Meeting Halfway, then Backsliding, in Newburyport

Sat. March 28
With Chrissy and Amy coming from New Hampshire and Goy and I from the South Shore, it was really more like 3/4 of the way but Newburyport was the perfect place for our long overdue night out. Chrissy had to be close enough to be dropped off because, even though she's traveled as far and wide as China, she still can't bring herself to drive on the highway. Amy, who is the mother of four kids, took comfort in the fact that she only lived 20 minutes way.

("No crumpets, no crumpets")

True to form, Chrissy showed up for a 24-hour outing with a suitcase the size of a small office building and a curling iron wrapped in a floral, curling-iron cozy. Amy brought in a huge tray of organic cookies and muffins and teas -- and a sleeping bag, which she promptly set up on top of her bed at the Essex Street Inn as we looked on, bewildered.

"You guys, I spend my Friday nights watching 20/20, ok, " she said, covering her pillow with another piece of fabric brought from home. She told us about an expose that 20/20 recently ran on the nastiness that lurks within the microscopic fibers of hotel bedding. She also shared her firsthand experience of staying in a Foxboro motel with Mike (her husband) after a Patriots' game where a chain-smoking chamber maid discovered a cookie on the floor next to their bed the next morning. "And, it wasn't our cookie, guys, ok? That's all I'm saying," Amy said, her disgust palpable. She was not taking any chances and Goy and I thought she may be onto something once we walked across the hall and took a whiff of our own room.

Over some lunch and cocktails, we brought each other up to date. And over some crotchety old photo albums, we brought each other down to size with a lot of high-waisted pants and trouser socks. Our plan was to walk around Newburyport, go back to the Inn for a disco nap and then head out to dinner at one of the local establishments, maybe Agave for Mexican or the Mission Oak Grill, where the Inn had given us a $50 gift card.

My friend Dave (the one who coined the "camel" phrase) lives in Newburyport and planned to meet us out for drinks that night, but he contacted us at 3 p.m. with what he called "a better idea." With some "surprise guests" in tow, he suggested we bag our "nice dinner" and just meet them at the the Port Tavern around the corner right now for some appetizers and drinks.

We weren't ready to completely let go of our plan, but we decided to forgo the nap and went down to meet Dave, et al, around 5 p.m.

And soon we were backsliding into the mid-1990s.

Dave had brought along our old friends Clarky, Con and Crev, whom we haven't seen in probably 10-15 years. We used to spend many weekends together in the city: Red Sox games, snow days at the Green Briar, numerous Great Woods tailgates. It was officially impossible not to backslide. Dinner was off. We stayed put.

Chrissy, an empty Seabreeze in front of her, was hell bent on getting girl-drink drunk amid all this backsliding. As she sucked down the remnants of a Sex on the Beach, she pointed disapprovingly at my and Goy's full martinis. "Hey, c'mon, drink up!" She was working her way toward a Sombrero.

I cupped my bowl of loud mouth soup with one hand and pointed a cocktail sword full of vodka-soaked olives at her with the other: "Listen to me, woman. This is straight vodka."

"Corrupt Chrissy" and "Fucking Dave"
Dave has a long memory and is just nostalgic enough to be dangerous. He is the last person you'd want to have witnessed any bad behavior in your youth because he's incapable of holding a conversation in the present tense that doesn't involve something embarrassing you did in the past tense. With one or two words, he can heave ho a random skeleton out your closet.

He started referring to Chrissy as "Corrupt Chrissy" in 1994 when he learned, after a series of weekends in Brighton, that she was not as buttoned up as she carried herself to be. He picked up where he left off 15 years ago. After sparring with Dave for more than 30 minutes over a plate of congealed buffalo wings, Chrissy'd had enough, "Somebody please get fucking Dave away from me."

It took all of 30 minutes for Dave to become "Fucking Dave" all over again.

From his house of cards, where he lives as the guy he used to make fun of 15 years ago, he unleashed his reign of terror (his memory) on everyone at the table.

Clarky pondered: "Seriously, what's wrong with him?"

That's a question for the ages. The dichotomy of Dave. For instance, one minute, he's a dear friend who's got your back: "I'd do anything for you, pal." The next thing you know, he's sending abusive text messages to a mutual friend from YOUR phone.

Which I have yet to explain. Fucking Dave.

We left the Port Tavern and rambled over to the Mission Oak Grill, which used to be a church, to blow our $50 GC on a final round of drinks before heading back.

Goy being Goy, brought a fifth guest into our rooms at the Essex. She abducted a creepy-looking china doll (dubbed Veronica) from the Inn's lobby and took numerous pictures of it in and around the rooms. Chrissy opened a box of Kashi crackers. I almost fell asleep in my wig.

Amy zipped herself into her sleeping bag.

And we called it a night.

Hopefully the first annual!

***********************************************************
Seven Songs of the Day -- 4/1/2009

An Ode to the Mid-90s

1. Mr. Wendell - Arrested Development
2. Any Little Town - Push Stars
3. Shy - Push Stars
4. She's Electric - Oasis
5. Not An Addict - K's Choice
6. Nearly Lost You - Screaming Trees
7. Ridiculous Thoughts - Cranberries

Saints & Camels

Last year when my friend Dr. Nic had a scare in the bosom, she gathered us around a Suppah Club table and told us -- in no uncertain terms – that if she had cancer she would not (repeat NOT) become one of those positive, inspirationally-gooey people who goes around calling her disease a gift and praising God as if he hadn’t been there all along. She'd be on her knees, shaking her fists at fate: “Bloody hell. Why ME? Why the fuck did it have to be ME?”

We nearly passed out laughing and thankfully, she was fine. Still, I knew where she was coming from. She wasn't talking about having a negative attitude. She was talking about the human tendency to go all evangelical and claim to live on a deeper plane than everyone else when faced with a health crisis. She thinks that's horse shit and so do I. Like former smokers who proselytize and wag their fingers in your face, it's a form of self preservation through sanctimony. Your life doesn't have any more meaning than it did before, it just becomes much more evident that you should be paying attention.

Whatever gets you through the night. Prayer is awesome, and so is red wine.

Positively Horrified
My worst nightmare is to become maudlin, but I was shocked when I was recently asked: "How can you be so positive?" What? I'm certainly not in the bell jar 24/7 but I'm not some shitfaced cheerleader in denial, am I? There isn't a day I don't wake up and think: "Oh SHIT, I could die." But then, so could anyone. Look at poor Natasha Richardson.

I guess it's not the notion of "being positive" that irked me so much as the way the question was posed: "How can you be so positive" -- accusatory --- like I was the man who got arrested for sticking a cucumber in his ass at Shaw's.

Don't get me wrong, I want this blog to have a positive vibe, just not a "Chicken Soup for the Soul-y" vibe. I'm striving for a "Dirty (Filthy!) Martinis for the Soul" vibe (or in my case, "Liquid Perc on the Rocks for the Soul.")

Back from the Wasteland (where I was negative)
Everyone has bad days -- even bad months. T.S Eliot said April is the cruelest month. For me, February is the cruelest and March the most sadistic. A couple of bad days this past week/weekend bloomed into a full-on episode -- and I don't believe it was cancer-related, certainly not entirely. I could feel my serotonin levels plummeting, my mood not far behind.

I've had episodes like this before, always around this time of year: A crop of cartoonish thunderclouds move in right over your head and you can't dispel them. Then, the inner hag, sensing your vulnerability, takes up residence in your soul and turns you into a recluse. For several days, you want to jump out of your skin. You have no energy. You find pleasure in nothing. You can't read or respond to emails. You can't listen to music or write. You can't even make a playlist and go for a five mile walk (an oft-proven remedy for such bouts). You can't stand being awake. All you want to do is go to sleep and wake up when the thunderclouds have passed.

Aside: BTW, I'm completely aware this reads like a bad TV ad for Wellbutrin. I probably have Seasonal Affective Disorder, but that's a blog for another day.

This time around, my physical appearance added to my angst. My baldness. Craving nothing, inside or out. I felt completely inhuman. I was talking to James about how the Nazis dehumanized their concentration camp prisoners by shaving the heads and how effective that probably was for everyone involved.

Aside II: James is thrilled that I’ve now managed to involve the Nazis in this week’s existential crisis.

