Random access memory

Memory is a funny thing, online memory doubly so. This morning I struggled to remember the name of a course I'm teaching this fall but my computer had no trouble reminding me that 16 years ago today I was totally over the moon about my new car, the Volvo wagon my brother gave me after I was diagnosed with cancer the same week my ancient Kia died and I couldn't afford both chemotherapy and a car. The car had more than 200,000 miles on it at the time and I put another hundred thousand on it over the next four years, and when I finally sold the Volvo to my trusty mechanic for parts, I kept the license plate as a reminder of the way people can come through for us in a pinch. It's a remarkable story (read it here) and I really needed to be reminded today that hope lives on despite everything. So I guess it's a good thing my technology has a better memory than I do. Maybe I'll ask my computer to write that syllabus....

 

First everything, then everything else

Fifteen years ago this week our house was buzzing with bridesmaids and relatives; one minute young people were setting off fireworks in the meadow and the next they were practicing swing-dancing in the garage. One day a host of strong voices sang their hearts out in harmony as their classmate played on a majestic pipe organ, and the next day friends and family gathered in the yard for a picnic while the neighbor's combo played old-time music. All this in celebration of our daughter's wedding--the high point of what turned out to be a roller-coaster year.

There's a reason I refer to 2009 as The Year Everything Happened, and it would be easy to focus entirely on the most horrible thing that happened--the cancer diagnosis that led me to believe I'd be lucky to be alive for five more years. But fifteen years later I see cancer as just one twist in a thrill ride that led, eventually, to a happier place. How did we get here?

Early in 2009 I switched from film to digital photography, took a class in Scientific Imaging and learned to use PhotoShop, all in preparation for taking thousands of photos of birds and bees and flowers and family and joyful celebrations.

My experience taking the Scientific Imaging class inspired an essay that I delivered at a conference and later published in the journal Pedagogy. In a banner year for scholarship, I delivered papers at three academic conferences in 2009--Pittsburgh in March, British Columbia in June, Philadelphia in December. Never before had I delivered three papers in one year, and probably never again. 

In spring I finished my term as English Department Chair and was elected Chair of the Faculty, but in the fall I had to hand over the gavel to an interim Faculty Chair when cancer treatment made it impossible to fulfill my duties. In spring I celebrated the opening of our new campus library and in summer I moved into a brand-new office over there to serve as the inaugural Director of the Worthington Center for Teaching Excellence--another role I had to postpone until after I was done with treatment.

In spring a beloved colleague announced her retirement plan just weeks before being diagnosed with a cancer that rapidly proved fatal. (We had the same oncologist.)

In May I attended my daughter's college commencement and watched her confidently leading hundreds of people in singing at the Baccalaureate service. We'd shopped for wedding clothes, paid deposits, attended showers, and poured heart and soul into designing a joyful series of wedding-related events. In June it all came together in a service so beautiful it made me smile right down to my toes. What a blessing to welcome a wonderful young man into the family and watch the happy couple ride off into an unknown future full of possibility.

Ten days later I went to the hospital for a routine hysterectomy and came home with a diagnosis of endometrial cancer, with a five-year survival rate just a little better than 50/50. The roller-coaster had hit its high point and was quickly careening downhill toward a series of heart-wrenching twists and turns: an allergic reaction to the first chemotherapy drug followed by months of chemo that took away my hair, my energy, my sense of taste, and my dignity. Radiation treatments, every weekday for five weeks. Steroid buzz, brain fuzz, toenails falling off, a constant need to be aware of the location of the nearest bathroom.

A dead car--how could I get to chemo? My brother gave me his ancient Volvo wagon, which doggedly kept me going for years afterward. Friends and colleagues stepped up to adorn my bald head with hats and scarves, drive me to early-morning appointments, deliver my favorite brand of ginger ale, and encourage me when the simplest tasks seemed hopeless. After I had a port installed to make chemotherapy delivery easier, a friend drove me home in her convertible with the top down, which made me feel like the Grand Marshal of the Survivors' Parade. Another friend wrote my cancer treatment theme song, "Kicking Cancer's Butt," and cheered me during the long hours connected to an IV at the cancer center.

