I never crossed the bridge today.
On these summer mornings, I particularly relish crossing the Mississippi River as I head into the station. When I'm in the middle of the bridge, suspended over the water, I make sure that my head swivels from right to left, north to south, to take in the majestic vision of that storied ribbon of water.
Too often on my morning commute in the past, I would arrive at the parking lot at work with no memory of making the drive--I had coasted in on autopilot.
Right now, I'm working on and learning to be 'more present' in my every moment...to be less distracted, to appreciate each task for the pleasure in it, to give up the idea that multi-tasking is a worthy, efficient accomplishment.
I'm changing. This is good.
I want to be more alive in my own life, less distracted by the illusion of busy-ness and productivity. I want to slow down and stop coasting on autopilot.
I've only been back at work for two days, so I'm hardly stuck in the old routine. And I really, really want to be back on the air. The contemplative cocoon I've spun for myself to inhaibt in the days since surgery has served me well, but at some point, this extrovert can have too much silence and a good thang could go bad. I needed very much to return to my familiar post and the work that I love so much. I needed the stimulation and laughter that I find in the broadcast booth. I was so content, being back in my chair and on the air on Monday and Tuesday. I found it comforting that, in the midst of so much change, my ability to talk on the radio has remained a constant.
But right now, the only way I can do my work is to work differently. My post surgery fatigue demands that I show up later, leave earlier, let the show flow with less preparation. Be more myself, more spontaneous. Like its host, the program is in transition.
As part of my determined effort to work less and sleep more, I now leave for the office at 8:00 am--I used to take off at 6:00. This time switch gets me into the thick of rush hour traffic for the first time in years.
I felt particularly cheerful this morning as I walked out my back door, coffee in hand. I noticed a squirrel scampering on my back fence, admired the purple petunias spilling out of the clay pots on my patio. I turned the key, popped the car into reverse and tuned into Ian without Margery. Ah. Feeling centered and content, I turned out of my driveway and soon was heading north on 35W.
As I approached the turn from 35 to eastbound 94, I noticed the red brake lights on the car in front of me. I braked.
Fortunately, I was not going too fast, not tailing too closely.
Unfortunately, the car behind me WAS going too fast, WAS tailing too closely.
My eyes flicked to my rearview mirror. In slow motion, I saw the vehicle behind me--which I swear looked more imposing than one of those monster trucks with the two-story-tall wheels--looming large.
I'm about to be rear-ended, I thought. My mind froze around one word. I braced myself and muttered, "Oh, heavens to Betsy!"
(Actually, I didn't mention heaven or Betsy. I know there are words that broadcasters who value their jobs do not use on the airwaves. I don't know if it's dangerous to use those words in a blog that appears on a broadcast website. I'm not taking any chances...a prudent policy seems to be: if you can't say it on the air, best not write it on the blog.)
The huge car--which later shrunk to being a cherry red Nissan--hit me. Hard.
I pulled over to the shoulder of the freeway and cautiously stepped out of my car. The other driver--a young woman--was mashed behind her inflated airbag. Her front bumper was in the road, her hood was crumpled, and I could hear a hissing-gurgling coming from the exposed engine.
The damage to my car was minor in comparison--a shredded back bumper and dented hatch.
The Highway Helper came arrived with the orange cones. The other driver got her car on the shoulder of the road. She squeezed out of her car, realized she was unharmed and began crying. She was trembling too hard to write down her insurance information for me. The patrol officer showed up with his clipboard. The tow truck arrived to haul the other car away. I was able to drive my car home.
I called Alexis, told her I wouldn't be in to do the show, and headed home.
I've spent the rest of the day seeing doctors.
Checking in with receptionists, filling out medical forms and flipping through magazines in medical waiting rooms is nothing out of the ordinary for me these days, but today the appointments were all 'squeezes,' doctors pushing their schedules around to accomodate me.
When my car was struck, I was thrown hard against my seat belt. I immediately got a headache and felt a very slight twinge in my shoulder and lower back. Although I did not have a feeling of dread or true concern about any of this, I'm totally freaked out about a)my body and b)my bad luck with my health right now.
I called my primary care physician who recommended that I make immediate appointments with my plastic surgeon and a neurologist.
The plastic surgeon checked my incisions and my implant. (Still feels mighty wierd to write that word and know that it applies to moi!) Both were determined to be intact. Good. The neurologist squeezed my shoulders, tapped my hands with a silver hammer, passed a cylinder in front of my face to watch my eyes track it. He, too, pronounced me fine. Good again!
Call me shaken, not stirred.
All's well that ends well, as my mother says.
But I'm hung up on that instant when I looked in my rear view mirror. When I knew I was going to be hit--but just didn't know how hard, with what force and velocity. I didn't know if I would shoot through my windshield, or if my car would be struck so that it would spin into the adjacent lane, just as a multi-ton 18-wheeler was bearing down.
There was time for one word to form in my brain, to bubble up from my place of deepest fear. The word was "Please."
Please let me live.
Yes, I'm exhausted right now. It's been a day of reading off claim numbers, accident reports and rushing to doctor's offices. I've talked to several claim agents at several insuance agencies. I took my car to a repair shop and learned that it will take four days to repair what looks like a coupla dents to me.
A busy, tedious, frustrating, exhausting day.
But I'm not bitchin.
My life could have ended today. Right now, I could be in a hospital with critical injuries. In a brief second, my future could have been altered forever. Once again.
But it didn't.
I didn't cross the river today. But I'll do it tomorrow.
"Please" isn't much of a prayer, but it was all I had time for. It was a prayer that was heard and heeded. For those of you who have been praying for me--thanks. The spillover from your prayers might have saved me this morning.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Monday, June 25, 2007
We Are Your Friends, You'll Never Be Alone Again.
Hot Damn! Mom was back on the air today.
I woke up in time to catch the whole ten o'clock hour while I ate breakfast and it felt great to hear her voice pumping through the kitchen HI-FI again.
Although she's not exactly "back in action" I'm glad Mom has made the choice to do the show as often as she feels able.
Here is a response to this morning's show posted by Mom's long-time friend J.C. Burns.
Here is a link to Andrew Zimern's food and dining blog with a post regarding Mom kicking cancer's butt.
And here is the news in City Pages posted by Mom's friend G.R. Anderson, Jr.
"Last week's news that Kevyn Burger has breast cancer shocked her friends and radio listeners alike. Not just because the FM-107 chat-show host conducted self-exams over the air every month—asking her listeners to play along at home, work, or in the car—but also because the lady seems so damn invincible.
She took to the airwaves for one hour Thursday morning to talk about her illness before undergoing surgery, reconstruction, and chemo. In typical Burger fashion, she was stunningly frank, but her wicked sense of humor bubbled up when she talked about losing her hair and her breasts.
"I got a good rack," Burger said. "I always felt I got a good shake, literally, in that department. I love my hair, and I love my breasts, and now I'm going to lose both."
She wrapped up by vowing to come back, and you can bet that she will."
The river photograph for this post was provided by Missouri photographer Jacob Bruton.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Someday I'll fly away...leave all this to yesterday...
Memory is an odd creature.
In her oft-read-by-high-school-juniors poems, Emily Dickinson called hope "the thing with feathers." Right now, for me, memory is that thing instead...a hopeful, hollow-boned creature with wings and the improbable ability to fashion a nest from string, straw, hair.
