Tag: breast cancer

The Gracie Foundation

Everyone needs a little pampering, a surprise gift of love, and no one moreso than a person with metastatic breast Cancer. The Gracie Foundation provides all that and a deep feeling of warm love in a priority mail box to its recipients. I received mine on Monday and not a moment too soon, either. You can nominate yourself or be  nominated by someone else to receive the amazingly beautiful and incredibly useful, high quality priducts to make breast cancer treatments just a little easier to bear. In my box: a large bottle, with pump, of body lotion; a scented soy candle; a cooling eye mask; a bath scrunchie; a gray knit cap; pink warm socks; an awesome mug for a big cup of tea; delicious scented soap; a pen and todo pad for chemo brain days; face cleansing wipes; and a book explaining the origins of the idea and the woman who founded this wellspring of love to carry on her legacy through giving even beyond her physical lifetime.

Gracie’s husband, who she married just a week before her fight with cancer ended, carries on her legacy and so he and volunteers ship off a little of Gracie’s beauty to others who need a bit of that special thing that made her a much loved woman of substantial giving.

Thank you, Gracie. Your spirit and soul fill my heart with beauty and joy, and I think that’s just what you had in mind. ♥️

Positively Connected

“Suffering is necessary until you realize it is unnecessary.” Eckhardt Tolle

Our personalities and sense of self do not stem from our opinions. Not even in our age of entitlement formed through the public ramblings of one single ego-driven tectonic plate moving dictatorial notion. Important, no doubt, to someone impressive to all their tweets and likes command. Of course, every human being beginning at birth has a perspective. Narrow though a newborn’s and pickled though an alcoholic’s – and no single moral standard claims any higher reaches than another. Despite what seems evident to me, there still exists a subsection of hostility driven people, trapped in a prison of anger. Their approach to the world carries an unwavering intent to cause suffering. Yet, we are all responsible for our own suffering as well as responsible for suffering in the world.

So how can this be possible?

I can choose to live as a source of conscious positivity. A great example to illustrate Richard Feynman’s excited and animated discussion of how rubber bands work. Feynman explains in this must watch video by the BBC, how atoms jiggle when excited by other atoms in some way. If I recall one example is a racketball hitting the court. The jiggle created by the contact of bouncing a ball hitting the boards, which ever so slightly increases the heat in the floor because the ball is moving faster than the floor. The measure of increase in temperature then becomes a proof of energy transfer at a molecular level. The floor’s atoms are disrupted by the ball hitting it and that is not even the point although voila, his excitement creates a curiosity in us and an excitement about learning. Similar to positive consciousness of living in the presence of now.

Pedestrian example…notice on days when you’re in a bad mood how others pick up on your negativity and they respond negatively to you in kind? Perhaps you’re driving more aggressively because you spilled coffee all over your car and now speeding over the roads towards a meeting 15 minutes delayed. I can simply arrive at the meeting a bit late, calmly and apologize with a smile. Certainly my reception may start cold, but my cheerfulness and tenacity inevitably override my unfortunate tardiness. My associates’ experience a graceful and present human being and eventually respond in a like manner. I guarantee someone else in your meeting went through a similar situation at some point in their lives. Maybe even that very day. They will remember only what you tell them to remember – meaning how you transfer your energy to the human beings with whom you’re engaged – positive or negative.

Perhaps on my drive I make a negative detour and make myself even later by running a stop sign and getting a ticket. Instead of ruminating and becoming angrier, instead of cursing my spouse or partner, the inanimate coffee, my boss, the other drivers…so much negative energy transference I create in a single drive into a small blip in the course of my life. Why?

Think about it this way perhaps. An opinion in your consciousness when applied to others sets the alarms off, erupting in arguments allowing negative energy to break into your positive space, like a thief. If I view others as equal – no matter their origins and opinions – with an open heart and mind and listen, we find ourselves in positive space with diverse rich colorful discussions, opening minds and knocking on doors rather than knocking them down.

