Dancing with a Foreign City Slicker

In 1989, a friend introduced me to her soccer coach but told me to take heed as he was a real partier. Six weeks later, I was dating this humorous man with an intriguing English accent. Three months later, we were driving to Iowa to spend Easter with my family. After we crossed the Mississippi River and entered Iowa farm country, I began my tutorial in Manure 101. The smells along the way were clearly defined for me by my nose. I tried to describe the scent we smelled so as to help Bill differentiate between cow and pig. They were so obviously different; I was having a hard time understanding why he couldn’t smell the difference. Pig manure is stringent. It really stinks and lingers unpleasantly. Cow manure is mellower; it lacks the pungency of that of the smaller hoofed animal. While this lesson entertained us for 1 ½ hours, I was unsuccessful. About five years later, I would realize that Bill really can’t smell much of anything. During this trip, he was most likely making guesses based on nothing he could smell. He was just appeasing me. Wooing me across the heartland.

Arriving at my parents’ house, Bill picked up his duffel bag and I heard a clanking. I asked what it was. “I brought a couple bottles of wine for your parents.” I popped his bubble, “Oh…. They don’t drink.” This grandson of a London pub owner looked at me somewhat bewildered. After the Easter turkey dinner, the bewildered looks jumped to the Murphys. As Bill stood up to help Mom clear the table, amidst blank looks from all the other men still seated around the table, Bill asked, “Could we save the turkey drippings for breakfast?” “Of course,” my mom obligingly replied. She didn’t ask questions. The next morning, baffled by how Bill was planning to dine on drippings, Mom offered to heat them up for Bill. Bill replied, “Oh, no thank you. I just spread it on toast.” “Oh… OK.” No one joined him. (Sidebar: According to Bill, this year’s drippings were excellent. The butter and whole herbs must have added to the flavor. I was also informed that his morning-after tradition isn’t as enjoyable if I’m in the kitchen. In my presence, he feels guilty slathering on the turkey fat. My look has nothing to do with his arteries; I’m just still a little grossed out by the breakfast, even after twenty years of the tradition. “You don’t have turkey drippings every day. I really don’t mind if you have it on occasion,” thinking quietly to myself, just don’t expect me to join in any time soon.)

After we were married, trips to Iowa continued to be learning experiences for all involved. Bill loves getting his hands dirty in projects with Dad and my brothers. One day Dad told Bill to get a pitch fork out of the barn. He went to the middle of the barnyard, stopped, looked at the four buildings, and then came to find me. “Linda, there are four barns out there. How am I supposed to know which one the fork is in?” I went outside with him and started my Barnyard Building 101 tutorial. I pointed to each one and identified them: the shop, the corn crib, the hay shed, and, finally, the barn. I half expected to see Dad laughing behind one of the buildings.

A couple years later, on another adventure in Iowa during corn picking season, all the machinery was in the barnyard. Bill came over to me and said, “You’ve got to see this little field mouse by the combine tire. It’s tiny and the tire is so huge.” I asked, “It’s just sitting there?” thinking it was probably sick. Bill nodded with a smile. I went and had a look. Dad came over to see what we were gawking at. He looked down. “What the hell?” Then… stomp. My delicate dance I had been doing with a foot on either side of the Mississippi ended in a collision of unspeakable magnitude. City meet farm. Dad didn’t miss a beat; he went back to work, but I’m sure Bill’s heart momentarily stopped beating. We didn’t talk about the incident on Murphy soil, but later that day, about the time we were crossing the Mississippi on the way home to Illinois, Bill simply said, “Ya know, I’ve been thinking about that mouse.” I tried to explain that to Dad it was a small version of a big rat, and rats tend to run up pant legs on occasion. Again, my explanation was unsuccessful.

After the mouse incident, Bill placed a special order when Mom wondered what cuts we wanted from our half a hog. Bill asked Mom to get the kidneys for him. “Of course,” mom obligingly replied. This time he explained. Steak and kidney pie was a tradition in England. I’m not sure how Mom told the butcher she wanted pork kidneys, normally refuse. Perhaps the explanation went something like, “You see, my daughter is dancing with a foreign city slicker…”

:)

Linda

Strong Urges

Since August I’ve been given numerous fliers and web sites to study the side effects of the three chemo meds that are in my protocol. I’ve been meaning to sit down and spend a day studying all of it, yet I haven’t made the time. What a dreary day that would be. I’ve scanned the information, but not memorized it so as to make each one come to life through fear.

During appointments, I talk to my doctors about the most likely side effects and how to manage them. I email or call my doctors when I have a question. I call the strong formidable women who’ve walked this road and ask pointed questions. These women know first-hand what to expect and they are usually right on.

Over the last few months, these same women have shared a more important list of “side effects” they’ve experienced through cancer and/or chemo. From their knowledge and my experience, I’ve made my own list:

Strong urges…

To live

To rip off my wig in front of two women smoking on Main Street and scream, “Are you crazy? Don’t invite it in!” (No I didn’t, but the urge was nearly unstoppable.)

To speak my opinion

To vigorously write

To protect my port from hot shower water, afraid the metal might overheat under my skin. (Probably an unrealistic fear.)

To do

To not wait for the perfect time

To make my head comfortable – hat on, hat off, wig on, wig off – throughout the day and night

To get on my knees and play

To pray

I don’t recall any of these side effects listed in the information dispersed from the medical community. Yet, for me, they are real.

Staying strong,

Linda

“My Hair Will Fall Out”

Back in September these were five words that I had to say to Will and Liam. Finding the time, determining the place, developing the set-up, anticipating their response, and forcing myself to just do it – these things were more stressful than any other moment since the day the radiologist gave me that undeniable “you have cancer” look.

I had already been through the “I have a little tumor of breast cancer and the surgeon is going to take it out.” Both understood my sore side and smothered me with gentle kisses (plus one strong kick), asked how I was feeling, and helped me get better with homemade cards. I recovered quickly from all three surgeries. Perhaps not completely back to my normal “farm muscle” self, but enough to take my sons to school, to pick them up every day, and to take care of them after school.

