the perfect yellow

My best friend in high school had this poster on her wall, right where we could lie on her water bed and stare at it, dreamy-eyed, for hours. It was 1983. I wonder if she still has it, stored away in some dark place with all the other relics of youth. Seeing it now, I can almost feel the adolescent idolatrous idealist inside of me.

Last night, I danced with two friends to a whole set of nothing but Michael Jackson tunes, at a Denver club where most of the patrons were half our age. They ate sushi; I ate edamame. We were overdressed and didn't give a shit, because we were all wearing something that made us happy. The young men could tell we were dancing in our own little worlds, and they mostly seemed to respect that somehow, even as they joined in. Smiles and just plain fun all around.

Tonight, my sons and I stayed up way past our bedtimes, watching videos of "Beat It" (followed, of course, by "Eat It", at which they laughed hysterically), "Billie Jean", "ABC", and others. A cultural history lesson via youtube. Tomorrow morning, when night has turned to day once again, and the world feels just a little bit safer, we will watch "Thriller". Zombies. Dancing. How could that NOT be good?! Revolutionary, even.

It's all pretty messed up, I know, what with the whole Michael Jackson corpse extravaganza thing and all. Believe me, I KNOW people die every single goddamn day from all sorts of causes: some naturally tragic, some insanely stupid, others completely preventable.

But I really can't get all worked up about either the fanaticism of it all, or the criticism of it all.

All that matters to me, at this moment, is that he be remembered for his music. And the memories he has gifted, at great expense to himself, to an entire generation. That was some kinda magic. Let us all be judged on what we did well. On whatever bit of magic we managed to bring into the world.

I have been contemplating my beige-walled kitchen for awhile. Someday soon, I will go out and search for the perfect yellow: the yellow of Michael Jackson's sweater vest.

bennettism #101

In an honestly frustrated, nearly angry voice: "But I just don't get it, why is it named after a magazine?!"

Bennett - while discussing whether or not we should go see Battle of the Smithsonian this afternoon.

Grandma's influence on my children will be everlasting. At our house, they read Horrible Harry and Harry Potter; at Grandma's house, they read The New Yorker, Tintin, National Geographic, and, yes, Smithsonian..

The Color Pink

I have reconciled myself to the color pink. This pink. My new bike pink. The color my hair might be in a few weeks, if I can find the right shade of pink. The color of Olwyn's pink tiara I wore at my Done With Chemo Party. The Pink Brick Box my boys bought me for Mothers Day.

The bike is a new cruiser, fashioned to look like an old one. I drove past it every day on my way from school to radiation at the end of May. Finally, one day, I stopped. Test rode (this pic). Bought. No deliberation necessary.

It makes me happy to ride it. Happy to go at the speed of one speed. Happy to be a Rose Parade, with myself as the only entry. Happy to throw everything into the front basket (purchased later) and just go.

Today, I filled my basket and headed out to do some errands at about 4:00 pm. First stop, the post office, where I mailed my husband's 12-inch braid to Locks of Love. Two nights ago he let me cut it, and shave his head with the 1/2 inch attachment. Wow. He's had that hair for 20 years. Now he has hair that looks like mine.

While at the post office, I left the bike unlocked, but it was out of sight. A real lesson in trust. I only got out of line once to check on it. But I refuse to lock it up everywhere I stop, because it's impractical! Especially if I've got four or five places to get to before dinner.

Next stop: The Medicine Shoppe on Colorado Ave. I parked my bike out front (it has a kickstand!), and carried in my wallet and new scrip for Tamoxifen I had gotten from my oncologist earlier that day. While waiting, I decided to browse The Bookman. The pharmacist said the bike would be safer in front of his store, and he could watch it for me. When I came out of the bookstore and looked towards the pharmacy, my bike was nowhere to be seen! For a brief nano-second, I feared the worst. But when I looked in, there it was, parked in the middle of the pharmacy. The pharmacist had brought it in! I love my neighborhood.

