Good-bye, 2022

Happy New Year!

New Year’s used to be my favorite holiday, a pivotal day when everything is seemingly shiny and fresh. New pursuits, new goals, new, new, new! This year the day passed like any other. I had to remind myself on the eve of the new year that it really was the eve of a new year. I don’t know about anyone else, but the so-called “holiday season” didn’t feel like a holiday season this year, in fact it didn’t feel like much of anything. Maybe it’s because of what the past couple months of my life have been like. Whatever the reason, I’m glad it’s gone for another year. Please take down your trees and lights and save on your electric bill.

I got caught up in the Southwest Airlines mess. Instead of flying south to see my niece on the 23rd I received a text at 4:00am telling me to stay in bed because my flight was cancelled, along with 7,000 others. I didn’t make it to South Carolina until Christmas evening. After a couple of good days with my niece (and a big, beautiful turkey feast at 9:00pm on the 25th!) I got dreadfully ill with a sinus infection, made my first out of state visit to an urgent care center, and spent the next three days in bed. A fitting end to a year of many gains that failed to make up for a crushing loss.

No matter how many trips I took or successes I had they can never make up for the loss of my sister Marie. I miss her so badly, wish she could share in the good things that happened to me in 2022. Purchasing my beautiful little house and finally finding domestic peace, resuming international travel, surviving a deadly disease for yet another year; having Marie here to be proud of me would make all the difference, would have made 2022 a different kind of year. No matter what I do now the losses that I’ve dealt with always outweigh the good.

Sorry for being so depressing!

Yes, the traveling was great, I love my home, and I continue to beat the odds of Stage IV Lung Cancer. Perhaps the best thing that happened in 2022 is that my incredible sister Jeanne survived a potentially fatal surgery to remove a huge staghorn kidney stone. Click on the link and read a little about them. Look up some images. They’re disgusting. Jeanne had been fighting infection, sepsis, and constant hospitalizations that only worsened as time went by. Her surgery was a last resort, and she got the best care possible. I’ll just bet Marie had something to do with her success. What a bright spot that I still have her.

I have not formally made any resolutions for 2023. But I have something nagging at me that really is kind of a resolution: to get serious about writing again. Before cancer, all I blabbed about was writing, traveling and writing. Since my diagnosis I’ve managed to pen a book about my journey back to life, and I’ve blogged here all along. Yet I lost the passion and the hunger, and I have not gotten it back to date. It’s time to regain it. I once wrote two extensive books at the same time, and self published seven books in a matter of a few years! Recently I read through my “cancer journey book,” sent it to a close and brilliant friend of mine, and his interest has given me back a glimmer of the ambition I once had. I’m changing my in progress page to reflect my renewed interest in “Destination Life.” Have a look and tell me what you think!

I’m also making lists of publishers of memoires, short stories, and articles on health and wellness, hoping to kickstart my interest again by doing a variety of writing, and maybe even putting some of my old but worthy stuff out there and seeing if anyone bites. So many times I’ve vowed that I would put myself to making a part-time career out of writing. Vows and lists have to be backed up by action. Instead, I play with my phone or watch Hulu. I guess I’ve earned my right to do that. But I feel like I’m cheating myself. No time like the present to light a fire under my own butt, right?

Hey! I just changed the whole appearance of my website, yet another thing that has been on the to-do list for months and only got done now. Yay, me! Could the thirst to write again be just around the corner? My fingers are crossed!

Until then, please enjoy some of my favorite memories from 2022!

I’m Still Standing!

Hey, I thought that it would be a little while between posts, but I didn’t expect for it to be this long! It’s all good. If anyone missed me, thank you. If anyone was concerned that my absence was health-related, thank you also. I’m happy to report that I’ve been “away” for mostly good reasons! Not only have I bought myself some privacy and peace and quiet, but in between real estate demands I took my first trip out of the country with cancer as my sidekick, and enjoyed another holiday with my niece in South Carolina. In between all that, I’ve been moving, a thankless necessity for the most part! The best things about moving are that I’m getting rid of things I don’t need anymore, and I’ll hopefully never have to do it again! At least that’s what I’m shooting for.

As for the traveling, I’m shooting to do that a lot more! But let’s talk about what has kept me from blogging, and just about everything else normal, in the order that it happened. Starting with my new house!

If you’ve never bought real estate before and anyone tells you that it’s fun and a dream come true, don’t believe them. The end result should be a dream fulfilled, but the road to get there is full of disappointment, annoyance, and demanding people who don’t care that you have a life outside of their sphere. If you’re a dummy like me and decide to be nice to a brand new agent and help her get her first sale, you’ll be even more miserable. I can’t even count the times I wanted to ditch the entire transaction and rent for the rest of my life. But I stuck with it and am the proud owner of a beautiful home in a retirement community, a major chip off my Bucket List and something I’ve been planning for some time.

