Two years ago, every three minutes a woman in the United States was diagnosed with breast cancer. Now, a woman in the US receives this blunt diagnosis every two minutes. In 2006, an estimated 212,920 new cases of invasive breast cancer are expected to be diagnosed, along with 61,980 new cases of non-invasive breast cancer. And 43,000 women are expected to die this year from this disease. Breast cancer is the leading cancer among white and African American women, the second leading cause of death in this country, and the leading cause of death in women aged 40-55 years. African American women are more likely to die from this disease. And finally, breast cancer incidence in women has increased from one in twenty in 1960 to one in eight today. Grim statistics!
There have been some interesting bits in the news lately about potential new cancer treatments, and I can't help but think that in the end, we'll find the cure from the most inane source--frog liver, macadamia nuts, Dramamine, or some other OTC drug that everyone has in his or her medicine cabinet. Some friends of mine were hoping that the cure might be found in the worm at the bottom of a Tequila bottle, but so far, the WWRFC has not been able to prove it to be the cure-all we had all hoped it would be (it does still melt cotton, however). No thanks to the Bush administration, cancer research makes tremendous leaps every year--but imagine the advances that would be made if it were a fully funded enterprise (and while I'm at it, I like to imagine what life could be like for stem cell researchers, too).
But there are exciting discoveries being made, and in this era of depleted (demolished? ransacked? decimated?) public funding, such discoveries seem more triumphant and important than ever. A good friend of my mother's sent the article below, heralding a new urine test that can be used as an early indicator of breast cancer as well as its recurrence. This is exciting stuff! The test can also be used to monitor how well a woman's breast cancer treatment is working, which would bring the ever-elusive peace of mind, or a well-informed decision to change treatment plans. This kind of test holds much promise for other cancers as well. It is amazing to me that I haven't heard anything about this on the news--but I promise you, it is legit. And it is even more amazing to think of how many lives this will save, not to mention the unnecessary surgical biopsies it will minimize. There are so many women who are faced with iffy mammograms, and have to make the decision to go forward with intrusive procedures (stereotactic biopsy, needle localization) and invasive surgeries in order to biopsy the questionable tissue. With this new test, instead of facing the pain and anxiety of surgery, they'd be able to simply pee in a cup. Of course, many biopsies end up being primary lumpectomies, as mine was, but many do not--most biopsied tissue ends up being benign. In fact, 8 out of 10 breast lumps are NOT cancerous. And currently, 70% of all breast cancers are diagnosed by breast self-exams. Since mammography can detect breast cancer up to two years before a cancer is large enough to be palpable, (like mine was), early detection is incredibly important. Breast cancer that is detected and treated early has a five-year survival rate greater than 96%. That's heartening. I am counting on being included in that survival rate, and joining the over 2 million women in the U.S. alone that are breast cancer survivors. Let's hope the gov moves on this and awards it full approval soon.
There has been a lot of hoopla in the news about VITAMIN D as well, and I'll be writing more about that later, but for now, know that research points to incredible results with vitamin D3 supplementation--cutting cancer risk across the board by 20%. As well, a recent study linked Vitamin D deficiency (and if you live in the north, and do not take at least 1,000 iu in daily supplementation, you are most likely deficient, as I was, last September--September! at the end of summer!) to a much higher risk of breast cancer (and MS, among other things) and to a much higher chance of dying from the disease if deficient at the time of diagnosis. So, for now, take your vitamin D3, get your sunshine, do your self-exams, get your mammos done, pee in the cup as soon as the gov approves the new test, and be well (dammit). Here 'tis:
BOSTON - A new and accurate urine test that warns of a woman's breast cancer risk should soon help doctors treat tumors earlier and save more lives, scientists report.
In a study of 148 women - 68 known to have very early signs of cancer, compared to 80 healthy women - the enzyme tests spotted more than 95 percent of those at risk for tumor growth, with no "false positives" among the control patients, the researchers said.
The main goal is to develop simple, painless and inexpensive tests that can warn women that breast cancer may be starting, well before their tumors become detectable by other means. What the researchers look for are two enzymes in urine samples that point to cancer risk.
"This is the outcome from many years of trying to discover non-invasive biomarkers" for early detection of tumors, said biochemist Marsha Moses, a Harvard Medical School professor at Children's Hospital Boston. "We first wanted to see if we could predict the presence of established cancer. We did that."
In the latest work, she added, "we wanted to see if these same 'biomarkers' could predict that a woman was at risk for breast cancer. We did that, too."
According to Dr. Kevin Camphausen, "This is great work. And what I think is most important is that it's a non-invasive biomarker" for use against cancer. He said Moses "is really at the cutting edge of this" new technology.
Camphausen, a senior investigator, is chief of the Radiation Oncology Branch of the National Institutes of Health, in Bethesda, MD. He said that finding "bio-markers" that can warn when cancer is beginning "is a Holy Grail of this disease."
In fact, the new research confirms that the enzyme-based tests of urine do detect tumors at least as early as standard methods - mammograms and breast palpation - and probably even earlier.
During the study, to avoid bias, the urine samples were "blinded" so the researchers didn't know which samples came from cancer patients and which came from women enrolled as controls.
Such promising results are important because there is great need for early detection. Breast tumors are the most widely reported cancer in women, and spotting them early so treatment can begin is vital in the battle for survival. According to the American Cancer Society, about 178,000 American women will discover they have breast cancer this year. Worse, about 40,000 of them will die because of tumor growth and metastasis. Breast cancer is currently the second-most deadly form of cancer.
Also, large amounts of data from patients with other types of tumors - bladder, prostate, brain and ovarian cancer - plus a small amount of data from animal studies, indicates that other cancers are similarly detectable via urinalysis, looking for the same two telltale enzymes.
Now that an early detection system has been shown to work, the next step is to test it in far larger populations, Moses said. The goal is to win U.S. Food And Drug Administration approval so it can be commercialized for widespread diagnostic use. A new company meant to develop such diagnostic tests, Predictive BioSciences Inc., was recently established in Waltham, Mass., to bring the new test system to market.
"Risk assessment is so critically important" for women facing the threat of breast cancer, Moses explained. "We were able to detect breast cancer risk. We did find a difference" between patients at risk and healthy women, a difference "that did predict their risk."
Equally important, in addition to spotting tumors very early, the same urine test can track the progress of a tumor: how fast it's growing. Too, it also monitors how well anti-cancer treatments are working, with enzyme levels going down as treatment succeeds.
The new test system is also "non-invasive," meaning it requires no blood tests, tissue sampling or other painful medical procedures. Moses expects the test kits to be cheap and easy-to-use once they reach the market.
A full report on their achievement appeared recently in the journal Epidemiology, Biomarkers and Prevention, published by the American Association for Cancer Research.
"Our goal is not to replace mammograms, magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) and other tests," Moses explained. "We want to provide people with additional information that can precisely predict risk, and/or disease status."
The test system is based on years of research into blood vessel biology led by the late Dr. Judah Folkman, also at Children's Hospital. He had been avidly seeking natural molecules, bio-markers, which can warn that cancer has begun.
Camphausen added that government agencies - the NIH, the National Cancer Institute and the FDA - are now debating how to use such biomarkers, their value in the clinic, and how to set benchmarks for approval of their use.
Moses and her 16 research colleagues work at Children's Hospital, the Beth Isreal-Deaconess Medical Center, Mount Auburn Hospital in Cambridge, Brigham and Women's Hospital, the Dana-Farber Harvard Cancer Institute, and the University of Copenhagen, Denmark. The lead author is Susan Pories at Beth-Israel and Mt. Auburn. Moses is the senior author.
Their work focussed on identifying and analyzing a group of special tissue-dissolving enzymes called MMPs. One, called MMP-9, and the other, ADAM-12, both show up very early in cancer patients' urine, but not in samples from persons without cancer. Also, the amounts of the enzymes detected in urine reliably correlate with the severity of disease, going up as the tumor gets worse.
"Our data show that urinary ADAM-12 and MMP-9 are highly significant predictors of breast cancer risk" in patients already known to have risk-related breast tissue changes, known as "atypical hyperplasia" and "lobular carcinoma in situ," Moses and her colleagues wrote. Urine samples were obtained from all 148 women, and the existence of tumors in the cancer patients had already been confirmed with tissue biopsies.
Once the new urine test wins government approval, the researchers think it will be widely used to detect small tumors, as well as monitor the effectiveness of treatment, and watch for recurrence of tumor growth.
According to Camphausen, it has been "incredibly difficult to fund" the search for biomarkers. "So it's been done with a lot of private money so far," money from donating individuals, foundations and other non-government sources.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Dusting off the Leisure Suit
The human mind always makes progress, but it is a progress in spirals. ~ Madame De Stael
The indefatigable springtime bustle continues, though the passing of Memorial Day just yesterday--with its ceremonial, marathon yard sales, graduations, picnics, and parades heralding the unofficial start of summer--may have popped the bubble, ushering in the promise (and we all know that promises are meant to be broken) of a more languid pace amidst blank canvas days and the intentional cultivation of leisure. We Americans seem to like the idea of things more than the thing itself (case in point: waiting for hours to "enjoy" a mediocre sugarhouse breakfast that we could have gotten for half the price in half the time and actually enjoyed at our favorite local drive-through); the concept of Leisure is no exception. We talk a big game, wasting zillions on securing toys and games and trumped up diversions that echo someone else's idea of fun, only to end up with a dearth of unused vacation days and a mountain of neglected croquet sets and boogie boards in the basement. We seem to need a crash course in Leisure Studies, and learn properly, once and for all, how to take it easy every now and then. I'd be the first to sign up.
It's the Tuesday after the long holiday weekend, which proved to be a welcome respite from the to-and-fro methodical weekday grind. I was lucky enough to spend some time this weekend with family, immediate and extended, and be reminded of the importance of not only place in our lives, but the circles and scatterings of people that inhabit and breathe life into those spaces as well.
On Saturday morning, I slipped out of the house for the Farmer's Market in nearby Greenfield (the largest metropolis in Franklin County), where I was hoping to find some winter squash vegetable starts and heirloom tomato plants. Characteristically, I ran into dozens of familiar faces, bought some lovely pottery and four budding astilbe plants, snatched up the last loaf of delicious whole spelt, flax, sunflower bread (score!), communed with a sweet chocolate lab named Noodle, and fell headlong into deep, comfortable trenches of conversation with friends old and new--but did not find exactly what I was looking for. It didn't matter. Looping about the market, I was happy for the chance to be out and about, create my own pace, visit with good-hearted people, and participate in the age-old ritual of Market day, when people head out to buy what they need for the week from neighbors who grow and raise their own food close by and gather together with their goods for sale and barter so people don't have to drive forever or pay unsightly prices for food to be shipped from Chile, Argentina, California, China, all those millions of miles away. Low-carbon diet aside, it is pretty close to wonderful to know exactly where one's food comes from.
It's been good to get away from the usual entrapment of the Saturday domestic slog that threatens at times to undermine my more earnest attempts at extricating myself from this midlife rubble and live a little. A little, and a little more every day. One step at a time. In a few months, I may be ready to jump out of an airplane. But unearthing takes a while. For now, I'm content to find a bit more space and light to, ah, air out my tendrils, limbs, and locks, feel the wind start to fill my sails, and ready my rudder.
Saturday afternoon brought us to the Durfee Conservatory and Gardens, a curious and lovely spot of secluded calm on the otherwise frat house-raddled University of Massachusetts campus in Amherst, which on this day was riddled with cars and foot traffic and campus cops parading as city blue. We had come to see my brother Will graduate from the University's landscape architecture undergraduate program--and to see the rest of the Gardner family--my other two brothers, Sam and Eli, my father and his new wife, Mimi, and my step-mother, Martha. After a morning of marketing, badminton and basketball, we had all polished up for the occasion. Luke and Dominick had washed their faces, combed their hair, and put on those sprightly button-down collared shirts that they used to have to wear every day to school, but that have now been relegated to the dark side of the closet in favor of the more comfortable, and decidedly more ratty, t-shirts. (No dress code in H.S. 385)
I tried to look presentable, though Luke informed me that I wasn't looking "very fancy." (I took that as a good thing). Fanciness aside, I have realized that what I am most self-conscious of these days are, you guessed it!, my girls, particularly when I am seeing people who have known me forever, are well-versed in what my girls usually look like, and who might balk at seeing the obvious ample-ness of my over-expanded girl-in-progress (I'd call her Gip but I do believe that no matter how eager I am to trade her in, she'll prove herself worthy in the end).
I've noticed that when I run into people who have heard about my breast cancer, their eyes invariably begin a Death Scan to see if I'm truly still alive--checking on my color (gray would be the pallor of the cancer survivor, right? wrong!), my posture, my aura, and then, once they've realized that I'm not scary-cancer-looking, their eyes travel right to my breasts. I can only imagine what kinds of misconceptions they might have about what's happening under my sweater--what the scar looks like, what an over-expanded, nippleless girl-in-progress looks like, and all the other reconstruction queries--and I can't say that I blame them. It is a curiosity, after all, and breast cancer--and all of its unimaginables--is something that most women wonder about while at the same time holding close to them in absolute terror. I know I did. But now, well, it's still frightening, of course, but not as, and given how familiar it is to me now, it has lost its edge, and loosened its malevolent grip of that unknown terror of which many of us don't dare to speak. Breast cancer is a bit like Lord Voldemort: we go about our days averting our eyes and speaking in hushed tones about "cancer," sometimes not daring to even articulate the actual word itself, as if the Breast Cancer Beast had become a She-who-must-not-be-named Dark Villianess trying to resurrect an evil resurgence with estrogen-fueled Death Eaters spreading their contemptible, predatory, prejudiced charm amongst unsuspecting Muggles like myself. I'd like to think that swirling about my inner warrior are shards of the ever-impressive Harry-Ron-Hermione trio that have enabled me to slay the BC Beast, but I know I've had a helluva lot of help--and I am grateful. Echoes of Dumbledore's Army, I suppose.
