I have a fun story called "Walnut War" in The Front Porch newspaper supplement for Sunday, February 27th. If your paper carries The Front Porch, look for my story and let me know what you think!
I've been working on my memoirs. Decided 2005 is the year to get 'em done. That way I'll have more time for the sequels! ;-)
To check out what's going on in my world as far as publishing goes, go to: Ginger's Webpage
Saturday, February 26, 2005
Saturday, February 19, 2005
We're running a sequential cold/flu cycle at The HenHouse this month. Started off with Da Roostah, then the Number One Son came down with it -- highly unusual since he misses maybe one day of school a decade. They were both home all week last week, eating Henny's famous homemade chicken soup and going through tissues like they were, um, paper. Then the Little Princess felt cruddy, seemed to recover, then crashed and burned. Thursday, I could feel the Crud's Icy Grip around my brain and gizzard, and I tried to hide from it by sleeping every time I felt tired. So far, I've slept off and on for 48 hours and feel rotten. I'm not even interested in watching the mindless crap on television. Oh, I indulged myself with Steve Irwin for half an hour tonight, but I can watch Steve-O any time. Gotta love a man who is so open about his love for his fellow creatures.
But I might not update this site for a few days. I feel cruddy. I did write a little essay that I'll leave with ya, to tide ya over till I'm back and babbling again.
Enjoy:
Bob’s Last Bump and Grind
I remember a patient of mine, Bob Shawver. It was 1982 and he swooped onto our unit one March afternoon like some gangly exotic bird. He was six-four and weighed 130 pounds. He’d lost over fifty pounds since January, and diagnosed as “weight loss of questionable etiology” and “flu.” Bob’s companion Victor was a handsome, intense man who dressed in smart dark slacks and white dress shirt with a conservative sweater over top. I had the pleasure of recording Bob’s patient intake.
“What do you do for a living?”
“I guess you’d call me a flaming faggot,” he replied. “I’m a female impersonator.” He indicated a large satchel beside the bed. Victor opened the bag and pulled out a couple of brilliantly sequined dresses and some oversized costume jewelry.
“Then you must be very good at your work.” He was so thin, and so tall. It was hard to imagine him appearing feminine. I could imagine him being a utility pole impersonator, but not impersonating a woman.
He guffawed. “How intuitive of you. I’m afraid I’m so thin now, I could only play Diana Ross and I’m the wrong flavor for that,” and he let out an exaggerated sigh. I giggled. Bob’s openness was refreshing. He had that freedom of spirit to just… be… who and what he was, making apology to no one. The Catholic hospital I worked at was a warm and loving environment as long as you fit into the family mold that was considered acceptable. I was 26 years old, never married, a “free spirit” as Mother Superior put it in a less-than-positive tone of voice that implied I was the town round-heels.
Bob’s chest x-rays revealed severe pneumonia and advanced cancer of both lungs. I believe he also had Kaposi’s sarcoma, a malignant growth of the blood vessels which causes reddish purple, coin-size spots and lesions on the skin. This was 1982, years before AIDS was openly acknowledged as a problem in the United States. There had never been a confirmed case of AIDS in West Virginia. Only 1,000 confirmed American AIDS cases were acknowledged by February 1983, and this was a full year earlier. Bob’s physician declined pursuing an AIDS diagnosis on Bob.
At risk to my job – which was always teetering on the verge of elimination due to some impertinence or another I’d committed – I sat down with Bob and Victor and went over some articles I’d read in a scientific magazine about the new disease, acquired immune deficiency syndrome – called AIDS for short. It was obvious to all three of us that Bob had the classic symptoms of the syndrome, and should be tested.
“Honey, you have AIDS as sure as I’m sitting here.” Victor gently stroked Bob’s forearm. It was swollen where an IV had infiltrated a few hours ago.
“Sure looks that way to me,” I said. “Let me get you a warm wet pack for that arm; it’ll make it feel better faster.”
When I returned with the pack, Bob and Victor were entwined in a warm gentle hug. I felt a lump in my throat; I recognized that embrace. It meant they’d acknowledged an impending misfortune and were committing to one another, come what may. I wrapped Bob’s forearm in the wet warm wrap and asked him if his doctor had mentioned anything about a private room yet.
“Why’s that, Ginger?” Bob asked.
“Because it’s my feeling that when your doctor becomes convinced you have AIDS, he’ll move you to a private room.”
Victor caught Bob’s eyes. “You know you won’t be coming home, honey,” he said so quietly and gently I almost didn’t hear it.
“I’ll never perform again if I don’t go home, and hell if I’m never performing again,” Bob retorted. “That last one was wonderful as always, but damned if that’s gonna be how I’m remembered. How long do I have before you stick me with that infernal needle again, girlie?”
I reckoned I could leave it out for an hour. Bob said he was going to put on a show for the evening shift supervisor, Mary. She was a middle-aged devout Catholic mother of eleven and needless to say, conservative. She was due on our unit about nine o’clock. Mary was dependable and made her rounds like clockwork. I left Bob and Victor for some private time and busied myself taking care of my other patients, giving out pain medicines and jotting notations in charts.
At 9:05, Mary lumbered off the elevator. She leaned on the counter at the nurses station and asked how everything was going. “Going great, thanks, Mary,” I answered. “I have to get an IV back in Mr. Shawver before he goes to bed, but other than that, no sweat.” The other nurses filled her in on what was going on with their charges. The door to Bob’s room opened. Victor stuck his head out for an instant. The door closed again. There was a bit of a hubbub in Bob’s room for a few seconds.