I placed the bottle of pills in my basket, as well as the book I had picked up for Bennett for two bucks, and rode off towards the garden. We have a small but useful plot in the new Old Colorado City Community Garden, which is about six blocks from our house.

At the garden, I discovered new locks on the gates, and it just didn't feel quite right. They were definitely not Locks of Love. They felt like locks of exclusion. Even though we've got a deranged crazy lady roaming through, picking onions, and calling people names, that still didn't seem like reason enough to put locks on all three of the gates. Anyway, after calling Elise and getting the combo, I went in and picked some spinach and some greens, which I placed in a plastic container I had brought with me. Again, in the front basket of my unlocked bicycle. Needless to say, the salad I made for dinner, with some boiled eggs on top for protein, was second to none.

Baskets on bikes are not "cute"; they are PRACTICAL! It's so easy to just throw in what I need, and pedal out the driveway. No special shoes or dorky neon shirts with pockets in the back. I prefer skirts.

At some point in our recent history, "biking" became a sport, and not a way of life. I hate exercising, but going to the post office, the pharmacy, and the garden (I was also going to return a book to the library, but my neighbor I stopped to talk to was on her way there and said she would drop it off for me) on my new pink cruiser is just fun. I look for a reason to ride it every day.

I have a lock for it, but I lost the directions on how to set the combo. At some point, I will call the bike shop and have them help me figure it out. I will most likely use it if I park downtown and have to leave the bike for a few hours (yoga, for example). Until then, I will continue to roam the Westside lockless. With love. Like my husband.

overwhelmed by goodness

The past week or two has been jam-packed with amazing experiences. I marvel sometimes at how so many good things can happen in such a short time! Life has found me smiling more often than not these days....

A simple yet thrilling four-hour rafting trip down the Arkansas River returned my lost sense of strength and bravery. The next day, I wandered alone around Valley View Hot Springs until I found the pool where John and I sat nearly 14 years ago on the day before he proposed.

A week ago Friday, I had an amazing "love from strangers" day.... I held drawings of me and my mom in my hand, sketched by a woman who had seen our pictures on the blog. I received a bracelet with the word "HOPE" on it from another radiation patient. Later that afternoon, I met a woman in King Soopers who said, "I made your skirt."

Last Sunday night I hiked half-way up the Sand Dunes with two friends under the light of the full moon.

Yesterday, I took the time to teach my boys how to make scrambled eggs and french toast, instead of just doing it for them. Cooking is so much more than just food.

This evening, I danced barefoot on green grass in the pouring rain to the sound of Quetzal.... some cuban-latin-funk-fun.

Each one of these events would be worthy of its own blog post. Filled with details and photos and lessons learned. The problem is, I never seem to have enough time to reflect and write about them, because each and every day is filled with something special and magical. And I can't seem to choose which event is most worthy of a story. And I don't have time to write them all! I really shouldn't complain about this abundance, of course, but it's getting frustrating that I never seem to sit down long enough to actually record and reflect.

What to blame it on?

Facebook? That's an easy scapegoat.

The end-of-school-year/beginning-of-summer/middle-of-radiation madness? Perhaps.

Mostly, though, it's this strange feeling that if I can't share it all, then I shouldn't share any.
This needs to stop.....

....... Oh yeah, did I tell you about the purple penstemon and prolific peas? Or about how I swam 12 laps and did a back dive at the pool today? Or about the pleasantly slow speed of life on my new pink cruiser? Or about the fact that I have completed 23 out of 30 days of radiation?