Thankfully my wee brown ones were wrapped up in school and activities and fun with my sainted sister-in-laws who took them out for many an hour. The kids definitely sensed my bad energy. Caroline even said, "Mommy, your face looks funny." I looked in the mirror and sure enough, my face was contorted. I resembled a sour girl from high school who overplucked her eyebrows to the point of nonrecognition. (Just an FYI: Mine have thinned out from the chemo, I have not pruned them into oblivion. My eyelashes have thinned too, hence the clumpy mascara).

Still, my poor kids:

KIDS: Mommy, can you watch me draw a picture? Can you play this game with me?

ME: Mommy just needs to spend a few more minutes under the sink with these inhalants.

Saints in the Inbox
Over the past nine weeks (it's only been nine weeks!!!), I've met and spoken to so many people who are going through breast cancer or have been there. The majority have been unbelievably helpful and I'm thankful to count them as friends. There's Julie who I broke bread and drank wine with at Rustic Kitchen. She speaks of her BC as "a blip on the radar" nine years ago. I love the sound of that. When she entered the land of NED, she renewed her vows and threw a huge bash. I love the sound of that even more. She turns 50 next month and takes her good times seriously. Fuck cancer, it has nothing to do with it!

There's my friend Doreen who I've mentioned many times here.

There are people I've met through the PU and through friends of friends.

I talked to Kelly Tuthill, whose fight with BC I closely followed three years ago. We have identical diagnoses and she's doing awesome these days. She's also a philanthropist with her time. During our conversation, she mentioned that so many people out there are "counting on her to stay healthy." And I thought that is such a blessing and a curse. It's probably hard enough dealing with grabby, newly-diagnosed people like me who are trying to clamor out of the cluelessness, but she said she enjoys talking to people who are going through the war. It's a sentiment I want to pay forward once I reach the land of NED, but you really have to be self-possessed and have a sense of boundaries so you don't become consumed. I'm wondering if I have them.

Camel Crossing!
Because, based on my interaction with a handful of people, I can see how easy it would be to become consumed. (Let's just say I will never attend another support group). I'll mention three examples: The first woman was a stage 1 and recovering from surgery with an excellent prognosis. The second has been cancer free for almost two years and the third one should, at the very least, be out interviewing bands for her NED celebration. Each of them was dour and negative, seemingly hanging around on hooks waiting for their cancer to advance, recur and take them out once and for all. Together, however, they were a united front: "How can you be so positive?" I felt obligated to try to talk these people off the ledge. Mistake. I should've recognized these types a mile away.

My friend Dave would call these people “camels.”

Camel (n.): One who makes misery for the sake of making misery. Name inspired by the melancholic facial expression of the common camel.

ME: Dave, don't be so judgmental, maybe he/she is just having a bad day.

DAVE: Maybe people he/she is just being a camel. Being a camel because they can be.

Dave's banal, often stereotypical labels for people used to get on my nerves, but man, he was right on with this one. Because, every single time, the "camel" in question was not just having a bad day. It was always something. It was a lifestyle choice.

Example of a common camel: If it's someone's birthday, a holiday party, a wedding, a bridal shower, any reason to celebrate outside the house, the camel will manufacture a crisis. They will either get sick beforehand or find a reason to be offended and leave once they've arrived. Your 40th birthday will coincidentally turn out to be the 14th anniversary of of the camel's grandmother's death. The night of your holiday party, the camel will come down with a crushing migraine and throw up in the hotel lobby (or tell you they did).

Camels.

So went the conversations with current and former cancer patients: Graphic bowel issues. Leg pain. It's only a matter of time. Always looking over your shoulder. How can you be so positive?

MF camels. If it wasn't cancer, it'd be something else. It's always something.

Ten years from now, these same women will be attending support groups, hell bent on spooking other "positive" assholes like me.

Ask T.S. Eliot
I was looking for a quote from one of his poems because I was thinking about an essay my niece Sarah wrote about her mother, my sister-in-law Paula, who has ovarian cancer. She wrote about "the seasons" and how during the winter months, her mother was sick and bald and was in and out of treatment. Then, springtime came and her mother's hair was growing back. She knew she was getting better when she saw Paula on her hands and knees digging out flower beds and planting annuals. Her essay conveyed a genuine love of life and an appreciation for the turn of the seasons -- something I've always felt deeply connected to as well, particularly this year.

"What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish?"
-T.S.

This past week, Paula and Sarah flew off to Florida with family and friends to celebrate Jon's cancer-free scans (Yahoo!) Because that's what they do: they celebrate the present. They also know that 38 degrees in March is complete bullshit and unworthy of their presence.

"We should be on Ellen!"
- Paula, on the amount of family members currently undergoing treatment at DF.

Anyway...
Their attitudes strike such a sharp contrast to those of the camels' who -- as camels tend to -- have an inherent distaste for life.

But I give thanks to the camels because they pissed me off! In anger there is adrenaline! And adrenaline is a natural serotonin booster. I'm back on my game.

The "readers guide" for that T.S. poem said "living a life devoid of meaning is death.” That's pretty bad, but it's even worse, I think, to manufacture misery or aspire to have a shitty day.
Don't be a camel.

That said, the thunderclouds have lifted and I’m pre-ordering a case of champagne to be uncorked upon my arrival in the land of NED.

**********************************************
Seven Songs of the Day -- 3/23/2009

Here I Come - Luscious Jackson
In the Journey - Martin Sexton
Stronger - Kanye West
Support System - Liz Phair
Dreams - The Cranberries
You Are the Best Thing - Ray LaMontagne
I Won't Back Down - Tom Petty

Courtesy of Michelle X. Curran (aka Singuloso)

(p.s. Congratulations on your new baby boy, Michelle!)

The Last Drip (on the really crap stuff)

At the Southie parade yesterday, I stood under the sun at the corner of A & Broadway, sweating and itching in my wig for a couple of hours. But I didn't care: I was drinking red wine out of a giant red keg cup, the mood was far too celebratory and the weather far too beautiful to let a little sweating and itching get in the way. My brother kept yelling out, at random, "Itching powder in the sleeping bags!" Mikey Carter careened down Broadway as part of the Chinese Dragon again -- all business, swirling his piece of the dragon into colorful, dancing loops.

Mar. 16, Home, 7:30 a.m.
I'm thinking about what a great day we had yesterday as I ready my wig to head into the DF. I usually wear a wig or skull cap into treatment and then suddenly realize how silly this is. There is no need to itch and sweat beneath a wig at the Dana Farber Cancer Center. Clearly, I'm one of their people. It's no secret. I've seen plenty of baldies coming and going.

So, I decide I will go to my last AC treatment bald. But then I look in the mirror at my tiny bald alien head -- and I just can't do it. Probably for the same reason I haven’t posted a bald photo of myself on the blog. It's mostly vanity, but I also tend to forget all about the temporary tattoos the kids have posted all over my glossy dome – Shamrocks, Easter eggs, hearts, the Backyardigans, a couple of Spidermans, etc.

Aside: I’m also afraid to post a bald photo on this blog because somewhere down the road, someone may search my name for or a job interview or something more important, hit on the Google image and think I’m some kind of violent anarchist (Backyardigans tatoos notwithstanding).

Maybe when I make peace with the baldness, I'll post a pic. I'm not ready yet.

Aside II: I don't know why I even bother hiding under the wigs. Whenever we're out and about , Caroline loves to announce to anyone within earshot: “See my mom?! She’s wearing a wig! And she has tattoos on her head!!!" Both kids also refer to me as "baldy."

So, I compromise. Instead of the wig or skull cap, I opt for a silk scarf. My friend CK recently suggested I get a Hermes scarf and really turn this MF out. I don’t have a Hermes scarf, but I do have one that aspires to be - we'll call it my “Fermes” scarf. I wrap it around my head, tie a couple of funky knots in the back and let it hang over my left shoulder (just grazing the top of Lefty). I kind of look like a fortune teller but I like it; it looks and feels more feminine and celebratory than a skull cap.

Aside III: I’ve always wanted to wear my "Fuck Cancer" skull cap into the DF, but did not want to offend any patients who may not appreciate the word "fuck" quite as much as I do.

DF 9, 8:40 a.m.
Our appointment is at 8:45 and everything seems to be running very quickly this morning. I’m trying to wolf down a green apple but keep getting called in for prep work. "Kathryn!" Come and get your vitals.

Back to the waiting room. Two more bites of apple. "Kathryn!" Come and get your Blood work.