This in 52 years? I earned the understanding of this concept and I’m not sure it’s something I even learned at all. In fact it’s more a feeling in the spiritual sense, than knowledge or a meaning in the mind. Here’s my confusing formula for you science types:

“Now” = what is, what’s gone and what’s going to be. It’s a triplicate paradox – ergo, appropriately, a “tripledox.”

To review how I got there and why that crazy logic train makes sense to me. Some days, my words refuse to connect to any discernible emotional or mind state – or anything I believe worth the investment of my time to sit down and pick up a pen and a piece of paper. As I wrote that last sentence, I realized that is the very worth my time, even if no one else ever reads what my thoughts became. And that’s not why I’m writing. In this moment when the past present and future dance together forever entangled in an infinite ring, what I write becomes very important. Not necessarily to you the reader. (If it does, how Cool is that? We connected.) I write for my physical, spiritual, and mental health.

My connection of mind to pen and paper help me plough through the work I must do to live. And it’s all work right now. I wish I could say differently. But this as all things must pass. Like a fart. Or a tailgating asshole. Or depression. Or bad weather.

And with that, I loathe waking up sometimes. You mean…Princess Positive? Miss Merrymaker? Lady Laughsalot? Moi?

Even hypocritical me. I get so angry I just want to fall off the flat earth and pound hard on the door of the universe – I bet Monty Hall answers and asks me about which door I choose. I say “all three” because you can do what you want in alternate dimensions. Or just because I want to see silver taffeta curtains opening like birthday gifts in my next reality tunnel where I win lunch with Douglas Adams, Dick Feynman, along a three piece lounge set from mid-century modern Michigan circa 1950. Did I digress? Yup. Sorry. And no the women I’d want to lunch with us remain with us. Diverse dream meals-r-us.

In the past 48 hours…

I’ve thrown up, thrown upset crying fits, tossed annoyed looks at The C. Twisted myself emotionally, felt alone, experienced the panic of financially worry about my healthcare, and I can’t get any good deli anywhere in San Jose. But this, too, shall pass. I realize I am where I am because I must be here. And there’s no way to go it alone given the stress of a change of residence and my enemy, thy name is stress. See, I’m dealing with this fucking liver metastasis at the moment. My veins and arteries have no blood count, and my bones work overtime at night so I can’t sleep. I have no appetite, no energy. No visitors. No shit. Lost 25 lbs. not a recommended diet, kids. I’ve had a bad week. It’s hard saying goodbye to everyone and everything all the time. But I can’t linger in this space much longer.

Open all three doors, or Monty gets it – and I’m not in the mood to make a deal. But I will say with the saccharine sweetness of a diabetic candy and the artifice of the broiled roast chicken brown skin from a tanning bed light, you’ll want to go plant wild flowers and kiss your loved ones all on the forehead, and hug your annoyed cat. Or slobbering dog, if your so inclined.

P.S. Another tale of opinions pissing on the heads of others: It would have been my mother’s birthday on the 31st. I wasn’t given any chance at closure because my aunt and brother decided I didn’t get to say goodbye to Elaine Rothman Kaminsky Tramonte. So laughs on them, she’s not gone to me. She’s around telling me I look fine stop worrying, wiping my face with a wet index finger (eww), hugging me, telling me how I’m her beautiful girl. How proud she is of me. And for all the shit our lives dumped in our laps, she was my mother. She loves me. I’m her first born, her daughter. Because they didn’t want me to upset her. How do you keep a child away from a parent, even as she aged I was still her angel, her shayna maydelah, Esther Williams, “mouth”, and the other 100 nick names she bestowed upon me – and she was my mammelah, mah, mom, mommie, my mom.

Flawed. Forever part of me. Forget? Never.

It is what it is, huh?

If “it is what it is,” why is it so the collateral damage of metastatic cancer so fucking hard?

Why is it okay to break promises to me?

Why is it so painful to look at the shattering of once solid love?

Why is it okay for me to take handfuls of pills but it’s not okay for you to take one?