Suddenly the door burst open and “The Stripper” song blared from a boom box in Victor’s hand. We all turned to see what the commotion was as Bob, all six-foot-four inches of him came sashaying through the doorway of his room. He had a baby blue feather boa looped around his neck and one arm. He was naked except for a tiny baby blue bikini bottom and a pair of five-inch-high baby blue and silver sequined pumps. He bumped and ground, sashayed and flipped that boa here and there. He had the moves. He did a double leg shimmy and worked the boa in between his legs from front to back. I secretly wished I was as flexible as he was and I joined him in the hall for a dueling shoulder shimmy. We rocked back and forth, shimmying our shoulders, one leaning in as the other leaned out. As it was, Bob looked like a huge naked flamingo whose remaining feathers had been dyed blue for a bizarre Easter party. I wish I could’ve seen him perform when he was healthy.
Mary’s mouth hung open. She was totally slack-jawed until she said, “Ginger, you stop that right now. Wait till I tell your mother.” I laughed and said, “Mary, Mom won’t be a bit shocked that I took advantage of a chance to dance.” But I stopped. It would be hard to skirt a charge of unauthorized dancing if I didn’t stop immediately.
The supervisor knew I was a lost cause and turned her attention to my patient. “Mr. Shawver, please stop that right now. Go back to bed and put some clothes on.” As if on cue, Victor turned off the music and Bob began goose-stepping in those outlandish baby blue heels. He spun on one foot and goose-stepped back to his room. Victor closed the door behind him.
I didn’t get written up for that incident. Thankfully, Mary had a better sense of humor than I’d realized. I restarted Bob’s IV and we enjoyed chatting about his last performance.
Bob passed away in May. He’d long since been given a private room – on another nursing unit, even though ours was set aside for terminal patients. Dr. X didn’t want me poisoning Bob’s mind with ideas about AIDS or other issues the doctor didn’t want to address. I visited Bob and Victor every afternoon those last two months. Bob made arrangements to leave his body to the university. It was the best thing he could think of to do, to advance study of AIDS. He asked me to speak at his wake, and I agreed.
“I don’t want folks snotting around about me dying, girlie,” he said. “You’ll know what to say.”
I’m not a speaker, really. I’d attended many of my former patients’ funerals at the request of family members but I’d never spoken at one before. I stood behind the wooden podium in the little church sanctuary and met each person’s gaze, and at once I knew what to say. I stepped in front of the podium and I began with, “We all know he doesn’t want us to mourn life. He wants us to celebrate life. Let me tell you about Bob’s last bump and grind…”
But I might not update this site for a few days. I feel cruddy. I did write a little essay that I'll leave with ya, to tide ya over till I'm back and babbling again.
Enjoy:
Bob’s Last Bump and Grind
I remember a patient of mine, Bob Shawver. It was 1982 and he swooped onto our unit one March afternoon like some gangly exotic bird. He was six-four and weighed 130 pounds. He’d lost over fifty pounds since January, and diagnosed as “weight loss of questionable etiology” and “flu.” Bob’s companion Victor was a handsome, intense man who dressed in smart dark slacks and white dress shirt with a conservative sweater over top. I had the pleasure of recording Bob’s patient intake.
“What do you do for a living?”
“I guess you’d call me a flaming faggot,” he replied. “I’m a female impersonator.” He indicated a large satchel beside the bed. Victor opened the bag and pulled out a couple of brilliantly sequined dresses and some oversized costume jewelry.
“Then you must be very good at your work.” He was so thin, and so tall. It was hard to imagine him appearing feminine. I could imagine him being a utility pole impersonator, but not impersonating a woman.
He guffawed. “How intuitive of you. I’m afraid I’m so thin now, I could only play Diana Ross and I’m the wrong flavor for that,” and he let out an exaggerated sigh. I giggled. Bob’s openness was refreshing. He had that freedom of spirit to just… be… who and what he was, making apology to no one. The Catholic hospital I worked at was a warm and loving environment as long as you fit into the family mold that was considered acceptable. I was 26 years old, never married, a “free spirit” as Mother Superior put it in a less-than-positive tone of voice that implied I was the town round-heels.
Bob’s chest x-rays revealed severe pneumonia and advanced cancer of both lungs. I believe he also had Kaposi’s sarcoma, a malignant growth of the blood vessels which causes reddish purple, coin-size spots and lesions on the skin. This was 1982, years before AIDS was openly acknowledged as a problem in the United States. There had never been a confirmed case of AIDS in West Virginia. Only 1,000 confirmed American AIDS cases were acknowledged by February 1983, and this was a full year earlier. Bob’s physician declined pursuing an AIDS diagnosis on Bob.
At risk to my job – which was always teetering on the verge of elimination due to some impertinence or another I’d committed – I sat down with Bob and Victor and went over some articles I’d read in a scientific magazine about the new disease, acquired immune deficiency syndrome – called AIDS for short. It was obvious to all three of us that Bob had the classic symptoms of the syndrome, and should be tested.
“Honey, you have AIDS as sure as I’m sitting here.” Victor gently stroked Bob’s forearm. It was swollen where an IV had infiltrated a few hours ago.
“Sure looks that way to me,” I said. “Let me get you a warm wet pack for that arm; it’ll make it feel better faster.”
When I returned with the pack, Bob and Victor were entwined in a warm gentle hug. I felt a lump in my throat; I recognized that embrace. It meant they’d acknowledged an impending misfortune and were committing to one another, come what may. I wrapped Bob’s forearm in the wet warm wrap and asked him if his doctor had mentioned anything about a private room yet.
“Why’s that, Ginger?” Bob asked.
“Because it’s my feeling that when your doctor becomes convinced you have AIDS, he’ll move you to a private room.”
Victor caught Bob’s eyes. “You know you won’t be coming home, honey,” he said so quietly and gently I almost didn’t hear it.
“I’ll never perform again if I don’t go home, and hell if I’m never performing again,” Bob retorted. “That last one was wonderful as always, but damned if that’s gonna be how I’m remembered. How long do I have before you stick me with that infernal needle again, girlie?”
