missing the blog, part 2

I am still missing the blog. It's supposed to be writing therapy for me -- tales of how I am dealing with the cancer, tales that in the telling would help to lighten the load. And it absolutely has done that for me. Now that I am working hard on moving past the cancer, I feel unsure of how to use the blog.

We have a full house for the summer, and perhaps for a whole year, beginning this weekend: beloved first-born, 25-year-old T'ai, is moving back home from Boston and looking for work. He's been accepted into UConn Law School, but can't manage the $54K (!) out-of-state tuition at this point. He's also not entirely sure that law is what he's meant to do. He recently went through the fascinating career testing at the Johnson O'Connor Research Foundation (www.jocrf.org), and he's off the charts in several aptitudes (99th percentile in analytical reasoning, English vocab, spatial reasoning and spatial relations, and more).

But what do you do when you were an English major 3 years ago and your aptitude testing says "you should be an artist" or "you should be an architect" or "you should be a doctor"? In terms of law school, the upshot of the report says something like "you'd love law school but might really hate law." Now what? It is painful for me to have him feeling so unsettled and stuck.

For T'ai, Laura, and me, there is a risk of frustrating each other this summer, list-followers that Laura and I are -- and absentminded-professor-in-the-rough that he is (in fact, professor came up for him over and over again, in areas in which he either hasn't studied or else has no interest). T'ai has an amazing mind, but agency and pathways are not his forte. "Find a job" is to him as "straighten out this Rubik's cube -- and no peeking" is to me.

I want to make sure T'ai feels more loved than exasperated with, to enjoy his good company and help him figure out where to from here. I want to guide him without shoving. It is easier aspired to than done. I've been invoking my mom's spirit a lot lately; she was very good at loving people exactly as they were.

Emily, my beloved brother's beloved oldest, has a year-long graduate internship nearby, and is also moving in this weekend! Emily, too, is really good company, but it will at times be a challenge for a 29-year-old to move into a different family culture, with her own routines (e.g., gluten-free) and ours (e.g., wash your dishes right away).

Beloved last-born Yani is home for the summer, working part-time at Nine West and part-time in the shower.

Hello, beloved middle child, Ting! Please visit often, but don't expect the washing machine to be available.

So we are going from an empty nest to a densely populated one, beginning tomorrow.

Grocery donations may be dropped off on the back porch.

And keep your ears open for jobs.

Part of me would like to blog about the adventures we are likely to have, this motley crew of adults in various stages of metamorphosis, but it has been easier to write just about myself because I can't step on my own toes. I'm already going to catch heck for the shower comment.

I'd love to write about my clients, about the practice of counseling itself, but I would have to so distort stories as to make the telling less useful for me. I would spend all my energy disguising identities. That's important, but might make the writing less fun, less rich for me.

And what do I do with the blog that was so alive from November to April, the blog that is buried in wires somewhere out there? Does it just corrode with time, and go down in my own little history as something I needed while I dealt with cancer? If the cancer recurs, do I resurrect the blog, call you all back to see if you want to listen in again?

I am open to ideas. Please send them to paula@paulachu.com

Okay, hair update in closing: peach fuzz on head, a bit in nose, two or three eyelashes. Yani and Laura tell me that I am not allowed to say "bare pud."

missing the blog

I miss writing in the blog as often as I did during active treatment. Cancer's aftermath and potential reappearance are still present much of the time, but repeating that fact in a blog is not as compelling as ruminating about it seems to be in one's mind.

And though daily I take the magnifying mirror to my nose and eyelids (tiny, tiny hairs appearing in both locales), watching nose hairs grow through a blog is not as interesting as seeing that they are gone and that you can temporarily see my brain.

I'm running again, turtle pace. Not like turtles when they are trying to get away from you, but like turtles when they are strolling along taking their sweet time. Today Laura and I "ran" my loop until I got dizzy and needed to walk for a bit. At first I thought, "Say, is this the 'runner's high' wot I heard tell about?" And then I realized that it was merely lightheadedness, and that if I explored the phenomenon any longer I would have to lie down in the cemetery (which is where this sensation occurred), and that just seemed like really bad ju-ju. So we walked through the cemetery and then started up again.

Yep, my loop goes into the cemetery, to the back, along the river, and then out again. There were times during chemo when I thought maybe this wasn't a good idea; one passes a stunning number of graves of women (mostly) around my age who have died in the last few years, and the ruminating can sometimes begin. But avoiding the cemetery seemed like a poor option, too; a coward's choice. I want to feel as free as possible, and that includes being able to bear some of the feelings that come with passing those graves.

I would just rather not have to lie down with them.

Never say die! so to speak. Tomorrow we tackle the loop again.

hair it comes

The first visible, single hair growing back is the wispy, blond one that has grown out of my right (facial) cheek since I was a kid. This one hair is so light and thin that I don't usually notice it until it's almost an inch long. That's an alarming length of hair, considering its location. Anyone else have one of these?

