3 dimensions of the boat we "lofted" - a Whitehall pulling (rowing) boat. And one of me sailing that someone in my class took. Let's see if I can get the pictures here
The shop. The "loft" is up the stairs seen in the foreground.
Now, evidence of actual "lofting" (I drew some of these lines!): the "profile" view of the Whitehall (e.g., looking from the side), showing a detail of the "stem" (part of boat running down the bow/front at the center):
One more of actual "lofting" (these are pencil lines on white background; not sure if they will show up here at all):
Finally, me sailing the Nutshell Pram on a sunny warm Maine afternoon just before sunset. Mmmm. Good.
Vacation is good. Everyone should have vacation. I suppose first everyone should have a job. A job that pays a living wage. And then - everyone should have vacation.
Peace. Peace. To far and near.
My vacation was good. The Lofting class was a challenge but good. The instructor was really excellent. I learned a lot. I was able to go sailing one afternoon in a very small little boat - a lot of fun. Camping was good. The weather was warmer than either of the past 2 summers, and had been dry, which kept the swarms of mosquitoes to a minimum. I saw a toad, a bat. I heard about porpoises in the cove where the sailing class sailed daily, and seals, but did not see them with my own eyes. It was particularly good to disconnect from almost all "connections" - no TV, no radio (except NPR for literally 3 min four times a day when I drove from the camp site to the place where breakfast and dinner was served), no internet. I brought my work mobile phone and talked to David very briefly every day; that was the totality of my "contact" with the non-Wooden Boat School, non-Maine world. One cool morning with silvery dew still thick on the long grass of the meadows around the camp site, I wandered down near the water of the cove and did T'ai Chi in the wet cool long grass. It was a good vacation (and I stopped at LL Bean and found a pair of blue jeans that fit! Another important accomplishment as any middle aged woman who has tried to find jeans that fit will attest.)
I will try to post a few photos. One of the "shop" where my class took place (we were in the "loft" upstairs). A couple of the actual "lofting" - the 4-1/2 foot by 16 foot whitewashed plywood board on which we drew the full-size lines of the 3 dimensions of the boat we "lofted" - a Whitehall pulling (rowing) boat. And one of me sailing that someone in my class took. Let's see if I can get the pictures here
The shop. The "loft" is up the stairs seen in the foreground.
Now, evidence of actual "lofting" (I drew some of these lines!): the "profile" view of the Whitehall (e.g., looking from the side), showing a detail of the "stem" (part of boat running down the bow/front at the center):
One more of actual "lofting" (these are pencil lines on white background; not sure if they will show up here at all):
Finally, me sailing the Nutshell Pram on a sunny warm Maine afternoon just before sunset. Mmmm. Good.
Vacation is good. Everyone should have vacation. I suppose first everyone should have a job. A job that pays a living wage. And then - everyone should have vacation.
Peace. Peace. To far and near.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Saturday afternoon
I'm on vacation. Well, it's Saturday and "vacation" doesn't start until Monday, but no more work for 9 days! Hurrah!
First things first. Today I actually saw the heron and got a couple of photos of her. Don't know how they'll show up on this blog but won't know until we try. So here goes:
As soon as I had taken these photos, my camera crashed - well, just that awful message that says WARNING YOUR BATTERY IS KAPUT. Or whatever. Anyway, the heron exists!
I'm getting ready to leave early tomorrow morning to drive to Maine to Wooden Boat School to attend a boat building class, "Lofting." I'm nervous. Naturally. Part of my nervousness is just anticipation, actually pleasurable. This will be my third year at WBS. First year, a sailing class. Last year, the "build your own daysailer" class. Now Lofting. Partly I'm anxious because Lofting is esoteric and notoriously difficult. But I'm not taking the class to "do" anything with it, so I can't really fail at it. Still I remember last year, as the only woman in the class (which likely will be true again this year) that I felt intimidated by the background knowledge that all the men had - how to use this tool and that tool, maybe not for the specific purpose of that class, but in general - where I hadn't even seen many of the tools before, let alone used them. This year the tools are less intimdating - pencil compass, dividers, straight edge, measuring tape, combination square, framing square, hammer, pencils, colored pencils, notebook.
As the days have passed and the time to drive up to Maine has neared I found some level of anxiety increasing that doesn't seem to have to do with the foregoing. And I think it is tied to the fact that last year, when I went to WBS for the class, I was experiencing the "problem" that ultimately led to the discovery of my cancer, surgery, chemo, radiation, etc. Oddly I had had the problem occasionally before I went to Maine last year, and during the entire week I was up there - nothing - I was fine. And then when I came back, the condition worsened, almost suddenly, and that's what sent me to the doctor for the first tests, and other procedures that led to ... well .. we all know what. And so somehow I think there is some association in my thinking, emotions, memories - of going to Maine and coming back and getting cancer.