Why did I think it was a good idea to give away all my strength?

Why did it fail me to believe when it came down to it?

Why is it you can’t put your paranoia away for one day and help me live?

Why is it impossible to find my fight today?

Why is it okay for my needs not to matter?

How is it possible for you to listen silently while you hear me cry?

Why was it okay for me to be a day late to get the assist I needed to save my life?

Why is it okay for a copayment for chemotherapy to be greater than an entire months disability check?

Why is it okay to see that my life is slipping away?

It isn’t what my it is.

Why isn’t loyalty, isn’t love, isn’t commitment, isn’t kindness, and isn’t believing in the human spirit – why aren’t these its the “it is what it is?” It is what “it is is always negative.” Why?

Fuck it.

Whatever it is.

Eventide

Riding passenger side snapping right,
I’m down in front stealing long exposures.
From the back seat our youth sits
Mocking us with instant polaroids.
Destroyed pictures of minutes and memory
Precious and precarious slip a stone
At once here and at once gone.
Right under the driver breaks hard and higher
Up another mile, silently stealing all we pass.
As if it meant nothing, had no value.
Yet we never stop to salute the flowers –
All wilds and yellows and purples.
The foothills’ shoulders grow peonies
Upon sunshine golden with military ranks.

How jagged time?
We spend ours climbing again as
Eventide approaches us.
Stealing the light
Squinting and teasing Every photographer’s eye.
The lens escapes the fight as fists fly
Above us rung the first punch
Headliners: the over-real versus the unbelievable.
Then we drop down tearing around
The Summit dragging the day with us.
With us flat then right over on the side.
Buckshot sprays whitetail from
Underneath the wheels,
My skin and bones chill fast underneath
Blankets just a quarter mile thin –
Count the microclimates in a 14 mile exposure.
My imagined assignment, anyway.

Inertia now driving our ascension
Finally dousing my focus.
Yet I am pacified by
Deep coastal royal blue velvet,
And by the courtly cape
Of dense silver fog.
Trees, reach in and take my attention
Lost in the sky and yet at home.
Away with the little brick foxes
Already started by the drooling hounds,
Running in distant golden broken lines
Shrinking to a pointed index
Finger of bent redwood lumber.
Penciled between the knotted trees
Escaping our eyes
They write letters to us
To one another, to anyone.
I imagine the trees alone love themselves.
Writing in dead languages those
Modern towers of Babylon
Without oral tradition
No monks or followers to take dictation
The mighty ones tie rings around
Paper and papyrus of their own making.
They, like me, can write their own stories.

Distant deamons dance to the music of the eventide,
Whose eardrums thump and pop from slight descents.
Mercies clear the stares and the macabre glances.
And up ahead the night hides just around
The voluptuous Earth’s curves.
Yet she shakes off the road upon her hip
Langushing and lounging
Laughing at all the forsaken highways.

You snap me awake.
My hypnotic state undone
By our quick duel and I, only me –
I roll one window down
With enough sense to know
The party orange of evening presents
A moment for exposure
Showing the night undone
By the simplest flash
As we find a space and stall the motor,
King and queen of the hills
Announced by snare drums and trumpets.
Goodbye, twisted bruised skin of eventide.
Eventide, goodbye.

And now, Ms. Cancer and Mr. Depression

How does one learn to reason with depression? I’d like to share with you a story about a confused partner who, after the passing of her arbitrary three-year deadline, falls into the rabbit hole and finds herself staring at a 40-car pile up and the unenviable clean up of the bloody aftermath. She unreasonably and unfortunately becomes inconsolable with wave after wave of false accusations hurled from across a house she lives in with this depressed man who she no longer knows, or even knows what she feels for him anymore.

Don’t take the bait. Walk away. Leave. For an hour, a week, or…

If it were only that easy. You know who you are – partners of the dysfunctional. But add a little metastatic cancer to the mix…my shoulders are killing me under the weight of it all. I’m sorry if I come across as confusing, but this whole crazy dysthymic depression without an end in sight is confusing.