Back to waiting room. Not even one more bite. "Kathryn!" Come and get your IV.

For whatever reason, my veins are not cooperating today. After three tries, the nurse sends me back into the waiting room until another nurse can give it a go.

Back to the waiting room. Green apple is turning brown so I ditch it. My right arms looks like that of a heroin addict (in perfect keeping with the degenerate fantasy of last week).

Finally, I get called back again and this nurse gets the IV on her second try, this time on my left arm. She said "It's like your veins are running away from us today."

I'm thinking, "Of course they are, they probably know the red death awaits them. I'd run too."

James and I head off down the corridor to meet with our doctors Ann & Katie.

ANN: So, another patient of mine told me that I have a patient named Kate with this great blog I have to check out. She kept saying 'Kate' and I couldn't place you, but then I got the link and saw your picture and instantly knew: Kathryn Jackson. How could we not been calling you "Kate Jackson" this whole time.

We realized it's because we've been all business, all about the tumor and treatment. "Call me Kate" never even crossed my mind.

ANN: Anyway, my other patient said she’s hooked on your blog and that you’re a great writer. I can’t wait to read some more of this.

Now it's only a matter of time before Ann refers to me as KJ. At least I hope so.

[POINTY NOTE: To this “other patient of Ann':" Thank you very much for your kind words. For a few moments there, I was so flattered that I forgot I was sitting topless in a hospital johnny. Feel free to email me anytime. Thank you, again!]

Ann tells me she’ll definitely check out the PU, but now it’s time to check out Lefty.

Katie tells Ann my tumor feels much softer and smaller, almost like it was detaching from the chest wall. This sounds just GREAT to James and me as we remember the first words used to describe the tumor were: “Hard and massive.” “Undifferentiated.” “Can’t tell where tumor ends and normal tissue begins.”

ANN: (feeling me up). If I didn’t know you had a cancer in here, I wouldn’t even be able to tell by feeling it. Of course, you have really dense breasts, but still, I wouldn't be able to pinpoint it. And that's just after two months of AC. That's great.

Aside IV: “Dense breasts” – Now there are two words placed side-by- side that make me shudder a bit. Kind of like LPD’s reaction to the words: moist pork stain.

This whole appointment puts me in a good mood as we fly off to our final AC infusion. My scarf tails are flying out being me like I have a kite on my head.

***
DF 10, 9:45 a.m.
The chemo nurse is an enigma but we’re up for the challenge.

Not North Shore.
Not Metro West
Not the City, but maybe at some point in her life.

She lies the IV bags on my arm rest. Some nauseu meds, some hydration, the Cytoxan (the “C” in the “AC”) and the three red vials of Adriamycin (the “A” in the “AC”…or shall I say the “ASS”).

"This is your last AC," she says. "You must be happy."

No hint of a Boston accent, still James and I are focused on South of Boston. Still, we can tell she's going to be a challenge because she's not much for the small talk and shit-shat (while this is a quality I would probably revere in a chemo nurse, it doesn't bode well for our silly little "guess where the nurse is from" game.)

The nurse hooks up the hydration and nauseau meds, puts on her hazmat gear and places the three vials of red death on the arm rest. Suddenly, I have to use the loo. "I'll be right back."

I glide over to the restrooms with my IV caddy and find there is a line for one of the two bathrooms (the other is being cleaned). Another young woman with an IV caddy glides up behind me. She's looks a little younger than me and has some cute peach fuzz growing back on her head.

YOUNG WOMAN: Oh, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a line here.

ME: Me neither, just one stall open. I think I'm avoiding my treatment.

YW: Have to get in before the drugs kick in! I love your scarf. How did you tie it in the back here?

ME: I don’t know. I couldn’t see what I was doing. Are you sure it doesn’t make me look like a fortune teller?

YW: (shakes her head). No no.

ME: I am too self conscious to go completely bald.

YW. I was too, but now I have some hair back so it's not as bad. You're just happy to have some hair.

Just then, the bathroom door opens and some guy with a goatee, a full head of hair and no IV caddy emerges from the restroom with a Boston Herald tucked under his arm. A foul cloud of stink emerges right behind him.

Me: (under my breath) Oh no.

GOATEE: Oh! Sorry ladies. I didn’t know there was a line. Woops!

YW: You're sorry!?

We both laugh and simultaneously agree : The stench is NOT good for the tumor! We decide to hold it and glide back to our respective chemo stalls.

James is staring at the nurse, his mind working over time.

ME: “I’m back.”

JAMES (mouthing)' "Scituate? Braintree?"

I nod in agreement and mouth “Marshfield?”

Maybe.

But then our brother-in-law Jon stops by (he also had an appointment at the DF today). He mentions how he's heading off to "slumlord his property in Weymouth" and the nurse doesn’t bite. Damnit. Again, she's not talkative so maybe she wouldn't have been so easily-lured to the typical South Shore small talk.

The nurse starts administering the red death and that familiar feeling of ill-being invades. It’s the Anti-Roxicet. But unlike the Roxicet, this invasion is crappy and hangs around for an entire week.

But, just knowing this is the last time makes it so much more palatable.

Again, my veins aren’t cooperating.

NURSE: (twisting tubes, rooting around with my IV) Your veins are really making me work for it today. It’s like they’ve had enough of this stuff.

ME: (watching the red death trying to weasle its way into my veins) They sure have.

The Replacements take over:

“Hurry up! Hurry up! Ain’t you had enough of this stuff!”

Now I’m focused less on where our nurse is from and more on what makes this Adriamycin – RED! I can’t believe I hadn’t asked (or Googled it) before.

ME: “So, what makes this stuff red anyway.?

[I can tell nurse either doesn’t really know or doesn’t really want me to know.]

NURSE: Hmm..Maybe some kind of dye?

The Replacements take over again, replacing "Red, Red Wine on Sundays, always feels so good" with:

“Red Red Dye on Mondays, always feels like ass."

The nurse finally gets the stew flowing and finishes the first, second and finally the third and final vial of the red death. James and I give each other a little ceremonial dap as the nurse starts hooking up the bag of Cytoxan to my IV. Now it’s just one more hour sitting on the drip.

I’m about to Google “What makes Adriamycin red” when another nurse passes by with a ginormous – we’re talking really huge -- gift basket of treats.

JAMES: (joking) “Oh, I see my basket has arrived. They must be delivering it to the wrong stall.”

But seconds later, the nurse backtracks, “Are you Kate?”

ME: Yes?

I look at James incredulously who is looking at the nurse the same way.

NURSE: Well, This beautiful basket here is for you? Is it your birthday?

ME; (tearing up) NO, no. It’s just my last day of treatment, well of the AC at least.

NURSE: That's definitely reason to celebrate! Enjoy!

It’s from my old college friends Mary, Gail and Julie, whom I’ve reconnected with, thanks to the upside of Facebook. They always have the most uplifting wall posts but this unbelievable. Just an amazing booty of treats!

[To Mary, Gail, Julie: Thanks so much, guys. I don’t even know what to say. People are walking up and down the corridor just to get a peek.]

The last of the Cytoxan drips into my arm and we're out of here. We head for the elevators with many big basket gawkers in our wake. We pick up my prescriptions and roll out the front doors of the DF, free for the next two weeks.

The next phase, starting March 30 and continuing every Monday for three months, is supposed to be far less taxing with fewer side effects and manageable fatique. The "TH" phase contains only one chemo drug called Taxol and a magical antibody called Herceptin that's been known to kick the living shit out of HER2+ tumors.

As we wait for the valet to bring our car around, the drugs are starting to make me feel tired and I lean into James a bit. But over his shoulder, I see what has become an all too familiar site at the DF the past few weeks.

A young child, a girl, in an umbrella stroller, not more than 18 months, bald and smiling.

When you see this, it really puts everything into perspective. (We think of Aoife’s and John’s Naimh, as we often do.)

And we think: Breast cancer, we can do. We could NEVER do that. I don’t know how those who are forced to, do.



P.S. The nurse was from EASTON. Technically, south of Boston, but we could've done much better!

************************************************
Seven Songs of the Day --- 3/17/09

Some Irish songs for St. Paddy's Day! Courtesy of Susan Sullivan.