Ten days before my scheduled closing day I flew to Ireland to get away from it all. Yes, the timing was really crazy! But the truth is that I planned the trip way back in March and it just happened to come up in the middle of all the house buying madness! Here I am showing off at Giant’s Causeway. As you can see the weather was quite favorable. The sun was out most days, and if we got rain it was only a passing shower and didn’t ruin any plans. The rainbows were pretty great!

Amongst other things, Ireland is well known for its pubs. I swore that I would not fall into that mold. But guess who spent a lot of time sipping wine in pubs every night? Yeah, you guessed right! And I loved it! Ireland is a triple threat in my book: a beautiful country, with nice people, and great food. What’s not to love?

So then it was back home for more madness. Packing and moving time! I had been in my duplex for nineteen years and had accumulated a lot of stuff. What a job! I also had yet another trip on the schedule, to pup sit my dog children in South Carolina, Jaxson and Chevelle, while my niece visited her in-laws in Florida. This was some much needed rest and relaxation, and I had the good intention of putting out a blog while there, but guess what? WordPress wouldn’t open! I have no clue why. So, no blog. But plenty of dog.

Back home, my move continued. It’s interesting how you can get a taste for something even though it’s grueling, and I got a good taste for gathering boxes, deciding what was getting packed and what was going in the trash, and being ready for the mover, who was so great and helpful. In the end, we got a big job done in about a month, doing three small moves instead of one big one.

Deep sigh.

That wasn’t the end of my challenges. My precious sister Jeanne had kidney surgery and was laid up in Boston for two weeks. She just got home today and I get to see her before Christmas!

As I type this I’m supposed to be landing in Greenville, South Carolina. But my flight was canceled early this morning because of the huge storm blanketing many areas of the country. I’m rescheduled to fly in on Christmas Day, so all has not been lost.

And oh, I retired from teaching yesterday!

Are you dizzy? Yeah, me too! When your head stops spinning have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, and I’ll will too!

Be back soon!

Dispelling Cancer Myths

Cancer, cancer, cancer, cancer!

Sheesh, you probably say, does this woman think about anything else besides CANCER?

Truth is, I think about A LOT of other things besides cancer. In fact, I’ve hardly thought about cancer at all in the past month because I have been so busy trying to make important changes in my life. But time and time again I come up with more things I want to write about the subject, and let’s be honest, don’t you want to read about life with cancer from someone who actually IS living life with cancer? Instead of a so-called “expert” who writes for one of those cheesy medical sites? Thought so.

This time around I will expand on something I’ve toyed with in other posts: myths about cancer. I have five biggies to cover, fictitious beliefs that I have encountered time and again in the past three years of my “journey.” Here goes!

People get lung cancer from smoking. Therefore, they deserve it. This is totally false, and I know this firsthand. While I smoked long ago, I quit when I was seventeen years old, a full thirty-five years before my diagnosis. Non-smoker lung cancer cases are on the rise from environmental factors such as longtime exposure to radon, which is now the second biggest reason (behind smoking) that people get lung cancer. Neither of these was why I got it. My lung cancer was a genetic alteration. So, asking me smoking related questions is really shitty and ignorant, and if I spit at you remember you asked for it. Don’t do it to anyone, because you really don’t know the reason. And even if the person in question got it from smoking, it’s pretty crappy to assume anyone deserves to have a disease because of a bad habit that is very hard to kick.

All women who get cancer want to be referred to as “warriors.” Nope. Wrong again. I feel like this myth is embedded deep in our culture, since my recent post about this very subject was hardly read or commented on, was even largely ignored by a faithful group of friends who regularly read and applaud my stuff. Yeah, it’s tough for someone to speak the truth and go against the grain of what the general population wants to believe. It’s just so interesting to envision a woman with cancer fighting with all she has and, sometimes, going down in a blaze of glory. Well let me further burst your bubble: there isn’t any glory in dying of cancer. I watched my sister perish from the same curse I’m stuck with now. And I’ll say it again, from my own personal experience: I’m not interested in being your warrior. All I’m interested in is being ME. And I know for sure that I’m not the only cancer survivor who feels this way.

