I Am Barb Lee

I Am Not Your Warrior

Okay, it’s truth time (again).

Here’s a natural fact: I’m quite adept at pissing people off. Yeah, like everyone else on Earth I’m totally guilty of flipping switches once in a while. But then there are those times when I’m not trying, and my words get twisted into something not intended. Through texts, blogs, and conversations, I’m totally guilty of raising pulses with a single bound. I have the gift of offending. Then again, maybe some folks are just always looking for something wrong? (Always the best way to find it.) Well, I’m about to piss off a whole legion of humanity with the following discussion. So if you’re easily piqued, come back when I’m talking about road trips, or something else less controversial.

Here goes…

Do you know what R-E-A-L-L-Y irks me? When someone with cancer is referred to as a “warrior.” Wait, it’s just women, isn’t it? Men are “fighting it with everything they’ve got,” and we women, well, we’re your warrior. Over and over and over again I see women with cancer being called warriors. “My best friend succumbed to cancer yesterday. She was such a warrior.” Or, “Be a warrior! Kick cancer’s ass!” I can’t tell you how many times this has been said or implied to me in the past nearly three years since my diagnosis. Here’s the kicker, folks. Hold your breath!!

I DON’T WANT TO BE YOUR WARRIOR!!!

Who started this shit anyway???

A tough question to answer, because when I put the term into a search engine I keep coming up with a PBS documentary by that name about a doctor named Judah Folkman who was a cancer researcher in Boston. Just reading a little about Dr. Folkman makes it obvious that it was not he who coined this overused moniker to label any and all women who are unfortunate enough to get the disease. Susan G. Komen seems like a much likelier source. Bless her heart, may she rest in eternal peace, and I hope she was and always will be a shining example of a cancer warrior, if that is what she wanted, if that was her intended legacy.

BUT I STILL DON’T WANT TO BE YOUR WARRIOR.

Back in September of 2019, when I had a weird bump growing out of my sternum and I knew a cancer diagnosis was coming, as unlikely and unfathomable as that seemed, I tried to head off the outpouring of emotions of others by requesting that I receive no sympathy, no questions, no assumptions, no sad faced emojis. I got all that anyway, and more: for some, I’ve become a figurehead of bravery and heroism. For others, a figurehead of pity, puppy dog eyes, and head shakes. I’m so sorry. Aww, you poor thing. But wait, you’re my hero. When all along, the only person I want to be is me. I’ve said this time and again: the struggle to be normal is real, and that struggle is exacerbated by the labels that have been hefted on me. Most are well-meaning. But for heaven’s sake, don’t label me to make yourself feel better about my “condition.” (Heard that before, too.) And don’t label me because you think that I somehow want to be a warrior. I accepted cancer as part of my life a long time ago, because I don’t have a choice. But I don’t accept the need for others to make me feel like an outcast, for better or for worse, because of an illness you wouldn’t even know I have if I didn’t tell you.

Herein lies the catch: even if the label is meant to be somehow complimentary, it still places me in a different sphere than you. Do me a favor, and let me still breathe that rarefied air of those without cancer. And please, for others walking this Earth with this shitty disease, (and have you noticed that there are more of us than ever?) be damn sure they want to be warriors before you adhere the label to them. Here’s a novel idea: ask how someone feels before you assume that they want to be warriors or heroes. Perhaps they just want to be who they used to be before cancer. Or as close to that as they can get.

Meanwhile, I will continue to wield a hiking pole in place of a sword.

Cursed, But Blessed!

I know, I know, it’s been a while since my last post. But if you’ve read enough of them you know that I love my summer road trips, and they keep me pretty busy. Not busy enough, however, to stop me from thinking about things that I’d like to blog about. Here’s one that popped into my mind as I toured California again for nearly three weeks. And if you don’t mind, I’m including snaps from my trip!

I don’t know how many times I’ve declared myself a “lucky girl.” The term just seemed appropriate, and it illustrated that I didn’t take the life I had (and the life that I still have) for granted. A good paying teaching gig, friends to travel the globe with, a few people who really, truly love me.

And then, cancer struck in the autumn of 2019, and just about the worst case scenario I could ask for was mine: Stage IV lung cancer. A curse for the rest of my life, which probably wouldn’t be much longer anyway. After a pretty good run of being a “lucky girl,” my time would wind down and I’d fade away, into the sunset. In like a lion, out like a lamb.