I’ve finally helped him to treatment. We, well more like he, vomited the angry bitter disgust of a man who simply wanted to raise his two sons across a 2.5 hour session of exhausting couples counseling with my psychologist. She, by the way had breast cancer, can provide him with a helpful view from within should he inquire. He spilled tears and guts for 95% of the session, at the end of which I said he may be better off getting a bit of help for himself or I didn’t feel we’d make the progress we’d hoped for. He immediately went on the defense and the doctor came to mine and remarked, can’t you see she’s very concerned and wants to reconvene when you’ve gotten through a bit of your own healing? He could not disagree.

I’ve read countless books on the topic. NAMI.org is a web site full of great information for you as a depressive’s care giver. All very helpful.

Here’s a few titles available on Amazon and through kindle to keep the costs down:

Talking to Depression: Simple Ways To Connect When Someone In Your Life Is Depressed https://www.amazon.com/dp/B002DYMB1M/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_tai_OPHwAbK3Z6EC

Depression Fallout: The Impact of Depression on Couples and What You Can Do to Preserve the Bond https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0012GTZBG/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_tai_ZQHwAbH1P5EGN

When Depression Hurts Your Relationship: How to Regain Intimacy and Reconnect with Your Partner When You’re Depressed https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00HZ9SA92/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_tai_tRHwAb7H1451X

When Someone You Love is Depressed https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01H0IGJIQ/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_tai_TRHwAbDTCFKWT

I Don’t Want to Talk About It: Overcoming the Secret Legacy of Male Depression https://www.amazon.com/dp/B000FC0Q0C/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_tai_m3HwAbA93R7H9

The confusing days in the life….

When he asked me what time it was I was holding a stack of books and I said that it’s not too late just a second to look at my watch and this was what caused tonight’s major smack down. He’s called me a bitch for two days, running tests to see how I’m going to react to his nasty new nomenclature for me, similar to a teenager cursing in front of his parents. Yet I embarrassed him.

Apparently I’m the one who needs hospitalization and help and that he, “knows what’s going on here.” I ruin everything night after night with my “selfish shit” and do my own thing. My Etsy online shop and writing are more important to me than having a good relationship with him. Yet, it’s all I can do to keep from losing my own mind to the loneliness and isolation of cancer.

I’m somehow playing a game with him and somehow it’s my fault; apparently I’m the root cause of his problems. I tell him that nearly every night he’s laid here leaving me alone and now he’s saying that’s not true that I’m the one who has ignored him. A new critique appears in the repertoire: I’m an Intellectual bully and he does not want to be a victim anymore. Too embarrassed to even suggest anything resembling sex to him anymore, he’s barked back, “the only thing you’re even interested in is sex.”

No, I’m interested in happiness and I love him enough to stay. He also knows I’ve not the physical or financial resources to leave. There’s days when his light comes on and his blue eyes sparkle and shine like two stars in the sky. Come on you, just wake up and shine with me for a little while and let’s shut this nightmare down. It’s never very much about sex, is it. Love in all its permutations requires a cooperation of high and low and mid range notes all beating in time to the same heart. Does cancer extract my heart from my body for study by science and remain in a clear beaker on a dusty shelf behind an outdated computer book from 1999? No, not this time.

He said he wants me here and he loves me, but answers in vagaries when I ask for examples or specifics. As he retorts, more vague statements such as how I always criticize him. I never say anything positive. All he does is help me but I do not let him help me. Each and every time I ask for his help he’s got more important things to do, ignores me, or just sleeps the day away. My very favorite tactical maneuver is to keep me quiet by calling me a nag. I “nag nag nag all the time.” He said he gave himself up and he made that mistake because he thought it was the right thing to do for me. However it cannot possibly be true since I’m not worth it. At least not according to the oxymoronic verbal diarrhea spewing at me night and day.

