Iowa Trivia

Some factual, some based on opinion…

Farmers “grow” corn and “raise” cattle. The two are not interchangeable.

Most discussed topic in Iowa: the weather.

The joke we’ve all heard: What does IOWA stand for? Idiots Out Wandering Around – but we know which state is famous for growing potatoes and which state is the Buckeye state. (P.S. from my cousin Jane: Iowa is always first or second in national education test scores.)

The state bird: Eastern gold finch.

State motto: Our liberties we prize and our rights we will retain.

The first person to feel a slump in the economy: the farmer.

The last person to feel a jump in the economy: the farmer.

Where most visitors congregate: the kitchen table. The path to the kitchen table is well-worn by farm boots. To go into the living room with boots on is a faux pas. Although it may be bemoaned, to the kitchen table is generally accepted.

Farmers discuss who and what they know and expect you to be on the inside; even in if you aren’t from there, the assumption is made that you’ll understand all references. Or, perhaps, it could be construed that if you don’t know it’s none of your business.

Two knives used in Iowa: the butcher knife – obvious use; the paring knife – all other cutting needs.

The state oven temperature: 350 degrees. I’m still leery of any recipe calling for a temperature of over 375 degrees. Ten more years living out-of-state and I might get a bit more comfortable with 450.

The state chicken part: the wishbone. We all fought for it. I’ve never seen it outside of Iowa.

The state line signs: “Welcome to Iowa. A place to grow.”

Bill’s sister’s description of Highway 20, a very straight road across Iowa: “This looks like a long road to nowhere.”

“Is this heaven?” “No, it’s Iowa.” – This famous baseball diamond still exists in Dyersville, IA, just off of Highway 20. Bill and I have played ball there in what seems to be a perpetual summer game. People bring picnics, gloves, bats and balls. Kids get 5 - 10 pitches. Players rotate through the positions without formal set-up or direction. Cornfields border the outfield. A little piece of heaven.

:)

Linda

Hungry Cow Mentality

All went well yesterday, yet another long day. However, I made it through the second round of Taxol with no allergic reaction so my last two infusions should be OK. Allergic reactions usually happen in the first two rounds. I took my fuzzy pink socks and my fleece blanket but still couldn’t get to sleep when I felt the effects of Benedryl.

The countdown: two infusions left. I should feel myself, over the final aches from chemo, by February 1st.

I’m back to split shift sleeping. I was up from 1 – 4 a.m. last night. I took Ibuprofen at 4 a.m. as I felt my face start to ache. This morning I’m beet red in the face, so I called MGH. It’s a side effect of the 10 Decadrons I had in preparation for the infusion yesterday.

Yesterday, I needed a little inspiration before going back to MGH. I looked back to a journal entry I made at the end of July after talking to my dad.

July 30, 2009

Dad told me about the neighbor’s cattle getting into his cornfield on the west side of the lane. I asked if something spooked them and if that’s why they lunged through the barb wire fence. Dad thinks they were just trying to get food – not getting fed enough on their side of the fence so they just “went for it” to get the corn. Throwing all thought to harm aside, crashing through to get what they needed: healthy food. Perhaps I will need a hungry cow mentality through chemo. Stop clambering over the fence. Take a deep breath. Cuss a little bit. And go headlong through it, pounding hooves until the last round… and getting what I want on the other side. Leaving cancer behind me.

End of journal entry.

It worked. I put on my gingerbread fleece hat, dangly earrings, and walked into MGH ready to give the fence another strong, solid kick. Mom has always said “kill them with kindness.” Yesterday I turned that to mean keep a smile on my face. I smiled. I said “hi” to the familiar faces, and they returned my smile. I was glad to see those who were helping me kick the fence down. I relied on words from both Mom and Dad yesterday. My face wasn’t going to be one worn down with this exercise. At the end of the six-hour day, my chemo nurse said, “I’m really proud of you. You are sailing through this. And I really mean that.”

I didn’t explain my hungry cow inspirational reading from the night before or the killing with kindness theory. I just said ‘thank you’ when she gave me a big hug as we left to pick up the boys.

Staying strong,

Linda

Back to Work

This morning some people are taking a deep breath or sighing in relief that this four days of craziness has ended. I could quite happily exist in that unending pandemonium for a few more days. Instead, I’m heading to Boston at noon for my second Taxol treatment. I took five Decadron last night and will take five more this morning to help prepare my body. It's a double duty med as I used it to keep nausea at bay after the first four treatments, now it will help my body accept Taxol. I’m expecting another seven-hour day and truthfully I’m not too excited about it.

Perhaps it was Christmas coming, but I felt great after the last round of aches through Day 5. It was hard to keep a short leash. I kept thinking of things to do and places to go to celebrate the approaching holiday. All involved crowds of strange grown-ups and children. The Nutcracker Ballet. The Polar Express train ride. Taking the boys to Boston. Running to the mall. I was talking to a friend about this and she suggested just picking one thing and doing it. That was Bill’s work party. All grown-ups. Bill served up my food so I wouldn’t have to touch buffet spoon handles. It worked, and it was nice to dress up and get out. Actually, it worked so well, I decided to go to our neighbors' holiday party a week later -- again all grown-ups and Bill helped me with serving utensils. Another bubbly fun night out.