During the heart-stopping events of the past few weeks, my memory has flown away. Someone--I can't remember who, natch--told me that cancer turns memory into Swiss cheese, internally loaded with odd and irregular pits and holes. So true. In my mind, minor details from recent weeks replay in sharp focus, while entire conversations, hours, even days are completely absent, as if zombie memory-snatchers have deleted them from my hard drive.
(Transcript of actual conversation between Kevyn and Old Friend:
Kevyn:"You say visited me in the hospital?"
Kevyn's friend: "Yes." (clears throat.) "Twice."
Kevyn (in a very small voice): "Oh.")
Of course, I can blame the anaesthesia during surgery for fogging up my window. Ditto the pain and painkillers immediately following my big date with the scalpel. But I think the pressure of those bizarre, upside-down days between diagnosis and surgery also played havoc with my memory cells.
I can't remember much from that time period. I got my diagnosis on May 21 and had my surgery on June 2. In the elapsing time, I know I placed phone calls to deliver the news in person to my sister, my parents, my old college pal. I told my my kids, my stepchildren, my boss. Where was I when I dialed those digits or spoke the words? Did I deliver my news dispassionately, like I was reading from a script or with my voice shaking or accompanied by huge racking sobs? Did I lead up to the newsflash in slow and subtle ways, or blurt "I have breast cancer!"
In most cases, I'm not sure.
Days before surgery, my husband and I met with a plastic surgeon to discuss my reconstruction options. The doctor, reassuring and experienced, explained what he could do for me--what he could fashion from what would be left. During that extensive meeting, I made the choice about what I wanted for my breast--what it would look like, how it would be fashioned. I remember that both my husband and I felt comfortable with that decision.
Later, I could not recall why I had chosen the option that I'd picked. (This is why it is good to be married to a detail-oriented, note-taking man.)
When I went back to the plastic surgeon's office for my first post-surgical follow-up visit, I was struck by the impressively decorated waiting room--sleek furniture, recessed lighting, gorgeous artwork. The office was striking and memorable, in stark contrast to the typical doctor's waiting room.
And I had zero memory of ever being there before. Zero.
It's as if my memory has been exiled.
The only thing that's odder than what I've lost is what I've retained, what has floated to the surface of the muckpond that is my memory, the odd memory fragment that comes and perches, birdlike, on my mental window sill.
For some reason, such a fragment is a minor passage from a book I read a few years ago, to prepare for an interview with its author. It was an excellent biography of naturalist and bird-painter John James Audubon, "Under a Wild Sky," by Minnesota writer William Souder.
In telling Audubon's tale, Souder examines and explains assumptions about the natural world at the time Audubon began his work. Souder shows that there were misconceptions about natural history that seem hilarious to us today.
For example, the concept that birds migrated had not yet been put forth. In Audubon's day, there was no understanding that these tiny winged creatures annually made transcontinental pilgrimages. Even scientists of the day were puzzled by what happened to birds in the fall. Because so many birds nest around water, there was a well-regarded theory that birds somehow became amphibious enough to spend winters on the bottoms of lakes and rivers, only to re-emerge and reporduce in the spring.
Seriously, stop for a minute and really contemplate the concept of migration. Birds of a feather flock together--and fly hundreds, even thousands, of miles away. How do they know when to go? Where to go? What relentless clock and map sends them on their way--and then brings them back? How does one generation of bird get that information from the previous one?
Today, high tech radio devices allow birdologists--or whatever they're called-- to track them and study them. Species by species, it's no mystery where they go. But how those teeny bird brains know all that they know--that's beyond us, really. And if we can't truly understand how bird memory works, I guess it should be no surprise that human memory is even more mysterious.
Right now, in my dreams I'm like a bird, migrating for the first time--on the wing, still in flight. It's as if it is autumn and I'm forced to take to the sky. I don't know where I'm going. I don't know what it will be like when I get where I'm going. I fear I won't be able to find my way back home, to my precious nesting ground.
I'm soaring low over the river, my flyway.
As I have recovered at home in these past few weeks, I have spent many solitary hours propped quietly against the pillows on my bed. I have gone still to listen and have heard my own voice--the one that I've too often been too busy/noisy to hear. That voice speaks haltingly, shyly, as wary as a cornered wild creature. As I sit in silence and wait, I hear the airplanes scraping against the sky over my house and I hear the rhythmic chirp of birds who live in the trees outside my room. I think of their patterns of flight and gather my strength to go to that unknown distant place...and then to return home.
In her oft-read-by-high-school-juniors poems, Emily Dickinson called hope "the thing with feathers." Right now, for me, memory is that thing instead...a hopeful, hollow-boned creature with wings and the improbable ability to fashion a nest from string, straw, hair.
During the heart-stopping events of the past few weeks, my memory has flown away. Someone--I can't remember who, natch--told me that cancer turns memory into Swiss cheese, internally loaded with odd and irregular pits and holes. So true. In my mind, minor details from recent weeks replay in sharp focus, while entire conversations, hours, even days are completely absent, as if zombie memory-snatchers have deleted them from my hard drive.
(Transcript of actual conversation between Kevyn and Old Friend:
Kevyn:"You say visited me in the hospital?"
Kevyn's friend: "Yes." (clears throat.) "Twice."
Kevyn (in a very small voice): "Oh.")
Of course, I can blame the anaesthesia during surgery for fogging up my window. Ditto the pain and painkillers immediately following my big date with the scalpel. But I think the pressure of those bizarre, upside-down days between diagnosis and surgery also played havoc with my memory cells.
I can't remember much from that time period. I got my diagnosis on May 21 and had my surgery on June 2. In the elapsing time, I know I placed phone calls to deliver the news in person to my sister, my parents, my old college pal. I told my my kids, my stepchildren, my boss. Where was I when I dialed those digits or spoke the words? Did I deliver my news dispassionately, like I was reading from a script or with my voice shaking or accompanied by huge racking sobs? Did I lead up to the newsflash in slow and subtle ways, or blurt "I have breast cancer!"
In most cases, I'm not sure.
Days before surgery, my husband and I met with a plastic surgeon to discuss my reconstruction options. The doctor, reassuring and experienced, explained what he could do for me--what he could fashion from what would be left. During that extensive meeting, I made the choice about what I wanted for my breast--what it would look like, how it would be fashioned. I remember that both my husband and I felt comfortable with that decision.
Later, I could not recall why I had chosen the option that I'd picked. (This is why it is good to be married to a detail-oriented, note-taking man.)
When I went back to the plastic surgeon's office for my first post-surgical follow-up visit, I was struck by the impressively decorated waiting room--sleek furniture, recessed lighting, gorgeous artwork. The office was striking and memorable, in stark contrast to the typical doctor's waiting room.
And I had zero memory of ever being there before. Zero.
It's as if my memory has been exiled.
The only thing that's odder than what I've lost is what I've retained, what has floated to the surface of the muckpond that is my memory, the odd memory fragment that comes and perches, birdlike, on my mental window sill.
For some reason, such a fragment is a minor passage from a book I read a few years ago, to prepare for an interview with its author. It was an excellent biography of naturalist and bird-painter John James Audubon, "Under a Wild Sky," by Minnesota writer William Souder.
In telling Audubon's tale, Souder examines and explains assumptions about the natural world at the time Audubon began his work. Souder shows that there were misconceptions about natural history that seem hilarious to us today.
For example, the concept that birds migrated had not yet been put forth. In Audubon's day, there was no understanding that these tiny winged creatures annually made transcontinental pilgrimages. Even scientists of the day were puzzled by what happened to birds in the fall. Because so many birds nest around water, there was a well-regarded theory that birds somehow became amphibious enough to spend winters on the bottoms of lakes and rivers, only to re-emerge and reporduce in the spring.