But wait. After seeking top tier medical care, things started to look considerably brighter. Nearly three years later, I’m still here. Not only that, I continue to do what I love to do. So the question looms: am I still a lucky girl? Am I luckier than lucky? Or am I truly cursed?

I think that all apply. Let’s talk about being “cursed” first and get it out of the way. That’s how I like to do things in life: saving the better stuff for last.

Because of the life that I’ve lead, that, by the way, I made for myself through sound decisions and hard work, I’ve been the target of what the world now appropriately calls “haters.” A perfect term! And regardless of how the world coaches you to handle “haters,” there’s only so much vitriol you can take before is starts to stick. When “haters” touch on every aspect of your life, from your body, to the way you travel, even to what you have in your freezer, the hurt sinks in deep. When these individuals not only hurt you, but also the people you love most in the world, the sorrow becomes unbearable. You would hope that the hatred has stopped since I got cancer? It has not, and in some ways it has only gotten worse, since I not only have to deal with this disease, I have to deal with them too. Between cancer and them, I would honestly rather deal with cancer. At least cancer can be controlled for periods of time. The nasty humans that I’m talking about don’t ever stop the abuse and the pain. On top of all this, I’m dealing with the death of the only person I could really talk to about my illness, and about their sickening way of treating me. The past few months have been incredibly trying, and sometimes I’m not sure that I can go on, or that I want to go on, or that I want to keep doing well.

But then…I think of all the things that I’ve done in this life and how there are so many other things I want to experience before I leave this world. And in spite of this disease, I can still do them! Herein lies the blessing. I may have the deadliest cancer at the deadliest stage, but lung cancer has treatment options that other cancers don’t have, treatments that sometimes allow patients to live normal lives for many years. Thus far, I fall into this category. I’ve maintained my lifestyle of hiking, biking, and traveling, something that my oncologist has said has contributed greatly to saving and extending my life.

The past three years have not been easy. Radiation, scans, medication changes, progression, side effects, haters. But I’ve had a lot of fun too. I can’t say that I haven’t. And as always, I’m not seeking sympathy. I’m just putting my feelings out there, trying to write on topics of interest, and hoping that maybe I’m helping someone who has the same issues.

So you see the confusing life that I lead now. Then again, I have lead that same confusing life for decades. Great love, crushing adversity. Loss, and luck. Extreme sadness, extreme joy. Sometimes, all at once.

Some days I wake up feeling like crap and I tell myself, “I can’t do this anymore.” But then I think of the two family members who still love and need me, I think of some of the great friends I have, I think of my sweet bunny Muffin, and my traveling and writing and hiking, and I say, “Okay, I’ll keep trying to get through this.” These days, I’m looking for a fresh start. Have to keep moving forward for that.

Cursed perhaps, but blessed more.

Fangirling!

Hey, is fangirling a word? Well, if it isn’t, it is now!

I’m not normally a gushy, shivering mess when it comes to celebrities. But on my current road trip (I’m starting this post from Cleveland, Ohio, almost at the end of my drive home,) the past two days have been spent paying homage to some of my all-time favorites, namely James Dean and The Beatles!

When you live with a chronic disease like I do, you always have to wonder if you’ll get another chance to do what you love. Then again, life isn’t guaranteed for anyone, so we all might as well be doing what we want when we can! Which is how I ended up in Fairmount, Indiana, again after a twenty-eight year hiatus, and at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame at the precise time that the “Get Back to Let It Be” exhibit is running…

For whatever crazy reason, on this year’s trip I seem to be revisiting places that my beautiful mom and I first saw in 1994, on our very first cross country road trip, which spanned 9,400 miles, seven weeks, and twenty-four states. You know, that trip that is supposed to be “once in a lifetime” but turns into a yearly occurrence? (Smile.) That was the first time I was in Fairmount, Indiana. James Dean was actually born in the small city of Marion, Indiana, a few miles north, but spent most of his childhood and teenage years in Fairmount. When we first arrived in town I was, quite frankly, obsessed with Jimmy, even though he died in his Porsche Spyder eleven full years before I was born! I may have calmed down and grown up a little since then, but I’m still a big fan.

