When Lightening Strikes Thrice

David's Mom, Mary, was diagnosed with breast cancer last week. I lagged in writing a post because I struggled to form sentences about these seemingly incomprehensible circumstances. So here is the truth told from three perscpectives.

Story 1: When I had cancer in medical school, Mike, my boyfriend at the time, was a PhD student in a high-powered Stanford Lab, the Principal Investigator of which just won the Noble Prize in Chemistry two weeks ago. When Mike went back to work and shared the news of my cancer, one of his lab mates pulled him aside and said,
"I'm so sorry Mike. When are you going to break up with her?"
"What?" Mike responded, utterly confused.
"Well you better do it soon, cancer is contagious." He honestly believed this.

Theory number one: Mary got cancer from me. So watch out friends and family, you better start wearing Xena Warrior Princess-style iron brassiere if you want to safely remain in my proximity.

Story 2: Jerry shaved his head even before I started chemotherapy to be in solidarity. Mary, not one to be outdone by Jerry, decided to go the extra mile and get breast cancer herself. These are Mary's intrepid words.

Theory number two: extra compassion gave Mary cancer.

Story 3: There actually is no story.

Theory number three: Mary was diagnosed just months after me, just months after our families connected, for no particular reason at all.

Religions have worked on the stomach-knot producing issue of finding reason in misfortune for milenia. In Christianity you often hear phrases such as, "This is my cross to bear" or "God only gives you what you can take" when a misfortune strikes. In Hinduism, hardships in this life are a reflection of ills your soul has made in previous lives. In Buddhism, there is no inherent suffering, it is our reaction to our circumstances that produces suffering.

None of these really jive with my experience or sentiments right now, although I am working on the Buddhist one. Why? Because it gives me an interesting task of reflection.

And doing is the only thing that helps.

Walking the dogs off-leash near Willowside west of Santa Rosa. Watching them investigate countless scents in the underbrush, now lush from one good rain.

Re-potting my house plants that have outgrown their soil, watering them, then watching new leaves spring forth just days later.

Carving Halloween pumpkins then watching them rot and slump off our porch railing after two days of mid-October 90 degree weather. The greyish white mold inside was thick as the fur of a wolf.

Watching Hannah, the 1.5 year old daughter of med school friends, investigate the two foot radius around our restuarant patio table. Fallen limes, a dislodged patio stone, a discarded mini-US flag, seven assorted jelly containers. A world of possibility.

Mazes

On Monday, David and I went to a four acre corn maze nestled between highway 101 and Stony Point Road, not far from the town of Petaluma.  David had an unexpected day off from work and we decided to take advantage of the lack of crowds.  We were one of the first cars in the parking lot.  The corn maze entry booth still stood empty.  Soon someone trotted over from across the field where she had been arranging pre-picked pumpkins for sale. 

"Do you want a map?"

"Nope" David and I chimed in unison without hesitation.

"Okay then, that will be 10 dollars even."

 

David and I started out trotting down the path buttressed by 12 foot tall corn stalks.  We took turns choosing the next turn when the path divided into two, sometimes three directions.  There were no dead ends in this maze so occasionally we would confidently trot in a circle and find ourselves at a familiar looking fork or corn stalk. 

Early on we firmly agreed, on no basis whatsoever, that the overall strategy of the maze involved reaching each other edge.  That at some point we would skirt the west, south and eastern edge of the square plot before finding our way to the exit on the northern edge, just meters from the entrance.  So when we spotted cars in the parking lot that bordered the western edge we cheered, then did the same when we spied the fallow field bordering the southern edge of the maze.  Then the path opened and we found ourselves standing in a hub where six  paths came together, we guessed right then found ourselves at a similarly designed hub amongst the corn, or was it the same hub?  We took the SE path then came back to the hub, then the NE path then came back to the hub, or was this yet another six-pronged hub?  And if it was, where was it in relation to the other six-pronged hub we had just stood in.

 

A twinge of anxiety overtook our original giddiness.   We found ourselves disoriented and it was beginning to get hot.  We kept circling.  On one jaunt we could see the outer eastern maze loop but again and again we could not find a way to get there.  I grew tired.  I sat on the ground in the middle of one of the hubs.  David ran loops, each time finding his way back to me rather than the way out.  We sat down together for a rest.  David spelled "Help" with shredded corn husks on the ground.  We were stubborn.  We had ran into two other groups, each with maps and declined a look.  We once again looked longingly at the eastern outer loop, we felt it was our ticket out, but were too proud to cheat through a few rows of corn to meet it.  We again sat down in he middle of one of the hubs, now not at all sure which hub it was.
 