But now to deal with this next stage. There are scads of books on how to talk to children about cancer and chemo. I read through a few of them, none seemed just right. One started with two little girls in tears because their mother had cancer. Another described chemo as a shark eating the cancer cells and attacking some good cells along the way. Its downfall: the illustrations. The bald mother was bright green like an alien. I had no intent to be bald AND green.

I referred back to Cancer 101 that Bill and I had in our local pub after I was diagnosed. We were going to live in the moment. Some moments we would have to deal with cancer, other moments were ours to live as we chose. Cancer could not be a cloud lurking above all of our moments. From all the side effects that could possibly happen, I chose to talk specifically about what would be most noticeable to the boys.

Losing sleep over this imminent conversation, I had to just do it and be done with it. One day after school, I took a bag of hats to the living room and sat down with the boys, and I started my speech. “Remember the surgeries I had to take the cancer out? In a few weeks I’m going to take some strong medicine called chemo to make sure ALL the cancer is gone. And guess what, it’s going to make my hair fall out.” Will’s eyes grew to the size of the silver dollars his grandpa gave him for Christmas. “BUT, when I’m done with the medicine my hair will grow back.” His eyes normalized. “I have a bag of hats here and I’m going to put one on and tuck all of my hair in so you will see how funny I’ll look with no hair.” I put a hat on then let them each choose one to wear. The three of us went to work tucking my hair into a beanie cap. Liam got a big kick out of it, laughing with every lock he pushed under the hat. When the job was done, I said, “There, see how funny I look?” Will, our resident Michael Phelps fan, immediately said, “You don’t look funny. You look like a swimmer.” I grinned. Then I told them that I might wear a wig some times. I asked if they knew what that was. Will wasn’t sure. “It’s fake hair,” I explained. “Mom, I’m going to make a wig for you out of Legos!” That sounded painful, but I knew I would have to wear it if it ever came to be.

Switching gears away from hair, I went onto the second most likely thing that would happen. “There are days when I’ll be tired. I won’t have a lot of energy, so I will do something that you don’t like to do in the middle of the day, Will.” Will’s eyes grew again, “NAP?” “Yes, Will, I’ll take a nap.” He couldn’t believe anyone over three would actually want to do that.

From there I simply asked, “Do you have any questions?” Will did. “Can we go play now?” That was it. Our first talk about chemo was done. Will and I talked more in the days following. I pointedly asked on occasion if he had any questions about chemo. And for the first couple weeks he did, or he just wanted the same information repeated, especially when we talked about my white blood cells. From the Magic School Bus, he knows a little bit about white blood cells. He understands why I’m a drill sergeant when it comes to Purelling and washing hands.

Liam on the other hand doesn’t use or completely understand the word chemo, but I feel comfortable telling him “I’m going for chemo today” because we had our chat. Cancer and chemo are not taboo words in our house. Liam focuses on and understands more of what he sees: my scars. He checks them and then asks me, “Are they still owies, Mom?” Not any more.

We never did read about the green mom because fortunately I never turned green. We never read about the two girls crying because the boys haven’t cried over cancer. Keeping cancer where it should be, in its moment, has helped all of us deal with the cancer, the chemo, and my swimmer’s head.

Staying strong,

Linda

Impersonations

Generally a stickler for calm, quiet, bedtime routines, lately I have wound up in Liam or Will’s bed breaking my own rule. One night, after reading books together in bed, Liam looked at me and whispered, “Mom, do big eyes!” So I opened my eyes as wide as I could. And his big chortle set off my giggles. When he caught his breath, “Again, Mom!” And I did. His belly laughs always remind me of my dad when he’s watching Laurel and Hardy or The Three Stooges. He turned to me a third time and I did big eyes without him asking. I can only describe this vision as a white egg with big eyes. Under his blanket we were little more than a gelatinous mound of laugh muscles.

Will’s favorite is my puffer fish. This is big eyes, plus puffed out cheeks. With my bald but spiky head, it’s pretty much a dead-on likeness. I puff up and as I’m about to turn blue, Will deflates me by pushing the air out of my cheeks. Leaving once again a heap of giggles, as he rubs my spiky head.

For bedtime my current hat of choice is light-weight and bright red. It’s extra big so there’s a puff at the back of my head. I often put it on upstairs before getting into bed, just to take the chill off. One night while I was sitting red-capped on the edge of the tub, brushing Will’s teeth on my normal perch, Bill walked in, grinned and said, “Do you know who you look like?” I knew where he was going. “Yes…. Noddy without the bell.” Laughing, he replied with a big, “YES!” He knows Noddy is my least favorite Sprout star. And there I sat, a replica of that icon.

One morning, running around with only a beach towel loosely draped over one shoulder, I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. I went into the kitchen and asked, “Who am I now?” I was going for Tibetan monk but Bill elevated me to a higher status. “Ghandi.”

Last Saturday morning when Liam and I were making blueberry muffins, Bill started filming the event. Lovely, I’m in my pajamas (matching!) and bra-less, previously wondering whether I wanted my bald era documented in moving pictures. I guess, yes. Bill chuckled as we worked, “Look out Barefoot Contessa, we have Bareheaded Contessa!” Then Will chimed in, “But Dad, Mom is barefoot too… She is the Barefoot and Bareheaded Contessa!!”

After bath time yesterday morning, I threw a bright blue beach towel over Will as he was crouched on another towel on the floor. They usually do snail impersonations after baths, but after reading a frog book the night before, I told Will he looked like a poisonous blue dart frog. As I turned and walked back into the kitchen, I heard a little voice, “OK , Spike! … Ya big porcupine!” He cracked me up. As I grappled with the name-calling, thinking it’s not the behavior normally accepted in this place, I resolved it with the thought that it’s not normal to have a bald mom! And we would just go with the humorous flow.

In September during a giggling episode in bed with Bill on the night of my radioactive PET scan day, I said to Bill, “Do you think being bald will be as funny as being radioactive? He closed the show with a one-liner, “Who loves you, baby?”

While I worked so hard pre-chemo to build my camouflage shtick, little did I know how much fresh material we would have mid-chemo when I took off my designer glasses.