Much of the same can be said for my “thing” for The Beatles; I totally missed the Ed Sullivan experience by nearly three years, and when my dearly departed sister Marie saw them at Suffolk Downs racetrack on August 18, 1966, I was a few months from departing the womb. But I crave my Beatles lore almost as much as I do their music; seriously, what could be more interesting than being a Beatle?! From what I can recall, my first real brush with my four cherished boys was when I asked Marie to buy me Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band for one of my birthdays in my teen years. And yes, I still have it! Side note: I’ve been to Liverpool (2002) and am hoping to go back later this year, have walked the “zebra crossing” and written on the wall in front of Abbey Road Studios in London twice, have gone to the Imagine memorial in Central Park, New York City, several times. Just recently I saw Sir Paul in concert at Fenway Park in Boston. Another one off the Bucket List, and another piece of the homage completed!

Getting to Fairmount again meant adding an extra hundred miles of driving to my day, so I had my priorities set. The town is so small that it isn’t such a hard thing to drive the whole length of it, which I had to do anyway, as the items on my list were, naturally, on opposite ends. I would have liked to spend time in the James Dean Gallery and the Fairmount Historical Society (filled, of course, with more Dean memorabilia!) like I did in ’94, but what was most important to me is probably what most super fans would want to see: the grave and his boyhood home, which are very close together. I remember Park Cemetery being quite small the first time I was there, and the grave being very easy to find. Now, the place is huge and signs have to point the way or else no one would ever find it. Dean’s boyhood home has also grown considerably in the past twenty-eight years; his cousin Marcus Winslow, who was just a boy when Jimmy was making his way in Hollywood, now runs a full-fledged farm, and it is a beautiful landscape of rolling green fields and white picket fences. Marcus was out on the riding lawn mower the day I was around, and I’m happy to say that he waved to me. My brush with greatness was complete!

Interestingly, “Get Back to Let It Be” was only a small part of director Peter Jackson’s extensive documentary of the Fab Four and was skillfully inserted into the Level O exhibits of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I was concerned that I wouldn’t have enough time to see the best of the hall, but because of the location of the exhibit I was able to take in most of the rest of the floor on the way to The Beatles. “Get Back to Let It Be” consisted of long-shelved excerpts of the tapes made of the recording sessions for the Let It Be album, including the famous “concert on the roof,” as well as instruments used, and other memorabilia. Because it was compact, it wasn’t overwhelming to see the entire thing, and to see it well. I was very satisfied with the entire floor!

Pilgrimages have always been included in my travels. Part of the fun is finding what is sometimes a needled in a haystack. Yeah, I think it’s about time to book that return trip to Liverpool!

An Open Love Letter to Utah

Dear Utah,

I remember clearly when we met: the year was 1995, I was with my beloved mom, and we were driving cross country for the second time. The year before we had cut our teeth with a 9,400 miler that inexplicably, did not include a trip through your glory. Yes, there were many other glories, but maybe not quite like yours. This particular trip had a catch: I had just purchased a little bright pink car that we would leave in Southern California once I found someplace to live there. That was my biggest dream leading up to 1995: living in California, and I lived it for five years. But that’s another story for another day, and it’s a long story, for my love affair with California continues. At times, it even competes for my attentions that I usually reserve for you. Believe me, this is not a slight to you, my love. It just IS.

Well, how do you like that! In writing this letter to speak my appreciation, I realize that I have things a bit wrong. 1995 was not the first time I saw you, it was the first time, perhaps, that I REALLY saw you. Mom and me actually drove up to Zion from Vegas in 1993 and stayed a couple of days. Just a little sneak peek at your well known red rock magnificence, and yes, we were impressed. But as I said, 1995 was the deal sealer. As only a road tripper knows, the power to choose where you go and for how long, to have the time to marvel at the color of the rocks in Glen Canyon and wonder how a strip of I-70 can be more beautiful than seventy-five percent of the rest of Planet Earth, will do it. Love at first sight, and forever love at second. And third. And fourth. And…Whew!!

Records indicate that I didn’t make it back to you until 2008 (how can this be?!) and even then, I only flew into Salt Lake City to drive north into other states. Still, I remember that I was pleasantly surprised by random findings along the way.

Listen, I know what I was doing: I was beginning to explore the world outside of this country, and I was completing the tall task of visiting all 50 states in my domestic travels. I also buried Mom, my best friend and greatest traveling partner (sigh) in 2004, so I was cutting my teeth as a solo traveler and really, just trying to figure out who I was.