In the fall of 2009 I taught an honors class in humor theory and took great comfort in the joy my students brought into my life. They picked up the slack when I was just barely getting by, and I'll never forget their hard work and compassionate care. "I'm holding you in the light," said one student, and I've often passed that promise on to others.

We were blessed with a garden that produced so many habanero peppers that we had to share the joy. My husband made enough habanero jelly to heat up the palates of all our pepper-loving relatives and friends. Habanero jelly may be the perfect metaphor for that eventful year: blistering heat wrapped in smooth, sweet bliss.

I had my final round of chemotherapy a few days before Thanksgiving and then lounged around recovering while the rest of the family did all the holiday cooking. In December my husband and his twin brother celebrated their 100th birthday (50 years each!) and we welcomed a bouncing baby chainsaw into the household. My husband managed to sing in the community production of Handel's Messiah despite having slipped on ice and torn his rotator cuff hours before the performance.

By the end of the year I almost felt like singing too: my hair was coming back and I was looking forward to resuming many of my academic duties. I was eager to put 2009 behind me--but not all of it. I wanted to forget the parts when the roller-coaster dropped into a bottomless abyss and then wrenched me around brutally, but I desperately held on to the high points: the wedding, the supportive friends, the comedy class, the habanero jelly.

Fifteen years ago I didn't think I'd be alive today, but think of what I would have missed if the doctors hadn't caught my cancer: my son's college graduation, the births of my three grandchildren, the publication of a bunch of articles and a collection of essays, a teaching prize that allowed me to pay off my medical debts, a return to the Worthington Center, a chance to assist my parents in their declining years, my nephew's wedding, so many great students, so many great books, so many meaningful moments with family and friends and, sometimes, simply with myself, so many photos and hikes and canoe trips and peppers and peach pies and all the mundane pleasures of life.

I've never experienced another year quite like 2009, which is just as well because it nearly killed me. For a time I feared that The Year Everything Happened would be the end of me, but instead it became the beginning of Everything Else. 

Eventually the roller-coaster glides to a stop and we lucky ones get to step out of the car and put our feet back on solid ground. Maybe nothing particularly interesting is happening there, but we get to keep walking forward, and sometimes that's enough.

Ten years later, feeling thankful

Facebook friends keep posting photos from ten years ago to show how the decade has changed them, but I'm resisting the opportunity. I don't want to be reminded of what I looked like ten years ago: bald, weak, droopy, always scanning for the nearest bathroom. Thanksgiving week 2009 was when I endured my final round of chemotherapy, and if I have to think about that time, I'd rather celebrate what came after.

Like, for instance, hair. As much as my hair annoys me at times, I definitely appreciate its presence more than its absence. True, I had the chance to experiment with all kinds of colorful scarves during those months of hairlessness, but frankly, I prefer to wear scarves around my neck and hair on my head.

And strength--it's a beautiful thing to be able to walk up steps without feeling as if I'm going to collapse, to stand in front of a class for a full hour without fearing that my head will droop and my legs give out. Since I don't have to devote brain space to estimating the time to the nearest rest room, I have more space for thinking about the grandkids or playing Words With Friends.

Feelings in my fingertips--got that back, mostly. Gained back some of the weight I lost during chemo and radiation, which is maybe not a great thing in the long term but I feel good now. Taste buds restored to normal--fabulous. I don't miss those times when everything tasted like tin and I wasn't allowed to eat sushi.

I do, however, miss my oncologist, who spent a lot of time watching and waiting and testing to see whether the cancer had left the building or might be planning a return engagement. First every three months and then every six months and then once a year--for five years--I endured blood tests, which were not bad in themselves, but anticipating these tests always made me tense. I would wake up in the middle of the night worrying over how I would adjust my busy life if I had to go through chemo again, and afterward waiting for results made me jittery and distracted. I like my oncologist and I kind of miss seeing him regularly, but on the other hand, I don't miss all that stress.

I remember that Thanksgiving week in 2009: I could barely eat and certainly couldn't cook for anyone, so my daughter and son-in-law came for a visit and cooked up a storm for all of us. It probably tasted wonderful, although I wouldn't know. I was happy to be upright, above ground, surrounded by loved ones, and done with chemotherapy. 

