Items

1. Love me some Joe Biden. Super speech. Preaching to the choir, of course, but still. The cutaways of his mom killed me. 
2. I missed Bill Clinton's speech (was in novel workshop tonight, fighting through a sudden-onset allergy attack, Biblical in scale and... thrust... and consequently graphic, gross and humiliating) but I gather he done good.
3. Can't get enough of Barack and Michelle. I am so sold. 
4. Off to Georgia tomorrow to meet our new baby nephew/cousin for the first time. It's been a long time since I've cuddled a month-old baby. I don't think I have any hormone-making equipment left, and yet just thinking about how that baby head will smell sends my pulse racing. Yummy baby.
5. Felt pretty good today until about 5:00, when I started to hit the wall. I took a couple of Advil just before class (should have taken a Claritin and a sheaf of Kleenex). I hesitate to take codeine or opiate pain medication just now, since it obscures symptoms and creates other problems. Staying in touch with how I'm feeling, physically, dictates that I monitor pain -- circumstances, frequency, intensity, duration, quality (i.e. stabbing, dull, aching, localized, etc.). Anyway, the Advil took about an hour to kick in, but by that time I was sufficiently distracted by the explosive sneezing disaster, as was the rest of the class, so I didn't really notice how crummy I felt otherwise.

Will make more posts from Baby Central, unless I don't. Next week: Kindergarten madness!

Memory for shit

     One of the most insidious side effects of cancer therapy is "chemo brain." It may mean different things to different people. To me, it means:

• Scattered attention
  
• Inability to recall short- or long-term experiences, including (mercifully, perhaps) details of past therapies, names of drugs, treatment regimens, surgeries
• Inability to remember (unmercifully) whether I liked what I ate for breakfast yesterday enough to order it again, where I read that really interesting article about caregiver fatigue, who was on John Stewart last night, and what I've done with my car keys
• Failure to recall what I'm writing

     That last is a real pickle. Just try drafting a novel when, each morning, you have to reintroduce your characters to yourself. Fucking hell.

     I blame it on chemo, but maybe my brain is atrophying early. Maybe I have early onset dementia. I'm only 46; maybe I just don't pay attention.

     Or maybe it's my psyche's clumsy effort at sifting too many mindbending stimuli. Like the idea that I'm mortal. That I can't vanquish the disease by force of will. That there are things beyond my control. That the therapies, for all their apparent sophistication, are really just barbarous shots in the dark. Let's cut it out. No? Let's put some poison on it. Oops. Looks like that was maybe a little too much.

     Feh.

     I have class tonight. I'll have to bring every thought I've ever had about this novel, in writing, so I can explain what I'm doing with this book. So I can remember. So I can live.

     

What the hill dillio? And good stuff on VQR

     She did it. Hillary did what she needed to do for the party, for the ticket, for her die-hard supporters (except the freakishly obtuse PUMAs), for herself, and apparently for her marriage -- did you see Bill gettin' all gooey eyed while she talked? I think I lip-read him murmuring "I love you" several times. Sweet but icky. The impish Wonkette has this demure play-by-play.

     It may just be enough to eradicate from memory that haunting image of Sen. Mark Warner free-falling, in slow motion, from a player on the national stage to a second-rate pol who missed the opportunity to connect on the biggest stage he'll ever have. 

     Rob Saldin is blogging the convention for VQR and has some pithy first person perspective. I can't stomach attending writers' conferences, never mind national political rallies, so it's nice to be able to follow vicariously the intrepid into the fray through the system of tubes that is the Interwebs. Yay, VQR.

     Also at VQR is a spectacularly intimate, candid series of conversations with women soldiers, done by my friend Laura Browder. Together, the interviews (to me) present a first-hand skewering of this failed administration and its contempt for the lives, the toll on real human beings, of its draconian ideology.

     So, the score:

     Hillary - fabulous

     Warner - deflating

     Wonkette - so ladylike

     The DNC - turning it around

     VQR - substantial content

     Women vets - heroes

     Bush - perpetually SNAFU

I'd be embarrassed, but instead I'm just bored

     Mark Warner fan here. Did a ton for the Old Dominion, is charismatic (really!) in person and at moderate-sized rallies. 

     But I sense his limitations, and I've been shaking my head over the DNC's decision to have him give the keynote. After all, he's a "coalition" guy. King of compromise. Everyone settle down, play nice.

     Last thing the convention needs is Mr. Niceguy. And my God did he bomb tonight. 

     I mean, what the hell? Did no one tell him it's a Democratic gathering? Whose purpose is not to hypnotize but rather galvanize the base? 