Staying strong and laughing daily,

Linda

Flow

I heard this word a few months ago from an educator talking about how some children think, and even sometimes if we adults slow down, how we can think. As I see it, flow is giving your brain permission to have periods of distraction-free, unguided thinking and doing. I think kids, not yet programmed to time constraints and deadlines, probably fall into flow easier than adults.

I sometimes see Will and Liam go into flow-mode at home on the weekends. I used to worry a little with Will when I saw him sitting quietly, solemnly on the couch, just staring into space. He didn’t look happy, so I would try to implement my “make the baby happy” routine with little success. Then I heard about this flow thing, so I changed my approach with Will during one of these moments.

Me: “What are you thinking about?” Will: “Rockets.” Me: “Is it good?” Will: A slow nod. A slow blink. A slow turn of his head toward me. And a reply, “It’s fantastic.” And then I backed away, I took my toes and my fingers out of his flow. Later, whoosh! He flew into the kitchen, “Mom, I need a paper towel tube and some string.” And with that came the homemade rocketry project.

For Liam, his imagination and actions work hand in hand. If he sat still on a couch for 15 minutes staring into space, I would immediately feel his forehead to check for a fever. He has fallen head over heels in love with hand-held electronic games. He can sit for great spans of time, eyes locked onto the screen. I watch, imagining brain cells silently leaved his body through his ears. Will can play with these things for a half hour and then not touch them for a week. Not so with Liam. I wish putting a timer on would easily solve his little addiction. The problem is that our attempts to transition to another activity, such as getting dressed or eating dinner, end with tantrums. Including words that are against house rules. Last Friday, with steam coming out of my ears, and a probably a few brain cells, I told him all electronics were gone for a week. I boxed everything up and hid the box in Will’s room. To get Liam out of the house and into the van that morning, Bill told him he could have the hand-held in the future. This was a day or two after he and Will had had a great “play date” with Liam’s teacher. Liam gleefully agreed to be buckled into the van, then said, “So, are we going to my teacher’s house or to the future?” I told him we were going to the near-term future: school.

Sunday morning when Liam asked for a hand-held, I brought out the big book of Curious George. Liam perched next to me under a fleece blanket, and we read 307 pages of Curious George adventures. Flow. When I physically couldn’t read any longer, we flipped back to the illustration of how Curious George made boats out of newspaper. We made four and took two to our sleeping buddies upstairs. Intrigued, Will came downstairs and started a newspaper boat factory. It was in operation all day. Flow. Meanwhile, Liam built a pirate ship in the kitchen, constructed a fort in the toy room, and set-up shop with a Play-doh table, also in the kitchen. He rotated between these zones all day. Flow.

By late afternoon, we couldn’t walk without stumbling on a plank from the pirate ship or getting caught up in string attached to twenty boats sailing through the house. From outside looking in, it looked like a tornado had ripped through our house. From the inside… flow.

Staying strong and enjoying flow in the wee hours of the morning,

Linda

Wednesdays

I have realized that Wednesdays are good. I’m either coming out of the fog and ache or coming out of the Nadir period. Wednesday before Thanksgiving I felt tightness all around my incision areas and in my chest. As no one from my oncologist’s office would be in Friday when my chemo was scheduled, I decided to have it checked out Wednesday. I was convinced it was probably fluid collecting, which can happen after this type of surgery, and it would need to be drained. Plus, I mentally needed confirmation that it wasn’t an infection before another hit to my immune system.

The nurse practitioner did a thorough exam and decided it wasn’t fluid. My lungs and heart sounded good. She looked at me and rubbed my left shoulder, “I think you’ve pulled muscles. You’re hunched over protecting your left side. Have you lifted more than normal?” Not that I could think of. “Do you have small children?”

Oh, do they count? I hesitated as the events of the last week flashed before me. Liam wiped out running full-out on the school pavement 100 yards from the van. Yes, there was that 40-pound dead-weight lift from the ground that day and the carry to the van. And then there was the rainy day I boosted him in and out of the van. And the day Will was in tears, so I swept him off the floor onto my lap. “Yes, I have small children.” I felt guilty confessing. “Do you lift them?” The viper-mom in me raised her head and started flicking her tongue, wanting to defend and if necessary attack. I so wanted to reply with my own question in Tom Cruise’s “You-can’t-handle-the-truth!” voice, “Do you have children?” But I stopped. Tamed the viper. I knew her job was to take care of me. My job is to take care of them. And we would have to negotiate a happy medium, which may include a little Ibuprofen to calm the muscles.

My prescription was for my husband to rub my left shoulder. I so wanted to ask for a written prescription to give Bill, but this was the first time I had met this nurse practitioner. I wasn’t sure about her humor level.

At 11:30, happily diagnosed with pulled muscles that required no draining, I decided I could celebrate by having lunch in Boston. White blood cells should have bounced back, appetite was good, achiness was gone. I confirmed with an employee in the elevator that Antonio’s, just across the street from the hospital, was a good little Italian spot. I felt like a kid in a four-story toy store; it was only the 2nd time I’ve been in a restaurant since early October. When I opened the door, the smells of tomato and garlic wafted by me. A crooning Frank Sinatra ushered my ears to the table. Sitting in a restaurant, able to eat shrimp over ziti in a vodka sauce with a little kick. Dipping fantastic fresh Italian bread in olive oil. (Admittedly, I did Purell after feeling the stickiness of the oil bottle. A little germy. Gross.) Then, Spumoni for dessert. But I couldn’t stop there. I thought I would share my happiness with Bill via a piece of tiramisu for dessert after dinner that evening.

Whilst dripping in phenomenal sensory overload, I sat in a safe haven. Hospital staff and restaurant workers, all familiar with chemo baldness. My hat-covered head joined by one other woman in the restaurant from the same planet. She too looked incredibly happy.

Staying strong,

Linda

Black Dirt

I miss good black dirt. Our house and the whole town, if not the state of Massachusetts, is built on ledge – which I define as big rocks. These make for spectacular cliffs but not great planting ground. Throughout town, big pieces of ledge have been blasted to make room for houses. A new house in our area sits six feet from a newly blasted rocky cliff. No backyard. Just a back rock.

