Whenever I see that sign at an airport, I just snort.
Expanding, yeah. Serve, hardly. Better? I doubt it!
But it may be true with the Kevyn Blog.
I don't know how you are getting at it these days...but our all new and improved radio station website may be your best link:
www.fm1071.com
The website is chock full of all sorts of stuff, including much more from colleagues at the radio station, news sources and links to fm107 listeners.
Just look for my page and click on for my blog updates.
I assume I'll keep this site up and running as well...but it may not be as fresh as the other site...and you know how upsetting it can be when you're, well, not fresh.
Love,
Kevyn
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Dread locked
Dread locked
DATE: 07/28/2007 15:56:44 / MOOD: Determined
It was a chilly night last March when I became closely acquainted with Dread.
I sometimes feel that it has stalked me since then.
Don't get me wrong. I live--have always lived--a truly blessed life that I can never be thankful enough for. I have all that money can never buy: parents who loved and cherished me, healthy kids, work that I find stimulating. A body that did whatever I asked of it and required no maintanence. All the standard issue Great Stuff that you can arrogantly view as your due after a few decades.
In looking back, it lines up a little differently. Some great philosopher said, "Life can only be understood backwards. Unfortunately, it must be lived forwards." In looking over my shoulder, I notice that, over the past year, Dread began showing its pointed little head at me, popping up on the manholes I walked over, an evil little imp pointing a finger at me. I'll get you my pretty. And your little girl, too.
I'm pretty good at ignoring what I don't care to see, so I just stomped on the manhole covers and kept skipping along.
Despite my glorious husband, unincarcerated children and troupe of loyal friends, in the past year, I occasionally had an odd feeling that somebody, somewhere was stepping on a crack and trying to break my back.
There was the plumbing problem. The freaky impounding of my car over the mixup over my expired tabs. The return of the plumbing problem. The unpleasant gum disease diagnosis. My son's dramatic illness and tonsillectomy. Have I mentioned that we had persistent plumbing problems?
None of them much to worry about. Nothing tragic. Just a short run of Bad Luck, hardly worth noting compared to the long run of Good Luck I've experienced. Expensive but ultimately annoying hassles. No boo-hooing over this or you fear that God will say, just as Mom used to, "Dry up, sister, or I'll give ya something to cry about."
Then there was that night in March that changed that and gave me the gift that has helped me so much since then.
I was on my way out to a radio station event--hosting a Women's Wellness event at St Catherine's an evening about Menopause. We had 500 guests, the hall rented, food, wine, experts, a staff of people ready to pull it off. I had prepped for months and felt ready to host a two hour live broadcast.
I was ten blocks from home when my cell phone rang.
Oldest daughter, Five Footer, who is not given to panic or exaggeration and is cool in a crisis.
This time, thought, she was panicked. Her little sister, my four footer, had slipped on the ice in the driveway and sheared off her two front teeth.
"It's bad, Mom," Big Sister warned. "Really bad."
Big called it right. We met at our neighborhood dentist. When they got out of their car, Little was crying so hard that her face was swollen almost beyond recognition. (She's pretty tough, too.)
That night she had full mouth shots and her teeth capped. I was with her when the work began and the numbness set in; her sister and my niece stayed until the dentist completed his work and took her home. I did my broadcast and got through it knowing that no matter what I chose, I would be failing someone who was counting on me.
Next day, I took the day off and delivered Little Girl to her first appointment with an endodontist. For the second time in less than 24 hours, she had full mouth shots to numb her up as she received a temporary root canal in her two front teeth.
A few months later, she developed an abcess on one of the teeth and had to have the root canal replaced. More shots and another long session for both us--her in the chair, me averting my eyes and holding her hand.
Then two weeks ago, we had to do it again. The final root canal.
Each time the full mouth injections.
Oh, how she hated it. Oh, how she dreaded it. She knew she had to do it, but oh, the dread in opening her mouth to let the endodontist put his tools and hands in there so he could do his highly skilled healing work and give her two functional, attractive front teeth.
I knew there was no prize or bribe that would take away the pain, so I didn't offer her one. I thought that would only cheapen the experience, the reality of this little girl's mighty struggle. There's nothing for a mom to do but sit there, hold her hand and pomise it will all be over soon. Nothing to do but murmur from the bottom of your heart that this hurts, that I'm supposed to spare you pain, but you have to face this yourself. I'm proud of how hard you're trying. It will be over soon.
Really, as soon as the first injection went in, between her teeth and her upper lip, the hard, painful part was over. The Novacaine took over and there was nothing to feel--or fear.
She broke my heart afterward. We were walking to the car and she was thinking about how she had put up a big fuss with the dentist at first, so much so that he had to get very stern wth her to get her to open up.
She tentatively put her little hand in mine and quavered, in a halting voice, "Mommy....I'm--sorry."
She had nothing to be sorry about. She knew it would be painful, but she did it. She did it as best she could.
It is hard to watch your child in pain. Since then, there have been so many recent examples that remind me that losing your two front teeth beats a helluva lot of the problems that many families must face. Kids who need to be at Ronald McDonald house for months because of bone marrow transplants. Kids who get their intestines sucked out at a swimming pool. Kids who...oh, I'll stop now before we all start reaching for the noose or the knife. The pain of a child--truly, what is more troubling to contemplate?
What I really want to blog about today is the strength and guts that my little girl showed and how that has come back to me time and time again as I have stared down my own pain and troubles. She showed me so clearly that there is no shame in fear. In fact, you're crazy not to fear what will be painful. But I also learned that sometimes the dread locks us in, the fear makes the pain all the worse.
I was afraid of my surgery, no doubt. And it hurt, the kind of pain morphine just spreads a little butter on. Then I was afraid of the chemo. Hey, guess what--not so bad. Hey, it's just an IV--and it will save my life. It's liquid chemical light to be embraced and welcomed, not feared. And what about the side effects? Little queasy, little tired. Odd smells put me off, like morning sickness. All of a sudden, it's gone. No problem,. Turns out, once again, I'm one of the lucky ones.
The last of this Breast Cancer Dread Trifecta--surgery, chemo, HAIR. How I dreaded losing my hair. The nurse assured me that, with the chemo drugs I'm getting, all my lovely, chemically treated locks will fall out 10-24 days after the first session. And it will all fall out ("release" they call it) in 48 hours. I would shed like a dog, my hair falling out in my bed, sink, brush, everywhere.
No thanks. Don't work to save what's beyond salvation.
And then, all of a sudden, I was ready to let it go. To take it off. It's never going feel good, I'm never going to be emotioanlly prepared for a buzz, a heinie, a skull. So let's go NOW. I sobbed like a child when I told the kids It Was Time.
We gathered on the back patio. I braided four braids and each of my children and my niece cut off one bread at the scalp and placed them reverently in a Zip Lock bag.
Then my 6 footer, my son, got out the clippers.
I see now that he had purchased them as soon as I got home from the hospital. He had taken them out of the box and placed them on the kitchen counter, to de-sensitize me, to let me know that he was ready to go whenever I was.
First he cut me a Mohawk, like the one he had etched into his own scalp. We posed for a fierce, once-in-a-lifetime Mother-Son-Mohawk portrait. You can find some of these pictures here on the website under my photos.
