Stanley Fish is pontificating about college composition (again!) over at the New York Times, while my college composition students bombard me with panicky e-mails about their first papers and schoolchildren everywhere serve as pawns in a heated debate over the President's message. At times like these, it behooves us to change the subject.
So I'm going to babble a bit about a movie I saw on DVD over the weekend, the British film Happy-Go-Lucky. I tried to describe the plot to a friend yesterday and got nowhere, so let's skip that part. It's a clever and charming and sometimes annoying film about a woman whose attempt to maintain a happy-go-lucky attitude faces a few minor challenges. Doesn't that sound just dreadful? If this were a movie on the Lifetime channel, the main character's cheery disposition would eventually melt the hearts of all around her and provide instant solutions to the messiest human problems. Fortunately, this is not a Lifetime movie.
Let's go ahead and admit that the main character, Poppy, is a little annoying. She giggles a lot and acts pretty silly. I can imagine that many people (particularly men) of my acquaintance would find her unbearably lightweight. They might even sympathize with her driving instructor, Scott, whose bitter and misanthropic attitude comes into sharp contrast with Poppy's bubbliness during their weekly driving lessons. Their conflict raises a question that keeps nagging at the back of my mind: whose attitude is a healthier response to the human condition? Is it better to face the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune with an unreasonably optimistic giggle or with a melancholy gloom always willing to admit the worst?
After all, why couldn't Hamlet just laugh it all off?
If this were a Lifetime movie, Poppy's optimism would eventually cut through Scott's melancholy and convert him into an entirely new person--sort of like what happens to the Ricky Gervais character in Ghost Town, another film pitting cheer against melancholy. But Gervais's conversion in Ghost Town is the least believable part of an entirely unbelievable film (which is nevertheless very funny, particularly when the ditzy doctor is called upon to convey the cheery message, "Everyone dies!").
But Happy-Go-Lucky refuses to take the easy way out. When the conflict between Poppy and Scott finally erupts, the result is not cheerful or optimistic or conventionally satisfying but frightening. In the end, Scott's misanthropy separates him from the human community, while Poppy's cheer keeps her connected to a community that can help her cope with the very real and sometimes frightening insanities of everyday life. She may end up in a boat going aimlessly in circles, but at least she's not alone.
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
Sunday, September 06, 2009
Flattened by an old friend
When the doctors told me to expect fatigue, I thought, No problem. Fatigue and I are old friends. We've slogged together through grad-school seminars, paper-grading marathons, frantic late-night feats of journalism, cross-country relocations, and all-night sleep-deprivation sessions involving sick or screaming children. When a clear goal beckons, I don't mind working myself beyond the point of exhaustion--as long as I can rest and recharge when it's over.
Now, though, I'm seeing a whole new side of my old friend Fatigue. I feel the way the word "fatigue" sounds: flat and flabby, lacking the ability to make any impact on my environment. For the past three days I've done nothing more demanding than walk from the sofa to the bathroom, but every cell in my body desperately wants to go to sleep right now. Sleep, though, doesn't help: I wake up not refreshed but still fatigued, wanting to get up and get moving but lacking the energy to pull up my socks.
I keep reminding myself that this is just temporary. One of these days I'll welcome the old-style fatigue that comes from tackling a task that demands every ounce of energy I can muster. Today, on the other hand, I'll sit on the sofa and watch the birds, sip some ginger ale, take the occasional snooze, and fondly recall the fun times I once had with my old friend Fatigue.
Now, though, I'm seeing a whole new side of my old friend Fatigue. I feel the way the word "fatigue" sounds: flat and flabby, lacking the ability to make any impact on my environment. For the past three days I've done nothing more demanding than walk from the sofa to the bathroom, but every cell in my body desperately wants to go to sleep right now. Sleep, though, doesn't help: I wake up not refreshed but still fatigued, wanting to get up and get moving but lacking the energy to pull up my socks.
I keep reminding myself that this is just temporary. One of these days I'll welcome the old-style fatigue that comes from tackling a task that demands every ounce of energy I can muster. Today, on the other hand, I'll sit on the sofa and watch the birds, sip some ginger ale, take the occasional snooze, and fondly recall the fun times I once had with my old friend Fatigue.
Saturday, September 05, 2009
Awkward public record
Found it!
The other day I bemoaned my inability to locate a quote from James Thurber on the essence of humor (read it here), but a quick response from a helpful librarian led me to a book I happen to have on my shelf at home: Selected Letters of James Thurber, Ed. Helen Thurber and Edward Weeks.
In December 1950, James Thurber wrote the following in a letter to Joel Sayre: "The proof of humor is the ability to put one's self on awkward public record, just as the proof of wit is to do that to others." It's not quite the wording I recall, but it's the thought that counts.
And here, as a bonus, is an excerpt from a 1951 letter from Thurber to E.B. White, which I'll share with my humor class on Tuesday:
"I write humor the way a surgeon operates, because it is a livelihood, because I have a great urge to do it, because many interesting challenges are set up, and because I have the hope that it may do some good. When the leftists got hold of Dorothy Parker, they persuaded her to say in The New Masses, 'Humor is a shield and not a weapon.' It is both and neither, but I remember how, at one battle in Gaul, members of the Tenth Legion banged the bejesus out of the enemy with their shields when their swords were gone."
The other day I bemoaned my inability to locate a quote from James Thurber on the essence of humor (read it here), but a quick response from a helpful librarian led me to a book I happen to have on my shelf at home: Selected Letters of James Thurber, Ed. Helen Thurber and Edward Weeks.
In December 1950, James Thurber wrote the following in a letter to Joel Sayre: "The proof of humor is the ability to put one's self on awkward public record, just as the proof of wit is to do that to others." It's not quite the wording I recall, but it's the thought that counts.
And here, as a bonus, is an excerpt from a 1951 letter from Thurber to E.B. White, which I'll share with my humor class on Tuesday:
"I write humor the way a surgeon operates, because it is a livelihood, because I have a great urge to do it, because many interesting challenges are set up, and because I have the hope that it may do some good. When the leftists got hold of Dorothy Parker, they persuaded her to say in The New Masses, 'Humor is a shield and not a weapon.' It is both and neither, but I remember how, at one battle in Gaul, members of the Tenth Legion banged the bejesus out of the enemy with their shields when their swords were gone."
Friday, September 04, 2009
Networking
I spent the day noodling around with networks--computer networks in the morning, human networks in the afternoon--and the experience, while frustrating at times, turned out satisfying in the end.
This morning I stayed home recovering from chemotherapy, but that doesn't mean my students had the day off. My two morning classes had different types of online assignments to complete, and I needed to be available to respond to questions and trouble-shoot technical problems, so I was online pretty much all morning. Yesterday I monitored an online discussion at the cancer center, which has an ultra-fast wireless network; today, though, I was working in slow motion (thanks to the anti-nausea drugs) and so was my computer (thanks to a dial-up connection so slow it appears to be sedated).
My students did great work: nearly 100 percent participation, thought-provoking and insightful comments, playful but respectful responses to one another's ideas. Meanwhile, back in Slowsville, I spent a lot of time going click, wait, type, click, wait, repeat until I wanted to tear the keys right off the computer keyboard and toss them out the window. On the other hand, I didn't really have the strength to do much more than click, wait, type, click, wait, repeat, so it was a fairly harmless way to pass what could have been a miserable morning.
Finally I turned off the computer, got in the car, and drove to town for my daily radiation treatment--but first, I stopped at the grocery store for some of that wonderful Reed's extra-strong ginger ale (except this time I promise not to spill any on my computer!) and a few other necessities. But when I came out of the grocery store, my car wouldn't start.
Time to rely on a different kind of network: first, call AAA...except I don't have a cell phone and the only pay phone in the grocery store is being monopolized by a store employee. I stand around waiting for a while, but then I notice a familiar face--one of my colleagues is just leaving the store. I beg for a ride to the cancer center and he gladly provides one. Score one for human networks.
While waiting for my treatment, I borrow the phone and make a few calls, so that by the time I'm done being irradiated, my secretary is on hand to drive me back to my car and AAA is on the way. It's a simple fix--the AAA guy jumps the battery and then points out that the alternator belt is loose--and I'm soon on my way back home.
Which worked better, the online networks or the human ones? My students certainly excelled at using online networks to engage in learning, so the only fault lay in my snoozing dial-up connection. Human networks worked swiftly and smoothly. Both networks fulfilled requirements, but I'll always prefer the human kind--especially when well lubricated by kindness and care.
This morning I stayed home recovering from chemotherapy, but that doesn't mean my students had the day off. My two morning classes had different types of online assignments to complete, and I needed to be available to respond to questions and trouble-shoot technical problems, so I was online pretty much all morning. Yesterday I monitored an online discussion at the cancer center, which has an ultra-fast wireless network; today, though, I was working in slow motion (thanks to the anti-nausea drugs) and so was my computer (thanks to a dial-up connection so slow it appears to be sedated).
My students did great work: nearly 100 percent participation, thought-provoking and insightful comments, playful but respectful responses to one another's ideas. Meanwhile, back in Slowsville, I spent a lot of time going click, wait, type, click, wait, repeat until I wanted to tear the keys right off the computer keyboard and toss them out the window. On the other hand, I didn't really have the strength to do much more than click, wait, type, click, wait, repeat, so it was a fairly harmless way to pass what could have been a miserable morning.
Finally I turned off the computer, got in the car, and drove to town for my daily radiation treatment--but first, I stopped at the grocery store for some of that wonderful Reed's extra-strong ginger ale (except this time I promise not to spill any on my computer!) and a few other necessities. But when I came out of the grocery store, my car wouldn't start.
Time to rely on a different kind of network: first, call AAA...except I don't have a cell phone and the only pay phone in the grocery store is being monopolized by a store employee. I stand around waiting for a while, but then I notice a familiar face--one of my colleagues is just leaving the store. I beg for a ride to the cancer center and he gladly provides one. Score one for human networks.
While waiting for my treatment, I borrow the phone and make a few calls, so that by the time I'm done being irradiated, my secretary is on hand to drive me back to my car and AAA is on the way. It's a simple fix--the AAA guy jumps the battery and then points out that the alternator belt is loose--and I'm soon on my way back home.
Which worked better, the online networks or the human ones? My students certainly excelled at using online networks to engage in learning, so the only fault lay in my snoozing dial-up connection. Human networks worked swiftly and smoothly. Both networks fulfilled requirements, but I'll always prefer the human kind--especially when well lubricated by kindness and care.
Thursday, September 03, 2009
A day in the life
...because someone asked...
9 a.m.
I'm sitting in the waiting room of the cancer center patiently awaiting lab tests and chemotherapy followed by my daily radiation treatment. I'm early. I'm always early, but this time I'm really, really early. With eight separate medical appointments this week alone, it's not surprising that I get confused. Better early than late, I guess, since I have to be here anyway.
Chemo days always start early, which means I rely on a network of helpful friends to drive out to the middle of nowhere at the crack of dawn to fetch me and then take me home again later. I could drive myself to town in the morning, but the drugs make me too dopey to drive home at the end of the day, so I may as well get a ride both ways and avoid abandoning my car in that annoying parking garage.
On my daily radiation visits I always park in the same general area in that annoying garage: level B (less traffic down there, easy access to the lower exit), on the end near the cancer center entrance (not so far for me to walk), facing out toward fresh air and sunshine (so my car won't get claustrophobic). Today, though, a wonderful colleague dropped me off.
So here I sit in the waiting room, with Regis and Kelly babbling on the television mounted on the wall. It's a lovely waiting room--soothing colors, lots of light, comfy chairs, coffee and snacks, faux waterfall in the corner and stone fireplace right in the middle of the room--but it's generally full of sick people, some with no hair, some in wheelchairs, some haggard and worn and sleeping wherever they land. Sometimes there are children. I always hope the children are here to accompany sick parents. It's just too awful to imagine children suffering through chemotherapy and radiation.
9:17
The lab nurse calls me in so she can take my blood. The medi-port makes drawing blood easier, but that doesn't mean it's painless. At first stick she can't get any blood. "That's because I don't have any left," I say, but she doesn't believe me. It's true that the chemotherapy exacerbates my anemia to the point that my cheerful oncologist keeps saying comforting things like "Don't worry, if it gets any worse we can give you blood transfusions," but I haven't run out of blood entirely, so the nurse eventually finds a few lonely blood cells willing to go out for a spin.
Back in the waiting room, I wonder what my numbers will look like this time. Will the tumor markers decrease again? I won't find out until next week, and the suspense is just killing me. Unlike Regis and Kelly, who are causing millions of brain cells to commit suicide out of sheer boredom.
I know! I'll use the cancer center's free wireless internet system to check my mail: junk, mass e-mails regarding events I can't attend, committee meeting minutes, supportive messages from colleagues, the usual. No frantic messages from students so far. I've set up online activities for all three classes today and tomorrow, and I fully expect a few newbies to struggle with the technology even though we've put it through its paces in class several times already. But maybe they'll surprise me.
My honors students in the humor class have already surprised me by posting their discussion questions well in advance of the deadline--and what terrific questions! I'd like to test-drive a few myself, but better to give the students a chance to take 'em out for a spin. I want to see how they handle the question about when it's acceptable to make humor out of human suffering, a topic particularly close to my heart right now.
Let's go check the online discussion board to see how it's going--but first, a detour to the sitemeter faithfully tabulating blog visits. Wow. My numbers have never been better. If I'd know getting cancer would make me so darn popular, I'd have done it years ago.
Sorry. Just a little inappropriate levity re: human suffering.
Nothing new in today's discussion yet...but some students have already posted comments for tomorrow's online class. Which works better, synchronous or asynchronous discussion? I guess I'm getting ready to find out.