I went to Bill’s party the eve after my first Taxol treatment. That day at MGH, we had a little extra time between appointments. Bill and I popped into a little boutique for breast cancer patients to see if I could find a festive hat to wear to the party instead of the wig. Several hats were enormous, way too big for my head. Then I saw an adorable black derby-like hat with a small rhinestone pattern on the side and a very thin brim. It looked great on! I turned to Bill to see what he thought. When I looked up at him, the little brim hit the back of my neck and the hat rolled off my head, took a couple bounces, and landed on the floor four or five feet away from me. We cracked up. I thought it was a fluke, but it happened again on the second try.
The saleswoman, who was watching this unfold, suggested wearing a scarf underneath. That seemed to make sense: the hat wouldn’t be against my smooth scalp – the scarf might act like an adhesive. So we tried that. It was a little more stable, but then I threw my head back faking a big laugh and POP! Off it went with a little more force, landing further away. “Guess I’m not wearing a hat tonight!” I told Bill. We thanked the saleswoman. She gave us a rather pitiful “you-have-cancer-AND-the-hat-won’t-stay-on-your-head look.” Later I thought I should have told her I probably could have done the same trick with a full head of hair.

Given I’m 5’4” and a good portion of the Bill’s colleagues are over 6’, I’m glad we discovered the magic in the hat at the store rather than at the party. Although, with a different set of guests, it would have been a very funny party trick. ;)

Staying strong and going back to work,

Linda

Capturing Christmas Week in Quotes

While snuggling with Will and wearing my now infamous red Noddy hat, Will looks at me. I expect an “I love you,” but it is Christmas week. “You look like an elf!”

I’m dressed up in my bling and my wig, ready to go to a party, Will says, “You look great, Mom! No one’s even going to know you’re bald!”

Giddy from staying up past bedtime, Liam climbs onto my lap while I’m sitting on the floor. He gives me a monkey hug (with arms and legs) and says in a giggle, “I love you, Mom,” then he stands up and plants several of his signature wet kisses on my bald head. There are a little cool!

I bought firefighter and police tree ornaments for Liam and Will, respectively. While I was holding Liam’s – just about to put it on the tree, he screamed and I dropped the ornament, making a big chip in the firefighter hat. It’s now eternally marked with the volume of my three-year-old’s voice.

The goodnight conversation between Will and Bill. “I love you, Will.” “I love you more, Dad.” “I love you even more, Will.” “Dad, I love you so much my heart’s going to burst.”

Wishing you a holiday filled with heart-bursting love,

Linda

Jingle Bells

Yesterday was the first day of Christmas vacation. Will remembered our promise to let Liam sleep in his bedroom during this break. Both were excited, so out came the trundle. Anticipating the giddiness, I knew it would be a late night. At 9:15, I turned my light out to the sounds of them chatting and giggling. Then there was a patter in the hall, followed by Liam tugging the covers on Bill’s side, “I’m scared!” I replied, “You’re sleeping with your big brother; there’s nothing to be afraid of.” Tears. Not a lot of confidence in the big brother theory. I led him back to Will’s room and retucked him into the trundle. He was asleep by 9:30. At 9:45 Will was standing in the doorway. “Mom, you didn’t turn the temperature down. It’s loud in my room, and I need my heating bag warmed up.” Yes, I turned the thermostat down and put his corn bag in the microwave. At least one of us will go to bed toasty warm. By 10:15 Will was asleep.

Somewhere between 10:30 and midnight, Bill came to bed. At midnight, my alarm went off. It’s a new alarm clock and I had just plugged it in last night. Fumbling in the dark, I finally got it off. Ten minutes later the alarm went off. Good to know it has a snooze button. Again I managed to get it turned off. Ten minutes later… Obviously, I didn’t know how to turn the thing off. I whispered to Bill, “I need to turn the light on.” In a fully awake assertive voice, he said, “Do whatever you need to do.”

A couple of times in the night I heard the heat come on. It wasn’t a clanking sound like in Will’s room. It sounded like Santa’s sleigh bells. My first thought was to call the plumber in the morning and make an appointment to get the air blown out of the pipes so they would be quieter. My second thought was to listen for tiny reindeer hooves on the roof.

After I heard the sleigh bells two or three times, Will came into our room with a tummy ache. Probably too much popcorn. Bill got up as Will came into our bed. He reached up and grabbed thirty odd metal hangers off of our metal bed frame. I thought this was a strange chore for the middle of the night. “What are you doing?” I asked. In an annoyed and very awake voice, he said, “Every time the bed moves, these wire hangers that you left hanging on the bed clang together.” So much for the anticipation of reindeer hooves. I had finally taken summer clothes out of my closet yesterday, together with wire hangers to return to the cleaners.