1. The Unicorn (The Irish Rovers)
2. Wild Rover (The Jolly Beggerman)
3. When Irish Eyes Are Smiling (Bing Crosby)
4. Molly Malone (The Clancy Brothers)
5. Fields of Athenry (Dropkick Murphys)
6. Irish Rover (The Pouges)
7. Auld Lang Syne (Mairi Campbell)

And..some Irish artists

1. Tuesday Morning -- Pogues
2. Precious Little -- Eleanor McEvoy
3. My Wild Irish Rose -- The Pushstars (ok, not Irish, but Boston Irish)
4. Ridiculous Thoughts -- Cranberries
5. So Young -- Corrs
6. Isn't it Amazing -- Hothouse Flowers
7. Moment of Surrender -- U2

-- KJ

"On" Weekend #4 - Just the JPEGs (and some wigs)

Make video montages at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Bragging Rights

(Eating down the fridge)

My friend Nancy has been chronicling her culinary adventures Down Under on her blog The Roving Lemon since last fall. But this week, she's bringing it back to the States. The Washington Post asked Nancy to guest blog for their popular food site, "A Mighty Appetite," this week (alongside other food writers of gastronomic proportions). Right where she should be. Check it out here, but not before checking the produce drawer of your fridge for a bag of rotting carrots. Way to go, N! I can't wait to try your new creation.

Damn, It Feels Good to be a

"An emergency prescription for Roxicet" -- music to my ears after my doctor told me my sore throat was likely being caused by lesions on my esophagus. Nasty! But I have to admit it made me feel like less of a wimp for letting a sore throat bring me down so hard and fast. Lesions, man!

Roxicet, which is as fun as it sounds, is basically liquid percocet -- and it's like butter. A half a teaspoon of this stuff and it's all rainbows and unicorns and Turtles' songs. It's an overwhelming sense of well being. It's Happy Time. I sat slack jawed on the couch, staring at the TV with my tongue hanging out for about 20 minutes before I realized I was stoned out of my mind. Why the hell am I watching Walker, Texas Ranger? I turned off the TV, put on the new U2, and passed out on my yoga mat next to Vito after a brief stare down contest. I woke up a few minutes later and played Star Wars sound effects on my iPhone, cracking up -- every single time -- at C-3P0's voice: "We're doomed!" Usually, it's Chewie who cracks me up. While on drugs, it's C-3P0 apparently.

It's a good thing that I have roots because I could so easily become a drug addict or a transient. I had an epiphany similar to Cameo's from the 1990s about the path of least resistance. One morning, Cam spotted a pretty rancid guy on the Red Line on her way into work. It was not yet 8 a.m. and the man was clearly wasted. He was talking to an equally rancid friend, his partner in crime (or in this case, his partner in stanking up the train.) The man smiled at his friend, patted his filthy front jacket pocket that contained a bottle of Captain Morgan's, and in a gravelly voice said: "El Captain! El Captain!"

"He just seemed so carefree," Cameo thought, sitting there stressed out in her nylons, heels and business suit, wanting to be dropped off anywhere but her corporate job. "Lead us not into South Station." This guy is onto something, she thought. The early morning grooming is exhausting enough, not to mention the workplace anxiety under 'the man.' It would be so much easier to just be dirty and drunk on the T all day without a care in the world.

On my "off" weeks, I already feel like Nick Nolte's mug shot (except bald.) I thought about Scary Mary, another AM drunk who used to hang out at the Wood Island T station. Whenever you walked by her, she may or may not have swung her plastic bag of dishtowels and limes at you and tell you to go fuck yourself. You just never knew if it was going to be you or the guy behind you. So I thought about putting some Roxicet in my front jacket pocket and heading down to the West Hingham Commuter Rail station -- and whatever happens happens. But then I sobered up. It's time to get off the junk.

***********************
Seven Songs of the Day -- 3/10/09

1. “The Underdog” Spoon (Love this song. It’s a good “fuck you” to any entity that thinks its indestructible)

2. “Hospital Food” David Gray

3. “Missed the Boat” Modest Mouse

4. “The Painter” Neil Young

5. “All for One” from High School Musical Cast (Olivia suggested this one)

6. “Take Me Out” Franz Ferdinand

--Courtesy of M. Draper

The Inevitable Beat Down

It’s official. Just when I thought we were getting away with it, the AC chemo is rearing its MF “cumulative” effects. Even though we never jinxed it by saying it out loud, the sentiment was there and that was enough.

The sneaky little fucker has slowly but surely started robbing me of days on my “on” week. Right now, it’s beating me down in the form of a narcotic-worthy sore throat. It’s been two days of Nyquil comas and strange dreams with 1970s imagery (which I’m sure are Lost-related, but nevertheless strange.) In one, I was bald with sideburns. In another, James was wearing a denim vest and we lived in a tent in Sacramento.

The sore throat is ungodly. I don’t think I have felt this level of pain since the failed epidurals of 2003. But now -- just like then -- I am no hero. When the OTC drugs fail to get the job done, it’s time to call in the big guns and go on a wee pharmaceutical vacation.

In the meantime, the side effects are making me angry and antsy. But I am forcing myself to acknowledge how unbelievably fortunate I have been to make it this far into the Red Death treatment with more "on" days than "off" ones. I'm lucky that I only have one of these treatments left and can move on to the second, less aggressive phase. The "off" days are numbered.

I'm lucky to have plans on the calendar this week to look forward to. I’ve been preparing my wig for a Thursday night Suppah Club at Jess’s and a Friday night dinner at Ivy. (The last time this particular crowd got together, the night ended with me falling into a planter outside the Warren Tavern.) I can't wait to see everyone and refuse to be sidelined. I'll be there. I may be on drugs, but I'll be there.

*************************************

Seven Songs of the Day -- 3/10/09

On the TimTams

1. It's a Beautiful Morning - The Rascals

2. Barefootin' - Robert Parker

3. California Soul - Marlena Shaw

4. Don't You Worry 'Bout a Thing - Stevie Wonder

5. Do You Know the Way to San Jose? - Dionne Warwick

6. Wouldn't It Be Nice - The Beach Boys

7. I Can See Clearly Now - Johnny Nash

- Courtesy of The Roving Lemon

"Celebrating the Moments" with Chrissy D.

Last week, I received a card in the mail. On the cover was an obese man in a thong, mid golf swing, on a beach. I laughed out loud, as anticipated by the return address, but was flabbergasted to find a full page letter inside.

It was from my friend and college roommate, Chrissy D. H. (henceforth, CDH) She loathes writing as much as I loathe the phone. She not only dislikes letters, but emails, IMs and Facebooks too. So, it's really no surprise we've been in and out (mostly out) of touch over the last 17 years or so.

Aside: She was, however, featured on this blog a few years ago after she passed along some camera pics of her approaching Snoop Dog in Vegas. He actually said to her, "What's crack-a-lackin', baby?"

Needless to say, her letter was a gem, chock full of updates and tid bits of nostalgia:

Remember when we'd be hungover and panting outside of Papa Gino's at 10:30 a.m. begging for them to open?

Yes! Yes! Of course I remember! I've been digging through a lot of old journals lately too, working my way back. CDH is in a lot of them so I have to tell some of the stories.

She and I couldn't have been two more different creatures, but for some reason it worked. We just clicked, not only as roommates but as friends as well.

1990, Lammers Hall, WSC

On one side of the dorm room: Ceiling-to-floor Top Gun and Doug Flutie posters. On the other: U2, the Beatles, REM. On CDH's nightstand: novels, a hummel, a massive jug of white zinfandel and Marlboro Lights. On mine: A broken alarm clock, door knocker earrings, a three-year old lipgloss, and a ragged journal. And Marlboro Lights and a broken lighter. On our radio/cassette player: Barry Manilow and the Replacements were constantly going head-to-head.

Over our front door, CDH hung her Xeroxed statement on the status quo: "If assholes could fly, this place would be an airport" -- which was true at least 40 percent of the time. During the holidays, she hung up a red pillow, only the first in the trio, that said "Ho." Which was also true at least 40 percent of the time.

Still, for someone so opinionated and bold, she was also the most easily-embarrassed person I'd ever met.

1989, Freshman Year, Dining Commons (before we were roommates)
CDH, our friend Amy and I headed to the caf for dinner. We were all making enormous salads that night. When CDH reached for some pita bread, she somehow dropped her entire tray on the floor. The whole incident took less than 8 seconds and the caf was so loud and crowded that few people even saw it happen. As we went to help her clean it up, we noticed CDH was already gone. We spotted her outside of the caf windows walking briskly back toward the dorm, head hung in shame.