But here I am, talking about my breast cancer, dishing the scoop on my girls, and sharing things that might make some people uncomfortable (and still others simply nauseated), simply because I couldn't not talk about it, nor do it any other way. It is my hope, too, that by being candid about my experience I will engender a better understanding of a disease with which so many women have had to grab horns and do battle. Plus, it's been and continues to be a powerful way for me to demystify and disempower the cancer in my life, to deflate and defuse the terror while empowering myself instead, freeing my identity from the breast cancer victim/survivor stigma, and infusing the experience with a deeper acceptance of the ongoing, restless, willful fight for life--and the freedom to live without the constant fear that oft darkens the great caverns of soul and spirit.
Since I don't want anyone to feel uncomfortable around me, because, after all, they'll just make me feel uncomfortable around me, I try to reassure them instantly that I am fine, that despite everything, I'm doing okay, really, that yes, my left girl is quite a bit bigger than my right, see, here she is, a bit unwieldy these days, but doing just fine. I make reference to my left girl at the start of the conversation, so they can gawk all they want, because, after all, here I am, inviting them to look and see and be okay with it all, as I point and grab and introduce my girls, This is Pamela Anderson, here on the left, and this one, this is Liz Gardner. Pamela leaves on the 17th. And I can hear the audible sigh...
I didn't have to worry, really, about how my family would take me in. I knew that they'd hug me, all of me, and not be overly delicate about it, and I was glad for it. But I had other things to think about. Here was my youngest brother, Will, graduating from college. How was that possible? Will was a baby when I graduated from college, entertaining us all with the kind of hilarious slapstick comedy routine that would land an eighteen-month old on youtube these days. This could only mean one thing: I am old. Shit.
It was great to see everyone--my brother Sam in from Boston, Eli in from San Fransisco, Will's girlfriend Ariel, and Dad, Mimi and Martha all in from Marblehead--though there wasn't nearly enough time to talk and get caught up properly. And we were all proud of Will, who looked ever the graduate in his black gown and perfectly visible tan line that his cap--and the morning's sun--had left on his forehead. (And Will had, just a few days before, jumped out of an airplane, inspiring me to actually think more seriously about doing it). We joked that it was too bad my mother hadn't been able to make it; what fun it would have been for Will to line everyone up and introduce his family to his friends and professors: "This is my father, his first wife, his second wife, and his third wife." (for those of you not familiar with our particular brand of family, my mother was my father's first wife, Will's, Sam's, and Eli's mother, Martha, was my father's second wife, and Mimi is his third wife. Sam, Eli and Will are my half-brothers, though my love for them is quite whole.)
On Sunday, we headed back Amherst way with my mother for a picnic at our cousins' place in Cushman, an annual get together that has become a much-anticipated day in our busy spring calendar. The house, like so many before it, with its lived in and loved charm, its palpable residue of spirited gatherings, good food, music, and fun, and its lovely gardens that evoke an industrious indolence in the best possible way, has become a place of comfort for me, where our Cousin Fay, husband Ed, and entire Kaynor family first welcomed us into the warm folds of their annual Memorial Day picnic several years ago, and reestablished Reed family bonds that have deepened over the years--and for which I am most grateful. Though Fay died a few years ago, I see her smile on the faces of her children and grandchildren, and feel her sweet, feisty, independent spirit and warmth all throughout the day, in the way they care for each other, for the house, and for their father Ed, who, at nearly 85, still amazes us with his own inspiring brand of moxie. But I miss her. And there's a touch of grandfather, too, my mother's father Carroll Reed, whose brother was Fay's father, in all of the Kaynor cousins--and when we are with them, I am reminded of everything I loved about him, and the way I felt when I was with him, that no matter what was going on, everything was going to be alright. I am reminded of the old family homes that once offered that sense of reassurance, and that now exist only in memory, with a bitter sense of loss jockeying for space with the resounding sense of history and family and good memories.
These days, I am acutely aware of when I am lucky enough to feel that everything is going to be alright, when the dark chill of fear and anxiety and uncertainty melts away and the day stretches before me, ripe and ready for the picking. Sunday was one such day. There was something about the way everything smelled, tasted, felt, sounded, and looked: the tickle of the tall grass against my shins, the upright rows of garlic, reaching their green scapes to the skies, the sizzle of the grill, the smell of the mint in my iced tea, the the grip of the frisbee and the whoosh as it left my hand, the flavors on my plate, on my tongue...(my childhood comfort zone is a full-fledged sensory experience). Any lingering troubles and a residual weariness from the week's woes, seemed to dissipate, and we could relax, fully, and enjoy the tidings of the day: brilliant sunshine, the perfect open field for frisbee and soccer (and cousins who are always game for such fun), delicious food (there's something about the sun-brewed iced tea in the ceramic pitchers with the fresh mint leaves bobbing about that takes me back), and the best part--the conversation and warmth that drew us in, encircled us and followed us back home, where that feeling of reassurance permeated the cantankerous corners and hung about for a time, smoothing over all the rough edges. I do wish it could be more often. It is a rare event to gather with family two days in a row--and two different families at that. It made me realize how little I've seen of family since my diagnosis, how much I miss them, and how thankful I am for all the families that dot my genetic landscape, and keep the cold at bay.
On Monday, while the boys played their endless games of badminton and basketball, alternating between the lush green of the lawn and the dry dust of the driveway, my mother and I drove about looking for flowers at a few of the local garden shops, and lost ourselves in the rows of salvia, bleeding hearts, and bee balm. Later, my mother helped me plant more lettuce, winter squash, and tomatoes in my garden (thank you, Mom!). With toes immersed in the soft earth of our vegetable garden, gently coaxing the weeds up and out of the beds, I filled a few more holes with heirloom tomato plants from our neighbor's venerable, verdant spot atop the hill across the street. By the afternoon, I was a sweaty tangle of sore muscles, my mother had fled to the quieter confines of her Williamstown home, Jim was nearly finished mowing the lawn, and the boys had collapsed on the couch in anticipation of the night's Celtics game.
And now, Tuesday has come and nearly gone. We had our first thunderstorms of the season today, and happily rushed about shutting windows, bringing in outdoor cushions, and making sure the dog, aquake (yes, I made up that word) with thunder-fear, was okay. I stepped out onto the deck to watch the storm roll in, with the wind and rain flipping and flattening the leaves, filling stray buckets, and soaking the grass and gardens in a sudden outpouring of boastful show. It didn't last nearly long enough, but had enough flash and dazzle for the sun to reappear like some powerful emperor of the sky and quickly dry the sodden, sparkling ground, and for the wind to whip in cooler, drier air that blew out the stuffy hot dredges of humidity that lurked and enveloped and threatened to spoil our sleep. There was something different about this day. It made me think of making Thundercake with the kids when they were younger, when we would race about as the skies darkened and try to make a chocolate cake before the lightning hit, listening to the thunder and counting, mixing in eggs and chocolate into the flour as the storm edged closer and closer. It made me long for the days when life, perhaps, was simpler, and when Thundercake could distract us from our worries and make everything alright, if but for an afternoon. Daisy could probably use a little thundercake these days...we all could.
A thunderstorm is God's way of saying you spend too much time in front of the computer. ~ anonymous.
Ok, I'm shutting down. Time for bed. (:-)) Sleep well.
The indefatigable springtime bustle continues, though the passing of Memorial Day just yesterday--with its ceremonial, marathon yard sales, graduations, picnics, and parades heralding the unofficial start of summer--may have popped the bubble, ushering in the promise (and we all know that promises are meant to be broken) of a more languid pace amidst blank canvas days and the intentional cultivation of leisure. We Americans seem to like the idea of things more than the thing itself (case in point: waiting for hours to "enjoy" a mediocre sugarhouse breakfast that we could have gotten for half the price in half the time and actually enjoyed at our favorite local drive-through); the concept of Leisure is no exception. We talk a big game, wasting zillions on securing toys and games and trumped up diversions that echo someone else's idea of fun, only to end up with a dearth of unused vacation days and a mountain of neglected croquet sets and boogie boards in the basement. We seem to need a crash course in Leisure Studies, and learn properly, once and for all, how to take it easy every now and then. I'd be the first to sign up.
It's the Tuesday after the long holiday weekend, which proved to be a welcome respite from the to-and-fro methodical weekday grind. I was lucky enough to spend some time this weekend with family, immediate and extended, and be reminded of the importance of not only place in our lives, but the circles and scatterings of people that inhabit and breathe life into those spaces as well.
On Saturday morning, I slipped out of the house for the Farmer's Market in nearby Greenfield (the largest metropolis in Franklin County), where I was hoping to find some winter squash vegetable starts and heirloom tomato plants. Characteristically, I ran into dozens of familiar faces, bought some lovely pottery and four budding astilbe plants, snatched up the last loaf of delicious whole spelt, flax, sunflower bread (score!), communed with a sweet chocolate lab named Noodle, and fell headlong into deep, comfortable trenches of conversation with friends old and new--but did not find exactly what I was looking for. It didn't matter. Looping about the market, I was happy for the chance to be out and about, create my own pace, visit with good-hearted people, and participate in the age-old ritual of Market day, when people head out to buy what they need for the week from neighbors who grow and raise their own food close by and gather together with their goods for sale and barter so people don't have to drive forever or pay unsightly prices for food to be shipped from Chile, Argentina, California, China, all those millions of miles away. Low-carbon diet aside, it is pretty close to wonderful to know exactly where one's food comes from.
It's been good to get away from the usual entrapment of the Saturday domestic slog that threatens at times to undermine my more earnest attempts at extricating myself from this midlife rubble and live a little. A little, and a little more every day. One step at a time. In a few months, I may be ready to jump out of an airplane. But unearthing takes a while. For now, I'm content to find a bit more space and light to, ah, air out my tendrils, limbs, and locks, feel the wind start to fill my sails, and ready my rudder.
Saturday afternoon brought us to the Durfee Conservatory and Gardens, a curious and lovely spot of secluded calm on the otherwise frat house-raddled University of Massachusetts campus in Amherst, which on this day was riddled with cars and foot traffic and campus cops parading as city blue. We had come to see my brother Will graduate from the University's landscape architecture undergraduate program--and to see the rest of the Gardner family--my other two brothers, Sam and Eli, my father and his new wife, Mimi, and my step-mother, Martha. After a morning of marketing, badminton and basketball, we had all polished up for the occasion. Luke and Dominick had washed their faces, combed their hair, and put on those sprightly button-down collared shirts that they used to have to wear every day to school, but that have now been relegated to the dark side of the closet in favor of the more comfortable, and decidedly more ratty, t-shirts. (No dress code in H.S. 385)
I tried to look presentable, though Luke informed me that I wasn't looking "very fancy." (I took that as a good thing). Fanciness aside, I have realized that what I am most self-conscious of these days are, you guessed it!, my girls, particularly when I am seeing people who have known me forever, are well-versed in what my girls usually look like, and who might balk at seeing the obvious ample-ness of my over-expanded girl-in-progress (I'd call her Gip but I do believe that no matter how eager I am to trade her in, she'll prove herself worthy in the end).
I've noticed that when I run into people who have heard about my breast cancer, their eyes invariably begin a Death Scan to see if I'm truly still alive--checking on my color (gray would be the pallor of the cancer survivor, right? wrong!), my posture, my aura, and then, once they've realized that I'm not scary-cancer-looking, their eyes travel right to my breasts. I can only imagine what kinds of misconceptions they might have about what's happening under my sweater--what the scar looks like, what an over-expanded, nippleless girl-in-progress looks like, and all the other reconstruction queries--and I can't say that I blame them. It is a curiosity, after all, and breast cancer--and all of its unimaginables--is something that most women wonder about while at the same time holding close to them in absolute terror. I know I did. But now, well, it's still frightening, of course, but not as, and given how familiar it is to me now, it has lost its edge, and loosened its malevolent grip of that unknown terror of which many of us don't dare to speak. Breast cancer is a bit like Lord Voldemort: we go about our days averting our eyes and speaking in hushed tones about "cancer," sometimes not daring to even articulate the actual word itself, as if the Breast Cancer Beast had become a She-who-must-not-be-named Dark Villianess trying to resurrect an evil resurgence with estrogen-fueled Death Eaters spreading their contemptible, predatory, prejudiced charm amongst unsuspecting Muggles like myself. I'd like to think that swirling about my inner warrior are shards of the ever-impressive Harry-Ron-Hermione trio that have enabled me to slay the BC Beast, but I know I've had a helluva lot of help--and I am grateful. Echoes of Dumbledore's Army, I suppose.
But here I am, talking about my breast cancer, dishing the scoop on my girls, and sharing things that might make some people uncomfortable (and still others simply nauseated), simply because I couldn't not talk about it, nor do it any other way. It is my hope, too, that by being candid about my experience I will engender a better understanding of a disease with which so many women have had to grab horns and do battle. Plus, it's been and continues to be a powerful way for me to demystify and disempower the cancer in my life, to deflate and defuse the terror while empowering myself instead, freeing my identity from the breast cancer victim/survivor stigma, and infusing the experience with a deeper acceptance of the ongoing, restless, willful fight for life--and the freedom to live without the constant fear that oft darkens the great caverns of soul and spirit.
Since I don't want anyone to feel uncomfortable around me, because, after all, they'll just make me feel uncomfortable around me, I try to reassure them instantly that I am fine, that despite everything, I'm doing okay, really, that yes, my left girl is quite a bit bigger than my right, see, here she is, a bit unwieldy these days, but doing just fine. I make reference to my left girl at the start of the conversation, so they can gawk all they want, because, after all, here I am, inviting them to look and see and be okay with it all, as I point and grab and introduce my girls, This is Pamela Anderson, here on the left, and this one, this is Liz Gardner. Pamela leaves on the 17th. And I can hear the audible sigh...
