Ghosts of Halloween Passed

After every Halloween comes November.  We began celebrating the transition at 12:01 a.m. – not because we were partying, but because we’d overwhelmed our digestive systems with scones and hot chocolate consumed at a speed unsustainable by our age.  I believe there’s actually a mathematical formula for figuring the intake/biological-rejection-time ratio for really old people.

So we raised a cup of “projectile pink” Pepto Bismol and belched a toast to the new month in unison.  It was one of our proudest moments.

November is a month of promise and possibilities.  It’s just that we have to get beyond October before November arrives.  Now, no one isn’t graphically aware of how much our family hates Halloween.  In fact, Brodi has re-named that day as National Suck It, Doc Day.  How appropriate.  But we did receive some much appreciated assists in getting us through dreaded October.

The first was courtesy of our grandson, Carter.  Of course, pink is the color of breast cancer awareness month. It is the color of hope. It is also the color of Carter’s costume.  Nothing gothic for this kid, no sir.  He was a pink human woopie cushion!  We all agreed it was most appropriate for the occasion.

Another significant assist came on our recent pilgrimage to Houston.  Dr. Wolff was very pleased with Dennis’ progress.  At one point he stood over him and said, “Just look at him!  He’s amazing.  And he’s not going anywhere any time soon.”  I took that straight to the bank.

Dr. Wolff further reiterated that the way to fight this disease is with brute force, as if battling some foul and narcissistic creature from the Black Lagoon.  We were with him so far.

But then he lost us. Dr. Wolff said that after inflicting blunt force trauma, we should consider backing off chemo for a while. 

Oh yeah, like that’s going to happen.  We have fought so hard for so long, and have reduced the number and size of the nodules by half.  Was he actually suggesting we “un-chemo?”  AS I-IIIIIFFFF!  No.  No.  No.

But apparently, Dr. Wolff is smarter than I am.  He said that those who take a chemo break actually do better over-all.  Hmmmmm.

OK.  OK.  We promised we’d confer with our family about it and then decide. 

When we discussed the issue with Erin and Brodi, we all agreed that because of the degree of difficulty involved, this called for drastic action.  We reasoned that in order not to squander our existence or our options, we’d go platinum en masse.  When in doubt, bleach it out.  Lightening our hair always enlightens our minds.  It’s easier to get to our alpha state when blond.  And, it’s cheaper than recreational cosmetic surgery. 

So the girls and I assembled around Erin’s bathroom sink, shrouded in towel turbins like terry cloth burqas, empty boxes of Loreal platimum 01 littering the countertops like spent cartridges, and foamed our collective scalps.  We muttered incantations over our cauldrons of peroxide, reciting ancient recipes dating back to Jean Harlow calling for eye of Newt, Mitt and Herman and invoking the spirit of Dulcolax, which caused our squirt bottles to foam and bubble by the light of the full moon.

To ensure maximum potency, we drank anything with caffeine and ate our weight in Halloween candy.  Within an hour, we went platinum…and then we went stupid.  Too many calories per hour, but we really put the “duh” in “duhlicious.”  We rocked blond!

But most importantly, as we emerged from our cocoon of platinum, our family had arrived at a 3-pronged plan of action:

1. Ablation
2. Vacation
3. Celebration

We are considering ablating two nodules in Dennis’ right lung.  This involves killing the buggers with high intensity microwaves.  I offered to shout dirty words down Dennis’ wind pipe, but he didn’t think that would have the same burn capability.  I’m not so sure. 

While ablation is invasive, it is not a huge operation.  (My way wouldn’t require anesthetic, but whatev.)

If all goes well, Dennis will take a chemo vacation for several weeks under strict surveillance.  We will then celebrate with significant G-force, which includes daily “Tebowing,” and give the stink eye to cancer. 

We gathered in a very blond huddle, and after a moment of silence, we shouted in unison, “Happy ‘Suck It, Doc’ Day!”   

  

Fright Sprite

I’m not exactly sure why I have an almost Biblical vengeance against Halloween.  Don’t get me wrong.  I love a good old scary movie by a roaring fire on an autumn eve as well as anyone. 

Perhaps it’s because every year its presence invades our consciousness around Labor Day, seeping in like a malevolent fog, and lingers through November, when all the smiling jack-o-lanterns have decomposed into frowning faces more ghoulish than my own.

Perhaps it’s because Halloween is a holiday dedicated to celebrating a sinister accumulation of dark and terrifying unknowns that makes it so fearsome.

Perhaps it is because four years ago on that very day Dennis was diagnosed with cancer.  Yes, I think that’s it.