The following night, Amy and I went to get CDH for dinner and found her huddled over, stirring some Oodles of Noodles in a hot pot.

ME: What's going on, Yoda?
CDH: Oh, I am never ever going back in there again after what happened. Can you just smuggle me out some bagels?

We could tell by her eyes that it was futile to convince her otherwise, so we just lined our pockets with sesame bagels and low-fat cream cheese for a few weeks until she relented.

Aside II: Once, when she was in high school, she was completely mortified when her mother fell down at the grocery store. After whispering frantically to no avail -- "Get up. Get UP -- she walked away, not realizing that her mother had actually broken both her arms.

1991, Lammers Hall, The Avoidance Factor of Love

(Amy, me and CDH and the massive jug of White Z, 1991)

Those campus romantic dramas -- some instigated, some unavoidable, all inevitable when you're all squished together in a world smaller than a city block. While I was embroiled in a particularly heinous one, CDH left me a card on my bed. On the cover was a brick wall. Inside she wrote, "The next time you think it's a good idea to talk to boys -- any boys -- bang your head against this brick wall until the feeling goes away." I still have the card.

When she was similarly afflicted, we would sit in the common area and play Boggle (or cards, I can't remember). She'd have the mammoth jug of white z and I'd have Keystone Light or some other cheap swill on hand. The whole idea was to screen incoming calls on the common phone. When it inevitably rang, I would rush to pick it up before anyone else: "No, Chrissy's not here. I think she went to El Italia."

Aside III: Perhaps a strange foreshadowing of the "I think she's at the Egg & I" incident circa mid-90s on Cape Cod?

Later, we'd chain smoke and "Celebrate the Moments of our Lives" with some General Foods International coffees -- toasting to "the avoidance factor of love."

Well-Pressed & Coiffed, Curled Bangs
Most moved among campus in baggy sweats and baseball hats. This was unheard of for CDH. First, showering was not optional. Regardless of a prior late night, she'd barrel down the hallway, shower caddy in one hand, middle finger up on the other should anyone dare to address her in the AM. Second, she always had perfectly pressed slacks and blouses with matching belts, purses and shoes. Make up was always on, her hair perfectly coiffed into cascading mushroom curls with bangs curled under with a curling brush.

Aside IV: One of the first times she actually wore jeans, we all went out to Kelleher's. The night quickly devolved and we ended up back in our apartment dancing to Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch. Then, for whatever reason (alcohol), five of us (CDH not included of course) decided to strip down and crack each other up by posing like underwear models in a Bradlees circular. Hearing the commotion, some of the boys from next door walked in, which sent several of us diving into the corner, turning our Pier One Papasan chair into an instant bunker.

So, the stories could go on and on.

Since CDH shocked the hell out of me by writing a letter, I shocked her right back by picking up the phone and calling her at work: "I can't believe you called!" "I can't believe you wrote!"

(Goy, Amy, CDH, Cherelle and me @ Amy's bachelorette, 1996)

So, we've made plans to get together for an overnight. CDH, Amy, Goy and I. She still doesn't drive long distances (she's out of state)..some things never change..and for some if it I'm grateful. If we have to put her on a Peter Pan bus or yellow moped, we'll meet her somewhere in the middle.

***********

So, today, in lieu of a playlist, I'd like to dedicate the entire "About Last Night Soundtrack" to CDH. Rock on with your bad self!

Get on your (MF) Boots (again)

Live, On the Drip, DF 10
I'm here mainlining my poison, curtain drawn, no window seat. A new chemo nurse proving to be our biggest challenge yet just blew our game by offering up, unsolicited: "Westwood cancelled school last night at 8 p.m." *Westwood.* Damnit. We would've gotten there. My first impression was JP but my intuition said go west. Now we'll never know.

James is off on a mission to find some top secret (not anymore) list that DF patients can put their names on for free Sox tickets. In the meantime, I thought I'd post a quick playlist. I Shazam-ed a couple of these songs from WERS on the drive in as we dodged caravans of snowplows.

7 Songs of the Day -- 3/2/2009
1) Get on Your Boots -- U2
2) Sawdust Man -- Ben Kweller
3) Inni Mer Syng...Vitleysingur (Inside me a lunatic sings) -- Sigur Ros
4) Linger -- Jonatha Brooke
5) Troubled Mind -- Everything but the Girl
6) Overkill (acoustic) -- Colin Hay/Men at Work
7) Shake your Body Down to the Ground -- Michael Jackson

Red death: 3 down, 1 to go

Accumulations and the Inner Hag

I'm so glad February is just about over. The month has always been notorious for bringing out one's inner hag but this year I found it impossible to keep mine (back, hag, back!) at bay. The paleness alone was bad enough but the baldness really pushed me into the red. Whenever I look in the mirror, I see a bald pale hag who has spent too many months cringing in an icy head wind. That fresh accumulation of crow's feet!

This winter has been long and brutal for even the most resilient New Englander, enough to turn a bald pale hag into an angry bald pale hag. But that would NOT be good for the tumor, so I won't go there.

Still, I always need something to rally against and earlier this week I declared war on all forms of the word "accumulate."

Accumulating snow. The accumulation of AC chemo poison inside my body. See how the grocery bills accumulate in the form of super vitamins and Whole Foods transactions.

But then I was rifling around in my kitchen cabinets for a soup bowl and a little envelope with some painted irises on it fell onto the counter top. Inside were a bunch of GCs for Bella Sante -- an accumulation of GCs -- worth numerous spa treatments yet to be scheduled. Two of the cards were Christmas gifts from old clients from 2005 and 2006 and one was a Mother's Day present from James from 2004. They all had messages like "Pamper yourself in 2006" and "A spa day for you," etc. To be honest, I am slightly horrified that I haven't properly pampered myself since 2004. I'm not a martyr: "Oh, you know, it's all about the kids now. I could never take a day for myself. Selfish things. Woe is mama." No, I like my facials and pedicures very much. If anything, they make for a more coherent, patient mama and keep the inner hag in her place.

So on Monday afternoon, I'd already shelved what I now perceive as my silly war on the word accumulate (I kept hearing Dr. Nic's voice in my head: "It's a word for fuck's sake. Have a drink.") and dialed up Bella Sante. I was expecting to get in there sometime in March but the shitty economy offered me next day appointments starting at 9:30 a.m: Head-to-Toe Body Ritual, Blueberry Smoothie Facial, Pomegranate Peel. And since I'm pretty much back to my high energy self this week, I booked them on the spot.

Aside: "High energy" these days means not having to take a disco nap to stay up past 8 p.m.

Tues. Feb. 24, Bella Sante
For all my railing against the crappy winter, I'm thankful to be able to walk around undetected in my baldness with my fierce wig and raspberry beret. The wig just fits my pin-sized head better with a hat over it. If this were the summer, I couldn't get away with this look.

I'm so unselfconscious about my appearance that I don't even consider my baldness until I step off the elevator into Bella Sante. Shit. I can't possibly get a facial with a wig on, that would be freakish.

I sign in, go to the locker room and put on a velvet robe. I leave the wig on as I sip some cucumber-ginger water in the lounge and wait to be called for my first appointment.

A petite dark-haired woman appears in the room, "Kate?" I'm clearly the only person in the lounge. "I'm Joss. Come on back." She shakes my hand and kind of walks a few steps ahead of me.

ME: "Hey, um, psst."

(Yes, I actually said "Psst." I am becoming more freakish by the second.)

JOSS: (turns around) Mmhmm?

KATE: "Listen, I am wearing a wig. I am bald as an egg. I just wanted to let you know that so you wouldn't be freaked out when I took it off in there."

JOSS: (unfazed) That's OK.

(I have a feeling, though, that Joss would've been unfazed if I'd just told her that I had an extra leg.)

As we walk into the room. I realize I never mentioned cancer as the reason for my baldness. As far as Joss knows, I'm just some crazy bald woman in an ill-fitting wig. When we get into the room, I casually mention breast cancer and de-wig myself.

JOSS: "You can totally pull off baldness, you should just walk around like that."

(Let's not get carried away.)