Then he started buzzing. The rest went. Down to the nub. Scattered there on the patio like a dead animal.
Who am I without my hair? I was born with hair, got the Toni perm in grandma's kitchen (PU!) then the pixie. Pigtail Heidi hair, Breck Girl, ponytails, long sit-on-it Cher hair, Sun-in, Protein 21, Dorothy Hamil hair, Farrah Fawcett hair, standup bangs, one bad curly perm after another. The Rachel. Brunette gives way to gray gives way to blonde streaks. The older I get, the Blonder. Take that, Father Time, you patriarchal Bastid!
Hair loss. This is no small thing, and nor would it be for many of us. I've been told that, with a breast cancer diagnosis, some women ask "Will I lose my hair?" before they ask "Will I live?"
At first, I think I look like an alien.
We all rub our hands over the shorn head. But the tears are gone now. I cried before, not during or after. The dread, like my little girl had shown me, it in the anticipation. The secret of handling this--It was all there. Why had I been unable to learn what she had already taught me? I had been dread-locked.
No more.
I'm much better now. I feel better than I did since this all started the day after Mother's Day. Now I have nothing else to dread. The surgery has healed and my new breast fits. Chemo has begun; now I know what that's about. And my hair--turns out I feel liberated without it. I don't look sick or pitiful, at least not to myself. I look strong, like a woman who has looked something dreadful in the face and decided to whistle.
That night, shsortly after I was shorn, my husband came home and as he parked his car in the garage, I sidled up beside the wall and called to him.
"I'm warning you," I said. "II'm bald."
I walked out and he examined me quickly. "You look beatufiul," he said, with utter sincerity. He held out his arms and I was home.
That night before bed, the four footer asked if she could kiss my head. She did, in a benediction that let me to know I had nothing more to dread.
I have written about my grandmothers on this blog, and a friend of mine who is acquainted with my girls reminded me that I'm part of a strong line...a line that comes both before and after me. That observation was a very sweet gift.
So now, for me, it seems there's nothing else to fear. More chemo, sure. The chemo may make me tired, but who can be afraid of tired? The cancer can come back, but I think it's already gone and I'm cured. Just buying an insurance poiicy with chemo and possible radiation. I've had a little bit of bad luck and an abundance of blessings.`
What are you dreading? I could be wrong, but in my experience, the buildup to whatever you're afraid of is worse than the reality. Don't waste time on dread and get to what you fear quickly. Life it too short...and too sweet...to waste it on things that may not be worth your fear.
DATE: 07/28/2007 15:56:44 / MOOD: Determined
It was a chilly night last March when I became closely acquainted with Dread.
I sometimes feel that it has stalked me since then.
Don't get me wrong. I live--have always lived--a truly blessed life that I can never be thankful enough for. I have all that money can never buy: parents who loved and cherished me, healthy kids, work that I find stimulating. A body that did whatever I asked of it and required no maintanence. All the standard issue Great Stuff that you can arrogantly view as your due after a few decades.
In looking back, it lines up a little differently. Some great philosopher said, "Life can only be understood backwards. Unfortunately, it must be lived forwards." In looking over my shoulder, I notice that, over the past year, Dread began showing its pointed little head at me, popping up on the manholes I walked over, an evil little imp pointing a finger at me. I'll get you my pretty. And your little girl, too.
I'm pretty good at ignoring what I don't care to see, so I just stomped on the manhole covers and kept skipping along.
Despite my glorious husband, unincarcerated children and troupe of loyal friends, in the past year, I occasionally had an odd feeling that somebody, somewhere was stepping on a crack and trying to break my back.
There was the plumbing problem. The freaky impounding of my car over the mixup over my expired tabs. The return of the plumbing problem. The unpleasant gum disease diagnosis. My son's dramatic illness and tonsillectomy. Have I mentioned that we had persistent plumbing problems?
None of them much to worry about. Nothing tragic. Just a short run of Bad Luck, hardly worth noting compared to the long run of Good Luck I've experienced. Expensive but ultimately annoying hassles. No boo-hooing over this or you fear that God will say, just as Mom used to, "Dry up, sister, or I'll give ya something to cry about."
Then there was that night in March that changed that and gave me the gift that has helped me so much since then.
I was on my way out to a radio station event--hosting a Women's Wellness event at St Catherine's an evening about Menopause. We had 500 guests, the hall rented, food, wine, experts, a staff of people ready to pull it off. I had prepped for months and felt ready to host a two hour live broadcast.
I was ten blocks from home when my cell phone rang.
Oldest daughter, Five Footer, who is not given to panic or exaggeration and is cool in a crisis.
This time, thought, she was panicked. Her little sister, my four footer, had slipped on the ice in the driveway and sheared off her two front teeth.
"It's bad, Mom," Big Sister warned. "Really bad."
Big called it right. We met at our neighborhood dentist. When they got out of their car, Little was crying so hard that her face was swollen almost beyond recognition. (She's pretty tough, too.)
That night she had full mouth shots and her teeth capped. I was with her when the work began and the numbness set in; her sister and my niece stayed until the dentist completed his work and took her home. I did my broadcast and got through it knowing that no matter what I chose, I would be failing someone who was counting on me.
Next day, I took the day off and delivered Little Girl to her first appointment with an endodontist. For the second time in less than 24 hours, she had full mouth shots to numb her up as she received a temporary root canal in her two front teeth.
A few months later, she developed an abcess on one of the teeth and had to have the root canal replaced. More shots and another long session for both us--her in the chair, me averting my eyes and holding her hand.
Then two weeks ago, we had to do it again. The final root canal.
Each time the full mouth injections.
Oh, how she hated it. Oh, how she dreaded it. She knew she had to do it, but oh, the dread in opening her mouth to let the endodontist put his tools and hands in there so he could do his highly skilled healing work and give her two functional, attractive front teeth.
I knew there was no prize or bribe that would take away the pain, so I didn't offer her one. I thought that would only cheapen the experience, the reality of this little girl's mighty struggle. There's nothing for a mom to do but sit there, hold her hand and pomise it will all be over soon. Nothing to do but murmur from the bottom of your heart that this hurts, that I'm supposed to spare you pain, but you have to face this yourself. I'm proud of how hard you're trying. It will be over soon.
Really, as soon as the first injection went in, between her teeth and her upper lip, the hard, painful part was over. The Novacaine took over and there was nothing to feel--or fear.
She broke my heart afterward. We were walking to the car and she was thinking about how she had put up a big fuss with the dentist at first, so much so that he had to get very stern wth her to get her to open up.
She tentatively put her little hand in mine and quavered, in a halting voice, "Mommy....I'm--sorry."
She had nothing to be sorry about. She knew it would be painful, but she did it. She did it as best she could.
It is hard to watch your child in pain. Since then, there have been so many recent examples that remind me that losing your two front teeth beats a helluva lot of the problems that many families must face. Kids who need to be at Ronald McDonald house for months because of bone marrow transplants. Kids who get their intestines sucked out at a swimming pool. Kids who...oh, I'll stop now before we all start reaching for the noose or the knife. The pain of a child--truly, what is more troubling to contemplate?