I didn't have to worry, really, about how my family would take me in. I knew that they'd hug me, all of me, and not be overly delicate about it, and I was glad for it. But I had other things to think about. Here was my youngest brother, Will, graduating from college. How was that possible? Will was a baby when I graduated from college, entertaining us all with the kind of hilarious slapstick comedy routine that would land an eighteen-month old on youtube these days. This could only mean one thing: I am old. Shit.
It was great to see everyone--my brother Sam in from Boston, Eli in from San Fransisco, Will's girlfriend Ariel, and Dad, Mimi and Martha all in from Marblehead--though there wasn't nearly enough time to talk and get caught up properly. And we were all proud of Will, who looked ever the graduate in his black gown and perfectly visible tan line that his cap--and the morning's sun--had left on his forehead. (And Will had, just a few days before, jumped out of an airplane, inspiring me to actually think more seriously about doing it). We joked that it was too bad my mother hadn't been able to make it; what fun it would have been for Will to line everyone up and introduce his family to his friends and professors: "This is my father, his first wife, his second wife, and his third wife." (for those of you not familiar with our particular brand of family, my mother was my father's first wife, Will's, Sam's, and Eli's mother, Martha, was my father's second wife, and Mimi is his third wife. Sam, Eli and Will are my half-brothers, though my love for them is quite whole.)
On Sunday, we headed back Amherst way with my mother for a picnic at our cousins' place in Cushman, an annual get together that has become a much-anticipated day in our busy spring calendar. The house, like so many before it, with its lived in and loved charm, its palpable residue of spirited gatherings, good food, music, and fun, and its lovely gardens that evoke an industrious indolence in the best possible way, has become a place of comfort for me, where our Cousin Fay, husband Ed, and entire Kaynor family first welcomed us into the warm folds of their annual Memorial Day picnic several years ago, and reestablished Reed family bonds that have deepened over the years--and for which I am most grateful. Though Fay died a few years ago, I see her smile on the faces of her children and grandchildren, and feel her sweet, feisty, independent spirit and warmth all throughout the day, in the way they care for each other, for the house, and for their father Ed, who, at nearly 85, still amazes us with his own inspiring brand of moxie. But I miss her. And there's a touch of grandfather, too, my mother's father Carroll Reed, whose brother was Fay's father, in all of the Kaynor cousins--and when we are with them, I am reminded of everything I loved about him, and the way I felt when I was with him, that no matter what was going on, everything was going to be alright. I am reminded of the old family homes that once offered that sense of reassurance, and that now exist only in memory, with a bitter sense of loss jockeying for space with the resounding sense of history and family and good memories.
These days, I am acutely aware of when I am lucky enough to feel that everything is going to be alright, when the dark chill of fear and anxiety and uncertainty melts away and the day stretches before me, ripe and ready for the picking. Sunday was one such day. There was something about the way everything smelled, tasted, felt, sounded, and looked: the tickle of the tall grass against my shins, the upright rows of garlic, reaching their green scapes to the skies, the sizzle of the grill, the smell of the mint in my iced tea, the the grip of the frisbee and the whoosh as it left my hand, the flavors on my plate, on my tongue...(my childhood comfort zone is a full-fledged sensory experience). Any lingering troubles and a residual weariness from the week's woes, seemed to dissipate, and we could relax, fully, and enjoy the tidings of the day: brilliant sunshine, the perfect open field for frisbee and soccer (and cousins who are always game for such fun), delicious food (there's something about the sun-brewed iced tea in the ceramic pitchers with the fresh mint leaves bobbing about that takes me back), and the best part--the conversation and warmth that drew us in, encircled us and followed us back home, where that feeling of reassurance permeated the cantankerous corners and hung about for a time, smoothing over all the rough edges. I do wish it could be more often. It is a rare event to gather with family two days in a row--and two different families at that. It made me realize how little I've seen of family since my diagnosis, how much I miss them, and how thankful I am for all the families that dot my genetic landscape, and keep the cold at bay.
On Monday, while the boys played their endless games of badminton and basketball, alternating between the lush green of the lawn and the dry dust of the driveway, my mother and I drove about looking for flowers at a few of the local garden shops, and lost ourselves in the rows of salvia, bleeding hearts, and bee balm. Later, my mother helped me plant more lettuce, winter squash, and tomatoes in my garden (thank you, Mom!). With toes immersed in the soft earth of our vegetable garden, gently coaxing the weeds up and out of the beds, I filled a few more holes with heirloom tomato plants from our neighbor's venerable, verdant spot atop the hill across the street. By the afternoon, I was a sweaty tangle of sore muscles, my mother had fled to the quieter confines of her Williamstown home, Jim was nearly finished mowing the lawn, and the boys had collapsed on the couch in anticipation of the night's Celtics game.
And now, Tuesday has come and nearly gone. We had our first thunderstorms of the season today, and happily rushed about shutting windows, bringing in outdoor cushions, and making sure the dog, aquake (yes, I made up that word) with thunder-fear, was okay. I stepped out onto the deck to watch the storm roll in, with the wind and rain flipping and flattening the leaves, filling stray buckets, and soaking the grass and gardens in a sudden outpouring of boastful show. It didn't last nearly long enough, but had enough flash and dazzle for the sun to reappear like some powerful emperor of the sky and quickly dry the sodden, sparkling ground, and for the wind to whip in cooler, drier air that blew out the stuffy hot dredges of humidity that lurked and enveloped and threatened to spoil our sleep. There was something different about this day. It made me think of making Thundercake with the kids when they were younger, when we would race about as the skies darkened and try to make a chocolate cake before the lightning hit, listening to the thunder and counting, mixing in eggs and chocolate into the flour as the storm edged closer and closer. It made me long for the days when life, perhaps, was simpler, and when Thundercake could distract us from our worries and make everything alright, if but for an afternoon. Daisy could probably use a little thundercake these days...we all could.
A thunderstorm is God's way of saying you spend too much time in front of the computer. ~ anonymous.
Ok, I'm shutting down. Time for bed. (:-)) Sleep well.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Heirloom Happiness Seeds
No mockery in the world ever sounds to me as hollow as that of being told to cultivate happiness...Happiness is not a potato, to be planted in mould, and tilled with manure. ~ Charlotte Bronte
Perhaps its just because its Friday, the end of a long week, and Dominick has been sick in bed for much of it, and Luke in and out, and I've been dashing up and down the stairs and bedrooms between boys to refresh the throat coat tea, offer a bowl of berries (we are trying to expunge our freezer of all last summer's berries--straw, wild blue and rasp), insist that vitamins be taken, fluids be swilled down, teeth brushed, and I'm, well, tired out. It could be that I'm worried about my friend Lisa, who is recovering from her own breast cancer surgery, with a double mastectomy and the start of reconstruction that is reminding me that I am not quite done with my own, and I'm suddenly feeling unsure of everything. Maybe it was the long drive to and from Ludlow on Wednesday night for Luke's soccer game, where we parents huddled under umbrellas and wondered if the rain might turn to snow, or if thunderstorms--the only, and I mean only, impetus for either cancelling a game or ending it early--would send us home before nine, and I'm simply still recovering, since the game spilled into the twilight hours, and we all climbed into our beds stiff and weary that night. Or quite possibly, I can blame the Celtics for my fatigue, and all my outpouring of energy on their behalf, often late at night, when I should be sliding into slumberland and dreaming my wacky dreams, that has sapped me, leaving me spent and wondering where exactly I've put my vigor and vim...Anyone seen my energy? I seem to have lost it somewhere...
There's something about this time of year that hits most everyone with a smack and a swerve that leaves people feeling overwhelmed, and says, Look, you have a choice. Get out there and enjoy this beautiful weather, dirty your hands, till the earth, and commune with nature, or deny yourself those pleasures, and finish up the school year with a vengeance, attend every good weather event (and there are a gazillion), and be sure to Spring Clean your house as well. And let's not forget the unrelenting demands of your childrens' schedules--that inexorable combination of youth sports, school to-dos, final projects and program happenings that culminate this time of year in a frenzy that leaves most parents gasping for air. Striking a balance between some down time in the garden (and let's be real, here, planting a good-sized vegetable garden, re-edging and mulching your perennial gardens, and taking care of a decent sized piece of land doesn't always feel like "down time") and all the gas-powered hoopla requires some serious motivation and resolve--and careful planning, sacrifice, and astute adherence to a family philosophy of sorts that might include spending less time in the car (hurrah for that) and more time with each other, at home. But there is so much that is winding down this time of year, with send offs and grand finales and celebrations, and there is closure to be had on many fronts, and the draw to be a part of it all is so very strong. It is a difficult terrain indeed to navigate without getting lost every now and then.
Either I have the start of a fever or the Tamoxifen has graced me with an extended hot flash this morning.
At times, we keep our circles close around us, and at others, we gradually expand them to take in a broader view, air out our limbs, keep our minds, hearts, and eyes open. There are times, too, when our worlds are punctured by news from afar, and the effect is immediate and intense and deeply unsettling--and this spring has not been without the usual--though worsening--catastrophic events around the word. I think we often underestimate the influence of such major calamities on our little worlds half way around the planet--there is a soul-searing effect on all of us, and as we go about our days, we cannot help but feel as if something isn't quite right.
There are too many reasons to feel a bit off-kilter these days--however small and tidy our circles are. And we cannot deny the power of those natural cycles of time and energy created by earth and sky that our bodies know well, but that our intellect often fails to acknowledge. Call them subliminal effects, but they are there, and undeniably a huge part of our ancient wisdom and the sense of mystery in our universe, which keeps us all searching and wondering and trying to impart our answers on everybody else. I like the questions better than the answers.
Trouble is, I have so many. What changes do I make in my life so that the breast cancer (or any other cancer) does not return? How can I best carve out space and time for me in my life, when it feels so awfully crowded with taking care of others? Is it okay to be selfish? (actually, I am sitting here writing this and feeling very selfish indeed, as my kids listen to books on tape in their bedrooms...) And what, exactly, does that mean anyway? How do I best care for my family and myself at the same time? How do I become unstuck and unblocked, find my courage, and jump into the river, become the river, flow assuredly, and know exactly where to go? And those, of course, are questions that inhabit my closest circles. Bring out the edges a little, and the questions start multiplying.
As ever, I am grateful for all the free therapy I have received from so many of you out there. I am trying to "let the world take care of me for a little while," but that means putting my trust in something that well, I haven't always trusted. So, as everyone does, I keep trying. Happiness may not be a potato to be planted and cultivated in the earth with manure, but perhaps one can sow the seeds for balance and harmony and harvest the joy that often blooms in the darkest, most unexpected times. That's where I'll be, skirting the edges, filling my basket, and trying to scrub the dirt from underneath my finger nails.
Perhaps its just because its Friday, the end of a long week, and Dominick has been sick in bed for much of it, and Luke in and out, and I've been dashing up and down the stairs and bedrooms between boys to refresh the throat coat tea, offer a bowl of berries (we are trying to expunge our freezer of all last summer's berries--straw, wild blue and rasp), insist that vitamins be taken, fluids be swilled down, teeth brushed, and I'm, well, tired out. It could be that I'm worried about my friend Lisa, who is recovering from her own breast cancer surgery, with a double mastectomy and the start of reconstruction that is reminding me that I am not quite done with my own, and I'm suddenly feeling unsure of everything. Maybe it was the long drive to and from Ludlow on Wednesday night for Luke's soccer game, where we parents huddled under umbrellas and wondered if the rain might turn to snow, or if thunderstorms--the only, and I mean only, impetus for either cancelling a game or ending it early--would send us home before nine, and I'm simply still recovering, since the game spilled into the twilight hours, and we all climbed into our beds stiff and weary that night. Or quite possibly, I can blame the Celtics for my fatigue, and all my outpouring of energy on their behalf, often late at night, when I should be sliding into slumberland and dreaming my wacky dreams, that has sapped me, leaving me spent and wondering where exactly I've put my vigor and vim...Anyone seen my energy? I seem to have lost it somewhere...
There's something about this time of year that hits most everyone with a smack and a swerve that leaves people feeling overwhelmed, and says, Look, you have a choice. Get out there and enjoy this beautiful weather, dirty your hands, till the earth, and commune with nature, or deny yourself those pleasures, and finish up the school year with a vengeance, attend every good weather event (and there are a gazillion), and be sure to Spring Clean your house as well. And let's not forget the unrelenting demands of your childrens' schedules--that inexorable combination of youth sports, school to-dos, final projects and program happenings that culminate this time of year in a frenzy that leaves most parents gasping for air. Striking a balance between some down time in the garden (and let's be real, here, planting a good-sized vegetable garden, re-edging and mulching your perennial gardens, and taking care of a decent sized piece of land doesn't always feel like "down time") and all the gas-powered hoopla requires some serious motivation and resolve--and careful planning, sacrifice, and astute adherence to a family philosophy of sorts that might include spending less time in the car (hurrah for that) and more time with each other, at home. But there is so much that is winding down this time of year, with send offs and grand finales and celebrations, and there is closure to be had on many fronts, and the draw to be a part of it all is so very strong. It is a difficult terrain indeed to navigate without getting lost every now and then.
Either I have the start of a fever or the Tamoxifen has graced me with an extended hot flash this morning.
At times, we keep our circles close around us, and at others, we gradually expand them to take in a broader view, air out our limbs, keep our minds, hearts, and eyes open. There are times, too, when our worlds are punctured by news from afar, and the effect is immediate and intense and deeply unsettling--and this spring has not been without the usual--though worsening--catastrophic events around the word. I think we often underestimate the influence of such major calamities on our little worlds half way around the planet--there is a soul-searing effect on all of us, and as we go about our days, we cannot help but feel as if something isn't quite right.
There are too many reasons to feel a bit off-kilter these days--however small and tidy our circles are. And we cannot deny the power of those natural cycles of time and energy created by earth and sky that our bodies know well, but that our intellect often fails to acknowledge. Call them subliminal effects, but they are there, and undeniably a huge part of our ancient wisdom and the sense of mystery in our universe, which keeps us all searching and wondering and trying to impart our answers on everybody else. I like the questions better than the answers.