I ask him what he means by anything he says, yet he won’t tell me. He said he misses himself more then I can ever miss him. This is a wonder because I’ve been mourning him for over three years. I am being crushed under the weight of his depression. My loneliness and frustration are at an all time high. He is starting to tell me how he can’t get anything from me, I have nothing he wants or anything that is valuable to gain from me. He gives, all he does is give and I cannot give anything worthwhile to the relationship so why don’t I just stop fucking up a good thing and just shut up?

Okay.

Florida, State Your Name

You carry our secrets whispered into cardboard boxes tied tight with candycane twine
(That kind you find in old-time kosher bakeries.)
Tall cakes topped with buttercream flowers in new-fatigue green and suburban-Mustang blue whose
Stemless petals rise above yellow spongey layers with strawberries.
Pure as curbside snow. Pure as little girls with pinch pink cheeks.
Too early for my birthday the trail of a mistake runs upstairs from cheap paper doilies.
Pin striped suit coat and sea glass blue shirttails waving gooodbye, or hello,
(I never knew the difference.)
My hair twisted into a gilded fist as you push my resistance down,
Down into the drowned warped boards.
Raising my right hand, I swear you found a pushover:
A raggedy doll tape and bubble gum, of bare burlap, plaid, and buttons, of red yarn
Covering my torn skin where I stitch myself up and over
(And over to hold myself in again.)
A stray calico cat sits in the window right above your shoulder, startled by your loud heart.
I can still hear you slapping your thigh and then,
Distant laughter cries at your day-old jokes jokes and overtold stories.
Your hysterical, foul, scorn defers a look at me.
I hated you for that minute, then carrying on again I forget you already told me.

My face looks tired, uncooked, undone.
While white hot light sheds the palmetto scrub
Covering the non-natives invading our country- bright boisterously green parrots.
Which fly in on an uncommon flight schedule,
Catching a torrent of wind the turkey vultures wind into a tornado
Turning up higher and faster into the late afternoon rain.
Here, every shower comes in on time right at four.
Bursting open ladies with umbrellas, with daisy dresses, tulip capris, white rose tanks,
Waltzing by the front porch screen doors squeaking,
Slippery dimpled thighs sing together,
All sweet, easy, glide by leaving their perfume behind.
Then zipped into black patent leather hand bags powders, compacts,
Glossy rippled heat waves us in on a 45 degree right angle sun ray.
Show up the hidden mildewed sinews of ductwork,
And the hum of air conditioners masking our words.
Slowly dripping outside busy windows pelted by huge mosquitoes,
Or rain?
(Probably rain cries outside)
Only two minutes, like soft boiled eggs on timers,
Now done cooking. Her eyelashes, false
Newly bred widows sit with spidery eyes,
Single fingers silently making reservations for you.
They reapply the glue, so unkind, that damned humidity.

Shadow Dancing

Until the day comes when my breath no longer returns from the night,
Now visible from my lungs, vapor trails hang frozen in the wintry air —
Then if my labored lungs must remain longer, I remain.
When the last black bloom of your want wilts and waivers again,
And my secret history garden fades into the night like dreamers in the shallows,
Tumbling (at the seashore, swept up with any undelivered moonlight)
Until my breathlessness sheds the air’s sour taste,
Returning me to the source of persistent music and its instruments
Tuned by invisible, merciless hands.
Voices sweet like memories singing,
Louder than every sound ever heard all together at one time,
To drown out my questions,
Your ciphers long forgotten yet tested for time
To the unknown names of every crime.
Yet to ask from nowhere, I insist —
There, how effortlessly you knew when I waited until the day turned and left.
(You cannot say the name “Forever” again.)

While my words waltz to the end of time,
Dancing to a rolling lento drum,
I sent you a present, a tune wrapped up
With yesterday’s news knotted in pale silken twine – please
Right here in black and white, look at it.
How do you refute indisputable lines?
(Though now every last bite of it tastes rotten and bitter…)
Untie the infinite ribbons of light opening my hands, lost in midair
Drink deep from the water of my solace,
As it drips with words from my lips
To quench the ache of every moment:
Find a small skeleton key in my laced fingers,
Weakened from solving all history’s lessons.
As a body folds in on itself
It holds faster, together.
(We question the answers and quickly bury our words.)