10 a.m.
The news is on now, showing strikingly beautiful photos of California burning, which raises the question: when is it acceptable to make art out of human suffering? Is it better to make art or humor or something else entirely?
Oh, now they're reporting on the Jaycee Dugard kidnapping case. It's painful to contemplate the facts, but who can turn away? Will it ever be possible to make either art or humor out of that kind of human suffering? Why or why not? Discuss.
(And who am I addressing here anyway? Hi, whoever you are! Glad you stopped by! Hope you're doing something much more fun than chemotherapy! (If so, why would you want to read this?) Write and tell me about it so I can enjoy it too!)
10:20 a.m.
The nurse leads me back to the chemotherapy room, already crowded with patients attached to IV's. I request a window seat as usual, and I settle in on the big comfy yellow reclining chair in a cheery cubicle surrounded by warm wood half-walls topped with frosted glass featuring a lovely leaf motif. A volunteer comes over to see if I need anything--water, warm blanket, snack?--and we chat a bit. He and his wife, both retired, volunteer here twice a week, and he says 99 percent of the patients he works with are nice. What about the rest? "Sometimes it's hard to be nice if you don't feel so good," he explains. Resolved: be nice to the volunteers, regardless.
Voices from the next cubicle:
"She has a laptop over there."
"A laptop? Do you think they have wireless?"
"I'll go ask."
"No, don't ask--I don't want you to bother her."
"Bother me," I call out. A pleasant young man pops over from the next cubicle, where he's keeping his mother company while she gets chemotherapy. They're both delighted to discover the existence of wireless access. "Next time I'll bring my computer," says the mother, "and maybe we can talk." I refrain from pointing out that we could actually talk just as well without a computer, but let's not get contentious.
Lunch arrives. It's a little early, but it'll keep. Sandwich, cole slaw, apple, granola bar. And of course I have my college mug full of green tea with ginger. Sustenance enough to get me through the day.
Further exploration of the lunch bag reveals that the round object in the bottom of the bag is not an apple after all but an orange. Even better: I'll peel it and experience some natural aromatherapy...but apparently I'm not the first one to think of that. Why can't all medical facilities smell like fresh-squeezed oranges?
10:45 The pre-chemo medication drip is doing its thing. These drugs precede the nasty chemo drugs to head off bad reactions and prevent nausea, but they also make me dopey. I may pay a spontaneous visit to la-la land at any moment. Hope I remember to hit "Save" first.
She's four years older than I am, the woman in the next cubicle. I know this because she has been asked twice already to state her name and birthdate. Every medical procedure and every new bag of drugs attached to the IV requires the patient to state his or her name and birthdate. I'm sure I've said it a thousand times since June.
Sounds like this is her first encounter with chemo, but she's staying pretty cheerful. "Is this the stuff that'll make my hair fall out?" she asks. I want to tell her how to do fun things with scarves, but she's busy being introduced to the IV pole that will be her dance partner for the next few hours.
The cubicles all have little televisions tucked into the warm wood half-wall, and some patients pass the time by watching. Last time I was here, the guy in the next cubicle was watching a Nascar race. It's tempting to draw conclusions about cancer patients based on their viewing choices, but what would they say about me?
10:55
The IV monitor beeps. "Infusion complete," it proclaims, which would be good news except that it's referring only to the infusion of pre-chemo medications. The really nasty stuff starts right now and lasts until it's through. My first chemotherapy session lasted only a few hours because an allergic reaction caused the first drip to be aborted; the second round lasted three or four hours. I'm not sure how long this one will take, but the nurses have assured me that I'll be done in time for my 2:00 radiation treatment. Radiation waits for no man. Or woman either.
Funny: I feel alert, but the connection between my intentious and my fingers seems to be slipping...I'm leaving letters out of words and hitting other letters that have no excuse for intruding where they are not wanted. This is the chief drawback on these drugs: they slow me down in ways that are not immediately obvious, so at the moment I'm probably not the most reliable source of information on how I'm doing.
11:04
Time to check the online discussion board to see how my honors students are doing. Three messages already! Class just started four minutes ago! Students are piling on that question about making humor out of human suffering. Can't wait to see how the rest of the class responds.
Many machines are beeping. Hey, let's get out the iPod! Music to soothe the savage beast. Not that there are any savage beasts here. We're just sick people doing our best to be nice regardless of how we feel.
11:45
Still immersed in my students' online discussion. They're doing great! I jumped in to comment at one point and I'll do it again in a minute. Meanwhile, my IV gently drips.
12:20
I've read all my students' comments and added a few of my own. They've been eagerly debating why humor about machines is so common: are we frightened of machines or trying to assert our superiority over them? Or do our interactions with machines simply provide many opportunities to expose our incompetence to the world? When it comes to technology, we slip on metaphorical banana peels every day of the week. Who wouldn't laugh?
The machine I'm hooked up to right now makes me feel incompetent every time I need to get up and visit the rest room. It's not possible to sit here absorbing fluids for hours without eventually needing to get up and go, but the process is cumbersome: unplug IV monitor from wall; waltz IV pole carefully through the nest of power cords mingling promiscuously on the floor of the cubicle; drag IV pole over to rest room; figure out how to get both of us in there and shut the door--and then get ready to repeat the whole process in reverse.
One of these days I expect to see a cancer patient waltzing with an IV pole on Dancing with the Stars. Too bad Ted Kennedy's not available for the part...
Here we go again, making humor out of human suffering. Tasteless, tacky, irreverent, or none of the above?
12:30
Someone nearby is watching a soap opera. I can't see it but I can hear it: dramatic soap music loudly announcing impending doom, stilted dialogue dealing with situations even stranger than the life of a cancer patient. What is it this time, return of the long-lost twin? Blackmail of a foot-fetishist whose stash of stolen flip-flops is uncovered by the neighbor's dog? I can't hear enough to know what's going on but I refuse to move any closer because those soap-star faces creep me out. They look shiny, stretched and stitched to the point of immobility, like space aliens--or space-alien action figures manufactured from space-age polymers. They just don't look like real people.
12:45
The little gray cells are slowing down. Time to do something mindless. Let's load some more music onto the iPod, shall we? And how amazing is it that I can sample, select, and download music to my cute little Shuffle while wedded to an IV pole at the cancer center?
I'm due for radiation a little over an hour from now, but there's still quite a lot of fluid in that IV bag. I've seen people waltzing their IV poles into the radiation rooms, but I don't look forward to taking my strong but silent dance partner on that long a journey. It's hard enough stumbling around on my own two left feet, but the IV pole has five. Come to think of it, five feet ought to make the pole more proficiently mobile than I am. Maybe I'll let the IV pole carry me over there. Your lead, sir.
1:15
Serious beeping this time. Infusion complete? The nurse checks: "Just a few more drops." But the end is near! I'll be done in plenty of time for radiation, and I don't even feel awful. Slow, yes, and not entirely connected to reality, but not awful. Awful comes later. Trust me: you'd rather not know.
My ears are full of Chopin, a condition for which a doctor ought to be able to prescribe something. If Chopin were a medical disorder, what symptoms would it produce?
The nurse tells me my color looks good, but my appearance has changed enough to bring tears to the eyes of one colleague yesterday and to spark absolutely no recognition in the eyes of another. Ye shall know me by my scarves.
1:30
The nurse unhooks the IV and flushes out the medi-port with saline solution, which immediately creates in my mouth a flavor I can only describe as antiseptic, as if I've been gargling Lysol. This is good news: I'm done with the drip and I can move on to radiation without the assistance of my dance partner.
Now I'm in the radiation waiting room, a cozy space enlivened by the presence of a large aquarium where colorful tropical fish swim for my amusement. They're much more entertaining than Regis and Kelly and far less likely to babble. Bubble, yes; babble, no.
Radiation is easy: lie still and let the machine do its work. At first all the beeping and buzzing were a bit disconcerting, but after eight treatments, I find it easy to block out the noise and fall asleep in the arms of Elekta the elegant linear accelerator.
The women who work here are young and petite, but when it's time to man-handle my body to make sure ever inch is lined up correctly, they have no problem shoving me around like a sack of potatoes. I'd like to see them try that when I'm not lying flat on my back half naked. Then again, maybe not: they have me outnumbered.
The route to Elekta's lair takes me down a nondescript medical office hallway and then down a narrow corridor decorated like the entrance to Grandma's parlor: homey pictures line the wall around a faux brick fireplace topped with dried flower arrangements and family photos. So warm and inviting and homelike...but then I turn the corner and find myself in Sick Bay on the Enterprise. I wonder whether cognitive dissonance is an essential part of the treatment.
1:45 and I have nothing to say. Tired of waiting. Feeling sleepy. Time to shut down for a little while.
2:15 and I'm done! I drifted off to sleep during radiation and then jerked awake moments later, which sort of messed up all that careful positioning. Fortunately, Elekta had reached the last stage in her enigmatic machinations.
Now I'm outside on the sunny courtyard waiting for my wonderful colleague to collect me. Feeling good so far. A little wobbly, a little warped, but not at all awful.
But if I did feel awful, I would strive to make some humor out of it. It's hard to make humor out of a long day of waiting and boredom, but awfulness...well, if I can't make humor out of suffering, then what's it good for?
9 a.m.
I'm sitting in the waiting room of the cancer center patiently awaiting lab tests and chemotherapy followed by my daily radiation treatment. I'm early. I'm always early, but this time I'm really, really early. With eight separate medical appointments this week alone, it's not surprising that I get confused. Better early than late, I guess, since I have to be here anyway.
Chemo days always start early, which means I rely on a network of helpful friends to drive out to the middle of nowhere at the crack of dawn to fetch me and then take me home again later. I could drive myself to town in the morning, but the drugs make me too dopey to drive home at the end of the day, so I may as well get a ride both ways and avoid abandoning my car in that annoying parking garage.
On my daily radiation visits I always park in the same general area in that annoying garage: level B (less traffic down there, easy access to the lower exit), on the end near the cancer center entrance (not so far for me to walk), facing out toward fresh air and sunshine (so my car won't get claustrophobic). Today, though, a wonderful colleague dropped me off.
So here I sit in the waiting room, with Regis and Kelly babbling on the television mounted on the wall. It's a lovely waiting room--soothing colors, lots of light, comfy chairs, coffee and snacks, faux waterfall in the corner and stone fireplace right in the middle of the room--but it's generally full of sick people, some with no hair, some in wheelchairs, some haggard and worn and sleeping wherever they land. Sometimes there are children. I always hope the children are here to accompany sick parents. It's just too awful to imagine children suffering through chemotherapy and radiation.
9:17
The lab nurse calls me in so she can take my blood. The medi-port makes drawing blood easier, but that doesn't mean it's painless. At first stick she can't get any blood. "That's because I don't have any left," I say, but she doesn't believe me. It's true that the chemotherapy exacerbates my anemia to the point that my cheerful oncologist keeps saying comforting things like "Don't worry, if it gets any worse we can give you blood transfusions," but I haven't run out of blood entirely, so the nurse eventually finds a few lonely blood cells willing to go out for a spin.
Back in the waiting room, I wonder what my numbers will look like this time. Will the tumor markers decrease again? I won't find out until next week, and the suspense is just killing me. Unlike Regis and Kelly, who are causing millions of brain cells to commit suicide out of sheer boredom.
I know! I'll use the cancer center's free wireless internet system to check my mail: junk, mass e-mails regarding events I can't attend, committee meeting minutes, supportive messages from colleagues, the usual. No frantic messages from students so far. I've set up online activities for all three classes today and tomorrow, and I fully expect a few newbies to struggle with the technology even though we've put it through its paces in class several times already. But maybe they'll surprise me.
My honors students in the humor class have already surprised me by posting their discussion questions well in advance of the deadline--and what terrific questions! I'd like to test-drive a few myself, but better to give the students a chance to take 'em out for a spin. I want to see how they handle the question about when it's acceptable to make humor out of human suffering, a topic particularly close to my heart right now.
Let's go check the online discussion board to see how it's going--but first, a detour to the sitemeter faithfully tabulating blog visits. Wow. My numbers have never been better. If I'd know getting cancer would make me so darn popular, I'd have done it years ago.
Sorry. Just a little inappropriate levity re: human suffering.
Nothing new in today's discussion yet...but some students have already posted comments for tomorrow's online class. Which works better, synchronous or asynchronous discussion? I guess I'm getting ready to find out.
10 a.m.
The news is on now, showing strikingly beautiful photos of California burning, which raises the question: when is it acceptable to make art out of human suffering? Is it better to make art or humor or something else entirely?
Oh, now they're reporting on the Jaycee Dugard kidnapping case. It's painful to contemplate the facts, but who can turn away? Will it ever be possible to make either art or humor out of that kind of human suffering? Why or why not? Discuss.
(And who am I addressing here anyway? Hi, whoever you are! Glad you stopped by! Hope you're doing something much more fun than chemotherapy! (If so, why would you want to read this?) Write and tell me about it so I can enjoy it too!)
10:20 a.m.
The nurse leads me back to the chemotherapy room, already crowded with patients attached to IV's. I request a window seat as usual, and I settle in on the big comfy yellow reclining chair in a cheery cubicle surrounded by warm wood half-walls topped with frosted glass featuring a lovely leaf motif. A volunteer comes over to see if I need anything--water, warm blanket, snack?--and we chat a bit. He and his wife, both retired, volunteer here twice a week, and he says 99 percent of the patients he works with are nice. What about the rest? "Sometimes it's hard to be nice if you don't feel so good," he explains. Resolved: be nice to the volunteers, regardless.
Voices from the next cubicle:
"She has a laptop over there."
"A laptop? Do you think they have wireless?"
"I'll go ask."
"No, don't ask--I don't want you to bother her."