What I really want to blog about today is the strength and guts that my little girl showed and how that has come back to me time and time again as I have stared down my own pain and troubles. She showed me so clearly that there is no shame in fear. In fact, you're crazy not to fear what will be painful. But I also learned that sometimes the dread locks us in, the fear makes the pain all the worse.
I was afraid of my surgery, no doubt. And it hurt, the kind of pain morphine just spreads a little butter on. Then I was afraid of the chemo. Hey, guess what--not so bad. Hey, it's just an IV--and it will save my life. It's liquid chemical light to be embraced and welcomed, not feared. And what about the side effects? Little queasy, little tired. Odd smells put me off, like morning sickness. All of a sudden, it's gone. No problem,. Turns out, once again, I'm one of the lucky ones.
The last of this Breast Cancer Dread Trifecta--surgery, chemo, HAIR. How I dreaded losing my hair. The nurse assured me that, with the chemo drugs I'm getting, all my lovely, chemically treated locks will fall out 10-24 days after the first session. And it will all fall out ("release" they call it) in 48 hours. I would shed like a dog, my hair falling out in my bed, sink, brush, everywhere.
No thanks. Don't work to save what's beyond salvation.
And then, all of a sudden, I was ready to let it go. To take it off. It's never going feel good, I'm never going to be emotioanlly prepared for a buzz, a heinie, a skull. So let's go NOW. I sobbed like a child when I told the kids It Was Time.
We gathered on the back patio. I braided four braids and each of my children and my niece cut off one bread at the scalp and placed them reverently in a Zip Lock bag.
Then my 6 footer, my son, got out the clippers.
I see now that he had purchased them as soon as I got home from the hospital. He had taken them out of the box and placed them on the kitchen counter, to de-sensitize me, to let me know that he was ready to go whenever I was.
First he cut me a Mohawk, like the one he had etched into his own scalp. We posed for a fierce, once-in-a-lifetime Mother-Son-Mohawk portrait. You can find some of these pictures here on the website under my photos.
Then he started buzzing. The rest went. Down to the nub. Scattered there on the patio like a dead animal.
Who am I without my hair? I was born with hair, got the Toni perm in grandma's kitchen (PU!) then the pixie. Pigtail Heidi hair, Breck Girl, ponytails, long sit-on-it Cher hair, Sun-in, Protein 21, Dorothy Hamil hair, Farrah Fawcett hair, standup bangs, one bad curly perm after another. The Rachel. Brunette gives way to gray gives way to blonde streaks. The older I get, the Blonder. Take that, Father Time, you patriarchal Bastid!
Hair loss. This is no small thing, and nor would it be for many of us. I've been told that, with a breast cancer diagnosis, some women ask "Will I lose my hair?" before they ask "Will I live?"
At first, I think I look like an alien.
We all rub our hands over the shorn head. But the tears are gone now. I cried before, not during or after. The dread, like my little girl had shown me, it in the anticipation. The secret of handling this--It was all there. Why had I been unable to learn what she had already taught me? I had been dread-locked.
No more.
I'm much better now. I feel better than I did since this all started the day after Mother's Day. Now I have nothing else to dread. The surgery has healed and my new breast fits. Chemo has begun; now I know what that's about. And my hair--turns out I feel liberated without it. I don't look sick or pitiful, at least not to myself. I look strong, like a woman who has looked something dreadful in the face and decided to whistle.
That night, shsortly after I was shorn, my husband came home and as he parked his car in the garage, I sidled up beside the wall and called to him.
"I'm warning you," I said. "II'm bald."
I walked out and he examined me quickly. "You look beatufiul," he said, with utter sincerity. He held out his arms and I was home.
That night before bed, the four footer asked if she could kiss my head. She did, in a benediction that let me to know I had nothing more to dread.
I have written about my grandmothers on this blog, and a friend of mine who is acquainted with my girls reminded me that I'm part of a strong line...a line that comes both before and after me. That observation was a very sweet gift.
So now, for me, it seems there's nothing else to fear. More chemo, sure. The chemo may make me tired, but who can be afraid of tired? The cancer can come back, but I think it's already gone and I'm cured. Just buying an insurance poiicy with chemo and possible radiation. I've had a little bit of bad luck and an abundance of blessings.`
What are you dreading? I could be wrong, but in my experience, the buildup to whatever you're afraid of is worse than the reality. Don't waste time on dread and get to what you fear quickly. Life it too short...and too sweet...to waste it on things that may not be worth your fear.
Tittoes!
Tittoes!
DATE: 07/18/2007 17:40:05 / MOOD: Alive
Have you ever had a Pearl of Wisdom drop out of your own mouth? You say something and are immediately struck by the truth of it. You take that perfect audio ivory orb and string it and examine it and contemplate your own wisdom and then congratulate yourself on just how Profound you are.
You don't do this? Really?
Occupational hazard for a talk radio host? Maybe.
I have a lot of Pearls: little mottoes and sayings and cliches. I change them up as I realize how simplistic, ridiculous or absurd they are. But one of my Mottoes To Live By has been current for years and I'm sticking with this one.
Listen up:
"Steal From The Best."
And that leads me to, uh, Rush Limbaugh.
Settle down, now. Whatever we may think of RL's attitudes, politics and choices of wives/hobbies/ideologies, no one can take away the guy's success. He figured something out and has been widely imiitated, but he's the Original. Ya gotta give him that...if nothing else.
When he first started his syndicated show, no one had ever heard anything like it and people who shared his opinions were like the Newly In Love. They would get on the air with him and babble about how they shared his philosophy, enemies and views. In their efforts to announce their solidarity, they would rhapsodize, ramble on and hijack his program. The show would slow and the pace.would.stop.
The Big Boy figgered this wasn't good for bidness, so he developed a quickie code with listeners. Those who Believe as he Belives simply crow "Dittoes!" as they greet him. Meaning, I Walk In Ideological Lockstep with You. The fans have long called themselves "Dittoheads." The show rolls on without an obnoxious amount of fawning. (Note: I didn't say it was or was not obnoxious, I simply used the word to modify the verb.)
I thought about this in the days before I returned to work following my surgery. I heard from so many listeners who have already traveled the path that I am on, either through their own experience or through that of a loved one. I knew people would want to extend their good wishes for my good health.
You can't know how much I appreciate the positive energy that has flowed my way. That said, I still want to do a radio show where we talk about all the things we always talked abut. If we're quizzing the Sexpert or getting the Dirty Laundry, I really didn't really want to slow the show with a caller who might get on the air with me and then feel compelled to extend their support before we could get into the Topic At Hand.
Hence, "Tittoes!"
Maybe you've been listening and heard another listener on the air with me who says "Tittoes!" before they say hello. Here's how that came about.
I was trying to come up with the quickie "I'm With Ya, Kevyn!" Solidarity Comment and came up with zero, zip, nada, squat, diddly. I drew the Rush comparison with my BOSS who, when I said, "I need my own Dittoes!" said simply, "Tittoes!"
"Can we say that?" I asked.
"Kevyn," she replied, "right now, you can say whatever you want."