poem in facebook status update format

Sue Spengler
wants a job which would require her to drive a Chevy pickup on dirt roads, wear gloves, and look through some sort of lens
has amazing experiences, because she expects to
likes going to places that feel like foreign countries but that are only a half-day's drive away
is writing while driving on roads she's never been on before
slipped, fell down, brushed herself off, and remembered to slow down
thinks wars should be forgotten
picked things up and put them in her pockets
communed quietly with two winter coat-shedding deer
pulled over to take some photos; didn't pull over to take some others
is following a silvery sleek Airstream dream
worries that she missed the turnoff
has a thing for boxcars and junkyards
should not have doubted her instinct
has proved her intersecting point

mom and me

My mother occasionally took it upon herself to sew or crochet us matching outfits. I remember how I felt while my brother was taking each of these photos. In the first one (1972) we were on our way to my kindergarten graduation. My bangs were straight (which wasn't always the case), my mother had pulled my hair up into a pony, I was wearing my favorite scuffed shoes, and I loved how the crocheted poncho enveloped me. I can still feel the comfort of the red-green-yellow fringes in my fingers. I thought my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world.






Fast forward to 1975. I'm in a quilted skirt with a scratchy liner and a matching too-tight neckerchief. My white blouse felt too big and bulky and made me feel ugly. My teeth were crooked. It was near Christmas, which was never an easy time for our three-person family. Mostly, I remember that I didn't feel like smiling or holding my mother's hand. But I was aware that doing so would make her happy, so I tried. Sort of.





In 2000, my mother was diagnosed with stage IV metastatic breast cancer. She would live another five and a half years before finally succumbing on August 2, 2006. This photo is from a New York Times article about Oregon's Death with Dignity Law. I remember how excited she was when she told me that the NYT was coming out to Oregon to do a story about HER. She just couldn't believe it.











Fast forward to 2009. Yes, today I donned my mother's orange sweater and Mayan earrings, and had my children take a picture of me "just like Granny". It's never too late to have matching outfits.

fline swu

One other note on this whole exaggerated flu thing: One of my Hispanic student's young sons was out playing yesterday. A little Black boy insulted him, and told him to go back to Mexico. I hate what fear does to people.

the end

So chemo is over. Twelve infusions and 28 weeks later, I can safely say I have arrived. Still intact. A bit more fragile. A bit stronger.

I had my first experience of running into someone I hadn't seen for awhile, and giving the abridged version when she asked me how chemo went. Yeah, I was hospitalized with a neutropenic fever over Christmas break, had severe neuropathy, shingles, and lymph cording... it was hell, but I made it.

It was strange, looking back on it like that. The day was sunny, I was strolling rather happily around the neighborhood taking in the tulips, and the fuzz on my head was as downy as a newborn chick. All of the sudden, it seemed as if I had awoken from a really bad dream, the details a bit hazy.

And now to the most Frequently Asked Question That I Am Getting Tired Of Answering. It comes in various forms.

Is it all gone now?
Did they get it all?
So, there's no more cancer?

I know what they mean. They want to know if I'm going to live. And for how long. Cancer is all about "how to talk around death". I appreciate most the people who have understood that to be diagnosed with cancer is to look mortality in the face and have a serious come-to-Jesus talk.

Anyway, here's the answer, as well as I can explain it:
First, the data, from a handy computer program that takes into account your age, general health, size and grade of tumor, and number of lymph nodes affected: With no treatment except surgery, I would have had a 62% chance of being alive with no recurrence in ten years. With chemo, it brought it up to 82%. If I choose to take Tamoxifen, it will bring that up to an 88% chance of seeing the year 2019. Chemotherapy doesn't "get it all". It gets about 99.9% of any cancer cells that might have leaked out of the tumor into my lymph system. It only takes one rogue cell, traveling around and deciding to lodge itself in my bones or lungs or liver X number of years in the future, for the cancer to return. There are no guarantees. It will never be "all gone".

I am an idealist at heart, yes. I see the bright side of just about every godddamn problem there is. I believe the best about everyone. Pollyanna should have been my middle name. If I had to, I could find something positive to say about cat poop!

But that doesn't take away the fact that there's a 12% chance that I won't see my youngest son off to college. You see, this is where cancer takes your mind in the darkness. It's not to be dwelt upon, but it is also not to be ignored.