I reckoned I could leave it out for an hour. Bob said he was going to put on a show for the evening shift supervisor, Mary. She was a middle-aged devout Catholic mother of eleven and needless to say, conservative. She was due on our unit about nine o’clock. Mary was dependable and made her rounds like clockwork. I left Bob and Victor for some private time and busied myself taking care of my other patients, giving out pain medicines and jotting notations in charts.
At 9:05, Mary lumbered off the elevator. She leaned on the counter at the nurses station and asked how everything was going. “Going great, thanks, Mary,” I answered. “I have to get an IV back in Mr. Shawver before he goes to bed, but other than that, no sweat.” The other nurses filled her in on what was going on with their charges. The door to Bob’s room opened. Victor stuck his head out for an instant. The door closed again. There was a bit of a hubbub in Bob’s room for a few seconds.
Suddenly the door burst open and “The Stripper” song blared from a boom box in Victor’s hand. We all turned to see what the commotion was as Bob, all six-foot-four inches of him came sashaying through the doorway of his room. He had a baby blue feather boa looped around his neck and one arm. He was naked except for a tiny baby blue bikini bottom and a pair of five-inch-high baby blue and silver sequined pumps. He bumped and ground, sashayed and flipped that boa here and there. He had the moves. He did a double leg shimmy and worked the boa in between his legs from front to back. I secretly wished I was as flexible as he was and I joined him in the hall for a dueling shoulder shimmy. We rocked back and forth, shimmying our shoulders, one leaning in as the other leaned out. As it was, Bob looked like a huge naked flamingo whose remaining feathers had been dyed blue for a bizarre Easter party. I wish I could’ve seen him perform when he was healthy.
Mary’s mouth hung open. She was totally slack-jawed until she said, “Ginger, you stop that right now. Wait till I tell your mother.” I laughed and said, “Mary, Mom won’t be a bit shocked that I took advantage of a chance to dance.” But I stopped. It would be hard to skirt a charge of unauthorized dancing if I didn’t stop immediately.
The supervisor knew I was a lost cause and turned her attention to my patient. “Mr. Shawver, please stop that right now. Go back to bed and put some clothes on.” As if on cue, Victor turned off the music and Bob began goose-stepping in those outlandish baby blue heels. He spun on one foot and goose-stepped back to his room. Victor closed the door behind him.
I didn’t get written up for that incident. Thankfully, Mary had a better sense of humor than I’d realized. I restarted Bob’s IV and we enjoyed chatting about his last performance.
Bob passed away in May. He’d long since been given a private room – on another nursing unit, even though ours was set aside for terminal patients. Dr. X didn’t want me poisoning Bob’s mind with ideas about AIDS or other issues the doctor didn’t want to address. I visited Bob and Victor every afternoon those last two months. Bob made arrangements to leave his body to the university. It was the best thing he could think of to do, to advance study of AIDS. He asked me to speak at his wake, and I agreed.
“I don’t want folks snotting around about me dying, girlie,” he said. “You’ll know what to say.”
I’m not a speaker, really. I’d attended many of my former patients’ funerals at the request of family members but I’d never spoken at one before. I stood behind the wooden podium in the little church sanctuary and met each person’s gaze, and at once I knew what to say. I stepped in front of the podium and I began with, “We all know he doesn’t want us to mourn life. He wants us to celebrate life. Let me tell you about Bob’s last bump and grind…”
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
What's your favorite quote?
I've had a favorite quote since I was 15 years old. It speaks even louder to me today than it did 30-some-odd years ago:
All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost.
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring.
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.
-- J.R.R. Tolkien
I've had a favorite quote since I was 15 years old. It speaks even louder to me today than it did 30-some-odd years ago:
All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost.
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring.
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.
-- J.R.R. Tolkien
Introducing Velusian Ice
A writer friend started her own blog the other day. Check out this post -- it's powerful and informative: Visit Credit Card Companies...
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Your Chance To Own A Functional Piece of Art/History!
Featured in The New York Times "Technology" Section February 10, 2005
Short stories printed on coffee mugs are now available for purchase at AudioHouse!
The third and fourth ones on the current order section are my A Leaf Falls story (published under the pen name of Clara Chandler). A Leaf Falls is an exquisite peek into the thoughts of a woman about to cross the veil. Epiphany (published under my real name) will be available very soon. Epiphany is a powerful allegory about breaking free of the constraints of society.
If you have a favorite café or coffee house, please pass this contact information along to them.
"So many words, and only 26 letters..."
© 2004 Ginger Hamilton Caudill
Featured in The New York Times "Technology" Section February 10, 2005
Short stories printed on coffee mugs are now available for purchase at AudioHouse!
The third and fourth ones on the current order section are my A Leaf Falls story (published under the pen name of Clara Chandler). A Leaf Falls is an exquisite peek into the thoughts of a woman about to cross the veil. Epiphany (published under my real name) will be available very soon. Epiphany is a powerful allegory about breaking free of the constraints of society.
If you have a favorite café or coffee house, please pass this contact information along to them.
"So many words, and only 26 letters..."
© 2004 Ginger Hamilton Caudill
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Incredible
As democracy is perfected, the office of president represents, more and more closely, the inner soul of the people. On some great and glorious day the plain folks of the land will reach their heart's desire at last, and the White House will be adorned by a downright moron." -- H.L. Menken (1880-1956)
Had my cancer check-up appointment. Blood was drawn and parts were poked. Standard visit. This is the first time since 1999 that tumor marker levels aren't being checked. "You're so far out from it, we don't need it," doc said. That was hard to accept. I sat there, trying to absorb the impact of not needing to have 'em checked. Husband asked the doc, "Amazing she survived, isn't it?" Doc said, "It's incredible."