     Why is he so tentatively toeing the middle? Do they not realize that the Appalachian "country folk" (invariably a pejorative uttered by pundits) aren't tuned in to this fucking snoozefest?

     No passion. No frenzy. No climax. 

     No way we're going to win over voters if we can't even keep ourselves awake and attentive.

     Come on, Hillary. Come on, Joe. Inject some juice into this thing. 

     M says he wants to see Bobby Kennedy, piss and vinegar, a real fight. It's not here. Not yet. 

     Come one, Hill. Come on, Joe. Come on, Barack. Earn it! 

     Chelsea 2020.

Poems and cider

     Sometimes I write poems. Often they're poems about -- sing along -- cancer. Other times not. I'm working on a new collection in poetry workshop this semester. One of them has to do with apples. Perhaps I'll polish the collection to the point that I feel confident entering it in a contest. 

     One contest I won't be entering is Cider Press Review, whose recent suckage came to my attention via the hilarious Literary Rejections on Display blog, by way of poet Stacey Lynn Brown's Ten Fingers Typing. To pick the tiniest nit, the publisher's abuse of the word abuse is just... abusive.

     Karma dictates that Stacey's big fat ship will come in soon and roll right on past that dinky dinghy CPR. Go, Stacey.

Doctor, doctor

     One good thing about being a cancer veteran is that I know everyone in my oncologist's office. (And in the infusion center, and in the Women's Special Care unit, and in radiology, and outpatient admitting, and and and.) So when I call at the crack of 8:00 asking if there's time for a quick checkup today, I'm not talking to a switchboard; I'm talking to Paige, who has known me and my family lo these many years. 

     "Hang on just a sec, E," she says, and is back in no time with, "We'll see you as soon as you can be here."

     So off we go, me and M, after depositing A at day school and eating a nerve pill. Everyone in the office -- Paige, Iva, Betty, Joanne, Dr. W (my oncologist's partner) -- everyone comes out and gives us hugs and asks after A and asks for pictures, as though we weren't in less than a month ago; as though they've done nothing in the interim but think about us and wonder how we are doing, daily, hourly. 

     We do the routine, guessing how much I weigh before the scale tells us for sure, and checking blood pressure (waaaaay up there today, brushed aside as "white coat syndrome"), and taking us to the exam room and hanging out with us, making us laugh, distracting us before Dr. J makes his bigger-than-life appearance.

     I love him. We have a great relationship: I trust him, he trusts me. He is not icked out by M being in the room with us while he pokes around, vamping a monologue about throwing pottery and cooking for his son's fraternity house. He throws photos of his new grandbaby all over my stomach, knowing I'll squeal. Then he turns serious, but not too serious when he explains that he's feeling some "knuckle-like things," then reassures us that I've had worse exams. Better, too. 

     He says he thinks we're status quo. I tell him I think the pressure is more persistent. He asks about particulars, I tell him. He says he thinks we should wait. Keep a very close eye. Monthly appointments but come in earlier if you notice anything different. What happens if it gets worse? What will we do? We'll figure it out then. If we try to plan now, it'll just change. But he has more tricks up his sleeve, right? And more sleeves? He is indignant. Of course! Of course I do! 

     That's what I needed to hear. He won't just send us away with no prospects and a prescription for fentanyl. He'll do something. He'll fix it one more time.

     Somehow we'll try something we have never tried before, and it'll work.

     As we leave, he grabs my arm. You gotta show Iva the photo of A with the electric guitar. Iva, come look at this!

     

Late fragments

     Well, as it turns out, it was too big a day. I came home after class and cried a big snotty mess all over M. Starting to not feel good, persistently. This is upsetting, of course, considering the last CT scan was only a month ago; seems things are happening quickly. 

     I should mention here, because I haven't and because it's dear to me, that we adopted our sweet baby daughter from China in 2003. It was, and is, a miracle of love.

     When I turned to lock the front door behind me tonight, I saw a note affixed to the light switch:

     "Lost is fairy book. It was on my bed." The word "fairy" is written in cursive.

     She is five.

     She is magnificent.

     Late Fragment, R. Carver:

     [And did you get what/ you wanted from this life, even so?/ I did. /And what did you want?/ To call myself beloved, to feel myself/ beloved on the earth.]

     Even so.

Early thoughts

     Sleep is overrated. For me, it's become a time to worry without the crucial ability to do something to adjust whatever I'm worried about. 

     Chief among worries this early morning: a niggling pressure in the lower abdomen. Is it getting worse? I can't tell. It's enough to wake me up and keep my brain twirling. Worry. 

     Secondary concerns: Final meeting with freelance client at 10:00 this morning, followed by two hours of brainstorming an acronym for a process change (different client), then to campus for first day/night of classes: poetry workshop beginning at 4:00, followed by Literary Editing and Publishing at 7:00. Home by 10:00. Long damn day. And on just five hours of sleep... 