I like Joss. I'm completely at ease, even when she exfoliates my bald head with some sea salt. Also, she isn't an aesthetician who peppers you with questions throughout what's supposed to be a relaxing spa treatment. There is nothing more stressful than feeling like you have to keep a conversation going when you just want to zone out. Not to mention, a full frontal exfoliation is no time for idle chit chat. I don't even like talking during manicures, though, which is why I go to the Vietnamese nail salon where nobody speaks English.

I go back and forth between the locker room and treatment room a few times in between services. Sometimes I walk out to the lounge with my wig on, other times with a turban on my head, my wig wrapped in a hand towel and stuffed into my robe pocket. This proves to be very confusing to Joss. For instance, when I'm in the turban, she walks right past me, opens the locker room door, and calls out: "Kate?"

ME: (behind her) I'm right here.

JOSS: Oh, I didn't even see you there, little towel head.

(I am certain Joss does not intentionally address me with an ethnic slur against Arabs.)

During my facial -- out of nowhere -- my appetite that has been nonexistent for several weeks returns with a vengeance. I am suddenly so starving that I am tempted to lick some of the blueberry smoothie facial mask off my face. Apparently, my appetite has accumulated over the past week as well because I can't wait to get the hell out of there and sprint to the nearest food court. On the way out, I grab a granny smith apple from the fruit bowl in the lounge and maul it in the elevator, wishing it were a rotisserie chicken. I'm still famished. A few moments later, I notice little green pieces of apple skin on the front of my scarf and coat. I pick the pieces off and eat them, one by one, as I speedwalk through the Public Garden.

*************
Seven Songs of the Day -- 2/25/2009

Today's playlist comes courtesy of Colleen W. in Washington, DC. In her trademark fashion, Colleen never includes the what without the why. That's why we love her. If you can, try to enjoy some Positive K today. I know I did.

1. Get Up, Stand Up — Bob Marley (No iPod is complete without Bob Marley. The populist anthem of many generations.)
2. Dirt Off Your Shoulder — Jay-Z (Jigga man — this song is on President Obama’s iPod—need I say more?!)
3. I Got a Man — Positive K (Just because, I mean, whatever happened to “Positive K?” This is classic early 90’s hip hop. Up there with “Monie in the Middle.”)
4. Ain’t Nobody — Chaka Khan (Her name is Chaka — gotta love that and the double negative in the song title! Feel good, uplifting, don’t-mess-with-me soundtrack of many, many movies.)
5. Forever Young — Bob Dylan (I’m not a big Dylan fan, but the message in this one is really good. Good song for a lazy spring afternoon drive. Definitely a Sagittarius song.)
6. A Sorta Fairytale —Tori Amos (I’m a fan of any person who can play the piano like that and start a national advocacy organization for rape victims.)
7. Thunder Road — Bruce Springsteen (Favorite Bruce Springsteen song)

Chemo Buddies, Substitutes and Sandwiches

9 a.m. Mon. Feb. 16, DF 10
For round 2 of the red death, we scored a window seat away from the main row; a safe haven from front desk gawkers and wandering, spaced-out chaplains. Instead of viewing patients filling out forms, we look upon blue skies and the interconnecting rooftops of JP and Brookline. It's like a Lisa Daria painting.

James and I are setting up shop with our laptops, books, mags and other articles of distraction when our chemo "neighbors" show up. They are an older couple who move in ways that suggest they've been doing this for a while. They immediately -- and mercifully -- draw the curtain. "Not that we don't like you guys," the gentlemen says from his side. "That's fine," we say from ours.

We're just glad someone took the initiative. We're still unsure of the protocol on who draws the curtain first. There are people from all over the world at the DF, and you can never be sure if hasty curtain drawing could be viewed as a sign of disrespect, like the throwing of one's shoes, for instance.

Before our neighbor's nurse can even hook the gentleman's wife up to her IV, their mini TV goes on -- it's an auditory invasion -- gameshow ding-ding-dings, the over-elocution of some Tom Bergeron-style svengali. Shit.

Happy President's Day!
It's desolate at the DF today because it's a holiday. Caroline came bounding down the stairs this morning and shouted to Paul (who was deeply involved in a granola bar and juicebox on the couch), "Happy President's Day, Paulie!"

"There's no candy or egg hunt, Caroline," Paulie responded, already jaded by the uneventfulness of this particular holiday.

I used to love President's Day. It was always the perfect long weekend to go to NYC -- inexpensive, not too crowded, Sat. afternoon cocktails at the SoHo Grande. We'd take the train down on a Friday after work, fly home on the $60 Sunday morning shuttle and then have all day Monday to recover.

But this President's Day will obviously be spent on the mainline surrounded by a bare bones hospital shift. It's almost surreal. The 10th floor is usually a beehive of activity with scurrying nurses and patients being paged, processed and prodded. The cafeteria is closed for the entire day. The pharmacy is operating on a Sunday schedule. My doctors have the day off. Even Judy, our chemo nurse isn't here today. What's even odder is the elevators are being manually operated by random security personnel because certain floors* are closed. If you don't ask someone to turn the key for your floor, the doors won't open there.

Aside: This* threw a wrench into my plan to purchase a gauzy headscarf from the Friend's Boutique on the 9th floor. But then again, a headscarf has nothing on this fantastic head piece that Gena D. sent me. I can't wait to wear it out some night soon.

Anyway, as I pointed out the inactivity around us, James wondered if I was expecting a President's Day ice cream sundae cart and puppet parade ala Caroline. Actually, I just want a banana and a Poland Spring, which luckily are on hand. And someone said they were planning on bringing in sandwiches soon. And anyone who knows James knows all he needs is a good sandwich to feel well taken care of. I'm starting to feel that way too.

The Substitute Nurse
My substitute nurse (the sub) hooks up my IV and hydration while I wait for my blood work to come back. I have to say, I'm becoming pretty agile with my chemo caddy. I take off my shoes and sort of glide around in my fleece socks -- pushing the caddy to the loo, to the kitchen area, up and down the hall -- all without causing a ruckus. I'd much rather move around than sit idle on a saline drip.

We are still waiting for my toxic stew to be mixed when my chemo buddy, Cameo, breezes into our cubby up with a pack of pink (MF pink!) playing cards and a game of UNO. She said she'd loitered a bit by the desk before some security person told her to just go on in. Apparently, she'd texted James but he was deep into a game of darts on my iPhone. This happens a lot. Either I'm zoned out on my computer or James is zoned on the iPhone. He is no doubt the rock of my shituation but I have to admit it's nice to have a pal along this morning for a good chinwag over some saltines. And it didn't take long before we were all laughing too loud and being made to feel like we were goofing off in church. It was just what I needed, though.

Aside II: Besides, someone had to drown out those MF game show sound effects. There's nothing like a game show to remind you of being home sick from school as a child. The sounds of a game show only reinforce that feeling of being sidelined.

..On the '45'
After a 10:45 a.m. turkey sandwich, we all simmer down a bit and try to remember the fundamentals of 45s, a card game we all became addicted to more than 10 years ago (and abruptly had to quit lest friendships and marriages be torn asunder.) CK first taught us how to play on a ski trip to Killington in 1997. Then Draper and Golen re-taught us a year later on the Nantucket trip. At that point, the only people we knew that had ever heard of and/or knew how to play this game were from the Merrimack Valley. Apparently, the card game was created on a Commuter Rail ride between Lowell and North Station. It was aptly named 45s because -- station to station -- it took about 45 minutes to play one full game. It was a perfect time killer, not to mention addicting and fun. I don't even like playing cards but I remember becoming a lunatic over this game. We were up in the Nantucket kitchen almost every night until 4 or 5 a.m. It got loud, it got competitive. There were cheat sheets, allegations and betrayals, all culminating with a hostile steak tip found floating in the hot tub.

James, Cam and I decide to shelve the game for today. You really need four people to play anyway.

Guess the Nurse's Hometown, Round 2
James has already begun engaging the sub in the kind of effortless banter that I could never get away: "So, do you get to take another holiday because you worked this one?"

SUB: "Yes. Time and half for the holiday plus another day off with full pay."

She is wearing Nantucket Red-colored corduroys, a white Oxford Cloth shirt and penny loafers. She has no hint of a Boston accent, though she mentions she grew up in the city. (We soon learn she means the city of Brookline). She has a 20-year-old son in private school. When we said we lived on the South Shore, she didn't say anything which not only rules out the South Shore, but the North Shore as well as there'd undoubtedly have been some "ne'er the twain shall meet" kind of comment.