The first day back, I talked Tittoes and listeners seemed to like it right away. Some of you great me with a hearty "Tittoes!": when you call; some of you have signed off with e mail or in cards with the greeting. I have seen it spelled a number of ways and a few of you write "Tittles!" which, well, makes me titter.
That afternoon, I was at the St Louis Park Target with the 4 footer when an attractive youthful woman (I figure she was about my age) walked up and tapped me on the shoulder.
"Are you Kevyn Burger?" she asked.
I admitted that, yes, I was.
She smiled at me with a kind and fervent smile. "Tittoes!" she said fiercely. "Tittoes!"
And I smiled back.
So that's the secret handshake of sorts in Ye Olde Kevyn Clubhouse. Tittoes. Some of you may not be comofrtable saying it--that's okay. Not mandatory. Just a way to wink at me if you feel like it. And I promise, if you say it, I'll say "Thank you!"
DATE: 07/18/2007 17:40:05 / MOOD: Alive
Have you ever had a Pearl of Wisdom drop out of your own mouth? You say something and are immediately struck by the truth of it. You take that perfect audio ivory orb and string it and examine it and contemplate your own wisdom and then congratulate yourself on just how Profound you are.
You don't do this? Really?
Occupational hazard for a talk radio host? Maybe.
I have a lot of Pearls: little mottoes and sayings and cliches. I change them up as I realize how simplistic, ridiculous or absurd they are. But one of my Mottoes To Live By has been current for years and I'm sticking with this one.
Listen up:
"Steal From The Best."
And that leads me to, uh, Rush Limbaugh.
Settle down, now. Whatever we may think of RL's attitudes, politics and choices of wives/hobbies/ideologies, no one can take away the guy's success. He figured something out and has been widely imiitated, but he's the Original. Ya gotta give him that...if nothing else.
When he first started his syndicated show, no one had ever heard anything like it and people who shared his opinions were like the Newly In Love. They would get on the air with him and babble about how they shared his philosophy, enemies and views. In their efforts to announce their solidarity, they would rhapsodize, ramble on and hijack his program. The show would slow and the pace.would.stop.
The Big Boy figgered this wasn't good for bidness, so he developed a quickie code with listeners. Those who Believe as he Belives simply crow "Dittoes!" as they greet him. Meaning, I Walk In Ideological Lockstep with You. The fans have long called themselves "Dittoheads." The show rolls on without an obnoxious amount of fawning. (Note: I didn't say it was or was not obnoxious, I simply used the word to modify the verb.)
I thought about this in the days before I returned to work following my surgery. I heard from so many listeners who have already traveled the path that I am on, either through their own experience or through that of a loved one. I knew people would want to extend their good wishes for my good health.
You can't know how much I appreciate the positive energy that has flowed my way. That said, I still want to do a radio show where we talk about all the things we always talked abut. If we're quizzing the Sexpert or getting the Dirty Laundry, I really didn't really want to slow the show with a caller who might get on the air with me and then feel compelled to extend their support before we could get into the Topic At Hand.
Hence, "Tittoes!"
Maybe you've been listening and heard another listener on the air with me who says "Tittoes!" before they say hello. Here's how that came about.
I was trying to come up with the quickie "I'm With Ya, Kevyn!" Solidarity Comment and came up with zero, zip, nada, squat, diddly. I drew the Rush comparison with my BOSS who, when I said, "I need my own Dittoes!" said simply, "Tittoes!"
"Can we say that?" I asked.
"Kevyn," she replied, "right now, you can say whatever you want."
The first day back, I talked Tittoes and listeners seemed to like it right away. Some of you great me with a hearty "Tittoes!": when you call; some of you have signed off with e mail or in cards with the greeting. I have seen it spelled a number of ways and a few of you write "Tittles!" which, well, makes me titter.
That afternoon, I was at the St Louis Park Target with the 4 footer when an attractive youthful woman (I figure she was about my age) walked up and tapped me on the shoulder.
"Are you Kevyn Burger?" she asked.
I admitted that, yes, I was.
She smiled at me with a kind and fervent smile. "Tittoes!" she said fiercely. "Tittoes!"
And I smiled back.
So that's the secret handshake of sorts in Ye Olde Kevyn Clubhouse. Tittoes. Some of you may not be comofrtable saying it--that's okay. Not mandatory. Just a way to wink at me if you feel like it. And I promise, if you say it, I'll say "Thank you!"
Saturday, July 14, 2007
I Believe in You
Photograph by Ross Yates.
I've always found summer to be magical in Minnesota.
The morning dew twinkles like crystal. The sun coaxes flower buds open and you can practically see Thumbelina posing on the stamen on her teeny tippy-toes. Spiders weave gossamer webs strung with diamond dew.
When I was a child, I not only read but lived in a fairy tale. I was one of those earnest bookworms who didn't understand that fantasy was different from reality. Real life magic all around me still casts its charm. I sometimes still find myself looking for fairies and pixies and sprites and brownies--those little folk that I'm sure I saw with my own eyes when I was younger.
In fact, one of the happiest parts of being a mother has been to plant my favorite fairy visions in the imaginations of my three children. Each of them, wide-eyed, has independently reported spotting a fairy house and fairy royalty. We have examined gardens, nests, holes, rock piles, woods, beaches and more in our pursuit of these elusive creatures...or the detritus they leave behind as they flee our curious gazes.
I'm down to just one child who is still buying what I'm selling and she's becoming a bit of a reluctant consumer all of a sudden.
However, the Lake Harriet Elf has gone a long way in keeping her Believer Status intact.
Mine too, in fact.
Do you know about the Lake Harriet Elf? He's been around for more than a decade, in his house just west of the steps on Oliver Avenue South.
He calls himself Mr. Little Guy, but does reveal that his given name is Thom. He and his family live in an unassuming ash tree in between the bike path and the walking path on Lake Harriet. The tree is unremarkable in that it is no different from scores of such strong and slender trees that line that stretch of lake.
What separates this tree from the others is the small door at its base. Cunningly fashioned of wood, it has a rounded shape and an infinitesimal doorknob. You need not be a student of the Brothers Grimm or Mr. H.C Anderson or Charles Perrault or any of the great purveyors of fairy tale literature in order to be familiar with this door. If you have ever once, even long ago, imagined that our world was jointly inhabited by Little Folk, then this door is familiar to you. It's a portal to something secret. And can't help but make you curious.
When we moved to Southwest Minneapolis two summers ago, the neighbor kids quickly led my then seven-year-old to the so called "ElfTree." I had heard of it, of course, had seen it, but was not fully aware of the lore and legend. I let my daughter take me there and allowed her to fill me in on the magical family residing in the tree.
Since then, we have been back many times. In keeping with tradition, my daughter left a note for the elf, asking about him and telling him about herself. Some days later, she got a personal reply from the elf, typed on silver paper about half the size of a standard business card. It still is fixed beneath a magnet on the family fridge.
I told her I could just see him, in his top hat, black suit and striped socks, typing away on a tiny typewriter.
My daughter looked at me like I was crazy. "He's half bald, Mom,' she informed me. "With red hair around the bottom. His suit is green. And he uses a little laptop."