Today I'm celebrating in a different way--by offering homemade cookies to everyone I see. I baked ten dozen cranberry white chocolate drops over the weekend and now I'm going around my building pushing them on everyone, from the cleaning crew to colleagues to students and everyone else who crosses my path. I don't even need to tell them why I brought cookies; I just want to make a small gesture of thanks, to pay forward the love and support I felt while I enduring six months of awfulness.

So if you're in the neighborhood, come by for a cookie and help me celebrate ten years cancer-free.
 

Raise a glass!

This weekend I'd like to raise a glass of Reed's extra-strong ginger ale to a whole lot of people who helped me get through a very difficult time. Ten years ago tomorrow I was diagnosed with stage 3 endometrial cancer with a bleak prognosis, and if I tried to list all the wonderful people who contributed to my recovery, we'd be here all day: the physician's assistant who told me I didn't have to live with pain and sent me to a specialist; the surgeon who found the cancer and the doctors and nurses and other medical professionals who treated me aggressively for six months and then watched and waited to see whether the cancer would return; the colleagues, friends, and family members who gave me colorful scarves to cover my baldness, drove me to the cancer center for chemotherapy, sat with me while I was drugged and loopy without laughing too hard, cheered me with cards, covered my classes, listened to my complaints, and encouraged me in a thousand different ways. I've never been able to personally thank the person who anonymously sent a case of Reed's extra-strong ginger ale to my office, but I'll toast that person tomorrow with the drink that always reminds me of how much we depend upon the kindness of strangers. There's nothing like suffering to remind us of how much we need each other, and I wish I could throw a big party to thank every single person involved in my recovery.

If you want to celebrate with me, raise a glass tomorrow and consider supporting my son's Velosano bike ride to raise funds for cancer research (click here). All together now: To life! 

Abandoning the lookout post

Five years ago this week, after I'd finished my final chemotherapy session, I asked my oncologist what to expect next and he said, "We watch you." And he has: through five years of periodic CT scans, blood tests, and checkups, he's faithfully manned the lookout post to watch for any hint that those nasty little cancer cells might be massing for invasion, but today we're done watching. Last week's tests came up totally clear, so I don't need to do any more follow-ups. As much as I appreciate my wonderful oncologist, I'm hoping that I never have to see him again--professionally, anyway. Time to close up the lookout post and head on home happily because all the watching is over.

Beating the odds by breathing

An important anniversary seems to have slipped right by me, and that's not entirely a bad thing. It's true that I was once obsessively aware of certain dates in 2009--the date of my surgery, the date I started chemotherapy, the date of my final treatment--but at some point cancer stopped glowering in the center of my mind and slunk off to hide in the corner of a dusty closet.

Nevertheless it's worth remembering that if you had asked me five years ago what I expected to be doing in 2014, I would have said, "I'll be happy just to be alive." Sounds morbid now, but the five-year survival rate for my diagnosis is just a bit better than 50/50, and the horrors of chemotherapy and radiation made 2014 seem like an even more unreachable goal.

And yet here I am five years later, fat and sassy and enjoying a full head of hair. It would be crass to boast about beating the odds when so many others don't--and besides, my survival was a group effort that drew on the strength and expertise of a whole host of people. But perhaps this event calls for a small celebration, which could be called a Celebration of Life if that didn't sound so much like a funeral.

How about this: join me in taking a very deep breath and letting it out slowly. Now do it again. And again. Doesn't that feel great? Still breathing! That's worth celebrating today and every day.

Unremarkable me

I like to tell my creative nonfiction students that an attentive writer shouldn't require remarkable events for inspiration but ought to be able to write compellingly about anything--or nothing. Personal essays do not require personal trauma, I tell them, hoping to head off an outbreak of the Peel-Off-the-Bandaid-and-Let's-Compare-Wounds game.

Nevertheless there's no denying that trauma attracts readers--and as evidence I offer my recent adventure with the car in the creek (here), which produced a readership spike like the ones I used to see when I wrote about cancer treatment (here). If I could produce a wreck in the creek or a needle in my arm every day of my life, I'd be the world's most popular blogger!

