Cupid prevails

There is a lot going on, and I hope to write in a few days as a diversion while I am undergoing prep, beginning April Fool's Day, for the colonoscopy on April 2 and the hysterectomy and oophorectomies on April 3. I won't be able to eat for 48 hours, so I imagine it might be therapeutic to channel my delirium onto the blog.

But for the moment, simply this. Here is a felt heart that Laura and I tuck, surreptitiously if possible, into each other's front pocket, back and forth between us.

On Sunday I had left the heart in my jeans pocket when we did laundry. Also in the pocket was a toothpick. Damage from chemotherapy, coupled with aging, means I am able to store vast quantities of food in the crevices of my receding gums, you see. I rarely venture out unequipped.

Sticking to the side of the washer at the end of the cycle were arrow and heart, entangled, no doubt, as we all are, during the spin cycle of life.

I love when I notice that the Universe is winking at me. It really is such a rascally flirt.

gee whiz

Last July, insurance companies changed the criteria for covering genetic testing for a certain type of breast cancer patient. Those who have "triple negative" hormone receptors, a small percentage of breast cancer folk, seem to have a statistically significant risk for subsequent cancers. So at my most recent onco check-up, they suggested I take advantage of the new guidelines, and get tested. Chances are small that I'd be positive, especially since my only family history of breast cancer came from Grandma Ruby, who was diagnosed at age 104. For some reason, Grandma declined treatment.

Here is the statistical scene:
12% of American women will get breast cancer.
20% of those will be triple negative, bearing the more aggressive, less treatable type of cancer.
5% of those triple negative patients actually have the BRCA-2 gene mutation.
I learned yesterday that I have the mutation. Given how I have defied remarkable odds at every step of the way, I feel like maybe I should get a lottery ticket or something. I had up to an 87% chance of getting breast cancer from the time I drew my first breath.

The good news is that I can stop wondering about whether I ate too much Halloween candy, judged myself or others too harshly, enjoyed too many Cheetos, indulged in too many strips of crisp turkey skin on Thanksgiving, or just what I did to get cancer. I got born.

And am I glad I did! But gee whiz.

P.S. Good news for the medical geeks who follow this blog: my female plumbing, all the basement pipes and pumps, will be removed, soon. Gory details to follow.

displacement behavior

Upon graduation from college this May, our youngest child, Yani, will be looking for work in the place on Earth that has been voted most likely to fall into the ocean. This is how I see a move to the Bay Area. She is undaunted. "Everyone tells me you should live in California once in your lifetime," she says. To comfort me, she adds, "I'll be back for grad school or to have babies."

She and Laura are on their way to San Francisco this weekend to check it out. It's best that I stay home. I would be jumping on the sidewalk with all my might in an effort to trigger a tremor just to prove my point. While they are looking for cool aspects of California (there are apparently a few), I would be searching for reasons for her not to move there. Last night we were all on our computers at the kitchen table: Yani was counting Chinatown restaurants that serve soup dumplings, Laura was looking at IKEA cabinets, and I was playing Words With Friends and coming up with things like "WAIL" and "HOME."

It's unusual for Yani and me to be on such different pages, and I'm unhappy about it. I wish either she would change her mind or I would become a more enlightened being. Both seem like such remote possibilities, though.

I busied myself this morning by going to Goodwill and buying a few brightly colored men's cotton shirts. Note: the shirts were brightly colored; not the men. I washed them (again: the shirts, not the men), then cut them into small squares (I will assume you're with me on this being about the cloth for the rest of the story) and put them in my waiting room bathroom so my clients can dry their hands on old shirt pieces instead of paper towels. If I can't be enlightened, at least I can do this small thing for the Earth. 

I can say with some confidence that as the nest truly empties -- of children, aging pets, and my spouse herself -- I'm going to be doing more such projects. I hope I will be inspired to branch out beyond squares of cotton, because already in the past few weeks I've made more handkerchiefs than you can shake a stick at, using a torn shirt of Laura's and discarded pajama pants of Yani's. Alone and left to my own devices, no cotton garment will be safe.