Trouble is, I have so many. What changes do I make in my life so that the breast cancer (or any other cancer) does not return? How can I best carve out space and time for me in my life, when it feels so awfully crowded with taking care of others? Is it okay to be selfish? (actually, I am sitting here writing this and feeling very selfish indeed, as my kids listen to books on tape in their bedrooms...) And what, exactly, does that mean anyway? How do I best care for my family and myself at the same time? How do I become unstuck and unblocked, find my courage, and jump into the river, become the river, flow assuredly, and know exactly where to go? And those, of course, are questions that inhabit my closest circles. Bring out the edges a little, and the questions start multiplying.
As ever, I am grateful for all the free therapy I have received from so many of you out there. I am trying to "let the world take care of me for a little while," but that means putting my trust in something that well, I haven't always trusted. So, as everyone does, I keep trying. Happiness may not be a potato to be planted and cultivated in the earth with manure, but perhaps one can sow the seeds for balance and harmony and harvest the joy that often blooms in the darkest, most unexpected times. That's where I'll be, skirting the edges, filling my basket, and trying to scrub the dirt from underneath my finger nails.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
The Greening of America
I don't always want to write about my girls. Or about my angst. Or...
Today, I give a shout out to Red Sox pitcher John Lester, who gave hope to all of us cancer survivors with his no-hitter last night. As well, my heart goes out to Ted Kennedy and his family, for the ache they must feel to have just received his diagnosis of brain cancer. If there's anybody who can flip what will most likely be a lousy prognosis on its head and kick its ass, it's Ted Kennedy.
And finally, kudos to the men in green, who stole the show on Sunday night against the Cavs, and especially to the veterans, like PJ Brown, who played clutch basketball at the age of 38 amongst much, much younger players who make much, much more money than he does. PJ, you did us mid-lifers proud. This is the first season in a long while (ok, since Bird and McHale and Parrish and DJ played their hearts out in tight little shorts) that I've bothered to watch, learn their names, and get to know the players. And, well, I'm proud of all my boys. (see, my girls aren't always center stage!). Here are my notes from the game:
First Quarter. Boy, does Kendrick Perkins sweat a lot. It’s the start of the Celts-Cavs Game 7, Sunday, and the Celts have come out strong, 14-4. Paul Pierce is on fire! Jim, the boys and I are crowded around the TV, hanging onto every shot, every dribble, every blur of green (well, okay, white, since it's a home game) to the hoop. The Garden is packed, noisy, the good Juju emanating from all those championship banners and retired jerseys hanging from the rafters. They will not lose at home—the ghosts that haunt the place won’t allow it. At this rate, all those crazy mouths and loose lips in the crowd—and we are part of it—are going to wear themselves out; I hope they pace themselves so they can go the distance. Rondo—clutch! Right at the buzzer. It’s 16-4.
I love all the basketball names…Rajon Rondo ranks up there with some of the better ones. Dominick has already decided he’s going to name his kids Amari and Rajon. Go figure.
And there’s the King, LeBron James—if he was anyone else, we’d ask about the name. LeBron? The Brawn. Well, it kind of fits. And in his case, it seems to denote some line of royalty, as if it's a given that he, so gifted with so many special talents, would be named LeBron, and not ah, well, I don't want to offend anyone, so let's just say something less peculiar. And be forewarned about insulting LeBron in any way: I've seen his Mama in action and it is clear where he gets his ah, drive from! I’ve noticed that the less LeBron is mentioned, the better the game is going for the Celtics. But as soon as they start talking up the “Superstar,” “oh, LeBron this and LeBron that…” Shuddup, already.
Kevin Garnett is more regal—in his high cheek bones and slimming goatee (as if he needs any slimming)—than LeBron James. KG is Mr. Vertical. I’d like to see him in a striped suit. And there's Cleveland's Daniel Gibson behind the bench, still sporting the black eyeliner that makes his eyes look so darn pretty (and I mean that as a compliment).
I like Ben Wallace’s crazy ‘fro better than his corn rows. As for Delonte West, he looks like a miscreant elf—the tattoos, the scrappiness, the angular jaw, chin, pointy ears, and a look of graceful toughness that belies his size. If not for the tattoos, he could fit in nicely with the cast of Lord of the Rings. The others hail from countries like Russia, Yugoslavia, Brazil, and Spain (Szczczczerbiak was born there), making this a true international team. Too bad it won’t help them any tonight.
Foul #2 on Perkins, and he is positively splashing his sweat onto the floor now. How does he even see with all that sweat cascading down his brow into his eyes?
For a lot of reasons, I prefer watching these home games— when the men in green wear their white headbands and I can tell who is who from afar. Rondo is smaller, quicker, often exploding in athletic finesse moves worthy of a gymnastics routine. Pierce, bigger than Rondo, unleashes his deceptively quick and smooth moves with a subtle duck-footed charm that would suggest a certain clumsiness, but he’s all elegance. “A thing of beauty, defensively,” indeed.
Dominick asks, “What is wrong with Sam Cassell? He’s wearing a skirt.” We love watching Sammy. But he’s not going to play much tonight.
And neither, it seems, is Tony Allen. He’s nearly out of sight. Perhaps it’s backlash from the teddy bear story that recently broke. (If you missed it, he was asked what he’d bring on a deserted island, and he answered: “My teddy bear, my wife, and my baby.” Sweet.)
The other Allen, Ray, who has not been without his own difficulties, takes LeBron out, and goes back to chewing his gum with that slightly cockeyed, sardonic half grimace-half smile of his. Rondo wears his headband snug down over his ears, like an elf, another elf. Love the tall white socks, James Posey. 16-12: Hey, what happened to our lead?
Eddie House, another dude in white headband and high socks, runs around in hot pursuit of his guy on D. House, fairly riotous to watch, moves with purpose, a real predator. KG’s bald pate grows ever more slippery as he pursues those rebounds. The tall glass of water makes the tough shot, but after the first quarter, its 18-13, the Celtics’ lead upset by a 9-0 run by the Cavs. Blah!
At the break, Coach Brown of the Cavs says his guys have got to “box out” more. Funny to hear that even at this level—and it doesn’t get much better than this—the players are still told to “box out” by their coaches. Not too complicated, just box the dude out.
Second quarter. Eddie House sure is energetic. He is so fired up he’s got steam coming out of his ears, jetting out of his heels, lighting up his sneakers, and sending sparks out to all his teammates. Let’s get it goin’! Paul Pierce is benefiting from all the good Juju, making his moves to spin to the hoop. One of the announcers certainly has a way with words (don’t they all). About Paul Pierce, he says, “If he’p doesn’t come, it’s time to dance.” And dance he does.
Leon Powe dishes a terrible attempt at a foul shot, and another, and…finally sinks one. You’d think that given how tall these guys are, how much practice they get in, and how much they’re paid, that they’d sink every single stinking foul shot they take.
Wally Szcerbiack misses the 3—glad to see the icicles still hanging from his fingertips. Cold! Don’t want him to get hot.
House brings down the house—with a lovely basket—and some crowd-pumping shenanigans on the floor. Just what the Celts need—a spirited energizer—to turn LeBron James and the Cavs on their heads and spin them ‘round and ‘round until they puke (or lose).
(at commercial breaks, we often switch to watch Red Sox baseball. Wow! What a contrast! And the crowd looks so excited! (not) There’s absolutely nothin’ going on, which is why the announcers, especially on radio, spend the whole game talking about ridiculous, irrelevant, inane things. "Gee, did you happen to catch the sale at Bob’s Furniture over the weekend?").
This seems to be a particularly long time out break—more like a mini spa treatment, the way they take their plush seats, have fresh towels tossed to them and cups of water handed over. Here, let me mop your brow, Kendrick. The thing is, you can’t really see who is pampering these giants. House elves? (Rondo and West?) Poof!
Eddie House misses. LeBron leans in and drives, Get outta the way! Blocking foul, to the line. Paul Pierce threads through the crowd, mercilessly. He is in every sense the glue that holds this team together. Delante West fires it in. PJ Brown fouls Joe Brown, oops, is he thinking out there? He looks stunned. Kevin Garnett, and his big, beautiful almond shaped brown eyes, grabs another rebound. Good for you, Posey, though I can’t remember what you did.
What hustle by House!! He’s playing like a fifth grader trying to impress some girl on the sideline. Enthusiasm! Diving for the ball! Bet he’ll feel it on his knees later tonight.
I’ve just noticed that the headband brigade all wears their headbands directly snug over their ears. Better fashion statement than some of those tattoos out there. Jim on House: “His arm is like a coloring book.”
Rondo and Allen are on the bench, Rondo’s head is all covered up, his big doe eyes peeking out from under his towel, and Allen is sporting his sideways sneer. There’s a youth basketball struggle for the ball on the floor—House, the renegade fifth grader, and West, the miscreant elf. It gets physical, and no one is letting go of the ball, despite the whistle. “Go back to the bench, guys.” Personally, I like the emotion. The crowd loves it. “Eddie! Eddie! Eddie!” This is great stuff, and the banners are swaying in the breeze generated by Eddie House's spunk alone.
(Baseball break—hey, look, the grass is growing, yahoo! Terry Francona spits a big wad onto the dirt. The batter adjusts his glove, Nomar style. The catcher gives a few signals. The pitcher winds up, strike three. Replay, now, from two different angles, because, really, what else is there to show? Commercial--Yao Min, square headed man, asks for help with earthquake relief in China. We are glad that the NBA cares)
House, KG, Kendrick, Posey and Pierce take the floor. Three headbands, two tall socks. 35-25. LeBron hits a three. He’s looking restrained, not celebratory, despite his stinging shot. I think this means the Celtics will win.
El Capitan Pierce makes two careful, thoughtful shots at the free throw line. What else would you expect from him?
Why doesn’t Ben Wallace ever shoot? He’s always wide open for the shot and dishes it off to somebody else. (I’ve just been told that he’s not a shooter. How these guys make it to the NBA without being everything is beyond me).
(Best part of watching the Sox is Manny. Last time: catches deep fly ball off wall, high fives a guy in the crowd, throws it in to get the guy on first)
Hey, it’s a Larry Bird flashback. Look at those shorts! Short and tight. What I wouldn’t give to see today’s match up played in that old gear.
Uh-oh, James is down, a big grimace on his face (He had stepped out of bounds before the foul, by the way). He clutches his shoulder, working it. As he pushes himself up to his feet, his arms looked as if they’ve been engraved.
22 points for Pierce after this three. Luke predicts 50 on the game for the man they call The Truth.
KG steals the ball—runs like the Bone Man (and if you don’t know who that is then you should check out the beautiful picture book about the Native American Moduc tale of the same name by Michael McCurdy) until Wholesome Wally takes him out, and he goes down hard. Ray Allen—hurrah!—finally takes it in for a basket. Dom heads up to find his Ray Allen jersey.
24 for PP, 24 for the rest of the team. Steal—another fragrant foul (Pavlovic grabbed his arm and tossed him)—and Pierce careens into a camera man. He’s hurt. Hip? Knee? Upper thigh? Scowling, he gets up. I wonder how the camera man is doing. PP exits the first half a few seconds early.
Who’s the guy in the suit slapping everyone on the butt as they head toward the locker room? Do they know him?
Third Quarter. After getting dinner going during the half, I flick it back on to find that the TV is stuck on Sponge Bob and the clicker is nowhere in sight. There are worse scenarios, but not many. By the time I find it, and switch over to the game, there’s been a travel call on the big guy, Ilgauskas. With 8:03 left in the third quarter, the score rests at 52-49. Here’s three more for the unstoppable Pierce. But where’s the moxie, guys? They’ve come out flat.
I’m stuck on Ben Wallace’s hair. It’s like a chunky foam sculpture, a not-so-carefully groomed shrub, a hilarious nod to Buckwheat’s timeless do. Whatever it is, it’s original.
Garnett—sweet drive! 50-55. James, Pierce, James, trading shots, then: a missed floater, and a turnover by the Cavs. Pierce hits for his 33rd. Time out. They’re starting to talk about LeBron too much. “Superstar, superstar, superstar.” Blahblahblah.
Hey! Ben Wallace just got a basket! (of course, he was fed at the rim, but to his credit, it did go in). Must have been all the talk about his coif. Rondo hits, and a minute later, the ball slams off his foot and out. But then, the Cavs turn it over again, Boston’s ball. Foul. PJ to the line. Yeah, PJ! He’s coming through. Are you aware of how old PJ Brown is? The man is my hero. It’s 65-58. Are we having fun yet?
James misses, Rondo misses. When Rondo makes a mistake, he looks so worried, like his mom is going to yell at him or something. It's the eyes. Relax, Rajon! Loose ball foul on Wallace, and he’s mad, again. I wouldn’t mess with his hair. Pierce escapes the double team. PJ for another two! (FYI, He’s only four years younger than I am, exactly, too, seeing as his birthday is my very same birthday, October 14, just four years earlier, and apparently, four years makes a very big difference because I surely could not be motoring myself about the floor the way he is).
Rondo goes flying—and West, with his big neck tattoo making him seem somehow off balance (in fact, he seems downright burdened by his tattoos), goes to the line.
Ray Allen misses (again), but West hits his. Ray sits, wishes he had Tony Allen’s teddy bear for comfort, no doubt. The big Brazilian Varejao misses his free throw, goes one for two. Varejao and James slap Pierce silly, James pokes Pierce in the eye. Yeah, those were ALL fouls, LeBron.
LeBron this, LeBron that. If given the chance, I think the announcers would sleep with LeBron, they seem to love him so much. But here's the thing--even at this point in the game, with James and Pierce trading baskets, they are not so much going shot to shot, or mano a mano, as some would like to say, but team to team. And Pierce, who has fought long and hard over the years during some grim times with the club to get to this point, plays within the context of being a multi-faceted team player, with an eye out, always, for the pass, and well, James plays as if the world has always been arranged for him--here ya go, take it to the hoop, LeBron--and despite his experience, he is still young and unseasoned compared to the time-tested Pierce.