Laura spotted it while I was waxing philosophical in the kitchen last night. I thought she was listening very closely to me, absorbed by my story about yoga class. Turns out she was checking out the hair. Hair is now such a scarce commodity that I am considering letting this one grow till it's about shoulder-length.

So, yes, I've started taking yoga again, something I do now and then. I outed myself from the get-go when the instructor asked us to speak up about recent surgeries or limitations. This was a week after my treatments had ended, and I briefly mentioned the mastectomies and the chemo.

Yesterday's class was great until the instructor gave her ritual closing reading. Last night's was about how (I am quoting as exactly as I can) "our society is experiencing an epidemic of cancer, heart disease, diabetes, etc. because people have failed to attend to their primary hunger for spirituality and relationship." That made me feel pretty un-zen and shitty, suddenly.

There I was, hairless (well, I didn't know about the one hair at that point) and in a meditation pose, feeling exposed and blamed for having failed to attend to my hunger for spirituality and relationship. I continued to sit quietly, because saying what I felt at that moment did seem to be kind of non-spiritual and not terribly relational. I rolled up my mat along with everyone else, and left with a quiet "thank you."

But I drove off feeling hurt. I was surprised by her insensitivity as well as my own sensitivity. 

Thank goodness Laura spotted the hair while I was telling my story when I got home. It totally shifted the mood when we saw that silly hair. Here comes hair! Praise be. I went to bed feeling kind of spiritual after all.

no fond mammaries

You may recall that I loooved the sedative concoction they gave me when they put in my port before chemo. It made me feel so relaxed that I came to understand that relatively speaking I move through life as anxious as a mouse that's been dropped into a snake cage. This was a startling realization for someone who prides herself on being pretty steady, grounded, and, well, relaxed.

Here is the port where it sat for months in its subterranean position. You can just make out the tube that snakes (more snakes!) up and over the clavicle, above the port, on its way to my jugular vein.

I was awake during the whole procedure, back on that fine January day. While I was being operated on, I passed the time admiring the ceiling tiles and the metal tracks along which they can maneuver various large machines. Here you can see how lovely and interesting the tracks are.

Given how pleasant that first experience was, I had very much been looking forward to the surgical procedure during which the port would be removed and they would give me those yummy sedatives again. In January, the procedure and the drugs only lasted about 20 minutes, but a roller coaster is only about 3 minutes, and it's still worth it for the thrill, right?

Well. There was a different doctor this time. One who doesn't like the patient to be in the way of his work, I think. When he arrived, he shook my hand, and said to the nurse, "Start with the Ativan." When I asked the nurse why I needed that, she said, "Dr. X likes to have patients start with Ativan. You'll feel it in a second." I guess maybe after that I got the happy drugs, but I don't remember the next, um, several hours. Laura says that in the recovery room I sawed wood for an hour and a half. Now and then we would converse. Converse? I have no memory of any of it. I was puzzled to find an appointment card in my bag a few days later. Apparently I had discussed and agreed upon a time for a post-op check up. And how did I get out of the building?

I do recall that right before we left, the nurse observed me scratching something on my wrist, and she said, "You're itchy. Take this Benadryl." Ohhhkaaaaay, I must have said, in a slo-mo voice. I was a rag doll. All floppy. Too floppy to enjoy being floppy.

Laura drove me home (this is my best guess) and I slept for FIVE hours. At one point, Laura brought me up a bowl of cereal. I must have asked for something to eat? I no longer trust my mammary (ha). I fell asleep 3 times while eating the cereal, and woke up when the spoon clanged against the bowl.

Here is the port, sitting on the kitchen counter, having served its purpose well. But there are no fond memories of its removal for p. No memories at all.

Fun chemo trivia for the day, just to end with something educational. Here is a shot up my nose. As you can see, I have no nose hairs left. Unfortunately, it is difficult for me to capture this phenomenon by camera, as the flash can only penetrate so far up before the cavern darkens. But when you look all the way up my nose, you can actually see my brain.

still here, bowing to the Life Force

Still here, bowing to the Life Force.

Note the scar at 8 o'clock. This came from a wound incurred when I was maybe six. My beloved brothers were out in the (dirt) driveway throwing "frozen concentrate" orange juice cans filled with (driveway) dirt. They would load up the cans right near where earlier I described sitting and smashing quartz to smell it, near where I worked on getting into hickory nuts. That day I was near the barn, well away from them, also playing somehow in the dirt. I guess we got a lot of mileage out of that driveway dirt.

Lee and Kev say that if you spun around, much as a discus thrower does, you could put a similar spin on the can, sending out a trail of dirt that resembled smoke. They were competing for the highest toss, the longest arc, the smokiest trail.

I was sitting in front of the barn emptying dirt out of my red PF Flyers (for those who were born too late, these were sneakers that could make you run faster and jump higher). Kevie let go of a dirt missile at the wrong time in his discus spin, saw to his horror that the orange juice can was following a cartoon dotted line that led toward me, and shouted at me to Watch Out! I leaned far to the right -- directly into the can. Six stitches, as I recall.