But frankly, I'd rather not. Once was enough. I'd rather write about birds and teaching and visiting my grandbaby and life in the very slow lane where I live, but this morning that slow lane took me to the cancer center for my annual round of blood tests and CT scans, and the results are clean. That's right: four years after finishing chemotherapy, my body snows no evidence of disease. I'm entirely unremarkable!

But who wants to read about that?     

Breathe in. Breathe out. Now hold!

Up at 4:30, showered and out the door at 5:20, where wet hair meets sub-freezing temperatures for a chilling wake-up call. Driving down the highway on autopilot impaired by a lack of breakfast to arrive at the hospital by 6 a.m.  for a CT scan.

Yes, it's time to celebrate an important anniversary: three years since my final chemotherapy treatment. Once again I face a barrage of tests to determine whether those nasty cancer cells are gone for good or merely regrouping to stage an all-star comeback tour. The assault started last Friday morning with blood tests that left behind an ugly bruise on my right forearm; this morning's work led to a matching bruise on the left forearm and a bonus bruise on the back of my right hand. Tag-team lab techs put out an All Points Bulletin for usable blood vessels, but my veins saw them coming and fled for the hills. Hence the two pokes (and two bruises) for one measly IV injection of contrast dye.

But that was later--hours and hours later. I arrived at the hospital just before 6 and spend two hours mostly sitting in a waiting room where two televisions are mounted on the wall at such an angle that it's impossible to escape the onslaught of morning drivel. Here's a tip for the hospital designers of America: if you're going to make me sit for two hours pouring barium "smoothies" into a stomach that hasn't seen solid food or caffeine since yesterday's lunch, could you please let me suffer in peace? Those glue-like delights go down much better when I'm not being bombarded by inescapable early-morning infomercials.

And here's another tip: your robo-voices need to improve their bedside manner.   I'm lying there with a needle in my arm, dye that feels like industrial acid coursing through my veins, both arms uncomfortably clasped overhead, and this big chunk of machine looming imperiously overhead, but the robo-voice doesn't make any attempt to ease my discomfort. "Breathe in, breathe out, and hold your breath," it demands, and then, after a great deal of clicking and whirring, it issues its final command: "Breathe!" 

Would it hurt so much to say "Please" once in a while? Or how about, "This'll just take a minute so why don't you hold your breath for me, honey, if it's not too much trouble?"

Now here I am in my office five hours after I first got up, with classes to teach and papers to grade and Thanksgiving to prepare, but all I want to do is eat and sleep, in that order. I'm trying to drive the taste of those barium smoothies out of my system and the memory of those inane infomercials out of my mind, but I'll have to wait a full week to get the results of all these tests. Meanwhile, I'll follow the robo-voice's commands: Breathe in, breathe out, and hold!

A mental cul-de-sac

All my life I've suffered a mental block against the word cul-de-sac, a useful word that trips satisfyingly off the tongue, but I can't call it up without first running higglety-pigglety through a host of unrelated words and phrases: tete a tete, coup d'etat, s'il vous plait, rue morgue--and then, suddenly, my reluctant mind offers up the right word: cul-de-sac. Of course.

Fortunately, cul-de-sac doesn't come up often in casual conversation, but lately I notice that the cul-de-sac effect is spreading. It happens just about every day: I know the word I want but my brain refuses to cough it up on demand. Maybe this is characteristic of the postmenopausal aging brain or maybe it's a result of all that nasty chemotherapy, but it's a problem--and it's getting worse.

It's easy enough to handle the problem in writing: I simply skip the missing word or insert clues in parentheses (three-syllable word starting with L that means "on the threshold") and continue writing, and before I'm halfway down the page, WHOOMP there it is in flashing neon in front of my eyeballs: liminal! I'm a whizz at the Washington Post's Cricklers word game (single-digit handicap!) only because I can skip a word that's hiding in some mental cul-de-sac, hand the retrieval task over to my subconscious, and wait for the right word to pop into place. Works every time--as long as I'm willing to move on and wait.

It's not so easy, however, when I'm speaking. I don't know how many times lately I've radically revised a sentence halfway through because I couldn't wait around for a key term to come out of hiding, and I can't just stand there with my mouth open and leave a hole in the sentence. I picture myself standing in front of my postcolonial literature class this fall and saying, "What's the word we use to describe a person standing on the threshold?" Fine, as long as some student remembers liminal, but what if I'm the only one in the room who knows the word I'm seeking? "Okay, class, I'm thinking of a word--who can guess it?" Maybe no one--not even me.