Incredible. That's my key word for today:
Incredible
1. So implausible as to elicit disbelief: gave an incredible explanation of the cause of the accident.
2. Astonishing: dressed with incredible speed.
I'll jot more after the Valentine's Day party. Pray for me...
* * *
Ok, I survived the fourth grade party. Let me tell you, being older than most of the children's grandmothers is an adventure -- at least for this homeroom mother! We all had a ball though. Two of the boys performed a dance face to face, and I stood behind Hayden and mimicked him. The entire class rolled laughing. They couldn't believe I could dance "cool." Then several more got up and danced and it turned into a Dueling Dance Contest. I survived it -- was a blast! They were less enthralled over the bookmarks I'd made, but I figured that'd be the case. What 10-year-old really wants a bookmark?
Found an amazing site tonight. Gerard Jones is honest in the best sense of that word. I felt totally at ease reading his words. It was a neat experience -- it felt like what I've had readers say THEY felt when they read my work. So if that's how my work makes y'all feel, then I'm honored!
Gerard Jones' Site SCROLL DOWN to the bottom of the page and read Chapter 1. And buy his book if you can swing it. Retails for only $16.95.
Had my cancer check-up appointment. Blood was drawn and parts were poked. Standard visit. This is the first time since 1999 that tumor marker levels aren't being checked. "You're so far out from it, we don't need it," doc said. That was hard to accept. I sat there, trying to absorb the impact of not needing to have 'em checked. Husband asked the doc, "Amazing she survived, isn't it?" Doc said, "It's incredible."
Incredible. That's my key word for today:
Incredible
1. So implausible as to elicit disbelief: gave an incredible explanation of the cause of the accident.
2. Astonishing: dressed with incredible speed.
I'll jot more after the Valentine's Day party. Pray for me...
Ok, I survived the fourth grade party. Let me tell you, being older than most of the children's grandmothers is an adventure -- at least for this homeroom mother! We all had a ball though. Two of the boys performed a dance face to face, and I stood behind Hayden and mimicked him. The entire class rolled laughing. They couldn't believe I could dance "cool." Then several more got up and danced and it turned into a Dueling Dance Contest. I survived it -- was a blast! They were less enthralled over the bookmarks I'd made, but I figured that'd be the case. What 10-year-old really wants a bookmark?
Found an amazing site tonight. Gerard Jones is honest in the best sense of that word. I felt totally at ease reading his words. It was a neat experience -- it felt like what I've had readers say THEY felt when they read my work. So if that's how my work makes y'all feel, then I'm honored!
Gerard Jones' Site SCROLL DOWN to the bottom of the page and read Chapter 1. And buy his book if you can swing it. Retails for only $16.95.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Writing Phases
I’m in my pouty, picky writer’s phase. It’s the one that comes shortly after the I-can’t-think-of-a-damned-fresh-conflict phase and just after the everything-I’ve-written-looks-like-shit phase ends. Got a couple of rejections today for Christmas stories. I’ve been accused of being psychic many times but it doesn’t take a Cassandra to realize your Christmas-themed stories weren’t accepted six weeks after the holiday passes.
If you’ve been following along, you know I see the oncologist tomorrow morning and no, I didn’t get around to having my mammogram. So I won’t have any news from him – always takes weeks to get all the lab stuff back, etc. Tomorrow’s also my youngest child’s Valentine’s Day party – I’m homeroom mother. Imagine that! I made 20 homemade Valentine’s and 20 homemade bookmarks for the little folks. I’m sure not a one will survive as long as it took to make but I enjoyed it. I dreamed up a little saying and wrote it on each bookmark:
Reading: Love That Lasts A Lifetime
Maybe by Friday I’ll move into my get-the-hell-outta-my-way-I-gotta-write phase. One can only hope…
If you’ve been following along, you know I see the oncologist tomorrow morning and no, I didn’t get around to having my mammogram. So I won’t have any news from him – always takes weeks to get all the lab stuff back, etc. Tomorrow’s also my youngest child’s Valentine’s Day party – I’m homeroom mother. Imagine that! I made 20 homemade Valentine’s and 20 homemade bookmarks for the little folks. I’m sure not a one will survive as long as it took to make but I enjoyed it. I dreamed up a little saying and wrote it on each bookmark:
Reading: Love That Lasts A Lifetime
Maybe by Friday I’ll move into my get-the-hell-outta-my-way-I-gotta-write phase. One can only hope…
Monday, February 07, 2005
Most of you know I was diagnosed with cancer in 1999. There's no rational explanation for why I've survived -- I smoke, I eat crap, I bitch and piss and moan and I'm generally outspoken and far from mellow. I believe with one other exception, everyone in my original support group is dead. Frequently I'm told how fortunate I am, how wonderful it is that I'm alive. I don't exactly have survivor's guilt but I do take spells where I feel like I'm a walking time bomb.
I didn't get my mammogram last summer when it was due. I simply didn't feel like it. Every time I have one, they find some new growth and then poke and prod around on me, trying to aspirate or else hack on my breasts. During that time, I'm hypersensitive and in survivor mode -- my children are worried and my husband melts down. Sorry, I wish I could say we're well-adjusted, calm folks but we ain't.
But most of the time the past year or so, I don't think much about my cancer. I know the tumor markers continue to creep upward infintestimally but for the most part, it's deemed to be stable. I take my Arimidex pill every day (when I remember my medication -- that's a whole 'nother story) and I live my life.
I sensed a domino effect beginning in October. I made a doctor's appointment to see my alternative health doctor, the one who managed everything but the actual Western cancer treatment. I was shocked I couldn't get an appointment until December 22nd. I received a letter in the mail December 15th that his office was no longer accepting Medicaid and I needed to find another doctor. Woohoo. I have such a complicated medical history -- it's nearly inconceivable all the conditions I'm living with. Not just any greenhorn fresh out of school can balance all my medications and diseases. This is a proven fact, several times over. Okay, it takes a well-weathered doc to coordinate my care. Then there's my personality. I ain't the easiest patient in the world. I'm a nurse. I'm opinionated. I'm also fairly well-informed. I refuse to be patronized.