Nevertheless, the occasion does have a bright side.  When I asked Necie what she wanted to be this year, she suggested being a hippie.  Last year we were twin witches.  She asked if I knew what a hippie was.  I replied of course I did.  It is a condition singular to every woman post menopause.  She just looked perplexed.

So I explained that long, long ago in a decade far away, hippies inhabited the earth wearing flowers, long skirts, sandals and tee shirts with peace signs on the front. 

Necie’s face lit up as she listened.  And then she asked if she could go to my clothes closet for a costume.  The little darling.  I guess I should be glad she didn’t ask for a flapper dress and lessons in learning the “Black Bottom.”

Then Necie asked what I was planning to be for Halloween.  I said I was considering a sociopathic exoskeleton because I’m seriously into decadent nobility.  Again, she just looked perplexed.  Nothing like a little verbal propofol to stifle further questions.  It worked for both of us.

Dennis has been considering being a scarecrow.  He’s got the clothes and the figure.  Lately he’s been singing, “If I Only Had A Brain.”  Now this is ironic, because he had just had a brain MRI at the Huntsman on Saturday.  We spent the weekend waiting for the results and trying not to think thoughts.  Only one of us succeeded. 

On Monday we received the welcome news that he indeed has a brain, AND that brain is NORMAL.  No evidence of metastasis.  We celebrated by defying the laws of gravity…and propriety. 

I heard of an elementary school principal who claimed Halloween sends the wrong message to children.  So she cancelled it.  Huzzah!  I ratify that! 

And I will go and do likewise.  I’m canceling Halloween too, right after I consume all the chocolate I planned to distribute.  This works for me.

I’ve been investigating other calendar events to take the place of Halloween.  And last week was National Bosses’ Day.  OK.  I can do that one.  But not one person wished me Happy Bosses’ Day.  I was so mad, I fired the world.  I cancelled the whole week.  I am now in the process of founding an entirely new reason to celebrate…National No More Night Sweats Month.  I figure it will not only make every grandma more tolerable, but it will also reduce global warming.  Both will be beneficial for the eco-system.

A while ago, Brodi decided to “de-Brodify” her computer.  She was suffering from www fatigue.  Very interesting.  Apparently, there are actual physical ailments associated with over-use of one’s amazing inventions.  For instance, there’s “tech eye,” and “pc elbow.” 

Can you believe it?

I find that intriguing.  Now I don’t use my technology that much, but there have been occasions when I have threatened to disembowel my computer. Had one just now. And lately I have noticed I have developed my own set of peculiar adversarial syndromes.  I have “android ear,” “ipad paranoia,” “allergic techno aversion,” “aggravated granny jiggle,” and “snuggler’s flab.”  I’m not sure pitching my computer into the Grand Canyon would help.  But it’s tempting.

I love autumn.  Enough leaves have fallen to kick through on our daily walks.  The days are golden, bright and sunny. 

There are definitely more things to celebrate than fear. 

Against All Odds

Last week Dennis and I took a road trip to beautiful downtown Cedar City for SUU’s fall lineup of plays.  We went with old and dear friends.  Jeff and Barb Booth are very comfortable to travel with, partly because we have made this annual pilgrimage to indulge our fetish for drama every year since medical school. We four have passed through every phase of life together, from sideburns to mullets, new babies to grandchildren, internship to practice. Shared time and experiences tend to mellow people through the years, and seasoned friendships take on the relaxed contentment of cozy slippers.  We have arrived at that golden point of our lives where we have stopped denying bowel realities and laugh uproariously at the preposterously embarrassing bodily emissions of the aged.   

The two plays we attended were “Dial M For Murder,” and “The Winter’s Tale,” by Shakespeare.  The first is a tale of suspense, dramatized to challenge one’s sphincter control.  This could have been dicey because much of the audience was composed of seniors from a tour bus, wearing name tags.  Seeing this production motivated me to do a lot of scrapbooking just so I could keep a pair of Samaria scissors handy.  Dennis gave me a wide berth when he noticed me sorting through old photographs.

The second play centers on a king, whose tyranny wrongs his queen and destroys a cherished friendship.  Both plots involve mischief, murder mayhem, and jealous husbands who, except for the mercy of a humane playwright, could have caused the death of their wives.  Hmmmm.  The concepts were compelling. Husbands who murder their wives.  Hmmmmm.  Oh, the power of the theater!  And the power of suggestion on a weak mind.  I kept a close eye on Dennis as I trimmed our pictures with the scissors from my sewing basket.  (OK, I don’t really have a sewing basket, but it serves to produce tension.) 