When one is in the middle of treatment, there is focus, purpose, a singular task. Now that I have been released from chemo and have more decisions to make (more on that later), I find myself in a strange tormented limbo once again.

barb spencer

difficult problems
in full bloom
through seasons of sweat and chill
a breakthrough may only be a small step away
all in good time
you can count
on
the power
of
God
to
ease the
experience
day be day,
finally,
you win.



1997-1998.....In my second year of teaching sixth grade at Carmel Middle School, I was working with an amazing team of teachers. There were three of us. We all taught a Reading/Language Arts Block, and then the kids rotated through for Social Studies (me), Math (Lisa), and Science (Barb). In February of that year, Barb informed us that her breast cancer had returned, and she would be undergoing intense treatment for the rest of the school year. She would be taking the rest of the year off. For two young teachers, the news was hard; for our kids, it was devastating. Somehow, we made it through to the end of the school year, having lost a teacher the kids loved, and having to make due with a substitute they could barely tolerate.

Over Spring Break that year, I made Barb a journal. For the cover, I cut out various pictures and phrases from magazines, and arranged them together with some homemade paper I had left over from the days when I made homemade paper. She told me that it would be her gratitude journal.

In September of this year, after my breast cancer diagnosis, Barb returned that journal cover to me. She had somehow cut if off of hers, and glued it onto the cover of another. I take it with me to every doctor appointment, jotting down notes, unfamiliar words, statistics, observations of waiting rooms, phone numbers, and occasionally, things for which I am grateful.

Today, I am grateful for a found poem.

moving day

it was the
shrink-wrapped tubs
of tiny treasures
that finally did me in
that, and the multi-colored
metallic dragon
unnecessary as a hundred
and eleven friends
but still
you wouldn't want to unfriend
a dragon
sometimes there's no need for
small boxes to
pack, check, x, stack
volume is fascinating
with its emptiness and
howtofillitness
and imsorryifilostitness
patience I mean
with those too young to understand
friendship is never easy
and full of ums

WWYS - What Would Yoda Say?

Cancer makes impossible-to-ignore demands-
rearrange your priorities
be content to be who you are
let go of the illusion of control

Cancer shines a light on what really matters

I try not to think trite thoughts
(Do or do not; there is no try)
but I can't get
Pachelbel's Canon in D or
Klimt's Kiss or
That which doesn't kill us....
out of my head

I could even
throw
a party now
with the
theme of "pink"
without
throwing up

Neitzsche was wrong-
I don't feel any stronger
At least not yet

Even the cliched could sound sagacious
if conveyed from the mouth of Yoda:

"Your priorities, rearrange you must."

"Be who you are, if content you wish to be."

"Illusion of control, let go of you must."

"On what really matters, a light cancer shines."

Beings are wise, not because they can
comprehend the complicated, but
because they can
simplify it
for the rest of us

"Makes us stronger, hmm?, that which kills us not."

number 12

Today, 4/20/09, at 4:20 PM, the IV machine beep-beeped for the last time. I thought I would cry, but I didn't. The boys were all there, I had had a good two-hour nap in the chair, and I just wanted the hell out at that point. I told the nurses no offense, but I never wanted to see them again. (I'm sure they've never heard THAT one before!)

When John and I arrived this morning at 9:15 AM, I was weepy without end. Brownie, 92-year-old Brownie, who volunteers in oncology, who brings me warm blankets and hot lunch and cold applesauce, and, when asked the secret to a long life doesn't hesitate when she answers: "I guess I just don't worry very much"....... anyway, Brownie was the first to say good morning, and unfortunately she got the brunt of my didn't-get-enough-sleep-last-night tears.

Gunda took my weight and blood pressure, and Susan drew my blood. That hour and a half wait for the lab reports was one of the longest of my life. Luckily, all was well, and my twelfth chemo infusion was under way. After some IV Pepcid, steroid, and Benadryl, the last bag of Taxol was hung. At that point, I knew that freedom from having my port poked was a mere three hours away. I slept through most of it, thanks to the Benadryl.