Seriously, stop for a minute and really contemplate the concept of migration. Birds of a feather flock together--and fly hundreds, even thousands, of miles away. How do they know when to go? Where to go? What relentless clock and map sends them on their way--and then brings them back? How does one generation of bird get that information from the previous one?
Today, high tech radio devices allow birdologists--or whatever they're called-- to track them and study them. Species by species, it's no mystery where they go. But how those teeny bird brains know all that they know--that's beyond us, really. And if we can't truly understand how bird memory works, I guess it should be no surprise that human memory is even more mysterious.
Right now, in my dreams I'm like a bird, migrating for the first time--on the wing, still in flight. It's as if it is autumn and I'm forced to take to the sky. I don't know where I'm going. I don't know what it will be like when I get where I'm going. I fear I won't be able to find my way back home, to my precious nesting ground.
I'm soaring low over the river, my flyway.
As I have recovered at home in these past few weeks, I have spent many solitary hours propped quietly against the pillows on my bed. I have gone still to listen and have heard my own voice--the one that I've too often been too busy/noisy to hear. That voice speaks haltingly, shyly, as wary as a cornered wild creature. As I sit in silence and wait, I hear the airplanes scraping against the sky over my house and I hear the rhythmic chirp of birds who live in the trees outside my room. I think of their patterns of flight and gather my strength to go to that unknown distant place...and then to return home.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Always Coming Back Home To You
No matter where I am
No matter what I do
I'm always coming back home to you
From the heaven I've had
To the Hell I've been through...
I'm always coming back home to you
-"Always Coming Back Home to You"
Atmosphere
Monday's the day.
June 25th, 9 a.m.
I'll be back in the studio, on the radio, doing my show.
Let's get together. I can't wait!
No matter what I do
I'm always coming back home to you
From the heaven I've had
To the Hell I've been through...
I'm always coming back home to you
-"Always Coming Back Home to You"
Atmosphere
Monday's the day.
June 25th, 9 a.m.
I'll be back in the studio, on the radio, doing my show.
Let's get together. I can't wait!
Monday, June 18, 2007
Isn't it IRONICAL?
One of the bizarre chores I had to do when breast cancer hijacked my life was to get out my calendar (yeah, I'm old fashioned; it's a little black-covered paper book) and cancel out all the activities that I had so blithely and trustingly inked in the little squares there.
My To Do list had to be undone.
I called friends to cancel lunches, business associates to drop meetings and scratched out kid-related activities.
Then I wrote an X over was two words: New York.
Trip cancelled.
It was a Big Deal a few months back when Colleen and I won a Gracie Award. (Warning: here comes horn tooting.) This is an excellent national award given by the American Women in Radio and Television. Recognizes outstanding broadcast work that is by, for and/or about women. Lots of Very Important Women (and quite a few Big Cheese men) have won this award over the years. (BTW, as an aside, I am very grateful to be part of a business where people love giving each other nice awards.) This Gracie represents the first such award that FM107.1 has ever received.
I know something about this award, because I have previously won two Gracies-- and one honorable mention. I won those Gracies for television reporting work that I did when I was a reporter at WCCO-TV. Twice before, I went to New York to get my Gracie. Both times the ceremony was Quite the Quite, held at the Waldorf Astoria, my dear, pretty heady stuff for a hick like me!
The first year, 1995, I sat next to Meredith Viera (another winner that night but no household name at that point) and Lesley Stahl of Sixty Minutes was the mistress of ceremonies who gave me my award. The second time I won, Sharon Gless and Tyne Daly (Cagney and Lacy!) were co-MC's. Sharon Gless gave me the statue.
Funny aside: I was about three months pregnant with the 4-footer at the time. It was early enough in the pregnancy that I was not mentioning that I was in the family way, but late enough that I was, uh, swellin' up pretty good. Meanwhile, I was suffering from the worst morning sickness I'd ever experienced in my many pregnancies. I had been bilious and seasick for weeks and was pretty much living on pretzel rods and salt bagels--the only things I could reliably keep down. Truly miserable--and bloated to boot. You know, that pre-maternity-clothes stage when you want to wear a sign that says, "I'm not fat, I'm pregnant!"
As we made introductions at the dinner, other TV types kept asking me if I was the producer. They looked quite startled when I said that, in fact, I, the cow, was the on air reporter.
Here are some pictures of that ceremony in 1997:
Kevyn Burger and Sharon Gless, Waldorf Astoria, NY NY - April 1997
It was going to be a delight to accept my first Gracie for radio work. I had planned to fly to JFK last Friday, June 15. My older kids, the 6 Footer and the 5 Footer, were set to join me. For weeks we had talked about all the Manhattan sights we would see together. My husband planned to arrive a bit later and be there for the award ceremony on June 19. Some of the bosses from the radio station would also attend and there were Whoopin' It Up plans made with them as well.
Well.
We've been pretty stoic about the fact that we'll just have to win another one of them dang Gracies so we can fulfill the I-Heart-N-Y plan next year. It's a little tempting to feel sorry for myself on this--I'm resisting mightily. Kids and husband have not bemoaned the lost trip for an instant. Just wasn't in the cards now that the game has changed.
Actually, with all the Heavy Stuff I need to think about, not going to New York hasn't made the cut into Items that are Worthy of my Attention.
Other than:
How's this for IRONICAL?
FM107's BossLady actually selected the program segment that was entered for the Gracie. She chose a segment that Colleen and I began doing on a monthly basis. On the 22nd of each month, we do a monthly breast self-exam. On the air. If you listen regularly, you know that I encourage listeners to join in and use this as a time to put in the reminder of the importance of self exams and mammograms.
This on air exam (which started, frankly, as a bit of a bit/stunt/gimmick) prompted one of our listeners, Delores, to do her self-exam--and led her to find a lump in her breast. She was tested, found to have cancer, and had a mastectomy as a result. Delores came on the radio with us to express her gratitude--because our program ultimately led her to treatment for her cancer--while it could still be successfully treated.
Need more irony?
I saw Delores on Mother's Day; I walked with her for a time at the Race for the Cure. Wearing a hot pink feather boa, Delores was our LoJ Team mascot and she was all smiles. Doing great, she said. I admired her hair--growing back nicely after chemotherapy--and again admired her upbeat spirit. We embraced and I wished her a happy Mother's Day.
The very next day, I had my routine mammogram.
One week later, I had a breast cancer diagnosis of my own.
The last day I was on the air, I got a phone message from Delores. She was weeping as she told me how sorry she was about my diagnosis. She knows the road I'll be walking. She wished me well. And through her tears, she thanked me again.
Maybe that's why it doesn't matter so very much that I won't be able to accept my Gracie in person. The bosses will accept my award and bring it back for me. But seriously--as nice as it is to get a fancy statue, it feels so much better to have Delores's grace and gratitude.
This month, I won't be behind the microphone on June 22nd. No matter. I can ask you through this blog to take the time to check yourself. Do those self-exams. If you're overdue, choose this day to make the call to schedule your mammograms. Nag your mothers, sisters, daughters, girlfriends to be vigilant. Demand adequate health care for yourself and for all women.
I'm not going to kid you or sugar-coat it--this breast cancer is very rough stuff. The toughest.
I so wish there would have been another way for me to learn the lessons that breast cancer will inevitably teach me.
But I can't wish it away. I can only lift my voice to remind you to take care of your body, value your health and seek the joy in life. As I am realizing, we are all just one doctor's phone call away from Never The Same.