We have rocky muckish colored dirt that’s filled with broken glass. Apparently our property was a dump for glass bottles years ago. We have a ridge of maple trees all around our property. The boys love climbing up the hill and hiding in the trees. But every spring before the leaves pop, I search the hill for glass brought to the surface by the spring thaw. Hours I spend picking up broken glass so it doesn’t end up in a little boy’s hand.

Two years ago I decided to create a small flower garden at the bottom of the ridge. I took a spade to my pathetic looking dirt and slowly turned it over. Revealing rocks and glass with every twist of the shovel. Occasionally striking a rock that would jar me to the core. Frequently murmuring, “This sucks.” After thirteen years at the same house in Illinois, I had an English country garden. It started as a hill in the backyard, and after mowing it for two seasons, I had a bigger vision. Instead of scalping it every time I mowed, I was going to plow it up. Mom and Dad gave me a tiller for my birthday and I put Bill to work, pushing the tiller and ripping up the sod. After I got the grass chunks killed off, I started planting. Anything I put in the ground grew in my sun-drenched rich soil. I kept a stone path through the flowers down the hill. When we left the house, the flowers were firmly established and more than waist-high. Glorious. And now, oh woe is me, I have four inches of mucky rock-filled, glass-filled, shade-filled pitiful dirt.

While I’m a little overwhelmed by my dirt and how to make it productive, my friend in town has created the most spectacular garden over the last fifteen years. Growing up in Michigan, I imagine she was used to good dirt as well, better than ledge anyway. Her garden was a paved drive when she bought her house. She had it jack-hammered out and then went about creating, encouraging and feeding the ground. The result is breathtaking. And she continuously nurtures her dirt, bringing in horse manure and collecting weekly droppings from a friend’s rabbit.

And as I bemoan my rock-filled earth, I’m having a vision of a clear Iowa cornfield ready for spring planting. And now a flashback: I know why there are no rocks in it. Growing up, Dad would pull a hay rack behind a tractor while Mom, Grandma Murphy, and us kids picked up rocks and chucked them on the rack. For years, freshly turned earth revealed new rocks that had to be removed before planting corn and beans.

So, I’m waiting for the boiling point when I just decide I need a flower garden. Deep down, I know where it’s going to be. We have a big barren piece of shady backyard. And for two or three years I’ve resisted seeding it. To me it needs to be landscaped. To Bill it needs grass. To me, I think it needs borders. Flower-filled borders. I believe we’ve been having a subconscious duel. I’m revving up the tiller and getting a lead on horse and rabbit poop. Ah, that will need to wait until spring; I don’t think my oncologist would want me playing in that right now.

Staying strong, but missing black dirt,

Linda

A Fowl Story

“Play date” was not a part of my family’s vocabulary when I was a kid. The closest thing we ever had to a play date was "a visit" from my aunts and our cousins. And in late summer, with my cousins who also lived on a farm, that meant it was time to butcher chickens. My lack of interest in cooking whole fowl most likely stems from those butchering days. As my mom and my aunt quickly cut the heads off, they would let those flip-flapping bodies loose. And even without eyes, headless chickens can chase nine kids with incredible accuracy. The safest place to run was to the back of the pick-up truck. Barefooted, we flew across the gravel drive to clamber up the bumper and over the tail gate. Once they were still, Mom brought out boiling water and filled five gallon buckets to dip them in so as to loosen the feathers. Then each of us kids had work to do: plucking. The soft feathers were easiest to pull out. The wings were the toughest. The little kids would pull the easy ones and then us older kids and our moms would have to clean-up what the 5-year-olds left on each chicken. And as we worked, those boy cousins would always try to whack us girls on the bare legs with a dead chicken. We choreographed our own chicken dance to avoid contact.

My aunt would oversee the plucking while mom built a fire in the 55 galloon fire barrel. After we plucked, my mom and my aunt would hold the naked chickens over the fire to singe off all the tiny pin feathers and hair. As younger kids, that ended our work and the “play date” could commence while Mom and my aunt went about cleaning and cutting up the chickens to freeze. The next play date would be at my aunt’s house to butcher her chickens. Coincidentally, at one of those get-togethers, one of those same boy cousins planted a big, dead bull snake on the doorstep of their house hoping his mom would step on it. However, my mom, carrying a big tray of chickens to the truck, walked out of the house and stepped on it with her bare feet. The tray blocked her view of the trap. My cousin was mortified when my mom stepped on it! That black thing all neatly coiled up was more the size of a small python than a Gartner snake.

The 24 chickens butchered that day would not even make a dent in Mom’s freezer space. I think a small cow would fit in each of her freezers. Every time I go home they seem to grow in enormity. There are three of them in the basement, referred to as the freezer on the west wall, the freezer on the south wall under the stairs and the freezer on the south wall against the west wall. Mom has a running catalog in her head as to what is in each freezer – all are nearly full.

Mom and Dad gave Bill and me a small deep freeze as a wedding gift. After a trip home to Mom and Dad’s, I think of my freezer as a baby offspring of theirs. The contents of our freezers point to the different path my life has taken. Away from the farm. Away from the meat locker. Mom and Dad rarely buy beef and pork at the store. They buy a pig from their neighbor and fill their freezer with beef from cattle they’ve raised. Their freezer is filled with neat white packages of meats processed at the locker, no per pound cost listed on each package. I feel like I have to pay for all my meat twice: once at the grocery store and again I get to see what it costs when it comes out of the freezer.

I can tell you one thing that I rarely see in Mom’s freezer… whole chickens and bone-in chicken parts. I’m guessing Mom got her fill of whole fowl too. I know exactly where my bag of individually frozen chicken breasts is and I bet Mom knows which freezer hers are in as well.

(Written on Thanksgiving Day as I think about that big bird in my fridge and hope that Bill will take on the role of head bird baker today.)

Little did I know... Turkey and Fire...

:)

Staying strong, Linda

(Another fowl story!  Roosters.)

