Having tumors is a lot like spending a year in federal prison. That's what I surmised from reading Piper Kerman's excellent memoir, Orange is the New Black.
Both Piper Kerman and I found that friends and family were key to maintaining a sense of self and through our ordeals we recognized peeps that we had not recognized before. (Hers were fellow inmates while mine are fellow weebles).
The two of us were frustrated by a lack of control in our lives: she because of barbed wire and wardens and me because of balance and vision complications.
For us both, it was rejuvenating and yet difficult to get away into nature: at the prison, they didn't do a lot of day hikes, and hiking over long and rough terrain is pretty impossible for me now. We share with this difficulty a sense, sometimes, of being closed in, though her sense of being closed in may be more literal than mine.
Both of us faced our challenges with an optimistic spirit that helped us through, and yoga helped us center and breathe restoratively.
We both learned that we could face a kind of darkness that we did not know we would have the fortitude to face.
She reached the end of her sentence, a changed person yet prison-free, and I, too reached the end of my tumors as the MRIs have since radiation last year declared me tumor-free.
Both of us found that our understanding of ourselves and our world changed because of the experience.
In both cases, we are glad for the grace of all we have learned and for the people we have come to know, but I don't either of us would choose the journey we had to take.
Both of us write about our experiences. Like me, she wrote a six-word story before writing a longer memoir.We are both writing in the memoir genre, though she is published and I am still writing.
There are of course many differences. She went to prison because she took a risk and got involved in a drug trafficking ring. My only risk, a significant one, was to be born. She regrets her risk. I do not regret mine.
A Photograph of me without me in it
A photograph of me without me in it
Showing posts with label memoir. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memoir. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
The Quint of Luuuv
Ann's colleague Adina celerates "the quint of love." She pronounces it "luv" with an extended soft "u": "luuuuv." Since the this time period includes Martin Luther King, Jr.'s Birthday, President's Day (depending on the president), and Valentine's Day, the designation seems just right.
Unsure asbout what a quint might be? Is it A) an era: we had the quint of Bush and now we are in the quint of luuuv B) a metaphor from science fiction literature where time is a substance to be measured in "quints": It was a time of love, a quint of romance. C) (we all know C's the most common answer, so it won't be this): Is it a fifth of a school year, so that we have semesters, trimesters, quarters and quints D) Perhaps it's an age, as in the Quint of Acquarius or E) a very naughty word in Jamaican culture. The correct answers are C, a grading period which is a fifth of a school year, and E) very naughty word in Jamaican culture. (Adina told me about the Jamaican meaning, and I confirmed it on the innernets.. I wonder if that's why their school, which has lots of students from Asian countries, has no students from Jamaica.) As a good reader, you can use your context clues to be assured that in this instance we are discussing a grading period.
In last Sunday's church service, the reading came from the sexy Song of Songs: "Strengthen me with raisins, refresh me with apples, for I am faint with love" (New International Version (©1984) cited on http://bible.cc/songs/2-5.htm). For sure, it must be the quint of love: The Bible tells me so, and so does Adina.
On the radio last week, I heard a remarkable love story, a husband's retelling of the joyous moments of his wife's last days. She was home from cancer treatments, weak, in a wheelchair, and unable to speak. The day before she died, he noticed again how beautiful she was, and he asked her to marry him again. Though weak, she kissed him vigorously and repeatedly on his cheek.
Last summer Ann and I got married in a commitment ceremony at our church. I had survived brain surgery for a tumor and could no longer walk or dance as I used to. I could no longer smile with both sides of my face. My eyes were somewhat crossed. I can no longer hike up mountains or travel in developing countries. Still, she said she loved me. Still, she spends her days with me. Still, she asked me to marry her.
We had a great time. We practiced dancing to Exile's "She's a Miracle" for weeks so that we could dance, and I would not fall. Our families and friends celebrated with us. We shared photos of our lives together: from hiking up Lalibellas's mountainsides to watching waves crash on North Carolina's shores: if you look closely you can see not only that I am affectionately holding Ann's arm, but that she is holding me up. We said our vows and our siblings made toasts.
On this Valentine's Day, as on all days, I am so thankful for all of the love in my life: for friends and family, an astonishing world, our communities of faith and fun and work, and especially for Ann. My heart is full, as is my life.
All my love. Mary
Unsure asbout what a quint might be? Is it A) an era: we had the quint of Bush and now we are in the quint of luuuv B) a metaphor from science fiction literature where time is a substance to be measured in "quints": It was a time of love, a quint of romance. C) (we all know C's the most common answer, so it won't be this): Is it a fifth of a school year, so that we have semesters, trimesters, quarters and quints D) Perhaps it's an age, as in the Quint of Acquarius or E) a very naughty word in Jamaican culture. The correct answers are C, a grading period which is a fifth of a school year, and E) very naughty word in Jamaican culture. (Adina told me about the Jamaican meaning, and I confirmed it on the innernets.. I wonder if that's why their school, which has lots of students from Asian countries, has no students from Jamaica.) As a good reader, you can use your context clues to be assured that in this instance we are discussing a grading period.
In last Sunday's church service, the reading came from the sexy Song of Songs: "Strengthen me with raisins, refresh me with apples, for I am faint with love" (New International Version (©1984) cited on http://bible.cc/songs/2-5.htm). For sure, it must be the quint of love: The Bible tells me so, and so does Adina.
On the radio last week, I heard a remarkable love story, a husband's retelling of the joyous moments of his wife's last days. She was home from cancer treatments, weak, in a wheelchair, and unable to speak. The day before she died, he noticed again how beautiful she was, and he asked her to marry him again. Though weak, she kissed him vigorously and repeatedly on his cheek.
Last summer Ann and I got married in a commitment ceremony at our church. I had survived brain surgery for a tumor and could no longer walk or dance as I used to. I could no longer smile with both sides of my face. My eyes were somewhat crossed. I can no longer hike up mountains or travel in developing countries. Still, she said she loved me. Still, she spends her days with me. Still, she asked me to marry her.
We had a great time. We practiced dancing to Exile's "She's a Miracle" for weeks so that we could dance, and I would not fall. Our families and friends celebrated with us. We shared photos of our lives together: from hiking up Lalibellas's mountainsides to watching waves crash on North Carolina's shores: if you look closely you can see not only that I am affectionately holding Ann's arm, but that she is holding me up. We said our vows and our siblings made toasts.
On this Valentine's Day, as on all days, I am so thankful for all of the love in my life: for friends and family, an astonishing world, our communities of faith and fun and work, and especially for Ann. My heart is full, as is my life.
All my love. Mary
Monday, January 24, 2011
My Dinner with Annabella
Last night my partner Ann and I had dinner with one of our favorite people, our neighbor Annabella.
When we, two professional white lesbians, moved into this neighborhood, which had been part of the rough and tumble central district (or "CD") since the 1960s, we were a little nervous. Once, soon after moving into the neighborhood, a motorist slowed down on Martin Luther King Way to roll down his window and holler out, "We don't want you here!" We weren't sure why he didn't want us here. There were so many possibilities: white, female and gay heading the list. Once in those early years a cab driver wanted to refuse to take us home because "that neighborhood is too dangerous." Another time, we came home to a sharpshooter in the yard: a felon who had stabbed a policeman was holed up in the crack house a couple of houses down. Adolescents in bouncing cars raced each other around the circle meant to slow them down. The neighborhood's not so interesting any more, but it was when we first moved here. That was 14 years ago.
Annabella made us feel welcome immediately. One of the neighborhood elders, she called to reply to an open house invitation: "Hi. I'm Annabella. I"m your neighbor. I drink beer." She still doesn't say good-bye when she hangs up. She just hangs up, and I know the phone call is over. We have been fast friends ever since that first phone call. Both she and I have slowed down a little: her ninety years have slowed her down (though she'll point out that she still looks good, and she does), and brain tumors and such have slowed me down. We still drink beer together.
Last night, when we'd each gotten our beer, Annabella, who has lost many of her friends to Alzheimer's and death recently, made a toast: "Here's to those of us who are left."
Annabella shared stories from her past, stories from a time and a culture I've never known. Raised in New Orleans by her mother, who was "One hundred percent Cherokee Indian" and was quick with a switch, Annabella came to Seattle at the beginning of the second world war. Her husband-to-be Brad sent her $13 to pay for her train trip to Seattle. Her mother used the money for their rent. He sent another $13, and again her mother used the money for the rent. The next time, he sent a train ticket, and Annabella headed to Seattle.
Soon after Annabella arrived in Seattle, Pearl Harbor was bombed, and Annabella became a riveter, like Rosie. She'll still show you her muscle. When mechanics needed someone strong, they'd call for "the Indian." Once, a machinist wasn't paying attention and came so close to her head with his saw that he sawed a part down the middle of her long hair. She was okay, but she was mad. She's a Catholic woman, but she can curse a blue streak, which she says she did then. She repeated herself last night for effect, and other diners looked over to make sure everything was okay; then smiled when they saw it was her. When the war was over, Annabella says that everyone else cheered, but she cried. She loved working.
She and Brad cleaned hotels at night, leaving their two young girls in the car, and they hosted poker games until they paid for their home here in the CD. Her cooking and her looks earned them a little extra at the poker table.
Now, at ninety, she still volunteers at the elementary school, which she has been doing for forty years. Every year she sells a dinner at the church auction to raise money for the school and serves about twenty people drinks and okra, jumbalaya and pie. Upsairs, the guests admire her hundreds of dolls and other antinques and sing, "God Bless America." Then everyone heads downstairs for dinner and their choice of pie: sweet potato or pecan among the four or five Southern offerings. Everyone gets a "lagniappe"as they leave, usually something like rubber gloves or a role of paper towels.
Annabella speaks her mind--loudly, since she doesn't hear too well--about race and politics, religion and foolishness. When she talks politics, she talks about Democrats and "those other ones." She and I don't see the world in the same way sometimes, but we've agreed not to talk about issues where we'll simply make one another mad. Sometimes she wades into rough waters, and I'll stop her to say, "Now you know we don't agree about that. You're not going to change my mind, and I'm not going to change yours. Why are you talking about it? Do you want to argue?" She just laughs and shrugs and gives me a high five.
When she's got a complaint, she'll share it and then she'll quote her mom: "If it's not one thing, it's two." That woman's got wisdom.
Annabella's neighbor, Mary
When we, two professional white lesbians, moved into this neighborhood, which had been part of the rough and tumble central district (or "CD") since the 1960s, we were a little nervous. Once, soon after moving into the neighborhood, a motorist slowed down on Martin Luther King Way to roll down his window and holler out, "We don't want you here!" We weren't sure why he didn't want us here. There were so many possibilities: white, female and gay heading the list. Once in those early years a cab driver wanted to refuse to take us home because "that neighborhood is too dangerous." Another time, we came home to a sharpshooter in the yard: a felon who had stabbed a policeman was holed up in the crack house a couple of houses down. Adolescents in bouncing cars raced each other around the circle meant to slow them down. The neighborhood's not so interesting any more, but it was when we first moved here. That was 14 years ago.
Annabella made us feel welcome immediately. One of the neighborhood elders, she called to reply to an open house invitation: "Hi. I'm Annabella. I"m your neighbor. I drink beer." She still doesn't say good-bye when she hangs up. She just hangs up, and I know the phone call is over. We have been fast friends ever since that first phone call. Both she and I have slowed down a little: her ninety years have slowed her down (though she'll point out that she still looks good, and she does), and brain tumors and such have slowed me down. We still drink beer together.
Last night, when we'd each gotten our beer, Annabella, who has lost many of her friends to Alzheimer's and death recently, made a toast: "Here's to those of us who are left."
Annabella shared stories from her past, stories from a time and a culture I've never known. Raised in New Orleans by her mother, who was "One hundred percent Cherokee Indian" and was quick with a switch, Annabella came to Seattle at the beginning of the second world war. Her husband-to-be Brad sent her $13 to pay for her train trip to Seattle. Her mother used the money for their rent. He sent another $13, and again her mother used the money for the rent. The next time, he sent a train ticket, and Annabella headed to Seattle.
Soon after Annabella arrived in Seattle, Pearl Harbor was bombed, and Annabella became a riveter, like Rosie. She'll still show you her muscle. When mechanics needed someone strong, they'd call for "the Indian." Once, a machinist wasn't paying attention and came so close to her head with his saw that he sawed a part down the middle of her long hair. She was okay, but she was mad. She's a Catholic woman, but she can curse a blue streak, which she says she did then. She repeated herself last night for effect, and other diners looked over to make sure everything was okay; then smiled when they saw it was her. When the war was over, Annabella says that everyone else cheered, but she cried. She loved working.
She and Brad cleaned hotels at night, leaving their two young girls in the car, and they hosted poker games until they paid for their home here in the CD. Her cooking and her looks earned them a little extra at the poker table.
Now, at ninety, she still volunteers at the elementary school, which she has been doing for forty years. Every year she sells a dinner at the church auction to raise money for the school and serves about twenty people drinks and okra, jumbalaya and pie. Upsairs, the guests admire her hundreds of dolls and other antinques and sing, "God Bless America." Then everyone heads downstairs for dinner and their choice of pie: sweet potato or pecan among the four or five Southern offerings. Everyone gets a "lagniappe"as they leave, usually something like rubber gloves or a role of paper towels.