With and without her, I have walked around Lake Harriet countless times and I always pause near the Elf Tree. In the summer, there are always flowers planted around it. Sometimes a wooden fence is installed to corral the flowers. There are always trinkets and treasures left there, and always letters. Children routinely drop off their missives and Mr. Little Guy issues his replies on those signature silver pages.
He and his family reside in the tree in the summer; he must be one of those prosperous elves who can make an exit during the cold months. He has been doing this for years, but has kept a low profile all the while.
It's enough to make me believe in him. As far as I can see, he has no agenda, no financial motivation. He is not trying to become Mr.LittleGuy, Inc, or market himself for the movies or commercial endorsement. He has never cashed in on his celebrity or the good will that he generates.
It's work, being Mr. Little Guy. Collecting those notes, writing back, all under the cover of the mist.
But imagine the payback.
The first walk I was able to take after my surgery, I hit the path at Lake Harriet and started walking with no destination in mind. I figured that once I got tired, I'd simply turn around and trudge home.
Without realizing it, my feet carried me to the Elf House. I plopped down on a nearby bench to watch the water and relax.
Instead, I spent a delightful half hour eavesdropping. Listening to young children, some squealing with curious pleasure, some wide-eyed and whispering in wonder. Some dropped off letters. Some talked to their parents about the details of the clothes the elf family wears or how their house must look deep inside the tree trunk.
While I was settled there, I saw three soldiers approach the tree. A woman, wearing an Army-green beret and fatigues, was accompanied by two men dressed identically. From the best my eavesdropping ears could make out (An aside: When you people are having interesting conversations, would you please SPEAK UP!) the woman was familiar with the Elf House and was sharing the story. The three of them squatted to study the door and the notes and the trinket treasures and each broke into child like grins. I resisted my urge to interview them (tragic professional liability) because I didn't want to interfere with their magical moment. I don't know if they have recently returned from a battle field...or are en route to one...but I know the men and women who wear the uniform need all the magic they can find.
I need my magic, too. I need to return to the ethos of my childhood, where I was deeply absorbed in possibility and had no interest or fear in the future. What surrounded me was simply enough.
I find rich pleasure in staring at that wooden door, knowing that someone who cares about magic lives behind it. It's true. He's real. He's goodness. He's helped me accept the wonder and joy that is all around us.
Mr. Little Guy and I have something in common, I have found. He gets letters and messages from complete strangers who express their fondness for him. That has been my experience as well this summer. Mr. Little Guy must keep going because it feels so good to get those good wishes. Feels so good to be believed in.
I'll sign this one off in homage to how Mr. Little Guy ends his notes...I couldn't say it any better than he can. To all of you who think of me, pray for me, send me your best and fervent wishes for health and healing, who believe I will beat this thing and survive to see the best that's ahead, I say, as he does:
"I believe in you."
Saturday, July 7, 2007
M/N-obility
In my ever-more-inked-up appointment book, you now find the jotting "PT."
I will have ongoing physical therapy for my right arm and shoulder. Because of the surgery, the removal of lymph nodes and the reconstruction, my upper body is about as stiff as I figured I'd be at 90. I often continue to feel a deep ache that stretches from my chest wall into my very center. Nerves and muscles were altered or cut by the surgeon's scalpel and my innards, as we hicks say, have been disrupted.
To add insult to this injury, I now have a bona fide Jiggly Grandma Upper Arm. (Let me quickly add only one of them--the right arm--has gone all old lady on me.)
The good news is that with some focused attention, it should all go back like it used to be.
Essentially, it won't be any worse than it ever was.
So that I will continue to be able to lift my clean dishes out of the dishwasher and onto the top shelf of the cupboard, I now do a series of exercises several times a day and will have multiple sessions with a physical therapist.
Before my first PT appointment, I filled out the several pages of a health questionairre. One query asked, "What is your goal in coming here?"
And then I wrote something that would have been a typo if I would have been typing. (Er, excuse me. Don't want a Grandma vocabulary to go with that arm. I should have said...not 'typing'...but 'keyboarding.'
(BTW--how come today's typos aren't called keyboardos?)
(Sorry for the digression.)
(And all the parentheses.)
Back to the my goal for physical therapy.
I meant to write that my goal was "Mobility."
Instead I wrote that my goal was "Nobility."
And as I smiled ruefully to myself and scratched out a correction, my mind seized onto that word...nobility...and I immediately thought of my Grandma Shock.
(Yep, that was her real name. My mother's maiden name was Shock.)
(Are parentheses on sale or something?)
Now I'm going to digress about my grandmother for a bit, so here is an illustration to break up the text and make the blog somewhat visually stimulating and also to provide you a mental picture of her.
This is a photograph of me (circa 1989) with my beloved grandmothers. This is the back porch of the house I grew up in in Jackson, Ohio, where my parents still live.
From left to right: Dorothy Shock, my maternal grandmother. Jill Burger, my mother. Auguste Burger, my paternal grandmother. And that's me with the five-footer when she was a two-footer. (She had just gotten up and I can almost smell that hot-baby-post-nap scent in that sweet fold in her neck!)
(In most pictures of me that were taken in this era, I sport a heinous perm and wear black acid washed jeans. No kidding. And the saddest part is, I thought it looked bitchin!)
I come from good peasant stock as perhaps the faces in this picture reveal. On both sides I am descended from a hard working, plain speaking, decent lot. We have no airs or pedigrees or strings of numbers behind our names...and we admit to a bit of suspicion of those who do.
That said, I now know that I am descended from nobility. Yeah, me, the gym teacher's daughter from the sticks: I am of noble birth.
At the time this picture was taken, my Grandma Shock was a 26 year breast cancer survivor.
She was diagnosed in 1963. She once told me that when she found the lump, my own grandfather told her to ignore it.
She did not. She was not the Ignore It type.
In 1963, there were no pink ribbons, no races, no support groups. No special cancer clinics, no reconstruction surgery, no hopeful clinical trials. Women were called 'victims' not 'survivors.' Furthermore, The words "breast" or "cancer" were seldom spoken aloud and never in tandem. Well bred people and newspaper obituaries didn't even mention cancer when it was the cause of death; it was termed "a long illness."
Grandma Shock's surgery was what they called a radical mastectomy. From practically under her chin to her waist, from her sternum to her bicep, every corpuscle the scalpel could find was cut away. They took the tissue under her arm as well, including all of her lymph nodes.
That was followed by an intensive course of radiation.
Go back and look at the picture. Notice Grandma Shock's right hand.
She could wear the prosthesis in her bra and conceal her poor scarred chest, but she could not hide the ravages of the side effects of her disease. Because she had no lymph nodes, she lived with constant lymphedema. Her right hand and arm were always swollen. That word hardly describes it--her arm was bigger and heavier than her thigh. If she got a cold, it would be throb with fever. It was uncomfortable every day.
And embarrassing. I have very few pictures where you can see the swelling. She was quick to turn her body so that the offending arm was hidden or tucked behind her back.
Yet she was always fashion conscious and was proud to be a little bit vain. She had a difficult time finding clothes--long sleeves were often too tight to contain her arm and short sleeves revealed the unsightly condition. "Oh, this arm!" she would say in exasperation during a fruitless shopping expedition.
That was about as much complaining as I ever heard from her.