So I'm in a pickle, to put it mildly. I need an excellent doctor who is secure enough to weather my personality AND who takes Medicaid. So far, nada. Nothin'. So I sense another domino quivering.
I have my down-to-every-six-months cancer check due on Thursday. My oncologist (cancer doc) is a gem of a human being -- such a nice sweet intelligent and funny man, he's a real mensch. I love him! He is senstive -- the last time he saw me -- early August -- he took one look at me and hospitalized me on the spot. Turned out my blood pressure was sky high (220/190) and I was in atrial fibrillation (my heart was quivering instead of pumping). He's a good guy, a wonderful spirit, and a terrific doctor. He won't yell at me on Thursday when I tell him I haven't gotten my mammogram, but I hope I can squeeze it in between now and then.
But I have a bad feeling about this upcoming check-up. I'm scared. I haven't been scared for awhile but I tend to feel afraid when it's time for another check. See, I lived my life blithely before my diagnosis. I'd done everything I was supposed to do -- got my baseline checked, etc. Everything was copesthetic until I took my sister in for her first mammogram and they offered me a free one. I wasn't one to turn down a free mammogram. Damned if it didn't show cancer -- Stage IV -- had spread, etc., and worst of all it showed on the previous mammogram and was missed seven years ago.
That event knocked the false sense of security I'd lived with right out from under me. I wasn't safe any more. I couldn't trust readings of x-rays. Long story short, I was plunged into a depression that lasted nearly five years. I haven't been out long at all. And now I'm afraid again.
My liver's twice as big as it's supposed to be -- I look like I'm 20 months' pregnant. This is a side effect of the chemotherapy. I have cirrhosis. Believe it or not, I don't drink. Oh, I have a glass of wine once a week or so nowadays, but I hadn't had a drink in over 20 years (and didn't drink a lot before then) when I was diagnosed with cirrhosis. Turns out it's congenital in my case. Ain't life grand? The genetic predisposition I was born with was triggered into action by the chemotherapy.
Well, I'm babbling on. The bottom line is, I have this sense of foreboding. I've had oodles of pieces published over the past three months. My writing's taking off. Things are too good. The living room's straight. The dishes are washed. The laundry's caught up. I've invoked the wrath of the Cancer Gods.
So I try to distract myself -- I wander around online reading the odd piece here and there. And this pops up -- in Writer's Market, of all places:
BBC journalist loses cancer battle
37-year-old BBC journalist Ivan Noble died on Monday [last Monday]. Noble had been posting accounts of his treatment online since he was diagnosed 2 1/2 years ago, and posted his last entry on January 30th. Source: journalism.co.uk
So I vist his blog: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/4211475.stm
...and I cry.
I didn't get my mammogram last summer when it was due. I simply didn't feel like it. Every time I have one, they find some new growth and then poke and prod around on me, trying to aspirate or else hack on my breasts. During that time, I'm hypersensitive and in survivor mode -- my children are worried and my husband melts down. Sorry, I wish I could say we're well-adjusted, calm folks but we ain't.
But most of the time the past year or so, I don't think much about my cancer. I know the tumor markers continue to creep upward infintestimally but for the most part, it's deemed to be stable. I take my Arimidex pill every day (when I remember my medication -- that's a whole 'nother story) and I live my life.
I sensed a domino effect beginning in October. I made a doctor's appointment to see my alternative health doctor, the one who managed everything but the actual Western cancer treatment. I was shocked I couldn't get an appointment until December 22nd. I received a letter in the mail December 15th that his office was no longer accepting Medicaid and I needed to find another doctor. Woohoo. I have such a complicated medical history -- it's nearly inconceivable all the conditions I'm living with. Not just any greenhorn fresh out of school can balance all my medications and diseases. This is a proven fact, several times over. Okay, it takes a well-weathered doc to coordinate my care. Then there's my personality. I ain't the easiest patient in the world. I'm a nurse. I'm opinionated. I'm also fairly well-informed. I refuse to be patronized.
So I'm in a pickle, to put it mildly. I need an excellent doctor who is secure enough to weather my personality AND who takes Medicaid. So far, nada. Nothin'. So I sense another domino quivering.
I have my down-to-every-six-months cancer check due on Thursday. My oncologist (cancer doc) is a gem of a human being -- such a nice sweet intelligent and funny man, he's a real mensch. I love him! He is senstive -- the last time he saw me -- early August -- he took one look at me and hospitalized me on the spot. Turned out my blood pressure was sky high (220/190) and I was in atrial fibrillation (my heart was quivering instead of pumping). He's a good guy, a wonderful spirit, and a terrific doctor. He won't yell at me on Thursday when I tell him I haven't gotten my mammogram, but I hope I can squeeze it in between now and then.
But I have a bad feeling about this upcoming check-up. I'm scared. I haven't been scared for awhile but I tend to feel afraid when it's time for another check. See, I lived my life blithely before my diagnosis. I'd done everything I was supposed to do -- got my baseline checked, etc. Everything was copesthetic until I took my sister in for her first mammogram and they offered me a free one. I wasn't one to turn down a free mammogram. Damned if it didn't show cancer -- Stage IV -- had spread, etc., and worst of all it showed on the previous mammogram and was missed seven years ago.
That event knocked the false sense of security I'd lived with right out from under me. I wasn't safe any more. I couldn't trust readings of x-rays. Long story short, I was plunged into a depression that lasted nearly five years. I haven't been out long at all. And now I'm afraid again.