After three quarters, Pierce has 35 points, and the score perches precariously at 73-68. Celts up by FIVE.
Boy, does Doc Rivers need to rest his voice.
Fourth quarter. Turnover to open fourth quarter. Tighten up the ship, boys. Oh, gee, another foul for James. We need KG back in the game. But how come he didn’t go to college?
These are games I usually don’t watch—too scary! Foul on Posey (James is too fast and too strong to not foul when he comes through the crowd). “Bull-shit, Bull-shit.” The crowd doesn’t like the call. And then, later, “Let’s go Celtics!” Now back to the “Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit.” I feel like I’m at a Williams-Amherst game. All we need now is “Cleveland Sucks! Cleveland Sucks!”
KG back in. Rondo with a beauty. Ah, youth. Turnover by Cavs. Ha-ha. Eddie House is getting it going. “Take advantage of your moment.”
Someone’s gotta bring West down. He scares me. Pierce loses ball, shit. James to the point, shoots for three, NOPE. Wallace fouls KG. Wallace is pissed, again. Do these NBA players ever admit to their fouls? They all seem to have the same I-didn’t-do-it-no-fair! reaction, throwing their hands up in the air, putting on that “Whaaaa?” look on their face, and mouthing “no way,” or “that’s bullshit,” or worse, much worse.
The guy in the music booth is pumping up the crowd. In the first quarter, he did it with Boston’s own Aerosmith spitting out Walk this Way; in the fourth, it’s the theme from Rocky, and it’s working for Pierce, who sinks yet another. 79-72.
PJ Brown is coming through off the bench, igniting the crowd, who has jumped to their feet to scream their obscenities, only to be silenced by a 3 by LeBron. Don’t give LeBron any more vitamin water! You know, PJ Brown is old enough to be LeBron’s father. Ever think of that?
James and Pierce are trading 3’s, then James misses his—what a ball hog, someone else should have taken that shot—then goes after Pierce, blatantly grabbing his jersey (the classic Crap! I missed my shot! Now watch me do something stupid! move), but somehow the refs miss it—and LeBron slips out of it, unscathed. Curses! Stop that man!! 4:22 left. #4 on James. Should be #5. He should be O-U-T.
KG! Celts by 5. Long possession, good at-bat. The crowd appears as a sea of emerald green. Pierce at 39, James at 42.
There are lots of guys with four fouls. But what color hair does Delonte West have? Is it reddish? Why I am so captivated by everyone’s hair? Ray Allen looks so sad on the bench. PJ=clutch!! Then takes out the big man, ooops. Gawd, the free throws are killing us. 2:35 left, which could mean 15 minutes more. I love how time on the clock is so relative, can be stretched to near infinity in games that are taut with suspense and excitement. James steals, dunks, his embossed arms flying, pumping. Celts by 1. Just one!! Crap.
KG misses, we groan. James misses, PJ gets the clutch rebound, and hits for 2! 91-88!! We go ape. Definitely not dog. Ape. Oooo—oooo!
Sammy greets PJ with open arms at the time out break. We love Sammy.
Is PJ Brown really a veteran? Luke assures me he is. He’s playing like a man possessed, like a man who has young bones and joints and muscles, and very definitely not a body that is just four years younger than my old, sore, cranky one. Lucky bastard. 1:19. West misses a three, there’s a botched rebound, and a jump ball (and a real jumper, too, no possession arrow shit like they do in youth) with Posey and Ilgauskas, the Cavs’ biggest, whitest, baldest man—Pierce positions himself perfectly and jumps on the loose ball, calls a time out just in time, and chest bumps his way to the bench. 58 seconds.
Pierce, KG, Eddie House, PJ Brown, Ray Allen take the floor for the final minute. KG misses his jumper, LeBron drops his shoulder and charges like a bull, but can’t finish it. The Cavs have to foul Ray Allen, who just may be able to redeem himself with his foul shooting prowess here—makes both, yep. 33 out of 34, 91% on the season. 18.8 seconds left.
The ABC sports camera scans the crowd, lands on the pitiful homemade sign Another Banner Coming. These guys need Harold and George of Captain Underpants fame to spice up their signs.
LeBron takes it in, draws the foul, but it doesn’t go! Misses the first—crowd is happily, deliriously, joyfully aghast—makes the second, 93-89, 16.3 seconds left.
For these last seconds, they play a new game—no more basketball, it’s FOUL-BALL! Eddie House gets fouled. Uh-oh, he hasn’t taken a free throw since the regular season, will it go? Ah, no need to worry, he makes both.
Pierce shows us he’s human, leaves Pavolovic unattended to sink a three, then gets fouled, 7.9 seconds. His first foul shot hits the rim, and for the crowd—at home and at the Garden—time is stopped, and we suck in our breath, steel ourselves for the possibility that we will be disappointed, and watch as the ball bounces straight up and, then, as this great suspension of time finally ends, goes in. The crowd goes crazy, and Pierce smiles and laughs out loud his own palpable relief. The moment is priceless. 97-92. 7.9 seconds.
Jim and the boys are shouting. “IT’S ALL OVER!” and “WARM UP THE BUS!” I’m teetering on the edge of my cushion, watching the final seconds of pure chaos unravel as James misses, Pavlovic rebounds, House rebounds...Eddie House has the ball! and shoots it up to the rafters. It’s over. Sweet relief. I can breathe again. King James has been dethroned. He leaves without shaking anyone's hands. The guys on the bench engulf their teammates in hugs. Sammy Cassell's big smiles say it all--Hey, that was great! And I didn't have to play at all! I got to watch the whole thing from the bench!
I love that the Celtics won. I love that they won at home in such exciting fashion. I love that Paul Pierce had such a great game, and had such a stellar support cast from folks like PJ Brown, who more than earned his $226,650 annual salary in those fourth quarter minutes he played. I love that Paul Pierce’s 41 points were worth so much more than LeBron James’ 45, in terms of his own ability to involve the whole five on the floor, make those connections, see the whole court, make those passes, share the ball, and dance when no help is coming. We can learn a lot from this team in green—who promotes teamwork and hard work above all else, who’s not afraid to sweat (Kendrick), makes no room for Superstars, only Team Players, extends hands to the downtrodden (there’s nothing I like better than to see someone help someone up, especially if the person has just blown them over, and there’s nothing worse than ignoring someone on the floor whom you’ve put there), and shows emotion, whether fear or pride or relief or joy.
This cast of characters spills out of the pages of the very best fairy tales, fighting ogres and giants and miscreant elves as they make their way through the land of the recently deposed King James on their way to the happy ending they all deserve. This is a team, after all, led by The Truth. 'Nuff said.
Detroit, you're going DOWN. (Sorry, Blair :))
Today, I give a shout out to Red Sox pitcher John Lester, who gave hope to all of us cancer survivors with his no-hitter last night. As well, my heart goes out to Ted Kennedy and his family, for the ache they must feel to have just received his diagnosis of brain cancer. If there's anybody who can flip what will most likely be a lousy prognosis on its head and kick its ass, it's Ted Kennedy.
And finally, kudos to the men in green, who stole the show on Sunday night against the Cavs, and especially to the veterans, like PJ Brown, who played clutch basketball at the age of 38 amongst much, much younger players who make much, much more money than he does. PJ, you did us mid-lifers proud. This is the first season in a long while (ok, since Bird and McHale and Parrish and DJ played their hearts out in tight little shorts) that I've bothered to watch, learn their names, and get to know the players. And, well, I'm proud of all my boys. (see, my girls aren't always center stage!). Here are my notes from the game:
First Quarter. Boy, does Kendrick Perkins sweat a lot. It’s the start of the Celts-Cavs Game 7, Sunday, and the Celts have come out strong, 14-4. Paul Pierce is on fire! Jim, the boys and I are crowded around the TV, hanging onto every shot, every dribble, every blur of green (well, okay, white, since it's a home game) to the hoop. The Garden is packed, noisy, the good Juju emanating from all those championship banners and retired jerseys hanging from the rafters. They will not lose at home—the ghosts that haunt the place won’t allow it. At this rate, all those crazy mouths and loose lips in the crowd—and we are part of it—are going to wear themselves out; I hope they pace themselves so they can go the distance. Rondo—clutch! Right at the buzzer. It’s 16-4.
I love all the basketball names…Rajon Rondo ranks up there with some of the better ones. Dominick has already decided he’s going to name his kids Amari and Rajon. Go figure.
And there’s the King, LeBron James—if he was anyone else, we’d ask about the name. LeBron? The Brawn. Well, it kind of fits. And in his case, it seems to denote some line of royalty, as if it's a given that he, so gifted with so many special talents, would be named LeBron, and not ah, well, I don't want to offend anyone, so let's just say something less peculiar. And be forewarned about insulting LeBron in any way: I've seen his Mama in action and it is clear where he gets his ah, drive from! I’ve noticed that the less LeBron is mentioned, the better the game is going for the Celtics. But as soon as they start talking up the “Superstar,” “oh, LeBron this and LeBron that…” Shuddup, already.
Kevin Garnett is more regal—in his high cheek bones and slimming goatee (as if he needs any slimming)—than LeBron James. KG is Mr. Vertical. I’d like to see him in a striped suit. And there's Cleveland's Daniel Gibson behind the bench, still sporting the black eyeliner that makes his eyes look so darn pretty (and I mean that as a compliment).
I like Ben Wallace’s crazy ‘fro better than his corn rows. As for Delonte West, he looks like a miscreant elf—the tattoos, the scrappiness, the angular jaw, chin, pointy ears, and a look of graceful toughness that belies his size. If not for the tattoos, he could fit in nicely with the cast of Lord of the Rings. The others hail from countries like Russia, Yugoslavia, Brazil, and Spain (Szczczczerbiak was born there), making this a true international team. Too bad it won’t help them any tonight.
Foul #2 on Perkins, and he is positively splashing his sweat onto the floor now. How does he even see with all that sweat cascading down his brow into his eyes?
For a lot of reasons, I prefer watching these home games— when the men in green wear their white headbands and I can tell who is who from afar. Rondo is smaller, quicker, often exploding in athletic finesse moves worthy of a gymnastics routine. Pierce, bigger than Rondo, unleashes his deceptively quick and smooth moves with a subtle duck-footed charm that would suggest a certain clumsiness, but he’s all elegance. “A thing of beauty, defensively,” indeed.
Dominick asks, “What is wrong with Sam Cassell? He’s wearing a skirt.” We love watching Sammy. But he’s not going to play much tonight.
And neither, it seems, is Tony Allen. He’s nearly out of sight. Perhaps it’s backlash from the teddy bear story that recently broke. (If you missed it, he was asked what he’d bring on a deserted island, and he answered: “My teddy bear, my wife, and my baby.” Sweet.)
The other Allen, Ray, who has not been without his own difficulties, takes LeBron out, and goes back to chewing his gum with that slightly cockeyed, sardonic half grimace-half smile of his. Rondo wears his headband snug down over his ears, like an elf, another elf. Love the tall white socks, James Posey. 16-12: Hey, what happened to our lead?
Eddie House, another dude in white headband and high socks, runs around in hot pursuit of his guy on D. House, fairly riotous to watch, moves with purpose, a real predator. KG’s bald pate grows ever more slippery as he pursues those rebounds. The tall glass of water makes the tough shot, but after the first quarter, its 18-13, the Celtics’ lead upset by a 9-0 run by the Cavs. Blah!
At the break, Coach Brown of the Cavs says his guys have got to “box out” more. Funny to hear that even at this level—and it doesn’t get much better than this—the players are still told to “box out” by their coaches. Not too complicated, just box the dude out.
Second quarter. Eddie House sure is energetic. He is so fired up he’s got steam coming out of his ears, jetting out of his heels, lighting up his sneakers, and sending sparks out to all his teammates. Let’s get it goin’! Paul Pierce is benefiting from all the good Juju, making his moves to spin to the hoop. One of the announcers certainly has a way with words (don’t they all). About Paul Pierce, he says, “If he’p doesn’t come, it’s time to dance.” And dance he does.
Leon Powe dishes a terrible attempt at a foul shot, and another, and…finally sinks one. You’d think that given how tall these guys are, how much practice they get in, and how much they’re paid, that they’d sink every single stinking foul shot they take.
Wally Szcerbiack misses the 3—glad to see the icicles still hanging from his fingertips. Cold! Don’t want him to get hot.
House brings down the house—with a lovely basket—and some crowd-pumping shenanigans on the floor. Just what the Celts need—a spirited energizer—to turn LeBron James and the Cavs on their heads and spin them ‘round and ‘round until they puke (or lose).
(at commercial breaks, we often switch to watch Red Sox baseball. Wow! What a contrast! And the crowd looks so excited! (not) There’s absolutely nothin’ going on, which is why the announcers, especially on radio, spend the whole game talking about ridiculous, irrelevant, inane things. "Gee, did you happen to catch the sale at Bob’s Furniture over the weekend?").
This seems to be a particularly long time out break—more like a mini spa treatment, the way they take their plush seats, have fresh towels tossed to them and cups of water handed over. Here, let me mop your brow, Kendrick. The thing is, you can’t really see who is pampering these giants. House elves? (Rondo and West?) Poof!
Eddie House misses. LeBron leans in and drives, Get outta the way! Blocking foul, to the line. Paul Pierce threads through the crowd, mercilessly. He is in every sense the glue that holds this team together. Delante West fires it in. PJ Brown fouls Joe Brown, oops, is he thinking out there? He looks stunned. Kevin Garnett, and his big, beautiful almond shaped brown eyes, grabs another rebound. Good for you, Posey, though I can’t remember what you did.
What hustle by House!! He’s playing like a fifth grader trying to impress some girl on the sideline. Enthusiasm! Diving for the ball! Bet he’ll feel it on his knees later tonight.