When the sub leaves, I generalize: "Metro West."
JAMES: "Medfield."
CAM: "Hopkinton."

We're all on the same page. I get more specific and go with "Wellesley."

The sub returns wearing a flourescent Hazmat cape, chemical-resistant gloves and a mask. I ask who unleashed the Ebola virus. She's is unamused and tells me I've lost six pounds and need to bulk up. I mention that I've also lost two inches of height according to their measurements. And where is the damn President's Day ice cream sundae cart?

Chemo administered and completed, James starts small-talking her up again.

JAMES: "So, will you get out a little early today? Beat the traffic going home?

SUB: "I am just in Natick. There shouldn't be too much traffic on the Pike today because of the holiday."

Natick!!!!
Well, pinch my toes and call me a chimp named Travis.
We are good.

We bid the sub goodbye and stride with pride onto the elevator. We stand in smug silence for a few moments, waiting for security to turn the key so the elevator doors will open once we hit the Lobby.

Red Death: 2 down, 2 to go!

*********************
Seven Songs of the Day 2/23/2009

1. big bad world, the plain white ts
2. losing you, john butler trio
3. all at once, jack johnson
4. island in the sun, weezer
5. what would you say, dave matthews band
6. everybody’s changing, keane
7. saved, the spilled canvas

Courtesy of LK Boylan

Tangled up in...

8:55 a.m. Feb. 21
My hair started coming out in massive clumps to the tune of Joe Jackson's "Different for Girls" on the radio.

The doctors told me when my hair started to hurt then I'd know it was about to fall out. I never knew hair could actually hurt, but it started to a couple of days ago. It's a strange sensation -- not "pain" so much as that dull ache you get when a ponytail's been in too tightly. I learned that it's not the hair per se that hurts but the hair follicles deep inside my insanely small head. Apparently, normal hair follicles divide every 23 to 72 hours but the Adriamycin chemo (a.k.a the red stew of death) lays waste to this natural process (among others). This junk is so toxic to your cells that your hair falls right out at the follicle. And it stings a little.

Still, short of wearing a frozen bathing cap around 24/7, or sleeping sitting up, there isn't much you can do about it. Thank God for Xanax (Mother's Little Helper, indeed.)

So, my hair has been aching for awhile now. I knew the fallout was imminent, but I was woefully unprepared for the sheer drama of it. I cut off all my hair on Monday. It was well-documented. I still can't believe how much hair came out of my head. I still can't believe there is some left in random patches on my head.

Seriously, it looked like a huge gorilla took a shower in my bathroom earlier.

One second, I'm lathering up my hair, singing along to Bob Dylan; the next, Joe Jackson's song is on and my hands and arms are like the Wolfman's. It was absolutely horrifying.

I got out of the shower, opened the bathroom door and in my best "don't panic" voice, said, "FYI, do NOT be alarmed when I come downstairs. My hair is coming out." I jumped back into the shower to get back to work. Luckily, James was able to contain the kids downstairs.

I spent at least 15 minutes pulling my hair out; it just kept coming and coming like some shitty magician's scarf. I don't think I'll ever hear Joe Jackson's voice the same again.

I spent another 15 minutes meticulously cleaning the bathroom like it was the scene of some heinous crime.

Then a radio intervention: Beth Orton's "Thinking about Tomorrow" came on. I love this song and it was perfect timing. A "so long" to my hair.

I spent another 15 minutes sitting on the floor in Caroline's Tinkerbell towel staring at my patchwork head in a shaving mirror, just breathing and looking like I have cancer.

For a moment, I was less horrified that I look like I have cancer than I was by the fact that I've gotten away with being a blonde for 16 years. My hair is very, very DARK. Holy crap.

But, as evidenced by the past six weeks on this Great Shit Coaster, things turn around quickly. My sister-in-law Paula took the kids bowling and to Friendly's. James took me to the Square Cafe for burgers and wine. In my wig. Then I was OK.

Seven Songs of the Day

2/21/2009

1. Long Day - Matchbox 20
2. So Much to Say - Dave Matthews
3. Don't Give Up - Kate Bush & Peter Gabriel
4. Fragile - Sting
5. Green Light - John Legend
6. Just Fine - Mary J. Blige
7. It's a New Day - Wil.i.am

Courtesy of JoAnne K.

War & Beast: The Irony and The WTFery

Wed. Feb. 11, Legal Seafoods
I'm sipping some Pinot Noir with Doreen, my good friend and former editor at the Globe. We're having lunch at the bar at Legal Seafoods in Braintree pondering the irony and general what-the-fuckery of this particular meeting. We haven't stopped talking long enough to order; our hands move in non-stop Italian gestures, something EB people tend to slip into involuntarily when in each other's presence. We can sense our waitress' heightening impatience but think -- especially in this case -- that horses should be held regardless of the lunch rush.

Doreen is a survivah. She gave a MF DCIS (that's "Mother Fucking Ductal Carcinoma In Situ" for the rookies) a cold hard beat down a few years ago. While her cancer was technically a Stage 0, it was no less a spooky ordeal. We talked a lot while she was undergoing radiation treatment and how she was certain her right boob was going to burn to a crisp and fall off like a piece of charred meat between the racks of a gas grill. She dealt with the bitch in the boob with her trademark humor (which I try to channel daily) and has emerged a healthier, stronger person, determined to give herself the best possible chance of never having the beast rear a single filthy cell in Righty ever again. After leaving the Globe, Doreen went to work as a VP at NECN and headed up their team for last year's Pan Mass Challenge.

Flashback: Jul. 10: Rooftop at the Colonnade
Of course, Nic, Cameo, Code Red and I rallied around Doreen's cause and attended NECN's Pan Mass Challenge fundraiser last July.

(Up on the roof: Hmmm, upon close inspection, I think I can see a little tumor sag going on in Lefty in this photo. Or it could just be very poor posture).

Anyway, it was a beautiful summer night in the city. Beneath the stars, we bought buckets of raffle tickets ---- and fetched quite a booty. Nic won a night's stay at the Parker House. I had back-to-back winnings, scoring some Red Sox tickets and a couple of GCs to Legal Seafoods. Retrieving my winnings led to some tipsy, touch-and-go maneuvering around the roof: Glass of vino in one hand, plate of appetizers in the other, I came dangerously close to knocking Billy Costa (he's very wee) into the swimming pool. Doreen stood on stage, handing out the prizes. As she handed me my GCs, she yelled into the mic: "We're going to lunch!"


Feb. 11, Legal Seafoods
So here we are having lunch 7 months later. Lunch on the GC that I won in the PMC raffle. Two Eastie girls bellying up to the bar, one Righty in remission, one Lefty with a Stage III IDC (invasive ductal carcinoma.)

But we still laugh about it and heartily. We share our MRI-freak out stories over some jasmine rice and salmon (we finally order lest we be bounced). For those unfamiliar, the "breast" MRI is worse than a regular one because you have to go into the machine face down. Then you have to ease your boobs through these giant holes (relative, of course, to one's cleavage) and smash your face into what appears to be one of those donuts you place your face in during a massage. Except you're all too aware that it's no massage.

Doreen's "freak out" came with her sudden (and irrational) realization that she was being "overtreated." She sat up and told the technician point blank, "I don't need an MRI! You people are overtreating me! I am fine! I was a stage o, etc, etc."

The technician walks out of the room. Tough Dorchester nurse walks in, which Doreen realizes is exactly what she needs right now:

NURSE: What's going on, honey?
DOREEN: (palms up in adversary) I'm being overtreated here. I don't want the MRI, I don't need the MRI, I...
NURSE: (interrupting) Honey, if Dr. K says you need it, you need it. Get in the machine.

Doreen reluctantly rolls in but not without hollering her mantra amid the banging and clanging and hammering of the MRI:

“I AM NOT IN A COFFIN UNDERNEATH THE GROUND!"

"I AM NOT IN A PLASTIC CONTAINER AT THE BACK OF A STORAGE UNIT!"