My liver's twice as big as it's supposed to be -- I look like I'm 20 months' pregnant. This is a side effect of the chemotherapy. I have cirrhosis. Believe it or not, I don't drink. Oh, I have a glass of wine once a week or so nowadays, but I hadn't had a drink in over 20 years (and didn't drink a lot before then) when I was diagnosed with cirrhosis. Turns out it's congenital in my case. Ain't life grand? The genetic predisposition I was born with was triggered into action by the chemotherapy.
Well, I'm babbling on. The bottom line is, I have this sense of foreboding. I've had oodles of pieces published over the past three months. My writing's taking off. Things are too good. The living room's straight. The dishes are washed. The laundry's caught up. I've invoked the wrath of the Cancer Gods.
So I try to distract myself -- I wander around online reading the odd piece here and there. And this pops up -- in Writer's Market, of all places:
BBC journalist loses cancer battle
37-year-old BBC journalist Ivan Noble died on Monday [last Monday]. Noble had been posting accounts of his treatment online since he was diagnosed 2 1/2 years ago, and posted his last entry on January 30th. Source: journalism.co.uk
So I vist his blog: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/4211475.stm
...and I cry.
Ricky Lee Jones and Memories
Someone posted an entry over in one of the private offices on Zoetrope and mentioned Tom Waits' "the piano has been drinkin', not me" lyrics. Well, I'm in a musical mood today -- have been blasting the golden oldies through the kickass speakers of my remote control (ain't technology grand?) CD player my family gave me for Christmas.
Made me think of a song I used to torture myself with back in '81. Here goes -- Ricky Lee, I love ya!
We Belong Together(Rickie Lee Jones )
I say this was no game of chicken
You were aiming your best friend
That you wear like a switchblade on a chain around your neck
I think you picked this up in Mexico from your dad
Now its daddy on the booze
And Brando on the ice
Now it's Dean in the doorway
With one more way he can't play this scene twice So you drug her down every
drag of this forbidden fit of love
And you told her to stand tall when you
kissed her
But that's not where you were thinking...
How could a Natalie Wood not get sucked into a scene so custom tucked?
But now look who shows up
In the same place
In this case
I think it's better
To face it ---
We belong together
We belong together
Once Johnny the King made a spit ring
And all the skid kids saw a very, very proud man
And he entwined her in his finger
And she lay there like a baby in his hand
And climb upon the rooftop docks lookin' out on the cross-town seas
And he wraps his jacket across her shoulders
And he falls and hugs and holds her on his knees
But a sailor just takes a broad down to the dark end of the fair
To turn her into a tattoo
That will whisper
Into the back of Johnny's black hair
And now Johnny the King walks these streets without her in the rain
Lookin' for a leather jacket
And a girl who wrote her name forever
A promise that ---
We belong together
We belong together
Shall we weigh along these streets
Young lions on the lam?
Are the signs you hid deep in your heart
All left on neon for them?
Who are foolish
Who are victim
Of the sailors and the ducky boys who would
Move into your eyes and lips and
Every tear
That falls down on the neighborhood now
I said "Bird, we just gotta tell them"
And they turn and ignore us
And the only heroes we got left
Are written right before us
And the only angel who sees us now
Watches through each other's eyes
And I can hear him
In every footstep's passing sigh
He goes crazy these nights
Watching heartbeats go by...
And they whisper ---
We belong together
We belong together
Damn, I wish I could find my journals from the early '80s -- some damned fine poetry's in those books. I'm afraid they were thrown away with the other collateral damage from the flood a couple of years ago. But still I hope they'll turn up...
*Wanders away singing "I've got a bad liver and a broken heart" under her breath*
Enjoy,
Henny
Made me think of a song I used to torture myself with back in '81. Here goes -- Ricky Lee, I love ya!
We Belong Together(Rickie Lee Jones )
I say this was no game of chicken
You were aiming your best friend
That you wear like a switchblade on a chain around your neck
I think you picked this up in Mexico from your dad
Now its daddy on the booze
And Brando on the ice
Now it's Dean in the doorway
With one more way he can't play this scene twice So you drug her down every
drag of this forbidden fit of love
And you told her to stand tall when you
kissed her
But that's not where you were thinking...
How could a Natalie Wood not get sucked into a scene so custom tucked?
But now look who shows up
In the same place
In this case
I think it's better
To face it ---
We belong together
We belong together
Once Johnny the King made a spit ring
And all the skid kids saw a very, very proud man
And he entwined her in his finger
And she lay there like a baby in his hand
And climb upon the rooftop docks lookin' out on the cross-town seas
And he wraps his jacket across her shoulders
And he falls and hugs and holds her on his knees
But a sailor just takes a broad down to the dark end of the fair
To turn her into a tattoo
That will whisper
Into the back of Johnny's black hair
And now Johnny the King walks these streets without her in the rain
Lookin' for a leather jacket
And a girl who wrote her name forever
A promise that ---
We belong together
We belong together
Shall we weigh along these streets
Young lions on the lam?
Are the signs you hid deep in your heart
All left on neon for them?
Who are foolish
Who are victim
Of the sailors and the ducky boys who would
Move into your eyes and lips and
Every tear
That falls down on the neighborhood now
I said "Bird, we just gotta tell them"
And they turn and ignore us
And the only heroes we got left
Are written right before us
And the only angel who sees us now
Watches through each other's eyes
And I can hear him
In every footstep's passing sigh
He goes crazy these nights
Watching heartbeats go by...
And they whisper ---
We belong together
We belong together
Damn, I wish I could find my journals from the early '80s -- some damned fine poetry's in those books. I'm afraid they were thrown away with the other collateral damage from the flood a couple of years ago. But still I hope they'll turn up...
*Wanders away singing "I've got a bad liver and a broken heart" under her breath*
Enjoy,
Henny
Sunday, February 06, 2005
What Was Fox Thinking??
What Was Fox Thinking??