Annabella speaks her mind--loudly, since she doesn't hear too well--about race and politics, religion and foolishness. When she talks politics, she talks about Democrats and "those other ones." She and I don't see the world in the same way sometimes, but we've agreed not to talk about issues where we'll simply make one another mad. Sometimes she wades into rough waters, and I'll stop her to say, "Now you know we don't agree about that. You're not going to change my mind, and I'm not going to change yours. Why are you talking about it? Do you want to argue?" She just laughs and shrugs and gives me a high five.
When she's got a complaint, she'll share it and then she'll quote her mom: "If it's not one thing, it's two." That woman's got wisdom.
Annabella's neighbor, Mary
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Trepidation of the Spheres
In this morning's local newspaper, a story about Southern Sudan's succession vote ran alongside a story about tomorrow's likely Seattle snowstorm. Clearly, to understand the world in which I live, the story about Sudan was more important. I, however, read the snowstorm story.
This human tendency to focus on what's closest to us instead of focusing on the universe's grand events was the observation of poet John Donne in his "Valediction Forbidding Mourning." He wrote, "Moving of the earth brings harms and fears/ Men reckon what it did and meant./ But trepidation of the spheres / Though greater far, is innocent."
My brain tumors have of course been significant in my life, as they would be in anyone's. These tumors moved the earth of my life: I'm living this one life that I have differently than I would if I were tumor-free. I have a lot of doctors appointments, little energy, and fewer choices about how to live my life than I had before. These tumors are significant. No aw shucks about it.
But still, there are more significant issues than my brain tumors, and I want my life to be about those significant issues as well as being about these brain tumors. I want my life to be about the spheres' movements.
Years ago, when my student Chancey started to college, she told me with such excitement, "There are so many things a person could work on. I guess I just have to decide which one is mine." At the time, I was impressed by her attitude: where I felt overwhelmed by all that seemed wrong in the world, she felt excited by the possibility that she could make a difference somewhere. I remain inspired by that spirit.
The path I have chosen is through the various landscapes of American high school education. I get to work with and to learn from students and teachers from a wide range of backgrounds. I get to try to be not just a voice but a coach for them as they seek their own paths.
To me, what's more important: learning to live with my disabilities or increasing students' hopes that they have power in their own lives? That was a trick question, as I need each in order to achieve the other. As I gain the hope of dealing with my own limitations, I seek to help students and teachers articulate their dreams. I get to help them find a way to reach those dreams. The power of such hope inspires me to live a life fully, with my disabilities.
Survival just isn't the only point. Trepidation of the spheres: that's the point.
Reckoning--Mary
This human tendency to focus on what's closest to us instead of focusing on the universe's grand events was the observation of poet John Donne in his "Valediction Forbidding Mourning." He wrote, "Moving of the earth brings harms and fears/ Men reckon what it did and meant./ But trepidation of the spheres / Though greater far, is innocent."
My brain tumors have of course been significant in my life, as they would be in anyone's. These tumors moved the earth of my life: I'm living this one life that I have differently than I would if I were tumor-free. I have a lot of doctors appointments, little energy, and fewer choices about how to live my life than I had before. These tumors are significant. No aw shucks about it.
But still, there are more significant issues than my brain tumors, and I want my life to be about those significant issues as well as being about these brain tumors. I want my life to be about the spheres' movements.
Years ago, when my student Chancey started to college, she told me with such excitement, "There are so many things a person could work on. I guess I just have to decide which one is mine." At the time, I was impressed by her attitude: where I felt overwhelmed by all that seemed wrong in the world, she felt excited by the possibility that she could make a difference somewhere. I remain inspired by that spirit.
The path I have chosen is through the various landscapes of American high school education. I get to work with and to learn from students and teachers from a wide range of backgrounds. I get to try to be not just a voice but a coach for them as they seek their own paths.
To me, what's more important: learning to live with my disabilities or increasing students' hopes that they have power in their own lives? That was a trick question, as I need each in order to achieve the other. As I gain the hope of dealing with my own limitations, I seek to help students and teachers articulate their dreams. I get to help them find a way to reach those dreams. The power of such hope inspires me to live a life fully, with my disabilities.
Survival just isn't the only point. Trepidation of the spheres: that's the point.
Reckoning--Mary
Monday, January 17, 2011
Slow Learner
I must be a slow learner, but I did NOT learn everything I needed to know in kindergarten. I only remember learning a few things. I learned that other kids struggled in ways that I didn't when Tommy had a temper tantrum on the playground every day: since the playground was the most fun part of the day, I knew he wasn't faking his pain and felt bad that he always missed the most fun time.
When I saw my teacher in her bathing suit at our swim club, I learned that old people's legs are different than young people's legs.
I also learned some good songs at our church's program for kindergartners. I remember learning the hymn that celebrates the divine in the natural world, "This is my Father's World." I was surprised when, about forty years later, my grandmother chose that hymn for her memorial service:
This is my Father's world:
He shines in all that's fair;
In the rustling grass I hear him pass;
He speaks to me everywhere.
This may have been my best lesson from kindergarten.
In church we also sang Bob Dylan's "Blowin' in the Wind" (and my dad says it's not a hippy church):
Yes, how many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky ?
Yes, how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry ?
Yes, how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died ?
The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind
The answer is blowin' in the wind.
Even in kindergarten I understood that the answer, blowin' in the wind, would be hard to catch, that it will take too many deaths til we know that too many people have died.
So yes, I learned some important things in kindergarten: I learned from Tommy that other kids struggled in ways that I didn't; I learned that old people had funny legs; I learned that the world's beauty whispers to me that God is with me; and I learned that war seems to never have an end.
I also learned some things in kindergarten that I had to unlearn, however. Though I don't remember this experience personally, research shows that some young people before kindergarten may begin to identify as queer, but in kindergarten many of these young ones learn that queer is not okay, and these students go underground until maybe fifth or sixth grade. Perhaps I went deep underground, since I didn't come out until I was thirty years old.
In kindergarten, I learned to be quiet if to speak up might mean I'd get left out on the playground. In sixth grade, I learned that silence is collusion. When my friends on the school bus bullied Bernie, the girl who wore cowboy boots, I didn't join in their taunts, but I also didn't stop them. My principal pointed out that in this I was like the Germans who were silent as Jewish people disappeared from their neighborhoods. My teacher said the principal was too harsh, but I knew he was right. My kindergarten lesson of being silent in the face of injustice in order to protect myself is a lesson I am still trying to unlearn.
I also had to unlearn the habit of excessive persistence. Like Kenny Rogers sang, "You have to know when to hold em, know when to fold em, know when to walk away, know when to run." In high school I finally learned that I had to make decisions about how long to persist when, realizing I was not having anything close to fun, I quit the high school basketball team. While quitting the basketball team may seem trivial to you, for me it was not. Through junior and senior high school, I often felt lonely, and my identity as a good student who was also an athlete was central to my self-definition.
I finally realized that I needed to redefine myself and that this redefinition would begin with quitting the basketball team. Later in life, in another painful time of letting go, I had to quit my marriage in order to be myself, and now with these tumors, I have had to give up so much in order to find the kernel of who I am.
I suppose if I had learned everything I needed to know in kindergarten, I might have been a guru or a saint, but in this life I am neither, so I am glad to keep learning, and in that learning is the constant spirit of grace, learning again and again that God is with me everywhere.
Mary
When I saw my teacher in her bathing suit at our swim club, I learned that old people's legs are different than young people's legs.
I also learned some good songs at our church's program for kindergartners. I remember learning the hymn that celebrates the divine in the natural world, "This is my Father's World." I was surprised when, about forty years later, my grandmother chose that hymn for her memorial service:
This is my Father's world:
He shines in all that's fair;
In the rustling grass I hear him pass;
He speaks to me everywhere.
This may have been my best lesson from kindergarten.
In church we also sang Bob Dylan's "Blowin' in the Wind" (and my dad says it's not a hippy church):
Yes, how many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky ?
Yes, how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry ?
Yes, how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died ?
The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind
The answer is blowin' in the wind.
Even in kindergarten I understood that the answer, blowin' in the wind, would be hard to catch, that it will take too many deaths til we know that too many people have died.
So yes, I learned some important things in kindergarten: I learned from Tommy that other kids struggled in ways that I didn't; I learned that old people had funny legs; I learned that the world's beauty whispers to me that God is with me; and I learned that war seems to never have an end.
I also learned some things in kindergarten that I had to unlearn, however. Though I don't remember this experience personally, research shows that some young people before kindergarten may begin to identify as queer, but in kindergarten many of these young ones learn that queer is not okay, and these students go underground until maybe fifth or sixth grade. Perhaps I went deep underground, since I didn't come out until I was thirty years old.
In kindergarten, I learned to be quiet if to speak up might mean I'd get left out on the playground. In sixth grade, I learned that silence is collusion. When my friends on the school bus bullied Bernie, the girl who wore cowboy boots, I didn't join in their taunts, but I also didn't stop them. My principal pointed out that in this I was like the Germans who were silent as Jewish people disappeared from their neighborhoods. My teacher said the principal was too harsh, but I knew he was right. My kindergarten lesson of being silent in the face of injustice in order to protect myself is a lesson I am still trying to unlearn.
I also had to unlearn the habit of excessive persistence. Like Kenny Rogers sang, "You have to know when to hold em, know when to fold em, know when to walk away, know when to run." In high school I finally learned that I had to make decisions about how long to persist when, realizing I was not having anything close to fun, I quit the high school basketball team. While quitting the basketball team may seem trivial to you, for me it was not. Through junior and senior high school, I often felt lonely, and my identity as a good student who was also an athlete was central to my self-definition.
I finally realized that I needed to redefine myself and that this redefinition would begin with quitting the basketball team. Later in life, in another painful time of letting go, I had to quit my marriage in order to be myself, and now with these tumors, I have had to give up so much in order to find the kernel of who I am.
I suppose if I had learned everything I needed to know in kindergarten, I might have been a guru or a saint, but in this life I am neither, so I am glad to keep learning, and in that learning is the constant spirit of grace, learning again and again that God is with me everywhere.
Mary
Sunday, December 19, 2010
P. S. 21 Hocus Pocus Act Two
During hocus pocus (my name for the naturopathic allergy treatment I'm going through), my eating is severely curtailed. I can't eat or be within ten feet of the allergen or its relatives for 25 hours after treatment.
Yesterday I was treated for B complex, so for breakfast this morning I had rice with salt and pepper, and for lunch I'll have spaghetti noodles with salt and pepper. To drink: purified water. We put all five leaves in the table and sat at opposite ends so that Ann could eat something more hearty and still be in the same room. We looked kind of like Incrediboy and his sexy woman in The Incredibles. I have to avoid plants, flowers, and walking through the garden. Fortunately, no one sent me roses today like they usually do.
In the upcoming week, I'll be treated for sugar. Eating shouldn't be too bad, but I can't use my toothpaste. I ca't even go into a room with toothpaste. Fair warning.
Fortunately, I won't have to be treated for minerals. For 25 hours someone being treated for minerals can't eat meat, tofu, fish, chicken, vegetables, fruits, or grains to name a few things. They must wash their hair with purified water. I don't know if they can use soap or shampoo. Probably not.
A few weeks ago I was treated for egg allergies. I couldn't eat eggs or anything with eggs in them, and I couldn't eat or touch anything from the egg family, like chicken or feathers. Feather pillows were stacked in the back room: off-limits.
Last week I was treated for iron, which meant I had to wear gloves to hold onto our wrought-iron handrail, and I couldn't sit on our leather furniture or wear my leather coat, gloves, shoes or belts. Since I've lost so much weight, my britches were falling down all day: sagging, and not in that good way. I finally folded over the waistband to hold my britches up: geeky in an appropriately adult way.
These treatments, in combination with severe allergies to garlic, chocolate and cheddar, are for sure keeping my weight down. If you're interested in this diet, I think you'll need to have the piggy flu, pneumonia, and radiation simultaneously. Then you'll need to avoid essential foods like chocolate and cheetos and anything you can get off the menu in any restaurant. It'll be a blast.
The thing is, this hocus pocus seems to be working. If you're interested in finding out about it, other people call it NAET. I've forgtten what it stands for. Maybe Naturopathic Allergen Eradication Treatment.
Even if you don't have allergies, you could just choose some basic ingredient like salt or water to imagine you can't eat or drink. Avoid them. Tell waiters and waitresses in restaurants that you'll get violently ill if you ingest either one of them. You'll get to talk to the chef. They may make you something special, or they may feed you very dry, saltless food. I feel pretty sure you'll lose weight.
I hear that people who publish diets that become fads make a lot of money. Perhaps this diet beginning with piggy flu, pneumonia and radiation could fund my retirement. That would be yet another benefit of brain tumors. Those benefits just keep piling up.
Yesterday I was treated for B complex, so for breakfast this morning I had rice with salt and pepper, and for lunch I'll have spaghetti noodles with salt and pepper. To drink: purified water. We put all five leaves in the table and sat at opposite ends so that Ann could eat something more hearty and still be in the same room. We looked kind of like Incrediboy and his sexy woman in The Incredibles. I have to avoid plants, flowers, and walking through the garden. Fortunately, no one sent me roses today like they usually do.