And then, a big event took place in 2009: I started hiking. That’s when things started to get serious. Still, the slam dunk didn’t happen until 2013, when I spent two and a half weeks hiking all five National Parks in your awe inspiring southern extremities. Zion, Bryce, Capitol Reef, Canyonlands, Arches. While I loved them all (of course!) one emerged as my favorite, and remains thus: Canyonlands. Even as I chip away at hiking ALL the National Parks in the United States, I just can’t keep away from Canyonlands. Doing the same hikes time after time in Canyonlands. Dreaming of Canyonlands. Not enough time in a lifetime to get enough of Canyonlands. Did I mention I love Canyonlands? 😉

For me, the only other place in Utah that comes close to Canyonlands is Glen Canyon. That narrow strip of excitement between Hanksville and Blanding. Yes, that part of Glen Canyon. The Dirty Devil River. Bridge over the Colorado. Hite Overlook. I take the same darn pictures every time. And I don’t care.

Oh, don’t even get me going!

2017, 2018, 2019, 2021, 2022. COVID19 was the only thing that stopped me from being there in 2020. Our reunion in 2021 was unbelievable, because you see, I found out I had cancer in the autumn of 2019, and guess where I was a month earlier? And the thought of never seeing you again was unbearable.

Cancer sucks. Needles, scans, bad news, one step forward, two steps back. But as I became a pro at all of it, I realized that I had a pretty great defense mechanism: memory. Because of memory I didn’t have to think of scans when I was having scans. I could think instead of all the amazing places I’ve had the incredible fortune of exploring. And, you guessed it: I spent a heck of a lot of time in Utah when I was lying in some MRI beast two thousand miles away. How can I ever thank you for that?

I can’t. But I’ll try anyway, by giving you my continued patronage for as long as I have left in this life.

See you soon, my love.

No Fake News: A Week with COVID19

Ahhh, what a date with disaster it has been! The one I’ve avoided for over two years. It has lasted all week, but I’m told I got off rather easy (so far), because for some people it just drags on and on and on…

I’ve walked hand in hand with cancer for several months now, have made peace with it in my own way, have learned to live and thrive even as it tries to hold me down. But I avoided “the other one” like the damn plague. Walking the other way, wearing a variety of unfashionable face coverings long after the style had gone out for most, scheduling four brief sessions of preventative acupuncture to try and keep it at bay. But it got me anyway.

Where was it? At graduation downtown, where several hundred folks went maskless indoors? Or the next evening at the Paul McCartney concert, where several thousand went maskless with the Green Giant behind? Maybe it was even at my place of employment, where many children and adults were able to make their own decisions about masking over a month ago, and the lion’s share chose to bid adieu to the pesky virus-catchers.

I kept wearing protection when and where I had to. So it’s tough for me to pinpoint where I stumbled. But stumble I did, and ended up with the dreaded COVID19. The misunderstood COVID19. The fake COVID19? Oh please, folks. If you can somehow still believe this, let me tell you beyond the shadow of a doubt, the global pandemic is not just some charade created to make some guy with orange hair and a mouth that needs to be permanently silenced actually shut it. Don’t put yourself in danger of being unvaccinated and getting sick just to perpetuate that lie. Believe me, a four times vaxxed sickie, I get it now how dangerous this virus really is.

Perhaps I got it because of all the unvaccinated Americans buying into conspiracy theories and other political nonsense drifting around. I’m trying not to be angry that I now have this to sort through in addition to cancer and the sudden death of my dear sister Marie, whose love and support would be much appreciated right now. But let me tell you, it’s damn hard not to think about “what could have been,” had we all not just gotten our shots and achieved herd immunity.

Now, instead of posting hiking pictures of beautiful landscapes, I can post fabulous telltale images of trying to live through another health scare.

I was probably in a pretty good position to get the menace. Not only have I been exhausted and moving at a pace too quickly for a human being with my health background to move (guilty!) I’ve also been under extra stress as well as mourning for Marie. So when I got the sniffles last Friday I took special note and made sure I got a good night of sleep with my fingers crossed that I’d sleep the symptoms away.

No such luck.

Saturday, and I gave myself a home test. From the very beginning I knew that I would get my first positive result. That little line next to the “T” has never come close to rearing its ugly little head at me. But it was loud and clear that day. Now it won’t go away. I was recently told that after infection, someone can test positive for up to ninety days. Yay, more stuff I never wanted to know. As if cancer didn’t already give me lots of unwanted knowledge.