Maybe next year we can awaken the annuals again.
The stuff of sudden daydreams —
You falling into the arms of the air,
I sit and wait although not selfish with my hope,
Yet this alone drives me home again.
(If cure becomes your solitude, then shame reminds you of my defeat.)
As the truth emerges, lighting dim violet walls,
Our bedroom shadows sway dancing, slowly.
As I sing softly in the key of grace,
Hold on to me so that I may keep you still
And reach gently into your memory’s halls.
Your open windows – please,
(Tonight unlatched, just this once I may return unharmed.)

Now, go back to sleep, stay still unmoved until
Morning as its long fingers find your cold cheeks.
Starting you awake once more,
By hearing some faint distant laughter you think,
“I know her.”
And you may possibly recognize my voice like notes of an opera,
(Now impossible to discern my spirit, ascending towards starlight and mournings bright sun)
No one takes anybody or a thing into the ever-years aspired,
And where the memory serves no use, we lose our hearts and fears.
And though we know the futility of life’s take, we all roll at once and descend to die trying.

Sloop John B. aka Let Me Go Home

So hoist up the John B’s sail
See how the main sail sets
Call for the Captain ashore
Let me go home, let me go home
I want to go home
Well I feel so broke up
I want to go home
Hoist up the John-b sail.
See how the main sail sets,

I groan as I depart outrunning the Smurf blue scrubs-clad wheelchair engineer who, I’m totally convinced, wants only to embarrass me with one last spin round the rotunda of Stanford’s gynormous older hospital (a new one is on the way, thankfully). Leaving behind me a dishearteningly BORING stay in Stanford’s F-wing. Wow, ever so apropos of the oncology floor, the F-uck it wing, the F-ucking cancer wing. Let me never ever go into a hospital again.

Dehumanized. Depersonalized. Muted. Turned into a brainless pajama bag of pain and shit. Exasperated, exhausted annoyed. Telling the same boring story of how I arrived, my trip through the ER, the amount of fluid siphoned out of my abdomen, whether or not I went poopy in the toilet, as well as my level of discomfort. All told to a supporting cast in this theater of the absurd. All except for my angel in uniform, Stacey, who actually sees me as human and spending more than one shift with me, even requesting to take my bed at assignment time. We talked about everything and nothing, perfumes, children, cancer, other nurses, hospital stories. Stacey stopped by when she wasn’t obligated to do so, and see how I was feeling, to let me know she’d ordered the Flower Bomb perfume I sprayed on her wrists a few days earlier to make sure she’d like it enough to plunk down hard earned cash for it. Like a friend might, she came by my room when she’d heard my ticket outta there had been stamped, to say goodbye. Stacey remained my friend in the hospital for six boring shifts and her big smile, bounty of hair and breasts, and her need to talk to someone who could just ask questions and listen to her.

Basically, and aside from Stacey, at any given time, one might become confused permanently by a troupe of medical professionals, including:

Two doctors, one of whom visited me for exactly three minutes and accidentally ran into me during one of four daily 30 minute cross hospital walks,
Seven distinct nurses
Three nurse practitioners
Two social workers
One psychologist
One spiritual leader of the Rabbinical kind

The same questions day in day out, night after sleepless night…your level of pain, 0-10, 10 being the highest. Where? Which pain? It’s all over and all different. I learned to pantomime and point to my pain, showing anyone who buys a ticket to my freak show behind the curtain. No one likes to stay overnight in a hospital let alone six fabulous nights at the Palo Alto Stanford Hospital Resort and Country Club. Where sleep comes only to those who sleep with the fish, there’s no relationship between yourself and a concept called privacy.