What struck me as this scar appeared when chemo took the hair away is that my head must have been really small back then. The cut was originally at my hairline. This is the main evidence I have that my brain has in fact grown since I was six.

I also remember this incident being the first time I had an awareness of the payoffs of looking sad and pathetic. I was crying about the injury and checked myself out in the bathroom mirror, watching the blood drip down but mostly watching myself cry. Mom was calling Dr. Armbruster to let her know we were coming in with a nice flesh wound. Golly, I thought, between boo and hoo: look how sad I look. That's kind of cool. Everyone can see I'm hurt.

I am really over that now. Last night Laura, her mom, and I walked the "survivors' lap" at the Relay for Life on campus. I looked sad and pathetic, and everyone could see that I am hurt. I did not like it. Though I am sure cancer has provided some "secondary gains" in the form of loving kindness and attention, I am seriously outgrowing the need to get these things as secondary gains. I would like to make them primary gains of living a good and loving life -- not of having cancer. And sometimes I worry that blogging about my various symptoms and challenges is like looking in the mirror and pulling goodies out of my sad sack situation. If it ever feels like that to read, I invite you, implore you, to look away. Though I'm working on self-acceptance and all that good rot, the boo hoo part of me is neither appealing to me nor a great way of bowing to the Life Force, I imagine.

These two thoughts about the orange juice can/dirt bomb scar, though, in closing: first, it reminds me that I always thought I was leaning away from danger in my life, but sometimes you collide with it anyway, just 'cuz.

Second, the scar reminds me that I am wired to heal -- and even to grow. Life Force, accept my deepest bow.

homebody: incurable

When I was in second grade, Martha McNutt invited me to spend the night. It was to be my first sleepover flying solo. Though Martha and her family were very welcoming, within the first few minutes of the visit I was sorry I had agreed to stay. I wanted to be home.

Martha and I played for awhile, and then I snuck away and climbed up a tree in her yard. I climbed trees a lot back then, and would go up as high as the tree could take me. This one must have been a decorative fruit tree of some kind, because I could only get about 4 or 5 feet off the ground. It's hard to hide in a tree that's eight feet tall. "I'm really sorry, Martha," I remember saying through tears when she found me. "I want to go home." Mom came to get me, and of course (being who she was) was totally non-judgmental about it. I imagine I fell asleep happily in my own bed, talking to Ellen, as we did every night.

That's the first time I can remember ducking out of something social. Since then, I've done it over and over again. I'm the first to leave a party, if I get roped into going to one. When I was Academic Dean at Walker's, I'd sometimes leave by the fire escape at the end of the day so that I didn't have to check out with everyone. I love that doing counseling allows me to invite people into my den, spend an hour talking deeply together, and then go back into my den by myself.

At the large parties Laura and I sometimes give (open houses for the Porter's faculty, where the numbers are such that I can disappear), I hang out in the kitchen, chatting with the food service staff or doing the dishes. Or I will just keep moving through the crowd, like I'm on a mission. In our house, you can keep walking in a large circle and really look like you're headed somewhere.

This weekend I was up in Vermont at the Stowe Weekend of Hope, an annual gathering for cancer survivors and their families. Here is the nametag, by the way -- which I "get," but still seems worth sharing for its unusual touch.

I had no idea that you were allowed to bring someone with you to the Weekend of Hope. There were 400 cancer survivors there, but 1200 attendees: most people had friends or family members with them.

All meals were on your own. The first evening as people scattered to various restaurants, I went through the crowd saying, in my friendliest voice: "Anyone else here alone? Anyone here who might want to go for sushi?" No takers. I thought that was pretty courageous of me -- but it didn't work.

I probably shouldn't have limited the invitation to sushi. I realize that narrowed the field. Still, I thought someone would either join me or would say, "Come with us!"

So I sat at a sushi bar and ate dinner alone in Stowe, Vermont. Throughout the dinner, I thought, "I recognize this."

Not being sure where I fit is a leit motif in my life. I have wondered if it even has roots in being biracial -- I don't feel white, and I don't feel Chinese. Whatever those mean. I don't feel straight, and I don't feel gay. Whatever those mean.

Being something Other is familiar and true for me, and I wouldn't trade it. But sometimes it has led me to hide in the trees. To slip between the cracks, or just to slip away.

I left the Weekend of Hope a day early, just like I left Martha McNutt's house early nearly 50 years ago. I wasn't getting what I had hoped to get out of the workshops. Plus, over and over again, people were saying things like this: "Imagine you are told you have a year to live -- what would you do?" Everyone's answer was: "Spend more time with my family. Be with the people I love. Tell them, show them I love them."

After a couple of workshops with this theme, I thought, "What the heck am I doing here talking about being with the people I love?"

I drove home yesterday and fell asleep in my own bed, talking to Laura. And I got to see my beloved sister on her birthday today. I am only sorry that I had to recreate my strange little leit motif once again and missed my beloved brother's 60th birthday on Friday (celebrated by all 3 of my beloved siblings) because I wanted to attend a weekend that was (lovingly!) designed to help cancer patients embrace hope and seize the day.

Duh-oy.