Saturday, August 6, 2011

Wash-and-wear. No-blow-and-go. Call it what you will; I have a chemo perm.

My hairdresser and I decided to just let my hair do its thing. The past couple of mornings, I haven’t known quite what to do with myself in the bathroom when normally I’d be pulling out the hairdryer. I realized I could just. . .leave. I’m liking this hair liberation, for as long as it lasts.

One year ago today, Barbara accompanied me to USC Norris Cancer Hospital, where I underwent my first bone marrow biopsy. In these days of informed consent, procedures can be made to sound worse than they turn out to be for me with a high pain threshold and an ability to tolerate medical indignities. Nevertheless, to describe a BMB, as the jargon goes, is to sound downright medieval. As the pain started to overwhelm me through the anesthesia, I tried to stay calm while thinking, “Uh oh.”

But when my doctor alerted me that the next steps would be the most intense – and “hold very, very still, no matter what” – I was amazed to feel more pressure, but less pain. Could that really be? My doctor kept up encouraging words while carrying on for several more minutes, but the pain I expected did not return. Lying there I knew that because of blessings, prayers, and love from so many, I was being helped in a real and divine way.

That biopsy confirmed my doctor’s suspicions and my bone marrow and the rest of me have been down a long road since that day. I haven’t shared this experience with very many this past year, keeping it close to my heart. I share it now, having pondered upon it a great deal, to acknowledge the many, many times I have been physically and spiritually sustained, even uplifted, beyond reason. These words found in Matthew now have richer meaning for me: “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” From the imponderables of Doctrine and Covenants 42:48 to hair style changes, it’s been a scary, stressful, strange, satisfying, and significant year.

I woke up this morning feeling pretty normal for post-chemo day 3. Food tastes funny again but in the coolness of an unseasonably heavy marine layer, I was happy to simmer some garden harvest into tomato chutney. That’s my big project for the day, and now I’m retreating back to bed and my pile of books. Tomorrow morning, I’ll toss my hair like Nellie in “South Pacific” and start Year 2.

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Confirm rides; check. Water flower pots; check. Remind boss I will be out; check. Getting ready for chemo day, and the days which follow, is not unlike getting ready for a trip, except I’m not going any where fun.

Make a pitcher of herbal iced tea to have waiting in the refrigerator; check (which continual mental thanks to Angela for the suggestion almost a year ago). Pack lunch, water, and snacks – no point in being hostage to hospital food or vending machine fare. Don’t forget a sweater. Even if it’s 90° outside, the clinic is kept cool. Focusing on the now-familiar pattern of getting ready distracts me from the weariness of thinking about why I am doing this.

Clear the deck with an assortment of associate provosts and other “need to know” colleagues. While I’m at it, solicit their book recommendations. Biding time at a USC reception this past Friday night, I told one friend who teaches writing that I love history and classical fiction but feel in a rut. He suggested short stories, with an eye to read for differences in technique. Earlier this spring I tried out the short stories of Haruki Murakami, so I was ready for his suggestion. I’m now chewing through small bites of Hawthorne, Poe, Clemens, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Stegner and others in this genre less familiar to me. My favorite thus far: Edith Wharton’s “The Other Two.” I wouldn’t spoil it by telling you about it.

In the bookstore, I also could not resist two from my “have been meaning to read” list: Alexandre Dumas père’s “The Count of Monte Cristo” and Jane Austen’s “Mansfield Park.” Yes, I could have checked them out of the library or downloaded them, but on that shopping excursion I did my “on sale for $6.99” part to fight the demise of the beautiful hardbound book with deckeled pages.

I was in Rome just as the Count was starting his plan of revenge and not in the day hospital when the nurse handed me my lab results. I stared at the IgM number in disbelief. That lymphoma marker had gone down by 40% and my platelets had edged up. With a thumbs-up, my doctor simply said, “Okay, we just keep going.” Next set of tests and treatments are October 5^th.

I’ve been willing to do this, and have been committed to it, but it should does make a difference when it does some good, opposed to not. I can’t say that this will ever be fun, but the good ideas, support, prayers, and advice from many of you continue to make this unwanted adventure better than tolerable, and you’ve kept me cheered this spring and summer before this turned around. “The Count of Monte Cristo” closes with this sentence: “the count just told us that all human wisdom will be contained in these two words: Wait and hope.”

P.S. Here’s my lemon berry buttermilk cake, a good celebration dessert. Come on over next week.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Ann O., for a wonderful window of time, was my ULI boss, always my mentor, and quickly my friend. Our stay in Ann and Bill’s Chevy Chase home was part of the last, happily magical normal month with Bing as we finished sailing the Chesapeake and moved through Washington, D.C. on to Williamsburg. We have shared many exhilarating, as well as tough, times together over a number of years.

So having her in town on business tonight and over to dinner with Sandra K. reminded all three of us of “the good ole times” together. My garden was in a “sweet spot” with heritage “Black Krim,” “Better Boy,” and yellow pear tomatoes, cucumbers, bell peppers, Anaheim chilies, and red onions becoming gazpacho. Our beverage was a cucumber, mint, and basil soda, and we had to have zucchini bread.

The evening went by far too quickly.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

In a tone tinged with horror and awe, Akemi exclaimed, “Mom, you have ringlets!” Wet out of the pool in east-coast humidity, my hair was doing its chemo thing. If she had not seen it for herself, I don’t think Akemi would have believed the extent to which my Japanese stick-straight hair has become curly.

All of my life, hair dryers and curling irons have been implements to create the illusion of bend and lift. Moisture always has made my hair go straight and flat, not frizzy. I have heard about how after chemo, hair that was previously straight could grow in curly, and vice versa, and have watched this happen to a number of friends. Since I haven’t lost my hair, I didn’t think this would happen to me, but strangely enough, it has.

Right away after starting chemo almost a year ago, my hair became very brittle and dry. Since it wasn’t falling out, I wasn’t about to complain, and I got lots of advice on how to deal with that. But this curly business really has got me both baffled and fascinated. As each day wears on, I watch my hair start to twist out of its bob with a mind of its own.

Treatments are scheduled through next January, so I still have a ways to go. Will my hair get curlier? Will it go back to being stick-straight once the lingering effects of the chemo dissipate? These are questions that not even my hairdresser knows for sure. (You must be of a certain age to get this punch line.)

Saturday, July 16, 2011

You’ve probably heard that this weekend is supposed to be “Carmageddon” in Los Angeles, the traffic apocalypse of biblical proportions. From last night until early Monday morning, CalTrans has shut down ten miles of the always-busy 405 freeway connecting West Los Angeles to the San Fernando Valley to make road improvements.

The Westside might as well be a foreign country to us San Gabriel Valley residents but the fear has been that the traffic spill-over will create gridlock throughout the rest of the Southland. Just to avoid the possibility, my Pasadena friends and neighbors I’ve talked with are staying put – no one is going anywhere.

My prediction has been that Carmageddon will be a big bust. I, after all, have lived to tell tales of the traffic resulting from the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics. As in, there was none. Because workplaces staggered hours and otherwise did their civic parts to reduce car trips during peak commuting times, There. Was. No. Traffic. From my Paul, Hastings downtown high-rise office, I looked down at the ghost town FKA the 110 freeway.

No matter. After several weeks of in-and-out traveling, I planned on sticking close to home this weekend anyway. My vegetables were ready to pick and I came home from the Chicago trip more tired than I initially realized. I’ll wait to see Harry Potter 7.2 and have a couple of good books to finish to last out the rest of this Carmageddon weekend.