I’m not contagious, therefore my roommates become a series of Spanish speaking, translator required, entire family toting, new treatment guinea pigs under tight scrutiny from the nurses who all ignore me. I’m not part of the program. And but the way why the translators who clearly were trained in translation skills raise their voices with each translated word to the supposed Spanish only speaking individual in the next bed in the room, is beyond my comprehension. I hear both of the roommates, between whom I get one 36 hour reprieve from holding my farts due to close proximity of their family and our shared bathroom.

You want to define understatement? My visible excitement level peaking higher than my pain level for the first time in weeks as I jumped at the first chance to “give up” my bed and an opportunity manage my symptoms at home until my next procedure. Emphatically and resoundingly, please please please let me go home – like The Beach Boys song. For the record, the break in self care and trying to pull my partner out of bed (generally so I could try it out alone for a few hours to recuperate) I needed more than I realized. I fully enjoyed people focused on all of my physical needs for a little while. Pathetic, right?

Maybe so, but I’m home. I got home a week ago yesterday. Simon, my cat-son, truly gave me the what for when I got in, ignoring me at first, but unable to help his nose, which had a mind of its own, from sniffing down my belongings and then coming over to sniff me. Persuaded by sight and scent he crawled into my lap and purred and I rubbed by now-damp eyes in his soft brown fur, and said, Mommy’s home, baby, mommy’s home.

Now that’s pathetic.

Son of a Canferatu

Chasing me for almost three years, could Canferatu possibly close in on me, catching up in an average game of cat and mouse? Struggling to stay away from its heinous blasts of hot, narciferous breath, of the damp bone cold green-gray living-dead body, or the gnarled knuckles arthritic and exposing curled, long encrusted finger nails? I feel trapped inside the generic walls and barely concealing privacy curtains of many scenes of many hospitals. Canferatu pushes up against me and wants to bite me. I know how to handle a vampire, the kind of film legend, of the horror genre and less pathos imbued Dracula from the infamous oeuvre by Bram Stoker. The stuff of romantic legendary fictional bumps in the night.

Yet I, perhaps as a pathetic stand against my fiend, yet not so unlike Lucy who loses her life to kill Nosferatu, hold up some garlic I found buried in my backpack. (I’d have made a great Let’s Make a Deal contestant but not a great paperback heroine, I’m afraid). I duck under Canferatu, reeling from my video game style one-two punch, leaving the cold, putrid huffing breath, which smells like rotting animal meat. It’s ugly pointed fangs still glisten with the blood of his latest victims. I chuckle to myself.

I stroll nonchalantly in through the emergency room security and then sliding door cutting the air full of concern and the permanent infirms the temporarily injured with their and brain damagingly bored visitors. Some of the older women and men, the infirm, sit in tubing laden wheelchairs made of slings strung on metal pipes while the young sat on parents or in strollers with their curious eyes peering out wide with fever or fear, over annoying masks. Can anyone see their own illness monsters sitting in their laps, hanging from the ceiling above, doing high wire acts? Illness monsters turn to look me over, their zombie-like stares piercing my heart, and I pull a gleaming arrow from my backpack and shoot the largest dumbest monster through the eyes. They look at my tired face. “Unimpressed,” said their gazes. Descending a flight of brightly lit, stone cold stairs, I trip on the last step and land flat on my face. I look up to see several helping hands reaching out to get me back up on my feet down in the basement on the #oncology floor.

My partner, and his insistence, ripped my crying annoyed body from my comfortable bed into the car. He took me to Stanford Medical Center’s emergency room. #Metastatic #breast-cancer, that strange body snatcher, moved into my corpus and took up residence squatting in a few choice properties – now my liver on its menu. I could take up residence as a Buddha statue on a Tibetan shrine, my abdomen distended with 10 pounds of fluid, yet again.