I’ve just noticed that the headband brigade all wears their headbands directly snug over their ears. Better fashion statement than some of those tattoos out there. Jim on House: “His arm is like a coloring book.”
Rondo and Allen are on the bench, Rondo’s head is all covered up, his big doe eyes peeking out from under his towel, and Allen is sporting his sideways sneer. There’s a youth basketball struggle for the ball on the floor—House, the renegade fifth grader, and West, the miscreant elf. It gets physical, and no one is letting go of the ball, despite the whistle. “Go back to the bench, guys.” Personally, I like the emotion. The crowd loves it. “Eddie! Eddie! Eddie!” This is great stuff, and the banners are swaying in the breeze generated by Eddie House's spunk alone.
(Baseball break—hey, look, the grass is growing, yahoo! Terry Francona spits a big wad onto the dirt. The batter adjusts his glove, Nomar style. The catcher gives a few signals. The pitcher winds up, strike three. Replay, now, from two different angles, because, really, what else is there to show? Commercial--Yao Min, square headed man, asks for help with earthquake relief in China. We are glad that the NBA cares)
House, KG, Kendrick, Posey and Pierce take the floor. Three headbands, two tall socks. 35-25. LeBron hits a three. He’s looking restrained, not celebratory, despite his stinging shot. I think this means the Celtics will win.
El Capitan Pierce makes two careful, thoughtful shots at the free throw line. What else would you expect from him?
Why doesn’t Ben Wallace ever shoot? He’s always wide open for the shot and dishes it off to somebody else. (I’ve just been told that he’s not a shooter. How these guys make it to the NBA without being everything is beyond me).
(Best part of watching the Sox is Manny. Last time: catches deep fly ball off wall, high fives a guy in the crowd, throws it in to get the guy on first)
Hey, it’s a Larry Bird flashback. Look at those shorts! Short and tight. What I wouldn’t give to see today’s match up played in that old gear.
Uh-oh, James is down, a big grimace on his face (He had stepped out of bounds before the foul, by the way). He clutches his shoulder, working it. As he pushes himself up to his feet, his arms looked as if they’ve been engraved.
22 points for Pierce after this three. Luke predicts 50 on the game for the man they call The Truth.
KG steals the ball—runs like the Bone Man (and if you don’t know who that is then you should check out the beautiful picture book about the Native American Moduc tale of the same name by Michael McCurdy) until Wholesome Wally takes him out, and he goes down hard. Ray Allen—hurrah!—finally takes it in for a basket. Dom heads up to find his Ray Allen jersey.
24 for PP, 24 for the rest of the team. Steal—another fragrant foul (Pavlovic grabbed his arm and tossed him)—and Pierce careens into a camera man. He’s hurt. Hip? Knee? Upper thigh? Scowling, he gets up. I wonder how the camera man is doing. PP exits the first half a few seconds early.
Who’s the guy in the suit slapping everyone on the butt as they head toward the locker room? Do they know him?
Third Quarter. After getting dinner going during the half, I flick it back on to find that the TV is stuck on Sponge Bob and the clicker is nowhere in sight. There are worse scenarios, but not many. By the time I find it, and switch over to the game, there’s been a travel call on the big guy, Ilgauskas. With 8:03 left in the third quarter, the score rests at 52-49. Here’s three more for the unstoppable Pierce. But where’s the moxie, guys? They’ve come out flat.
I’m stuck on Ben Wallace’s hair. It’s like a chunky foam sculpture, a not-so-carefully groomed shrub, a hilarious nod to Buckwheat’s timeless do. Whatever it is, it’s original.
Garnett—sweet drive! 50-55. James, Pierce, James, trading shots, then: a missed floater, and a turnover by the Cavs. Pierce hits for his 33rd. Time out. They’re starting to talk about LeBron too much. “Superstar, superstar, superstar.” Blahblahblah.
Hey! Ben Wallace just got a basket! (of course, he was fed at the rim, but to his credit, it did go in). Must have been all the talk about his coif. Rondo hits, and a minute later, the ball slams off his foot and out. But then, the Cavs turn it over again, Boston’s ball. Foul. PJ to the line. Yeah, PJ! He’s coming through. Are you aware of how old PJ Brown is? The man is my hero. It’s 65-58. Are we having fun yet?
James misses, Rondo misses. When Rondo makes a mistake, he looks so worried, like his mom is going to yell at him or something. It's the eyes. Relax, Rajon! Loose ball foul on Wallace, and he’s mad, again. I wouldn’t mess with his hair. Pierce escapes the double team. PJ for another two! (FYI, He’s only four years younger than I am, exactly, too, seeing as his birthday is my very same birthday, October 14, just four years earlier, and apparently, four years makes a very big difference because I surely could not be motoring myself about the floor the way he is).
Rondo goes flying—and West, with his big neck tattoo making him seem somehow off balance (in fact, he seems downright burdened by his tattoos), goes to the line.
Ray Allen misses (again), but West hits his. Ray sits, wishes he had Tony Allen’s teddy bear for comfort, no doubt. The big Brazilian Varejao misses his free throw, goes one for two. Varejao and James slap Pierce silly, James pokes Pierce in the eye. Yeah, those were ALL fouls, LeBron.
LeBron this, LeBron that. If given the chance, I think the announcers would sleep with LeBron, they seem to love him so much. But here's the thing--even at this point in the game, with James and Pierce trading baskets, they are not so much going shot to shot, or mano a mano, as some would like to say, but team to team. And Pierce, who has fought long and hard over the years during some grim times with the club to get to this point, plays within the context of being a multi-faceted team player, with an eye out, always, for the pass, and well, James plays as if the world has always been arranged for him--here ya go, take it to the hoop, LeBron--and despite his experience, he is still young and unseasoned compared to the time-tested Pierce.
After three quarters, Pierce has 35 points, and the score perches precariously at 73-68. Celts up by FIVE.
Boy, does Doc Rivers need to rest his voice.
Fourth quarter. Turnover to open fourth quarter. Tighten up the ship, boys. Oh, gee, another foul for James. We need KG back in the game. But how come he didn’t go to college?
These are games I usually don’t watch—too scary! Foul on Posey (James is too fast and too strong to not foul when he comes through the crowd). “Bull-shit, Bull-shit.” The crowd doesn’t like the call. And then, later, “Let’s go Celtics!” Now back to the “Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit.” I feel like I’m at a Williams-Amherst game. All we need now is “Cleveland Sucks! Cleveland Sucks!”
KG back in. Rondo with a beauty. Ah, youth. Turnover by Cavs. Ha-ha. Eddie House is getting it going. “Take advantage of your moment.”
Someone’s gotta bring West down. He scares me. Pierce loses ball, shit. James to the point, shoots for three, NOPE. Wallace fouls KG. Wallace is pissed, again. Do these NBA players ever admit to their fouls? They all seem to have the same I-didn’t-do-it-no-fair! reaction, throwing their hands up in the air, putting on that “Whaaaa?” look on their face, and mouthing “no way,” or “that’s bullshit,” or worse, much worse.
The guy in the music booth is pumping up the crowd. In the first quarter, he did it with Boston’s own Aerosmith spitting out Walk this Way; in the fourth, it’s the theme from Rocky, and it’s working for Pierce, who sinks yet another. 79-72.
PJ Brown is coming through off the bench, igniting the crowd, who has jumped to their feet to scream their obscenities, only to be silenced by a 3 by LeBron. Don’t give LeBron any more vitamin water! You know, PJ Brown is old enough to be LeBron’s father. Ever think of that?
James and Pierce are trading 3’s, then James misses his—what a ball hog, someone else should have taken that shot—then goes after Pierce, blatantly grabbing his jersey (the classic Crap! I missed my shot! Now watch me do something stupid! move), but somehow the refs miss it—and LeBron slips out of it, unscathed. Curses! Stop that man!! 4:22 left. #4 on James. Should be #5. He should be O-U-T.
KG! Celts by 5. Long possession, good at-bat. The crowd appears as a sea of emerald green. Pierce at 39, James at 42.
There are lots of guys with four fouls. But what color hair does Delonte West have? Is it reddish? Why I am so captivated by everyone’s hair? Ray Allen looks so sad on the bench. PJ=clutch!! Then takes out the big man, ooops. Gawd, the free throws are killing us. 2:35 left, which could mean 15 minutes more. I love how time on the clock is so relative, can be stretched to near infinity in games that are taut with suspense and excitement. James steals, dunks, his embossed arms flying, pumping. Celts by 1. Just one!! Crap.
KG misses, we groan. James misses, PJ gets the clutch rebound, and hits for 2! 91-88!! We go ape. Definitely not dog. Ape. Oooo—oooo!
Sammy greets PJ with open arms at the time out break. We love Sammy.
Is PJ Brown really a veteran? Luke assures me he is. He’s playing like a man possessed, like a man who has young bones and joints and muscles, and very definitely not a body that is just four years younger than my old, sore, cranky one. Lucky bastard. 1:19. West misses a three, there’s a botched rebound, and a jump ball (and a real jumper, too, no possession arrow shit like they do in youth) with Posey and Ilgauskas, the Cavs’ biggest, whitest, baldest man—Pierce positions himself perfectly and jumps on the loose ball, calls a time out just in time, and chest bumps his way to the bench. 58 seconds.
Pierce, KG, Eddie House, PJ Brown, Ray Allen take the floor for the final minute. KG misses his jumper, LeBron drops his shoulder and charges like a bull, but can’t finish it. The Cavs have to foul Ray Allen, who just may be able to redeem himself with his foul shooting prowess here—makes both, yep. 33 out of 34, 91% on the season. 18.8 seconds left.
The ABC sports camera scans the crowd, lands on the pitiful homemade sign Another Banner Coming. These guys need Harold and George of Captain Underpants fame to spice up their signs.
LeBron takes it in, draws the foul, but it doesn’t go! Misses the first—crowd is happily, deliriously, joyfully aghast—makes the second, 93-89, 16.3 seconds left.
For these last seconds, they play a new game—no more basketball, it’s FOUL-BALL! Eddie House gets fouled. Uh-oh, he hasn’t taken a free throw since the regular season, will it go? Ah, no need to worry, he makes both.
Pierce shows us he’s human, leaves Pavolovic unattended to sink a three, then gets fouled, 7.9 seconds. His first foul shot hits the rim, and for the crowd—at home and at the Garden—time is stopped, and we suck in our breath, steel ourselves for the possibility that we will be disappointed, and watch as the ball bounces straight up and, then, as this great suspension of time finally ends, goes in. The crowd goes crazy, and Pierce smiles and laughs out loud his own palpable relief. The moment is priceless. 97-92. 7.9 seconds.
Jim and the boys are shouting. “IT’S ALL OVER!” and “WARM UP THE BUS!” I’m teetering on the edge of my cushion, watching the final seconds of pure chaos unravel as James misses, Pavlovic rebounds, House rebounds...Eddie House has the ball! and shoots it up to the rafters. It’s over. Sweet relief. I can breathe again. King James has been dethroned. He leaves without shaking anyone's hands. The guys on the bench engulf their teammates in hugs. Sammy Cassell's big smiles say it all--Hey, that was great! And I didn't have to play at all! I got to watch the whole thing from the bench!
I love that the Celtics won. I love that they won at home in such exciting fashion. I love that Paul Pierce had such a great game, and had such a stellar support cast from folks like PJ Brown, who more than earned his $226,650 annual salary in those fourth quarter minutes he played. I love that Paul Pierce’s 41 points were worth so much more than LeBron James’ 45, in terms of his own ability to involve the whole five on the floor, make those connections, see the whole court, make those passes, share the ball, and dance when no help is coming. We can learn a lot from this team in green—who promotes teamwork and hard work above all else, who’s not afraid to sweat (Kendrick), makes no room for Superstars, only Team Players, extends hands to the downtrodden (there’s nothing I like better than to see someone help someone up, especially if the person has just blown them over, and there’s nothing worse than ignoring someone on the floor whom you’ve put there), and shows emotion, whether fear or pride or relief or joy.
This cast of characters spills out of the pages of the very best fairy tales, fighting ogres and giants and miscreant elves as they make their way through the land of the recently deposed King James on their way to the happy ending they all deserve. This is a team, after all, led by The Truth. 'Nuff said.
Detroit, you're going DOWN. (Sorry, Blair :))
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Ok Kids, So What's Weird About That One?
For those of you keeping tabs on the reconstruction process, my left girl, now 60 ml. more full of saline since my most recent expansion on Wednesday, is now precariously and fully stretched to the max, making it feel and look massive (I know, I know, you chuckle...this coming from a woman whose only brush with mega-boobs was during six years of nursing babies and toddlers). Not only is she massive, but she is hard, dangerous even. Whereas last week my new girl was filling out the lovely new shaped B-cup bra with panache, this week she is being positively overbearing and rude about it, pushing the soft cloth and seams to their limits with an overstuffed appearance that renders her strikingly unattractive. And I have cleavage now, cleavage!, for the first time, of course, only on that left side, but it's there, lurking behind my fitted shirts like some bad girl waiting to bust out and bloom. Watch out! I do declare my left girl has become way too brazen and bold since her latest expansion, and my right girl cowers in her shadow, like some timid fawn. The sad truth is that however tawdry she now looks to me, that with all the pathetic internet-porn night crawling about, there are probably some out there who wold find my left girl quite attractive. But to me, she looks shamefully artificial, a real phony, grotesquely emblazoned and overstuffed with size and perk.
She's so bizarre looking that she has taken on the strange esoteric feeling of a contemporary art installation, and begs the question that I'll put to my kids whenever we go to MassMoCA to check out all the cool, new art—ok, kids, so what's weird about that one? There'd be lots to say. At this point, aside from being a real work in progress, she feels and looks creepy bad, and I can't help but think of the movie Alien, and of the sprightly alien creatures temporarily taking up residence within, only to burst through muscle and skin, screech, and drip nasty looking stuff from their corrosive sneers. I doubt she has the same malicious intent, but clearly, there is something not of this world about her, and something not of me, too, despite the fact that we share skin (though the skin has lost all its feeling, and therefore connection, to me). I will not miss this girl when I trade her in on June 17th. I will bid this expander adieu and welcome a more comfortable implant that will, hopefully, feel and look a lot more like my other girl.