My symptoms never really got worse, because I arrested them before they could, or that’s at least the way I’m thinking of it. I made calls to my medical team in Boston and got on Paxlovid, the latest wonder drug that seeks to stop the virus from becoming life threatening. No ventilators for this girl! Unfortunately, the drug, or perhaps the virus itself, caused some horrible side effects for me that have left me dizzy, unsteady, and exhausted. I’ve spent five days in bed, cursing the New England sunshine and listening to the traffic of those who are blessed enough to still stand up and walk, something that has become a major challenge for me. After combating some serious pain over the past six months, I’m aching again. I had to stop taking Paxlovid because of the side effects, and spend my Tuesday afternoon and evening in the ER to be sure the virus drug wasn’t having a drug interaction with the pill that is killing my cancer. My active life has ground to a halt.

All because of a virus that is supposed to be fake.

Honestly, I don’t know how many times I can “start over,” only to come up against another setback. Please send positive thoughts.

And I never turn down a good prayer.

In Memory of Marie

It’s been a while since I posted. I’d like to say that it’s because I was having the time of my life, but that would be as far from the truth as I could get. More accurately, I was remembering and celebrating the life of my beloved sister Marie, who passed suddenly and unexpectedly, but peacefully and without struggle, on May 17, 2022.

I would like to share some pictures of Marie, as well as the eulogy I wrote about her that I read at her service. Please read a little about the life of my eldest sister:

Marie was a complex person. Intensely private, brilliant, and with a photographic memory. But the most important and sometimes overlooked aspect of Marie’s person was the breadth and quality of her heart. Today, it’s cliché to say that our loved one always put others before themselves, but in Marie’s case, this is the absolute truth.

Marie dedicated her professional life and a large portion of her personal life to taking care of others. When those she loved were ill or hurt, she was ill and hurt too. Yet she did her best to find escape and contentment in her books, music, and foreign language studies, and on frequent trips to Boston, the city she loved.

Gaining Marie’s love and trust was a tough thing, but if you got it, it meant something. She would never betray you and would be your staunchest supporter. She had an undying belief in what was right and would carry it out, even when it wasn’t in her favor.

Marie was never a lover of animals or nature until later in life, when she took particular joy in our niece Amanda’s flowers and dog children, as well as photos from my frequent globetrotting. She also became a stellar bunny babysitter while I was away, another example of her willingness to help others, even if it was out of her comfort zone.

I was diagnosed with the deadliest cancer at the deadliest stage two and a half years ago. Marie was with me every step of the way, always ready and waiting a text away for scan and blood test results, even when she couldn’t be right there with me due to aggravations like worldwide pandemics. Thanks to her love, medical miracles, sheer will, and intense love of life, I am still here today. But back in 2019, Marie once said to me, “I don’t know what I’ll do without you.” Now, it’s me that has to live without her, and I don’t know what I’ll do. We took care of each other in life. In many ways, we will take care of each other in death too.

Marie was extremely modest and would not want me to go on and on about her. I can see her sitting sheepish and uncomfortable while I sing her praises. So rather than make her blush, let me finish by speaking directly to her:

Marie, I am sick, lost, and lonely without you, more than you will ever know. But I’m at peace too, knowing that you’re now free from pain, sorrow and worry. Your heart was immense, and like our beloved mother you were too good for this world and how it treated you. I love you and will love you and miss you forever, until we meet again.

SLEEP PEACEFULLY, DEAR SISTER!

Book Plug Ahead!

I’m baaaaaaack from my most recent Southwestern adventure, the latest chapter of many. Next post, I’ll tell all about my trip. Today, I’m plugging books. Whose books? Full disclosure: Mine! You have been warned. So if you keep reading, don’t be mad that I’m trying to raise awareness of a few tomes that I’m very proud of. Yes, I want you to buy my books. Why shouldn’t I? I worked hard on them and they’re great! And hey, this is my website and my blog and that’s what it’s for!

If you go to my home page, you’ll notice a tab for Fiction. If you click on it you’ll come to a page that says Fiction by Brenda K. Stone, followed by descriptions and links for seven books. Additionally, if you type brendakstone.com into your search bar guess where you’ll end up? Right here! Because I am Brenda K. Stone and Barb Lee! Before I decided to change my website name to iambarblee.com I wrote seven books under the name Brenda K. Stone.

What made me change my name? Frankly, cancer. Even before my diagnosis, I felt like I wanted to write about different subjects, perhaps about something a little more serious than cute girls chasing rock stars around Hollywood, California. At the same time, I never really counted out the possibility that I would one day start writing those books again. Well, guess what?