In the upcoming week, I'll be treated for sugar. Eating shouldn't be too bad, but I can't use my toothpaste. I ca't even go into a room with toothpaste. Fair warning.
Fortunately, I won't have to be treated for minerals. For 25 hours someone being treated for minerals can't eat meat, tofu, fish, chicken, vegetables, fruits, or grains to name a few things. They must wash their hair with purified water. I don't know if they can use soap or shampoo. Probably not.
A few weeks ago I was treated for egg allergies. I couldn't eat eggs or anything with eggs in them, and I couldn't eat or touch anything from the egg family, like chicken or feathers. Feather pillows were stacked in the back room: off-limits.
Last week I was treated for iron, which meant I had to wear gloves to hold onto our wrought-iron handrail, and I couldn't sit on our leather furniture or wear my leather coat, gloves, shoes or belts. Since I've lost so much weight, my britches were falling down all day: sagging, and not in that good way. I finally folded over the waistband to hold my britches up: geeky in an appropriately adult way.
These treatments, in combination with severe allergies to garlic, chocolate and cheddar, are for sure keeping my weight down. If you're interested in this diet, I think you'll need to have the piggy flu, pneumonia, and radiation simultaneously. Then you'll need to avoid essential foods like chocolate and cheetos and anything you can get off the menu in any restaurant. It'll be a blast.
The thing is, this hocus pocus seems to be working. If you're interested in finding out about it, other people call it NAET. I've forgtten what it stands for. Maybe Naturopathic Allergen Eradication Treatment.
Even if you don't have allergies, you could just choose some basic ingredient like salt or water to imagine you can't eat or drink. Avoid them. Tell waiters and waitresses in restaurants that you'll get violently ill if you ingest either one of them. You'll get to talk to the chef. They may make you something special, or they may feed you very dry, saltless food. I feel pretty sure you'll lose weight.
I hear that people who publish diets that become fads make a lot of money. Perhaps this diet beginning with piggy flu, pneumonia and radiation could fund my retirement. That would be yet another benefit of brain tumors. Those benefits just keep piling up.
P. S. 22 Tumor Humor
The online ependymoma support group that I belong to is generally not a humorous place to be, but every now and then it is.
Today, our leader Bruce posted a note about his anxiety about new symptoms and an upcoming MRI. One well-wisher reminded him not to do any welding. This may be an inside joke. "Are you a welder?" is a question the technicians always ask before they'll do an MRI. Apparently, welders tend to get metal fragments in their heads, and those of us getting MRIs can't even wear a bra with clasps or a pair of earrings. (Somehow I suspect those limitations don't affect Bruce.) Metal in the head is definitely against the rules. I"m not sure if we'd catch on fire, but maybe. I"m imagining alluminum foil in the microwave.
Bruce is also struggling with his memory, so today he told this story: "Friday was my 28th wedding anniversary (Thanks!). I bought and presented my wife with a nice gold heart shaped necklace with small diamonds.She thanked me for it - then told me I had given her the same thing three years ago!!! I'll probably give her the same thing next year."
Another writer, Amy, is also having memory issues, so she's going to make herself some shirts in honor of her short term memory issue, one shirt for every day:
1) And you are...?
2) Don't ask. I won't know.
3) Someone tell me how to get home so I can write it on my hand.
4) Wait. What?
5) It was so nice. I'll do it twice.
6) Let's see 2009, 2010...?
7) Don't tell me you forget things, too, whomever you are.
Amy also posted that she is now taking four new medications, noting, "That's annoying." I think of fleas and yippee attack dogs as annoying. I've never thought of my brain tumors or their inconveniences as annoying. I like that: a much more understated description than "tragic" or "terrifying."
In case you don't know and would like to know, tumors being "annoying is an example of a litote, the opposite of hyperbole. That's the sort of thing us English majors know. (If you were an English major, or if you are an English teacher, you will also understand the grammar humor here.) In fact, any time there's an error in this blog, it's really a joke that you just don't get yet. Sort of like Joyce's missing passages in Ulysses. Actually, just like that.
Mary, right?
Today, our leader Bruce posted a note about his anxiety about new symptoms and an upcoming MRI. One well-wisher reminded him not to do any welding. This may be an inside joke. "Are you a welder?" is a question the technicians always ask before they'll do an MRI. Apparently, welders tend to get metal fragments in their heads, and those of us getting MRIs can't even wear a bra with clasps or a pair of earrings. (Somehow I suspect those limitations don't affect Bruce.) Metal in the head is definitely against the rules. I"m not sure if we'd catch on fire, but maybe. I"m imagining alluminum foil in the microwave.
Bruce is also struggling with his memory, so today he told this story: "Friday was my 28th wedding anniversary (Thanks!). I bought and presented my wife with a nice gold heart shaped necklace with small diamonds.She thanked me for it - then told me I had given her the same thing three years ago!!! I'll probably give her the same thing next year."
Another writer, Amy, is also having memory issues, so she's going to make herself some shirts in honor of her short term memory issue, one shirt for every day:
1) And you are...?
2) Don't ask. I won't know.
3) Someone tell me how to get home so I can write it on my hand.
4) Wait. What?
5) It was so nice. I'll do it twice.
6) Let's see 2009, 2010...?
7) Don't tell me you forget things, too, whomever you are.
Amy also posted that she is now taking four new medications, noting, "That's annoying." I think of fleas and yippee attack dogs as annoying. I've never thought of my brain tumors or their inconveniences as annoying. I like that: a much more understated description than "tragic" or "terrifying."
In case you don't know and would like to know, tumors being "annoying is an example of a litote, the opposite of hyperbole. That's the sort of thing us English majors know. (If you were an English major, or if you are an English teacher, you will also understand the grammar humor here.) In fact, any time there's an error in this blog, it's really a joke that you just don't get yet. Sort of like Joyce's missing passages in Ulysses. Actually, just like that.
Mary, right?
Sunday, November 28, 2010
P.S. 19 Giving Thanks
Ann and I spent Thanksgiving with "The Nitwits" in a kind of cross between "Eight is Enough" and The Big Chill. Initiated, as I understand, by three college friends from Iowa, the group--from Seattle and Chicago and Santa Fe and San Francisco and so forth, has been celebrating their changing lives together for about 25 years.
This year there were 22 of us around a large table for dinner in The Big House (on Big House Road) in Cle Ellem, Washington, just down the road from Rosyln, where "Northern Exposure" was filmed. Most folks were in their fifties, I'd guess, though Bucky and his friend David are teenagers. At 46 years of age, I got called "Kid" a few times. I liked that.
After our drive across a snowy pass, we arrived at The Big House, and I went directly to sit by the fire, where fortunately Pat noticed that I was smoking, or at least my leather coat was. Now my coat's left shoulder has that wrinkled newspaper look that I love. Character. Ann will make me get a new one--also called a Christmas gift. She doesn't like the fact that the lining is coming out or that the back seam has unravelled either.
For the weekend, as far as I could tell, there weren't really assignments, but everyone pitched in to help. There was always someone eating and someone cleaning, always a group playing a game like Dominoes or Taboo and someone pretending to read on the couch, generally someone was in the hottub and someone was on a walk in the winter wonderland. I was doing an experiment and not taking my adrenelaine stimulant, so I was generally napping, but I don't think I was the only one.
Between naps, my new friend Toby and I talked a lot about life after tumors and surgeries and radiation. He had chemo, too, which I didn't have. My first tumor, in the fourth ventrical of my brain, was diagosed about three years ago and my second, also in my fourth ventrical, was diagnosed last year. Toby's first tumor, in his throat, was diagnosed two years ago, and, about six weeks after surgery, he had fifteen more throat tumors. That's a significant tumor to throat ratio. I haven't talked with anyone else who has had a similar experience, so his openness to me was a real gift.
Toby looks great. If you didn't know he had been so sick, you wouldn't guess it. He's running a couple of miles a day now and looks fit. His longish hair is pulled into a ponytail and his skin has the look of someone who has spent some days at his ranch riding horses. We've had some similar struggles, though. He talked about how tired he has been, about losing sixty pounds, about hand tremors, and about learning about what he called "the new normal."
This Thanksgiving, I am as always grateful for my partner and family, long-time friends, my work, my spiritual community and my online community (viewers like you). I am also thankful for new friends and the new normal, whatever it may be.
Mary
This year there were 22 of us around a large table for dinner in The Big House (on Big House Road) in Cle Ellem, Washington, just down the road from Rosyln, where "Northern Exposure" was filmed. Most folks were in their fifties, I'd guess, though Bucky and his friend David are teenagers. At 46 years of age, I got called "Kid" a few times. I liked that.
After our drive across a snowy pass, we arrived at The Big House, and I went directly to sit by the fire, where fortunately Pat noticed that I was smoking, or at least my leather coat was. Now my coat's left shoulder has that wrinkled newspaper look that I love. Character. Ann will make me get a new one--also called a Christmas gift. She doesn't like the fact that the lining is coming out or that the back seam has unravelled either.
For the weekend, as far as I could tell, there weren't really assignments, but everyone pitched in to help. There was always someone eating and someone cleaning, always a group playing a game like Dominoes or Taboo and someone pretending to read on the couch, generally someone was in the hottub and someone was on a walk in the winter wonderland. I was doing an experiment and not taking my adrenelaine stimulant, so I was generally napping, but I don't think I was the only one.
Between naps, my new friend Toby and I talked a lot about life after tumors and surgeries and radiation. He had chemo, too, which I didn't have. My first tumor, in the fourth ventrical of my brain, was diagosed about three years ago and my second, also in my fourth ventrical, was diagnosed last year. Toby's first tumor, in his throat, was diagnosed two years ago, and, about six weeks after surgery, he had fifteen more throat tumors. That's a significant tumor to throat ratio. I haven't talked with anyone else who has had a similar experience, so his openness to me was a real gift.
Toby looks great. If you didn't know he had been so sick, you wouldn't guess it. He's running a couple of miles a day now and looks fit. His longish hair is pulled into a ponytail and his skin has the look of someone who has spent some days at his ranch riding horses. We've had some similar struggles, though. He talked about how tired he has been, about losing sixty pounds, about hand tremors, and about learning about what he called "the new normal."
This Thanksgiving, I am as always grateful for my partner and family, long-time friends, my work, my spiritual community and my online community (viewers like you). I am also thankful for new friends and the new normal, whatever it may be.
Mary
Monday, November 22, 2010
P.S. 18 My Mom Wouldn't Like It
My sister, my partner and my mother have all been absorbed in the popular novels about the girl who got a tattoo of a hornet and then kicked the bucket. I thought about reading them, but my sister says they're too mainstream for me. I suppose my streams are tributaries. I know they're not creeks, but I guess they'r not rivers either.
Children's Books:
Seuss's Green Eggs and Ham: Pure poetry. I love everything about this book, but especially that the narrator never has a name and that Sam is called "Sam-I-Am." My mom's nickname is Sam. I'll bet she likes this book.
Williams' Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus! Hillarious. This dramatic pigeon really wants to drive a school bus, but the driver has denied the pigeon's dream. My favorite line: "Pigeons have dreams, too." The drawings are hilarious, too. My seven year-old niece Lucie prefers its sequel, The Pigeon Gets a Puppy because there are two characters featured.
As I draft my fiction list, I realize that plot is not central for me. Action and adventure is not my genre. I'm drawn to themes and concepts, to lyrical and humorous styles, to multiple perspectives. Mom does not like any of the books I read, and you might not either, so if your taste runs more in her direction, I've noted from time to time her take on a work.
Books--Fiction:
Melville's Moby Dick: Some people say this novel is a lot of pages about a whale, but it's beautifully lyrical, and it's really about perception and madness. And whaling. My favorite scene is the scene where Pip is thrown from the boat and realizes his smallness as he waits in the ocean's wide expanse, hoping that his ship will return for him. My mom would not like this book.
Barbara Kingsolver's Poisonwood Bible: In this story of a mother and her girls who follow their crazy father-figure into Africa as missionaries, the family is doomed in their mission from the start. Chapters rotate through a series of narrators, each a different, wholly unique voice. My mom might like this book, as it is the saga of family, but she probably would not like it as there are a lot of narrators.
Vargas Llosa's The Storyteller Vargos Llosa's lyrical novel tells the story of a Peruvian ex-patriot imagining the life of a childhood friend, whose picture as a tribal storyteller now hangs in an Italian art museum. About the mythical role of the story teller in this Peruvian tribe, the story is itself masterfully told. The storyteller's line, "That, anyway, is what I have learned" weaves through the storyteller's sections much like Vonnegut's "And so it goes." My mom really didn't like this book.
O'Brien's The Things They Carried: This semi-autobiographical novel tells stories of the character Tim O'Brien's experiences before, during, and after the Vietnam War, so it's a war story, but it's also a story that explores the tangled relationship between life and art. I suspect Mom wouldn't like this one either.
In nonfiction, I prefer a narrative that, much like cultural travel, introduces me to a world new to me and the perspectives of those who live there.