"Bother me," I call out. A pleasant young man pops over from the next cubicle, where he's keeping his mother company while she gets chemotherapy. They're both delighted to discover the existence of wireless access. "Next time I'll bring my computer," says the mother, "and maybe we can talk." I refrain from pointing out that we could actually talk just as well without a computer, but let's not get contentious.
Lunch arrives. It's a little early, but it'll keep. Sandwich, cole slaw, apple, granola bar. And of course I have my college mug full of green tea with ginger. Sustenance enough to get me through the day.
Further exploration of the lunch bag reveals that the round object in the bottom of the bag is not an apple after all but an orange. Even better: I'll peel it and experience some natural aromatherapy...but apparently I'm not the first one to think of that. Why can't all medical facilities smell like fresh-squeezed oranges?
10:45 The pre-chemo medication drip is doing its thing. These drugs precede the nasty chemo drugs to head off bad reactions and prevent nausea, but they also make me dopey. I may pay a spontaneous visit to la-la land at any moment. Hope I remember to hit "Save" first.
She's four years older than I am, the woman in the next cubicle. I know this because she has been asked twice already to state her name and birthdate. Every medical procedure and every new bag of drugs attached to the IV requires the patient to state his or her name and birthdate. I'm sure I've said it a thousand times since June.
Sounds like this is her first encounter with chemo, but she's staying pretty cheerful. "Is this the stuff that'll make my hair fall out?" she asks. I want to tell her how to do fun things with scarves, but she's busy being introduced to the IV pole that will be her dance partner for the next few hours.
The cubicles all have little televisions tucked into the warm wood half-wall, and some patients pass the time by watching. Last time I was here, the guy in the next cubicle was watching a Nascar race. It's tempting to draw conclusions about cancer patients based on their viewing choices, but what would they say about me?
10:55
The IV monitor beeps. "Infusion complete," it proclaims, which would be good news except that it's referring only to the infusion of pre-chemo medications. The really nasty stuff starts right now and lasts until it's through. My first chemotherapy session lasted only a few hours because an allergic reaction caused the first drip to be aborted; the second round lasted three or four hours. I'm not sure how long this one will take, but the nurses have assured me that I'll be done in time for my 2:00 radiation treatment. Radiation waits for no man. Or woman either.
Funny: I feel alert, but the connection between my intentious and my fingers seems to be slipping...I'm leaving letters out of words and hitting other letters that have no excuse for intruding where they are not wanted. This is the chief drawback on these drugs: they slow me down in ways that are not immediately obvious, so at the moment I'm probably not the most reliable source of information on how I'm doing.
11:04
Time to check the online discussion board to see how my honors students are doing. Three messages already! Class just started four minutes ago! Students are piling on that question about making humor out of human suffering. Can't wait to see how the rest of the class responds.
Many machines are beeping. Hey, let's get out the iPod! Music to soothe the savage beast. Not that there are any savage beasts here. We're just sick people doing our best to be nice regardless of how we feel.
11:45
Still immersed in my students' online discussion. They're doing great! I jumped in to comment at one point and I'll do it again in a minute. Meanwhile, my IV gently drips.
12:20
I've read all my students' comments and added a few of my own. They've been eagerly debating why humor about machines is so common: are we frightened of machines or trying to assert our superiority over them? Or do our interactions with machines simply provide many opportunities to expose our incompetence to the world? When it comes to technology, we slip on metaphorical banana peels every day of the week. Who wouldn't laugh?
The machine I'm hooked up to right now makes me feel incompetent every time I need to get up and visit the rest room. It's not possible to sit here absorbing fluids for hours without eventually needing to get up and go, but the process is cumbersome: unplug IV monitor from wall; waltz IV pole carefully through the nest of power cords mingling promiscuously on the floor of the cubicle; drag IV pole over to rest room; figure out how to get both of us in there and shut the door--and then get ready to repeat the whole process in reverse.
One of these days I expect to see a cancer patient waltzing with an IV pole on Dancing with the Stars. Too bad Ted Kennedy's not available for the part...
Here we go again, making humor out of human suffering. Tasteless, tacky, irreverent, or none of the above?
12:30
Someone nearby is watching a soap opera. I can't see it but I can hear it: dramatic soap music loudly announcing impending doom, stilted dialogue dealing with situations even stranger than the life of a cancer patient. What is it this time, return of the long-lost twin? Blackmail of a foot-fetishist whose stash of stolen flip-flops is uncovered by the neighbor's dog? I can't hear enough to know what's going on but I refuse to move any closer because those soap-star faces creep me out. They look shiny, stretched and stitched to the point of immobility, like space aliens--or space-alien action figures manufactured from space-age polymers. They just don't look like real people.
12:45
The little gray cells are slowing down. Time to do something mindless. Let's load some more music onto the iPod, shall we? And how amazing is it that I can sample, select, and download music to my cute little Shuffle while wedded to an IV pole at the cancer center?
I'm due for radiation a little over an hour from now, but there's still quite a lot of fluid in that IV bag. I've seen people waltzing their IV poles into the radiation rooms, but I don't look forward to taking my strong but silent dance partner on that long a journey. It's hard enough stumbling around on my own two left feet, but the IV pole has five. Come to think of it, five feet ought to make the pole more proficiently mobile than I am. Maybe I'll let the IV pole carry me over there. Your lead, sir.
1:15
Serious beeping this time. Infusion complete? The nurse checks: "Just a few more drops." But the end is near! I'll be done in plenty of time for radiation, and I don't even feel awful. Slow, yes, and not entirely connected to reality, but not awful. Awful comes later. Trust me: you'd rather not know.
My ears are full of Chopin, a condition for which a doctor ought to be able to prescribe something. If Chopin were a medical disorder, what symptoms would it produce?
The nurse tells me my color looks good, but my appearance has changed enough to bring tears to the eyes of one colleague yesterday and to spark absolutely no recognition in the eyes of another. Ye shall know me by my scarves.
1:30
The nurse unhooks the IV and flushes out the medi-port with saline solution, which immediately creates in my mouth a flavor I can only describe as antiseptic, as if I've been gargling Lysol. This is good news: I'm done with the drip and I can move on to radiation without the assistance of my dance partner.
Now I'm in the radiation waiting room, a cozy space enlivened by the presence of a large aquarium where colorful tropical fish swim for my amusement. They're much more entertaining than Regis and Kelly and far less likely to babble. Bubble, yes; babble, no.
Radiation is easy: lie still and let the machine do its work. At first all the beeping and buzzing were a bit disconcerting, but after eight treatments, I find it easy to block out the noise and fall asleep in the arms of Elekta the elegant linear accelerator.
The women who work here are young and petite, but when it's time to man-handle my body to make sure ever inch is lined up correctly, they have no problem shoving me around like a sack of potatoes. I'd like to see them try that when I'm not lying flat on my back half naked. Then again, maybe not: they have me outnumbered.
The route to Elekta's lair takes me down a nondescript medical office hallway and then down a narrow corridor decorated like the entrance to Grandma's parlor: homey pictures line the wall around a faux brick fireplace topped with dried flower arrangements and family photos. So warm and inviting and homelike...but then I turn the corner and find myself in Sick Bay on the Enterprise. I wonder whether cognitive dissonance is an essential part of the treatment.
1:45 and I have nothing to say. Tired of waiting. Feeling sleepy. Time to shut down for a little while.
2:15 and I'm done! I drifted off to sleep during radiation and then jerked awake moments later, which sort of messed up all that careful positioning. Fortunately, Elekta had reached the last stage in her enigmatic machinations.
Now I'm outside on the sunny courtyard waiting for my wonderful colleague to collect me. Feeling good so far. A little wobbly, a little warped, but not at all awful.
But if I did feel awful, I would strive to make some humor out of it. It's hard to make humor out of a long day of waiting and boredom, but awfulness...well, if I can't make humor out of suffering, then what's it good for?
The naked truth
"Let me be the first to admit that the naked truth about me is to the naked truth about Salvador Dali as an old ukelele in the attic is to a piano in a tree, and I mean a piano with breasts."
James Thurber wrote that wonderful sentence in a 1943 essay called "The Secret Life of James Thurber," and how wonderful is it to be teaching a class with a textbook that includes this essay?
But that reminds me of another naked truth: for years I've been telling my humor classes that James Thurber once said that the essence of humor is the willingness to place oneself on painful public record. I believe that, and I believe Thurber said it, but where? I haven't been able to track the statement down anywhere. If you Google "Thurber" with "public record," you get a whole lot of hits referring to some other Thurber, Fred Thurber or Mike Thurber or Joe Thurber, whose entry into the public record has more to do with crime than with humor. So now I don't know whether to keep telling my students that the essence of humor is the willingness to place oneself on painful public record without attribution, or perhaps I should admit the naked truth about my inability to locate the source. Help?
James Thurber wrote that wonderful sentence in a 1943 essay called "The Secret Life of James Thurber," and how wonderful is it to be teaching a class with a textbook that includes this essay?
But that reminds me of another naked truth: for years I've been telling my humor classes that James Thurber once said that the essence of humor is the willingness to place oneself on painful public record. I believe that, and I believe Thurber said it, but where? I haven't been able to track the statement down anywhere. If you Google "Thurber" with "public record," you get a whole lot of hits referring to some other Thurber, Fred Thurber or Mike Thurber or Joe Thurber, whose entry into the public record has more to do with crime than with humor. So now I don't know whether to keep telling my students that the essence of humor is the willingness to place oneself on painful public record without attribution, or perhaps I should admit the naked truth about my inability to locate the source. Help?
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Writing about not writing
A New York Times review of Lorrie Moore's new book, A Gate at the Stairs, explains the challenges Moore faced in completing her novel: as a single mother teaching creative writing at the University of Wisconsin, she had trouble finding uninterrupted time to focus on writing. The review quotes fellow writer Jayne Anne Phillips, who "said balancing a job and child-rearing with writing had shaped Ms. Moore's work. 'The double edge of it is that I think any form of real spiritual surrender does inform one's work,' Ms. Phillips said. 'But the problem is that oftentimes one doesn't have time to write the work.'"
I hear that.
I've known from the start that writing would be one key to sanity as I snake my way through the months of chemotherapy and radiation and their various side effects, but when can I write it all down? I can't write in class or in transit or while I'm in the grip of Elekta the elegant linear accelerator, and I can't write when I'm doped up on anti-nausea drugs or falling asleep on the sofa at 7 in the evening (on a good day). I can't write while I'm walking, but walking clears my head and helps me work through ideas to write down later--if I don't fall asleep first. I can't find any long, uninterrupted spans of time to devote to sitting in front of the computer, so I'm taking advantage of fleeting moments and writing in short spurts (like this one).
Anthony Doerr explained that while he was doing research for "Village 113," a terrific short story about change and growth and planting seeds, he ran across this quote from Pope John XXIII: "An old world disappears, another one is being formed, and within this I am trying to conceal some good seed or other that will have its springtime, even if it is somewhat delayed." Maybe someday I'll have the luxury of taking the long view, spending some leisurely time pulling things together and making something more sustained and meaningful than these daily musings, but meanwhile, I'm planting seeds and waiting for springtime.
I hear that.
I've known from the start that writing would be one key to sanity as I snake my way through the months of chemotherapy and radiation and their various side effects, but when can I write it all down? I can't write in class or in transit or while I'm in the grip of Elekta the elegant linear accelerator, and I can't write when I'm doped up on anti-nausea drugs or falling asleep on the sofa at 7 in the evening (on a good day). I can't write while I'm walking, but walking clears my head and helps me work through ideas to write down later--if I don't fall asleep first. I can't find any long, uninterrupted spans of time to devote to sitting in front of the computer, so I'm taking advantage of fleeting moments and writing in short spurts (like this one).
Anthony Doerr explained that while he was doing research for "Village 113," a terrific short story about change and growth and planting seeds, he ran across this quote from Pope John XXIII: "An old world disappears, another one is being formed, and within this I am trying to conceal some good seed or other that will have its springtime, even if it is somewhat delayed." Maybe someday I'll have the luxury of taking the long view, spending some leisurely time pulling things together and making something more sustained and meaningful than these daily musings, but meanwhile, I'm planting seeds and waiting for springtime.
Tie one on
Yesterday a bunch of friends and colleagues showered me with hats and scarves, enough to keep my bald head colorfully covered for quite some time. I've mastered the Gypsy Queen look--all I need is a crystal ball.If I had a crystal ball, it might show a time when I won't need scarves or chemotherapy or radiation any more...but I'm certain it would reveal a future in which I am eternally grateful for the support of wonderful friends!
Monday, August 31, 2009
Take note
Note to self: yelling at the computer may feel good, but it rarely accomplishes any worthwhile goal. Doubly true in the classroom.
Note to my daughter: the rhubarb crisp was terrific, but even more wonderful was the opportunity to see you tackling a whole new life with joy and finesse.
Note to the student who left class "to use the bathroom" and returned with a late homework assignment printed out (what, they have printers in the rest rooms now?) and tried to sneak it into the stack on my desk: I may be many things, but I'm not blind and I'm not stupid. Better learn this now before it's too late.
Note to whoever's in charge of today's weather: 49 degrees in August? What are you drinking?
Note to my daughter: the rhubarb crisp was terrific, but even more wonderful was the opportunity to see you tackling a whole new life with joy and finesse.
Note to the student who left class "to use the bathroom" and returned with a late homework assignment printed out (what, they have printers in the rest rooms now?) and tried to sneak it into the stack on my desk: I may be many things, but I'm not blind and I'm not stupid. Better learn this now before it's too late.
Note to whoever's in charge of today's weather: 49 degrees in August? What are you drinking?