I became particularly close to one nurse, Anne. She was the witness to several of my breakdowns, as well as the one who broke the news to me that Matt, a 20-something young man I sat next to on occasion, had died. When she hugged me on the way out today, I did shed a few tears, and told her that I couldn't have done it without her.

That evening, Grant, Bennett, John, and I ate sopapillas from La Casita and drank Ibarra Mexican Hot Chocolate around the fire pit, each making a little celebratory, ceremonial toast. Then Grant and Bennett light sabered around the backyard. How I love watching them become Jedi in their minds and bodies and souls. It was after 9 PM before we finally came in; if you know me, letting my kids stay up that late on a school night is virtually unheard of! But I've learned a lot, and one of the things I've learned is that special events allow us all to break the rules. I've also learned how easy it is to take a sick day (thanks Klayton and Suzanne!), and that I should do it more often.

So I've come to end of this chapter, and am going to close the book for awhile. There will be more..... radiation, hormone therapy, lab tests for ever and ever, but I'm letting all that go for now. At least for the couple three weeks until radiation begins.

For now, here's a toast to 82%! According the stats, I have an 82% chance of living 10 years with no relapse. I'm going to make sure and take Brownie's advice, and not worry about the other 18%!

At about 9:15 PM, 12 hours after arriving in oncology this morning, we popped the final balloon:

arundhati roy

Author of one of my favorite novels, The God of Small Things, and now there's this:



and this:

trapped

When she is upstairs, she is petrified
That if she goes down, she will get
Distracted by the too-many-things
When she is downstairs, she worries
That if she goes up, she will miss
Hearing the doorbell's opportunities

Where the hell is the Mezzanine, she
wonders, when you really need it?

Cancer Snuck In

In her black overcoat
nudging open the door
like a stealth robber
and she has been here ever since.

she changes everything
crowds the bookshelves with unwanted binders
her hand hovers over the jewelry box;
she will steal now, she says;
just like she stole your mother’s

Tonight, she climbs
into the shower and taunts, “Truth or Dare?”
before daring me to
look down at the truth
later, she crawls under the covers
between us
stripping sexy from the lexicon
and whispering whatifs
in my ear

Even as I sit here,
she lurks behind me
threatening to
invade every conversation
and bends over my naked dome
and quietly demands,
From now on,
you write about me.

[using the poem “Death Barges In” by Kathleen Sheeder Bonanno as a template]

number 5

Mothers' Day
in Mexico
is always on May 10th
5/10
predictable
like mothers should be
but frequently are not

light of day

through sleep-shifted eyes, the room appears
picassoesque, water color effects-
highways and high seas wandering beyond...

into spaces perhaps they oughtn't

words (too thin) fly through air (too thick) and
settle
like dust on the dresser
reminder
of duties left undone



[suggestions for titles welcome]

eurich's steampunk dragon

ferrus interruptus 10

he remembers the winter
when patches appeared on his too-short trousers
and his mother often found
food on their porch-
origin known or unknown, they ate

the dinner table talk was harder to
hold onto that year, but still he listened,
for he discovered he could hear
even behind tone
and gesture

that year, he became Harry Potter for the third time,
Anakin for the fourth,
and a Dragonborn Paladin for the first.

that year, his mother left for mysterious places;
he missed her more than he was able to show,
and sometimes more than she was able to see

that year, he put metal in the microwave,
never returned the lid to the litter box,
and mismatched the socks.

that year, magic was real,
and there was still-
real maple syrup
clean clothes
the symphony
a wedding
solo flight
and
trust

the morning

perhaps
it began with
a peeling open of the eyelids
to see a clementine on fire

or

maybe
it was a suffusion of
gray and unwinding dreams

either way
it was
perfect