Books--Non-Fiction:
Ambrose's Undaunted Courage: What would it have been like to cross this North American continent without maps or guides but armed only with a vision and the the nineteenth-century mythology of "the American west?" This question fascinates me (partly because I'm quite sure I would have stayed on the East Coast, or in England, by the fire), so I loved Androse's narrative about Meriwether Lewis's journey to and from the Pacific Ocean. Mom might even like it.
Feinberg'a Eighty-Sixed: The first book I read about the earliest days of the AIDS epidemic in America and those affected at that time, this book placed me in the land of disease, a land I really knew little about, in my own country and in my own time.
Thorpe's Just Like Us: Thorpe, a journalist and wife of the then mayor of Denver, follows four Latina girls, bright best friends, through their high school and college years, seeking to understand the different experiences between the two girls who are legal citizens and the two who are not. Thorpe restrains herself from making an argument and instead asks tough questions about policy concerning illegal immigrants to the United States as she writes a compassionate narrative.
Mortenson's Three Cups of Tea: Mortenson humbly tells his journey of a small Pakistani village that saved him when he got lost descending K2 and of his own journey to build schools first in that village and then throughout Pakistan. It's a story of building peace by building schools. Mom would like this one.
Sedaris's Me Talk Pretty One Day: I read much of this book on a plane, and I'm pretty sure my fellow passengers found me annoying and perhaps a little crazy as I hee-hawed my way, delighted, through Sedaris's essays. Everybody likes David Sedaris.
Rodriguez's Always Running: Rodriguez began this memoir when he was a teenager deeply entwined in gang life and finished it when his own son got involved in gangs. Though Rodriguez was unable to convince his son, who is now in prison for life for murder, to leave the gang life, many of my Latino teenagers read it, at least one freshman with teary eyes, explaining, "I want to learn how he got out."
Audiobooks:
JK Rowling's Harry Potter series: The reader narrates the voices and the magic of Harry Potter's world in a voice that I adopt as my own internal reader. My mom likes these books, and the action and adventure narrative helps me follow the story aurally.
Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love: Gilbert narrates her own memoir, which chronicles her journey through three countries that begin with I, Italy ("Eat"), India ("Pray"), and Indonesia ("Love"), a journey of re-discovering herself and of healing from a divorce. A favorite line is from a Texas friend she meets at the Ashram in India who calls her, "Groceries."
In poetry, I am a Romantic, not so much of the kiss-kiss type, but of the "birds and leaves stir my soul."
Poetry
Mary Oliver's New and Selected Poems: A contemporary Romantic, Mary Oliver explores the spirit through her connection to nature. Her poetry is lyrical, humorous, and accessible. Mom might even like her poetry.
Toomer's Cane : Every Southerner or person who finds the American South's culture compelling should read this collection of poems, character sketches and vignettes. Written in 1923, the novel influenced Southern Renaissance writers. It's not really a novel and not completely a collection of poems, but in its lyricism, its unifying theme rather than plot and rich imagery it is poem-like.
T.S. Elliot's "Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock": In addition to the poem's many quotable lines, ("Let us go then, you and I" and "I shall wear white flannel trousers / and walk upon the beach."), this poem is a character study of a man entering middle age who struggles with a kind of emotional paralysis, a sense of being lost in the world. My high school juniors and seniors tended to connect with this poem.
Donne's "The Sun Rising": A lovely poem in which a man first insults the sun, which wakens him from his sleep with the woman he loves, and then feels a compassion for the sun's age and work in a world where the narrator gets to experience such tremendous love.
ee cummings' "Somewhere I Have Never Travelled, Beyond" and "One Leaf Falls": Some literary types criticize cummings for what they say is his gimmicky use of punctuation, but I find his images compelling. In "Somewhere I Have Never Travelled, Beyond," a lyrical love poem to an infant, cummings writes, "Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands." Long Ago, a student introduced me to this poem. In "One Leaf Falls," the words divide into repetions of "one" and the poem falls vertically as a leaf, both visual images of loneliness, as the poems few words describe.
Whitman's "Song of Myself", a poem where, in section six, a child comes to the narrator with a handfull of grass, asking, "What is the grass?" and the narrator explores the question through a series of hypotheses, concluding, "Death is different than anyone supposed--and luckier."
Dickenson's "I Felt a Funeral in My Brain": Some literary textbook writers who don't know enough about the expansive nature of poetry interpret this poem as the story of a bad headache, or of a fall into madness, which is closer, but it's really the story of a narrator falling into wisdom, into a new world of understanding: "And then a plank in reason broke, / And I fell down and down./ And hit a world at every turn,/ And finished knowing--then--"
I love music lyrical in its words and harmonic in its sounds.
Music:
Simon and Garfunkel, especially the album Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme and the tracks, "Flowers Never Bend with the Rainfall" and "Feelin' Groovy."
James Taylor, especially the album J.T. and the tracks "Fire and Rain," "Damn This Traffic Jam," and "Gone to Carolina in my Mind."
The Dixie Chicks, especially the albums Wide Open Spaces and Top of the World and the tracks "Thank Heavens for Dale Evans" (from the oringinal Dixie Chicks), "Wide Open Spaces," and "Not Ready to Make Nice."
The Indigo Girls, especially the album Nomads, Indians, Saints and the tracks "Southland in the Springtime" and "Power of Two."
Movies:
Sophie's Choice: My introduction to the young Meryl Streep through the painful life of a Jewish mother in Nazi Germany, who must choose between her two children as she enters a concentration camp. My dad, in an attempt to convince me and my siblings that he loves us all equally, says he would have to say, "Take 'em all! I can't choose!" I think this was meant to be comforting to us.
Innocent Voices: This visually luscious memoir reveals El Salvador in war from the perspective of a child who survived it. It's beautiful and painful and disempowers abstract arguments for war in the unfolding of war's effects on a child.
Monry Python and the Holy Grail: A series of British comedy skits woven around the theme of the search for the holy grail. The classic lines, "She's a witch!", "Run away!", and "I'm not dead yet!" might be funny to you if you get in the spirit of this classic. My mom did not like this movie, which she calls, "That silly movie with the coconuts."
Cold Comfort Farm: This satire on the myth of rural innocence tells the story of a young (and beautiful, of couse) orphan--a city girl--who arrives at her adoptive relatives' rural home and is corrupted by the new country life. My favorite line in this movie: "There's something nasty in the woodshed."
Apocalypse Now: Conrad's Heart of Darkness set in the Vietnam War, this movie, like Conrad's story, explores the darkness of invaders as well as inhabitants. It's not cheerful, but it's powerful.
The Incredibles: This animated film is witty. You might mistake it for an action and adventure piece, and maybe it is, but it's the characters, their imaginative superpowers, and their clever lines that make this film a favorite.
O Brother Where Art Thou? Homer's Odyssey set in the 1930s, featuring three men who escape from prison and the music of Alison Krauss. The best line, "We thought you was a toad!"
Run, Lola, Run: This movie replays the same scene again and again, where a chance encounter, like a car entering the street from an alley, changes lives. The movie is about the randomness of our lives, the little control we have over our own context.
This feast of art is making me hungry. Off to lunch. Mary
Children's Books:
Seuss's Green Eggs and Ham: Pure poetry. I love everything about this book, but especially that the narrator never has a name and that Sam is called "Sam-I-Am." My mom's nickname is Sam. I'll bet she likes this book.
Williams' Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus! Hillarious. This dramatic pigeon really wants to drive a school bus, but the driver has denied the pigeon's dream. My favorite line: "Pigeons have dreams, too." The drawings are hilarious, too. My seven year-old niece Lucie prefers its sequel, The Pigeon Gets a Puppy because there are two characters featured.
As I draft my fiction list, I realize that plot is not central for me. Action and adventure is not my genre. I'm drawn to themes and concepts, to lyrical and humorous styles, to multiple perspectives. Mom does not like any of the books I read, and you might not either, so if your taste runs more in her direction, I've noted from time to time her take on a work.
Books--Fiction:
Melville's Moby Dick: Some people say this novel is a lot of pages about a whale, but it's beautifully lyrical, and it's really about perception and madness. And whaling. My favorite scene is the scene where Pip is thrown from the boat and realizes his smallness as he waits in the ocean's wide expanse, hoping that his ship will return for him. My mom would not like this book.
Barbara Kingsolver's Poisonwood Bible: In this story of a mother and her girls who follow their crazy father-figure into Africa as missionaries, the family is doomed in their mission from the start. Chapters rotate through a series of narrators, each a different, wholly unique voice. My mom might like this book, as it is the saga of family, but she probably would not like it as there are a lot of narrators.
Vargas Llosa's The Storyteller Vargos Llosa's lyrical novel tells the story of a Peruvian ex-patriot imagining the life of a childhood friend, whose picture as a tribal storyteller now hangs in an Italian art museum. About the mythical role of the story teller in this Peruvian tribe, the story is itself masterfully told. The storyteller's line, "That, anyway, is what I have learned" weaves through the storyteller's sections much like Vonnegut's "And so it goes." My mom really didn't like this book.
O'Brien's The Things They Carried: This semi-autobiographical novel tells stories of the character Tim O'Brien's experiences before, during, and after the Vietnam War, so it's a war story, but it's also a story that explores the tangled relationship between life and art. I suspect Mom wouldn't like this one either.
In nonfiction, I prefer a narrative that, much like cultural travel, introduces me to a world new to me and the perspectives of those who live there.
Books--Non-Fiction:
Ambrose's Undaunted Courage: What would it have been like to cross this North American continent without maps or guides but armed only with a vision and the the nineteenth-century mythology of "the American west?" This question fascinates me (partly because I'm quite sure I would have stayed on the East Coast, or in England, by the fire), so I loved Androse's narrative about Meriwether Lewis's journey to and from the Pacific Ocean. Mom might even like it.
Feinberg'a Eighty-Sixed: The first book I read about the earliest days of the AIDS epidemic in America and those affected at that time, this book placed me in the land of disease, a land I really knew little about, in my own country and in my own time.
Thorpe's Just Like Us: Thorpe, a journalist and wife of the then mayor of Denver, follows four Latina girls, bright best friends, through their high school and college years, seeking to understand the different experiences between the two girls who are legal citizens and the two who are not. Thorpe restrains herself from making an argument and instead asks tough questions about policy concerning illegal immigrants to the United States as she writes a compassionate narrative.
Mortenson's Three Cups of Tea: Mortenson humbly tells his journey of a small Pakistani village that saved him when he got lost descending K2 and of his own journey to build schools first in that village and then throughout Pakistan. It's a story of building peace by building schools. Mom would like this one.
Sedaris's Me Talk Pretty One Day: I read much of this book on a plane, and I'm pretty sure my fellow passengers found me annoying and perhaps a little crazy as I hee-hawed my way, delighted, through Sedaris's essays. Everybody likes David Sedaris.
Rodriguez's Always Running: Rodriguez began this memoir when he was a teenager deeply entwined in gang life and finished it when his own son got involved in gangs. Though Rodriguez was unable to convince his son, who is now in prison for life for murder, to leave the gang life, many of my Latino teenagers read it, at least one freshman with teary eyes, explaining, "I want to learn how he got out."
Audiobooks:
JK Rowling's Harry Potter series: The reader narrates the voices and the magic of Harry Potter's world in a voice that I adopt as my own internal reader. My mom likes these books, and the action and adventure narrative helps me follow the story aurally.
Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love: Gilbert narrates her own memoir, which chronicles her journey through three countries that begin with I, Italy ("Eat"), India ("Pray"), and Indonesia ("Love"), a journey of re-discovering herself and of healing from a divorce. A favorite line is from a Texas friend she meets at the Ashram in India who calls her, "Groceries."
In poetry, I am a Romantic, not so much of the kiss-kiss type, but of the "birds and leaves stir my soul."
Poetry
Mary Oliver's New and Selected Poems: A contemporary Romantic, Mary Oliver explores the spirit through her connection to nature. Her poetry is lyrical, humorous, and accessible. Mom might even like her poetry.
Toomer's Cane : Every Southerner or person who finds the American South's culture compelling should read this collection of poems, character sketches and vignettes. Written in 1923, the novel influenced Southern Renaissance writers. It's not really a novel and not completely a collection of poems, but in its lyricism, its unifying theme rather than plot and rich imagery it is poem-like.
T.S. Elliot's "Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock": In addition to the poem's many quotable lines, ("Let us go then, you and I" and "I shall wear white flannel trousers / and walk upon the beach."), this poem is a character study of a man entering middle age who struggles with a kind of emotional paralysis, a sense of being lost in the world. My high school juniors and seniors tended to connect with this poem.
Donne's "The Sun Rising": A lovely poem in which a man first insults the sun, which wakens him from his sleep with the woman he loves, and then feels a compassion for the sun's age and work in a world where the narrator gets to experience such tremendous love.
ee cummings' "Somewhere I Have Never Travelled, Beyond" and "One Leaf Falls": Some literary types criticize cummings for what they say is his gimmicky use of punctuation, but I find his images compelling. In "Somewhere I Have Never Travelled, Beyond," a lyrical love poem to an infant, cummings writes, "Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands." Long Ago, a student introduced me to this poem. In "One Leaf Falls," the words divide into repetions of "one" and the poem falls vertically as a leaf, both visual images of loneliness, as the poems few words describe.