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Hair today, gone tomorrow
My daughter was born with a thick mop of fine black hair all over her head, but it didn't last long. Within a week she had a bald spot in back where the hair had rubbed off, and within a month she was pretty much bald.
I've been following her lead this week. I started Monday morning with a head of thick dark hair, but it grew thinner each day until I had to cover the bald spot with a scarf on Friday. I've been trailing clouds of glorious hair everywhere I go--in the shower, in my office, in my food--and my car looks as if some woodland creature has been nesting in it. All I did was lean my head on my hand while driving home. When I took my hand away, a bunch of hair came with it.
Today I'm losing the rest of my hair. I'm tired of the mess, so my husband will shave off what little remains: a fine fringe around the edges, a few lonely strands on top. Meanwhile, I'm practicing my scarf-tying skills. The cancer center gave me a catalog featuring a variety of methods for disguising baldness, including clown-like chenille beanies and wigs that evoke Dolly Parton. There's a gold lame turban that looks as if it belongs on a 1940s movie star, but that's really not the look for me.
But what will be my signature look? Rosie the Riveter, Aunt Jemima, Russian Babushka, or Katie Kerchief? (Did I once have a doll called Katie Kerchief or am I making that up?) I can't quite pull off the Jackie O look, which requires certain accessories: sunglasses, sailboats, and Greek shipping magnates. I can't teach in sunglasses, and where would I stash my students on the boat?
Maybe there's a fedora in my future. I've always admired the fedora. It looks so Humphrey Bogart. I could be the middle-aged-bald-woman Bogart. Temporarily.
My daughter's dark hair never grew back, replaced instead by beautiful fine golden-brown hair that twisted into thick curls at adolescence. Someday, when I'm all done with cancer and chemotherapy, my hair will come back too, but it may be different: straighter or curlier, thicker or thinner, maybe all gray, maybe not. Perhaps my inner Dolly Parton will finally be unleashed. Meanwhile, I'm tying scarves, dreaming about hats, and trying not to lose my head over losing my hair.
I've been following her lead this week. I started Monday morning with a head of thick dark hair, but it grew thinner each day until I had to cover the bald spot with a scarf on Friday. I've been trailing clouds of glorious hair everywhere I go--in the shower, in my office, in my food--and my car looks as if some woodland creature has been nesting in it. All I did was lean my head on my hand while driving home. When I took my hand away, a bunch of hair came with it.
Today I'm losing the rest of my hair. I'm tired of the mess, so my husband will shave off what little remains: a fine fringe around the edges, a few lonely strands on top. Meanwhile, I'm practicing my scarf-tying skills. The cancer center gave me a catalog featuring a variety of methods for disguising baldness, including clown-like chenille beanies and wigs that evoke Dolly Parton. There's a gold lame turban that looks as if it belongs on a 1940s movie star, but that's really not the look for me.
But what will be my signature look? Rosie the Riveter, Aunt Jemima, Russian Babushka, or Katie Kerchief? (Did I once have a doll called Katie Kerchief or am I making that up?) I can't quite pull off the Jackie O look, which requires certain accessories: sunglasses, sailboats, and Greek shipping magnates. I can't teach in sunglasses, and where would I stash my students on the boat?
Maybe there's a fedora in my future. I've always admired the fedora. It looks so Humphrey Bogart. I could be the middle-aged-bald-woman Bogart. Temporarily.
My daughter's dark hair never grew back, replaced instead by beautiful fine golden-brown hair that twisted into thick curls at adolescence. Someday, when I'm all done with cancer and chemotherapy, my hair will come back too, but it may be different: straighter or curlier, thicker or thinner, maybe all gray, maybe not. Perhaps my inner Dolly Parton will finally be unleashed. Meanwhile, I'm tying scarves, dreaming about hats, and trying not to lose my head over losing my hair.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Friday poetry challenge: Machines 'n' me
Elegant Elekta
the linear accelerator
peers from the ceiling
with sublime unconcern.
She groans, beeps, and buzzes,
rotates, repositions,
to beam radiation
'til I'm feeling the burn.
Your turn: immortalize in verse your interactions with a machine.
the linear accelerator
peers from the ceiling
with sublime unconcern.
She groans, beeps, and buzzes,
rotates, repositions,
to beam radiation
'til I'm feeling the burn.
Your turn: immortalize in verse your interactions with a machine.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
The view from the throne
One of the great things about having an office is the library is arriving early: there's no one in the building except me and the custodians, no sounds except the books murmuring to one another in the stacks. That's when I get things done.
I've also enjoyed discovering the library's hidden secrets. Yesterday I went wandering around looking for a paper cutter, but the people I would normally ask were otherwise occupied. So I asked myself, "If I were a paper cutter, where would I be?" That's exactly where I went, and there it was.
The round shape of the building results in some odd little corners tucked away here and there, like the wedge-shaped workroom near my office and the reading room with the fireplace and curved wall. The most unusual, though, is the handicapped stall in the women's rest room near my office: it's like any other rest-room stall except for its size (huge) and view. Yes, there's a large window inside the stall. The view from the throne features a stretch of the campus mall where people are always milling about, and anyone sitting there would naturally wonder, "If I can see them, does that mean they can see me?" I hope the window blind proves opaque to outside viewers. After all, if all secrets are revealed, where's the mystery?
I've also enjoyed discovering the library's hidden secrets. Yesterday I went wandering around looking for a paper cutter, but the people I would normally ask were otherwise occupied. So I asked myself, "If I were a paper cutter, where would I be?" That's exactly where I went, and there it was.
The round shape of the building results in some odd little corners tucked away here and there, like the wedge-shaped workroom near my office and the reading room with the fireplace and curved wall. The most unusual, though, is the handicapped stall in the women's rest room near my office: it's like any other rest-room stall except for its size (huge) and view. Yes, there's a large window inside the stall. The view from the throne features a stretch of the campus mall where people are always milling about, and anyone sitting there would naturally wonder, "If I can see them, does that mean they can see me?" I hope the window blind proves opaque to outside viewers. After all, if all secrets are revealed, where's the mystery?
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Hopeful's happy dance
I noticed yesterday that my dog and I are pursuing opposite trajectories: she's growing more hair while I'm losing mine.
A week or so ago Hopeful came home from her usual wanderings with a bald spot on her head about the size of a silver dollar. It looked awful at first, raw and oozing, but as we've cleaned it and put on some soothing salve, it has healed up well. Now the hair is coming back thick and black.
The wound, whatever its source, has not slowed her down any. Every time I walk out the door, she comes running to see whether we're going for a walk, and if I say the word "walk," she does her happy dance all over the front porch and down the driveway. During the long weeks after my surgery when walking on our local hills was simply not possible, she spent a lot of time sitting outside the big front window and looking in wistfully, as if wondering what could be keeping me from our usual rambles. Now, though, on the days when side effects don't have me flattened by midafternoon, I'm walking whenever I can with Hopeful by my side.
Yesterday we walked all the way up the big hill near our house, which I used to do daily but I've managed only three times since June. She runs on ahead and then looks back to make sure I'm following, and if I whistle, she comes running for a treat and does her happy dance right at my feet. If I have to turn back sooner than usual, she doesn't complain. She's just happy to be out walking with me--and she makes me happy too.
Five years ago when our former dog died, I thought I was done with dogs, so when Hopeful wandered into our lives a little over a year ago, I had no intention of adopting another pet--and yet here she still is, doing her little happy dance and making me smile even when I can't manage much of a walk.
I don't want to get all sappy here, but I'm just saying: someone knew I needed a dog.
A week or so ago Hopeful came home from her usual wanderings with a bald spot on her head about the size of a silver dollar. It looked awful at first, raw and oozing, but as we've cleaned it and put on some soothing salve, it has healed up well. Now the hair is coming back thick and black.
The wound, whatever its source, has not slowed her down any. Every time I walk out the door, she comes running to see whether we're going for a walk, and if I say the word "walk," she does her happy dance all over the front porch and down the driveway. During the long weeks after my surgery when walking on our local hills was simply not possible, she spent a lot of time sitting outside the big front window and looking in wistfully, as if wondering what could be keeping me from our usual rambles. Now, though, on the days when side effects don't have me flattened by midafternoon, I'm walking whenever I can with Hopeful by my side.
Yesterday we walked all the way up the big hill near our house, which I used to do daily but I've managed only three times since June. She runs on ahead and then looks back to make sure I'm following, and if I whistle, she comes running for a treat and does her happy dance right at my feet. If I have to turn back sooner than usual, she doesn't complain. She's just happy to be out walking with me--and she makes me happy too.
Five years ago when our former dog died, I thought I was done with dogs, so when Hopeful wandered into our lives a little over a year ago, I had no intention of adopting another pet--and yet here she still is, doing her little happy dance and making me smile even when I can't manage much of a walk.
I don't want to get all sappy here, but I'm just saying: someone knew I needed a dog.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Imagine a world without fart jokes
My honors students in the humor theory class are writing right now in response to an intentionally vague prompt: "What is humor for?" It's not a graded essay; I just want to see where their writing skills are, how they organize ideas, what kind of work they can produce in 30 minutes without advance preparation.
But I'm also interested in their answers. I've taught variations on this humor theory class three or four times and every time I hope students will come to some understanding of the function of humor in human societies, but let's face it: I'd be hard pressed to answer the question myself. What is humor for? Does it confer some sort of survival advantage for the species? If some strange cataclysm somehow wiped out the human capacity for humor, what would happen? How long could the human race survive without fart jokes?
This semester we'll read a variety of humorous essays and essays on humor, many of them shockingly unfunny, and we'll discuss a variety of approaches to answering the question. First, though, we have to ask the question. What is humor for?
You've got thirty minutes, starting now.
But I'm also interested in their answers. I've taught variations on this humor theory class three or four times and every time I hope students will come to some understanding of the function of humor in human societies, but let's face it: I'd be hard pressed to answer the question myself. What is humor for? Does it confer some sort of survival advantage for the species? If some strange cataclysm somehow wiped out the human capacity for humor, what would happen? How long could the human race survive without fart jokes?
This semester we'll read a variety of humorous essays and essays on humor, many of them shockingly unfunny, and we'll discuss a variety of approaches to answering the question. First, though, we have to ask the question. What is humor for?
You've got thirty minutes, starting now.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Brave new world
This morning I met my fall classes for the first time and this afternoon I met the machine that will shoot radiation into me every weekday for the next five weeks. In both cases, I felt as if I had crossed an invisible border.
My classes are great--I love the material and the students seem responsive (so far). Everyone writes on the first day of class, and even though I've only skimmed today's writing, I can tell already that this is going to be an engaging semester.
I went through the usual syllabus spiel with one important difference: in order to explain why my office hours are limited and why we'll occasionally move class discussions online (sometimes with advance warning, sometimes without), I told my classes briefly about my recent medical adventures. It would have become obvious soon anyway since my hairline is receding at a rapid pace, but I tried to focus primarily on how my treatment regimen will affect the class.
My hands were shaking the first time I went through the spiel, but by the third time, I was more relaxed. I like being in control, especially in front of the classroom, so it's not easy to admit how little power I can exert in my life right now. I felt naked.
I felt even more naked this afternoon--but even if I'd kept all my clothes on and donned a suit of armor, it wouldn't have prevented the radiation from beaming into my inner parts. The big white radiation machine named Elekta beeped and buzzed and flashed at me, sounding sometimes like a blender whipping up a smoothie, sometimes like a toilet flushing, and sometimes like a doctor clearing his throat.
Radiation therapy isn't nearly as immediately disruptive as chemotherapy: there are no needles, no nasty chemicals, no side effects for the first few weeks. And yet it felt momentous, like an entrance into a brave new world. I'm not sure I'm ready for this, or for what it will mean for my classes. But one thing is certain: there's no turning back now.
My classes are great--I love the material and the students seem responsive (so far). Everyone writes on the first day of class, and even though I've only skimmed today's writing, I can tell already that this is going to be an engaging semester.
I went through the usual syllabus spiel with one important difference: in order to explain why my office hours are limited and why we'll occasionally move class discussions online (sometimes with advance warning, sometimes without), I told my classes briefly about my recent medical adventures. It would have become obvious soon anyway since my hairline is receding at a rapid pace, but I tried to focus primarily on how my treatment regimen will affect the class.
My hands were shaking the first time I went through the spiel, but by the third time, I was more relaxed. I like being in control, especially in front of the classroom, so it's not easy to admit how little power I can exert in my life right now. I felt naked.
I felt even more naked this afternoon--but even if I'd kept all my clothes on and donned a suit of armor, it wouldn't have prevented the radiation from beaming into my inner parts. The big white radiation machine named Elekta beeped and buzzed and flashed at me, sounding sometimes like a blender whipping up a smoothie, sometimes like a toilet flushing, and sometimes like a doctor clearing his throat.
Radiation therapy isn't nearly as immediately disruptive as chemotherapy: there are no needles, no nasty chemicals, no side effects for the first few weeks. And yet it felt momentous, like an entrance into a brave new world. I'm not sure I'm ready for this, or for what it will mean for my classes. But one thing is certain: there's no turning back now.
Weekend visitors
Saturday afternoon I walked to the upper meadow in search of butterflies, but I found larger
game first. This deer stood watching me as I walked up the hill snapping photos, but as soon as I got one step too close, it leapt toward the woods. The butterfly population has been low this 
summer thanks to unseasonably cool nights, but I still found a few to photograph.I noticed minor damage from last Thursday's heavy storms. An old rusty antenna tower up in the butterfly meadow has now snapped two out of three guy wires and has been nudged a good way out of vertical. We need to knock that thing down before it falls on someone. Meanwhile, down in the garden, the storm knocked down our most mature corn stalks, but they're already starting to reach for the sky.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Twinkle twinkle
I thought I had heard about every possible side effect of chemotherapy, but yesterday my oncologist sprung new one on me. In the same tone you or I might use to say "Don't be surprised if it rains this afternoon," he said, "Don't be surprised if your fingernails fall off."