Turkey and Fire

In anticipation of our friends coming from NYC for Thanksgiving, I bought a fresh 15-pound turkey about 10 days before Thanksgiving. The “good until date” was November 28 – refrigerated or frozen. That seemed a long time even for a brined turkey to be in the fridge, but despite Mom’s suggestion that I freeze it, I left it in the fridge.

Around 1 p.m. on Thanksgiving Day, Bill – my designated bird man – cut open the plastic. “Does this smell, OK?” If Bill was asking the question, I should have known immediately that something was amiss. It did smell…. different. I looked up “brined turkey smell” on-line and discovered brining doesn’t affect the smell. “Call your Mom!” Bill fervently suggested. So I did. I’m not sure why: Voice goes through a phone line; voice and picture go through Skype. Nothing instantly transmits smell. But based on our description of the smell, or perhaps the quiver in my voice, Mom agreed: don’t risk it.

I flew out of the house at 1:10, leaving Bill with the foul bird and the smell that was turning my stomach. Our supermarket was closed, so I decided to go to the next town and check on that supermarket. But enroute, I passed our little grocery store in town – parking lot full with a big open sign! They had four or five 20+ pound Butterball turkeys in the fridge case, but as I poked at them I knew they weren’t completely thawed. Then a guy behind the counter said, “Whatcha lookin’ for?” I replied, “A turkey.” Amazingly, he said, “I have one fresh turkey left in the back.” He said it loud enough for other customers to clearly hear. So just in case I had competition I the crowd, I shouted, “I’ll take it!” A 20-pounder for four people. It had to go in the oven soon if we wanted to eat before 10 p.m. The store had no more aluminum roasting pans. I called Bill, “You need to wash the pan and preheat the oven.” His reply, “I just put the pan in the garbage with the turkey. I’ll go dig it out.” Poor guy. I was the lucky one traipsing down Main Street with a 20-pound turkey, a little more weight than I should be lifting. I got it in the van, quickly Purelled, and motored for home.

At 1:25 I wheeled into the house. Bill washed the new, fresh-smelling bird while I snipped fresh rosemary and washed fresh thyme. The herbs were supposed to be nicely chopped, worked into softened butter, and delicately placed under the skin. But Bill just gave the turkey a quick rub of butter and stuffed the whole herbs under the skin and into the hole; then we shoved the bird in the oven at 1:35. Ahhh.

We went about enjoying the afternoon, playing football and waiting for our friends to arrive. By the way, ask Bill who has the best spiral throw in the Tinkler household… Actually, it may pain him to admit it: Me! It’s obvious who grew up in cricket land and who grew up in football country.

At turkey reveal time and as Bill gently pulled the pan out of the oven, some of the juices overflowed into the bottom of the oven. The turkey safely landed intact on the counter. We were ready for the second shift of roasted veggies, stuffing, and popovers in the oven. But the oven was smoking from the little spill. Despite fans whirling and the kitchen door wide open, our eyes were watering and our throats were full of smoke.

Then flames appeared in the oven. Bill headed for the fire extinguisher; I turned the oven off; and our friends, well, amused or bewildered, I’m not sure, remained very calm. As Bill reached for the oven door, I suggested we leave it closed and not feed the fire with oxygen. Plus, I didn’t want to commit to buying a new stove so soon. And, how would we get the second shift baked after a chemical spray in the cooking bay? Looking back, the flames were not huge, but there shouldn’t be flames in the oven so at the time they were enormous! We patiently watched the 6-inch high wisps of fire burn off the fat as we took turns standing at the open door to get fresh air. Twenty minutes later the flames were gone and in went the accompaniments. Around 8 p.m. we sat down to a great Thanksgiving feast, including stuffing with homemade roasted chestnuts, which we roasted in the oven pre-fire.

And would you believe, there sat my wig AGAIN on the Dartingon vase???

Staying strong and thankful for good friends and for good humor,

Linda

The Layer Cake

Liam and I could easily become FoodTV junkies. Recently, while watching an early evening special on dessert making, I whispered to Liam, “Do you like to watch cooking or football better?” No reply, he was too engrossed in the egg breaking and flour pouring. After watching one cake being made, Liam said, “Mom, I need to make a real cake.” Even though it was 6 p.m., I relented. We hauled the KitchenAid up from the basement. We got all the ingredients out – “all” being three, including the cake mix. At 6:05 Bill zipped out to the store to get vegetable oil for us.

Liam eagerly completed each step. We broke our first egg together, and I used the biggest piece of shell to scoop out the little pieces. Then I gritted my teeth as he claimed, “I can do it myself now.” There were no shells in the last two eggs! We counted to 30 and watched while the ingredients slowly blended. Then we set the timer and watched the batter spin for two minutes. I turned it off and lifted the mixer attachment, and without hesitation, Liam leaned in and started licking the mixer attachment. His interest in the remaining tasks waned. As he finished his mixer lollipop, I poured half the batter into a round pan and half into a square pan. They were the first pans to surface from the back of the cupboard. I will never get invited to Ina Garten’s based on merits of my creation of a layer cake. With the circle precariously balanced on the square, it looked more like a squatty satellite on a stand than anything remotely edible.

But we still served it to our dinner guests the following night and no one complained. They were probably too awestruck after having had to eat dinner while gazing at my wig perched atop the Dartington vase. I didn’t realize until after they had left that I hadn’t put it upstairs. Thankfully, they are good, established friends.

To provide advance warning to our guests of the oddities they may find in our house, I need a little plate like Mom has had on her kitchen wall for years. It reads: “Come in, sit down, relax, converse. Our house doesn’t always look like this. Sometimes it’s even worse.”

Staying strong with a forkful of milk chocolate frosted chocolate cake,

Linda

Granddad's Pre-Sermon Prayer

Another letter arrived from Grandma Mills last week. I read only “O Lord” and knew it was Granddad’s voice on paper. In addition to his beautiful prayers, my gut says he had a knack for writing.

According to Grandma, this is “Granddad’s prayer he used when he gave the sermon in church once.”

I think it could apply to just about any time, any day, not just on a Sunday morning in a small Methodist church.

With an OK from Grandma, I am sharing Granddad’s voice.

“O Lord, grant that each one who has to do with me today may be happier for it.