Did you do your self exam? Urge someone else to? I would love it if you would take a minute to let me know.
My To Do list had to be undone.
I called friends to cancel lunches, business associates to drop meetings and scratched out kid-related activities.
Then I wrote an X over was two words: New York.
Trip cancelled.
It was a Big Deal a few months back when Colleen and I won a Gracie Award. (Warning: here comes horn tooting.) This is an excellent national award given by the American Women in Radio and Television. Recognizes outstanding broadcast work that is by, for and/or about women. Lots of Very Important Women (and quite a few Big Cheese men) have won this award over the years. (BTW, as an aside, I am very grateful to be part of a business where people love giving each other nice awards.) This Gracie represents the first such award that FM107.1 has ever received.
I know something about this award, because I have previously won two Gracies-- and one honorable mention. I won those Gracies for television reporting work that I did when I was a reporter at WCCO-TV. Twice before, I went to New York to get my Gracie. Both times the ceremony was Quite the Quite, held at the Waldorf Astoria, my dear, pretty heady stuff for a hick like me!
The first year, 1995, I sat next to Meredith Viera (another winner that night but no household name at that point) and Lesley Stahl of Sixty Minutes was the mistress of ceremonies who gave me my award. The second time I won, Sharon Gless and Tyne Daly (Cagney and Lacy!) were co-MC's. Sharon Gless gave me the statue.
Funny aside: I was about three months pregnant with the 4-footer at the time. It was early enough in the pregnancy that I was not mentioning that I was in the family way, but late enough that I was, uh, swellin' up pretty good. Meanwhile, I was suffering from the worst morning sickness I'd ever experienced in my many pregnancies. I had been bilious and seasick for weeks and was pretty much living on pretzel rods and salt bagels--the only things I could reliably keep down. Truly miserable--and bloated to boot. You know, that pre-maternity-clothes stage when you want to wear a sign that says, "I'm not fat, I'm pregnant!"
As we made introductions at the dinner, other TV types kept asking me if I was the producer. They looked quite startled when I said that, in fact, I, the cow, was the on air reporter.
Here are some pictures of that ceremony in 1997:
Kevyn Burger and Sharon Gless, Waldorf Astoria, NY NY - April 1997
It was going to be a delight to accept my first Gracie for radio work. I had planned to fly to JFK last Friday, June 15. My older kids, the 6 Footer and the 5 Footer, were set to join me. For weeks we had talked about all the Manhattan sights we would see together. My husband planned to arrive a bit later and be there for the award ceremony on June 19. Some of the bosses from the radio station would also attend and there were Whoopin' It Up plans made with them as well.
Well.
We've been pretty stoic about the fact that we'll just have to win another one of them dang Gracies so we can fulfill the I-Heart-N-Y plan next year. It's a little tempting to feel sorry for myself on this--I'm resisting mightily. Kids and husband have not bemoaned the lost trip for an instant. Just wasn't in the cards now that the game has changed.
Actually, with all the Heavy Stuff I need to think about, not going to New York hasn't made the cut into Items that are Worthy of my Attention.
Other than:
How's this for IRONICAL?
FM107's BossLady actually selected the program segment that was entered for the Gracie. She chose a segment that Colleen and I began doing on a monthly basis. On the 22nd of each month, we do a monthly breast self-exam. On the air. If you listen regularly, you know that I encourage listeners to join in and use this as a time to put in the reminder of the importance of self exams and mammograms.
This on air exam (which started, frankly, as a bit of a bit/stunt/gimmick) prompted one of our listeners, Delores, to do her self-exam--and led her to find a lump in her breast. She was tested, found to have cancer, and had a mastectomy as a result. Delores came on the radio with us to express her gratitude--because our program ultimately led her to treatment for her cancer--while it could still be successfully treated.
Need more irony?
I saw Delores on Mother's Day; I walked with her for a time at the Race for the Cure. Wearing a hot pink feather boa, Delores was our LoJ Team mascot and she was all smiles. Doing great, she said. I admired her hair--growing back nicely after chemotherapy--and again admired her upbeat spirit. We embraced and I wished her a happy Mother's Day.
The very next day, I had my routine mammogram.
One week later, I had a breast cancer diagnosis of my own.
The last day I was on the air, I got a phone message from Delores. She was weeping as she told me how sorry she was about my diagnosis. She knows the road I'll be walking. She wished me well. And through her tears, she thanked me again.
Maybe that's why it doesn't matter so very much that I won't be able to accept my Gracie in person. The bosses will accept my award and bring it back for me. But seriously--as nice as it is to get a fancy statue, it feels so much better to have Delores's grace and gratitude.
This month, I won't be behind the microphone on June 22nd. No matter. I can ask you through this blog to take the time to check yourself. Do those self-exams. If you're overdue, choose this day to make the call to schedule your mammograms. Nag your mothers, sisters, daughters, girlfriends to be vigilant. Demand adequate health care for yourself and for all women.
I'm not going to kid you or sugar-coat it--this breast cancer is very rough stuff. The toughest.
I so wish there would have been another way for me to learn the lessons that breast cancer will inevitably teach me.
But I can't wish it away. I can only lift my voice to remind you to take care of your body, value your health and seek the joy in life. As I am realizing, we are all just one doctor's phone call away from Never The Same.
Did you do your self exam? Urge someone else to? I would love it if you would take a minute to let me know.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
It's a small world after all!
I am choosing silence right now.
For me, that's like visiting a foreign country without a passport.
My voice has been my career. As a TV reporter, I fashioned words into sentences, paragraphs, stories, distilling facts into the news/soup that viewers could swallow.
On the radio, my beat became my take on the world. At first, I feared talking honestly about my own feelings and opinions. I was lost without a prepared script to read from. Gradually I found my way and my voice and filled hours with my pointless meandering with listeners and on air guests. Still talking it up, conversatin' with you and with myself.
On the air, my voice carried me and cared for me.
Off the air, my voice connected me to friends, family. The only time I'm quiet is when I'm sleeping; otherwise, I want to/need to verbally dissect everything I encounter. On a walk, over a meal, over the phone--I'm one chatty chick.
But since I came home from the hospital, I have shut off the volume.
Usually, I listen to the radio when I'm just hanging out at home, loading the dishwasher or chopping onions or paying bills. Tuning in to the chatter. Interested in other people's words.
It's all been turned off. I crave silence; I need to spend days quietly now. I read the paper in the morning, then shut out the chat, the current events, the endless broadcast updates.
I don't really know what's going on in the world right now.
My inner self is trying to tell me something new and I won't be able to hear it unless I keep silent and keep silence around me. My world is shifting in subtle ways. I am convinced I can find new wisdom if I am quiet enough to hear it. I am certain that when it comes, it will be in a whisper.
My house, my room, my bed. (For you visual thinkers, here's the sequence: Wide shot, medium shot, tight shot.) That's my world right now.
I'm here. Listening. Waiting. Preparing.
* * * * *
This past month has schooled me in gratitude.
I have always been somewhat carelessly grateful. But, to be honest, I've been like a rich kid who doesn't quite understand that not everyone is a trust funder. My blessings have not necessarily been material in nature--although I have never known real want. I was blessed from my first breath by being born into a family of people who truly and unselfishly loved and nourished me. I grew up with encouragement, kindness, faith.
And always good health. I saw vitality as my birthright. Blessed with a body that required zero maintainence, I have always had the strength and stamina to work hard and play hard. No medications, allergies, disorders. I didn't get colds or flu. I didn't just see myself as invincible--I WAS invincible.