“Big Pharma” is Withholding a Cure for Cancer. This makes me want to scream. Again and again, I notice something really interesting about this myth: the individuals who believe it don’t have cancer. They are experts at something they have never experienced firsthand. I have not heard anyone with cancer make this claim. Because we know that it’s nonsense. “Big Pharma” would make ten times more money curing cancer than they would withholding a cure for cancer. Think about it. I never believed this claim even before I was diagnosed, even from the outside not wanting to see inside. Now, from the inside looking out, I’m in even more disbelief that anyone could be so stupid as to believe it.

Only Unhealthy People Get Cancer. I was one of the healthiest people out there, always took care of myself, was in great shape, ate as well as I could, didn’t and don’t have any bad habits. It would seem that my vigilance didn’t work, but when looked at another way, one could easily say that the reason I’m still alive and kicking is because I was healthy to start with. In fact, when I asked my former oncologist why I “made it” when so many others don’t, he pointed to my lifestyle before cancer as one of the two biggest factors. (The other one is that I have continued to live my life similarly post-diagnosis.) When people claim that they are healthy and won’t get ill because they eat their vegetables and drink their green tea, I just smile, knowing the irony. Living a healthy existence can prepare you for if and when the worst happens to you, but it doesn’t always mean that the worst isn’t going to happen.

Stage IV Cancer is a Death Sentence. Walking around with the knowledge that you have cancer at the deadliest stage is hardly a picnic, but it isn’t necessarily a death sentence anymore. Targeted therapy, immunotherapy, and several other cutting edge treatments are working wonders for patients like yours truly and allowing us to not only live longer and live better, but to turn the tables on cancer, as well as the general perceptions surrounding it. For many of us, the days of suffering more from treatment than from the actual disease are in the past, and every day brings us closer and closer to a cure. I regularly have people tell me that if they didn’t know I have cancer they would never guess, because I look so healthy. I hope to keep it that way for the foreseeable future.

To further illustrate the mythological aspect of the final item, I’m heading to Ireland next week, and I hereby promise to write a nice post (with lots of pictures!) that has nothing to do with cancer when I get back! Until then, I hope you will ponder what is true and what isn’t when you think about this awful disease.

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.

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!

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.

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?

Who’s to Blame?

I feel like I’ve covered this subject in at least one other blog, but it’s worth discussing again.

The subject? Blame.

Whenever I turn around I hear someone else trying to get out of taking blame for anything, even the smallest mishap. As a teacher, this happens countless times per day, and it isn’t always my students denying wrong doing. I’m sorry hasn’t gone down with a fight, it died a quiet death when my bad and I didn’t do it came along, hand in hand. I’m sorry went so quietly, we didn’t see it going. We couldn’t give it a proper funeral. Rest in peace, dear words.

I’m sorry does make an appearance every so often, like a portrait of a long gone family member or lover, but it is usually not very satisfying. Unless it comes from someone whom is an upstanding and sincere person, it reeks of contamination and denial. In this case, I’ll take silence. Even the middle finger works better than a fake I’m sorry.

What’s the hardest place in the world to get another human to accept blame? I’ve been a lot of places, and in my opinion, there is no geographic location where an individual is more likely to say the two golden words. There are decent people everywhere, and there are crappy people everywhere. But I do believe this: if you are fortunate enough to be one of the aforementioned upstanding individuals out there, you live your life and treat others in a way that make it unnecessary in most cases to apologize. Sure, there will be times when you make a mistake (everyone does) because no one, as the saying goes, is perfect, and you will have to speak the calming words that you still have at your disposal and didn’t forget like most have. But you aren’t in the business to need them on a regular basis. You’re better than that. Precious people like you are everywhere in the world. The rest of us just have to find you.

One day several years ago I started to wonder when people started to dislike each other. Was it after World War II? The Civil War? The Industrial Revolution? When? Or was it in my lifetime? The 70’s, 80’s, 90’s? Perhaps it was my childish mind, or the fact that I had a lovely childhood, at least until my father died in 1977, but the 1970’s were still good years. Maybe it was the 1980’s, which were crazy fun, but also brought in technology that would eventually separate us and make us feel safe sitting behind a computer or later, a cell phone, treating each other badly. Whenever it was, we’re in big trouble now.

I try not to live my life around the news. I don’t watch TV and have not for years, but I do read headlines. I don’t read statistics either, but those headlines tell a lot of stories. Crimes against people based on skin color are well publicized. But has anyone taken note of the fact that crimes against helpless children of any and every color are skyrocketing? And against women of any and every color? Mass shootings are nearly an everyday occurrence, to the point that they’re easy to scroll by to get to something more gory. Can you hear the “I didn’t do it” ringing out through the bold print?

I’ve been around the world and around the country largely by myself. I’ve survived cancer and the deaths of the people I love most in the world. I’ve never lived in fear. But let me tell you: the things that I see going on around me make me not want to meet new people. I love and have big appreciation for the intentionally small circle of family and friends that I trust with my life. I plan to keep things just the way they are.