Let it be given me each hour today what I shall say, and grant me the wisdom of a loving heart that I may say the right thing rightly.

Help me to enter into the minds of everyone who talks with me and keep me alive to the feelings of each one present.

Give me a quick eye for little kindnesses that I may be ready in doing them and gracious in receiving them.

Give me quick perceptions of the feelings and the needs of others, and make me eager hearted in helping them.

Amen.”

Amen.

Halfway done!

We just got home from MGH. I'm halfway through chemo! And I didn't have to stand on my head to get the port to work!

The next four sessions will be infusions of Taxol. I was told today that there is less likelihood of nausea with Taxol; no set nausea meds to take after the first infusion 12/11, only a boat load if I happen to experience nausea. Unsure of the side effects of Taxol, one friend on Taxol now said there was more achiness, but she's on her way to New York City tomorrow, so I don't think it has phased her to much.

We had a lovely Thanksgiving dinner, eventually. Watch for a longer story on Turkey and Fire. :) No damage, just a bit of excitement. It was made a true holiday by many. Our friends from New York City cooked and ate Thanksgiving dinner with us, complete with roasted chestnuts and the best stuffing ever. Friends near and far sent goodies and recipes for my friend Carol to make for us. Cranberry muffins, salad oil coffee cake, pumpkin muffins with cranberry & apple compote, banana chocolate chip muffns. Plus some English goodies to top it off, tucked around a Christmas cactus and a mum. And, we rounded out the week's meals with your gifts for "Fill the Freezer" with frozen food from Trader Joe's: a curry evening, lobster ravioli, pesto and tomato pizza, plus lots more goodies in the freezer. It felt like all of you were here.... and we cooked enough food that you easily could have been here and not gone hungry! Thank you!

Looking forward to a quiet weekend with my family.

Staying strong,

Linda

Grace

I keep needing and wanting a definition for grace. Is it a quiet blanket that provides calm? Thrown over a situation it melts away the impurities, the untruths, the frenzy and leaves only goodness. Grace is a peacemaker. It slows a building of energy. It appreciates every one as a creature of God. It balances Godliness with freedom of choice. When freedom abounds, fast and furious, grace, like a warm fleece blanket, douses the flame a bit, protects the Godliness. Reminds us what we truly are.

Grace is quiet. Grace is confident. I think of Mom when Grandma Murphy died. I was frenzied. Mom wasn’t cooking! How had the system broken down? Mom always cooks! Then the food began to arrive. Neighbors, friends and family appeared at our door with plates and bowls of food. Not necessarily a call beforehand, no scramble to vacuum a floor or clean the table off. Quietly, calmly Mom accepted help. The thing is Mom knew before the knocks came to the door. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been talking with Mom about, “What are you up to today?” And she is making food for someone. The guys are in the field and need sandwiches. A neighbor is ill. A farm friend has died. A young mother has a very sick little boy. Mom has worked it out. Grace through caring for others. At least while eating, those families have a half hour of warmth from someone who cares, the pain is momentarily eased. Mom’s cooking is her gift. Mom’s appearance at a friend’s house with a meal is grace, a fleece blanket to help the situation seem more bearable. Mom has shown me the power of grace not only in giving it but, perhaps more importantly, in accepting it.

But what do I do with it? I pray for God’s grace that I in turn may be graceful, gracious, full of grace. It’s a beautiful word and I sometimes recognize grace when I see it, but I have a hard time conjuring it up. Perhaps that’s the problem. Perhaps grace is a slow simmering pot of delicious stew, melding all the flavors together. And after stewing for a couple hours, the bubbles pop emitting not the smell of ingredients, but the smell of stew. It’s a culmination of events that produce grace, but yet, it’s not produced. Grace just happens.

But how to deal with it? Emitting grace is more imaginable, easier perhaps, than accepting grace. In our lives, busy and full, grace seems more elusive. However, in every day, there are tiny but great moments of grace. Sadly, our society misses many of these because we’re self-absorbed in the to-dos, should-dos and really need-to-dos. As a parent, some moments, thankfully, hit me in the face. A scream from the living room, “Mom!!” A frenzied return from the kitchen, “What?” A reply, “I love you!” “…Oh.” Like being tapped by the wing of an angel. A gift of grace. And if I dry my hands in the kitchen and go to the living room and hug my cherub, that’s accepting grace.

This brings me back to my biggest quandary: recognizing and accepting that more subtle grace as it moves about daily. How? First the world needs to spin a bit slower so that I can “see” grace when it happens. If only grace traveled as a recognizable fleece blanket, neatly folded, I could keep my eye on it. Then when I see it expand and cover something, that would be my “aha” moment. Assuming it’s spotted, and, oh dear God, it’s going to land on me. Do I want to be covered? Shall I run? Why? What will I do when it lands? Frenzy. I close my eyes. I plant my feet. I am quiet. I feel the tap of an angel wing. It’s beautiful, heavenly. And all I can return is a whisper. “Thank you.”

Rocket Fuel

Sunday morning was a PJ morning. (Coincidentally, my bottoms and top happened to match!) Late in the morning, Will droopily walked into the kitchen and with big sad eyes and a dejected voice said, “Mom… I need rocket fuel.” Before I could respond, Bill replied, “Will, I’m going to the garage right now.” I got a wink, a nod, and a thumbs-up before he went out the door. I saw only electrical wires come into the house.

Friday we stayed at school a bit longer so Will could fly his rocket down the big hill. He had made it: a paper towel roll body, a paper nose cone and a Kleenex parachute. He spent several minutes testing the rocket – throwing it up into the air, spiraling it straight forward, and releasing it while running.

Forty-eight hours later, and after spending Saturday with Bill and another dad/son combo at a Legos convention, Will is asking for rocket fuel. I rarely halt any experiments, unless they involve hot water or fire. Or a toilet bowl brush. And now, rocket fuel. My presence in this house gives the scientific word “control” a whole new meaning in experiments.

During our PJ morning and before breakfast, there was an hour or so of great peace in the house. At one point it was so quiet, I was convinced that Will was probably building Legos in the toy room and Liam was taping some trains together in the living room. I knew they were not together. But then I heard giggles. They were great buddies this morning! I briefly thought about joining in, but then I remembered a line from when they were babies, “Never try to make a happy baby happier.”