This was to be my final over-expansion. The technician Christina hinted that when Dr. Pitts sees me for my pre-op appointment in a couple of weeks, she may want to expand me further. You have got to be kidding!! She laughed, too. I think I'm done. If I am over-expanded anymore, I will set up my freak sideshow along the roadside somewhere and start making some money off of this ridiculousness. At this point, I suppose I could say that I am (o) +O; that'd be lopsided, small real on the right, big fake on the left, android in appearance. No tassles. Yet.
She's so bizarre looking that she has taken on the strange esoteric feeling of a contemporary art installation, and begs the question that I'll put to my kids whenever we go to MassMoCA to check out all the cool, new art—ok, kids, so what's weird about that one? There'd be lots to say. At this point, aside from being a real work in progress, she feels and looks creepy bad, and I can't help but think of the movie Alien, and of the sprightly alien creatures temporarily taking up residence within, only to burst through muscle and skin, screech, and drip nasty looking stuff from their corrosive sneers. I doubt she has the same malicious intent, but clearly, there is something not of this world about her, and something not of me, too, despite the fact that we share skin (though the skin has lost all its feeling, and therefore connection, to me). I will not miss this girl when I trade her in on June 17th. I will bid this expander adieu and welcome a more comfortable implant that will, hopefully, feel and look a lot more like my other girl.
This was to be my final over-expansion. The technician Christina hinted that when Dr. Pitts sees me for my pre-op appointment in a couple of weeks, she may want to expand me further. You have got to be kidding!! She laughed, too. I think I'm done. If I am over-expanded anymore, I will set up my freak sideshow along the roadside somewhere and start making some money off of this ridiculousness. At this point, I suppose I could say that I am (o) +O; that'd be lopsided, small real on the right, big fake on the left, android in appearance. No tassles. Yet.
Happiness is nothing more than good health and a bad memory. ~ Albert Schweitzer
The moment of change is the only poem. ~ Adrienne Rich
Dear family and friends,
I write to you today with apologies for not being in direct touch for awhile (the blog doesn’t quite count, I know, and I am sorry), and with hopes that you’ve all been well, taking the time to enjoy some of the finer offerings of the season: the slow, unraveling reveal of the fiddleheads, the rising sun set against the sparkle of dew, the wetland symphonic serenades at dusk, the bursts of buds and blossoms that have set the tops of the trees ablaze in color…
It’s been many weeks now since my last surgery, and I am ever grateful for the good Juju that has come spiraling my way, coursing through my veins and carrying me through the tougher days with light and love from many corners of this earth. Despite a difficult first couple of weeks, I have healed well physically. I regained full motion fairly easily and quickly, found having to be careful and quiet with my activity for the six weeks following surgery maddening, but manageable, and have enjoyed a gradual return to doing whatever feels right: push ups are not on this list. I have returned to Boston for follow-ups with my breast surgeon and oncologist, and several times to Wellesley for nearly weekly expansions with my plastic surgeon. I have been so grateful for their good care, and particularly, for their good news: no post-surgical complications, no need for chemotherapy, and a new left girl, sprouting with the same kind of fury and flamboyance that this springtime revelry has inspired. And a few weeks ago, I returned to Exeter for my 25th reunion, which brought me fully into the light for a few days, a light that has been pulling me through the darkest days of this experience with the promise of dear, old friends gathered from all ends of the earth, for endless talking, dancing, and other deeply sublime weekend adventures.
With the exception of some residual and chronic difficulties with my left knee (still numb, still working it out with the neurologist and spine guy) and sciatica, which has flared up in a way that I have not felt since I was at Exeter, and had to often go flat on my back in the middle of class, my body is regaining its strength and stamina, but it will take some time. I feel so tired at the end of my days, but know, too, that this spring season is rife with overdoing it, in the gardens, the youth sports arena, the over-scheduled everything, and that I am not alone in my fatigue. And given that I’ve been out of commission for a long while, since my knee surgery in January, it’ll be a long time before I feel thoroughly strong again.
The reconstruction process has been comical and fascinating—and very uncomfortable. I never knew skin could be stretched so far! That the body is so resilient and fluid and adapting is amazing to me. And yet, there are trade-offs, always. Along with my skin, my left pectoral muscle, which now sits atop the now over-expanded saline expander, is being stretched, stretched, stretched some more to accommodate an ever-expanding expander. Just yesterday, I received an injection of another 60 ml of saline, to constitute my official second over-expansion. Room must be made, after all, for the expander to come out and for the implant to come in. And from its new perch, this poor messed-with muscle yields considerable influence on some of the other muscles to which it is attached—the psoas, and the lat, for instance, both of which are being pulled in concert with the pec, throwing my whole body into an uncomfortable state of disequilibrium. Hence the sciatica, the worsening knee issues, the overall feeling of soreness. Reconstruction will do that.
Happily, I won’t have to deal with this for much longer. My next surgery will be at Newton Wellesley on June 17—when this bulky, tight, alien expander will be exchanged for a more permanent, comfortable, and realistic looking and feeling silicone implant. The exchange surgery will be a day surgery, so I should be going home that night to sleep off the narcotics and try to get used to yet another new girl. There will be another four weeks of restricted activity and physical healing. I am hoping that I will be better off having gone through something similar before—as it was with my second child, that the body will surrender a little more easily, and recognize that the best way to get through the tougher stuff is sometimes the path of least resistance.
Emotionally, the healing has been more difficult. What’s been most disheartening has been the rush around me to return to some kind of “normal”, which, of course, just isn’t there any more for me. There are some days that come and go as if the breast cancer never happened. And yet it did. Each and every day there are millions of reminders that I am still in the thick of it, with deep work to be done, and that my girl is, that I am, still a work in progress. I am still trying to listen to it all, and to spend some time on the big what’s next. The diagnosis has made me question how I have lived, what I did to bring this on, what I can do differently now to make sure it doesn’t rear its ugly head again. I know, too, that there are unknowns, that shit just happens, is all, but I like answers. It’s the only way I can feel somewhat in control of something that is so entirely out of control and seemingly unpredictable. Finding the time and space to move forward with it all has been more of a challenge—I still need to take care of myself, to listen to all of this—and yet, as is the case for so many of us, the usual flurry of obligatory springtime activity has overshadowed my best efforts, and I feel thwarted and frustrated and spent, searching for snapshots of time when I can reflect, write, do some yoga, try a little meditation, get together with a friend, go for a long walk with Daisy, disengage from the constant clatter and clamor of family life and just be.
The boys are doing okay—better, I think, now that there is soft green grass under their feet for running about, that the temperatures have warmed the chill out of their bones, that they are once again more fully engaged with homeschooling, favorite spring sports, and time with friends, and that they have their mom back. I worry about them, but every mother worries about their kids. I worry about the lasting impact this winter will have on their lives—the disruptions and lost chunks of time, the fears and anxieties they will carry with them, the way their world has been turned upside down. But I know, too, that they have been fortified by this experience in many ways, and that they are stronger because of all the life lessons they’ve received, in living life no matter what you are dealt, in facing things head on, in staying open to the love that shines all about, and in finding the good and the light when there seems to be nothing but deep wells of darkness around you--lessons that I am trying hard to learn myself.
I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am. ~ Sylvia Plath
Part of my recovery must include imagining, discovering and creating a new road map for myself. I have been at the mercy of a cancer patient’s schedule—filled in with doctors’ appointments, surgeries, recovery time, and treatments—for so long (though for so many others out there it is so much longer, so I know, I know I am blessed), that now I need to recreate my own what’s next. For the immediate future, this will include trying to figure out how to tune out the chirping birds at dawn and sleep in properly after staying up way too late cheering the Celtics on; surviving Dominick’s baseball season, which offers up a delectable slice of American life during the seemingly endless three hour plus games that stretch from the sparkling sunshine of the late afternoon to the blinding black fly haze of twilight; finding time to write each and every day (and if I don’t, as my writing prof used to say, forgiving myself); finishing up the homeschool year with a bang, so I don’t feel forever guilty for being such a pox on this homeschooling project and the cause of so much blown time this winter; putting things on the calendar, aside from doctor appointments, so we have plenty to look forward to—family picnics, reunions, summer camps, retreats, and trips; and continuing to research how best to eat, exercise, and live in order to protect myself against recurrence. This is simply not something I ever want to have to go through again.
I have also been considering walking to raise money for breast cancer research, and there are several options. The boys and I were all excited to walk in the Breast Cancer 3-day, which benefits the Susan G. Komen for the Cure and takes place in Boston in August 15-17), but we recently discovered that kids must be 16 in order to participate, and now, well, we just feel deflated. Our team was to be the Blue-Footed Boobies, and I still might walk on my own if I find some walking buddies to join up and complete the walk with me. If there is anyone out there who might consider joining me, I’d love to hear from you. I know there are many of you who have been touched by breast cancer in some way—this is supposed to be an incredibly moving experience, a real personal challenge, and a great way to channel all that good energy into something productive and meaningful. The walk covers 60 miles in three days. Ooofta! The web site covers the details: http://08.the3day.org/site/PageServer. Just in case I might motivate some of you, I am continuing with my training (and am looking for local walking buddies, too)…
You can still find me at my blog: http://flipsideofforty.blogpsot.com/, and of course in Gill. If you should ever happen to find yourself traveling down Rte 2, 91, or Main Road, please do say hello. It’s been a lonely ride, and I’d love to see you.
I send you all much love, and thank you, as ever, for hanging in there with me,
XOXO
Liz
Dear family and friends,
I write to you today with apologies for not being in direct touch for awhile (the blog doesn’t quite count, I know, and I am sorry), and with hopes that you’ve all been well, taking the time to enjoy some of the finer offerings of the season: the slow, unraveling reveal of the fiddleheads, the rising sun set against the sparkle of dew, the wetland symphonic serenades at dusk, the bursts of buds and blossoms that have set the tops of the trees ablaze in color…
It’s been many weeks now since my last surgery, and I am ever grateful for the good Juju that has come spiraling my way, coursing through my veins and carrying me through the tougher days with light and love from many corners of this earth. Despite a difficult first couple of weeks, I have healed well physically. I regained full motion fairly easily and quickly, found having to be careful and quiet with my activity for the six weeks following surgery maddening, but manageable, and have enjoyed a gradual return to doing whatever feels right: push ups are not on this list. I have returned to Boston for follow-ups with my breast surgeon and oncologist, and several times to Wellesley for nearly weekly expansions with my plastic surgeon. I have been so grateful for their good care, and particularly, for their good news: no post-surgical complications, no need for chemotherapy, and a new left girl, sprouting with the same kind of fury and flamboyance that this springtime revelry has inspired. And a few weeks ago, I returned to Exeter for my 25th reunion, which brought me fully into the light for a few days, a light that has been pulling me through the darkest days of this experience with the promise of dear, old friends gathered from all ends of the earth, for endless talking, dancing, and other deeply sublime weekend adventures.
With the exception of some residual and chronic difficulties with my left knee (still numb, still working it out with the neurologist and spine guy) and sciatica, which has flared up in a way that I have not felt since I was at Exeter, and had to often go flat on my back in the middle of class, my body is regaining its strength and stamina, but it will take some time. I feel so tired at the end of my days, but know, too, that this spring season is rife with overdoing it, in the gardens, the youth sports arena, the over-scheduled everything, and that I am not alone in my fatigue. And given that I’ve been out of commission for a long while, since my knee surgery in January, it’ll be a long time before I feel thoroughly strong again.
The reconstruction process has been comical and fascinating—and very uncomfortable. I never knew skin could be stretched so far! That the body is so resilient and fluid and adapting is amazing to me. And yet, there are trade-offs, always. Along with my skin, my left pectoral muscle, which now sits atop the now over-expanded saline expander, is being stretched, stretched, stretched some more to accommodate an ever-expanding expander. Just yesterday, I received an injection of another 60 ml of saline, to constitute my official second over-expansion. Room must be made, after all, for the expander to come out and for the implant to come in. And from its new perch, this poor messed-with muscle yields considerable influence on some of the other muscles to which it is attached—the psoas, and the lat, for instance, both of which are being pulled in concert with the pec, throwing my whole body into an uncomfortable state of disequilibrium. Hence the sciatica, the worsening knee issues, the overall feeling of soreness. Reconstruction will do that.
Happily, I won’t have to deal with this for much longer. My next surgery will be at Newton Wellesley on June 17—when this bulky, tight, alien expander will be exchanged for a more permanent, comfortable, and realistic looking and feeling silicone implant. The exchange surgery will be a day surgery, so I should be going home that night to sleep off the narcotics and try to get used to yet another new girl. There will be another four weeks of restricted activity and physical healing. I am hoping that I will be better off having gone through something similar before—as it was with my second child, that the body will surrender a little more easily, and recognize that the best way to get through the tougher stuff is sometimes the path of least resistance.
Emotionally, the healing has been more difficult. What’s been most disheartening has been the rush around me to return to some kind of “normal”, which, of course, just isn’t there any more for me. There are some days that come and go as if the breast cancer never happened. And yet it did. Each and every day there are millions of reminders that I am still in the thick of it, with deep work to be done, and that my girl is, that I am, still a work in progress. I am still trying to listen to it all, and to spend some time on the big what’s next. The diagnosis has made me question how I have lived, what I did to bring this on, what I can do differently now to make sure it doesn’t rear its ugly head again. I know, too, that there are unknowns, that shit just happens, is all, but I like answers. It’s the only way I can feel somewhat in control of something that is so entirely out of control and seemingly unpredictable. Finding the time and space to move forward with it all has been more of a challenge—I still need to take care of myself, to listen to all of this—and yet, as is the case for so many of us, the usual flurry of obligatory springtime activity has overshadowed my best efforts, and I feel thwarted and frustrated and spent, searching for snapshots of time when I can reflect, write, do some yoga, try a little meditation, get together with a friend, go for a long walk with Daisy, disengage from the constant clatter and clamor of family life and just be.