I’ve been reading my books with fresh eyes, four years or more after they hit the market, and even as I continue to write a much more “serious” book in addition to posts for this blog, I love the books about my rock and roll groupie girls and I’m seriously considering continuing the series!

But here’s the rub: cancer, and the need to save my own life, kind of screwed up my plan to market my books, so they have not sold well. And I think they deserve to be in more hands. Many more hands. Thus, my plug!

I self-published three hefty books about my wild L.A. girls, with a fourth written but not put out there, and a fifth begun. Four additional books from another series called Women Like Us are also in circulation. If you like shorter books or short stories about real women with real problems, these are the books for you. If you want to live a rock and roll fantasy, Girls of Glam Rock will be more your taste. I won’t likely continue the Women Like Us series (let’s face it, there’s only so much time in a day!) but I’m getting the itch to tell the story of my rock girls again.

I’ve made a little deal with myself: if I can get word out there about my books and get some sales, I will start self-publishing again. A deal with a traditional publisher would likely make me even happier, as then I won’t have to do everything myself. I truly believe that my books deserve that kind of attention.

So here’s my request: how about having a look? If you aren’t interested, maybe you know someone who would be? Maybe spread the word around a bit? Writing has been the one constant in my life, through good times and bad. I’ve been telling stories on paper for upward of forty-five years now! My biggest dream has always been to be a successful author. And I’ve decided that living with cancer isn’t going to rain on that dream! If you’re under the impression that I’m that person that one day woke up and said, “Hmm, I think I’ll write and publish a book. Thanks, Amazon!” think again. I wrote my first book early in my teens, and it was a thousand pages long! And I’ve never looked back.

Okay, I’m done with my plug. Thanks for hearing me out!

About Traveling

Hey, this will be my last post for a few weeks. Vacation time is nearly here, and I’m heading back out on the road again. Which makes this the perfect time to write about one of my favorite subjects, for the first time in a while: Traveling!

I always find it so weird when people make it sound like there is some “right” way to travel. That you, as the subject, have to travel in some certain way to be a “traveler” and not a “tourist.” That there is some time frame that you have to spend in a place to make it worth your while and to satisfy others that you successfully “saw” something or somewhere. That one person’s way of traveling is superior to another person’s way of traveling. Last thing I knew, travel was supposed to be fun, like an ice cream sundae, with a learning experience on top, like a shiny red cherry, if you so choose to have one. Then again, maybe a trip is simply an escape from the rat race.

Social media is full of “influencers” who will have you believe that their way of traveling is not only better than yours, but that it’s easy and they’ll show you how to be like them, for a price. You can trot the globe while taking odd jobs like bartending and teaching English as a Second Language. Thanks, I got over working in bars when I was twenty-five, and I teach people’s kids every day and love sending them home at 2:15pm, no questions asked. I like my good paying job with paid vacations. I’d pay to see pictures of those “influencers” doing one of their real jobs in between the glossy shots from the pristine mountain top in New Zealand and the beach in Mexico. I want to see the “influencer” mixing a White Russian and looking picture perfect. Really.

Thank goodness for the unfollow button! I recently had to use it on one of the better known globe trotters that I had been following for a couple of years, because she was being pretty insulting to someone else’s way of life. What the heck happened to live and let live?

The other thought that I don’t agree with is that in order to travel in a worthwhile way you have to go to a foreign country. Make no mistake, I love exploring places outside the United States. I’ve done more than my fair share. But in a pinch, and let’s face it, we’ve been in quite a pinch since March of 2020, I’d take a road trip to the American West above all other traveling. I’ve ticked off forty plus countries thus far and have every intention of ticking off more in my own fashion once I deem it safe for me, but give me that road trip every time. It should come as no surprise that I’m heading to the American West this next trip too! I can’t WAIT!!

Here’s a secret about me that makes me different than the garden variety social media travel giant: I love coming home and I love being home, too. The pandemic gave me an excuse to stick close to home and explore my own backyard more. I always said that “someday” I’d do that more and, well, I didn’t expect cancer and COVID19 to give me the opportunity, but I’ve had a heck of a good time! I’ve always scoured New England in between bigger trips, but not like I have in the past two years. In my favorite movie of all time, Dorothy Gale went to great lengths to find out that her heart was in her own backyard. My heart is still and always will be in the American West, but New England is pretty cool too.