Finally, I nonchalantly asked him, “Do you think you have any jealousy issues?  I mean, do you ever have suspicions about…me?”  He just gave me that “look.”  I had recently visited my dermatologist, Dr. Igor, who had assaulted me with an evil vial of smokin’ liquid primordial ooze and a cattle prod.  I looked like I had done fifteen rounds with a blow torch whose cauterizing quotient could have stemmed the flow of Niagra Falls…and lost.  Dennis pointed me to the nearest mirror and said gently, “You’re safe!”  I was reassured, sort of, but a little disappointed.  Did his lack of jealousy stem from default?  Hmmmmm.  So I decided to put down my scissors and begin investigating the possibilities of body dismorphia.

From Cedar City, we headed for scenic drives through Escalante, Torrey and Bryce Canyon. We went on numerous hikes (mostly consisting of easy walks on level terra firma), and ate like starving carnivores.  When we returned to our room, I noticed that the diamond was missing from my wedding ring.  I nearly hurled the fatted mastadon I had just consumed.  I became dizzy and disoriented, which is my behavior of choice in any crisis. We searched the premises in vain. Dennis was meticulous.  I was uttering profanities. To make matters worse, I wasn’t even sure when I’d lost it. It could have been at Bryce.  It might have happened when Margot stabbed Lesgot. It could have fallen into the last spoonful of mashed potato inadvertently left on my plate.

 I was sick.  I slept sad.  In fact, I didn’t sleep.  I just lay there and cursed obscenities into my pillow.

The odds against finding that little gem were enormous.  But Dennis awoke the next morning with a smile and a plan. That’s his behavior of choice in any crisis. We would carefully remove our luggage, and then search every inch of the room until we found it.  I was OK with that idea, because my plan was to “Thelma and Louise” ourselves over the Grand Canyon. 

After all our luggage was loaded in the car, we knelt on the floor. As we lifted my final duffle bag, the diamond rolled between us.  Whoa! We were all amazed.  Whoda thunk it.  The odds of that happening seemed definitely not in our favor.  The odds were wrong.

There are those who claim that numbers don’t lie.  Digital calculations are immutable.  But I think they can be deceitful and misleading to the point of pernicious perjury.  After recovering the missing diamond, I have decided to ignore any odds not in our favor.  I will respond only to positive numbers.  I will reset my mathematical compass daily to the sweet spot of the affirmative.  And should there be those foolish enough to offer anything contradictory, the last thing they will see as they skid under the bus is the flash of my diamond ring.  

Grandmas and Alligators

I wish I had the words to express all that is in my heart.  But unfortunately all the words in Webster’s Dictionary are woefully inadequate.  So perhaps I will, instead, rely on numbers.  We just received the results of Dennis’ labs and CT scan of yesterday.  His CA19-9 is 45, and his CT scan shows no new growth, and some shrinkage.  Translation:  his tumor markers have been reduced by nearly 25 points, and the scan shows no new growth, and some shrinkage. 

We had no doubt all would be well.  But it is always nice to have actual verification of what you already know. 

I was never any good at math.  Numbers and I have always had an adversarial relationship.  To me, “double digits” simply means two fingers flashing the peace sign.  I don’t like to tabulate, quantify, or balance equations.  But there is not always safety in numbers.  Usually, I’d prefer indulging in belly paint than look at the latest stats. I have discovered over the years of being assaulted by my own reflection that REAL measurements have nothing to do with numbers or statistics. But in this case, I will ratify tumor markers of 45, and celebrate with Twinkies and laxatives.

Tomorrow Dennis and I are taking a road trip to Cedar City to see the plays “Dial M For Murder” and “A Winter’s Tale,” by Shakespeare.  I love a good mystery. And I am curious to see if the Bard himself has the words to bare my soul, although I am skeptical.  We will not be sensible.  We will be optimistic.  And we will fight on.  Mostly we will be grateful.

A few weeks ago, an alligator attacked and severely injured an elderly woman in Florida.  She was walking near her home when the 8-foot-behemoth lunged out of a canal and tried to drag the woman into the water.  But that 90-year-old grandmother hung on…and prevailed.  There is a lesson for everyone, especially for those about to be swallowed by numbers.  Hang on, and prevail.  It is better to crunch the numbers than to be crunched by them. 

Word to the wise:  Never mess with grandmas!

    

The Way We Were

This weekend, the country will be observing the anniversary of 9-11.  It is altogether fitting and proper that we do so.  It has been a decade since the act of terrorism that violated our territory and our collective psyches.  Healing has come slowly.  Many dreams and possibilities were buried at ground zero. 