Well, ha ha on me. The bigger they come the harder they fall.
Today I am newly grateful for the health I've enjoyed--and I ask myself if I enjoyed it enough.
As I thoughtfully review the parts of my life that I took for granted, everything seems fresh and fragile. The word HEAL is the first part of the word HEALTH. The first word fits itself neatly into the second.
I am mostly at home, but I leave the house briefly at least once every day--a walk or accompanying someone on an errand. Colors seem more intense; noise is more raucous. I watch the faces of strangers and often notice people who look distracted or as if they might be in a bad mood. I want to stop them and remind them to notice how lush the trees are right now, casting patterns of shade on the green midsummer lawns. I want to warn them--what if you get a cancer diagnosis tomorrow? What if today is your last day of unambiguous health? Have you appreciated this day or have you squandered it?
* * * * *
Princess Alexis and BossLady came to visit, bringing papers for me to sign, updates from the workplace and a box full of my mail.
After they left, I took the mail to my boudoir and flopped into bed with it. My paycheck stub, press releases, invitations to attend and opening of a new restaurant and a new play.
And then, the cards.
My letter carrier is probably annoyed with me. Every day, he deposits a hernia-inducing load of envelopes in my home mailbox. I have gotten dozens and scores of cards and letters from my friends and acquaintances. Everyone who has ever had me on their Christmas card list has fired off a get well wish. Invest in Hallmark, people--I should be getting dividend checks from them!
I have gotten an incredible assortment of cards--funny, serious, inspirational. Some from old friends, some from people whose path I hardly recall passing. It has been an amazing paper shower. I rub my finger over each signature, touched that the sender has followed that impulse to find words to wish me health and healing. Quiet souls write me long letters while some garrulous friends simply sign their name and let the verse on the card speak for them. Confronting illness makes some people wordy while others are rendered inarticulate. I know each envelope was sealed with fear, sadness, hope, love...with me in mind.
The cards that Alexis and BossLady brought were different.
They all came from my friends who know me exclusively from the radio. From fm107.1 listeners.
You don't know my home address, so you sent your cards to the station. Some of you I have met in the flesh--at the Fair, or while I was on remote, or perhaps our paths crossed coincidentally at some point.
But most of you know me because we regularly spend time together when I am in a room speaking into a microphone. I'm with you when you're in your car or cubicle or kitchen. We do what friends do--get together, talk it over, laugh it off, make each other think.
It's an odd friendship because it's so one-way.
But active conversation is two-way communication--the talker and the listener.
And how gratifying it has been for the talker to listen to you.
Cards and notes, gifts, music, advice--it spilled out of your envelopes. Some of you wrote to me in the middle of the night, when you couldn't sleep because of your fears for me. Some of you have lived with breast cancer and you write to give me your own surivial tips to help me in this battle. You sent me your favorite Bible verses, quotes and poems--words that have comforted and served you well in your own trials. You offered to cook and clean for me. You sent me your home phone number. You promised to pray for me when I would be too tired or confused to pray for myself.
I read of your true and deep affection for me.
I have tried hard to do a show that reflects who I am. I have worked hard so that you would want to give me some of your time every day--so that I would earn your friendship. I have tried to put together a program that is fun, breezy, upbeat, fodder for thought. I have revealed more of myself than I would have thought I could.
And I see that I have been a thread that you have woven into the fabric of your life. I am not an anonymous voice to you==I'm a person. You know me. You care about me. You know I'm in trouble You are worried about me.
It is enormously gratifying to know that we have made that connection.
I covered my bed in your cards and wept a bit, feeling so fortunate to be lifted up by such fond tenderness.
And then, amid the envelopes and cards and stationary, I fell asleep, slumbering sweetly on the magic carpet of well wishes that came from you, my friends. Thank you.
Thank you. Thank you.
For me, that's like visiting a foreign country without a passport.
My voice has been my career. As a TV reporter, I fashioned words into sentences, paragraphs, stories, distilling facts into the news/soup that viewers could swallow.
On the radio, my beat became my take on the world. At first, I feared talking honestly about my own feelings and opinions. I was lost without a prepared script to read from. Gradually I found my way and my voice and filled hours with my pointless meandering with listeners and on air guests. Still talking it up, conversatin' with you and with myself.
On the air, my voice carried me and cared for me.
Off the air, my voice connected me to friends, family. The only time I'm quiet is when I'm sleeping; otherwise, I want to/need to verbally dissect everything I encounter. On a walk, over a meal, over the phone--I'm one chatty chick.
But since I came home from the hospital, I have shut off the volume.
Usually, I listen to the radio when I'm just hanging out at home, loading the dishwasher or chopping onions or paying bills. Tuning in to the chatter. Interested in other people's words.
It's all been turned off. I crave silence; I need to spend days quietly now. I read the paper in the morning, then shut out the chat, the current events, the endless broadcast updates.
I don't really know what's going on in the world right now.
My inner self is trying to tell me something new and I won't be able to hear it unless I keep silent and keep silence around me. My world is shifting in subtle ways. I am convinced I can find new wisdom if I am quiet enough to hear it. I am certain that when it comes, it will be in a whisper.
My house, my room, my bed. (For you visual thinkers, here's the sequence: Wide shot, medium shot, tight shot.) That's my world right now.
I'm here. Listening. Waiting. Preparing.
* * * * *
This past month has schooled me in gratitude.
I have always been somewhat carelessly grateful. But, to be honest, I've been like a rich kid who doesn't quite understand that not everyone is a trust funder. My blessings have not necessarily been material in nature--although I have never known real want. I was blessed from my first breath by being born into a family of people who truly and unselfishly loved and nourished me. I grew up with encouragement, kindness, faith.
And always good health. I saw vitality as my birthright. Blessed with a body that required zero maintainence, I have always had the strength and stamina to work hard and play hard. No medications, allergies, disorders. I didn't get colds or flu. I didn't just see myself as invincible--I WAS invincible.
Well, ha ha on me. The bigger they come the harder they fall.
Today I am newly grateful for the health I've enjoyed--and I ask myself if I enjoyed it enough.
As I thoughtfully review the parts of my life that I took for granted, everything seems fresh and fragile. The word HEAL is the first part of the word HEALTH. The first word fits itself neatly into the second.
I am mostly at home, but I leave the house briefly at least once every day--a walk or accompanying someone on an errand. Colors seem more intense; noise is more raucous. I watch the faces of strangers and often notice people who look distracted or as if they might be in a bad mood. I want to stop them and remind them to notice how lush the trees are right now, casting patterns of shade on the green midsummer lawns. I want to warn them--what if you get a cancer diagnosis tomorrow? What if today is your last day of unambiguous health? Have you appreciated this day or have you squandered it?
* * * * *
Princess Alexis and BossLady came to visit, bringing papers for me to sign, updates from the workplace and a box full of my mail.
After they left, I took the mail to my boudoir and flopped into bed with it. My paycheck stub, press releases, invitations to attend and opening of a new restaurant and a new play.
And then, the cards.
My letter carrier is probably annoyed with me. Every day, he deposits a hernia-inducing load of envelopes in my home mailbox. I have gotten dozens and scores of cards and letters from my friends and acquaintances. Everyone who has ever had me on their Christmas card list has fired off a get well wish. Invest in Hallmark, people--I should be getting dividend checks from them!