Whitman's "Song of Myself", a poem where, in section six, a child comes to the narrator with a handfull of grass, asking, "What is the grass?" and the narrator explores the question through a series of hypotheses, concluding, "Death is different than anyone supposed--and luckier."
Dickenson's "I Felt a Funeral in My Brain": Some literary textbook writers who don't know enough about the expansive nature of poetry interpret this poem as the story of a bad headache, or of a fall into madness, which is closer, but it's really the story of a narrator falling into wisdom, into a new world of understanding: "And then a plank in reason broke, / And I fell down and down./ And hit a world at every turn,/ And finished knowing--then--"
I love music lyrical in its words and harmonic in its sounds.
Music:
Simon and Garfunkel, especially the album Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme and the tracks, "Flowers Never Bend with the Rainfall" and "Feelin' Groovy."
James Taylor, especially the album J.T. and the tracks "Fire and Rain," "Damn This Traffic Jam," and "Gone to Carolina in my Mind."
The Dixie Chicks, especially the albums Wide Open Spaces and Top of the World and the tracks "Thank Heavens for Dale Evans" (from the oringinal Dixie Chicks), "Wide Open Spaces," and "Not Ready to Make Nice."
The Indigo Girls, especially the album Nomads, Indians, Saints and the tracks "Southland in the Springtime" and "Power of Two."
Movies:
Sophie's Choice: My introduction to the young Meryl Streep through the painful life of a Jewish mother in Nazi Germany, who must choose between her two children as she enters a concentration camp. My dad, in an attempt to convince me and my siblings that he loves us all equally, says he would have to say, "Take 'em all! I can't choose!" I think this was meant to be comforting to us.
Innocent Voices: This visually luscious memoir reveals El Salvador in war from the perspective of a child who survived it. It's beautiful and painful and disempowers abstract arguments for war in the unfolding of war's effects on a child.
Monry Python and the Holy Grail: A series of British comedy skits woven around the theme of the search for the holy grail. The classic lines, "She's a witch!", "Run away!", and "I'm not dead yet!" might be funny to you if you get in the spirit of this classic. My mom did not like this movie, which she calls, "That silly movie with the coconuts."
Cold Comfort Farm: This satire on the myth of rural innocence tells the story of a young (and beautiful, of couse) orphan--a city girl--who arrives at her adoptive relatives' rural home and is corrupted by the new country life. My favorite line in this movie: "There's something nasty in the woodshed."
Apocalypse Now: Conrad's Heart of Darkness set in the Vietnam War, this movie, like Conrad's story, explores the darkness of invaders as well as inhabitants. It's not cheerful, but it's powerful.
The Incredibles: This animated film is witty. You might mistake it for an action and adventure piece, and maybe it is, but it's the characters, their imaginative superpowers, and their clever lines that make this film a favorite.
O Brother Where Art Thou? Homer's Odyssey set in the 1930s, featuring three men who escape from prison and the music of Alison Krauss. The best line, "We thought you was a toad!"
Run, Lola, Run: This movie replays the same scene again and again, where a chance encounter, like a car entering the street from an alley, changes lives. The movie is about the randomness of our lives, the little control we have over our own context.
This feast of art is making me hungry. Off to lunch. Mary
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
P.S. 16 Whirled Peas
Bumper stickers are the haikus of our culture and time. My favorite bumper stickers have been: "Visualize whirled peas," "I believe in cheeses, "White Center [a South Seattle community that is largely made up of Latino people and white liberals] is neither," and "What if the hokey pokey really is what it's all about?"
My friend Pea mentioned one she saw on a Texas pickup truck: "Tits on a Ritz: Good Cracker." Crude, but delightfully stereotypical. Carrie saw one that said, ""My whippet makes your honors student look slow and awkward." That's a good one.
I don't like "I heart my anything" or "Baby on Board." The latter seems to me to suggest that I shouldn't hit this car because of the baby, but otherwise it would be okay.
Our bumpersticker isn't quite so clever, but we love it anyway: "Storm National Champions 2004." A friend's friend is making a "Storm National Champions 2010" sticker since sales ran out of them in the first twenty minutes after the championship game, so we'll add that one soon. We also have a "Peace is Patriotic" bumper sticker from W's era that somehow never makes it to the bumper. I wish it were passe, but I think it's time we pull it out and paste it on.
Kill 'em with kindness. Mary
My friend Pea mentioned one she saw on a Texas pickup truck: "Tits on a Ritz: Good Cracker." Crude, but delightfully stereotypical. Carrie saw one that said, ""My whippet makes your honors student look slow and awkward." That's a good one.
I don't like "I heart my anything" or "Baby on Board." The latter seems to me to suggest that I shouldn't hit this car because of the baby, but otherwise it would be okay.
Our bumpersticker isn't quite so clever, but we love it anyway: "Storm National Champions 2004." A friend's friend is making a "Storm National Champions 2010" sticker since sales ran out of them in the first twenty minutes after the championship game, so we'll add that one soon. We also have a "Peace is Patriotic" bumper sticker from W's era that somehow never makes it to the bumper. I wish it were passe, but I think it's time we pull it out and paste it on.
Kill 'em with kindness. Mary
P. S. 15 World Enough and Time
Yesterday I visited two colleagues' office and was overwhelmed by the amount of stuff.
Lest I sound like a neatnick, which would be ironic, I should confess that when I was a child, neighborhood children and cousins always wanted to visit my bedroom and my siblings' rooms, as other children with less patient mothers were so impressed by our mess. Not only could a person not see the floor or any other surface in our rooms, but one would have to dig through layers to find a surface. When I got into bed, I would simply crawl in under the covers and all the stuff. As a college freshman, I (and my roommate Angelique) kept the room so delightfully messy that our boyfriends broke into the room when we were out of town and straightened it up for Valentime's Day. That was love. As an adult, when I was chair for the Humanities department in a new school, I kept so many textbooks and papers (yet to be graded, I'm sure) on the floor that the office became a part of the unofficial tour. Guests came to marvel at the mess.
In the home where I grew up, my father's study is as cluttered as my bedroom was when I was a child. My sister and brother had similarly messy rooms. Clutter is in my genes.
I have such a long history of clutter and such a genetic disposition towards clutter that impressing me with disorder is difficult, but yesterday, when I visited two colleagues' office, I was impressed. The office is at most four square yards. In that space are two desks, two office chairs, one tall filing cabinet, two computers, two tall bookshelves, and twenty-three boxes (You have to look down--under the desks where most people would put their feet--and up--on top of file cabinets and bookshelves-- to find them all.) . There are seven piles of paper with approximately 800 pieces of paper in each one, 18 files that are not in the filing cabinet, 15 three-ring binders, 727 books, and six giant post-its with 23 smaller post-its on them. There is the cozy feel of home: one Mexican rug, one art hanging from India, and eight children's drawings. You can find the word "To Do" thirteen times: once on a box, once on a scrap of paper, once on a folder, four times on the giant post-its, and so forth.
This place has the feel of too much to do and too little time. Other colleagues step in for a moment just to grab some resource as they run by. One colleague's backpack is tossed on the floor. The other totes her stuff in one of those suitcases that airline attendants pull through the airports. People scurry by, looking neither left nor right. In the nearby conference room, teachers meet to write curriculum. They'll need to rush back to their schools at the end of the day to see how their classes went with substitutes.
Before brain surgery, I filled the nooks and crannies of my days with too many to do lists and stacks of dusty papers. I rushed from my car to the classroom and ran to the restroom in any spare moment. I arose at 4 am, so that I could be at the gym by five to swim and lift and rush through my sun salutation before my work day began.
My physical spaces were as cluttered as my time. I had stacks of ungraded papers, revised and re-revised lesson plans, and unpaid bills. A couple of times, I fell racing about with stacks of papers in my arms. The papers fluttered into the rain until I jumped up and grabbed them and ran on.
Since brain surgery, I slow down and focus. I must. If I try to dash around like I did before, my head will hurt, and I will fall over stuff. This new way of living in space and time is a gift. I sold many of my books. I have a few folders in the filing drawer in my desk, but I only take a piece of paper if I really need it. There is not so much stuff around both because it's difficult for me to read paper and because I can't lift even a three-ring binder very easily. The space, I find, gives me mental and emotional space, too. Though I'm dealing with brain tumors and their after-effects, I'm more centered and spacious in my self than I was before.
My time, too, has more room in it. I cannot rush from moment to moment or room to room so I do not rush. I plan my days so that I can complete my responsibilities in a way that doesn't require me to hurry. I leave early to be sure I'm at places on time. I say, "I'm sorry, but I'm busy then. Can we plan for another time?" I drive slowly. I am no longer part of Merton's contemporary violence which is overwork. I can stop to say hello. I can ask a friend how they are and wait to hear the answer. I can notice the wet smell of fall. I can get lost in the intricacies of a leaf's architecture. I can.
Gotta go so that I'll be early for hocus pocus. Mary
Lest I sound like a neatnick, which would be ironic, I should confess that when I was a child, neighborhood children and cousins always wanted to visit my bedroom and my siblings' rooms, as other children with less patient mothers were so impressed by our mess. Not only could a person not see the floor or any other surface in our rooms, but one would have to dig through layers to find a surface. When I got into bed, I would simply crawl in under the covers and all the stuff. As a college freshman, I (and my roommate Angelique) kept the room so delightfully messy that our boyfriends broke into the room when we were out of town and straightened it up for Valentime's Day. That was love. As an adult, when I was chair for the Humanities department in a new school, I kept so many textbooks and papers (yet to be graded, I'm sure) on the floor that the office became a part of the unofficial tour. Guests came to marvel at the mess.
In the home where I grew up, my father's study is as cluttered as my bedroom was when I was a child. My sister and brother had similarly messy rooms. Clutter is in my genes.
I have such a long history of clutter and such a genetic disposition towards clutter that impressing me with disorder is difficult, but yesterday, when I visited two colleagues' office, I was impressed. The office is at most four square yards. In that space are two desks, two office chairs, one tall filing cabinet, two computers, two tall bookshelves, and twenty-three boxes (You have to look down--under the desks where most people would put their feet--and up--on top of file cabinets and bookshelves-- to find them all.) . There are seven piles of paper with approximately 800 pieces of paper in each one, 18 files that are not in the filing cabinet, 15 three-ring binders, 727 books, and six giant post-its with 23 smaller post-its on them. There is the cozy feel of home: one Mexican rug, one art hanging from India, and eight children's drawings. You can find the word "To Do" thirteen times: once on a box, once on a scrap of paper, once on a folder, four times on the giant post-its, and so forth.
This place has the feel of too much to do and too little time. Other colleagues step in for a moment just to grab some resource as they run by. One colleague's backpack is tossed on the floor. The other totes her stuff in one of those suitcases that airline attendants pull through the airports. People scurry by, looking neither left nor right. In the nearby conference room, teachers meet to write curriculum. They'll need to rush back to their schools at the end of the day to see how their classes went with substitutes.
Before brain surgery, I filled the nooks and crannies of my days with too many to do lists and stacks of dusty papers. I rushed from my car to the classroom and ran to the restroom in any spare moment. I arose at 4 am, so that I could be at the gym by five to swim and lift and rush through my sun salutation before my work day began.
My physical spaces were as cluttered as my time. I had stacks of ungraded papers, revised and re-revised lesson plans, and unpaid bills. A couple of times, I fell racing about with stacks of papers in my arms. The papers fluttered into the rain until I jumped up and grabbed them and ran on.
Since brain surgery, I slow down and focus. I must. If I try to dash around like I did before, my head will hurt, and I will fall over stuff. This new way of living in space and time is a gift. I sold many of my books. I have a few folders in the filing drawer in my desk, but I only take a piece of paper if I really need it. There is not so much stuff around both because it's difficult for me to read paper and because I can't lift even a three-ring binder very easily. The space, I find, gives me mental and emotional space, too. Though I'm dealing with brain tumors and their after-effects, I'm more centered and spacious in my self than I was before.
My time, too, has more room in it. I cannot rush from moment to moment or room to room so I do not rush. I plan my days so that I can complete my responsibilities in a way that doesn't require me to hurry. I leave early to be sure I'm at places on time. I say, "I'm sorry, but I'm busy then. Can we plan for another time?" I drive slowly. I am no longer part of Merton's contemporary violence which is overwork. I can stop to say hello. I can ask a friend how they are and wait to hear the answer. I can notice the wet smell of fall. I can get lost in the intricacies of a leaf's architecture. I can.
Gotta go so that I'll be early for hocus pocus. Mary
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
P.S. 13 Throwing money at it
I"m taking an online course to learn more about the experiences of and resources for those living in poverty in my community. The midterm required me to learn about and visit organizations that poor people often need to access.
I struggled with this midterm. Because I am disabled (imbalance, vision problems, and fatigue), getting information and getting to places was especially difficult. Last Wednesday, my morning meeting was cancelled, so I didn’t go in to work in the morning and could visit the local food bank and the Welfare Office. I also needed to make some doctors’ appointments for current medical issues related to my tumors, something that's hard to do when I'm at work, so there was a lot to get done.