Fifteen minutes later, I couldn’t resist, I had to peek. They were in the living room inside a house they had built, complete with fleece blankets and pillows. About the same time I saw them, my other senses kicked in. I smelled chocolate. I heard Liam, in his not yet perfected whisper, “Will, can you open this?” Giggle, giggle. Chortle, chortle. Between the two of them was a gallon bag of Halloween candy. They were absolutely giddy when I busted them. They had pulled one over on me. They knew. I knew. “How many have you had?” There’s my Will, the oldest, the pleaser, “None.” Then my Liam looked at me, grinned and shrugged.

No shelf is out of reach in our house. High shelves are just bigger challenges with greater rewards.

Staying strong and trying to stay one step ahead...

:)
Linda

An MRI Girl

“Why should I keep these breasts if my annual mammograms aren’t effective?” I had been doing everything right. My surgeon’s response: “You are an MRI girl.” And guess what, I didn’t know I was an MRI girl until my breast cancer surgeon told me. In fact, I have probably been an MRI girl my whole adult life.

I have fibrocystic breasts, which is pretty common. My jaw nearly hit the floor when I saw the film from my mammogram as my surgeon said, “The problem is your breast tissue and cancer both appear white.” Indeed, the entire film was white. “The radiologist made a good catch; you were lucky.” This she said as she pointed to a smallish starburst, similar to pinching your shirt and giving the material a twist. That’s all there was on the mammogram. So that day, at 43 years old and not yet fully diagnosed with Stage IIa invasive ductal carcinoma, with one cancerous lymph node, I learned that I am an MRI girl. That means, after chemo and radiation, my follow-ups will be alternating every six months between a mammogram and an MRI. Had I had an MRI earlier, had my preventative plan included an MRI on occasion, well, perhaps I wouldn’t be bald now.

The task force currently suggesting the screening age be moved from women 40 years old to 50 years old claim to be making this recommendation not on costs but on scientific research. I don’t completely understand the members’ rationale. Stress is mentioned. Are the task force’s opinions weighing the benefits of mammograms with the “false positives” picked up by mammograms, causing stress in women who are left for some times weeks with the uncertainty of what the blip on the screen really is? That uncertainty was the most difficult part of this whole process, undeniably so. But knowledge is power. In the end, knowledge doesn’t always come easily. The school of hard knocks. It still exists.

As an MRI girl, WITH MY BREAST TYPE, I have a complete lack of faith in mammograms. For me, they are archaic. They are effective screening mechanisms for many women and my oncologist reminds me that it did pick up the cancer but… I am an MRI girl. And because of that I’ve had five areas biopsied, I’ve had numerous ultrasounds, I’ve had two MRI’s, I’ve had a PET scan, I’ve had three surgeries, I’m having chemo, and I’ll have radiation. Here and now, I’m thankful for each and every one of these treatments. Here and now, I’m choosing not to lift the heavy curtain, not to share the physical details of any of these treatments. Should I, the task force would have even a shinier new definition of stress.

When new computers come out, we wait for the hype to settle and when that happens, the price decreases and even more people buy. The economics of breast cancer screening does not work that way. I believe there are two reasons it was never suggested that I have a screening MRI: The cost of the initial test and the likelihood of false positives, of seeing too much, which would result in more expensive tests and biopsies.

As for a sampling of costs associated with my treatment, my MRI’s were approximately $2,500 each and one 6 mg shot of Neulasta, the white blood cell booster, is $3,000. As for seeing too much, while uncomfortable, I’d rather have had five sites biopsied a year or two ago than be wearing a red cap on my bald head today at 3 a.m.

Medical Expenses

One goal for the day: To go through four inches of unopened bills in the medical file.

Progress: All have been opened and are now dispersed into nine different vendor piles.

The review: Many are from the summer. Operation prep, biopsies, metal clip placement to mark the tumors, the surgeon, three surgeries. I haven’t delved into the costs to see if they are accurate, nor have I really felt like reviewing the physical details.

Instead, my attention turns to another smaller, manageable one-service date affair. The expenses of September 18, 2009. The day of the seal.

There are two sets of billings, one from the hospital and one from the doctor. Knowing the details of the day, I find great humor in the billing descriptions.

From the hospital “ER Charge – Level 2” $220 *** Each showing of Nemo =$110 -- Plus there’s a slight discrepancy: we were Level 4 the day of the event.

From the hospital “Removal of foreign body” $200 *** The rock was removed with long-handled tweezers owned by the hospital. Foreign body? It was a home-grown rock.

From the doctor “Physician” $86 *** Diagnosis: “Liam, you have a rock in your nose.” Well-established before the trip.

From the doctor “Surgery” $357 *** 20-second operation of long-handled tweezers.

From the hospital “Service Charge” $6 *** Bubbles? Crayons? Purell? Probably Purell.

Nearly $900. I think a variety pack of crochet hooks would run less than $10.

The bottom line: What I already knew. I would be independently wealthy if paid for the services I provide.

:)

Linda

;'')

(In response to friend's and family's support through commenting to my postings)

Last February, I reawakened a 25-year-old passion for writing and, in the last few months, I have found either straight-forward or round-about ways… big breath… to share what I write. While most of what I write is not in a nut shell, there are certainly times when I am left wordless.

I often read through the comments that some of you have left. They make me laugh; they make me think; they make me thankful. And some I can respond to and some I cannot. So this afternoon, I need to clear the air. You need to know that I read them all. You need to know that sometimes I stand up and walk away, speechless… wordless. You need to know that if there’s a lack of reply, my screen may be blurry, my keyboard may be wet, but I have a smile on my face.

Many times on this journey I have shed tears, but a minority of them have been over this crazy thing called cancer. In a world where the headlines are negative and where our knee-jerk reaction is sometimes cynical, I am left in awe: there is much kindness in the world. And that bowls me over regularly. More than breast cancer ever has.

