So long from taotechu

Dear Readers:

Oh, how I have been stalling on this.

It is time to take taotechu off the shelf where it has been gathering dust, spider webs, and spider veins. But instead of wiping it off and setting it back in place, I am wrapping it in this rag of a note to you all and storing taotechu in the attic.

This is sad for me. I've wanted to keep taotechu going. It wrapped me in a soft, warm layer of comfort and cheer throughout the WTF of breast cancer. But when I made the shift away from cancer and posted a few letters, those trial balloons just seemed to float away. I watched them shrink in the sky. They weren't connected enough to you or to me. And it turns out that letters that are more connected, more personal, belong to the person I have written. They don't belong to a blog. I felt like I ran out of balloons. Or maybe they were that kind that are so hard to blow up your cheeks hurt.

The letters drifted off, but cancer is still on my mind. I think I am probably okay, that it will not return. But there are reminders, all the time. A dear friend, who went through an identical course of chemotherapy at the same time I did, has been stricken with a raging recurrence and is fighting for her life. I have half a dozen clients who have had cancer, and believe me, they continually have a creepy feeling that something is going to jump out and grab them, whether they are eating organic or not.

I can't keep writing about that creepy feeling, and I can't keep writing as if I don't have that creepy feeling. It has been a little eddy in which I am spinning, the way Eeyore did after falling into the stream when Tigger took him by surprise. Eeyore floated on his back for a long time, as I recall -- and not in the sweet way you do on a summer afternoon in a clean lake under a cloudless sky. He was morose about it.

I don't feel morose. But I recognize that I am in an eddy, and that it's time to climb out. Because the blog I so love has come to feel like pressure instead of release. Maybe that is a good thing; maybe there is less to release. I appreciate that, but I don't want to trade it in, homeostasis-like, for pressure.

The blog is an audience on the shore. They watch in beach chairs, the sun setting in their eyes. They are long, long bored with watching me float. Is she going to do anything else? they ask each other. Last year she dove in and then did a handstand underwater, says one person. They yawn politely, shade their eyes with a hand, try to make out my flat form on the surface of the water.

I still want to sculpt some of the blog into a little memoir, and I am bringing that down from the attic to see how it looks after a year of storage. But breast cancer memoirs are a ha'penny a dozen, and I am no longer optimistic that my little story of little breasts and a lotta luck and love can, well, float.

There you have it. Attics, cobwebs, balloons, Eeyore, a squinting audience, a book and a blog getting waterlogged. What a soggy mess.

Pass me a towel? I'm all wrinkly, and I want to watch the sunset with you.

Dear Readers, you will be relieved to know I have no adequate metaphor to express the gratitude I feel.

Love,
p

P.S. Will take taotechu down sometime before Thanksgiving. By that time, I'll be wrinkly and cold.

An insight crystalizes

Dear Staff at the Kaua'i Wildlife Refuge Complex:

I was among the many people who came last month to gaze at the plunging cliffs and the crashing Pacific near the Kilauea Lighthouse. I cannot remember the date, so I can't help you identify which person was on duty. That's how relaxed things are in Kaua'i -- hours, days, and dates blurred quickly. In fact, breathless beauty aside, my favorite part of Kaua'i was its slowed pace, its informality and ease. Going barefoot in the grocery story was the highpoint of my long and otherwise humdrum food shopping career; I am likely never to have that experience again.

I am writing to thank one of your staff members for the brief conversation she and I had. I imagine it has been eroded from her memory by now, but it has stayed with me, and I will refresh the memory often. I will address her directly, in the hopes that you can find her for me and pass her this message:

I had questions about the volcanic rock -- the many, many layers of dark, igneous rock. I knew they came from repeated eruptions, but so many? How could it be? And all the same? Did some cool more quickly than others? There were so many layers it looked like black sedimentary rock. And what is that even darker intrusion over there, in that outcropping? You weren't sure, but you loved the question. You asked me what kind of work I did -- was I a scientist? A geologist?

I made a sheepish, scrunched face. Gosh, no, no, I confessed with a small smile. My childhood dream was to become a geologist, but no. I am a psychotherapist. A counselor. I felt small.

You didn't miss a beat. "Same thing," you said, with conviction. I cocked my head. "Totally the same thing," you repeated. "You look at layers within someone. You try to figure out how they got there. Why did one layer cool more quickly than another, and why did crystals form here and not there? And what is that dark intrusion I see? How did that get there? You are still a scientist, doing the same kind of exploration, except your field is the person you are sitting with."