Because of my disabilities, I can only drive to familiar locations with dependable disabled parking, so I decided to take the bus to the food bank and the Welfare Office. When I went to the bus stop, a twenty minute walk, the bus stop had moved since this summer when I last took this bus, and as I tried to hurry over broken sidewalks to the new location, the bus passed me by. I waited a half hour for the next bus and took it to the Welfare Office since the food bank had already closed for the day. Unfortunately, I had not scrolled down the web page far enough to see that the office is open every weekday except Wednesday. My only day to go, of course, was Wednesday. Therefore, I had used my morning and paid my 75 cents to ride the bus to the office, walk to the office, and then return to the bus stop to wait for the next bus. When I got home, I lay down to rest before heading to work.
The experience was frustrating, and I thought about how much more difficult this would have been if I were living in poverty and had children with me. Finding information about the office, the food bank, and the bus schedule would have required a separate trip to a library to use a computer. I would almost certainly need to take time off from an inflexible work schedule. I would be managing children as I tried to move to and from the bus stop. The fatigue would be worse, but I would have difficulty taking a nap after my failed trip because I would be caring for children. My children and I would be hungry, and probably cold and wet since the Northwest is now in the rainy season. I would almost certainly be in a wheelchair, instead of walking with a cane, because of my need to have more energy and balance for the children and because my level of fatigue would be even higher. I would have more health problems since I would be spending so much time in a wheelchair.
Additionally, often in exploring resources, I slipped into information about people with disabilities. Since I am concerned about my own health, I found it interesting—and anxiety-producing—to think about myself in addition to the fictional characters I was imagining. I’ve also provided some college scholarships at a school where I used to teach, and these students often call for help. Last year’s four Somali freshmen girls all called in the last two weeks, so as I researched colleges I was also trying to learn about supporting these real students and other students in need.
Today, on this day after the mid-term elections, in the midst of these weeks of media reports on what Americans think, I am constantly surprised by the number of people who still talk about "not throwing money at the problem." Some problems need funding to address, and supporting people, including children, living in poverty and providing a decent education so that the American myth of mobility might still have some truth to it are both causes that need to be supported through public funding. That's not "throwing money." That's just funding.
I am also surprised by the number of people with cars and homes who kvetch about how high their taxes are. I do not think that Americans are bad people, so there must be another reason. I recently read that Americans overestimate economic mobility in this country and underestimate the degree of inequity. This is not about goodness or badness but about awareness--or a lack of awareness.
Though I am generally somewhat cynical about the relationships between elections and big money, I have been stunned to see how many candidates have spent millions of their own money to run. Why do so many people running have their own millions? What might our social services and public education systems do if we threw that money their way?
Mary
I struggled with this midterm. Because I am disabled (imbalance, vision problems, and fatigue), getting information and getting to places was especially difficult. Last Wednesday, my morning meeting was cancelled, so I didn’t go in to work in the morning and could visit the local food bank and the Welfare Office. I also needed to make some doctors’ appointments for current medical issues related to my tumors, something that's hard to do when I'm at work, so there was a lot to get done.
Because of my disabilities, I can only drive to familiar locations with dependable disabled parking, so I decided to take the bus to the food bank and the Welfare Office. When I went to the bus stop, a twenty minute walk, the bus stop had moved since this summer when I last took this bus, and as I tried to hurry over broken sidewalks to the new location, the bus passed me by. I waited a half hour for the next bus and took it to the Welfare Office since the food bank had already closed for the day. Unfortunately, I had not scrolled down the web page far enough to see that the office is open every weekday except Wednesday. My only day to go, of course, was Wednesday. Therefore, I had used my morning and paid my 75 cents to ride the bus to the office, walk to the office, and then return to the bus stop to wait for the next bus. When I got home, I lay down to rest before heading to work.
The experience was frustrating, and I thought about how much more difficult this would have been if I were living in poverty and had children with me. Finding information about the office, the food bank, and the bus schedule would have required a separate trip to a library to use a computer. I would almost certainly need to take time off from an inflexible work schedule. I would be managing children as I tried to move to and from the bus stop. The fatigue would be worse, but I would have difficulty taking a nap after my failed trip because I would be caring for children. My children and I would be hungry, and probably cold and wet since the Northwest is now in the rainy season. I would almost certainly be in a wheelchair, instead of walking with a cane, because of my need to have more energy and balance for the children and because my level of fatigue would be even higher. I would have more health problems since I would be spending so much time in a wheelchair.
Additionally, often in exploring resources, I slipped into information about people with disabilities. Since I am concerned about my own health, I found it interesting—and anxiety-producing—to think about myself in addition to the fictional characters I was imagining. I’ve also provided some college scholarships at a school where I used to teach, and these students often call for help. Last year’s four Somali freshmen girls all called in the last two weeks, so as I researched colleges I was also trying to learn about supporting these real students and other students in need.
Today, on this day after the mid-term elections, in the midst of these weeks of media reports on what Americans think, I am constantly surprised by the number of people who still talk about "not throwing money at the problem." Some problems need funding to address, and supporting people, including children, living in poverty and providing a decent education so that the American myth of mobility might still have some truth to it are both causes that need to be supported through public funding. That's not "throwing money." That's just funding.
I am also surprised by the number of people with cars and homes who kvetch about how high their taxes are. I do not think that Americans are bad people, so there must be another reason. I recently read that Americans overestimate economic mobility in this country and underestimate the degree of inequity. This is not about goodness or badness but about awareness--or a lack of awareness.
Though I am generally somewhat cynical about the relationships between elections and big money, I have been stunned to see how many candidates have spent millions of their own money to run. Why do so many people running have their own millions? What might our social services and public education systems do if we threw that money their way?
Mary
P. S. 11 Hocus Pocus
Wednesday afternoons I go to the naturopath for hocus pocus. I leave my watch and any other electronics in the car. This is how treatment goes: I go into a small room with a massage table covered with that paper they have in doctor's offices, take my shoes off and sit on the crinkly paper on the table. I cross my ankles, and the doctor reminds me to uncross them.
First, the doctor tests for allergies not yet treated. In my left hand, the doctor has me hold a vial of what looks like clear liquid but is in fact something like vitamin C or calcium. I cross my ankles, and the doctor reminds me to uncross them. I hold my right arm out parallel to the ground, thumb down. I again cross my ankles, and the doctor again reminds me to uncross them. She's very patient. The doctor puts her hand on my shoulder and pushes gently down. Nothing happens. Then she puts her thumb in the middle of my forehead and pushes down. My arm goes down. I am allergic to the substance in this vial. I seem to be allergic to almost every substance. In this way she tests several basic allergens.
Next she treats me for one allergy. So far, I've been treated for BBF (brain-body formula), eggs and today calcium. We begin again, in much the same way. I cross my ankles, and the doctor reminds me to uncross them. I hold my right arm out parallel to the ground, thumb down. I hold a vial of today's allergen in my left hand. The doctor puts her hand on my shoulder and pushes gently down, "Does Mary need to avoid calcium (or whatever) for more than 25 hours after treatment?" She pushes downward on my outstretched arm. If the arm stays steady, I only need to stay away from the offensive item for 25 hours. If my arm goes down, we have to test again to see how long I have to stay away.
I do mean stay away. After treatment, I can't eat anything with the offensive item in it or be within ten feet of it. This means that I cannot go in our kitchen at home or into the staff lunchroom at work, which is also where the printer is. When I was being treated for eggs, I couldn't be near feathers, so Ann moved our feather pillows into the back room. At school, I have to avoid the faculty lunch room. I eat in an empty classroom by myself. I suspect this seems weird.
After consulting my body about the hours, the doctor goes behind me, has me sit up and uses a gentle jack hammer up and down my spine four times. The first time I inhale and hold my breath. The next time I exhale. The third time I pant like a puppy. I keep looking for the hidden camera, but everyone stays serious. Finally, I breathe normally. The doctor directs me to lie down and to uncross my ankles. She massages accupuncture points in a counterclockwise motion around my body. Afterwards, she covers me in a blanket, and I rest for twenty minutes. I am very good at this part. I don't even cross my ankles.
After twenty minutes, the doctor and her protege return. I sit up. Again, I hold a vial of the allergen in my left hand, and she pushes down on my extended right arm. This time, my arm doesn't doesn't go down.Shazzam. It's magic. I'm cured as long as I stay ten feet from the offending substance for at least 25 hours. Next week: sugar.
Mary
First, the doctor tests for allergies not yet treated. In my left hand, the doctor has me hold a vial of what looks like clear liquid but is in fact something like vitamin C or calcium. I cross my ankles, and the doctor reminds me to uncross them. I hold my right arm out parallel to the ground, thumb down. I again cross my ankles, and the doctor again reminds me to uncross them. She's very patient. The doctor puts her hand on my shoulder and pushes gently down. Nothing happens. Then she puts her thumb in the middle of my forehead and pushes down. My arm goes down. I am allergic to the substance in this vial. I seem to be allergic to almost every substance. In this way she tests several basic allergens.
Next she treats me for one allergy. So far, I've been treated for BBF (brain-body formula), eggs and today calcium. We begin again, in much the same way. I cross my ankles, and the doctor reminds me to uncross them. I hold my right arm out parallel to the ground, thumb down. I hold a vial of today's allergen in my left hand. The doctor puts her hand on my shoulder and pushes gently down, "Does Mary need to avoid calcium (or whatever) for more than 25 hours after treatment?" She pushes downward on my outstretched arm. If the arm stays steady, I only need to stay away from the offensive item for 25 hours. If my arm goes down, we have to test again to see how long I have to stay away.
I do mean stay away. After treatment, I can't eat anything with the offensive item in it or be within ten feet of it. This means that I cannot go in our kitchen at home or into the staff lunchroom at work, which is also where the printer is. When I was being treated for eggs, I couldn't be near feathers, so Ann moved our feather pillows into the back room. At school, I have to avoid the faculty lunch room. I eat in an empty classroom by myself. I suspect this seems weird.
After consulting my body about the hours, the doctor goes behind me, has me sit up and uses a gentle jack hammer up and down my spine four times. The first time I inhale and hold my breath. The next time I exhale. The third time I pant like a puppy. I keep looking for the hidden camera, but everyone stays serious. Finally, I breathe normally. The doctor directs me to lie down and to uncross my ankles. She massages accupuncture points in a counterclockwise motion around my body. Afterwards, she covers me in a blanket, and I rest for twenty minutes. I am very good at this part. I don't even cross my ankles.
After twenty minutes, the doctor and her protege return. I sit up. Again, I hold a vial of the allergen in my left hand, and she pushes down on my extended right arm. This time, my arm doesn't doesn't go down.Shazzam. It's magic. I'm cured as long as I stay ten feet from the offending substance for at least 25 hours. Next week: sugar.
Mary
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
P.S. 9 Rufus the Bobcat attacks Brutus the Nut.
Friday morning, as I ascended the high school stairs, a tall, athletic looking African-American male faced me. He was wearing a chicken suit. Head to claw. My colleague Todd lost a bet of sorts and wore a rat costume all day. By the time I saw him, he had removed the head with its bouncing buck teeth and just had on a padded middle grey furry thing that gave him big hips and a tale. I didn't notice the tale at first, so I thought he was dressed as a middle-aged woman. The best costume at our door Sunday night was a kid wearing a carved pumpkin on her head. Not a plastic one, mind you. I hope she washed her hair.
School mascots are kind of like Halloween all year, so when our friend Tim visited last week we discussed our favorite mascots. Ann's school doesn't have a mascot; they merely mock mascots. They wear a picture of the school on their uniforms, so other teams call them "the house." I like that. Last year there was brief enthusiasm for "the fighting salmon," but those students graduated. My high school, in Raleigh, NC, was "the capitols." Come to think of it, I don't know why it was plural. We should have been more like the Stanford Cardinal, which is the color red and therefore singular. When people cheered at my high school games, they yelled, "Go Caps!"
Tim went to Ohio State, where the mascot is the Buckeye, which is apparently a kind of nut. Their mascot is a guy who wears a nut-like thing on his head. This fall when Ohio State played it's instate rival, Ohio, Ohio University's mascot Rufus the Bobcat decided to attack Ohio State's Brutus the Buckeye as he ran on the field. It's true. You can read about it on the innernets.
There are so many fine mascots: The Orphans, the Ducks and the Geoduck to name a few. A Geoduck, an obscenely large, phallic-looking oyster in the Northwest, is Evergreen College's mascot. I think it's tongue in cheek.
A decade or so ago, when Ann and I helped open a new suburban high school, Skyline, I hoped the students would choose something clever, like Thunder. I thought Skyline Thunder would would provide lots of opportunities for good sounds. The students, liking alliteration and wanting something that could run around, chose The Spartan, an ironic mascot for a lovely school on the hill with a view of the Cascades. When the student council sponsor received Sparky the Spartan's outfit in the mail, she though Sparky's smile a bit menacing, so she turned that frown upside down. Sparky looked drunk, so she turned that grin back again.
Mary
School mascots are kind of like Halloween all year, so when our friend Tim visited last week we discussed our favorite mascots. Ann's school doesn't have a mascot; they merely mock mascots. They wear a picture of the school on their uniforms, so other teams call them "the house." I like that. Last year there was brief enthusiasm for "the fighting salmon," but those students graduated. My high school, in Raleigh, NC, was "the capitols." Come to think of it, I don't know why it was plural. We should have been more like the Stanford Cardinal, which is the color red and therefore singular. When people cheered at my high school games, they yelled, "Go Caps!"
