like a garden hose stuck on rock

Bill Cosby did this great stand-up routine in the 60s where he's a little kid being left in his crib when his parents go out. He notices they are getting ready to go some place and keeps asking, "Mommy Daddy going out? Mommy Daddy going out?" There have been times lately when I am like that kid, just kind of wanting to know where Laura is, without realizing that I want to know this. I'll call her name, and when she answers, "Yes, love?" I cannot imagine what I was needing or wanting. 

In recognition of this little zit of angst that has appeared in my personality, I was going to label this post "I have forgot why I did call thee back." Then here in the text I would recreate the image of Juliet, who with mindless urgency calls Romeo back to the balcony as he is leaving. But as I recall, that whole situation ended pretty badly, and I am actively avoiding bad juju these days.

Better to refer, however tritely, to Piglet, who calls to Pooh, like I do to Laura. Pooh answers "Yes, Piglet?" "Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw. "I just wanted to be sure of you."

We are both somewhat distracted as chemo approaches. We drop things more, put things in the wrong drawer, close the flue several times or not at all, bring home canned peas instead of pears (actually, no. That was my dad, circa 1970 -- "they spelled so much same!"). While driving, we've taken more circuitous routes than ever -- oh, there goes the turn I have taken a thousand times. It's like you are moving along doing ordinary things, while part of your brain is trying to solve that problem of getting the fox, the chicken, and the grain to the other side of the river. It takes up brain cells.

I've had three appointments this week. One with the surgeon, who did not need to drain me a 7th time, to my delight. And the burn is finally healing, thanks to time and my dogged efforts to eat protein and slather the burn with calendula. Only thing the surgeon's staff needed to do this time was to cover me with electrodes for a baseline test for lymphedema, something they need to check on every 3 months for two years. Arm drainage is working at this point, I'm happy to report. But I don't understand how electrodes (including one on my foot - "for grounding," says the nurse, which left me feeling a special connection to that green wire on dimmer switches) can measure what's happening with lymph drainage in my arms. A lot of this seems a bit like the Wizard of Oz and his big machines, but it's really a little guy doing the best he can with a hoop and a stick.

Next was a MUGA scan of my heart. When I asked the technician what MUGA stood for, he said, "Haven't the foggiest idea." This seems interesting to me. If I spent all day doing MUGA scans, at the very least I would play with the letters until I came up with something plausible. Massive Unnamed Gawdy Appliance. Something. Anyway, it's a procedure in which you first get injected with some chemical and about 20 minutes later get injected with another one, this one radioactive, which binds to the first. Then they take a 20-minute video of my heart beating while I sit in the massive unnamed gawdy appliance. The "video" was a great disappointment. I thought it would look really cool, but the image was so crude that it could have been anything jumping around on that screen. I don't want it to seem like I underappreciate the miracle of my heart or yours. It's amazing and beyond comprehension, and I like very much that it beats. But where are those nifty, crystal clear, 3-D images that House gets when he and his team make their medical videos? 

The next day was the final huddle with the oncologist before chemo begins. We are still trying to fall in love with this person. Friends who know her tell us that we will. I'm not feeling it. She forgets details about my cancer that I would like her to have remembered, crammed for, or at least written on her hand before she walked in. She lost points by saying, "People who underwent X treatment are buried in the population." Sure, she was trying to talk statistically -- that stats weren't kept on one treatment -- but "buried in the population"?? You can't come up with something better than that when you're talking to a cancer patient?

Laura said something like, "Dr. A said we have a green light for starting chemo on the 7th," and Dr. D made a face like someone (Laura) had passed bad gas. "We? Paula is starting chemo, not you." Sure, sure, maybe she was trying to come to my defense, but it didn't feel friendly. I piped up and said in a chipper lilt, "Oh, I'd prefer to err on the side of unity in this!" She didn't throw the ball back. When she left the room for a minute, Laura said, "She doesn't like me!" and I think it's true. Is she homophobic? We always have to wonder. I know she doesn't know us yet, and we don't know her. But not to like Laura? Could she be crazy?

Good news is that my heart is "better than normal," say the MUGA results. See the 59 in the lower right hand corner of the photo? That's my heartrate. Not too shabby. Bad news is that the first 8 weeks of chemo can permanently damage the heart. I hate that idea. I hate that more than the swarm of mouth sores people talk about -- and that's saying something, because I dread that. Normally, I get one little canker sore and it's all I can think about until it's gone.

Dr. D sent us off with prescriptions for four anti-nausea medications. That's sobering. Downright staggering is that the 4th med is a suppository. So if you throw up the other three, you can sneak in the back door and pop this one in while your stomach isn't looking. I'm thinking I might delegate that job to Laura, with that saran wrapped finger of hers. I feel so bad that she hasn't had a chance to deliver on her gallant offer back in the day.

Here's an odd thing. Check out this tendon (not as eye-popping here in 2D as in 3D), which dramatically shortens my reach on the left side. It feels like they stitched the tendon to the wrong place. It's like working with a garden hose that usually reaches to the blueberry bushes, only now it's stuck on a rock and I can only water the mulch. Very frustrating. Oh -- I see I haven't shaved in awhile. Apologies.

I'll end this post soon, but want to note that it is now 2010, and we should all be in spacesuits, by my figuring. The new year starts out with memories of the past year, including my dad's death on October 30th, 2008. Then came the death of Ruthie, my vibrant and unstoppable sister-in-law, on January 7th, 2009. Then mom, on February 28th. Through it all, the Chu clan has come through feeling more grateful than forlorn. We were born and raised in love. We have each other, and we are in the thick of life with all this losing and loving. Blessings win out no matter which way you slice it.