Of course I know, intellectually, there is no association except temporally and circumstantially. But the brain is in charge of the emotions like a cowboy rides a bucking bronco - occasionally, for short times and with difficulty. So maybe it helps to identify what might be the source of this low-level background anxiety I've been feeling about the trip this year. Because on top of it is great pleasurable anticipation. I love it at WBS. I loved camping last year. I like meeting the people, being challenged in the class.
Another thing that perhaps lies below the surface is the fact that 2 days after I get back I have another "check up," this time with Dr. M. Should be not a big deal. But I have not reached - do we ever truly reach - the point where I can be nonchalant about "surviving" cancer.
I don't know if I'll be able to post from Maine. I don't plan to take my computer, but I think there is a computer available to check email and so on. I will take photos and write notes and post when I get back.
In the meantime, may all the world know the joy and peace of "vacation" - in health and in peace.
Peace. Now. Please.
First things first. Today I actually saw the heron and got a couple of photos of her. Don't know how they'll show up on this blog but won't know until we try. So here goes:As soon as I had taken these photos, my camera crashed - well, just that awful message that says WARNING YOUR BATTERY IS KAPUT. Or whatever. Anyway, the heron exists!
I'm getting ready to leave early tomorrow morning to drive to Maine to Wooden Boat School to attend a boat building class, "Lofting." I'm nervous. Naturally. Part of my nervousness is just anticipation, actually pleasurable. This will be my third year at WBS. First year, a sailing class. Last year, the "build your own daysailer" class. Now Lofting. Partly I'm anxious because Lofting is esoteric and notoriously difficult. But I'm not taking the class to "do" anything with it, so I can't really fail at it. Still I remember last year, as the only woman in the class (which likely will be true again this year) that I felt intimidated by the background knowledge that all the men had - how to use this tool and that tool, maybe not for the specific purpose of that class, but in general - where I hadn't even seen many of the tools before, let alone used them. This year the tools are less intimdating - pencil compass, dividers, straight edge, measuring tape, combination square, framing square, hammer, pencils, colored pencils, notebook.
As the days have passed and the time to drive up to Maine has neared I found some level of anxiety increasing that doesn't seem to have to do with the foregoing. And I think it is tied to the fact that last year, when I went to WBS for the class, I was experiencing the "problem" that ultimately led to the discovery of my cancer, surgery, chemo, radiation, etc. Oddly I had had the problem occasionally before I went to Maine last year, and during the entire week I was up there - nothing - I was fine. And then when I came back, the condition worsened, almost suddenly, and that's what sent me to the doctor for the first tests, and other procedures that led to ... well .. we all know what. And so somehow I think there is some association in my thinking, emotions, memories - of going to Maine and coming back and getting cancer.
Of course I know, intellectually, there is no association except temporally and circumstantially. But the brain is in charge of the emotions like a cowboy rides a bucking bronco - occasionally, for short times and with difficulty. So maybe it helps to identify what might be the source of this low-level background anxiety I've been feeling about the trip this year. Because on top of it is great pleasurable anticipation. I love it at WBS. I loved camping last year. I like meeting the people, being challenged in the class.
Another thing that perhaps lies below the surface is the fact that 2 days after I get back I have another "check up," this time with Dr. M. Should be not a big deal. But I have not reached - do we ever truly reach - the point where I can be nonchalant about "surviving" cancer.
I don't know if I'll be able to post from Maine. I don't plan to take my computer, but I think there is a computer available to check email and so on. I will take photos and write notes and post when I get back.
In the meantime, may all the world know the joy and peace of "vacation" - in health and in peace.
Peace. Now. Please.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Saturday morning
Okay, that's the way it goes. For the last several weeks I've been taking my little digital camera to the park on the weekends and snapping a few photos, always hoping, waiting, hoping to see the heron and get a picture (in fact, it was Crazy L down in N'ville who suggested I try to get a photo of her). So this morning, when the weather up here finally breaks through the hazy heat and cools to the point of having a soupcon of autumn's crispness, I think to myself "Why drag out that little camera again? I haven't seen the heron and then I spend my walk thinking about having the camera ready in case I do see her, or one of the foxes. No, this morning I will just walk."
So first thing, we arrive, get out of the car and walk over to the pond. And there she is, on our near side of the pond, on the shore, our heron standing tall and green/grey/blue among the squatty ducklings. And there we are. No camera. And that's the way it goes.
No foxes this morning. Last weekend one fox ran across the road that circles the park, about 15 yards in front of us. Later a jogger called out as she ran past us, "Be careful! There are 3 foxes out there!" Three? I've only seen two Be careful? Does she think they will attack us? Perhaps she thought that Jessie might go after them, and she is very interested in them and if she were off leash, indeed, she might give chase. But in a fight between my Labrador Recliner and a wild-but-suburban fox, I would actually give the fox the edge. Ergo, she's right - be careful.