I wish I had more details of exactly what she experienced with her breast cancer. She wasn't afraid to talk about it, but she never brought it up. It was simply part of her life. I never heard her feel sorry for herself; she always seemed so grateful that she lived despite losing her breast. I think she found it a hard bargain but a fair trade.
I now contemplate the fear that must have been her daily companion. She had no chemotherapy to lengthen her odds for a long life, no regular scans to scout for a recurrence, not even a mammogram to provide proof that her other breast was not a time bomb. For a whole generation of breast cancer survivors, the high tech imaging tht we take for granted was the stuff of sci-fi, about as realistic as a robot maid.
Instead of medical reassurance, she had faith and grit. And she cultivated the ability to seek and find joy in the day...in a snapdragon, an excellent canasta hand, a visit with family.
My grandmother was a housewife feminist, who had a charter subscription to Ms. magazine. We had a summer--I think it was the year I was 9--where we played miniature golf every time we were together. She loved James Bond movies and gardening and the daily crossword puzzle in the newspaper.
She was not the Salty Old Dame kind of Grandma, the sort who would flip the falsie around like a Frisbee. With her well-modulated voice and shy smile, she had a kind of elegance, a dignity. She was instinctively what few women aspire to be today: she was a lady.
We were not much alike, but we were deeply devoted to one another. I have felt so close to her in the past few weeks. Her spirit hovers near me and frequently comforts me.
I was so lucky to be her grandchild. So lucky to still have her alive and vital in my memory bank. She lived 35 years after her diagnosis and mastectomy surgery. She did the crossword puzzle on the morning of the day she died, at age 93. It was not cancer that claimed her.
How I wish I had asked more direct questions about her experience. How did she bear it? How did she come to peace with it? How did she not become bitter or fearful or neurotic?
How did she remain so noble?
Honestly, I would give anything I own...everything I own...for fifteen minutes in her presence, to hold her dear inflated hand and have a woman-to-woman conversation with her.
But this is all impractical yearning and neither of us, my Grandma Shock and I, are impractical women.
If I pause, comb my memory and really think about it, I know that even if I don't have the answers to my specific questions, she showed me what I need to know.
How I need to be.
I have her brave example. If she could face it in the unsympathetic early 60's, then I can certainly do it now.
She endured. I am of her line. I will too.
And here's one more photograph (circa 1990) to again break up the text. This time I have the six footer and the five footer with me. And, sadly, there is photographic evidence of my grave fashion errors of the previous decade. Why in the world am I smiling??
I will have ongoing physical therapy for my right arm and shoulder. Because of the surgery, the removal of lymph nodes and the reconstruction, my upper body is about as stiff as I figured I'd be at 90. I often continue to feel a deep ache that stretches from my chest wall into my very center. Nerves and muscles were altered or cut by the surgeon's scalpel and my innards, as we hicks say, have been disrupted.
To add insult to this injury, I now have a bona fide Jiggly Grandma Upper Arm. (Let me quickly add only one of them--the right arm--has gone all old lady on me.)
The good news is that with some focused attention, it should all go back like it used to be.
Essentially, it won't be any worse than it ever was.
So that I will continue to be able to lift my clean dishes out of the dishwasher and onto the top shelf of the cupboard, I now do a series of exercises several times a day and will have multiple sessions with a physical therapist.
Before my first PT appointment, I filled out the several pages of a health questionairre. One query asked, "What is your goal in coming here?"
And then I wrote something that would have been a typo if I would have been typing. (Er, excuse me. Don't want a Grandma vocabulary to go with that arm. I should have said...not 'typing'...but 'keyboarding.'
(BTW--how come today's typos aren't called keyboardos?)
(Sorry for the digression.)
(And all the parentheses.)
Back to the my goal for physical therapy.
I meant to write that my goal was "Mobility."
Instead I wrote that my goal was "Nobility."
And as I smiled ruefully to myself and scratched out a correction, my mind seized onto that word...nobility...and I immediately thought of my Grandma Shock.
(Yep, that was her real name. My mother's maiden name was Shock.)
(Are parentheses on sale or something?)
Now I'm going to digress about my grandmother for a bit, so here is an illustration to break up the text and make the blog somewhat visually stimulating and also to provide you a mental picture of her.
This is a photograph of me (circa 1989) with my beloved grandmothers. This is the back porch of the house I grew up in in Jackson, Ohio, where my parents still live.
From left to right: Dorothy Shock, my maternal grandmother. Jill Burger, my mother. Auguste Burger, my paternal grandmother. And that's me with the five-footer when she was a two-footer. (She had just gotten up and I can almost smell that hot-baby-post-nap scent in that sweet fold in her neck!)
(In most pictures of me that were taken in this era, I sport a heinous perm and wear black acid washed jeans. No kidding. And the saddest part is, I thought it looked bitchin!)
I come from good peasant stock as perhaps the faces in this picture reveal. On both sides I am descended from a hard working, plain speaking, decent lot. We have no airs or pedigrees or strings of numbers behind our names...and we admit to a bit of suspicion of those who do.
That said, I now know that I am descended from nobility. Yeah, me, the gym teacher's daughter from the sticks: I am of noble birth.
At the time this picture was taken, my Grandma Shock was a 26 year breast cancer survivor.
She was diagnosed in 1963. She once told me that when she found the lump, my own grandfather told her to ignore it.
She did not. She was not the Ignore It type.
In 1963, there were no pink ribbons, no races, no support groups. No special cancer clinics, no reconstruction surgery, no hopeful clinical trials. Women were called 'victims' not 'survivors.' Furthermore, The words "breast" or "cancer" were seldom spoken aloud and never in tandem. Well bred people and newspaper obituaries didn't even mention cancer when it was the cause of death; it was termed "a long illness."
Grandma Shock's surgery was what they called a radical mastectomy. From practically under her chin to her waist, from her sternum to her bicep, every corpuscle the scalpel could find was cut away. They took the tissue under her arm as well, including all of her lymph nodes.
That was followed by an intensive course of radiation.
Go back and look at the picture. Notice Grandma Shock's right hand.
She could wear the prosthesis in her bra and conceal her poor scarred chest, but she could not hide the ravages of the side effects of her disease. Because she had no lymph nodes, she lived with constant lymphedema. Her right hand and arm were always swollen. That word hardly describes it--her arm was bigger and heavier than her thigh. If she got a cold, it would be throb with fever. It was uncomfortable every day.
And embarrassing. I have very few pictures where you can see the swelling. She was quick to turn her body so that the offending arm was hidden or tucked behind her back.
Yet she was always fashion conscious and was proud to be a little bit vain. She had a difficult time finding clothes--long sleeves were often too tight to contain her arm and short sleeves revealed the unsightly condition. "Oh, this arm!" she would say in exasperation during a fruitless shopping expedition.
That was about as much complaining as I ever heard from her.
I wish I had more details of exactly what she experienced with her breast cancer. She wasn't afraid to talk about it, but she never brought it up. It was simply part of her life. I never heard her feel sorry for herself; she always seemed so grateful that she lived despite losing her breast. I think she found it a hard bargain but a fair trade.