What were the folks at Fox Network thinking when they chose the entertainers for the SuperBowl today? Blind and deaf students from Ray Charles' alma mater sang and signed the Star Spangled Banner along with Alicia Keyes -- well, half the students did anyway. I can't wait till the half-time show. Maybe they'll have old folks on walkers lined up to perform the dance number. Or maybe post-laryngectomy survivors using their mechanical voice boxes, singing another tune?
Before you go calling for my head on a platter, let me tell you I have a child who's paralyzed from the chest down. He uses a wheelchair, naturally. But people get ridiculous with political correctness nowadays -- to the point of stupidity. Funds were raised in a nearby community so that my son could LEARN TO SCUBA DIVE. No, this wasn't some dream of his. It wasn't a Make-A-Wish deal. It was another in a long series of stupid ideas well-meaning folks have.
Someone's gotta stand up and Just Say No.
When our family learned about the SCUBA diving camp experience our son was offered, I nearly wet my pants laughing. "What are they gonna do, buddy? Tie a cinder block to ya and throw ya in?" We all got a huge laugh out of the silliness of the whole thing. He loves wheelchair basketball, baseball, and has experienced horseback riding. Anything he's interested in, we do our best to let him try. But if Fox Network came to me and asked if he could perform a dance routine for the SuperBowl next year, I'd have to say, "Dang, are you guys still in hot water over Janet's boob? Surely there's some real entertainment out there that fits in between exposing body parts and having deaf folks sing and blind folks sign or vice versa."
If Fox really wanted to make a contribution, why not sign the sportscast or provide closed captioning for the entertainment? Or even donate a significant amount to foundations for the blind and/or deaf?
I think sometimes our society's become brain-impaired when it comes to political correctness.
I'm looking forward to next year when chorus girls on crutches perform the opening dance routine...
(c) 2005 Clara Chandler
What were the folks at Fox Network thinking when they chose the entertainers for the SuperBowl today? Blind and deaf students from Ray Charles' alma mater sang and signed the Star Spangled Banner along with Alicia Keyes -- well, half the students did anyway. I can't wait till the half-time show. Maybe they'll have old folks on walkers lined up to perform the dance number. Or maybe post-laryngectomy survivors using their mechanical voice boxes, singing another tune?
Before you go calling for my head on a platter, let me tell you I have a child who's paralyzed from the chest down. He uses a wheelchair, naturally. But people get ridiculous with political correctness nowadays -- to the point of stupidity. Funds were raised in a nearby community so that my son could LEARN TO SCUBA DIVE. No, this wasn't some dream of his. It wasn't a Make-A-Wish deal. It was another in a long series of stupid ideas well-meaning folks have.
Someone's gotta stand up and Just Say No.
When our family learned about the SCUBA diving camp experience our son was offered, I nearly wet my pants laughing. "What are they gonna do, buddy? Tie a cinder block to ya and throw ya in?" We all got a huge laugh out of the silliness of the whole thing. He loves wheelchair basketball, baseball, and has experienced horseback riding. Anything he's interested in, we do our best to let him try. But if Fox Network came to me and asked if he could perform a dance routine for the SuperBowl next year, I'd have to say, "Dang, are you guys still in hot water over Janet's boob? Surely there's some real entertainment out there that fits in between exposing body parts and having deaf folks sing and blind folks sign or vice versa."
If Fox really wanted to make a contribution, why not sign the sportscast or provide closed captioning for the entertainment? Or even donate a significant amount to foundations for the blind and/or deaf?
I think sometimes our society's become brain-impaired when it comes to political correctness.
I'm looking forward to next year when chorus girls on crutches perform the opening dance routine...
(c) 2005 Clara Chandler
Saturday, February 05, 2005
Indonesia's tsunami death toll reaches 238,892 or 238,945
http://news.xinhuanet.com/english/2005-02/03/content_2544195.htm
http://www.abc.net.au/news/newsitems/200502/s1296219.htm
Bodies are still being recovered each day in Indonesia.
How many IS 239,000?
More than the entire population of Fuji, Japan
All of Hallifax PLUS Thunder Bay, Canada
The population of Myrtle Beach, South Carolina
The number of worldwide employees of Royal Philips Electronics (parent group of Magnavox, etc.)
The population of Lexington, Kentucky
The entire Chinese American population of the five boroughs that comprise New York City OR 3.3% of the population of NYC
Nassau, Bahamas + 60,000 more
The entire population of Western Thrace
The entire population of Nakuru, the fourth largest town in Kenya
The entire female population of Tasmania
All of New Mexico's registered Latino voters
The entire population of Belize
Every student in Jiangsu Province, China
San Rafael, Argentina...twice over
Total employees of all women-run businesses in the State of Alabama
Holguín, Cuba -- every man, woman and child
All the people employed in restaurants and cafes in Australia in the November quarter of 2003
Everyone in Jersey City, New Jersey, USA
Everyone employed in the hotel industry in Canada
All of Aqtobe, Kazakhstan
More than the entire population of San Fernando, Philippines
Ensenada, Mexico PLUS 4,000 more
Population of Baton Rouge, Louisiana PLUS 10,000
Augusta-Richmond, Plus 30,000
Every individual who was employed in Glasgow City, Scotland in 2002
Mobile, Alabama PLUS 38,000
The number of Americans who've been diagnosed with the serious autoimmune disorder, Lupus
The number of employees worldwide for General Electric
http://www.abc.net.au/news/newsitems/200502/s1296219.htm
Bodies are still being recovered each day in Indonesia.
How many IS 239,000?
More than the entire population of Fuji, Japan
All of Hallifax PLUS Thunder Bay, Canada
The population of Myrtle Beach, South Carolina
The number of worldwide employees of Royal Philips Electronics (parent group of Magnavox, etc.)