A couple of months ago, I think I pooh-poohed Dr. R's statement that I would "notice a difference" in "about 4 months." It has been 4 months since my last chemo treatment and I do really now notice a difference. My fatigue seems almost back to normal, meaning as usual for a 60 year old not in great shape woman. But basically I feel good. I get so many compliments on my "haircut" - ha, no "cut" this - from so many quarters. And I do like having my hair so short. Still haven't used a comb or brush - not since November of last year! (To think a year ago I was considering getting my hair cut "short" (which ended up being about 3 times as long as it is now) and was all anxious about it. At any rate, now the only question for me is finding someone to cut it periodically to keep it short). The main lingering and annoying side effect of the chemo is the neuropathy in my feet - still feel like the balls and pads of toes on both feet are wearing cotton padding, half-numb, semi-swollen feeling, weird. Worse in the heat. For a while it seemed to be improving (affected more of each foot after the final chemo and gradually improved until only affecting the balls and toes--but it's stayed that way for a while).
Last week I finally was able to get together with a friend with whom I've wanted to have lunch for many many months. Now only to learn she has been recently diagnosed with breast cancer herself, has had surgery and now faces chemo and radiation, We talked and I hope sharing my experiences was helpful, but afterwards I realized even from 4 months out, I look at my journey through cancer diagnosis, surgery, chemo, radiation and more chemo - from hindsight already. After we had lunch I gave her the address for this blog. Later I read some of the early posts here again for the first time. I was struck by what now seemed like a bright red cord of fear/anxiety woven through the overall fabric of my emotions - humor, bravery (or a good imitation), compassion, and always that undercurrent But I made it through, in large part I know (and knew then, too, I hope) because of family and friends who were just outstanding. Anyway, don't they say that bravery isn't not being afraid, it's going on when you are afraid. Somehow I managed. I think my friend R will manage, too. She is strong. There are people who care about her, I among them.
You know, it's a lesson from cancer for life, I guess, we don't have to figure it all out now, face every fear, deal with every problem today. Today, just today. One step. If it's too much, slow down even more. Share with someone. If there's no one, write it down, get it out. Find a park. A pond. A heron.
Peace.
So first thing, we arrive, get out of the car and walk over to the pond. And there she is, on our near side of the pond, on the shore, our heron standing tall and green/grey/blue among the squatty ducklings. And there we are. No camera. And that's the way it goes.
No foxes this morning. Last weekend one fox ran across the road that circles the park, about 15 yards in front of us. Later a jogger called out as she ran past us, "Be careful! There are 3 foxes out there!" Three? I've only seen two Be careful? Does she think they will attack us? Perhaps she thought that Jessie might go after them, and she is very interested in them and if she were off leash, indeed, she might give chase. But in a fight between my Labrador Recliner and a wild-but-suburban fox, I would actually give the fox the edge. Ergo, she's right - be careful.
A couple of months ago, I think I pooh-poohed Dr. R's statement that I would "notice a difference" in "about 4 months." It has been 4 months since my last chemo treatment and I do really now notice a difference. My fatigue seems almost back to normal, meaning as usual for a 60 year old not in great shape woman. But basically I feel good. I get so many compliments on my "haircut" - ha, no "cut" this - from so many quarters. And I do like having my hair so short. Still haven't used a comb or brush - not since November of last year! (To think a year ago I was considering getting my hair cut "short" (which ended up being about 3 times as long as it is now) and was all anxious about it. At any rate, now the only question for me is finding someone to cut it periodically to keep it short). The main lingering and annoying side effect of the chemo is the neuropathy in my feet - still feel like the balls and pads of toes on both feet are wearing cotton padding, half-numb, semi-swollen feeling, weird. Worse in the heat. For a while it seemed to be improving (affected more of each foot after the final chemo and gradually improved until only affecting the balls and toes--but it's stayed that way for a while).
Last week I finally was able to get together with a friend with whom I've wanted to have lunch for many many months. Now only to learn she has been recently diagnosed with breast cancer herself, has had surgery and now faces chemo and radiation, We talked and I hope sharing my experiences was helpful, but afterwards I realized even from 4 months out, I look at my journey through cancer diagnosis, surgery, chemo, radiation and more chemo - from hindsight already. After we had lunch I gave her the address for this blog. Later I read some of the early posts here again for the first time. I was struck by what now seemed like a bright red cord of fear/anxiety woven through the overall fabric of my emotions - humor, bravery (or a good imitation), compassion, and always that undercurrent But I made it through, in large part I know (and knew then, too, I hope) because of family and friends who were just outstanding. Anyway, don't they say that bravery isn't not being afraid, it's going on when you are afraid. Somehow I managed. I think my friend R will manage, too. She is strong. There are people who care about her, I among them.
You know, it's a lesson from cancer for life, I guess, we don't have to figure it all out now, face every fear, deal with every problem today. Today, just today. One step. If it's too much, slow down even more. Share with someone. If there's no one, write it down, get it out. Find a park. A pond. A heron.
Peace.
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