!
I'm pretty good at complying with Doctor's Orders, but I'm having a little trouble with this one. I like my fingernails--I've grown rather attached to them over the years, trimming and filing and polishing them to a high gloss--so if they suddenly decide to leap off my hands and pursue other interests, I think I'm entitled to be a wee bit surprised. The little ingrates.
I appreciate my doctor's warning, but what I really need is for someone to warn me when the oncologist is about to casually drop some new alarming information into the conversation. For instance, yesterday before my appointment the nurse could have taken me aside and said, "Don't be surprised if the doctor says, 'Don't be surprised if your fingernails fall off." And then maybe the receptionist could cushion the blow even more by warning me, "Don't be surprised if the nurse says, 'Don't be surprised if the doctor says, "Don't be surprised if your fingernails fall off."'"
I imagine a long series of warnings, an infinite regress going back to the time when I was a mere twinkle in my father's eye. Some kind person should have looked squarely into that twinkle and said, "Yo, Twink, one of these days a doctor is going to rock your world and usher you into a new dimension in which it is perfectly normal for your fingernails to fall off. But whatever you do, don't be surprised."
What sense would I have made of the information at that point? I probably would have kept on twinkling. Which, I suppose, is what I'll try to do if my fingernails fall off. I'll be surprised, yes, but I'll just have to accept the fingernail mutiny as yet another ordinary aspect of The New Normal.
!
I'm pretty good at complying with Doctor's Orders, but I'm having a little trouble with this one. I like my fingernails--I've grown rather attached to them over the years, trimming and filing and polishing them to a high gloss--so if they suddenly decide to leap off my hands and pursue other interests, I think I'm entitled to be a wee bit surprised. The little ingrates.
I appreciate my doctor's warning, but what I really need is for someone to warn me when the oncologist is about to casually drop some new alarming information into the conversation. For instance, yesterday before my appointment the nurse could have taken me aside and said, "Don't be surprised if the doctor says, 'Don't be surprised if your fingernails fall off." And then maybe the receptionist could cushion the blow even more by warning me, "Don't be surprised if the nurse says, 'Don't be surprised if the doctor says, "Don't be surprised if your fingernails fall off."'"
I imagine a long series of warnings, an infinite regress going back to the time when I was a mere twinkle in my father's eye. Some kind person should have looked squarely into that twinkle and said, "Yo, Twink, one of these days a doctor is going to rock your world and usher you into a new dimension in which it is perfectly normal for your fingernails to fall off. But whatever you do, don't be surprised."
What sense would I have made of the information at that point? I probably would have kept on twinkling. Which, I suppose, is what I'll try to do if my fingernails fall off. I'll be surprised, yes, but I'll just have to accept the fingernail mutiny as yet another ordinary aspect of The New Normal.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Friday poetry challenge: first-day nightmares
Students await my
entrance, shifting in their seats.
But where are my clothes?
Where is my classroom?
Why are my teeth falling so
freely from my mouth?
Your turn: what are your worst first-day nightmares?
entrance, shifting in their seats.
But where are my clothes?
Where is my classroom?
Why are my teeth falling so
freely from my mouth?
Your turn: what are your worst first-day nightmares?
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Gingerly
My office this morning smells like alcohol--not so much a morning-after-the-bash smell as an antiseptic-medical-office smell.
First thing this morning I used Q-tips and rubbing alcohol to remove sticky white lint from my laptop computer keyboard, which worked just fine, thank you very much. My computer is now up and running and apparently none the worse for its baptism by ginger ale, which I was sipping yesterday afternoon to hold down some mild nausea while finishing up my final fall syllabus, when the phone rang and I reached to answer it and tipped the ginger ale bottle onto the keyboard.
It was my favorite kind of ginger ale, too: Reed's Extra Strong. Pity to waste it on a keyboard.
So there I was trying to absorb information about my radiation schedule, one hand holding the phone and the other grabbing a wad of tissues and trying to sop up spilled ginger ale. Do you know what happens to tissues when they get soaked in ginger ale and rubbed across a bumpy keyboard? When I was done, my keyboard appeared to be growing white hair.
So I called my favorite IT guy and followed instructions: unplug the computer, dry it off, turn it upside down to let it drain, walk away and hope for the best. I'm getting pretty good at that last bit. Lots of practice.
And the hope paid off: after gingerly cleaning the sticky white lint off the keyboard, I am now ready to get back to what I was doing before I was so rudely interrupted...but if I'm going to tackle that last syllabus, I really need a drink.
Anyone have any ginger ale?
First thing this morning I used Q-tips and rubbing alcohol to remove sticky white lint from my laptop computer keyboard, which worked just fine, thank you very much. My computer is now up and running and apparently none the worse for its baptism by ginger ale, which I was sipping yesterday afternoon to hold down some mild nausea while finishing up my final fall syllabus, when the phone rang and I reached to answer it and tipped the ginger ale bottle onto the keyboard.
It was my favorite kind of ginger ale, too: Reed's Extra Strong. Pity to waste it on a keyboard.
So there I was trying to absorb information about my radiation schedule, one hand holding the phone and the other grabbing a wad of tissues and trying to sop up spilled ginger ale. Do you know what happens to tissues when they get soaked in ginger ale and rubbed across a bumpy keyboard? When I was done, my keyboard appeared to be growing white hair.
So I called my favorite IT guy and followed instructions: unplug the computer, dry it off, turn it upside down to let it drain, walk away and hope for the best. I'm getting pretty good at that last bit. Lots of practice.
And the hope paid off: after gingerly cleaning the sticky white lint off the keyboard, I am now ready to get back to what I was doing before I was so rudely interrupted...but if I'm going to tackle that last syllabus, I really need a drink.
Anyone have any ginger ale?
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Dietary dilemma
Under siege by The Side Effect That Dares Not Speak Its Name (TSETDNSIN), I have sought assistance in a book called Eating Well Through Cancer, which offers dietary suggestions and recipes for each stage of treatment.
Right now I have a garden bursting with all my favorite fresh veggies--tomatoes, hot peppers, eggplant, broccoli, cauliflower, kohlrabi, cabbage, and onions--but do you know what this book wants me to eat?
Dry toast. Boiled pasta with no sauce. White bread. Bananas. Peanut butter.
No fresh fruits or veggies until TSETDNSIN subsides. No hot or spicy foods. No caffeine (which is a pain since TSETDNSIN keeps me up at night). Nothing I really like, in other words.
Rats.
Anyone need some cabbage?
Right now I have a garden bursting with all my favorite fresh veggies--tomatoes, hot peppers, eggplant, broccoli, cauliflower, kohlrabi, cabbage, and onions--but do you know what this book wants me to eat?
Dry toast. Boiled pasta with no sauce. White bread. Bananas. Peanut butter.
No fresh fruits or veggies until TSETDNSIN subsides. No hot or spicy foods. No caffeine (which is a pain since TSETDNSIN keeps me up at night). Nothing I really like, in other words.
Rats.
Anyone need some cabbage?
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Ambulatory and unremarkable
Last week I ran into my car insurance guy at the grocery store. "What's new?" he asked, and I didn't know how to answer. This is one of the awkward side effects of my current condition: there's just no easy answer to simple questions like "How are you?"
"I'm okay," I say, "And you?"
But "okay" doesn't really cover the situation. I have cancer! Cancer is not okay! My own cells are trying to kill me! The treatments make me sick! And I have side effects that can't really be discussed in polite society!
But that's not the kind of thing I can say in a casual conversation at the grocery store, so "okay" it is.
Sometimes, though, "okay" won't do, so I offer more details--which is like inviting the Grim Reaper into the room. No one wants the Grim Reaper at the party. He's a lousy conversationalist, for one thing, and if he keeps swinging that sickle around, he's bound to hurt someone.
So we eventually circle back to "I'm okay." Which is true enough, as far as it goes. I'm okay, considering. Okay, under the circumstances. Okay, provided that you stretch the definition of "okay" past the breaking point.
Last week when I was in the hospital to get my port installed, the anesthesiologist was reviewing my medical history and reading aloud snippets of information he found in my file: "Patient ambulatory....liver, spleen, and kidneys unremarkable....uterus surgically absent" (to which I wanted to reply: it had better be absent or someone's getting sued).
Maybe I'll adopt some of that medical language in everyday conversation:
"How are you?"
"Ambulatory. And you?"
"Great! How was your summer?"
"Well, parts of it were pretty unremarkable."
Blank look.
"The liver, spleen, and kidneys, to be precise."
Slowly backing away.
"But hey, I'm okay!"
The sound you've just heard is the door shutting as the Grim Reaper leaves the room.
"I'm okay," I say, "And you?"
But "okay" doesn't really cover the situation. I have cancer! Cancer is not okay! My own cells are trying to kill me! The treatments make me sick! And I have side effects that can't really be discussed in polite society!
But that's not the kind of thing I can say in a casual conversation at the grocery store, so "okay" it is.
Sometimes, though, "okay" won't do, so I offer more details--which is like inviting the Grim Reaper into the room. No one wants the Grim Reaper at the party. He's a lousy conversationalist, for one thing, and if he keeps swinging that sickle around, he's bound to hurt someone.
So we eventually circle back to "I'm okay." Which is true enough, as far as it goes. I'm okay, considering. Okay, under the circumstances. Okay, provided that you stretch the definition of "okay" past the breaking point.
Last week when I was in the hospital to get my port installed, the anesthesiologist was reviewing my medical history and reading aloud snippets of information he found in my file: "Patient ambulatory....liver, spleen, and kidneys unremarkable....uterus surgically absent" (to which I wanted to reply: it had better be absent or someone's getting sued).
Maybe I'll adopt some of that medical language in everyday conversation:
"How are you?"
"Ambulatory. And you?"
"Great! How was your summer?"
"Well, parts of it were pretty unremarkable."
Blank look.
"The liver, spleen, and kidneys, to be precise."
Slowly backing away.
"But hey, I'm okay!"
The sound you've just heard is the door shutting as the Grim Reaper leaves the room.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Friday poetry challenge: sound escapes
I'm feeling pretty slow today so I'm doing something simple--loading piles of good music onto my new iPod Shuffle. I need a variety--happy music, soothing music, mindless music, music to distract me from horrible side effects--and I'm accepting suggestions. What do you listen to when you need to escape? As usual, comments written in verse count double.
(I would write a silly limerick if I could figure out what rhymes with Michael Buble.)
(I would write a silly limerick if I could figure out what rhymes with Michael Buble.)
Mystery solved
A helpful colleague has identified yesterday's mystery wildflower as a variety of Tick Trefoil, which is a pea-like legume. It had me stymied because I looked at it early in the morning when the blossoms were still closed tight; a little later, they would have looked like this photo. I also overlooked the tiny notched pods growing along the stem.
Mystery solved, thanks to a botanist.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Wet and wild (flowers)
Early this morning while the spider webs still dripped with dew, I toddled up the hill to the butterfly meadow just to see what's growing. The paths up there haven't been mowed for a while, and the weeds were so tall and wet that my pants soaked through clear up to the thigh before I was halfway up the hill and Hopeful's head barely poked out above the Queen Anne's Lace, but it was worth the effort. These days the butterfly meadow glistens with color and growth.
This year for the first time ever we hired some lawn and garden help, a former classmate of my daughter's who has been coming over twice a week to pull weeds, pick tomatoes, and do all the weed-eating and mowing I can't quite manage. She's a hard worker and she's doing a terrific job, but the butterfly meadow is pretty low on the priority list. No one goes up there these days except deer, birds, bugs, and butterflies, and they don't care whether the paths get mowed.
I saw signs of deer and a red-tailed hawk but no butterflies--too early in the day. Immense purple ironweed blooms alongside bright yellow goldenrod, orange butterfly weed, and vast expanses of Queen Anne's Lace. I found an unfamiliar wildflower--always a treat to see something new! It has tiny white-to-pink slipper-shaped blossoms with a touch of blue, but it's surrounded by poison ivy so I had trouble getting a clear photo. I haven't been able to find it in my wildflower book so far.
Up at the top under the pine trees I found some lovely brown mushrooms, and on the way down I stopped by a patch of brilliant yellow and orange jewelweed. It looks so pretty I'd love to take it inside, but I tried that once and it was a mistake: it may look like precious jewels, but when you cut it, it smells like garbage.
No, the only way to enjoy jewelweed and its wild cousins is to visit them where they grow, no matter how steep and wet the climb. At least I can bring back some photos.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Gifts that keep giving
The FedEx guy pulled up to deliver a gift. I was pretty excited about the gift (a teeny-tiny iPod Shuffle! In fuchsia! With my name engraved on the front!), but he was more excited about my car:
"That your Volvo?"
"Yeah."
"How much you want for it?"
"It's not for sale."
"Come on, how much would you sell it for?"
"Well, I got it for free...but you couldn't possibly pay me what it's worth."
Then he wanted to know the whole remarkable story, which I told him. (In case you missed it, read it here.)
"Huh," he said. "But if you got it for free, you could sell it for anything and make a profit."
"Trust me," I said, "Some gifts carry a value far beyond the pricetag, and that Volvo is one of them."
"Well," he said, "if you ever change your mind...."
But I'm holding on to my Volvo. It's not as cute as my new iPod Shuffle, but every time I see it, it makes me want to sing.
"That your Volvo?"
"Yeah."
"How much you want for it?"
"It's not for sale."
"Come on, how much would you sell it for?"
"Well, I got it for free...but you couldn't possibly pay me what it's worth."