I dread the day when all the words I need go circling 'round some inaccessible mental cul-de-sac and I'm left standing with my mouth open but nothing to say. When words fail, what's left?      

The picture of health

It's been weeks now but I'm still startled every time I open the college's web site and see my own face smiling back at me. Who is that woman and what is she grinning about? The photo is attached to a story about my recent teaching prize, but the photo was actually taken in spring of 2009 to illustrate a different story about cross-disciplinary learning. I generally dislike photos of myself but I like this one because it makes me look like I'm in on a very happy secret.

I did have a secret in spring of 2009--a secret so deep even I didn't know it. When this photo was taken, I was just weeks away from being diagnosed with stage 3 endometrial cancer. I may look like the picture of health, but deep down inside I'm being eaten alive by a pestilent scourge of out-of-control cells. Chances are good that I was in pain when this photo was taken, but I had grown accustomed to dismissing my pain. "Just a natural part of the aging process," they told me. "At your age, you may as well tough it out until menopause."

I'm glad I finally found a doctor who would take my pain seriously and unearth that hidden secret, but I still wonder: how could I have looked so healthy when I was so very very sick? This is the face of cancer--I just didn't know it at the time. 

A strictly gnome-free vessel

A few years ago when one of my colleagues learned he would be receiving our top teaching prize, he announced the news to his friends thus: "We're gettin' a boat!"

When people ask me what I'll do with the prize, I'm generally a little more subdued, mumbling about deferred maintenance and new ceiling tiles and the crack across my front porch slab. But today I have to shout a little bit because I just made the final payment on a hospital bill I've been nibbling away at since 2009. That's right: we may not be gettin' a boat, but we're gettin' a bill paid off! A bill that has been sitting on my shoulders like a malicious gnome constantly reminding me of the pain and distress associated with surgery and chemotherapy and radiation and all the other horrors of that wretched time. But thanks to my teaching prize, I have paid the bill and banished the gnome. Woo-hoo!

How shall I celebrate? By gettin' a boat!

Not a great big speedboat for cruising the river or a clunky catamaran or a fishing boat or even a rowboat. I realized last week that what I needed to get closer to those eagles was a nice slow quiet canoe. We live a mile from a scenic river and we have a roof rack suitable for hauling a canoe--it wouldn't even have to be brand-new. I'm keeping my eyes open for a used canoe for two--woo-hoo! We're gettin' a boat!

There's only one rule: no gnomes allowed.

The hard work of healing

My surgeon's eyes lit up when he examined the incision left behind by my port removal. "Wow!" he said. "That really healed up nicely!"

"Thanks," I said. "Healing nicely is one of my hidden talents. I worked really hard to get it right."

Right.

If anyone ought to be thanked, it's the surgeon--he did, after all, make that incision and stitch (and glue) it back together. All I did was lie there obliviously while I was anesthetized and afterward refrain from scratching when it itched. I'm not sure my inaction contributed much to the final outcome.

But hey, compliments are hard to come by these days, so if my surgeon insists on commending me for healing up so nicely, who am I to object? And while you're at it, go ahead and congratulate me for how splendidly I manage to keep my blood flowing, my peristalsis proceeding, my joints bending, and my toenails growing. I'm just full of hidden talents!

All I really want right now

...is something to drink. Water, orange juice, tea, coffee, whatever--I just really want a drink. And some breakfast. I know for a fact that there's a little leftover veggie pizza in the fridge, and that would suit me right down to my toes.

But I am under strict orders: nothing to eat or drink after midnight. How will I make it through the morning with no caffeine? I'll be a basket case by the time I get to the hospital.

Yes: it's finally port-removal day! That handy little chunk of plastic installed beneath my skin to assist in the delivery of chemotherapy drugs has got to, and good riddance!

My surgeon tells me that the port is much easier to remove than to install, but it still requires anesthesia, boo hiss. I have requested something other than propofol, which provided Michael Jackson with a dose of euphoria (and death) but only gave me vertigo so severe I couldn't turn my head without getting seasick. I have to get to the hospital two hours early (!) for a ten-minute procedure that will eat up my afternoon, and I can't eat or drink a thing until it's over.