I like how you can sort of see the
reflectionof my bald head
in this photo of the map

A pair of parents and their eight year old child entered the hub in which we sat.  This was the third time we had seen them. This time David and I asked for help.  The girl spoke to no one, incredibly focused on her task at hand as she was leading the way for her family.  The Dad however let us have a gander at the map, an areal photo printed on a postcard.  To our surprise there were four identical six pronged hubs.  And you had to traverse all four to get to the final outer loop to exit.  No wonder we were confused.  We parted ways with the family and set out to find the outer eastern loop that would lead us to the exit.  We started trotting again with renewed energy, holding hands.  We made a few false turns but knew the overall path out.  Then a few minutes later the corn rows parted and the vast pumpkin patch stood in plain view.  I felt relieved.  Free. 

We ate lunch and then David dropped me off at my Acupuncturist's office in Sebastopol.  On a small table in a treatment room I had not yet been in before, I spotted a circular metal disc etched with a maze.  Next to it lay a thin pointed stick which I presume one is supposed to use to etch their way through the maze.  I had seen this type of maze before, very intricate with the end appearing to be in the middle, but I had never given it much thought before. 

 

During the second part of my acupuncture treatment I lay supine on the table with a few needles in my feet, shins, hands and ears.  Dr. Prange gave me a breathing exercise, one that I could try during chemo the next day.  During the breaths I was to visualize a loop in the body, a breath in starting at the feet drawing up to the heart, then a breath out down to the palms, then a breath into the crown of the head, then a breath out down the spine and back of the legs to the feet.  I thought about my blood cells traveling in my body and that they too travel in maze like loops from arteries to arterioles to minuscule capillaries on to venuoles and then veins and finally back to the heart.  Just like the corn maze and just like the metallic disc on the table.  And I wondered why mazes are repeated in so many cultures.  Mazes are everywhere.

Later that day I learned that the metallic disc at the Acupuncturist's office was a replica of the famed Chartres Cathedral labyrinth built in 1230 in France.  Pilgrams from all over Europe came to walk the labyrinth as a devotional substitute for a pilgrimage to Jerusalem.  This process of walking quietly was felt to be an act of prayer.  Some scholars think that arriving at the center signified finding peace with god at death before the pilgram slowly retraced their steps to re-enter the outside world, be re-born, and go home again.

 

Although there are many labyrinths in Europe, labyrinths dating back to 1200 BC are found in Arizona (Tohono O'odham and Pima tribes), India, Egypt and China.  According to an O'odham oral historian, the labyrinth design depicts experiences, dreams and choices we make in our journey through life.  A legend in China tells that since evil spirits were only able to travel in straight lines, mazes served as a way to either trap them or protect the good.  Similarly, a story in Scandinavia tells that fisherman built pebble mazes on the beach before embarking on journeys at sea so as to trap bad luck on the shore.  According to Hindu lore, the universe itself is a game, a lila, that the gods play.  Walking a labyrinth is following in the steps of Shiva, the divine transformer who is lord of the dance.  Whether for protection or devotion or entertainment, I can understand the universal appeal of labyrinths that has cut across cultures and time.

I suppose there are as many labyrinth designs as interpretations of their meaning, but when I was in the corn maze I realized a couple things:

1. When you are in the maze, there is nothing else.  I did not think of cancer, of a future job, of the grocery list, of bills to pay.  It reminded me of the end of yoga class while laying in shavasana (corpse's pose). During this meditation you are supposed to empty our mind, yet I was never able to do so.  Next time I will remind myself of how easy that was in the corn maze.

 

2. There are no dead ends in life.  No matter what fix you get yourself in, there is always a way out.  And when you do, you celebrate. 

Preparing to jump...

...for joy













Harvest Fair



Is this a secret tomato-sling sign Lynne?

Last weekend my two best friends from medical school, Lynne and Sahar, came to visit.  Naturally, we had to hit up a harvest festival because that is how we roll.  Although there were several competing harvest festivals in Sonoma County that weekend, David found just the ticket.  Shone Farm, affiliated with Santa Rosa Junior College where he works, was having their very own harvest fair.  There were fields of pick-your-own tomatoes, pumpkins, sunflowers and squash, a petting zoo, hay rides, a build-your-own scare crow station, lasso practice, and a tomato slingshot activity. The festivities were set on a beautiful 365 acre farm overlooking the Russian River Valley and surrounding vineyards now turning golden yellow and vibrant crimson. 

No, we did not fit either demographic present: young families or senior citizens. 

Yes, you are correct, we dominated in the tomato slingshot activity. 

First, Sahar collected fallen, half-rotten tomatoes straight from the field.  Next we got in line with about five boys aged 8-10.  Then, we went for it.