Then he wanted to know the whole remarkable story, which I told him. (In case you missed it, read it here.)
"Huh," he said. "But if you got it for free, you could sell it for anything and make a profit."
"Trust me," I said, "Some gifts carry a value far beyond the pricetag, and that Volvo is one of them."
"Well," he said, "if you ever change your mind...."
But I'm holding on to my Volvo. It's not as cute as my new iPod Shuffle, but every time I see it, it makes me want to sing.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
To sleep, perchance
What happens when you fall asleep on the sofa with a full glass of water in your hand--and then the phone rings right next to your ear?
Time to change your pants.
I blame the drugs. Anti-nausea drugs accompanying chemotherapy make the border between waking and sleep so thin that I can fall soundly asleep in the time it takes to move the glass from my lips to the table, except this time it never made it to the table.
But the chemotherapy went well: I had visits from two of my favorite people, a ride home from a wonderful colleague (although I didn't get to ride home in a convertible with the top down as I did on Friday, a very therapeutic experience!), and no bad reactions. Best of all, the blood tests indicated that the number of tumor markers (a toxic name, that) in my blood has been cut in half. So the treatment is working.
I'll be sleeping well tonight. In fact, I may be asleep before the end of this sen
Time to change your pants.
I blame the drugs. Anti-nausea drugs accompanying chemotherapy make the border between waking and sleep so thin that I can fall soundly asleep in the time it takes to move the glass from my lips to the table, except this time it never made it to the table.
But the chemotherapy went well: I had visits from two of my favorite people, a ride home from a wonderful colleague (although I didn't get to ride home in a convertible with the top down as I did on Friday, a very therapeutic experience!), and no bad reactions. Best of all, the blood tests indicated that the number of tumor markers (a toxic name, that) in my blood has been cut in half. So the treatment is working.
I'll be sleeping well tonight. In fact, I may be asleep before the end of this sen
Monday, August 10, 2009
Natural high
It's ridiculous to drive an hour each way just to find a pleasant place to go for a walk, but that's what we did yesterday. I've been working on steeling myself for the struggles ahead by filling my senses with beauty, so yesterday we drove to Black Hand Gorge, a state nature preserve featuring a paved bike path that stretches for seven miles along the lovely Licking River.
We visited there years ago when both of our kids were still at home, hauling four bikes an hour north to ride the full length of the trail. But we haven't really used our bikes since we moved out to the woods where the roads are steep and curvy and largely unpaved, so the bikes are in bad repair.
This time we used our feet instead. It's a level path (which is great because I'm still struggling on uphills) that runs through shady woods and large rock outcrops, with the river on one side and abandoned quarries filled with water and lilies on the other. A few canoes and kayaks slipped past on the river and we encountered about a half dozen bikers and walkers on the path, but mostly it was calm and quiet and full of peaceful green beauty, like the rotting log covered with brilliant orange fungus and the doe and two fawns splashing through the lily pads in one of the ponds.
We walked to the two-mile marker, took a little rest near a rock that looks like a beaver swimming downstream, and then walked back. Baby steps. That's how we'll get through the next few months.
Sunday, August 09, 2009
The invasive Lego
Imagine that some prankster with a sharp knife knocks you out, slashes your skin just above the collar bone, inserts a large Lego block, and sews you back up again. How do you feel when you wake up?
I'm still getting accustomed to the feeling of the medi-port a surgeon installed in my chest on Friday. It's a sophisticated piece of medical technology designed to deliver chemotherapy infusions with ease, but it looks like an errant piece of Lego block--I can even feel the bumps through the skin. It feels like a juvenile prank gone horribly wrong.
I might have welcomed my new port a little more robustly if I'd had a more pleasant experience with the anesthesia. Friday morning I read an article in the New York Times about propofol, the drug Michael Jackson was taking, which is supposed to provide sedation without nausea and leave one with a feeling of mild euphoria, a feeling so pleasant that even doctors, who ought to know better, are getting hooked. (Read it here.)
I could use a little euphoria in my life right now, but no such luck: my propofol drip delivered a bad case of vertigo and nausea. Where's my euphoria? Whom shall I sue? And how does anyone ever get addicted to this horrible stuff?
Maybe my dose of euphoria was delivered to someone else by accident. I'd like to find that person and make a trade: for a full dose of euphoria, I'll trade one Lego block, slightly used. All you have to do is get it out.
I'm still getting accustomed to the feeling of the medi-port a surgeon installed in my chest on Friday. It's a sophisticated piece of medical technology designed to deliver chemotherapy infusions with ease, but it looks like an errant piece of Lego block--I can even feel the bumps through the skin. It feels like a juvenile prank gone horribly wrong.
I might have welcomed my new port a little more robustly if I'd had a more pleasant experience with the anesthesia. Friday morning I read an article in the New York Times about propofol, the drug Michael Jackson was taking, which is supposed to provide sedation without nausea and leave one with a feeling of mild euphoria, a feeling so pleasant that even doctors, who ought to know better, are getting hooked. (Read it here.)
I could use a little euphoria in my life right now, but no such luck: my propofol drip delivered a bad case of vertigo and nausea. Where's my euphoria? Whom shall I sue? And how does anyone ever get addicted to this horrible stuff?
Maybe my dose of euphoria was delivered to someone else by accident. I'd like to find that person and make a trade: for a full dose of euphoria, I'll trade one Lego block, slightly used. All you have to do is get it out.
Friday, August 07, 2009
Balancing birds
Tiny goldfinches and chickadees are adept at perching on sunflowers and pulling out the seeds, but the bigger cardinals have more trouble. The cardinal's weight makes the flower sway and dip, and eventually the cardinal loses footing and flips off the flower in a flurry of wings.
I had to take these photos through a window because I'm a bit incapacitated today and the birds refuse to approach the sunflowers in my presence. It's hard to get good pictures through a window because the exposure is never quite right and the window may be dirty and distort the image. One of these days I'll figure out a way to make them ignore me; meanwhile, I'll put up with what I've got.
Friday poetry challenge: love songs to food
In "Keep Your Hands Off Our Haggis," an article in today's New York Times, Alexander McCall Smith debunks recent claims that haggis originated in England rather than in Scotland (read it here), boldly asserting that "If one's national bard writes a poem to a dish consisting of chopped-up offal cooked in a sheep's stomach together with oatmeal and spices and secured with a curious pin, then the dish must be authentically national."
He refers, of course, to the Robert Burns poem "Address to a Haggis," which begins thus:
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.
Lurking somewhere behind all that auld lang syne is the sort of passion for food that one does not often see in classical poetry. Sure, William Carlos Williams put those wonderful plums into free verse, but imagine if old man Frost had been inspired by a passion for mashed potatoes:
Whose spuds these are I think I know;
His house is in the village, though.
He will not see me stopping here
To steal his lovely potato.
Or how about Joyce Kilmer:
I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as kim-chee....
Or Emily Dickinson:
A bird came down the walk:
He did not know I saw;
I clapped a net over his head
And ate the fellow, raw.
Clearly, some of our great poets have missed their calling--but that doesn't mean you have to. Today's challenge: write a paean in verse to a particular food item. You may alter an existing poem or produce something entirely new. I'll start:
The staff of life would fall down flat
Without a boost from yeast.
But let those microbes do their work
And bread becomes a feast.
Rats, now I'm hungry.
He refers, of course, to the Robert Burns poem "Address to a Haggis," which begins thus:
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.
Lurking somewhere behind all that auld lang syne is the sort of passion for food that one does not often see in classical poetry. Sure, William Carlos Williams put those wonderful plums into free verse, but imagine if old man Frost had been inspired by a passion for mashed potatoes:
Whose spuds these are I think I know;
His house is in the village, though.
He will not see me stopping here
To steal his lovely potato.
Or how about Joyce Kilmer:
I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as kim-chee....
Or Emily Dickinson:
A bird came down the walk:
He did not know I saw;
I clapped a net over his head
And ate the fellow, raw.
Clearly, some of our great poets have missed their calling--but that doesn't mean you have to. Today's challenge: write a paean in verse to a particular food item. You may alter an existing poem or produce something entirely new. I'll start:
The staff of life would fall down flat
Without a boost from yeast.
But let those microbes do their work
And bread becomes a feast.
Rats, now I'm hungry.
Thursday, August 06, 2009
I think we're gonna need a bigger bag
The oncology nurse told me last week that cancer treatment is "a journey," but what I really need is not another cliche but some advice about how to pack for the trip.
Already I've sacrificed my decades-long purse-free status to purchase a colorful spacious tote bag and fill it with stuff I'll need on my many visits to the cancer center for radiation and chemotherapy. So far, my tote holds pen and paper, books, a tiny electronic sudoku game a friend sent before my surgery (thanks!), a little photo album full of pictures from my daughter's wedding, trail mix, chapstick, and hand lotion. After my most recent visit, I added a travel mug and some good tea bags so I won't have to resort to what's on offer at the cancer center: styrofoam cups and decaf Lipton, which as far as I'm concerned doesn't even qualify as tea.
What else do I need? I ought to pack some earplugs so that I won't be forced to listen the next time a fellow sufferer feels the need to loudly describe her ghastly side effects in intimate detail on her cell phone in the waiting room. I wish I could pack some extra patience, especially given the number of hours I'll spend driving around in circles in that horrible cave-like parking garage where all the arrows seem to point the wrong way.
A sense of humor will also be essential. The first time I met with my oncologist, he said, "That was one angry carcinoma," which made me wonder: Angry at what? At me? What did I ever do to make a carcinoma angry?
Laughter, though, defuses anger, depriving it of potency. I'm trying to leave my anger out of the tote bag and pack instead a healthy dose of humor. It may not be the only medicine but it's certainly among the best.
Already I've sacrificed my decades-long purse-free status to purchase a colorful spacious tote bag and fill it with stuff I'll need on my many visits to the cancer center for radiation and chemotherapy. So far, my tote holds pen and paper, books, a tiny electronic sudoku game a friend sent before my surgery (thanks!), a little photo album full of pictures from my daughter's wedding, trail mix, chapstick, and hand lotion. After my most recent visit, I added a travel mug and some good tea bags so I won't have to resort to what's on offer at the cancer center: styrofoam cups and decaf Lipton, which as far as I'm concerned doesn't even qualify as tea.
What else do I need? I ought to pack some earplugs so that I won't be forced to listen the next time a fellow sufferer feels the need to loudly describe her ghastly side effects in intimate detail on her cell phone in the waiting room. I wish I could pack some extra patience, especially given the number of hours I'll spend driving around in circles in that horrible cave-like parking garage where all the arrows seem to point the wrong way.
A sense of humor will also be essential. The first time I met with my oncologist, he said, "That was one angry carcinoma," which made me wonder: Angry at what? At me? What did I ever do to make a carcinoma angry?
Laughter, though, defuses anger, depriving it of potency. I'm trying to leave my anger out of the tote bag and pack instead a healthy dose of humor. It may not be the only medicine but it's certainly among the best.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
That's xviii to you, buster!
I've just finished reading a manuscript that cites sources via endnotes marked with superscript Roman numerals, a text that looks as if it's been invaded by refugees from a remaindered algebra textbook. Endnotes are annoying enough, but when nearly every sentence is embedded with one or more tiny strings of xiv or xvi or xxxviii, I wonder who ever thought this was a good idea. What would compel a Citation Guru to prefer Roman numerals? For what problem are Roman numerals the solution?
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
Growth spurt
First thing this morning I went down to the garden to pick tomatoes, which is about the best way I can possibly imagine to start the day. Our tomatoes are just reddening up, but in a week we'll be drowning in them; in fact, the tomatoes are so big and abundant that the tomato cages have been crashing to the ground under all that weight.
Last week's torrential downpours caused a burst of growth all over the garden. We've been picking pretty white eggplants and we're preparing to pick great big purple ones, and the squash patch is out of control. We've discovered that those lovely little patty-pan squashes, which taste delicious and look like little UFOs under the leaves, simply don't sell well at the Farmers' Market, which is a pity because we'll have another bushel to pick by the end of the week.
I picked a handful of okra this morning but it's a little behind. A week of blistering hot weather would do the okra patch a world of good, but I'm not sure when we'll get that. More rain is on the way, which means that by the end of the week we'll be once again suffering from every gardener's worst nightmare: MMZ syndrome. Many Massive Zucchinis.
Monday, August 03, 2009
Meandering right along
A colleague was curious about my treatment plan, so I told her about six-hour IV drips, drugs that make everything taste like tin, and a radiation schedule that requires daily office visits for five weeks straight. "How can you stand to go through all that?" she asked. "You're so brave!"
Brave? Pragmatic is more like it. I mean, consider the options:
You're standing at a crossroads near the edge of a deep canyon. One path is straight and level and easy but it leads you fairly quickly right over the edge; the other path is rough and steep and charges a heavy toll, but it skirts the edge for a while before disappearing in the distance, where it might just go ahead and dump you into the canyon or it might meander off inland for miles before returning eventually to the edge.
Which would you choose?
Me, I'd rather meander.
Brave? Pragmatic is more like it. I mean, consider the options:
You're standing at a crossroads near the edge of a deep canyon. One path is straight and level and easy but it leads you fairly quickly right over the edge; the other path is rough and steep and charges a heavy toll, but it skirts the edge for a while before disappearing in the distance, where it might just go ahead and dump you into the canyon or it might meander off inland for miles before returning eventually to the edge.
Which would you choose?
Me, I'd rather meander.
Sunday, August 02, 2009
Revenge of the lizard
I knew it was a mistake to turn my back on the lizard but nevertheless I blithely walked away, wondering all the while whether the lizard in my living room would come back to haunt me. Forty-eight hours later, I can only hope that its revenge is complete. Who knew that a dead lizard could cause so much commotion?