My intestines crushed inside the cavity wall, and pinched by tiny cancer seedlings floating in the fluid and causing a kind of neurological short circuiting. The long trip, of both small and large tubing, suffers from incredibly slow transit and now an infection near my stomachs dumping valve, my ilium. By the light of the TV on with no sound on, the watery fluid, extracted by my awesome Dr. Brian, assisted through the night by Nurse D, who has a contagious laugh and keeps me pain-free, with her big smile and easy manor. Then, as the gastric acid moved down from my esophagus, back into its rightful home in my stomach.

I find myself actually hungry after a month or two of chicken soup and not much else other than the allusive matzoh ball (thank you Gunther’s Deli San Jose) or more common creature comfort, the wonton. Not having eaten for a lunar day, I’m very hangry (hungry + angry) by the time I’m able to eat anything at all. We arrived at 1:00 pm today; by 7:00 pm pacific, I fill with boredom, pain, and weariness from a day-long wait, interspersed with ugly, unwarranted comments and curses from my partner, a three year long depression sufferer.

Apparently, ascites build up and potential infection where they found a thickening of my bowel in the very same spot of my abdomen where I complained to my oncologist of constant pain. A pain level so fiercely off the charts, its feeling replaced organs and tissue about eight weeks ago.

No sleep and no change of clothing, no toiletries, no cat, not much of anything anywhere like home and of course no partner to hold me or wipe away any fears with a quick flick of the wrist. I’m complaining now rather than feeling the grace of life, in the now, where I am. I am grateful and very fortunate for my complete access to skilled nurses, doctors, and support staff.

That said, what company’s geniuses made this radically uncomfortable hospital bed? From the designers of, Hospital Gown, opening in the back for no real reason and showing the crack in your ass for over a century, comes new Z-Style Forward to the Past Torture Bed, now with patented bubble wrap technology in our extra, extra thin mattress. They tell me it’s for insuring patients do not get bedsores. And I’m exhausted from the bangs and inane noise coming from the room next to the one I share with a woman who speaks only Spanish and requires LOUD translators. Although she can apparently read the room service menu and translate it back to Spanish to order breakfast. She also gave me her cold so I’m running about a 99 degree fever and feeling flu-like symptoms.

Over the next few days my oncological team wants to remove, without prejudice, any remaining stuff in my sore, distended guts – still experiencing “slow transit.” Slow transit, an intrastate train system outside the country of Switzerland, where measurements of timeliness literally are marked to the 10th of a second. On time. I wish for a magic metamorphosis of my slow guts into a fast Swiss Train version.

Guts. Hmmm, apparently my friends and family admire my spiritual resilience, my steadiness and guts in the face of scary situations, and in particular, my over the age of consent blue humor. How much can my good qualities can stretch today? And so, I remain, my dear blog reader or two, your friend, in a sad state of Sick, in country called Illness, in a loud windowless room with Canferatu scratching on my door. He scares me nearly to death with oddly scented train cars and unpredictable time table based on non-Swiss random intervals.

I smell nice however, I’m not shooting with much accuracy, these days, either. From Werner Herzog’s remake with Klaus Kinski as Nosferatu, based mostly on the silent Murnau adaptation of the Stoker novel, I leave you with a quote, and one that says maybe it’s not Lucy with whom I should resonate, but the monster himself:

To be unable to grow old is terrible… Death is not the worst…

Ray Today

Inside a coach
Filled with diamonds
Rings and starlight
Gentlemen born of
Sparkle and cut
Open to remove those
Blasted ugly things
Radiating with half
Life and spring
Practices. Moments
Yearbooks cheerleaders.
Say Ray,
We love you.
None knowing twisted
Grief made a new friend
This week when Ray
Hugs my tiredness
He says I’m so happy
To see you.
And for the first day
In I don’t remember
How long I believe
Somebody who says
They really wanted
To see me.
Expansive arms held me
Up, I guessed like one of
Ray’s boys but better.
Three month check.
Six month check Monday.
Say Ray
My god, no one said.
No, how are you?
He asks again, again.
180 days since
180 degrees spun
A son into gold
Holding me up
Groceries in hands
Sparkling, always
Because I want to say
Stay please, I can only
Tell you the truth.

Sparkle