Tim went to Ohio State, where the mascot is the Buckeye, which is apparently a kind of nut. Their mascot is a guy who wears a nut-like thing on his head. This fall when Ohio State played it's instate rival, Ohio, Ohio University's mascot Rufus the Bobcat decided to attack Ohio State's Brutus the Buckeye as he ran on the field. It's true. You can read about it on the innernets.
There are so many fine mascots: The Orphans, the Ducks and the Geoduck to name a few. A Geoduck, an obscenely large, phallic-looking oyster in the Northwest, is Evergreen College's mascot. I think it's tongue in cheek.
A decade or so ago, when Ann and I helped open a new suburban high school, Skyline, I hoped the students would choose something clever, like Thunder. I thought Skyline Thunder would would provide lots of opportunities for good sounds. The students, liking alliteration and wanting something that could run around, chose The Spartan, an ironic mascot for a lovely school on the hill with a view of the Cascades. When the student council sponsor received Sparky the Spartan's outfit in the mail, she though Sparky's smile a bit menacing, so she turned that frown upside down. Sparky looked drunk, so she turned that grin back again.
Mary
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
P.S. 8 What symptoms led to my diagnosis?
I'm in an online support group for adults with ependymomas (the rare brain tumor I had), and there's been a lot of talk lately about symptoms people had before diagnosis.
One person had ongoing hiccoughs so badly that he couldn't eat and finally had to go to the ermergency room, where he was diagnosed. In fact, quite a few folks were diagnosed in the emergency room, gnerally after a fall or a seizure or a migraine.
I didn't have hiccoghs, but for a long time I had a lot of symptoms that were similar to others (headaches, balance issues, fatigue, thyroid problems.) My surgeon guessed that my ependymoma started in utero. I started seeing doctors for symptoms when I was twelve. The ependymoma was diagnosed when I was 43.
In elementary school I first noticed slight balance issues that seemed a little weird, especially since in general I thought I was a strong athlete. In first grade, I thought of myself as really good at kickball, but one time I sprained an ankle when running off the end of a sidewalk. This seemed strange to me, that a sidewalk might trip me up: my first lesson in humility.
In my teens, I blacked out and fainted from time to time. My junior high basketball teammate nicknamed me "Casper" because I turned so white. I had slight balance problems, so that getting my high school skinny self to rebound was unsuccessful. My coach would yell, "Stick your butt out!" and I would yell back, "Coach, I ain't got no butt!" This seemed to be elucidating the obvious. I was an athlete and was also unusually tall and thin, so my doctors and I thought my skinniness explained the fainting. I was much stronger on my right side than on my left, now I know a symptom of ependymomas. In soccer, I just stuck to the right side of the field so that I could use my more coordinated right side. Teenage-hood is also the era in which I started my period, a bizarre misery that causes all sorts of strange pains, so the relatively subtle symptoms from the ependymoma seemed to fit in.
Once when my friend Kim and I spent the day at a racketball club, we played racketball and then alternated between the jacuzzi and the sauna. I got very weak and lost my vision for about half an hour. A nap and a coca-cola revived me.
In my senior year of high school, I had mono, which I now suspect was related to the fatigue from the tumor. I was often too tired to eat. I lost a lot of weight, and my dad thought I was anorexic, a diagnosis that I know parents often miss, so I give him a lot of credit for noticing. Anorexia was more likely than a brain tumor, but in this case inaccurate.
In my early twenties, I fainted while giving a talk to a large group of Southern Baptists. Though some people say that a large group of Southern Baptists is likely to make anyone faint, my dramatic collapse led to a CAT scan, which--acording to the doctor--didn't reveal any concern. The doctor said I would probably grow out of the fainting.
The year or two before diagnosis, now in my forties, I continued experiencing fatigue, and the headaches and dizziness got worse. I also found I often was slightly off-balance, grazing a door frame as I walked through or swaying slightly onto Ann's side of the sidewalk when we walked. I started having double vision when I biked and then having double-vision and the spins when I was teaching. I thought I was very clever to manage the double-vision by closing one eye. Ann was not so impressed and told me that I should see my doctor. My doctor told me to drink more water. Thinking I might be experiencing vision problems, as I was in my forties, I saw an opthamologist who also told me to drink more water.
Several months later, I emailed my doctor again, putting all of the symptoms together, and she ordered a CAT scan. My tumor was by this time the size of a plum, in my fourth ventrical and attached to my brainstem. I had neurosurgery within the month.
Doctors estimated that it would take me four to six weeks to recover from neurosurgery. I aksed my primary physician what "recover" meant in this context: Did it mean being able to go to the bathroom, being able to walk, or being able to hike. She replied that yes, it might mean any of these things. Or none of them. It took me a long time to recover from surgery. I was in rehab for three and a half weeks and then had home care until I could get to the hospital for rehab. Before the end of the year, I had learned to walk again with a cane. Facial nerves on the right side of my face also rejuvenated somewhat, so that I could close my right eye again and speak more clearly. Still, however, among other losses, I cannot whistle or drink out of a straw. These difficulties are more problematic than you might think.
Last December, two and a half years after surgery, an MRI revealed a second tumor, much smaller. Tumor boards debated what should be done: some thought surgery while others thought radiation and some thought both. I had six weeks of radiation. Radiation again jumbled my vision, affected my balance (and not in that good way), made a swath of my hair fall out, and made me very tired. In an especially cruel turn, I developed allergies to garlic, chocolate and cheddar.
I've learned to walk again, with a cane, though my balance is still pretty tipsy. I can see as long as I close one eye, so that the double vision doesn't distract me. Prism glasses help some. Fatigue is still an issue. I don't play basketball anymore. Now I'm a big fan.
My next MRI will be November 9, Veterans' Day. I'll let you know how it goes.
I"m hoping for the best--Mary
One person had ongoing hiccoughs so badly that he couldn't eat and finally had to go to the ermergency room, where he was diagnosed. In fact, quite a few folks were diagnosed in the emergency room, gnerally after a fall or a seizure or a migraine.
I didn't have hiccoghs, but for a long time I had a lot of symptoms that were similar to others (headaches, balance issues, fatigue, thyroid problems.) My surgeon guessed that my ependymoma started in utero. I started seeing doctors for symptoms when I was twelve. The ependymoma was diagnosed when I was 43.
In elementary school I first noticed slight balance issues that seemed a little weird, especially since in general I thought I was a strong athlete. In first grade, I thought of myself as really good at kickball, but one time I sprained an ankle when running off the end of a sidewalk. This seemed strange to me, that a sidewalk might trip me up: my first lesson in humility.
In my teens, I blacked out and fainted from time to time. My junior high basketball teammate nicknamed me "Casper" because I turned so white. I had slight balance problems, so that getting my high school skinny self to rebound was unsuccessful. My coach would yell, "Stick your butt out!" and I would yell back, "Coach, I ain't got no butt!" This seemed to be elucidating the obvious. I was an athlete and was also unusually tall and thin, so my doctors and I thought my skinniness explained the fainting. I was much stronger on my right side than on my left, now I know a symptom of ependymomas. In soccer, I just stuck to the right side of the field so that I could use my more coordinated right side. Teenage-hood is also the era in which I started my period, a bizarre misery that causes all sorts of strange pains, so the relatively subtle symptoms from the ependymoma seemed to fit in.
Once when my friend Kim and I spent the day at a racketball club, we played racketball and then alternated between the jacuzzi and the sauna. I got very weak and lost my vision for about half an hour. A nap and a coca-cola revived me.
In my senior year of high school, I had mono, which I now suspect was related to the fatigue from the tumor. I was often too tired to eat. I lost a lot of weight, and my dad thought I was anorexic, a diagnosis that I know parents often miss, so I give him a lot of credit for noticing. Anorexia was more likely than a brain tumor, but in this case inaccurate.
In my early twenties, I fainted while giving a talk to a large group of Southern Baptists. Though some people say that a large group of Southern Baptists is likely to make anyone faint, my dramatic collapse led to a CAT scan, which--acording to the doctor--didn't reveal any concern. The doctor said I would probably grow out of the fainting.
The year or two before diagnosis, now in my forties, I continued experiencing fatigue, and the headaches and dizziness got worse. I also found I often was slightly off-balance, grazing a door frame as I walked through or swaying slightly onto Ann's side of the sidewalk when we walked. I started having double vision when I biked and then having double-vision and the spins when I was teaching. I thought I was very clever to manage the double-vision by closing one eye. Ann was not so impressed and told me that I should see my doctor. My doctor told me to drink more water. Thinking I might be experiencing vision problems, as I was in my forties, I saw an opthamologist who also told me to drink more water.
Several months later, I emailed my doctor again, putting all of the symptoms together, and she ordered a CAT scan. My tumor was by this time the size of a plum, in my fourth ventrical and attached to my brainstem. I had neurosurgery within the month.
Doctors estimated that it would take me four to six weeks to recover from neurosurgery. I aksed my primary physician what "recover" meant in this context: Did it mean being able to go to the bathroom, being able to walk, or being able to hike. She replied that yes, it might mean any of these things. Or none of them. It took me a long time to recover from surgery. I was in rehab for three and a half weeks and then had home care until I could get to the hospital for rehab. Before the end of the year, I had learned to walk again with a cane. Facial nerves on the right side of my face also rejuvenated somewhat, so that I could close my right eye again and speak more clearly. Still, however, among other losses, I cannot whistle or drink out of a straw. These difficulties are more problematic than you might think.
Last December, two and a half years after surgery, an MRI revealed a second tumor, much smaller. Tumor boards debated what should be done: some thought surgery while others thought radiation and some thought both. I had six weeks of radiation. Radiation again jumbled my vision, affected my balance (and not in that good way), made a swath of my hair fall out, and made me very tired. In an especially cruel turn, I developed allergies to garlic, chocolate and cheddar.
I've learned to walk again, with a cane, though my balance is still pretty tipsy. I can see as long as I close one eye, so that the double vision doesn't distract me. Prism glasses help some. Fatigue is still an issue. I don't play basketball anymore. Now I'm a big fan.
My next MRI will be November 9, Veterans' Day. I'll let you know how it goes.
I"m hoping for the best--Mary
Sunday, October 17, 2010
P.S. 9 They put her mouth on crooked.
Bailey's in fourth grade now, and one of the teachers at her school had a stroke last year. When her mom Diana asked how the teacher seems to be doing, Bailey said, "Fine, I think. But they put her mouth on crooked."
I often wonder how other people see me. I know other people see me as disabled because they move to the far side of the walkway for me or--on a good day--open the door. Mothers pull their young children out of my path. People sitting at a table pull their chairs under when they see me coming. I appreciate all of these actions, but they do make me wonder what others see when they see me.
When I first returned to working in high schools after my brain surgery, I worked at a school with a class of students with physical disabilities. I wore an eye-patch to help me manage the double-vision. One student named Jason always stopped when we passed, moved to stand directly in front of me, and looked, hard, at my face. Sometimes he felt my face, gently, with his hands. This made his teachers and the principal nervous. I figured in his more-than-a-decade of schooling, he may not have seen adults in the school dealing with disabilities that seemed similar to his. I felt he was seeking a connection he had not otherwise found.
I want to be a respectful person, but before my disabilities, I wasn't sure how to be respectful of persons with disabilities. Do I pretend I don't notice they're in a wheelchair and just nod my head hello, attempting to greet the person in passing like I would any other person? Maybe some people with disabilities prefer their disabilities be ignored, but it seems weird to me.
Kind of like, years ago, when I went with my second family the Whites to an IHOP for lunch between games during a soccer tournament. My right leg seized with a cramp, and I hollered and threw my leg out. The four Whites who were there helped massage the cramp out of my leg until I could bend it and sit up at the table. It was quite a scene, but no one in the restaurant looked up from their newspapers. I didn't want to draw attention, but the fact that no one seemed to notice my outburst was weird. It was like we were in different universes, and I was invisible to them.
That's how I feel now when people pretend they don't notice I have disabilities. How can a person not notice? I wear funny glasses, hold my head at an angle, and walk with a cane. If I"m with someone, I"m leaning on their arm. I'd rather you notice me with my dsabilities than feel invisible. After all, my disabilities are part of me now.
Mary
I often wonder how other people see me. I know other people see me as disabled because they move to the far side of the walkway for me or--on a good day--open the door. Mothers pull their young children out of my path. People sitting at a table pull their chairs under when they see me coming. I appreciate all of these actions, but they do make me wonder what others see when they see me.
When I first returned to working in high schools after my brain surgery, I worked at a school with a class of students with physical disabilities. I wore an eye-patch to help me manage the double-vision. One student named Jason always stopped when we passed, moved to stand directly in front of me, and looked, hard, at my face. Sometimes he felt my face, gently, with his hands. This made his teachers and the principal nervous. I figured in his more-than-a-decade of schooling, he may not have seen adults in the school dealing with disabilities that seemed similar to his. I felt he was seeking a connection he had not otherwise found.
I want to be a respectful person, but before my disabilities, I wasn't sure how to be respectful of persons with disabilities. Do I pretend I don't notice they're in a wheelchair and just nod my head hello, attempting to greet the person in passing like I would any other person? Maybe some people with disabilities prefer their disabilities be ignored, but it seems weird to me.