Let the record show that I am not afraid of lizards. I grew up in Florida with a brother who collected snakes, lizards, and other creeping things, keeping them in terraria all over the house so that we could simultaneously watch a re-run of Gilligan's Island and a snake swallowing whole a live mouse.
I have gone swimming and waterskiing in alligator-infested lakes!
I have eaten fried alligator nuggets while surrounded by my lunch's cousins at Gatorland!
I have peacefully coexisted with lizards that found their way into kitchens, bathrooms, and even bedrooms!
But that was in Florida, where creeping things are the price you pay for never needing to scrape ice from a windshield at 12 below. Lizards belong in Florida--and even if some lizards do belong in Ohio, they certainly don't belong in my living room.
At first I thought it was a grasshopper, the slim green thing moving swiftly across the wood floor. I grabbed automatically for something close at hand to smash it with and it was only as I was bringing the DVD case down hard on the creature that I realized that it was a lizard.
I smashed it all right, but then what could I do? A smudge of smashed lizard is the last thing I want to see on my living room-floor, particularly when I'm hovering on the edge of nausea already. Clean up the mess myself or leave it for the husband?
I left it--but only after attaching a sticky note to the DVD case. "Remove carefully," I wrote. "Creature beneath."
And then I turned my back on the lizard, walked out the door, and drove to campus to catch up on some important tasks I've been avoiding since June.
Except to complete those tasks I needed my laptop, which I realized I didn't have only after I arrived on campus. Where was my laptop?
Back home in the living room. With the lizard.
A wasted afternoon: the lizard's revenge. If only that had been the end of it.
The husband arrived home and saw on the floor a DVD case sporting a yellow sticky note right smack in the middle of the grim face of Inspector Frost. Look, a note! Better pick it up and read it!
So the note didn't quite fulfill its intended purpose, but eventually he removed lizard guts from all the places where they don't belong and we put the incident behind us. Except when we didn't.
Last night my sleep was interrupted about once each hour by blood-curdling screams--my own. The lizards were after me, big long green things with stilleto-sharp teeth. I saw them everywhere and I tried to make my husband see them too. The persistent presence of imaginary creatures in one's bedroom is bound to put undue stress on any relationship (see James Thurber, "The Unicorn in the Garden"), but somehow we held on until morning, when the lizards dissipated with the first light.
I have now sacrificed an afternoon and a long night to the revenge of the lizard and I think that's quite enough. Sleep, unquiet spirit! Go back from whence you came! Because frankly, this living room isn't big enough for the two of us.
Let the record show that I am not afraid of lizards. I grew up in Florida with a brother who collected snakes, lizards, and other creeping things, keeping them in terraria all over the house so that we could simultaneously watch a re-run of Gilligan's Island and a snake swallowing whole a live mouse.
I have gone swimming and waterskiing in alligator-infested lakes!
I have eaten fried alligator nuggets while surrounded by my lunch's cousins at Gatorland!
I have peacefully coexisted with lizards that found their way into kitchens, bathrooms, and even bedrooms!
But that was in Florida, where creeping things are the price you pay for never needing to scrape ice from a windshield at 12 below. Lizards belong in Florida--and even if some lizards do belong in Ohio, they certainly don't belong in my living room.
At first I thought it was a grasshopper, the slim green thing moving swiftly across the wood floor. I grabbed automatically for something close at hand to smash it with and it was only as I was bringing the DVD case down hard on the creature that I realized that it was a lizard.
I smashed it all right, but then what could I do? A smudge of smashed lizard is the last thing I want to see on my living room-floor, particularly when I'm hovering on the edge of nausea already. Clean up the mess myself or leave it for the husband?
I left it--but only after attaching a sticky note to the DVD case. "Remove carefully," I wrote. "Creature beneath."
And then I turned my back on the lizard, walked out the door, and drove to campus to catch up on some important tasks I've been avoiding since June.
Except to complete those tasks I needed my laptop, which I realized I didn't have only after I arrived on campus. Where was my laptop?
Back home in the living room. With the lizard.
A wasted afternoon: the lizard's revenge. If only that had been the end of it.
The husband arrived home and saw on the floor a DVD case sporting a yellow sticky note right smack in the middle of the grim face of Inspector Frost. Look, a note! Better pick it up and read it!
So the note didn't quite fulfill its intended purpose, but eventually he removed lizard guts from all the places where they don't belong and we put the incident behind us. Except when we didn't.
Last night my sleep was interrupted about once each hour by blood-curdling screams--my own. The lizards were after me, big long green things with stilleto-sharp teeth. I saw them everywhere and I tried to make my husband see them too. The persistent presence of imaginary creatures in one's bedroom is bound to put undue stress on any relationship (see James Thurber, "The Unicorn in the Garden"), but somehow we held on until morning, when the lizards dissipated with the first light.
I have now sacrificed an afternoon and a long night to the revenge of the lizard and I think that's quite enough. Sleep, unquiet spirit! Go back from whence you came! Because frankly, this living room isn't big enough for the two of us.
Saturday, August 01, 2009
Golden
I saw six or eight goldfinches perched on sunflowers to pull out the seeds this afternoon, but do you think they'd go near those sunflowers while I was out there with the camera? Of course not. I had to settle for finches attacking the thistle sock.
Got to love those exercise endorphins
I woke up this morning and felt no pain. This is good.
Yesterday I ventured into the rec center for the first time since my surgery just to see if I can still get up the steps. I can. I did a slow and easy light workout--a few weight machines, 10 minutes on the rowing machine, 10 minutes on the step machine--and felt great. I was concerned about whether my muscles might complain this morning, but I feel, as I've mentioned, no pain. This is very very good.
My oncologist tells me that eventually chemotherapy will weaken my immune system so that I'll need to avoid places where germs congregate, like locker rooms and exercise equipment shared by many sweating students. Right now, though, the rec center is empty and clean and ready to release in me those wonderful exercise endorphins. And this, as I've mentioned, is very very very good.
Yesterday I ventured into the rec center for the first time since my surgery just to see if I can still get up the steps. I can. I did a slow and easy light workout--a few weight machines, 10 minutes on the rowing machine, 10 minutes on the step machine--and felt great. I was concerned about whether my muscles might complain this morning, but I feel, as I've mentioned, no pain. This is very very good.
My oncologist tells me that eventually chemotherapy will weaken my immune system so that I'll need to avoid places where germs congregate, like locker rooms and exercise equipment shared by many sweating students. Right now, though, the rec center is empty and clean and ready to release in me those wonderful exercise endorphins. And this, as I've mentioned, is very very very good.
Friday, July 31, 2009
End-of-July poetry challenge
July ends, summer
ends: August rushes in to
clutter up datebooks.
Meetings, syllabi,
learning new software--party's
over. Tomorrow.
Now it's your turn: share your thoughts about the last day of July in haiku--or whatever poetic form suits you best.
ends: August rushes in to
clutter up datebooks.
Meetings, syllabi,
learning new software--party's
over. Tomorrow.
Now it's your turn: share your thoughts about the last day of July in haiku--or whatever poetic form suits you best.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
O'Brien on imagination
Every creative writing student in creation ought to read Tim O'Brien's essay "Telling Tails" in the Atlantic's summer fiction issue. The fiction itself is great--I won't soon forget Tea Obreht's "The Laugh" with its blood and passion and tenderness, and "PS" by Jill McCorkle made me laugh out loud in a doctor's waiting room full of sick people watching Dr. Phil, which is quite an accomplishment.
But the piece that will stick with me and eventually find its way to my writing students is O'Brien's wonderful essay, which playfully evokes small boys' bedtime and breakfast rituals and superhero fixations while attending to a serious topic: "the centrality of imagination in enduring fiction."
O'Brien notes that in many writing workshops, "classroom discussion seems to revolve almost exclusively around issues of verisimilitude. Declarations such as these abound: I didn't believe in that character. I need to know more about that character's background. I can't see that character's face. I don't understand why that character would behave so insipidly (or violently, or whatever)."
"These are legitimate questions," admits O'Brien. "But for me, as a reader, the more dangerous problem with unsuccessful stories is usually much less complex: I am bored. And I would remain bored even if the story were packed with pages of detail aimed at establishing verisimilitude."
The problem, says O'Brien, is that it's simply easier for writing workshops to focus on issues of verisimilitude than to tackle the real problem: "the failure of imagination." Having diagnosed the problem, O'Brien offers some concrete solutions illustrated with charming original tales about tails--but for that, you'll have to read the essay.
But the piece that will stick with me and eventually find its way to my writing students is O'Brien's wonderful essay, which playfully evokes small boys' bedtime and breakfast rituals and superhero fixations while attending to a serious topic: "the centrality of imagination in enduring fiction."
O'Brien notes that in many writing workshops, "classroom discussion seems to revolve almost exclusively around issues of verisimilitude. Declarations such as these abound: I didn't believe in that character. I need to know more about that character's background. I can't see that character's face. I don't understand why that character would behave so insipidly (or violently, or whatever)."
"These are legitimate questions," admits O'Brien. "But for me, as a reader, the more dangerous problem with unsuccessful stories is usually much less complex: I am bored. And I would remain bored even if the story were packed with pages of detail aimed at establishing verisimilitude."
The problem, says O'Brien, is that it's simply easier for writing workshops to focus on issues of verisimilitude than to tackle the real problem: "the failure of imagination." Having diagnosed the problem, O'Brien offers some concrete solutions illustrated with charming original tales about tails--but for that, you'll have to read the essay.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Suddenly, tattoos
You'd think that a person who'd waited 47 years to get her first tattoo would select something attractive or meaningful, something worth showing off--a hovering hummingbird on the biceps, say, or "I Heart My Volvo" on the ankle. But no: my tattoos are just dots, six of 'em, and they're in a location I'm not likely to show off to anyone who's not (a) my husband or (b) a certified medical professional.
But these tattoos are not designed to be ornamental. They exist only to guide the medical professionals charged with exposing my errant cells to large doses of radiation.
That's something else I've managed to avoid all my life: voluntarily exposing my innards to radiation. Remember all those times back in elementary school when we had to duck-and-cover under those wooden desks to practice avoiding nuclear fallout? Now I'm expected to welcome radiation, to open my arms wide to its wonders. Feel the burn, baby.
And never mind how carefully I've avoided opening my bloodstream to alien substances. After 47 years of clean living, I'm getting a port installed to make it easier for my blood vessels to receive regular doses of potent poisons. I don't drink or smoke or do drugs--but I do ingest poison on a regular basis.
Poisonous drugs, radiation, tattoos--three things I never thought I'd need but that have suddenly learned to welcome into my life. It's all part of the New Normal.
Hey, maybe that's what I should get on my next tattoo...
But these tattoos are not designed to be ornamental. They exist only to guide the medical professionals charged with exposing my errant cells to large doses of radiation.
That's something else I've managed to avoid all my life: voluntarily exposing my innards to radiation. Remember all those times back in elementary school when we had to duck-and-cover under those wooden desks to practice avoiding nuclear fallout? Now I'm expected to welcome radiation, to open my arms wide to its wonders. Feel the burn, baby.
And never mind how carefully I've avoided opening my bloodstream to alien substances. After 47 years of clean living, I'm getting a port installed to make it easier for my blood vessels to receive regular doses of potent poisons. I don't drink or smoke or do drugs--but I do ingest poison on a regular basis.
Poisonous drugs, radiation, tattoos--three things I never thought I'd need but that have suddenly learned to welcome into my life. It's all part of the New Normal.
Hey, maybe that's what I should get on my next tattoo...
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Fun with fennel
We've been trying to figure what to do with the fennel growing like a weed in the new raised-bed herb garden we planted this spring just uphill from the house. The soil up there is poor, with lots of hard rock close to the surface, so we added manure and peat moss and hoped the herbs would find a way to thrive. Some are doing quite well: I can walk out the front door and pick an armload of basil leaves any day of the week, and there's no lack for sage or parsley. But the dill is sparse and the thyme thin, and there's no sign of any cilantro at all. Two years in a row we have utterly failed to raise cilantro. What are we doing wrong?
The fennel, on the other hand, is growing beautifully, its big feathery leaves scenting the air so that I can't resist stuffing a few in my mouth every time I walk by. It looks like dill but tastes like licorice with a bit of a bite. I've never cooked much with fennel before so I'm mulling over where to use the sweet and savory flavor: with grilled white fish and veggies, maybe, or in a sweet custard. Yesterday my husband topped honeydew melon with blueberries and chopped fennel leaves for a remarkably refreshing dessert. But beyond that, I'm stumped: what kind of fun can we have with fennel?
The fennel, on the other hand, is growing beautifully, its big feathery leaves scenting the air so that I can't resist stuffing a few in my mouth every time I walk by. It looks like dill but tastes like licorice with a bit of a bite. I've never cooked much with fennel before so I'm mulling over where to use the sweet and savory flavor: with grilled white fish and veggies, maybe, or in a sweet custard. Yesterday my husband topped honeydew melon with blueberries and chopped fennel leaves for a remarkably refreshing dessert. But beyond that, I'm stumped: what kind of fun can we have with fennel?
Monday, July 27, 2009
Gluey smoothies
I'm sitting on the sofa trying to choke down a quart of barium sulfate misleadingly labeled a "smoothie" while my resident cheerleader holds my hand and helps me along the way.
"Take another sip, now," he says. "You can do it."
But I can't. I'm feeling pretty queasy, perhaps from last Friday's chemotherapy or perhaps from the absence of breakfast or quite possibly from the presence in my hand of a plastic bottle containing a vile fluid that looks like Elmer's Glue and tastes about like what I imagine Elmer's Glue would taste like, not that I've ever tried it. I have to drink it in preparation for a CT scan later in the day, but every sip makes my stomach rebel.