I now contemplate the fear that must have been her daily companion. She had no chemotherapy to lengthen her odds for a long life, no regular scans to scout for a recurrence, not even a mammogram to provide proof that her other breast was not a time bomb. For a whole generation of breast cancer survivors, the high tech imaging tht we take for granted was the stuff of sci-fi, about as realistic as a robot maid.
Instead of medical reassurance, she had faith and grit. And she cultivated the ability to seek and find joy in the day...in a snapdragon, an excellent canasta hand, a visit with family.
My grandmother was a housewife feminist, who had a charter subscription to Ms. magazine. We had a summer--I think it was the year I was 9--where we played miniature golf every time we were together. She loved James Bond movies and gardening and the daily crossword puzzle in the newspaper.
She was not the Salty Old Dame kind of Grandma, the sort who would flip the falsie around like a Frisbee. With her well-modulated voice and shy smile, she had a kind of elegance, a dignity. She was instinctively what few women aspire to be today: she was a lady.
We were not much alike, but we were deeply devoted to one another. I have felt so close to her in the past few weeks. Her spirit hovers near me and frequently comforts me.
I was so lucky to be her grandchild. So lucky to still have her alive and vital in my memory bank. She lived 35 years after her diagnosis and mastectomy surgery. She did the crossword puzzle on the morning of the day she died, at age 93. It was not cancer that claimed her.
How I wish I had asked more direct questions about her experience. How did she bear it? How did she come to peace with it? How did she not become bitter or fearful or neurotic?
How did she remain so noble?
Honestly, I would give anything I own...everything I own...for fifteen minutes in her presence, to hold her dear inflated hand and have a woman-to-woman conversation with her.
But this is all impractical yearning and neither of us, my Grandma Shock and I, are impractical women.
If I pause, comb my memory and really think about it, I know that even if I don't have the answers to my specific questions, she showed me what I need to know.
How I need to be.
I have her brave example. If she could face it in the unsympathetic early 60's, then I can certainly do it now.
She endured. I am of her line. I will too.
And here's one more photograph (circa 1990) to again break up the text. This time I have the six footer and the five footer with me. And, sadly, there is photographic evidence of my grave fashion errors of the previous decade. Why in the world am I smiling??
Friday, July 6, 2007
Dance Party For The Cure...
For those of you not going to Prince tomorrow night at the Target Center, ZibraZibra is playing right across the street at First Avenue with HarMar Superstar and Seymore Saves The World.
This is an album release show, but not the kind that comes on disc, tape, or wax. The album, titled 777, is being released digitally, so if you go to the show don't forget to bring an ipod, computer, robot or spaceship to take the record home on.
Doors open at 6:00 PM and the price is only 12 bucks (a pretty sweet deal, especially if you're planning on staying for the Prince afterparty and you hate breast cancer)
Yes that's right, this show is also a breast cancer benefit.
For more information check out ZibraZibra at myspace.com/zibrazibra or www.first-avenue.com
The Bathroom on the Bus
Next week, my youngest...the four-footer...the Spunkiest Nine-Year-Old in the Seven If Not The Twelve County Metro Area...will go to church camp for the first time. Sleepaway Camp. In the woods--far away!
She's tingling with excitement and anticipation about this adventure. Her older siblings found church camp to be among their happiest and most memorable experiences and she's ready to be chime in with her Me-Too on this.
But I don't think she quite comprehends what church camp is.
From all that The Bigs have said over the years, she understands that it's Fun, of course. That there are songs and cool counselors and sleeping bags. That it smells like pine needles and bug spray and that melty-Hershey-bar S'more/campfire scent.
She also has heard that there's God stuff, but it's not boring.
When you ask her about what she's thinking about going to camp, she locks onto one particular detail like she's a thirsty wood tick.
There's a bathroom on the bus!
It's a long ride to the North Shore and my little camper and her co-campers will ride in style. The church contracts with a commercial bus company to provide transportation. And, wisely, considering they are hauling dozens of child-sized bladders, they use a bus that has A Facility in the back.
Hey! A bathroom on the bus! Wow, right!?!
Basically, the four footer can't quite imagine or visualize what's at the end of the bus trip. That's all as hazy as the morning mist hanging over the lake. Will she make friends? Will she be homesick? Will there be bears, as she has heard rumored?
Not sure about that.
But, as I think I mentioned, there's a bathroom on the bus!
As I continue my own journey, I think about the parallels between what my little girl is about to experience and what's directly ahead for me.
I begin chemotherapy next Thursday, July 12th. I admit that I feel a corrosive, gut-eating fear about this. I read the pamphlets about the drugs and the chemo accounts in books and I hear about the experience from others who have gone through it. But even as I am counting down to it, it seems unreal. A part of me still can't believe that there isn't some way out of this. That there isn't someone else I could pay to do this for me.
Yeah, it's irrational.
Sometimes I even think that maybe I shouldn't do it. That it just doesn't make sense to poison myself in order to be cured.
But then my intellect trumps my fear and I remind myself of just how lucky I am to have the doctors, pharmacology and science to treat and defeat this disease.
I remind myself that I can do this. I must. I will. And I'll appreciate every blessed drop, for the chemo drugs will ultimately allow me to live the long life that I so desire. It will allow me to claim a future that is cancer-free.
Still, I have to work hard not to get hung up on the symptoms that may follow the administration of the chemotherapy. We've all heard the horror stories; some of you reading this may have experienced them or watched a love one suffer. Miserable nausea, often followed by weight gain because of the steroid anti-nausea medication. Hair loss, which I am assured of. Fatigue--a level of cosmic exhaustion that cannot be anticipated. Aches and pains. So-called 'chemo brain' which drops a fog over cognitive thinking and memory.
My doctor and others who have done what I am about to do assure me that, these days, chemotherapy can be well managed. People known to be truthful tell me that the misery is far, far less than what patients experienced in even the recent past. That, while it's no one's idea of Fun, it can all be tolerated.
All I can think about right now, though, is the bathroom on the bus.
I can't think about what will happen when I get to my destination--which is the other side of the chemotherapy. I don't know exactly what happens then. I am preoccupied with the first, next leg of my journey.
For my daughter, it's the focus on the novelty of the bus biffy. Me, I think about sitting in a room with an IV drip. I am focused on how I will fare, because everyone reacts to the chemo cocktail differently, depending on their own unique body chemistry.
I truly wish that my first chemo session was behind me. It will be a relief to know exactly what the experience will be and to have faced it. For me, it seems the unknown is the bear in the forest.
"The first chemo tells the tale," the kind-eyed nurse reassured me just this morning. "Once it's done, we'll know how you react. We'll see how you do and tinker with what you'll need to take care of you and make you feel good." She smiled sympathetically. "Everybody talks about the people who react badly. You don't hear nearly as much about the vast majority of patients, who do just fine."
I will be among that number, I'm sure. I will do just fine. I spend a fair amount of time these days, calming my restless mind and staying upbeat--or, when I can't do that, keeping my spirit in neutral. I want to be tough, not a complainer or a whiner. I want to accept this and not fight it.
I want to use the damn bathroom on the damn bus and get on with the journey so I can experience what church camp will be like. That's what I really want.
* * * * * * * * *
I have not written much in the past week. I have had a number of medical appointments--physical therapy for my arm, body scans, blood work. Between running around, working, and focusing on gathering my internal strength, I have made less time to ruminate on the blog.