I have gotten an incredible assortment of cards--funny, serious, inspirational. Some from old friends, some from people whose path I hardly recall passing. It has been an amazing paper shower. I rub my finger over each signature, touched that the sender has followed that impulse to find words to wish me health and healing. Quiet souls write me long letters while some garrulous friends simply sign their name and let the verse on the card speak for them. Confronting illness makes some people wordy while others are rendered inarticulate. I know each envelope was sealed with fear, sadness, hope, love...with me in mind.
The cards that Alexis and BossLady brought were different.
They all came from my friends who know me exclusively from the radio. From fm107.1 listeners.
You don't know my home address, so you sent your cards to the station. Some of you I have met in the flesh--at the Fair, or while I was on remote, or perhaps our paths crossed coincidentally at some point.
But most of you know me because we regularly spend time together when I am in a room speaking into a microphone. I'm with you when you're in your car or cubicle or kitchen. We do what friends do--get together, talk it over, laugh it off, make each other think.
It's an odd friendship because it's so one-way.
But active conversation is two-way communication--the talker and the listener.
And how gratifying it has been for the talker to listen to you.
Cards and notes, gifts, music, advice--it spilled out of your envelopes. Some of you wrote to me in the middle of the night, when you couldn't sleep because of your fears for me. Some of you have lived with breast cancer and you write to give me your own surivial tips to help me in this battle. You sent me your favorite Bible verses, quotes and poems--words that have comforted and served you well in your own trials. You offered to cook and clean for me. You sent me your home phone number. You promised to pray for me when I would be too tired or confused to pray for myself.
I read of your true and deep affection for me.
I have tried hard to do a show that reflects who I am. I have worked hard so that you would want to give me some of your time every day--so that I would earn your friendship. I have tried to put together a program that is fun, breezy, upbeat, fodder for thought. I have revealed more of myself than I would have thought I could.
And I see that I have been a thread that you have woven into the fabric of your life. I am not an anonymous voice to you==I'm a person. You know me. You care about me. You know I'm in trouble You are worried about me.
It is enormously gratifying to know that we have made that connection.
I covered my bed in your cards and wept a bit, feeling so fortunate to be lifted up by such fond tenderness.
And then, amid the envelopes and cards and stationary, I fell asleep, slumbering sweetly on the magic carpet of well wishes that came from you, my friends. Thank you.
Thank you. Thank you.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Cloth hankies
Daddy's Girls - 1961
I have three pair of pants that I can comfortably wear right now, and in a pocket of each is a cloth handkerchief.
The Mark of Jill.
My mother, Jill Burger, was ready when she arrived. Mom's got a DVD player in her car, wears cross-trainers on her feet and has finally shifted from getting her hair done at the 'salon' rather than the 'beauty shop.' I tell you this so that you will understand that my 72-year-old mother is about as progressive as she needs to be. However, some old habits die hard. When it comes to catching tears, Mom still prefers a dainty square of embroidered cotton to a paper tissue.
And she came well prepared, loaded up on hankies. And tears.
We cried together. I find myself in tears several times a day right now. I have never been much of a weepist; maybe that's why it wears me out. I am astonished at how my eyes seem to be able to endlessly re-fill, like a hole dug at the edge of the shore that the water will always seep into. I cry from fear, from confusion, from feeling unfamiliar in my body. From mourning my old life and old body that I failed to adequately appreciate. Surely some of the medication that I've been taking contributes to my emotional upheaval as well.
Watching my parents watch me struggle also makes me cry. As a parent, I can understand how heartbreaking it must be for them to watch their daughter in pain. I try not to feel guilty about being the source of their sorrow. Midway into a conversation, my father's voice goes all hoarse and he can't look at me. We stare at our feet and silently gulp and swallow, both trying to be brave for the other.
Mom and Dad left yesterday. They, along with my sister and her son, have been here from out-of-state. They all arrived the day after I got home from the hospital following surgery.
This family visit was planned long before I had even scheduled The Mammogram That Changed Everything. They arrived to watch my lovely and talented daughter (the five footer) graduate from high school.
The graduation and cancer surgery coming in tandem reinforces my long held belief that Life Is A Bowl Of Succotash. Tastes and textures always come in mixed up quantities. I've experienced so many raw emotions in the past few weeks, but have also had the soaring pride as I thought of my daughter's graduation. She marched for her diploma two days after I got out of the hospital. As she took this step into her future, I was there in spirit, cheering her on. I was happy that she had so many other proud family members preesent to applaud her accomplishment.
Prepapring for this event, we have been putting together the requisite Picture Boards, with a photograph of every signficant event of her life. How fast it goes, I kept thinking, as I thumbed through baby faces and school portraits and help her select the snap shots that are the freeze frames of her life.
Going through the albums, I stumbled into pictures of my own high school graduation. I was 17 in 1974; my parents, Al and Jill Burger, were 38 and 39. Got the mandatory snap with the grandparents. And, No, those aren't extensions.They won't be invented for years!
Jackson, Ohio. 1974.
I was particularly pleased that my sister Mollie was in the audience for the graduation. Mollie lives in Florida and I was particularly pleased that she was her for part of my recovery. A few days after returning home, I felt so miserable--tender, stiff, and itchy/sticky, with my hair hanging in snarled hanks. I longed to feel clean and refreshed. My doctor had prohibited bathing, so Mollie suggested that she could help me shower. Although reluctant to accept her offer, I agreed.
She stripped down and stepped right into the stall with me to ease my shakiness. Mollie is the only person in the world whom I would have allowed to take such intimiate care of me, the only person to whom I could reveal my bandaged and stitched-together shell.
I could only lean against the tile. Mollie's movements were both gentle and brisk. While she washed me, we talked about the shower that had been in our hotel room in Cancun: it had a shower head the size of a dinner plate, multiple jets shooting out of the wall and a window that looked out on the aquamarine sea. Our mother would have called it "real snazzy."
Just a little over a month ago, in mid April, I had been lucky enough to accompany some FM107.1 listeners on a girlfriend getaway to Mexico. I had been able to take Mollie as my guest. We had shared five days of frivolous fun--swimming, dining, walking on the beach, taking turns reading in the hammock on our private terrace, sharing a massage. We spent hours in relaxed conversation, reminiscing about our childhood and sharing plans and dreams for our children and the future. We spent most of our time at the resort and with others in our party, but the two of us left the property together one morning for a scuba trip. In masks and flippers, we had floated, face down and holding hands, admiring the silent world of darting, bright colored fish and coral shaped like brains and trees and fans.
Those five days of togetherness seemed so distant from this visit. I'm so glad we took that trip, we told each other, over and over. Right now, it seems like a lovely dream, the kind you want to hold onto after you wake up.
Cancun, Mexico. April 2007.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Where did it go?
Hurt or numb.
Those are your choices after surgery. The scalpel-altered places on my body either rdiate pain or have no feeling whatsoever.
It's not just my body that seems stuck between these alternatives. If I feel it, it hurts. Even loving kindness. Pushing away and going numb to circumnavigate pain is hardly tempting. Being unable to feel at all is actually worse. Better to suffer than to be deadened.
* * * * *
The day before my surgery, I let my thoughts wander and then idly followed their path.
I found myself wondering where my breast would actually go.
Sure, parts of it would be excised and sliced and dyed and slipped on slides and checked cell by cell. Samples would go to the lab for that damned damning documentation.
But what of the rest of the breast? Where would it physically wind up?
It's mine, after all. But only when I actually posess it?
Then I wondered what had happened to my grandmother's breast, removed in 1963.
And what had happened to my daughter's bum kidney, removed when she was a baby? My son's tonsils, taken out just this past December? My little daughter's two front teeth? My father's hip bone, replaced by a titanium joint decades ago?