I intend to spend my morning not thinking about all the things I'd like to eat and drink. I won't think, for instance, about orange juice, chai latte, pineapple chunks, veggie pizza, peanut butter sandwiches, or water. This is me not thinking about water. Water water water water water. Someone get me some water! It's all I really want right now! 

Now it can be told! (Well, some of it...)

It's hard to write when I've been inundated with good news but commanded to keep silent about some of it, but here are the bits I am permitted to shout from the housetops:

1. Two years to the day after my final round of chemotherapy, all my tests came back clear. No sign of recurrence! And I've been cleared to get my port removed! Hurrah!

2. A recent job interview went well so my husband will soon be able to give up his booth at the Farmers' Market. Many of his customers will be unhappy, but we're looking forward to a time when he can sleep more than a few hours a night, escape constant back pain, and enjoy an occasional day off with the family. Hurrah again!

3. I've finally figured out how I want to celebrate my 50th birthday. I'm not big on birthday parties, but how about gathering a bunch of friends and family in a nice location on a lazy afternoon with munchies and a bunch of board games? Scrabble, Apples to Apples, Bananagrams, Monopoly--that's my idea of a good time! I realize that others may not enjoy a board-game party, but hey, I'm the one with the big birthday, and anyone who doesn't like it can stay home. Hurrah once more!

That's a lot to be thankful for, but that's not all. It's just all I can talk about. For now.

How about one more big hurrah?!

Come fly with me

How is a hospital waiting room like an airport terminal? There's nothing to do but sit and wait; everything in the gift shop is overprices; and nobody really wants to be there.

At least the hospital has good wireless internet--free! The food options are pretty sad, though. All they'll let me eat is the wretched gluey "smoothie" that provides contrast for the CT scan I'll have in an hour or so. I'm still trying to get caught up on the work I missed last week so I've been sitting in the waiting room finishing up that pile of papers I started grading in the Zurich airport last weekend. I hope my bleak and colorless surroundings won't seep into the grades.

I'm really hungry because I haven't been allowed to eat anything since breakfast, but it just about kills me to swallow this thick white flavorless paste. As a food item I give it a D-. I hope its medical benefits earn a better grade.

I had a terrific smoothie at one of the airports I visited last week--but now I can't even remember which one, except I know the guy who waited on me didn't speak English. Could have been Brussels. Could have been Chicago.

A few more sips and a few more minutes and they'll take me back and strap me down into the big machine that will transport me to a colorless place where the only conversation will come from a recorded voice telling me not to fasten my seatbelt but to breathe in, hold my breath, and then breathe out. And again.

Better or bitter?

I have always believed that trial by fire refines character, that surviving adversity makes people better, but what if instead it makes us bitter and brittle? (Bittle? Britter?)

Since my brush with death two years ago I have watched myself becoming both more and less patient: more patient with struggling students, less patient with colleagues behaving badly; more willing to speak up compassionately when someone needs help, less willing to bite my tongue when nonsense gets bruited about in meetings.

Surviving the fire made me more open to new experiences (hey, let's take a bunch of students to California!) but less willing to waste time slogging through mediocre fiction or hollow scholarship.  Life is too short to spend long hours in the company of Jude the Obscure.


Today I work harder and I demand more of myself than ever, but if I occasionally feel the need to watch an episode of The Office on my office computer, I make no excuses. I say No more often and stand up for my rights more firmly, and just today I demanded a well-deserved apology from someone who would have intimidated me into silence before.


I sort of like the new me but I wouldn't claim that I'm a better person. Bitter, yes: I struggle to keep the anger from bubbling over and poisoning my environment, but I'm always aware of the potent brew simmering away beneath the brittle surface. I may have survived my trial by fire, but deep inside the coals are still burning.

Friday poetry challenge: unfinished business

Yesterday I wrote about that delicious feeling of accomplishment provided by mowing the meadow, the same feeling I get when I check a big project off my to-do list. I'm reminded, though, that the activities I value the most are never really done. I'll never be done reading as long as books keep being published and I'll never be done teaching as long as ignorance remains a renewable resource, and when it comes to enjoying my family, there's really no imaginable end-point.