"Halfway done now," he says. "Try another sip."
I try another sip, emit another grimace, another groan.
"Look at the goldfinches attacking those sunflowers," he says. I look. They are lovely, all yellow and black and full of life. But then again, they don't have to eat vile fluids that look like glue.
"Just a little more," he says. "Have you ever noticed how some of the hummingbirds hover above the feeder while others perch?"
I notice. I take another sip. I wonder whether this pseudo-smoothie could tempt a hummingbird to hover or perch or do anything but fly swiftly in the extreme opposite direction.
"One more sip," he says. I wish he would go away so I could dump this stuff down the sink and go back to bed, but he's not going to give up until I've taken my medicine. "Just drink it down," he says gently, patiently, firmly. "Drink it down."
I drink it down. For a while it doesn't feel as if it's going to stay down, but it does and I'm done with it. No more gluey smoothies for a while. Instead, I'll celebrate the glue that keeps my resident cheerleader by my side through thick and thin, through just one more sip. And then just one more.
"Take another sip, now," he says. "You can do it."
But I can't. I'm feeling pretty queasy, perhaps from last Friday's chemotherapy or perhaps from the absence of breakfast or quite possibly from the presence in my hand of a plastic bottle containing a vile fluid that looks like Elmer's Glue and tastes about like what I imagine Elmer's Glue would taste like, not that I've ever tried it. I have to drink it in preparation for a CT scan later in the day, but every sip makes my stomach rebel.
"Halfway done now," he says. "Try another sip."
I try another sip, emit another grimace, another groan.
"Look at the goldfinches attacking those sunflowers," he says. I look. They are lovely, all yellow and black and full of life. But then again, they don't have to eat vile fluids that look like glue.
"Just a little more," he says. "Have you ever noticed how some of the hummingbirds hover above the feeder while others perch?"
I notice. I take another sip. I wonder whether this pseudo-smoothie could tempt a hummingbird to hover or perch or do anything but fly swiftly in the extreme opposite direction.
"One more sip," he says. I wish he would go away so I could dump this stuff down the sink and go back to bed, but he's not going to give up until I've taken my medicine. "Just drink it down," he says gently, patiently, firmly. "Drink it down."
I drink it down. For a while it doesn't feel as if it's going to stay down, but it does and I'm done with it. No more gluey smoothies for a while. Instead, I'll celebrate the glue that keeps my resident cheerleader by my side through thick and thin, through just one more sip. And then just one more.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
In the woods
My first walk into our upper woods since the surgery revealed some interesting growing things: wild blackberries (surrounded by poison ivy), Indian pipes, butterfly bushes hosting butterflies and caterpillars, and oak saplings growing like weeds.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
A pleasant and instructive afternoon
On the first page of a collection of P.G. Wodehouse short stories, a previous reader of the book has helpfully highlighted the following phrase in pink: "looking like a character out of a Greek tragedy pursued by the Fates." The line occurs in the story "Uncle Fred Flits By," undoubtedly among the funniest stories ever written, simply bursting with outrageously wonderful lines, colorful characters, and a ridiculous plot, but the mystery highlighter (and I'm going to be hopelessly sexist and assume she's female simply because of the pink ink) has selected insipid passages on which to leave her mark:
"slipping his collar and getting loose"
"a pleasant and instructive afternoon"
"which you with your pure mind would scarcely credit"
"his mood was one of sober ecstasy"
"exchanging glances with a grey parrot which hung in a cage in the window"
"bowed down with weight of woe"
"from the recesses of his costume"
In fact, the only really memorable image our highlighter found worthy of selection was "up he came from behind the settee like a leaping salmon." In another story she finds it necessary to highlight the phrase "golfing garrulity" and a reference to Spanish influenza, but the highlighting stops entirely after about 40 pages.
Why did she stop? And why, for that matter, did she ever begin? Was she reading this for a class? Did our mystery highlighter expect to be required to regurgitate information from the story on a test? If so, why not highlight more substantive passages? Who gives tests on Wodehouse anyway? And does that teacher, whoever he or she may be, really want students to be able to remind him of the phrase "a pleasant and instructive afternoon"?
The mystery highlighter has entirely overlooked the meat of the story--the chaos occasioned when Uncle Fred (aka Lord Ickenham) walks into an empty house and, pretending to be its owner, resolves a disagreement between a young girl who wants to get married and her parents, who disapprove of the potential groom simply because he is an assistant at a jellied-eel shop:
"But surely," said Lord Ickenham, "that speaks well for him. The capacity to jelly eel seems to me to argue intelligence of a high order. It isn't everyone who can do it, by any means. I know if someone came to me and said 'Jelly this eel!' I should be nonplussed. And so, or I am very mistaken, would be Ramsay MacDonald and Winston Churchill."
I can imagine how this might turn up on a multiple-choice exam:
According to P.G. Wodehouse, which of the following persons would be nonplussed on being asked to jelly an eel?
A. Winston Churchill
B. Lord Ickenham
C. Ramsay MacDonald
D. A and C but not B
E. None of the above
G. All of the above
Anyone approaching "Uncle Fred Flits By" in anticipation of this kind of question is simply unprepared to fully appreciate the wonders of Wodehouse. It's no wonder she finally put down the pink highlighter. I just hope she didn't give up and put down the book.
"slipping his collar and getting loose"
"a pleasant and instructive afternoon"
"which you with your pure mind would scarcely credit"
"his mood was one of sober ecstasy"
"exchanging glances with a grey parrot which hung in a cage in the window"
"bowed down with weight of woe"
"from the recesses of his costume"
In fact, the only really memorable image our highlighter found worthy of selection was "up he came from behind the settee like a leaping salmon." In another story she finds it necessary to highlight the phrase "golfing garrulity" and a reference to Spanish influenza, but the highlighting stops entirely after about 40 pages.
Why did she stop? And why, for that matter, did she ever begin? Was she reading this for a class? Did our mystery highlighter expect to be required to regurgitate information from the story on a test? If so, why not highlight more substantive passages? Who gives tests on Wodehouse anyway? And does that teacher, whoever he or she may be, really want students to be able to remind him of the phrase "a pleasant and instructive afternoon"?
The mystery highlighter has entirely overlooked the meat of the story--the chaos occasioned when Uncle Fred (aka Lord Ickenham) walks into an empty house and, pretending to be its owner, resolves a disagreement between a young girl who wants to get married and her parents, who disapprove of the potential groom simply because he is an assistant at a jellied-eel shop:
"But surely," said Lord Ickenham, "that speaks well for him. The capacity to jelly eel seems to me to argue intelligence of a high order. It isn't everyone who can do it, by any means. I know if someone came to me and said 'Jelly this eel!' I should be nonplussed. And so, or I am very mistaken, would be Ramsay MacDonald and Winston Churchill."
I can imagine how this might turn up on a multiple-choice exam:
According to P.G. Wodehouse, which of the following persons would be nonplussed on being asked to jelly an eel?
A. Winston Churchill
B. Lord Ickenham
C. Ramsay MacDonald
D. A and C but not B
E. None of the above
G. All of the above
Anyone approaching "Uncle Fred Flits By" in anticipation of this kind of question is simply unprepared to fully appreciate the wonders of Wodehouse. It's no wonder she finally put down the pink highlighter. I just hope she didn't give up and put down the book.
Of McCourt and Memoir
Interesting series of articles over at the New York Times about Frank McCourt's influence on the writing of memoirs (read it here). Various writers and publishers comment on the flood of memoirs that followed McCourt's, some mourning that the Golden Age of memoir has passed. But Jay Parini reminds us that "memoirs have always been the central form of American literature," adding, "The reason for this, I suspect is that the United States has always been about singing one's self, as Walt Whitman might say. The individual stands in for society. His or her story is rapidly taken as democratic." He situates McCourt in a long line of memoir-writers including William Bradford, Ben Franklin, Henry David Thoreau, and Booker T. Washington.
"I love memoirs and read them voraciously," writes Parini, "and there is some truth in the idea that Frank McCourt deepened the public appetite for similar books. It is not surprising that most of them are not first-rate. Why should this be the case? Only a handful of amazing works in any genre appear within a decade, and this remains true of memoirs."
"I love memoirs and read them voraciously," writes Parini, "and there is some truth in the idea that Frank McCourt deepened the public appetite for similar books. It is not surprising that most of them are not first-rate. Why should this be the case? Only a handful of amazing works in any genre appear within a decade, and this remains true of memoirs."
Friday, July 24, 2009
The two-percent solution
At first, I thought the worst part of chemotherapy was listening while the nurse explained every possible horrible side effect I might experience. She encouraged me to appreciate my hair while I can because it'll be falling out in bunches before too long, but she played down other side effects. Some patients, she said, suffer a violent allergic reaction to Taxol as soon as it enters the bloodstream, but "Don't worry," she said, "only about two percent of patients have that reaction, so you'll be fine."
I was not fine. Apparently, I'm one of the lucky two percent who are allergic to the fluid in which Taxol is suspended. They stopped the infusion instantly and spent some time bringing me back to normal before starting the second drug, carboplatin--a painless experience causing no reactions except relief. Now I'm at home appreciating my hair. Maybe I should take a picture and set up a little shrine with scented candles and regular offerings of conditioner and ribbons.
I've been reading about chemotherapy drugs online and I was surprised to find that they are mostly powerful plant alkaloids of the kind you'd expect to see in a Sherlock Holmes mystery: the villain returns from a stint in some bleak colonial outpost accompanied by a maimed but loyal Lascar servant and a tiny jar containing enough powerful plant alkaloid to wipe out all of London. Taxol, which I won't be taking again, is derived from the Pacific Yew tree, while another expensive chemotherapy drug is manufactured from mayapple, a wildflower growing abundantly in my woods. Why pay thousands of dollars for each infusion when I could just go out and graze on mayapples for free?
I know the answer: these drugs are so powerful and potentially toxic that the dosage must be carefully controlled--just enough to take my hair, but not enough to take my life.
I was not fine. Apparently, I'm one of the lucky two percent who are allergic to the fluid in which Taxol is suspended. They stopped the infusion instantly and spent some time bringing me back to normal before starting the second drug, carboplatin--a painless experience causing no reactions except relief. Now I'm at home appreciating my hair. Maybe I should take a picture and set up a little shrine with scented candles and regular offerings of conditioner and ribbons.
I've been reading about chemotherapy drugs online and I was surprised to find that they are mostly powerful plant alkaloids of the kind you'd expect to see in a Sherlock Holmes mystery: the villain returns from a stint in some bleak colonial outpost accompanied by a maimed but loyal Lascar servant and a tiny jar containing enough powerful plant alkaloid to wipe out all of London. Taxol, which I won't be taking again, is derived from the Pacific Yew tree, while another expensive chemotherapy drug is manufactured from mayapple, a wildflower growing abundantly in my woods. Why pay thousands of dollars for each infusion when I could just go out and graze on mayapples for free?
I know the answer: these drugs are so powerful and potentially toxic that the dosage must be carefully controlled--just enough to take my hair, but not enough to take my life.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
The truth, but not the whole truth
Lately, people keep asking me a question that has me stumped: "What will you tell your students?"
I've always believed in telling students the truth, but it's not always necessary to tell them the whole truth. Let's face it: there are truths about my current situation that I don't even want to admit to myself much less to a room full of freshmen.
And that's mostly what I'll have in my classes this fall: freshmen who have never seen me before and will have no basis for comparison should chemotherapy make me suddenly drop a whole lot of weight. I have an easy teaching load this fall, with no upper-level literature classes and therefore not many English majors. I'll teach one section of freshman composition, one section of postcolonial literature (a course that fulfills two General Education requirements and therefore attracts mostly non-majors), and one small section of the freshman seminar limited to Honors students (the humor class, which is more play than work). With the exception of a few English majors in the postcolonial class, most of these students will start the semester knowing me only as a name on a schedule. I want them to come to know me as a teacher and scholar and possibly a mentor, but what else do they really need to know?
I definitely don't want to introduce images of suffering, illness, and death into the scene, especially on the first day of class, already fraught with anxiety and excitement and exhaustion for students adjusting to a whole new way of life. On the other hand, I'll have to cut down my office hours (to make room for radiation and chemotherapy treatments) and I'll have to adjust my syllabi so that students will do online assignments and discussions on my chemotherapy days, and I'd like to be able to give them a reason. But what truth can I tell them that will not suck all the air out of the room?
I've always believed in telling students the truth, but it's not always necessary to tell them the whole truth. Let's face it: there are truths about my current situation that I don't even want to admit to myself much less to a room full of freshmen.
And that's mostly what I'll have in my classes this fall: freshmen who have never seen me before and will have no basis for comparison should chemotherapy make me suddenly drop a whole lot of weight. I have an easy teaching load this fall, with no upper-level literature classes and therefore not many English majors. I'll teach one section of freshman composition, one section of postcolonial literature (a course that fulfills two General Education requirements and therefore attracts mostly non-majors), and one small section of the freshman seminar limited to Honors students (the humor class, which is more play than work). With the exception of a few English majors in the postcolonial class, most of these students will start the semester knowing me only as a name on a schedule. I want them to come to know me as a teacher and scholar and possibly a mentor, but what else do they really need to know?
I definitely don't want to introduce images of suffering, illness, and death into the scene, especially on the first day of class, already fraught with anxiety and excitement and exhaustion for students adjusting to a whole new way of life. On the other hand, I'll have to cut down my office hours (to make room for radiation and chemotherapy treatments) and I'll have to adjust my syllabi so that students will do online assignments and discussions on my chemotherapy days, and I'd like to be able to give them a reason. But what truth can I tell them that will not suck all the air out of the room?
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