The population of Lexington, Kentucky
The entire Chinese American population of the five boroughs that comprise New York City OR 3.3% of the population of NYC
Nassau, Bahamas + 60,000 more
The entire population of Western Thrace
The entire population of Nakuru, the fourth largest town in Kenya
The entire female population of Tasmania
All of New Mexico's registered Latino voters
The entire population of Belize
Every student in Jiangsu Province, China
San Rafael, Argentina...twice over
Total employees of all women-run businesses in the State of Alabama
Holguín, Cuba -- every man, woman and child
All the people employed in restaurants and cafes in Australia in the November quarter of 2003
Everyone in Jersey City, New Jersey, USA
Everyone employed in the hotel industry in Canada
All of Aqtobe, Kazakhstan
More than the entire population of San Fernando, Philippines
Ensenada, Mexico PLUS 4,000 more
Population of Baton Rouge, Louisiana PLUS 10,000
Augusta-Richmond, Plus 30,000
Every individual who was employed in Glasgow City, Scotland in 2002
Mobile, Alabama PLUS 38,000
The number of Americans who've been diagnosed with the serious autoimmune disorder, Lupus
The number of employees worldwide for General Electric
Believe In Yourself
"Literature is strewn with the wreckage of those who have minded beyond reason the opinion of others."
-- Virginia Woolf
-- Virginia Woolf
Thursday, February 03, 2005
A Lil Fire, Scarecrow?
Folks would like me to add links to other blogs and help with a blog-web-ring. Hell, I'll be lucky if I ever figure out how to get my photo back over on the front page of my index after I was dumb enough to remove it once, much less insert some code to connect with other folks' blogs! I mean, I'm all for connecting with other blogs. I think it's a great idea. But hell's bells, I can't even figure out how to set up the stupid links on this thing so eventually, if I get 7,000,000 clicks I might earn 15 cents!
The folks outside are carrying on again. It's turning into a ritual since the weather warmed up a bit -- used to be it was only Friday and Saturday nights until about 5:00 a.m. I don't know if the teenagers next door have a 5-a.m. curfew or Ms. Nicki gets off work around that time. But sure as God made little green apples, the screaming, hollering, fighting, tire-spinning, door-slammin' and beer bottle breakin' magically ends at 5 a.m. on the weekends.
We haven't had a shooting in a couple of weeks -- I credit the cold spell we had with quieting down the 'hood. Seems like nobody wants to take a chance on laying around freezing to death on the cold ground. But watch out -- as soon as it warms up again and come springtime, it'll be pop-pop-pop every other night.
Been having the usual nightly sirens within earshot. Reckon the meth labs are increasing. If we have another cold snap soon, most of the fire trucks wailing will be on their way to house fires caused by folks using those old flexible hose gas heaters or space heaters too close to the upholstery, or the like. In case you lost track, it goes like this: Cold weather brings on house fires in this 'hood from poorly maintained heating systems, but it cuts back on shootings. Warmer weather (this is relative now -- I'm talkin' in the 40s) cuts back on house fires caused by space heaters but it tends to bring out shooting for some reason, and calls attention to the meth lab fires.
Poor firefighters can't cop a break. Just wait till summer -- there's a nightly fog that hangs over the area from meth lab fires. Funny how I didn't know about any of this stuff -- the meth problem, the anger problems, the heating problems -- before I lived in this 'hood. What's even funnier is how many folks refuse to believe it's true. Must be nice to still have your innocence. *Sigh*
The folks outside are carrying on again. It's turning into a ritual since the weather warmed up a bit -- used to be it was only Friday and Saturday nights until about 5:00 a.m. I don't know if the teenagers next door have a 5-a.m. curfew or Ms. Nicki gets off work around that time. But sure as God made little green apples, the screaming, hollering, fighting, tire-spinning, door-slammin' and beer bottle breakin' magically ends at 5 a.m. on the weekends.
We haven't had a shooting in a couple of weeks -- I credit the cold spell we had with quieting down the 'hood. Seems like nobody wants to take a chance on laying around freezing to death on the cold ground. But watch out -- as soon as it warms up again and come springtime, it'll be pop-pop-pop every other night.
Been having the usual nightly sirens within earshot. Reckon the meth labs are increasing. If we have another cold snap soon, most of the fire trucks wailing will be on their way to house fires caused by folks using those old flexible hose gas heaters or space heaters too close to the upholstery, or the like. In case you lost track, it goes like this: Cold weather brings on house fires in this 'hood from poorly maintained heating systems, but it cuts back on shootings. Warmer weather (this is relative now -- I'm talkin' in the 40s) cuts back on house fires caused by space heaters but it tends to bring out shooting for some reason, and calls attention to the meth lab fires.
Poor firefighters can't cop a break. Just wait till summer -- there's a nightly fog that hangs over the area from meth lab fires. Funny how I didn't know about any of this stuff -- the meth problem, the anger problems, the heating problems -- before I lived in this 'hood. What's even funnier is how many folks refuse to believe it's true. Must be nice to still have your innocence. *Sigh*
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Just When You Thought It Was Safe to Step Outta The Henhouse...
Found a cute little game today. Haven't played it yet but it's chickens, so I know it's gotta be fun!
Chicken Invaders
* * *
Chicken Invaders
Recovering From The Flashathon
Just finished up a month-long flashathon over in one of Zoe's private offices. What a stimulating experience! The basic idea was a flash a day for 31 days.
I stumbled in on the 10th but was able to catch up -- ended up writing 31+ and so far (note it's only February 1st -- okay, the clock slipped over into February 2nd, but for all intents and purposes it's still the 1st, okay?) I've had three accepted for publication! Does that rock, or what?
I stumbled in on the 10th but was able to catch up -- ended up writing 31+ and so far (note it's only February 1st -- okay, the clock slipped over into February 2nd, but for all intents and purposes it's still the 1st, okay?) I've had three accepted for publication! Does that rock, or what?
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