Big C Update

It's been a difficult week here at the Villa. An MRI showed "nothing unusual," which I find hard to believe because while they were doing the MRI, flames and fireworks were shooting out of my back. I was just sure something would be glowing neon orange. I think the radiologist may be part of the problem.

Another part of the problem was that I was making myself even sicker on pain medication, trying to get some relief, so I met with... a pharmacologist? something like that... and they made some big changes in my pain Rx regimen. But again, this is a short term solution to the problem.

After some conversation about the clinical trial, I reminded my Health Care Professionals that their mantra has always been, "We treat the patient, not the disease." Well, this little patient has been telling them for about two months that THERE'S SOMETHING WRONG with my hips & back. It's like a replay of my road to diagnosis. Am I supposed to speak Urdu? Semaphores? Some African clicking language? I believe I finally persuaded them that this is my priority. I wanted to bring in a neurologist, an orthopedist, another radiologist, but my doc believes the next step is another PET scan. Wonder of wonders, DieSuckah Health Insurance approved it in the first round (I guess they're sick of paying for MRIs) so that is scheduled for next week.

So I've been trying to adjust to the new meds, which have improved pain management, but seem to amplify the nausea issue. It's always something.

In the midst of the drama 'n trauma, I was ready to cancel a Cooking Club supper here Saturday night but decided to tough it out. Thanks to Sis helping with errands and some cleaning, it wasn't too bad... and my girls provided some spirit-lifting soups! Oh, man, was that some good stuff! We got to see Karin's pics of a recent 2.5 week trip to Italy and we're all coveting a similar trip. Cathy F, as usual, brought extra goodies: some DVDs, magazines, and a few meals for the freezer.

I got through the evening with minimal groaning and teeth-gnashing. I'll be spending the day on the sofa, recovering. (Right now, walking across the room requires a brief recovery.) Things are still tough, but I know they could be so much worse, I'm happy to settle for medium-crappy.

Avgolemon Soup (Lemon Chicken Soup)

I've had two requests for this recipe. Avgolemon Soup requires some time, mess and fuss, so it's worth it to make a big batch and freeze it in pints. It's wonderful to share with cold & flu sufferers: got yer chicken, yer veggies and yer citrus!

Bright-Sided Again

There's a Sunday evening soap opera called Brothers and Sisters. It seemed like a Harrold Robbins schmaltzfest, a gooey sort of Dynasty or Falcon Crest (minus the shoulder pads) (which, I hear, are coming back.) But I've watched bits of it the last few weeks because one of the characters, Kitty (played by Calista Bobblehead Flockhart) has Lymphoma.

Sure enough, last night she raised just the idea of discontinuing chemo, and you'd have thought she was talking about killing bunnies with her bare hands. Her mother and sister jumped on her, feet first, and they all dissolved in tears. Gee, they'd qualify for my not-so-supportive support group.

Near the end of the show, Kitty decided to shave her head rather than watching it fall out every day. Bald actually looks pretty good on her, as mom and sis point out. I guess the writers intended this to be some kind of empowering activity.

Bobblehead Kitty will probably come around and agree to more chemo; after all, she's only had one round. I understand the family's reasoning, really I do, but it's frustrating when even fictional cancer patients aren't allowed to make their own decisions about treatment.

Sorry for the absence. I seem to be stringing several of these in a row. Hope to be back soon.

Abuser = Bully = Coward

Yesterday I was listening to NPR's Fresh Air. Terry Gross was interviewing the director of the upcoming movie, Precious. (I think his name was Lee Daniels.) He talked about his own abusive parents.

I grew up in my own little Norman Rockwell painting. Once in a blue moon, my parents would deliver a well-deserved open-handed swat to the tush. It was called a potch (rhymes with notch) and usually just the threat -- especially in public -- was enough to bring us back in line. And I thought that's how everyone else grew up. I had no idea.

In our first house, a little post-war crackerbox, I vaguely remember a not-so-gay divorcée. She had a kid who was dirty, sticky and mean. No one wanted to play with him, of course, but I don't know that there was any abuse going on.

When we moved to a larger house, there was a girl, Buffy, at the end of the block who lived in the Dark House. It was almost completely hidden by shrubbery, and all the windows had curtains drawn, all the time. We were kids, she was my age. I think we were in 6th grade together...but she didn't dress like the rest of us. She wore mini-skirts and high heels and make-up. Buffy had a lot of bruises on her arms - and probably everywhere else, too. She joked about being a klutz, but she wasn't clumsy. She never came to school dances or football games. She was never in our carpool; I don't remember her parents ever interacting with any of the neighbors. I read this over now, and I wonder why no one said anything: all the signs were there, clearly. As for me, I didn't have a clue. I could not imagine a parent hurting their child. But I look back now, and I can't think of anything else to explain it all.

My very first apartment was in a pretty dicey part of town. It was an old house converted into three apartments. My friend lived upstairs, I had one of the downstairs apartments and in the other apartment was a wife beater and his victim. He used to turn up the stereo to camouflage the sound of his beating, and my friend and I occasionally complained... about the loud music. But I don't think it ever occurred to us to call the police. That's just how we lived then. (You know the old masochist's joke: Why do you stay with that man? Beats me...)

I'm sure there were other instances, other near-invisible victims. Abusers are nothing more than pathetic, insecure bullies and when confronted, they flee like cockroaches. We've learned to shine a bright light into those dark corners, to recognize victims, and to intercede on their behalf. That can only be good, right? If you know someone who is not growing up in happy, pristine all-American vignettes and needs someone to step up and help them, think of Ghandi's words: Be the change you want to see in the world.

Making Lemonade

Or maybe Pumpkin Punch. When this bride was left at the altar, she decided to donate her paid-for reception, creating a party for seniors. Awwww!

Periscope Up

Cycle 2 is kicking my booty around the block and back. I've got the whole list of side effects and a few new ones, just for fun. At the top of the list is numbing, crippling fatigue. Between that and concerns about friends who are just getting over (or just beginning to incubate) a wretched cold or flu, I decided to skip a Hoodie soiree last night. My dear friends picked up my cornbread contribution and brought Molly to the party.

They brought me a bag full of leftovers to enjoy, which was wonderful. They included some of the host's chili which I couldn''t resist tasting last night. Yeah. Lemme tell you, that was some serious five-alarm, slap yo' mama, cry like a little girl and beg for mercy hot, hot chili. Either that, or I've become a total Nancy boy, featherweight, candy ass, wimp of the century, sissy girl. I'm not taking bets on which.

In between holding the sofa down, I've been trying to post a poem Sis & I wrote for our parents on the occasion of their 36th anniversary. I made some modifications -- a couple weeks ago they celebrated their 57th Wedding Anniversary! How's that for a spectacular achievement? Especially with the challenges some of their children occasionally presented.

For security reasons (there may be one or two people who don't know) I've left out last names. My parents, Corinne and Erwin, have always gone by Corky and Erv. Their parents were (Dad) Florence and Harry and (Mom) Sophie and Harold. I give you...The Ballad of Corky and Erv.