Sometimes it is hard to re-visit the past, in spite of its therapeutic value.  I’m not always sure if it binds wounds or re-opens them.  Some seek closure.  Some seek memorials to honor the fallen. But some questions can never be answered, and some justice will be delayed until a higher Court pronounces a verdict.  Perhaps that is as it should be.

This weekend our family will also observe anniversaries. It, too, is most appropriate.  Saturday, 9-10-11, is my mother’s birthday.  One hundred years ago, she was born in Monroe, Utah, the third daughter of Kate and Sam Dorrity. 

The world has never been the same since.

The world was different then.  In-door plumbing was almost non-existent, and the telephone was a scarce commodity.  These were the pre-Steve Jobs days.  There was no Great Depression, holocaust, or Wars To End All Wars. And at this point, the Titanic had not sunk.  Life, if not exactly pristine, was, nevertheless, more innocent.

It is never easy to write tributes.  My mother wouldn’t have wanted that anyway.  So I will reminisce instead.  It’s far more joyful.

Mom was a maverick, and a true Independent, who ignored people who said it couldn’t be done.  She raced ahead, even where there were no paths.  I guess that could be considered foolhardy.  I always thought it was courageous.  She was actually a healthy balance of both.

Growing up with my mother was singular.  She didn’t think outside the box.  She threw the box away. 

She played the piano and the ukulele by ear, and could rock the standards of the day after hearing them just once.  Her favorite times were when the entire family gathered around the piano to sing songs like “Shine On Harvest Moon,” “I’m Alone Because I Love You,” “Two Little Blue Birds,” and “Try A Little Tenderness” in four-part harmony.  The song fest always concluded by swinging “Up A Lazy River” followed by “THE DUET” with Auntie Ferd playing the top hand.  These were the Dorrity songs, and woe be to any self-respecting family member who did not know by heart the lyrics from “Two Flies,” whose chorus told of insects who would “phhhhhht in the whiskers of the grocery man.”

Mom’s name is Bernice, but everyone called her Necie.  That is, until our daughters were born.  And then she was simply and always “Yaya.” 

As part of Erin and Brodi’s training, Yaya taught them to play the ukulele.  Even as tiny girls, they could strum the strings and strut their stuff while belting out “Five Foot Two” and “I Want To Be A Pal of Yours.”  My Mom’s particular anthem, however, was “Flamin’ Fanny,” with lyrics laced with double entendres, which made it all quite racy.  What a trio the three of them made. 

Although I was raised in an era when mothers wore high heels and pearl necklaces as they prepared the nightly dinners, my mother steadfastly refused to be locked into such stifling stereotypes.  She was no cook, and dang proud of it.  She figured if God had meant for women to cook, He wouldn’t have invented TV dinners.  There’s a certain logic to that that I have passed on to my daughters with stunning success.  But she made the best “Dorrity” coffee in the world, a temptation that to this day I consider an inspired addiction.  The angels in heaven would surrender their halos for one cup of that nectar.

My mother was a single parent, my parents’ marriage being a casualty of circumstance and imperfections.  Raising two kids alone was a challenge I appreciate more each day.  Understanding my life backward has given me great insight.

For instance, she taught me that I was not the product of a “broken” home.  The marriage was broken, but the home was whole.  Indeed, it was. In fact, she wrote a paper for a college class defending the institution of divorce where necessary.  This was radical for the times.  Larry and I were instructed that oil and water do not mix, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t good oil and good water.  We grew up respecting our father as well as our mother.

Mom always advised me to work a little and play a lot, again flying in the face of industriousness addiction.  I sometimes forget that nugget of wisdom, much to my own detriment.

She had absolutely no use for titles, celebrity or social caste systems.  Once, while she dated Wallace Beery, a famous movie star of the era, he asked her if she wanted his autograph.  She replied, “No, but I’ll give you mine.” 

And the best advice she gave me as a mother was, “Never get too tired to say No.”  I remembered that, much to the frustration of my adolescent daughters.

When Mom left us, we gathered around her bed with our ukuleles and sang with great conviction “Five Foot Two,” “I Want To Be A Pal of Yours,” and, of course, “Flamin’ Fanny.”  Passersby would have thought there was a great celebration taking place inside that little home on Chicago Street.  They would have been right.

So on 9-10-11, we will place roses on her grave and spend the day in simple gratitude for those who grace our lives with their light and make this world so lovely.  

Whole Numbers

Since man first emerged from primordial ooze, he has sought a means by which to impose order on chaos. Chaos has tentacles that reach out and threaten to choke off our peace of mind. So man invented numbers. Numbers are a powerful tool for organizing and understanding our universe. They are characters, symbols to determine quantities that allow us to pick up the pieces and put them back in the right order. With numbers we can tally scores, make predictions, itemize unknowns, determine intelligence, and generate hierarchies and caste systems.