Can I tell you, dear Naturalist? Can I tell you how my heart thumped with joy when you said these things to me? I have always wondered what would have happened if I had stayed with my passion of science, and  a part of me -- a dark intrusion -- has long felt cowardly for not having taken that path. Your words showed me that -- from the distance of a telescope, a microscope, or a metaphor -- what looked like two paths might actually be one: simply, mine.

You helped me spot a crystal deep within the bedrock of me.

Thank you and aloha,

paula chu

FYI

Dear Followers:

Laura and I got legally hitched yesterday, July 20th. It would have also been my parents' anniversary, their 64th, though I suppose there must be a time when you stop counting such things after someone has died. C.J., the best dog ever, would have turned 32 this year, for example.

We actually got married back in 1999 -- Laura and I, not C.J. and I. C.J. was already dead, but would have been turning 20 in 1999. Laura and I had a fabulous ceremony with song and sunshine and lots of happy brouhaha. We have the certificate signed by friends and family to prove it:

 but the State wouldn't recognize our marriage at the time. We drove away with the three kids and a "just married" sign on the car. People honked at us and waved, and then looked in the car to see two women and three kids waving back. Oh! We loved the double-takes we got.

Now twelve years later, we decided that since Laura is going to be looking for a new job, and probably a fairly schmancy one at that, where it might matter to search committees and such that we be legally married, we should bite the bullet and get the State's seal of approval on our marriage.

So my beloved brother, Lee, who is a Justice of the Peace, ran us through a little ceremony on Saturday. It was come-as-you-are; shorts and t-shirts. Three other people were there -- Ting, her partner Dave, and our niece Emily. We skyped in an assortment of siblings, plus Yani and T'ai. Actually, T'ai was in a Starbucks in New York, listening by phone. We repeated our vows of yesteryear, including Laura's vow to T'ai, Ting, and Yani. Laura spoke toward the phone so that T'ai could hear over the Starbucks din. We took off our rings and put them on again. Ting and Dave sang us a lovely song, and we waved goodbye to everyone who was watching electronically. When we pulled out the paper that Laura had picked up from the town so that Lee could make it official, it turned out that we had the "worksheet," not the license. I think maybe straight couples do not make this mistake. So the ceremony was another close-but-no-cigar event.
Yesterday we picked up the right form after handing in our "worksheet." The town clerk's office had to redo their original version of the license, because they had typed me in as Paul. Paul. I think they felt kind of bad about the Freudian slip, and they were extra nice to us after that.

Lee had to come back to Farmington yesterday to do it all over again. The "ceremony" had to be conducted in Farmington, so we thought of meeting him on the side of the road on the town line to save him a few minutes. He was running late, and I had a client in the waiting room. Hurry! Lee walks into the house and says, "all the stuff you said on Saturday, is it still true?" "Yes! Yes!" "Okay, you're married."
It would cost another twenty bucks to get a copy of the license. No thanks! This receipt is good enough.

But as soon as we cross the state line, we're not married anymore, says our uncle, Sam. If Laura gets a job in New York, we'll have to do the whole thing all over again. The good thing, though, is that the process is getting shorter and shorter. "Stuff you said still true?" "Yes!"
Okay then! Okay.

Dear ConnectiCare

Dear Folks at ConnectiCare:
     Thank you for the new member card that arrived in yesterday's mail. Actually, two cards came, right? The second is a perfectly intact card that says simply: "This side of the card left BLANK intentionally." Then, for mysterious reasons, the back has the same information as the back of the other card.
     Would someone be willing to explain to me why we do this? Why use the extra plastic to make an intentionally blank card? What do you hope we are all doing with our intentionally blank cards?
     I'm eager to know. Thank you for taking the time to respond to my inquiry.

paula chu, Farmington

     Thank you for your recent inquiry regarding your ConnectiCare identification card.

     The cards are printed on a template that has space for two cards.  You received a blank card because you are the only one on your policy.  If you would have had a dependent on your policy, their card would have been printed on the front of the other card.

      If you have any additional questions or concerns, please contact us either via email or call toll-free at 1-800-251-7722.

Sincerely,

ConnectiCare Member Services

Dear ConnectiCare Member Services:

     That makes sense. Thank you. 

     I had double mastectomies last year -- but you know that: you're ConnectiCare! Anyway, I wanted to make sure I wouldn't be saying something untoward if I made myself a few t-shirts that say "this side left blank intentionally." Sounds like I'm good to go.