After several paragraphs of complaints, the question must now loom: Do I know how to apologize? Yes, I do. Do I apologize when I’m wrong? Yes, I do. Do I apologize when I feel someone has wronged me just to make peace? No, I absolutely do not. Shouldering blame for something that someone does to us doesn’t help anyone. It makes us feel like dog poop, and it makes the guilty party feel vindicated, and like they can continue their sucky behavior. Don’t do it. Because you already feel wronged over something you didn’t do, and the actual wrongdoer now has an open door to do it again and again. And will.

Let them. Save your honesty and integrity for someone who knows how to return it. You won’t be sorry. You won’t have to be.

Short Story: Love is For Everyone

I love writing and wish I could do it more. Writing is also really hard work. So it kind of rots when you submit something and don’t even hear back from a publisher or magazine or journal. That’s what happened with the following story, which I offered to a well known magazine early last year. Actually getting chosen for publication was a long shot, but receiving a rejection letter is always better than silence. Their loss is my blog’s gain.

When I sat down to write, I had been pondering the question is love for everyone? Even someone who is living with a death sentence? According to me, apparently so. Please enjoy “Love is For Everyone,” and tell me what you think either way!

LOVE IS FOR EVERYONE

              “Mom, stop thinking like that,” Nellie’s daughter Emma scolded lightly as they pushed through the door of the infusion clinic.

              “Emma, cancer just changes everything. The last thing I want to do is give up on love, but it seems like such a longshot now. I mean, Paul…” Nellie’s voice drifted off as she thought about how her longtime companion had moved away shortly after her diagnosis. They still talked occasionally, but he seemed to like his new life in Florida and wouldn’t be returning to Illinois anytime soon.

              “Mom, cancer has changed a lot of things, but it hasn’t changed everything. You’re still human and you’re still worthy,” Emma reminded her.

              “And this is it, hon. Last treatment.” Nellie shivered as Kathy, the familiar infusion nurse, appeared to greet them.

              “Nellie, you look more and more gorgeous every time I see you!” Kathy bubbled.

              “I agree,” Emma chimed in, tucking her arm inside Nellie’s.

              Nellie’s hand drifted up to the black headwrap she had learned to feel comfortable wearing as her chocolate brown hair thinned from her treatments. She felt attractive in a different and unexpected way now, like she had the beauty of strength, of surviving. She lightly squeezed Emma’s warm arm in return.

              “Thank you. I’m ready to get this done.” Nellie took a deep breath and looked toward the infusion area with its comfortable brown chairs and hospital curtains that many patients left open so they could chat. Her appointments were always early, so only a solitary man with slumped shoulders sat in one of the chairs, staring at the floor.

              “Another first timer?” Nellie asked Kathy.

              Kathy’s eyes pleaded with her for help. Nellie knew what Kathy wanted. Nellie would frequently offer a compassionate ear to patients who were there for the first time. Nellie loved to assist.

              Nellie wondered where the man’s support system was. He appeared to be alone. She moved toward him. The man looked frightened. When he lifted his head, she saw that he was also very handsome.

              “Hi, I’m Nellie,” she said, in an upbeat tone.

              “Hello, Nellie.” The man’s kind almond brown orbs drifted over her headwrap, her eyes, her smile, back to her eyes. “I’m Ed, and well, I’m terrified of chemo.”

              “Take my word, I know exactly how you feel. I was in your shoes eight months ago. And do you know what? Today is my last treatment. So, if I can do it, I know you can, too.”

              “You’re a lot braver than me! And it’s nice that you have family to be with you. I’m just a lonely old guy with no one around.” Ed lowered his eyes again.

              “Guess what, Ed? Forget about lonely! You’re stuck with me now! Emma has to run a few errands, so it’s just you and me!”

              Emma lifted her eyebrows to Nellie in surprise, because she always stayed for the infusions. But she gave Nellie a quick peck on the cheek and disappeared with a knowing wink.

              “I’ve had worse things happen to me!” Ed joked.

              “Kathy, I think we’re ready!” Nellie called, as she sat down in the chair next to Ed.

              His shoulders lifted and he leaned back, looking a little more relaxed.

              Nurse Kathy began to set up their infusions.

              “I admire your positive attitude, Nellie! How do you do it?” Ed asked.

              “Well, in this business, it pays to be positive, doesn’t it? Where would we be if we weren’t? This stuff is hard enough without being down in the dumps!” Nellie answered.