Before my cancer diagnosis I spent the better part of twenty years earning my keep as a special education teacher and traveling on school vacations. Maybe taking an extra day or two on either side to make my time away longer, or even escaping on a long weekend. Now that I haven’t done it for a couple of years I realize that it was exactly the way I wanted to travel. Make my money, pay for a trip, enjoy where I was without having to worry about work, and come home to earn money for more fun. After my diagnosis and through the COVID19 storm I continued my exploration as best as I could. Slowly, I’m getting my travel life back on track, though I’ve decided I want to do things and see places that I didn’t take the time to do and see before. Cruises and islands are of high interest, while twenty hour flights to the other side of the world are not really a priority. Oh, and more road trips, of course! Always more road trips!

In short, the Bucket List is officially made. It was time.

And so, I continue to explore as I see fit, and I am unapologetic.

Travel and let travel.

The Value of Extending Life

Recently, I was dealing with the very real possibility that my beautiful sister Jeanne, who has been battling health issues for more than a decade now, was going to lose the fight. Jeanne is the strongest lady I know, and is one of three people in my family that has had to overcome great odds to continue to draw breath. (My niece Amanda and I are the other two, in case you wondered!) Her struggles brought up a wide array of issues, as any health struggle does, but even more for her because Jeanne is disabled. As her sister, co-guardian, and staunchest supporter, I have to be her loudest voice. I also have to be very tuned into whether she’s getting a fair shake or not. More often than not, I am relieved to report that Jeanne does get a fair shake. I’m even more relieved to report that Jeanne pulled through her ordeal and is steadily working her way back to being herself. But it was oh, so close.

So close, in fact, that talk of DNR (do not resuscitate) orders and extending life beyond Jeanne’s comfort was at a maximum. The conversations got me thinking about the value of life and extending it, something I know a little bit about, considering I’ve been living on borrowed time for two and a half years after my lung cancer diagnosis. In those two plus years I’ve traveled and hiked and continued my teaching career and experienced life as fully as possible while also dealing with my illness and a worldwide pandemic. Are those valuable accomplishments? Is my life worth extending? Is anyone’s life worth extending? How about Jeanne’s? Who’s to decide this?

I’ve never been in the position to “pull the plug” on the life of a loved one. I don’t know what I would do. I’m neither fully for or against life support or abortion, but form an opinion based on specific circumstances. No one was making a value judgement about Jeanne continuing on, but some of the things being said struck me as leaning toward her not being able to regain her former status. Jeanne was a different person for months, with few observable signs of deterioration other than somber mood and exhaustion. Because she’s nonverbal, knowing what is going on inside of her can be a mystery. At one time she would make gestures and other outward indications that she was not well, but this time she didn’t. So a major issue festered until it was nearly too late to help her. Several days went by with her life hanging in the balance, major decisions being made, and opinions being shared. Much of what was being said made me uncomfortable, not to mention hollow and grief stricken. Life without my dearest earthly angel was unfathomable, empty. I didn’t and don’t want Jeanne to suffer. But I also wanted her life to matter, to be sure that it did and does, and for her to be able to continue the fight, if that was what she chose to do.

I spoke to my personal guardian angels and put a message out into this plain of the universe: the real decision belonged to Jeanne. If she wanted to fight, she would fight. And Jeanne wanted to fight.

I never stopped believing in her and the value of her life.

Jeanne will never be able to do the things I can do. Nor will she invent electric cars or send rockets to Mars. She isn’t going to end racial discrimination or cure cancer. Most of us aren’t either. Jeanne will help with household tasks, listen to oldies on her stereo, get her nails done, go for haircuts and for rides to look at bodies of water. She’ll take part in simple activities but will revel more in the attention she’s getting. Most importantly, she will be cherished by a few dedicated family and staff members that adore her.

When I saw her in the hospital, where she lay for nearly a month, the “old Jeanne” seemed lost forever. She was unresponsive, far away, so often on the brink of leaving us. I feared for her and for us, feared that we would cross the line of making her stay when she wanted to go, of dragging her through yet another ordeal that she had no chance of making it through. But the thought of seeing the “old Jeanne” kept me praying for her safe passage back to life.

Jeanne may never do any of what I wrote above, but damn, she’s a survivor in the most incredible sense, and has offered more miracles than most people walking the planet.