We reassure each other that these MRI people have to have seen it all. I tell Doreen about my Viking Funeral with the iPod and then of my similar freak out: The technicians had told me I couldn't use my iPod during my MRI but could avail myself of their satellite radio and headphones. Great! I suggested a little "coffee house" acoustic to calm the claustrophobic nerves. This lasted about 10 seconds. I lay face down on the table, eased Lefty and Righty into the holes and placed my head into the massage thing that's not a massage thing. Then one of the technicians snapped these massive old school donut headphones around my head like a puffy vice. Seriously, these headphones had to have been from the dawn of headphone time. In one full swoop, I jerked my left arm back and knocked the donut phones clear across the room, nearly taking out the other technician: "That's not helping."

Before we left lunch, Doreen picked up the tab and told me to put my GC away for another day. She also gave me a little box of Godiva chocolates with a heart charm on it. Of course, the heart was Valentines Day-related swag but I plopped it right into my bag of talismen. The chocolates, however, never made it out of the parking garage.

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The Seven Songs of the Day -- 2/20/2009

1-Mama said Knock you Out – LL Cool J
2-Gamma Ray -- Beck
3-Anytime at all – Beatles
4-Mother’s Little Helper – Rolling Stones
5-Fix it – Ryan Adams
6-Time After Time (Annelise) – REM
7-Tonight, Tonight – Smashing Pumpkins

Courtesy of John Larroquette (presumably not this one)

I Do Not Want What I Have Not Got (Except a few wigs)

My chemo brain is in full effect this week so today's post will be very light on the text and heavy on the wiggy images. Maria, Caroline and Paulie gave me the "Sinead O'Connor" the other day, chopping off all my hair and heading off chemo-induced alopecia (take THAT!) We've documented it all here in a crappy low-res slideshow along with some new looks -- some smashing, some frightening -- made possible by impending baldness. Enjoy! ( p.s. the seven songs of the day appear immediately below the slideshow)

Make an on-line slide show at www.OneTrueMedia.com

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Seven Songs of the Day 2/18/09

1. The Greatest - Cat Power
2. Gimme Shelter - the Rolling Stones
3. Wiser Time - Black Crowes
4. Stand Alone - the Cult
5. Before Tomorrow Comes - Alter Bridge
6. Raindrops + Sunshowers - Smashing Pumpkins
7. Get Free - the Vines

Courtesy of Chris Seremetis

An "On Weekend" with Dining out, Wigs, Wii & and MF Chicken Vesuvio

Make photo slide shows at www.OneTrueMedia.com

This weekend was still very much "ON" and we took full advantage of the high energy and spirits to make four fun-filled stops on our "Fuck Cancer Tour 2009." 1. Friday night, with P, Maria, the Taylors and the always hilarious John-Paul, we headed to the new Franklin Cafe in Southie where we planted ourselves in a booth by the window and didn't move from for many, many hours. Over some comfort food and booze, we watched the crowds around us morph from "after work," to "on the prowl," to "booting on Dorchester Ave." 2. On Sat, Nic and I took the girls to Dorothy's Boutique for some serious wig shopping (there will be a longer post about that this week) and then met Cameo and BG for lunch at Amhreins. The second leg of the tour landed us back in the burbs for back-to-back early dinners with friends and kids. First stop, the Rowlette's for some quesadillas, many laughs, and Wii (and racing around on child-sized ride-on toys). James even headed out to the Banshee the next AM with Mark -- at 9 a.m.-- to watch the Italian-Irish soccer match. Sunday, we were treated to some MF Chicken Vesuvio at the Higgin's house, which we half-Italians had never heard of and will never forget again. Yum. It was nice -- as always -- to sit with Gwen in the kitchen and catch up as the kids ran amok dressed up in princess garb. Paulie refused to be pulled into that this time and was on a mission to scare up some trucks and ways to scare with dinosaur parts.

It was definitely a full weekend, a positive springboard into the treatment number two of toxic stew at the Dana today. (a longer post coming on that this week too). Maria watched the kids all day while I was at treatment and when we got back she and the kids gave me the "Sinead O'Connor" haircut. Take that chemo-induced propecia! We beat you to punch or baldness, whatever the case may be (pics coming on that). My tiny head, for whatever reason, yielded the 10+ inches for Locks of Love so that'll be shipped off today in several peoples' names.

My second chemo is hitting me a little harder just like they said it would. Just pure exhaustion. As soon as I finishing typing this, I expect to go all dog tired. But much more later. In the meantime, enjoy my crappy low res slideshow of this fantastic "ON" weekend.

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The Seven Songs of the Day (appropriate ones at that)

Toxic – Brittney Spears
Smokin – Boston
Radiation Vibe – Fountains of Wayne
Born to Fight – Tracy Chapman
Mad World – Tears for Fears
Feel Good Inc. – Gorillaz
Fix You – Cold Play

Courtesy of BJ Burke (my cuz)

Seven Songs of the Day

1. Bittersweet - Big Head Todd & The Monsters
2.The Resolution - Jack's Mannequin
3. MakeDamnSure - Taking Back Sunday
4. After Tonite - Justin Nozuka
5. You Got Me - One Block Radius
6. The Only Answer - Mike Doughty
7. You Look Like Rain - Morphine

Courtesy of KT



(Why, thank you)

At Bin Ends with Thin Ends

(Ernie has more hair in his beard than I do on my head.)

Roots a-blazing, hairline receding, I headed out with Ernie and the boys to a wine tasting at Bin Ends in Braintree last night. It's a great discount wine retailer we recently discovered while watching a Tivo-ed Chronicle, probably while eating dinner at 5 p.m. They've got a business model identical to that of Filene's Basement. They keep marking the wines down until they're gone. (Although I don't think you could pull off hiding a bottle of wine around this place until it was $1 like you could a shirt at the Basement.) Also, you can go on their website, assemble your own case of different wines and have it shipped -- for free! -- right to your door.

Three French winemakers from the Burgundy region were in the house last night, probably wondering how they'd landed in this industrial nomansland between Konditormeister and the F1 racetrack. The crowd was a little sketchy. For instance, when Ernie's roommate asked one of the women pouring the wine if there was a tip jar, she answered, "yeah, in my bra!!" Yikes. He backed away like a cat. Some among the crowd were wine snobs or pretending to be (guy in a woolen ascot), others were there to get wasted and gorge themselves on smoked Gouda and assorted cheese tartlettes (I ate a lot of crackers and grapes), and some were there for the free vino (us). And some women -- "les skanks" -- were definitely there hoping to take one of the Frenchmen home with a bottle or two of Bourgogne.



(Ern, Jeff, and Paul B. by the bins)

"I get more wine in church!" - Jeff, on the paltry pour. He also brought his own reusable shopping bag to the event.



It was a Twitter Taste Live event which apparently meant the tasting was being broadcast worldwide online. Some poor guy named Dale was mauling a plate of canapes (unknowingly, I assume) right in front of one of the cameras, which one of the Bin End's owners noted in his speech to the entire tasting crowd about 15 minutes into the event. But Dale didn't seem to care.

We learned that there is actually white Burgundy wine, even though the region in France has become synonymous with the red (actually, vice-versa). And it was good too, but we kept going back to one of the red wine stations, dubbed "Dale's Station" because it was adjacent to the scene of the manic nosh.

We spoke to the winemaker from Nicolas Potel (which looking back I think was actually Nicolas Potel but I can't be sure because during the introduction speeches, I was too distracted thinking/laughing to myself about Paul B.'s childhood story about how his mother once packed him quail (that his father had hunted and shot) in his lunchbox. His classmates reportedly watched in horror as he nibbled away on the teeny, tiny bird legs.)

Confession: I think we also hovered around the Nicolas Potel station because the winemaker who may have been Nicolas Potel resembled a 40ish French Paul McCartney (I should've taken a pic, I know that's impossible to envision.)

Since wine is not really on my anti-cancer diet -- save a glass or three of red on the weekends -- I convinced myself it was ok to buy a $78 bottle of Volnay wine from NP and savor it. But then I talked myself out of it and went with his $20 Pinot Noir, which I actually liked better anyway. Ern took home a $7 bottle of MAN Vintners vino. I spied a bottle of Bald Hills wine on the way out but decided against toasting my imminent hair loss.

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7 Songs of the Day

1) The Inlaw Josie Wales -Trey Anastasio
2) Yours to Discover -The Sadies
3) Warrior -Matisyahu
4) Changes -David Bowie
5) Life Itself -Bruce Springsteen and The E Street Band
6) Handle With Care -The Traveling Wilburys
7) Who Loves The Sun -The Velvet Underground

-- Courtesy of Alex S. in SF