              “You’re right about that. But it sure is tough when you lose your wife, your kids live on the other side of the country, and you get cancer.” Ed shook his head.

              “I’m sorry, Ed.” Nellie sensed that Ed wanted to talk about his life.

              “I lost my Peggy three years ago. Cancer again. Took care of her for a year. And now here I am…” Ed’s voice drifted off as his eyes misted over.

              Nellie reached out and touched the top of his hand briefly before Kathy came over with his infusion bag clipped to a medical stand. “You’re going to do great,” Nellie assured him.

              She saw Ed tense up as Kathy asked if he was ready for her to access the port above his heart.

              “I’ll be good with you here, Nellie. But it sure will be harder after today! You’ll be off celebrating your last treatment and living life!”

              “How about we go get a coffee and a piece of pie once we’re done? You, me, and Emma will celebrate your first and my last!” Nellie gushed.

              “That’s something to look forward to!” Ed agreed.

              “Ready, Ed?” Kathy asked gently, about to start Ed’s first infusion.

              “As ready as I’ll ever be, thanks to this lady,” Ed beamed.

Coming Clean, Round 2.5

It’s always something.

Have truer words ever been spoken?

I’ve been kind of quiet on social media as of late. Busy, yes. Holidays are like that. But there’s another reason: My aching back.

My aching back started its aching in September, shortly after I started my teaching year. The first week of the school year was glorious. I felt great for the most part, then the pain started and has not let up for months now. I’ve been in physical therapy for a few weeks, and was supposed to get a cortisone injection before the holidays, but the insurance company said no, I have to do six weeks of PT first. Let that sink in: I have to live my life in pain for weeks before they’ll let me have something that will allow me to get back to my normal activities. It’s an old, old story. Pay for insurance every month, whilst being at the mercy of the faceless suits living pain free existences in some hidden office, who knows where.

This isn’t a rant about insurance companies. It’s a rant about another old, old story.

It’s always something.

Hey, as far as cancer is concerned, I’m doing great. And you know what? I’d love to be enjoying it right now. But I really can’t, because of my aching back. This pain has been worse than anything cancer has inflicted on me in the past two plus years. I want this to be the worst thing that I have to deal with. I’m not without hope. Somehow, I’m not depressed. But unlike cancer, my back is holding me back from keeping up my level of hiking, walking, and fitness. It has taken a big bite out of what keeps me going. Herein lies the real reason that I’ve been so quiet on social media: I have not done a real hike since late November, and most of my posts are about hiking or traveling. Okay, the New England weather is involved too. But this cycle needs to be broken. ASAP.

I’ve come to accept pain as a normal part of my existence. This realization hit me a few days ago. A real WTF??? moment in my former semi-charmed kind of life. So I carried my new acceptance around briefly before I stopped in the middle of everything and said one word.

NOPE.

I absolutely, positively DO NOT accept this pain as part of my life. This pain has to go buh-bye, and it will. If I can survive Stage IV lung cancer, believe me, I will get through this back crap, too.

Is this a play for sympathy? Another big NOPE. I’ve shunned sympathy from the get go. Not interested, any more than I am interested in being a hero or a warrior, or getting sad face emojis on Facebook. In fact, I have done everything I can to appear myself, even as I struggle to get up a flight of steps or carry things without feeling like I’m breaking in half. I’m well aware that there are people out there who have to deal with this kind of disabling condition for the rest of their lives, who have dealt with worse for longer. Same with cancer. I’ve lost several friends and acquaintances to this hell that I’ve managed to survive in spite of statistics screaming out that I wouldn’t. Truth be told, in a chapter from the “life isn’t fair” department, one of my former students is living his last days on this Earth because of this beast. By the time you read this, he will likely be gone. No, not interested in sympathy. Because many people have it a lot worse than me. And not much is going to stop me from believing that my fun isn’t over yet.

Am I done adventuring? NOPE.

I’m going to get through Round 2.5: The Bad Back. If I can get through Cancer Rounds 1 & 2, I can emerge from this too. Scary thing is, all this struggle for survival is getting sickening. But what’s the alternative? Nothing that I’m interested in. Yet. I wonder though, does the human spirit just finally say, I’m done? Admittedly, I’ve whispered it to myself a time or two, but that lasts about ten seconds. If only I could just get to a point now where this back of mine allows me to enjoy my physical pursuits without pain and exhaustion.

Hey, I can still walk and think and read and write. I’m killing my PT exercises. I sleep like a pro. My house is still clean and my teaching job gets done. The bills are paid. I could name many other blessings that make me keep fighting the fight. Yet after all is said and done, I have to accept that it’s always going to be something. Could I maybe just get a rain check for a month or two?