Kind of like, years ago, when I went with my second family the Whites to an IHOP for lunch between games during a soccer tournament. My right leg seized with a cramp, and I hollered and threw my leg out. The four Whites who were there helped massage the cramp out of my leg until I could bend it and sit up at the table. It was quite a scene, but no one in the restaurant looked up from their newspapers. I didn't want to draw attention, but the fact that no one seemed to notice my outburst was weird. It was like we were in different universes, and I was invisible to them.
That's how I feel now when people pretend they don't notice I have disabilities. How can a person not notice? I wear funny glasses, hold my head at an angle, and walk with a cane. If I"m with someone, I"m leaning on their arm. I'd rather you notice me with my dsabilities than feel invisible. After all, my disabilities are part of me now.
Mary
P.S. 8 Who will love me?
Last weekend a university student who graduated from a high school where I work committed suicide. Everywhere I go, whether folks knew her or not, people seem shaken by it. Like any high school teacher, I've seen too many teen deaths. My students have died in cars, in the water, and on the football field. Suicide, direct or through mental diseases like anorexia, feel the hardest to me.
An excellent teacher who works at the school, having difficulty elliciting any excitement from her students in one class, asked them to write her a letter. One student wrote, "Yesterday my friend's sister died. My mom has breast cancer and is really sick. My grandma can't remember anything anymore. If everyone dies, who will take care of me? Who will love me?"
A few years ago when I was teaching a class, near the beginning of the year, one of my freshmen asked me if I ever cried in class. I think maybe they were being exasperating and I suspect that at times they'd made their previous teacher cry. I thought about it and responded truthfully, "Only when a student dies." Several of them, incredulous, asked, "You've had a student die?" and I responded, truthfully (as is my nature) again, "Most years someone dies." They were quiet and didn't raise the subject again. I forgot about it.
At the end of first semester, students were brainstorming what we had to celebrate from first semester. Students said things like, "We are deeper writers" and "We know how to read harder texts." One student said, "We are like brothers and sisters for one another." Then another student said, "No one has died so far this year." They were all quiet and nodded. I added it to the list.
An excellent teacher who works at the school, having difficulty elliciting any excitement from her students in one class, asked them to write her a letter. One student wrote, "Yesterday my friend's sister died. My mom has breast cancer and is really sick. My grandma can't remember anything anymore. If everyone dies, who will take care of me? Who will love me?"
A few years ago when I was teaching a class, near the beginning of the year, one of my freshmen asked me if I ever cried in class. I think maybe they were being exasperating and I suspect that at times they'd made their previous teacher cry. I thought about it and responded truthfully, "Only when a student dies." Several of them, incredulous, asked, "You've had a student die?" and I responded, truthfully (as is my nature) again, "Most years someone dies." They were quiet and didn't raise the subject again. I forgot about it.
At the end of first semester, students were brainstorming what we had to celebrate from first semester. Students said things like, "We are deeper writers" and "We know how to read harder texts." One student said, "We are like brothers and sisters for one another." Then another student said, "No one has died so far this year." They were all quiet and nodded. I added it to the list.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
P.S. 7 Who am I?
Who am I?
The too-early child of a nurse and a doctor,
I am from Grady hospital's white wing.
I am from a house on a hill,
from copperheads in the lawn,
from a cul-de-sac,
from a suburban acre
in the piney woods.
I am from
the magic word and
the golden rule,
from "Oh, I'd like to thank the Lord,"
from "Have you done your homework yet?" and
Mahalia at Christmas.
I am from
Yellow roses in a yellow room,
from the nighly stock report,
from Hotlips and Radar.
I am from
the backyard basketball court,
Sunday soccer games after church,
the volleyball gym.
And I am
a child of the seventies,
of Watergate and
Add-a-beads.
I am
a woman in love
with a woman.
I am
of the Land of Starbucks,
the Mountain,
and the U.
I am
a teacher in schools
where brown rain falls through the ceiling.
I am
a survivor:
two brain tumors, three surgeries, six weeks of radiation.
I am the woman down the street
who walks with a cane.
I am a daughter,
a sister and a cousin,
a niece and an auntie,
a writer,
an adventurer,
a friend.
"I contain multitudes."
Mediocre in Spanish,
child of Senora Alissa Lopez,
Romero y Father Grande.
I aspire
to courage
and kindness
and right.
I aspire
to wander beyond the boundaries of
Who I am and
Where I am from.
The too-early child of a nurse and a doctor,
I am from Grady hospital's white wing.
I am from a house on a hill,
from copperheads in the lawn,
from a cul-de-sac,
from a suburban acre
in the piney woods.
I am from
the magic word and
the golden rule,
from "Oh, I'd like to thank the Lord,"
from "Have you done your homework yet?" and
Mahalia at Christmas.
I am from
Yellow roses in a yellow room,
from the nighly stock report,
from Hotlips and Radar.
I am from
the backyard basketball court,
Sunday soccer games after church,
the volleyball gym.
And I am
a child of the seventies,
of Watergate and
Add-a-beads.
I am
a woman in love
with a woman.
I am
of the Land of Starbucks,
the Mountain,
and the U.
I am
a teacher in schools
where brown rain falls through the ceiling.
I am
a survivor:
two brain tumors, three surgeries, six weeks of radiation.
I am the woman down the street
who walks with a cane.
I am a daughter,
a sister and a cousin,
a niece and an auntie,
a writer,
an adventurer,
a friend.
"I contain multitudes."
Mediocre in Spanish,
child of Senora Alissa Lopez,
Romero y Father Grande.
I aspire
to courage
and kindness
and right.
I aspire
to wander beyond the boundaries of
Who I am and
Where I am from.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
P.S. 6 I could have been a boy scout.
Yoga hs been one of the constancies on either side of the semi-colon in the sentence that is my life (not like a prison sentence--like nouns and verbas and lots of parentheses). Before brain surgery, I did a sun salutation every morning. Right after surgery, when I was still in the hospital bed, I did hospital bed yoga: any posture or stretch I could think of that I could do lying down was my daily exercise.
Now that I'm home and walking but still uneasy with my balance, I do lying down and sitting up yoga every morning. Mostly, I do a sun salutation minus tree pose (where a person stands like a tree on one leg--the way all trees stand), and minus triangle pose or anything else that might make me fall and bump my head. I've added to the routine poses that stretch my back and my neck, a kind of rehab yoga.
Not only does the yoga serve to stretch my body and to center me, but it also reminds of the calm within myself, a place that I can access when anxiety--about falling or about being unable to work or about dying--sets in.
I feel lucky to have found such a discipline before my brain tumors. So much was in place for me before brain tumors: a loving partner and family, a variety of experiences in my vocation, a supportive church community, an amazing group of friends, Storm allegiance and other past-times.
Of a paranoid imagination, I have always tried to prepare for hard times. Like the boy scouts, I have pledged to be prepared. Before surgery, I biked all over town, partly because I loved it, and partly because I knew a car battery would die in the event of a nuclear attack (I didn't go so far as to figure out the breathing part); I'd work to strenghten my upper body in case one day I couldn't use my legs; I've always saved as much as I can for retirmement, in case Social Security runs out (this, I don't think, is paranoid); I hiked up rocky trails with my teeth clenched, so that if I fell I would not bite off my tongue.
I know some Christians talk about preparing for the afterlife, but if nothing's gone really wrong for you yet, I'd suggest you prepare for the unknowns of this like. Yoga's a good place to start, for now and for later.
Of course, last weekend the local newspaper reported that the local minister of a megachurch said that doing yoga is like inviting in little demons. The minister's logic went like this: yoga's parent is Hinduism, a religion that, in this enlightened minister's opinion, worships many gods and is therefore pagan and ergo evil. I wonder where journalists go to find and report such wisdom.
Mary
Now that I'm home and walking but still uneasy with my balance, I do lying down and sitting up yoga every morning. Mostly, I do a sun salutation minus tree pose (where a person stands like a tree on one leg--the way all trees stand), and minus triangle pose or anything else that might make me fall and bump my head. I've added to the routine poses that stretch my back and my neck, a kind of rehab yoga.
Not only does the yoga serve to stretch my body and to center me, but it also reminds of the calm within myself, a place that I can access when anxiety--about falling or about being unable to work or about dying--sets in.
I feel lucky to have found such a discipline before my brain tumors. So much was in place for me before brain tumors: a loving partner and family, a variety of experiences in my vocation, a supportive church community, an amazing group of friends, Storm allegiance and other past-times.
Of a paranoid imagination, I have always tried to prepare for hard times. Like the boy scouts, I have pledged to be prepared. Before surgery, I biked all over town, partly because I loved it, and partly because I knew a car battery would die in the event of a nuclear attack (I didn't go so far as to figure out the breathing part); I'd work to strenghten my upper body in case one day I couldn't use my legs; I've always saved as much as I can for retirmement, in case Social Security runs out (this, I don't think, is paranoid); I hiked up rocky trails with my teeth clenched, so that if I fell I would not bite off my tongue.
I know some Christians talk about preparing for the afterlife, but if nothing's gone really wrong for you yet, I'd suggest you prepare for the unknowns of this like. Yoga's a good place to start, for now and for later.
Of course, last weekend the local newspaper reported that the local minister of a megachurch said that doing yoga is like inviting in little demons. The minister's logic went like this: yoga's parent is Hinduism, a religion that, in this enlightened minister's opinion, worships many gods and is therefore pagan and ergo evil. I wonder where journalists go to find and report such wisdom.
Mary
Monday, October 4, 2010
P.S. 5 Perspective
My chiropractor, Richard Bartlett, told me this excellent story about keeping loss in perspective. A few years ago, the Seattle Sonics (there was a men's NBA basketball team in Seattle then), played in the NBA finals. This year seemed to Dr. Bartlett the year this team should win. Sam Perkins, after all, was on the team along with other greats. Dr. Bartlett had season tickets with his son. This win would be a testosterone fest. (He didn't tell me that part. I inferred.)
The Sonics, however, lost. Dr. Bartlett was devastated. He couldn't eat. He couldn't sleep. For three weeks he couldn't shake the loss. Then, one day, he was riding the bus home from the office, tired from his full day of work healing people, and he looked out the window to see a large black man escorting a beautiful young woman into a limousine. That life looked good to Dr. Bartlett. That man looked happy. That man looked familiar. That man was Sam Perkins.
Sam Perkins the player was plenty happy. Dr. Bartlett the fan, who had no control over winning and losing, was grieving. This scenario, Dr. Barlett wisely noted, was ridiculous. This loss was not his to control, not his to grieve.
Deep. But if the Storm loses next year, don't even try this logic on me.
Having experienced losses beyond my control, I know that control is not the central issue in appropriate grieving (unless maybe we're talking sports, which we often are.) I have grieved my loss of balance, of clear vision, of a mouth that works the same on both sides. These losses were not under my control, but for sure they are mine.
A few years ago, my friend Jenny, a doctor who has herself been through struggle and loss from diabetes, told me that one day I might be thankful for my tumors. To be honest, I'm not there yet, and I don't know if I'll ever be. I am aware, however, that with loss I have gained a new perspective on what is important to me, and I align my days with what's important. I know that because of this new perspective my life has changed, in many ways for the better. Every minute now is different than it might have been.
I remember years ago a new minister promised the congregation, "Every time I look at you, I will look at you as a child of God." This is how I see more now, not because I try but because I do. I am every moment amazed by the people in my world, by the phenomenal beauty of fall leaves and sun breaks, by the gift of being here.
Glad to be here, and I'm so thankful you are, too. Mary
The Sonics, however, lost. Dr. Bartlett was devastated. He couldn't eat. He couldn't sleep. For three weeks he couldn't shake the loss. Then, one day, he was riding the bus home from the office, tired from his full day of work healing people, and he looked out the window to see a large black man escorting a beautiful young woman into a limousine. That life looked good to Dr. Bartlett. That man looked happy. That man looked familiar. That man was Sam Perkins.
Sam Perkins the player was plenty happy. Dr. Bartlett the fan, who had no control over winning and losing, was grieving. This scenario, Dr. Barlett wisely noted, was ridiculous. This loss was not his to control, not his to grieve.
Deep. But if the Storm loses next year, don't even try this logic on me.
Having experienced losses beyond my control, I know that control is not the central issue in appropriate grieving (unless maybe we're talking sports, which we often are.) I have grieved my loss of balance, of clear vision, of a mouth that works the same on both sides. These losses were not under my control, but for sure they are mine.
A few years ago, my friend Jenny, a doctor who has herself been through struggle and loss from diabetes, told me that one day I might be thankful for my tumors. To be honest, I'm not there yet, and I don't know if I'll ever be. I am aware, however, that with loss I have gained a new perspective on what is important to me, and I align my days with what's important. I know that because of this new perspective my life has changed, in many ways for the better. Every minute now is different than it might have been.
I remember years ago a new minister promised the congregation, "Every time I look at you, I will look at you as a child of God." This is how I see more now, not because I try but because I do. I am every moment amazed by the people in my world, by the phenomenal beauty of fall leaves and sun breaks, by the gift of being here.
Glad to be here, and I'm so thankful you are, too. Mary
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