The ubiquity of unfinished business became clear to me earlier this week. I was trying to think of a way to commemorate the fact that I've survived two years since my cancer diagnosis, and I asked my husband what I ought to do.

"Keep surviving," he said.

Now there's a plan!

Another plan is to write poetry celebrating unfinished business:

Write a line (insert paren-
theses); delete, revise,
replace, rewrite
a line (delete paren-
theses); add comma,--
no! a dash (insert paren-
theses); replace a verb,
a noun, (delete paren-
theses); full stop? (insert
parentheses).

Now it's your turn: if you can't put a fork in it and call it done, then turn it into poetry.

Clean sweep

My desk is sparkly clean while my office trash can is stuffed to the brim, so it looks as if I just tilted my desk and slid everything into the trash. That's not quite what happened, but it's close. Yesterday I cleaned and sorted and filed all kinds of academic stuff that's been accumulating on my desk for at least the past year. It's not always easy to know what to keep and what to toss: do I really need to hold on to last year's Faculty Council ballots? How about leftover handouts for a class I probably won't be teaching again? If a student hasn't picked up a final exam he took three years ago, why do I need to keep it?

The process was grueling but the result is great: a clean office with plenty of space on the desktop for stacking new piles of stuff. A similar sorting-and-deleting process neatened up my computer desktop. My house could use a good spring cleaning, but the office chaos is now under control.

Since we returned from Texas I've been focusing on cleaning to get my mind off the CT scans and blood tests I took last week. The scan left a lasting impression--a nasty bruise where the phlebotomist had trouble accessing my port--but the results are now in: no sign of cancer whatsoever. Two years after my diagnosis, I've been given a clean slate (for now). I'll go back for the next round of tests in six months, but meanwhile, I'm enjoying feeling all sparkly clean--inside and out.

Big Sur rocks!

I'm standing on a crag jutting out into the Pacific, waves crashing on the rocks below and laughter floating through the air and I can't stop smiling. This morning we left the city behind and drove through insane traffic and constant shifts in terrain, through pine forests and artichoke fields, sand dunes and wind-weathered rock, arriving in Big Sur in time for lunch and stone-skipping lessons followed by a hike up a steep hill to a scenic waterfall in Pfeiffer State Park, which would have been wonderful enough in itself, but then we pulled off the highway at a serendipitous spot and found a rough path down to the cliff edge where we stood like Walt Whitman facing west from California's shores, "Inquiring, tireless, seeking what is yet unfound."

Like Whitman we are children reveling in the wonders of earth and feeling both very old and utterly new. Not so long ago I lay awake with a bad case of the jitters after a bout of chemotherapy and to calm myself I planned long road trips including one along this highway between Big Sur and Monterey (read it here), but at the time I wondered whether I would ever drive this road and walk these cliffs. Tomorrow we travel to Salinas and Monterey to commune with John Steinbeck and in a few days I'll be ready, like Whitman, to "face home again, very pleas'd and joyous." Today, though, I'm here and I'm happy and I wonder how anyone could live here and not be a poet.

Fringe benefits

When I see a picture of Justin Bieber, I always want to brush his hair out of his eyes. I can't help it: it's a mom thing. If my mom could see me right now, she would reach out and brush my hair out of my eyes and say in a soothing voice, "There now, sweetheart. Doesn't that feel better?"

I've needed a haircut for weeks but I can't seem to find the time to make an appointment, so instead I just gripe all day long about how much I hate having hair in my eyes. Today, though, as I sat at the cancer center waiting for my monthly port flush, I realized that there are worse things than having hair in my eyes. A year ago I was still pretty bald, but hey, I have hair! And my fingernails aren't falling off! No one is trying to pump me full of poisonous chemicals! I'm not suffering from radiation burns! I don't have to parade around half naked in front of medical personnel every afternoon! And sometimes I go for days at a time without even thinking about cancer!

Hair in my eyes may be an annoyance, but it's also a reminder of the passage of time and the process of healing. Considering where I've been, I don't mind so much looking at the road ahead through that fringe of wayward hair