Staying strong with occasional happy tears -> ;’’)

Linda

A Mish-Mash

Some days I’m better at collecting words and typing them from old journal entries than writing new words. Today is one of those days.

September 26, 2009 (a mish-mash of words and thoughts)

Choice. There’s always a choice.

Deb’s corn bags are wonderful. A couple minutes in the microwave and they radiate heat to achy parts like magic. Deb makes these bags using field corn – perhaps imported to Massachusetts from Iowa? :)

The moment is the safest place to be, breathing in and out.

I told a friend I LOVE fall because of the change. She laughed at me, “It’s the same every year!” Aha, so it’s safe change.

Occasionally, I call Dad in the middle of the day… and he always answers his cell phone. Last week I caught him while he was feeding the cows in the timber. I got to hear the cows!! Of course, they were vocal because he had stopped mid-chore to talk to me, so the conversation didn’t last long. He was getting butted left, right and center. It was good to hear the cows. Going to the farm with the boys is ritualistic. We do a hunt for all the tractors, see if they have an orange triangle on the back, sit on the tractors with their uncle. Dad takes us in his pickup truck for a drive to the timber to see the cows. In the spring this meant looking for tiny clumps of fresh clean fur – baby calves. Spring break 2010 in Iowa? I want to kiss the black dirt and the dusty gravel.

End of journal entry.

Staying strong,
Linda

Frustration

This is not my speed. I slept from 7 p.m. until 5:30 a.m. After ten hours of sleep, I am normally a power house. And I was for about four hours this morning. Then, poof. Energy gone, back to the same old Day 5 fog, ache and tiredness. After sleeping that long, I thought for sure I would be going all day. But, no. It was a quick adrenaline rush full of power. In a few short hours it left me shaky, and then wiped out. This must be “fatigue.”

I’m sitting in the basement amidst our new storage units in the guest bedroom. We bought a house with square rooms and little storage; we are not square people with a little bit of stuff. We carted lots of stuff from Chicago to Boston, and, four years later, we are still unpacking. This room is my chemo project. This morning I did manage to empty one box of games into my new storage unit. Every day I’m working in it a little bit so that by the end of chemo the basement will be organized. And like my three-year-old Liam, or perhaps more like my 89-year-old Grandma Murphy, “I’m doing it myself.” Whether moving three books to the shelves, ten games to a cupboard or one pencil to the newly found supply cabinet, my aim is to work on it throughout these chemo days until it’s full. It’s a clean plate just waiting for my touch, my design, my energy. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll have a bit more energy.

For now, it’s warm tea, a warm cap, warm corn bags, warm fleece blanket, perhaps a nap… and not a lot of patience for this pace.

Staying strong but feeling ornery,

Linda

The Wig and the Real Hair

I nearly did her in a week ago! Last Saturday I put my wig on in the morning and wore it all day. With fewer cactus needles, it’s much more comfortable and it keeps heat in -- although I prefer not wearing it in the house. Anyway, Liam and I started preparing the rice. He is all about cooking right now. Loves it! I put the rice on the stove, washed the asparagus—basically the normal supper time groove. Then it happened: I took the lid off the rice and my glasses fogged up. I sprung back away from the stove. The tenderness of the situation hitting me full force. I may very well have singed my $400 wig on the very first day I wore it for any length of time. I zipped to the bathroom. My bangs were intact. Whew!

My college friend and her daughter were here last week while Bill was working in China. The first night they arrived I put a casserole in the oven for dinner. I opened the oven door and it happened again. Whoosh! Hot steamy air heading straight for my hair! I leaned back to let the steam escape in front of me. Closing the door, I zipped to the bathroom again. My bangs were still intact. I went downstairs where our guests were unpacking. “Guys, I need to take my wig off to cook, and I want you to know that so you aren’t shocked to come upstairs and see me bald in the kitchen. OK?” So I did a private reveal and they were both OK with it.

A few nights ago I thought I should do a “check” with Will. We’ve started playing a game of “you ask me any two questions and I ask you any two questions.” They are usually questions of favorites, but I make it clear that any topic is fair game. The question I needed answered, “Will, do you like my wig or my bald head better?” His immediate reply, “Hmm, I like them both,” sounding a bit disappointed at the lack of complexity of the question. Whew! I know where Liam stands. Often when I have the wig on, he’ll point to it and say, “I want spiky hair!” We’ve talked about the fact that when it’s on my head it’s mine and only I can take it off. Finally after many checks with Bill, he says he doesn’t mind one way or another. I love him.

I had cupboards installed in the basement and it took a day to install them, so I went down in the morning and had a chat with the two guys, then said, “By the way I’m on chemo and I don’t always wear my wig in the house. So you will probably see me bald.” “No problem!”

A good friend stopped by one day and I answered the door wigless. She didn’t faint and seemed to feel comfortable. So... I have established my home as wig-free territory, at least until the snow flies. If you stop by, don’t be surprised if I answer the door as Baldy. I’m OK with it. But if you really aren’t, I understand completely. I would rather dress for your visit than not have your visit. :)

If you’re curious…
The wig is washable. If I wear it daily, I need to wash it once a month in cool water, then hang it on a wig stand to dry. As it dries, it bounces back into style. An easy shake and quick comb should bring it back to its original look.

I know where to place it because the front of the wig should be set the width of four fingers, laid horizontally, above my eyebrows. It’s amazing how accurate that is. By the way, if you are a true friend, you will tell me if something is a little askew. I would tell you if you had a bugger. That’s normal conversation in our house.

Most of the dark hair on my head is gone, but I still see and feel a lot of hair. What’s left is blonde – or gray from the week of expereementing. If I’m really this gray, I’m putting Katie, my hair dresser, on alert now to restore my “true” color in the spring the minute I’m released from chemo life and have put the wig in long-term storage. I’ve heard I may have to wait a while before going back to my color. The hair now is softer than the original full-head-of-hair crew cut of Halloween. A friend of mine said it feels like chick fuzz. And that’s what it feels like when I walk: The relative wind I create moves it. It reminds me of walking through of a roomful of cobwebs gently brushing my scalp. I get the same sensation on my legs, but that’s a different story.

Staying strong and not quite hairless,
Linda