The boys are doing okay—better, I think, now that there is soft green grass under their feet for running about, that the temperatures have warmed the chill out of their bones, that they are once again more fully engaged with homeschooling, favorite spring sports, and time with friends, and that they have their mom back. I worry about them, but every mother worries about their kids. I worry about the lasting impact this winter will have on their lives—the disruptions and lost chunks of time, the fears and anxieties they will carry with them, the way their world has been turned upside down. But I know, too, that they have been fortified by this experience in many ways, and that they are stronger because of all the life lessons they’ve received, in living life no matter what you are dealt, in facing things head on, in staying open to the love that shines all about, and in finding the good and the light when there seems to be nothing but deep wells of darkness around you--lessons that I am trying hard to learn myself.
I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am. ~ Sylvia Plath
Part of my recovery must include imagining, discovering and creating a new road map for myself. I have been at the mercy of a cancer patient’s schedule—filled in with doctors’ appointments, surgeries, recovery time, and treatments—for so long (though for so many others out there it is so much longer, so I know, I know I am blessed), that now I need to recreate my own what’s next. For the immediate future, this will include trying to figure out how to tune out the chirping birds at dawn and sleep in properly after staying up way too late cheering the Celtics on; surviving Dominick’s baseball season, which offers up a delectable slice of American life during the seemingly endless three hour plus games that stretch from the sparkling sunshine of the late afternoon to the blinding black fly haze of twilight; finding time to write each and every day (and if I don’t, as my writing prof used to say, forgiving myself); finishing up the homeschool year with a bang, so I don’t feel forever guilty for being such a pox on this homeschooling project and the cause of so much blown time this winter; putting things on the calendar, aside from doctor appointments, so we have plenty to look forward to—family picnics, reunions, summer camps, retreats, and trips; and continuing to research how best to eat, exercise, and live in order to protect myself against recurrence. This is simply not something I ever want to have to go through again.
I have also been considering walking to raise money for breast cancer research, and there are several options. The boys and I were all excited to walk in the Breast Cancer 3-day, which benefits the Susan G. Komen for the Cure and takes place in Boston in August 15-17), but we recently discovered that kids must be 16 in order to participate, and now, well, we just feel deflated. Our team was to be the Blue-Footed Boobies, and I still might walk on my own if I find some walking buddies to join up and complete the walk with me. If there is anyone out there who might consider joining me, I’d love to hear from you. I know there are many of you who have been touched by breast cancer in some way—this is supposed to be an incredibly moving experience, a real personal challenge, and a great way to channel all that good energy into something productive and meaningful. The walk covers 60 miles in three days. Ooofta! The web site covers the details: http://08.the3day.org/site/PageServer. Just in case I might motivate some of you, I am continuing with my training (and am looking for local walking buddies, too)…
You can still find me at my blog: http://flipsideofforty.blogpsot.com/, and of course in Gill. If you should ever happen to find yourself traveling down Rte 2, 91, or Main Road, please do say hello. It’s been a lonely ride, and I’d love to see you.
I send you all much love, and thank you, as ever, for hanging in there with me,
XOXO
Liz
Saturday, May 10, 2008
The start of Tamoxifen
Last Saturday ~
I started Tamoxifen this morning. It took me a while--two weeks, to be exact--from the time I heard from Dr. Ryan, my oncologist, that I could begin the treatment, to shake my Procrastinator, summon the courage, and actually fill the damn prescription. I suppose I was enjoying not having any meds careening through my veins; after all, once started, this will be a five year course of treatment, and will no doubt be followed up with some other version of the same kind of drug that will be tailored for that specific time in my life to target and blast away my particular kind of cancer cells. So--I delayed the inevitable, enjoying the drug-free, no side-effects-to-worry-about, clear-headedness for just a little longer.
I suppose that I was feeling a little bit nervous about taking the Tamoxifen, despite its reputation as being a time-tested Wonder Drug that has extended and saved countless lives. My grandmother took it for years and I don't remember her ever issuing a complaint. Of course, she had gazillions of other medical issues always on the brew, so to have sorted it all out would have been next to impossible. I never know how my body will respond to something new and foreign. I'm fairly sensitive, so I was starting to wonder about what kind of havoc the drug might wreak on my system. When I picked up the prescription yesterday afternoon, I instantly read the enclosed fine print--always a stupid thing to do, I know, because there's always much more information there than anyone would ever need, and it just aggravates and overloads the interiors of your better sense and sends you spinning into the vortex of worrying and waiting for bad things to start happening. In this case, diarrhea, nausea, hot flashes, yadda yadda yadda. And of course, the more catastrophic risks of cervical and endometrial cancers...but hey! I trust fully in Dr. Ryan. She knows exactly what she is doing. And I will be FINE.
The pills are small, round, white--nothing special or extraordinary about them on the outside, but inside, well, we know they pack a power punch, so all that magnificence has been packaged quite quietly. What was I expecting? A big pink horsepill with a pink ribbon etched on its side? Take this and be breast cancer free forever! I swallow the pill after breakfast, washing it down with my green chlorella water and a handful of other supplements, none boasting as big a promise as the Tamoxifen. It goes down easily. I wait and listen and hold my breath for a few seconds afterwards. Do I feel any change? Ah, yeah, right.
It was the perfect morning to start something new. I slipped out of the house and headed out, by myself, to check out some mosquito-infested yard sales (found some good books for a quarter a piece, and two beautiful ceramic mugs for the same) before heading into Greenfield to shop at the Farmer's Market. It felt good just being out and about, and on my own for a change--and at the Market, being surrounded by what seemed like a bountiful beginning to the season, with cascading piles of fresh lettuces and greens of all kinds, garlic scapes, herbs, vegetable starts, flowers, and fresh baked breads all for the taking. I felt energized; the Tamoxifen must be doing me good already.
Mother's Day ~
A Freudian slip is when you say one thing but mean your mother. ~Author Unknown
It's a beautiful day--clear blue sparkling sunny skies. My mother arrives at noon. We sit outside, the picnic table festooned with a bright table cloth and a scattering of brunch dishes. We eat well. Later, she helps me mulch the my perennial gardens, blueberry bushes, and fruit trees, and I am so grateful for the help. I spy the raspberry patch and my forearms ache imagining the pruning that still needs to be done. I have fixed up two flower boxes full of herbs for her deck; Dom has dug up some of our overflowing mint and put it in a pot for her. There are beautiful handmade cards. But for now, the boys run around barefooted and armed with water guns. Just when I am quietly praising them to myself for working out a near balance of fun and feist and chasing each other about without hurting, teasing, or blaming, their battle explodes for real, and I find myself being tugged in to soothe and listen and not take sides, and I am reminded of the real meaning of Mother's Day, that as much as you'd like to think you can foist the job on someone else for the day, or take a break from it all, it just won't ever happen. When you are a mother, you are never really alone in your thoughts. A mother always has to think twice, once for herself and once for her child. ~Sophia Loren, Women and Beauty Woman in the home has not yet lost her dignity, in spite of Mother's Day, with its offensive implication that our love needs an annual nudging, like our enthusiasm for the battle of Bunker Hill. ~John Erskine
That night, we head to one of our favorite restaurants around, Hope & Olive, where we sit at the bar and feast some more. Admittedly, I spend the better part of the evening pining after a Thai Gin-tini, but settle for tap water on the rocks in a lovely glass.
I am grateful for the day, for the time spent with family. Motherhood has always been the one thing that I have always been certain about. Not that it hasn't been rife with challenges (after all, Insanity is hereditary; you get it from your children. ~Sam Levenson), of course, but it's the one thing that has made me feel fully engaged in the ebb and flow of life and its rhythms. And as for my own mother, My mom is a neverending song in my heart of comfort, happiness, and being. I may sometimes forget the words but I always remember the tune. ~Graycie Harmon. Thank you, Mom! I love you!
Thursday ~
Nearly a week has passed since I started the Tamoxifen and despite a few hours of nausea at the start of the week, which could have possibly been brought on not by the drug but by the fact that I had been waking up with the sun and the annoying little birds chirping their good mornings at 5 AM and was totally exhausted (no, ya think?), I haven't felt a twang of difference in the way I feel. I suppose I'm being foolishly premature, but I'd like to think I'm just being positive in thinking that we are a good match, Tamoxifen and me. I have to believe that. And I remind myself constantly of what the alternative might have been. Taking the Tamoxifen, and the Tamoxifen only, without chemo, every morning has been and will continue to be a lovely little grounding ritual of mindfulness and gratitude.
I started Tamoxifen this morning. It took me a while--two weeks, to be exact--from the time I heard from Dr. Ryan, my oncologist, that I could begin the treatment, to shake my Procrastinator, summon the courage, and actually fill the damn prescription. I suppose I was enjoying not having any meds careening through my veins; after all, once started, this will be a five year course of treatment, and will no doubt be followed up with some other version of the same kind of drug that will be tailored for that specific time in my life to target and blast away my particular kind of cancer cells. So--I delayed the inevitable, enjoying the drug-free, no side-effects-to-worry-about, clear-headedness for just a little longer.
I suppose that I was feeling a little bit nervous about taking the Tamoxifen, despite its reputation as being a time-tested Wonder Drug that has extended and saved countless lives. My grandmother took it for years and I don't remember her ever issuing a complaint. Of course, she had gazillions of other medical issues always on the brew, so to have sorted it all out would have been next to impossible. I never know how my body will respond to something new and foreign. I'm fairly sensitive, so I was starting to wonder about what kind of havoc the drug might wreak on my system. When I picked up the prescription yesterday afternoon, I instantly read the enclosed fine print--always a stupid thing to do, I know, because there's always much more information there than anyone would ever need, and it just aggravates and overloads the interiors of your better sense and sends you spinning into the vortex of worrying and waiting for bad things to start happening. In this case, diarrhea, nausea, hot flashes, yadda yadda yadda. And of course, the more catastrophic risks of cervical and endometrial cancers...but hey! I trust fully in Dr. Ryan. She knows exactly what she is doing. And I will be FINE.
The pills are small, round, white--nothing special or extraordinary about them on the outside, but inside, well, we know they pack a power punch, so all that magnificence has been packaged quite quietly. What was I expecting? A big pink horsepill with a pink ribbon etched on its side? Take this and be breast cancer free forever! I swallow the pill after breakfast, washing it down with my green chlorella water and a handful of other supplements, none boasting as big a promise as the Tamoxifen. It goes down easily. I wait and listen and hold my breath for a few seconds afterwards. Do I feel any change? Ah, yeah, right.
It was the perfect morning to start something new. I slipped out of the house and headed out, by myself, to check out some mosquito-infested yard sales (found some good books for a quarter a piece, and two beautiful ceramic mugs for the same) before heading into Greenfield to shop at the Farmer's Market. It felt good just being out and about, and on my own for a change--and at the Market, being surrounded by what seemed like a bountiful beginning to the season, with cascading piles of fresh lettuces and greens of all kinds, garlic scapes, herbs, vegetable starts, flowers, and fresh baked breads all for the taking. I felt energized; the Tamoxifen must be doing me good already.
Mother's Day ~
A Freudian slip is when you say one thing but mean your mother. ~Author Unknown
It's a beautiful day--clear blue sparkling sunny skies. My mother arrives at noon. We sit outside, the picnic table festooned with a bright table cloth and a scattering of brunch dishes. We eat well. Later, she helps me mulch the my perennial gardens, blueberry bushes, and fruit trees, and I am so grateful for the help. I spy the raspberry patch and my forearms ache imagining the pruning that still needs to be done. I have fixed up two flower boxes full of herbs for her deck; Dom has dug up some of our overflowing mint and put it in a pot for her. There are beautiful handmade cards. But for now, the boys run around barefooted and armed with water guns. Just when I am quietly praising them to myself for working out a near balance of fun and feist and chasing each other about without hurting, teasing, or blaming, their battle explodes for real, and I find myself being tugged in to soothe and listen and not take sides, and I am reminded of the real meaning of Mother's Day, that as much as you'd like to think you can foist the job on someone else for the day, or take a break from it all, it just won't ever happen. When you are a mother, you are never really alone in your thoughts. A mother always has to think twice, once for herself and once for her child. ~Sophia Loren, Women and Beauty Woman in the home has not yet lost her dignity, in spite of Mother's Day, with its offensive implication that our love needs an annual nudging, like our enthusiasm for the battle of Bunker Hill. ~John Erskine
That night, we head to one of our favorite restaurants around, Hope & Olive, where we sit at the bar and feast some more. Admittedly, I spend the better part of the evening pining after a Thai Gin-tini, but settle for tap water on the rocks in a lovely glass.
I am grateful for the day, for the time spent with family. Motherhood has always been the one thing that I have always been certain about. Not that it hasn't been rife with challenges (after all, Insanity is hereditary; you get it from your children. ~Sam Levenson), of course, but it's the one thing that has made me feel fully engaged in the ebb and flow of life and its rhythms. And as for my own mother, My mom is a neverending song in my heart of comfort, happiness, and being. I may sometimes forget the words but I always remember the tune. ~Graycie Harmon. Thank you, Mom! I love you!
Thursday ~
Nearly a week has passed since I started the Tamoxifen and despite a few hours of nausea at the start of the week, which could have possibly been brought on not by the drug but by the fact that I had been waking up with the sun and the annoying little birds chirping their good mornings at 5 AM and was totally exhausted (no, ya think?), I haven't felt a twang of difference in the way I feel. I suppose I'm being foolishly premature, but I'd like to think I'm just being positive in thinking that we are a good match, Tamoxifen and me. I have to believe that. And I remind myself constantly of what the alternative might have been. Taking the Tamoxifen, and the Tamoxifen only, without chemo, every morning has been and will continue to be a lovely little grounding ritual of mindfulness and gratitude.
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