Jeanne made it. Jeanne taught a lot of people a lesson about survival and the human spirit. Jeanne is quickly becoming the “old Jeanne” again. Just the way we love her.

I’m in awe of this woman!!

Dear Mr. Truck Driver…

See? I got your attention. Now you think that I’m about to give my opinion on the trucker convoys in Canada and the U.S. However, that isn’t the focus of my blog. Instead, I’m going to write about a recent experience I had with a trucker on the the Massachusetts Turnpike, otherwise known as I-90, locally known as “the Pike.” From my house due East, the Pike is a dull stretch of seventy miles of highway to Boston, and where bad behavior is at a maximum.

Before I zero in specifically on my good trucker buddy, let me first reiterate a frequent complaint of mine: Some people just lose their cotton picking minds when they get behind the wheel of a moving vehicle. Where does common sense go? I just don’t get it. It certainly seems that all anger, frustration, and power tripping is released on fellow drivers. Stupidity is at an all-time high. Messing with the lives of others becomes some sick game, all in the name of getting one car length ahead of someone else, or in a preferred lane before someone else does.

Okay, now let me tell the story of my favorite trucker in the world.

On Monday, March 14, 2022, I was heading to Boston for my monthly check-in at Dana Farber Cancer Institute. Yeah, you got it. I have cancer. I’m being treated for cancer. I’m not going to Beantown to party, or see the Red Sox, or to an art museum Truth is, I’d rather be working than going to Dana Farber Cancer Institute. I’m going because I have to. If I don’t go I’ll die. I’m tired on said day, and it’s early in the morning. I’m minding my own damn business, going 70 miles per hour in the center lane the way I always do. Other drivers fly by me, getting nowhere faster than me. I know that. They apparently don’t.

I pass a trucker going at a reasonable pace, and take note of it, because I like to see truckers who don’t think they own the road, who don’t think that just because they’re bigger they’re better. This 18-wheeler, from a company that will be named below, was inconspicuous, as all trucks and cars are until they do something off the wall. This one was a few minutes away from doing just that.

Back in the center lane after passing a few vehicles that were going a little slower than me, I settled in. Ten minutes go by, and suddenly Mr. Inconspicuous Trucker is right behind me flashing his lights at me. As a general rule and as a longtime driver with a clean record and hundreds of thousands of miles on all over the United States of America, I don’t allow other drivers, whether they’re bigger than me or not, to decide how fast I go or what lane I drive in. So I don’t budge, which only serves to piss off Mr. Trucker. My line of reasoning is this: There are two more lanes to move into. Use them if you don’t like my driving.

He doesn’t see things my way.

His next move is to start tooting at me and swerving. Then, the worst thing of all: Tailgating. In a tractor trailer truck that can’t stop quickly should I need to put on my brakes for something. But I held my ground, and so did he. I took out my phone and made a video going over my shoulder, showing the lights of this shithead glaring in my rear window, as well as how close he really was to me. Close enough for someone to reach out my back window and touch him.

I get it, you’re saying, just move for him! It’s your own fault for not moving! Here’s where we’re different. It’s against my principles to cater to a moron like this, particularly when I’m not doing anything wrong. And here’s the funny thing: He finally passed me, and then we got tangled up in stop and go traffic. So I had plenty of opportunities to take pictures of the company name and license plates, and Mr. Trucker got nowhere from his dangerous behavior. Just for good measure, he indulged in the ultimate in blameless behavior, and hung his phone out the window to take pictures of me. Imagine!

I eventually lost him, went to Dana Farber, and got all good news. But this experience sat heavily on my mind and still does.

Did I call Goulet Trucking in South Hadley, Massachusetts? Yes, after I read some pretty nasty reviews that indicate that this is a company that really doesn’t care what their truckers are doing. Daryl, the fellow I spoke to, didn’t seem too interested in me, but I asked him to tell my trucker friend some of the items I’ve already expressed above: I was going to Dana Farber. I have cancer. I was going for treatment. If I don’t go I’ll die. This already sucks enough. Why did he have to make the experience even suckier?

You never know who you’re messing with, what they’re dealing with, and how you’re making them feel.

I did the only thing I could. But I know that it won’t do a lick of good. Mr. Trucker will go out and terrorize someone else. Then someone else after that.

This experience brings up a point that surfaces more and more often now: When we’re blatantly mistreated, who can we really turn to if a clear crime has not been committed?

And the bigger question: Can we all just act like decent human beings instead of total brainless careless asshats?