A couple hours later, around 5:30 a.m. according to my clock, Liam cried out. Bill went to see him. He took him to the bathroom then found new pj bottoms for him. I figured he probably missed the toilet as he sometimes does. Then the “you’re-not-my-friend” screeching routine started. Quickly doing the math, I knew if this escalated, I would have a little boy awake for the day with way too little sleep.

Bill was in Will’s bed and Liam was screeching at him. I stepped on the trundle to get Liam and my barefoot felt dampness. “Did Liam wet the bed?” Exasperated, Bill replied, “Yes…” I got Liam into our bed with Will. Sitting in the dark and rubbing Liam’s back, I thought I could happily get up at 5:30 if the boys slept until 7:30. Then I glanced at Bill’s alarm clock it was only 4:30 a.m. In the turmoil to turn the midnight alarm off, I had moved my clock time ahead an hour.

Gentle, loud snores came from Will’s room. Slow breathing and teeth grinding arose from our bed. I could just make out two little heads joined at the top such that I knew their bodies were sprawled in a V over the whole bed. So here I sit on the couch, reminiscing about that magical sound of sleigh bells in the night and how nice it will be to have the boys keep one another company in the same room. This morning that happens to be in our bedroom.

:)

Linda

P.S. Bill, up and dressed at 7:20 a.m., just walked by me and said, "Well, they ended up sleeping together."

Chemo Fog

Talking with my oncologist before starting chemo, he asked where I had had a particular test done. I told him I couldn’t remember, that I was struggling with pre-chemo fog. He told me that researchers are studying “chemo fog” to determine if it’s due to chemo or just the stress of having cancer. I’m guessing it’s the stress. It feels very similar to toddler fog. No chemicals involved in that, just a few sleepless nights.

I’m not writing as many lists, trying to capture every tidbit of life’s to-do’s. Many weeks I hone in on the basics: food, clothing, shelter. During the chemo weeks, friends have been a godsend with food. I get a Peapod order together for the weekend, and at last I’m thankful that the boys love mac’n’cheese. I go to the sanctity of the laundry pile when towels and underwear are low. I make sure the mortgage and the utilities are paid.

The next level: taking care of personal needs. Ordering a prescription for Bill. Taking the boys for a haircut. Buying shampoo for myself. Just kidding. ;) I’m realizing how much we are all capable of doing, and I am learning to delegate more. We’ve eaten together as a family of four for three years. Plates, glasses, and silverware have been thoroughly defined. Rather than a beck and call girl to get dinner on the table, I enlist a little help to set and to clear the table.

From here, I start slipping.

The school cold lunch routine is laughable. I have done well not to forget to pack the lunches and the school bags. Always pushing the clock to get Will to kindergarten on time, I often drop lunch bags in our booster seats by the school office, with the intent to put them in the fridge after I take the boys to their classes. I do this discreetly so Liam doesn’t notice and want to stuff them into the fridge himself, making us tardy. In late September, Liam’s teacher told me she had found the bags outside the office and was a little confused by why they were there. Will’s teacher, standing nearby, added that she had found them there a few times as well. As for me – no idea that I had been zipping right past them nearly every morning! I THINK I’m doing a bit better now, but the kids and the teachers have it under control. If the lunch bags aren’t in the fridge, they know to look in the booster seats.

Conversations I have, especially just after chemo, are hit and miss as to what I’ll remember. I will get off the phone and think, “Now why did Jen call?” If the conversation is date related, I stand at the calendar while talking. I don’t want to miss someone stopping by or something going on at school. Still, Will’s parent/teacher conferences came and went without me signing up for a slot, but we rescheduled and made it up.

My mind works like a sieve. Being a recovering perfectionist, my pre-cancer/chemo sieve had tiny holes in it, letting virtually nothing escape. Keeping to-do lists at hand that were a mile long and never completed. The fog has enlarged the holes in the sieve. The rocks – food, clothing and shelter – can’t drop through the holes. The marbles – taking care of personal needs – generally can’t drop through. As for the pebbles and sand, hit and miss. If I get it on the calendar, it’s a hit. The strange thing is that I’m pretty much OK with this. I’m not stressing out over little things. I’m not over-committing. I’m working on Christmas cards. If all aren’t sent before Christmas, I’ll be wishing friends and family a Happy New Year or Happy Valentine’s Day. People do enjoy receiving mail at times other than the holidays. Santa’s letters aren’t written yet, but he doesn’t fly until Christmas Eve and has enough elfin magic to work on short notice. Plus, he already knows the kids have been nice. We bought a real tree and decorated it not in an afternoon but gradually over the course of two days. It’s up; it’s beautiful; all boxes are now out of the dining room and back in the loft.

I can’t clear all the fog. But with a little red-nosed glow, I can get to where I need to be. In the moment. Confident that the details, if really necessary, will one way or another get sorted out.

Staying strong and wishing all of you a glowing holiday,

Linda

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