I realized that it doesn't matter.
We are the sum of our parts, but when they're no longer of us, they're, well, no longer of us. Living tissue is what matters. What is excised falls away with little mourning. We lose what we're better off without.
I imagined my tissue collected with the other lost parts from those I love. I imagined the cells comingling to form a sort of sandbar in the middle of the river. A place where I can bank my self while I heal.
* * * * *
I have lived in many houses in my life.
Sometimes when I can't sleep I try to mentally walk through one of the many old rental houses we lived in when I was a little girl, remembering the cedar scent from a walk in closet in one house or the graceful turn of the stairs on the landing in another.
Since becoming an adult, I have had my name on the mortgage of six different houses, including the home where I live now.
It's interesting how I mentally move out and disengage myself from houses that I no longer own. Sometimes I find myself in an old neighborhood and drive past one of my previous homes. I'll note that the trees have grown taller, or that shutters have been added, or that the place looks smaller than I remember. These are fairly nuetral observations about a place I once owned by now have little interest in, financial or otherwise.
It doesn't matter what new owners do to a place. It's not mine anymore.
And that is how I am starting to feel about this body.
I went to the doctor yesterday. (I have a lot of doctors now--general physician, surgeon, plastic surgeon, oncologist.) The plastic surgeon examined me, and pronounced me on target for healing.
I am cut and stitched back up. Not what I once was. No. And yet--fine. I am glad to say that I feel good about how it appears. ('It?' I guess I mean how I appear.) Again, not quite what it was, but it's close. I don't look at myself and recoil in horror; quite the reverse. I can learn to accept this. Uh, these. In fact, already I am accepting how I look. More to the point, in my new body I will regain my mobility and be able to wear what I want without fear or feeling self-conscious. I will soon be me again.
Not the old me.
Actually, I'm a bit, well, perkier, in that department, if you want to know the truth.
This is all a high price to pay for perkiness, but I won't complain.
I'm mentally unpacking in my body's new house. I'm already losing interest in the place where I no longer live. But it doesn't feel like home. Not yet.
* * * * *
Those are your choices after surgery. The scalpel-altered places on my body either rdiate pain or have no feeling whatsoever.
It's not just my body that seems stuck between these alternatives. If I feel it, it hurts. Even loving kindness. Pushing away and going numb to circumnavigate pain is hardly tempting. Being unable to feel at all is actually worse. Better to suffer than to be deadened.
* * * * *
The day before my surgery, I let my thoughts wander and then idly followed their path.
I found myself wondering where my breast would actually go.
Sure, parts of it would be excised and sliced and dyed and slipped on slides and checked cell by cell. Samples would go to the lab for that damned damning documentation.
But what of the rest of the breast? Where would it physically wind up?
It's mine, after all. But only when I actually posess it?
Then I wondered what had happened to my grandmother's breast, removed in 1963.
And what had happened to my daughter's bum kidney, removed when she was a baby? My son's tonsils, taken out just this past December? My little daughter's two front teeth? My father's hip bone, replaced by a titanium joint decades ago?
I realized that it doesn't matter.
We are the sum of our parts, but when they're no longer of us, they're, well, no longer of us. Living tissue is what matters. What is excised falls away with little mourning. We lose what we're better off without.
I imagined my tissue collected with the other lost parts from those I love. I imagined the cells comingling to form a sort of sandbar in the middle of the river. A place where I can bank my self while I heal.
* * * * *
I have lived in many houses in my life.
Sometimes when I can't sleep I try to mentally walk through one of the many old rental houses we lived in when I was a little girl, remembering the cedar scent from a walk in closet in one house or the graceful turn of the stairs on the landing in another.
Since becoming an adult, I have had my name on the mortgage of six different houses, including the home where I live now.
It's interesting how I mentally move out and disengage myself from houses that I no longer own. Sometimes I find myself in an old neighborhood and drive past one of my previous homes. I'll note that the trees have grown taller, or that shutters have been added, or that the place looks smaller than I remember. These are fairly nuetral observations about a place I once owned by now have little interest in, financial or otherwise.
It doesn't matter what new owners do to a place. It's not mine anymore.
And that is how I am starting to feel about this body.
I went to the doctor yesterday. (I have a lot of doctors now--general physician, surgeon, plastic surgeon, oncologist.) The plastic surgeon examined me, and pronounced me on target for healing.
I am cut and stitched back up. Not what I once was. No. And yet--fine. I am glad to say that I feel good about how it appears. ('It?' I guess I mean how I appear.) Again, not quite what it was, but it's close. I don't look at myself and recoil in horror; quite the reverse. I can learn to accept this. Uh, these. In fact, already I am accepting how I look. More to the point, in my new body I will regain my mobility and be able to wear what I want without fear or feeling self-conscious. I will soon be me again.
Not the old me.
Actually, I'm a bit, well, perkier, in that department, if you want to know the truth.
This is all a high price to pay for perkiness, but I won't complain.
I'm mentally unpacking in my body's new house. I'm already losing interest in the place where I no longer live. But it doesn't feel like home. Not yet.
* * * * *
Saturday, June 9, 2007
A View Of The River
I was out on the Stone Arch Bridge the other day thinking about mom and shot this panorama of St. Anthony Falls. This is the first of many river photographs that I will be posting over the course of the summer.
Good News Travels Fast
Race for the Cure, 2057
I'll be 100 years old.
Looks like I got a shot at it.
Right from the moment I saw that dense cloud in the middle of the mammogram, I've had a bad feeling. A brick moved into my chest, in between the sternum and the lump. It kept swelling and getting heavier. My fear, my dread.
I'm not fatalistic by nature. Quite the reverse. I'm naturally bouyant. But always a realist.
When I came to after the surgery, I remember my questions leading me out of the fog. What was it? Did they get it? Did they get it all?
I thought I would know right away.
Surgery was Saturday, June 2. The surgeon reported the sentinel node was positive. How far had the cancer cells been able to wander through my body? What else had the barnacles attached themsmelves to?
We had to wait. The report from pathology wouldn't arrive until Tuesday night.
My husband and I were in my room when my surgeon arrived to give us the news. She had a piece of paper in her hand that she waved as she burst through the door.
Ten nodes removed. Only one positive.
Margins clear.
A stage two cancer.
At last. Some good news. I saw my husband smile the first genuine smile in recent days.
"You're going to make it, baby," he said.
He is a man of reason. He does not tell lies. He relies on evidence.
I allowed myself to feel the first spurt of hope. It is a real thing.
I'll be 100 years old.
Looks like I got a shot at it.
Right from the moment I saw that dense cloud in the middle of the mammogram, I've had a bad feeling. A brick moved into my chest, in between the sternum and the lump. It kept swelling and getting heavier. My fear, my dread.
I'm not fatalistic by nature. Quite the reverse. I'm naturally bouyant. But always a realist.
When I came to after the surgery, I remember my questions leading me out of the fog. What was it? Did they get it? Did they get it all?
I thought I would know right away.
Surgery was Saturday, June 2. The surgeon reported the sentinel node was positive. How far had the cancer cells been able to wander through my body? What else had the barnacles attached themsmelves to?
We had to wait. The report from pathology wouldn't arrive until Tuesday night.
My husband and I were in my room when my surgeon arrived to give us the news. She had a piece of paper in her hand that she waved as she burst through the door.
Ten nodes removed. Only one positive.
Margins clear.
A stage two cancer.
At last. Some good news. I saw my husband smile the first genuine smile in recent days.