     I'll plan better from now on so I don't overload myself (easy to do because I'm an off-the-chart introvert). This summer, it was helpful to build in E-time every day -- at least two hours between appointments, no more than two appointments per day (doctor, therapy, freelance or otherwise). Some days I'd have absolutely nothing on my calendar. What a luxury! Time to read, time to paint the ceiling in the front parlor a beguiling shade of sunset orange. And I got into the habit of fetching A early from pre-K summer camp on Fridays so we could "be girls together" for a few hours. I want to keep that up as long as possible. 

     Which brings me to the uber worry: A and M. She was so little when she got pulled into this mess, all she really understood was that Mama had a booboo in her tummy and the doctor was going to fix it. Last year, the first half of which I spent in bed, she was four and in need of explanation and reassurance. Now, at five, this Daddy's girl has grown a little clingy to me, possessive, a bit vigilant, even. And my worry is, of course, that she's so much more aware of what happens around her in general, with me in particular. I can't help think that when things turn, she'll be devastated. And M will be left to deal with it. How do you comfort a child who has sustained such deep loss? How do you comfort yourself? I know that children are tough and flexible and people are adaptable and all that. But this is my child, my husband. I'd throw myself in front of a bus to protect them from this -- oh the irony. 

     And so I don't sleep.

Ten things that help me feel strong

1. Doing laundry. Changing the bed clothes. Teaching my daughter how to make her bed the old-fashioned way, tucking the pillows under a cheerful vintage chenille bedspread.  Folding sheets.
2. Walking through the neighborhood with my husband, my little girl, and a go-cup, assessing paint jobs and plantings, peering through leaded glass doors, holding A's hand while she "walks up high" on raised brick curbs, carrying her piggyback for two whole blocks before her heft forces me to hand her to M. Feeling sweaty and a little buzzed when we get home, rocking on the front porch as the sun goes down.
3. Starting a blog.
4. Having friends over this afternoon for grown-up cocktails.
5. Drawing fairy dresses with A. Writing a fairy story. Showing her how to write "fairy" in cursive.
6. Buying all the crap on the kindergarten supply list.
7. Cursing in the CVS about the list.
8. Using coupons to save money on the supplies. (I saved more than $17, yay.)
9. Letting A stay up late to watch Laurel & Hardy movies. Cuddling with her in our bed. Inhaling her hair while she tries to keep her eyes open. Hearing her and M laugh over the dumbest slapstick. Watching them both fall asleep; hearing them snore in unison.
10. Picking up A without waking her and depositing her in her bed. Tucking her in. Kissing her sweaty neck. Returning to bed and turning off the TV. Reading. Snoozing. Resting. Sleeping.

Q: Do the Interwebs really need another cancer blog?

     A: No. But I need it, because I'm trying to write fiction, and this goddamn blight is infecting my prose and poetry. This is my attempt to surgically remove it.

     I'm a writer, wife, mother, student, sister, Democrat, etc. Diagnosed with IIIC ovarian cancer at age 35. That was nearly twelve years ago. Recurred seven years later, three months after my father died. My daughter was 15 months old. There was not one thing about it that did not suck out loud.  In the last four years, I've had too many surgeries and rounds of chemo to keep track of. 2007 was the worst, with chemo failing and in April, doctors suggesting I was too frail to keep trying new therapies.

     Screw that. 

     I started a full-time, three-year residential MFA in Creative Writing program last fall, complete with 20 hours a week in TA responsibilities.  Devoting my time to writing, reading, and thinking about writing; staying busy with classes and job responsibilities; buying a "new" 100-year-old house; and most of all, raising a fabulous five year old (kindergarten starts in a week!) with my adorable husband -- all have sustained me. 

     I reckon I'm a person who thrives on a project or seven.

     Anyway, about three weeks ago we had a crummy CT scan. I'm feeling good, relatively asymptomatic, neuropathy isn't so bad when the weather's warm, so we're waiting. Which freaks me out. Last time we waited too long; I damn near died. But the longer between therapies, the better the chance the weed killer will work, until it doesn't. 

     So, it's a chronic condition. 

     To keep anxiety in check and be able to sleep without fitful dreams, I pop nerve pills. (If I miss a pill, my dreams are vivid, menacing and constant.) My intention is to use this blog to work out the day-to-day and even big-picture stuff, so that I can be free to write characters who don't have, um, some morbid disease. You'd be surprised how your subconscious nudges its way onto the page when you deprive it its dream space.

     Feel free to leave comments. 

     Gobamabiden.