     Thanks again.

paula chu

Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg

Dear People at Lelanite:
I drove behind one of your trucks for a good stretch of Route 84 in eastern Connecticut earlier today. Painted around much of the truck is a  crazy long name of a lake. I tried to write down some of it as I stared down the back of the truck, but only got a few scrawled syllables. Please tell me, what's with the lake's loooooooooong name?
I await your response with great eagerness and curiosity.
paula chu, Farmington CT


Paula: It's an old Indian word and is actually the longest place name in the world. "They" say that it means "I fish on my side, you fish on your side, no one fishes in the middle." It's a point of pride for nerdy middle school kids to be able to spell it, but it's pretty universally known as Webster Lake.
Tom Morris
Lelanite
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lake_Chaubunagungamaug

PS - Thanks for the most interesting question I'll be asked today! :)

Dear Tom: Fabulous! Thank you. You'll be pleased to know that everyone in our household has the song stuck in our heads now.

I'll do my best to spread the word about the lake, perhaps even to have others get the song stuck. 

I want to say, though, that learning to spell its name would be more impressive if accomplished by those of us with shrinking, rather than growing, brains.
No disrespect whatsoever to nerdy middle schoolers and their clever brains. 

paula

P.S. Thank you for letting me fish in the middle, Tom.

Dear Dr. Duxin

The Imaging Center

65 Memorial Rd, Suite 510

West Hartford, CT   06107                       

Dear Dr. Duxin:

When I got called back for a repeat mammogram, I snorted with annoyance. What a hassle. Cancel meetings, drive to town, strip down, squish, squeeeeeze, hold your breath, okay breathe. Whatever.

Even when they showed me the spot on the what-the-heck-am-I-looking-at film, I thought little of it.  A little troubling, sure. But I have no risk factors that might lead to cancer. I am healthy and am an excellent steward of my consistently reliable body. Family members have lived to 105 in good health! This will be nothing.

Then the second mammogram quickly morphed into an ultrasound. Then a biopsy. Then cancer. 

I picture you, of unknown age, gender, background, and hue. Your desk is covered with gray and whitish pictures of flattened breast tissue. You are eating your lunch, perhaps. Maybe sipping some coffee. My films are next in the pile. There is a faintest of shadows on the right breast – hardly distinguishable from all the other splotches and spots and specks on the film. You take another bite of your sandwich, another sip of your coffee, and stare at the shadow. You circle it.

You saved my life. Thank you, from the heart of my heart.

I miss having breasts, and sometimes that is hard. Sometimes I am afraid. But the truth is: I feel like one of the luckiest people I know, because you noticed a shadow.

I hope this finds you well, and living a life populated by friends and family who love you and care deeply about your well-being. I hope you laugh often. That the coffee tastes rich and delicious, that your memories are happy. That you and those you love live long and well. 

paula chu

Farmington Fire Department

Dearest Members of the Farmington Volunteer Fire Department:

First and foremost, I am always grateful that you are there. I wholly admire your willingness to drop your forks and run to the aid of someone, anyone in need. Though I hope for your sake and ours that such a situation will never come to pass, we who live under the roof of 15 Main Street are humbled in knowing you would risk your lives to save ours.

A couple of Decembers ago, our family bundled up as we do every year and made the rounds of the neighborhood, caroling in the snow. We stopped in at the firehouse to sing to two young men who greeted us and stood grinning in the cold as we sang. As we walked back into the night, one of us shouted merrily, "If there's any way to wait to turn on your sirens until you get to the intersection when you go out in the middle of the night, that would be great!" One of the firemen said jovially, "We'll try to remember!"

It's true -- we have often been woken by sirens as you go about your noble work. We are two houses from the intersection of 4 and 10, and for years sirens announced your approach all the way from the firehouse. It's an awkward thing to mention: someone is in desperate need and we're grumbling about lying awake. But we thought we'd be bold and ask, merrily.

To our wonder you've been true to your word. Much more often than not, when there is an emergency in the middle of the night, your trucks head down Main Street with only the unavoidable growl of the engine announcing your passing by. It is not until the very last moment that you turn on the siren. When you're in an urgent hurry and you have both adrenaline and a siren at your disposal, it must take self-control to wait to turn on an electronic scream.

When this happens, when I notice that you've waited, I still lie awake for awhile, except now I am awake thinking that I should thank you. I  hope this letter will alleviate one source of my occasional sleeplessness.

Thanks so much for all you do, including tiptoeing as you drive down Main Street in the middle of the night. You are my heroes.