"You're going to make it, baby," he said.
He is a man of reason. He does not tell lies. He relies on evidence.
I allowed myself to feel the first spurt of hope. It is a real thing.
Through the Fog
I lost three days. No, four.
Maybe even five?
Saturday morning
They gathered in a circle around my bed and we gripped hands.
Prayed for healing, for help.
I looked in their dear eyes. Husband, children, niece, sister, pastor
We said bon voyage
Goodbye to the old shell
Then my boat was launched. I drifted out as they launched my
bed into the room where
two sets of hands re-formed me.
One surgeon to cut away the cancer
Another to rebuild from what was left.
Then the swirl of pain, fear, confusion.
My questions: Am I alive/what is gone/what remains
Dreams so deep and confused. I was in a cave, I swam through cold water.
Nothing prepared me for just how much this would hurt.
How I've been reduced to just a body.
An animal, shivering in its fear
I find it humiliating to be so reduced
I smell like pain and fear
My world shrinks to the size of my bed, my boat through the haze of this
I try to listen, to make sense of what they tell me
I can't stop apologizing
I try to learn about my new self
Nothing sticks
I can't be served by reason
Only kindness penetrates
Cool palm on my face, a tug of the pillow by expert hands
Women who work the night shift
Answer my call
Call me Darling
Check my incisions with a reverence that moves me
What skill the healers bring
A man comes to massage my feet
was I in his dream or was he in mine?
I am tethered to jars and bottles
I would float away without the tubes
That strap me to my bed, my boat
I am better now
Slowly returning to myself
I am back at home
But not yet at home in my new person.
Maybe even five?
Saturday morning
They gathered in a circle around my bed and we gripped hands.
Prayed for healing, for help.
I looked in their dear eyes. Husband, children, niece, sister, pastor
We said bon voyage
Goodbye to the old shell
Then my boat was launched. I drifted out as they launched my
bed into the room where
two sets of hands re-formed me.
One surgeon to cut away the cancer
Another to rebuild from what was left.
Then the swirl of pain, fear, confusion.
My questions: Am I alive/what is gone/what remains
Dreams so deep and confused. I was in a cave, I swam through cold water.
Nothing prepared me for just how much this would hurt.
How I've been reduced to just a body.
An animal, shivering in its fear
I find it humiliating to be so reduced
I smell like pain and fear
My world shrinks to the size of my bed, my boat through the haze of this
I try to listen, to make sense of what they tell me
I can't stop apologizing
I try to learn about my new self
Nothing sticks
I can't be served by reason
Only kindness penetrates
Cool palm on my face, a tug of the pillow by expert hands
Women who work the night shift
Answer my call
Call me Darling
Check my incisions with a reverence that moves me
What skill the healers bring
A man comes to massage my feet
was I in his dream or was he in mine?
I am tethered to jars and bottles
I would float away without the tubes
That strap me to my bed, my boat
I am better now
Slowly returning to myself
I am back at home
But not yet at home in my new person.
Monday, June 4, 2007
Surgery Is Complete
The first hard part is over!
Friday's operation went well. Mom will be resting and recovering in the hospital for most of this week. The doctors say she should be able to come home on Thursday or Friday.
Thanks for continuing to keep our family in your thoughts and prayers.
Friday's operation went well. Mom will be resting and recovering in the hospital for most of this week. The doctors say she should be able to come home on Thursday or Friday.
Thanks for continuing to keep our family in your thoughts and prayers.
Friday, June 1, 2007
friday countdown
Twenty four hours from right now, it begins in earnest.
The prelude to this drama is ending and we are about to move on to the main body of the story.
This afternoon I have the sentinel node biopsy. An injection of radioactive dye that will identify lymph nodes during surgery tomorrow.
Today I am going to bike around the lakes, inhaling that fragrant combination of cut grass, honeysuckle and the loamy perfume of the turned earth. Then I'm going to float for a long while in the bathtub. I plan the full, uber-indulgent girl soak, with potions and candles and music. Kind of my last date with the full body that has served me so faithfully. I've got to be thankful for these elements of my physical self that I must lose and will always miss. I have to clear the way to welcome the parts that will come next--for those man-manufactured parts that will come during reconstruction surgery will be ME, too. Not replacement parts...but me, and mine. Different. An emblem of my transformation.
I am seeking a connection with the spirit of peace and with my creator.
June first is my dear husband's birthday. Last year we tossed him a nice party.
I am almost ready. Don't worry about me. This is not my time.
The prelude to this drama is ending and we are about to move on to the main body of the story.
This afternoon I have the sentinel node biopsy. An injection of radioactive dye that will identify lymph nodes during surgery tomorrow.
Today I am going to bike around the lakes, inhaling that fragrant combination of cut grass, honeysuckle and the loamy perfume of the turned earth. Then I'm going to float for a long while in the bathtub. I plan the full, uber-indulgent girl soak, with potions and candles and music. Kind of my last date with the full body that has served me so faithfully. I've got to be thankful for these elements of my physical self that I must lose and will always miss. I have to clear the way to welcome the parts that will come next--for those man-manufactured parts that will come during reconstruction surgery will be ME, too. Not replacement parts...but me, and mine. Different. An emblem of my transformation.
I am seeking a connection with the spirit of peace and with my creator.
June first is my dear husband's birthday. Last year we tossed him a nice party.
I am almost ready. Don't worry about me. This is not my time.
a poem for kevyn
Susan Steger Welsh is an accomplished poet, an extraordinary woman and an old friend. In fact, I live in Minnesota today because of her. She was the executive producer at channel 5 who plucked my audition tape out of a pile. She saw something in my reporting work that led her to offer me a job way back in 1983. (We were both wearing blouses with big bows during that interview, as I recall.)
Susan has had her own stare-downs with Reaper, G., and has triumphed over her own tough breaks. She comes through with a richer shine in her eye and a guttsiness that inspires. She has been a source of strength, guidance and hope.
My situation apparently served as muse to move her to write this poem.
Which touched me deeply.
Don’t Send Extravagant Floral Arrangements,
She Said. They Always Remind Me Of Funerals,
And I Don’t Want To Go There Now.
I go
into the garden, find the rose bush that just last week
was flawless, with innocent, not-quite-June
perfection. The tiniest wink of rosebuds.
But now I find lower leaves mottled
with splotches, plump green
gnawed back to paper.
I yank off the leaf stems one
by one, underneath find the pale worms –
thin as luck. I fold the leaves,
squash them with my bare hands.
I try to avoid spraying roses,
but when this rain is past
I’ll pull on gloves and a mask,
spray until every leaf
drips with chemicals.
for Kevyn
Susan has had her own stare-downs with Reaper, G., and has triumphed over her own tough breaks. She comes through with a richer shine in her eye and a guttsiness that inspires. She has been a source of strength, guidance and hope.
My situation apparently served as muse to move her to write this poem.
Which touched me deeply.
Don’t Send Extravagant Floral Arrangements,
She Said. They Always Remind Me Of Funerals,
And I Don’t Want To Go There Now.
I go
into the garden, find the rose bush that just last week
was flawless, with innocent, not-quite-June
perfection. The tiniest wink of rosebuds.
But now I find lower leaves mottled
with splotches, plump green
gnawed back to paper.
I yank off the leaf stems one
by one, underneath find the pale worms –
thin as luck. I fold the leaves,
squash them with my bare hands.
I try to avoid spraying roses,
but when this rain is past
I’ll pull on gloves and a mask,
spray until every leaf
drips with chemicals.
for Kevyn
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