This is the most upper body work I have engaged in since my mastectomy.  The tomato slingshot mechanism was similar to Therabands used in exercise classes and by many physical therapists, but with the added reward of hurling a soggy tomato towards bails of hay while enthusiastic boys already covered in dirt and tomato mush cheer you on.  As you can see I used the squat technique which produced reasonable launching results.

Sahar used an unconventional pose, I will call it the heal-dig half-lotus warrior, which provided excellent control and impressive distance.  Well done Sahar.








This is our new llama friend smirking at us from the barn across from the tomato field. I think he felt our slingshot technique was average judging by the expression on his face.

David, thanks for finding this beautiful farm for us and providing photo documentation.

Llama, thanks for not spitting on Lynne.

17 Nails

At the end of last week, my bone pain and weakness eased, and to my surprise my anger emerged. 

Why the f--- do I have cancer. 

Again.

My Mom happened to call as my rage was escalating.  She asked what I was angry at. 

I paused because I didn't know the answer to the question at first.  Then I knew, "The Universe."   Because to what else can I direct my anger?

It is not 1917, and my own well water did not give me typhoid fever like my great grandmother. I could not be mad at the well or Salmonella typhi.

It is not 1925, and I was not killed in a wagon accident like my great grandfather.  I could not be mad at the wagon or the horse. 

It is not 1941, and I was not Polish, impoverished, hungry and resisting occupation like my paternal relatives.  I could not be mad at Hitler.

It is not 1955, and I was not suffocated when an doctor covered my face with a breathing mask with no oxygen supply connected like my other great grandmother.  I could not be mad at the doctor.

It is not 1992, and a surgeon did not place a faulty mesh in my aorta causing rupture much sooner than if the aneurysm had been left alone as happened to my great uncle.  I could not be mad at the mesh. 

It is not 2010, and I did not live courageously with myotonic dystrophy then lose my footing and fall down the stairs, fracturing my spine like my cousin.  I could not be mad at the stairs.

It is 2012, and I have cancer again.  Cancer carefully knit together by my own cells.  I could not be mad at my own cells.  Because then, where would I be?

So I was mad at the Universe. 

And I pounded 17 rusty nails into a board I found discarded in our backyard.  Nail after nail after nail. The tinny smacks of each strike echoed off the adjacent apartment building.  I began to hear my own coarse breath as I tired.  Nail after nail. 

When I could hammer no more, I noticed Luna and Olive watching me from two feet away, out of my peripheral vision when I was pounding the nails.  I put down the hammer.  Still crouched down, they ran up to me and wildly licked my bald head, tails wagging.

I wasn't angry anymore.


Time Slowed

This has perhaps been the longest weekend of my life.  In fact, prior to this weekend I did not think it possible a weekend could feel long.  Usually one tries to pack in as much fun and activity as possible before Monday rolls around and even those weekends that one intentionally sets aside as a low key weekend-- slow cups of coffee, unstructured time and general lazing around-- those weekends go by equally quick, if not faster.  This weekend is different. I am actively trying to pass the time because I am in the darkest days post-chemo. 

I have an arsenal of prescription drugs to calm various side effects of chemotherapy.  Ibuprofen and loratadine for bone pain.  Ondansetron, lorazepam and prochlorperazine (in that order) for nausea and vomiting.  Docusate and polyethyleneglycol for constipation.  Loperamide for diarrhea.  Viscous lidocaine for mouth sores.  Various broths and teas when I can't bring myself to swallow anything esle.  Acupuncture, L-glutamine, and nutrient-dense foods to stay strong and prevent peripheral neuropathy and other complications. 

During round one, Igained experienced with these tinctures and treatments and done my best to find effective cocktails.  But here on day five after round two, I have learned that nothing takes bone pain or fatigue or weakness away, nothing except time.  And suddenly I find myself grateful that time can only go in one direction, forward.  And even when I feel the clock ticking at half pace, I find solace in its direction.  Time reliably passes.

For a moment yesterday I had an existential blunder where I felt guilt for wishing time away.  Everyone should be grateful for each moment, right?  Especially a cancer patient, I mean how rude to wishes minutes away?  Then I thought, that is bullshit.  Sitting on the sofa savoring a moment filled with sharp pain radiating through my legs, pelvis, and hands is masochistic and not helpful.
 
So now I have a new strategy: distract myself and allow time to pass on its own.  Napping, taking short walks, and watching movies surprisingly cannot fill the day.  So late Saturday, David and I moved on to Garage Band and created our first auditory masterpiece for iTunes.  As David figured out the mechanics of the Apple program I rested my head on the kitchen table.  We agreed on no retakes or advanced planning.  I did lead vocals and piano.  David did back-up vocals and bass.  One and a half hours passed, just like that.
 
https://www.box.com/s/d15eayc2t8q7ng6p8ikc

Depending upon how sensitive you are to poor pitch, the song may or may not pass your time quickly.