I hope this will be a space where I can continue to process what I'm experiencing with those of you who are interested in hearing about it.
The radio show will continue to be a place where I go to get away from some of This. On my first show back after surgery, I promised you that I would not turn The Kevyn Burger Show into The Cancer Show. I want to talk, laugh, and get snarky like always. I need it--and need you to help me have fun!
For those of you who would like to hear a more personal, me-focused take on my experience, I offer the written word on the blog. The blog is meant to be an alternative way for me to interact with FM107 listeners. If what I write here is of little interest to you, I hope you will simply bypass the blog and will continue to listen to the show from 9 to 11 Monday through Friday. I hope to still be behind the microphone most days.
I do not want to become the face of breast cancer in the Twin Cities. I have become a reluctant expert on this disease. But, really, who would want to be the face of this disease? Who would want to become the go-to Survivor Girl?
I do realize that I am in an extraordinary situation...that, because I have lived my life on the public airwaves, I am in a unique position to raise awareness about breast cancer. I could do some good here. I could and I should.
To be honest, I don't yet know how--and when--I can use that position. I'll figure that out as I go. Right now, my sole focus in on healing and staying strong. So stay tuned and know that I'm pondering what my move will ultimately be.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart to all of you who have sent your prayers to me and my family. We feel the power of that wave of good wishes.
I know that many of you offer a positive thought or blessing in my direction as you cross the river. I feel it. I feel it. I feel it and I humbly thank you.
She's tingling with excitement and anticipation about this adventure. Her older siblings found church camp to be among their happiest and most memorable experiences and she's ready to be chime in with her Me-Too on this.
But I don't think she quite comprehends what church camp is.
From all that The Bigs have said over the years, she understands that it's Fun, of course. That there are songs and cool counselors and sleeping bags. That it smells like pine needles and bug spray and that melty-Hershey-bar S'more/campfire scent.
She also has heard that there's God stuff, but it's not boring.
When you ask her about what she's thinking about going to camp, she locks onto one particular detail like she's a thirsty wood tick.
There's a bathroom on the bus!
It's a long ride to the North Shore and my little camper and her co-campers will ride in style. The church contracts with a commercial bus company to provide transportation. And, wisely, considering they are hauling dozens of child-sized bladders, they use a bus that has A Facility in the back.
Hey! A bathroom on the bus! Wow, right!?!
Basically, the four footer can't quite imagine or visualize what's at the end of the bus trip. That's all as hazy as the morning mist hanging over the lake. Will she make friends? Will she be homesick? Will there be bears, as she has heard rumored?
Not sure about that.
But, as I think I mentioned, there's a bathroom on the bus!
As I continue my own journey, I think about the parallels between what my little girl is about to experience and what's directly ahead for me.
I begin chemotherapy next Thursday, July 12th. I admit that I feel a corrosive, gut-eating fear about this. I read the pamphlets about the drugs and the chemo accounts in books and I hear about the experience from others who have gone through it. But even as I am counting down to it, it seems unreal. A part of me still can't believe that there isn't some way out of this. That there isn't someone else I could pay to do this for me.
Yeah, it's irrational.
Sometimes I even think that maybe I shouldn't do it. That it just doesn't make sense to poison myself in order to be cured.
But then my intellect trumps my fear and I remind myself of just how lucky I am to have the doctors, pharmacology and science to treat and defeat this disease.
I remind myself that I can do this. I must. I will. And I'll appreciate every blessed drop, for the chemo drugs will ultimately allow me to live the long life that I so desire. It will allow me to claim a future that is cancer-free.
Still, I have to work hard not to get hung up on the symptoms that may follow the administration of the chemotherapy. We've all heard the horror stories; some of you reading this may have experienced them or watched a love one suffer. Miserable nausea, often followed by weight gain because of the steroid anti-nausea medication. Hair loss, which I am assured of. Fatigue--a level of cosmic exhaustion that cannot be anticipated. Aches and pains. So-called 'chemo brain' which drops a fog over cognitive thinking and memory.
My doctor and others who have done what I am about to do assure me that, these days, chemotherapy can be well managed. People known to be truthful tell me that the misery is far, far less than what patients experienced in even the recent past. That, while it's no one's idea of Fun, it can all be tolerated.
All I can think about right now, though, is the bathroom on the bus.
I can't think about what will happen when I get to my destination--which is the other side of the chemotherapy. I don't know exactly what happens then. I am preoccupied with the first, next leg of my journey.
For my daughter, it's the focus on the novelty of the bus biffy. Me, I think about sitting in a room with an IV drip. I am focused on how I will fare, because everyone reacts to the chemo cocktail differently, depending on their own unique body chemistry.
I truly wish that my first chemo session was behind me. It will be a relief to know exactly what the experience will be and to have faced it. For me, it seems the unknown is the bear in the forest.
"The first chemo tells the tale," the kind-eyed nurse reassured me just this morning. "Once it's done, we'll know how you react. We'll see how you do and tinker with what you'll need to take care of you and make you feel good." She smiled sympathetically. "Everybody talks about the people who react badly. You don't hear nearly as much about the vast majority of patients, who do just fine."
I will be among that number, I'm sure. I will do just fine. I spend a fair amount of time these days, calming my restless mind and staying upbeat--or, when I can't do that, keeping my spirit in neutral. I want to be tough, not a complainer or a whiner. I want to accept this and not fight it.
I want to use the damn bathroom on the damn bus and get on with the journey so I can experience what church camp will be like. That's what I really want.
* * * * * * * * *
I have not written much in the past week. I have had a number of medical appointments--physical therapy for my arm, body scans, blood work. Between running around, working, and focusing on gathering my internal strength, I have made less time to ruminate on the blog.
I hope this will be a space where I can continue to process what I'm experiencing with those of you who are interested in hearing about it.
The radio show will continue to be a place where I go to get away from some of This. On my first show back after surgery, I promised you that I would not turn The Kevyn Burger Show into The Cancer Show. I want to talk, laugh, and get snarky like always. I need it--and need you to help me have fun!
For those of you who would like to hear a more personal, me-focused take on my experience, I offer the written word on the blog. The blog is meant to be an alternative way for me to interact with FM107 listeners. If what I write here is of little interest to you, I hope you will simply bypass the blog and will continue to listen to the show from 9 to 11 Monday through Friday. I hope to still be behind the microphone most days.
I do not want to become the face of breast cancer in the Twin Cities. I have become a reluctant expert on this disease. But, really, who would want to be the face of this disease? Who would want to become the go-to Survivor Girl?
I do realize that I am in an extraordinary situation...that, because I have lived my life on the public airwaves, I am in a unique position to raise awareness about breast cancer. I could do some good here. I could and I should.
To be honest, I don't yet know how--and when--I can use that position. I'll figure that out as I go. Right now, my sole focus in on healing and staying strong. So stay tuned and know that I'm pondering what my move will ultimately be.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart to all of you who have sent your prayers to me and my family. We feel the power of that wave of good wishes.
I know that many of you offer a positive thought or blessing in my direction as you cross the river. I feel it. I feel it. I feel it and I humbly thank you.
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