This is all very useful, especially for those who subscribe to the notion that numbers possess a certain immutability. Quotients, formulae, and factors can become almost a religious exercise for the mathematically endowed.

But sometimes numbers can be dehumanizing, like a jungle that threatens to engulf you. Mathematical precision can bully and repulse.

Jittery market numbers are harbingers of gloom. The plunge of the stock exchange sears images on the mind of Crashes Past. Numbers stun our senses as we begin counting our losses to 401K’s. Not long ago, Standard and Poors down-graded our credit rating from a triple A to a double A, which could actually be a good thing if referring to bra size.

We try to metabolize calculations succumbing to gravitational pull: Robert Redford is 75, Tiger’s statistics suck, and Utah is ranked 6th for worst drivers. Actually, that’s good news. I thought we were number one!

(Personal Rant in Progress) On our freeways it takes the courage of an elite Navy Seal just to negotiate a lane change and evade collision in an arena of clearly deranged drivers. Road gladiators with the ethical persuasion of trilobites frequently engage in the charmingly barbaric ritual of settling traffic disputes in Walmart parking lots with fists and screw drivers as weapons of choice. It is a heathen spectacle rivaled only by bench-clearing brawls by basketball teams on good will missions to China. Drivers in an arms race tend to cling to the tried and true Neanderthal code of social etiquette. Not all, but some Utah drivers form the ring on the bathtub of society. Number 6??? That’s actually good news! (End of rant.)

Recently, however, we received some numbers that were humane and most welcome. Dr. Sharma and his entourage entered the exam room last week in synchronized grins. After reviewing Dennis’ latest records, they pronounced him in the top 5% of responders. TOP 5%!! They concurred with Dr. Wolff that he is doing well.

Our first inclination was to shout Opa! and break into our happy dance. But reason prevailed, preventing us from affirming everyone’s suspicions that we are remarkably undisciplined.

But wait. There’s more. Yesterday, the phlebotomists drew barrels of blood from Dennis’ subcutaneous tissue via his umbilical cord, harvesting the liquid in vials topped with caps of blue and purple for his hematic profile. (I think I got that right.) They then sent it all to the Oracle at Huntsman for interpretation. After due diligence and a séance channeling Hippocrates himself, it was determined that Dennis qualified for the whole bag of gemcitabene. THE WHOLE BAG!! Our hearts swelled like yeast, and we began singing “Hey! Yada, yada, yada.” Dennis is now too sexy for his hospital gown. Good labs are always the ultimate fashion accessory.

The chorus of crickets outside our window heralds the start of school on Monday. Autumn will make its debut that day. All six of our flash mob will return to the classroom, and grandmas everywhere will feel a pang of nostalgia. I guess it comes with the territory. Separation is never easy.

Abram is about to enter jr. high. He sprouted his first zit on his nose recently which signaled his official entry into prepubescence. The whole family gathered around to welcome the new eruption and celebrate this rite of passage. We tried to explain to him that those with facial pustules are an elite group, pimples are the litmus test of great character, and all of us are members emeritus of that august congress we call adulthood.

He didn’t buy it. He refused to be persuaded by an avalanche of euphemisms. Gee, I really like that kid!

The start of school also means we’re on a zipline to the holidays, a fact that inevitably triggers the gag reflex. But it is all good.

Just to reiterate our mission statement: We will not retrench, and we continue to refuse to live our lives in fractions. Don’t tell me the odds. We’ve witnessed too many antigravitational maneuvers not to recognize miracles when we see them. We always round up. Right now, we’re all about whole numbers.

Sheiks and Shakespeare

Arriving in Houston is a little like being sucked into the vortex of Hades in the humid season.  Just taxiing down the runway triggered a profusion of ringlets that made me look like a menopausal Shirley Temple.  I’ve often wondered why nausea is the constant companion of unremitting heat.  We were instantly swaddled in doughy, energy-sapping warmth.  We perspired so profusely, we looked like we’d been shellacked.  All my efforts to look glacial and glamorous were sabotaged.  I feared all our facial features would melt into one another like molten lava.  However, time has already accomplished what heat could not, so there was really no further disfigurement.  This was a good thing.

We met with our Oncologist Extraordinaire, Dr. Wolff, to confer about Dennis.  He is singular.  He enters the exam room and immediately launches into a monologue about his most recent adventures.  He had just returned from the desert sands of Qatar.  Apparently an obscenely wealthy sheik had flown Dr. Wolff to his obscenely enormous palace located on the entire land mass between the Tigress and Euphrates.  Talk about staging an intervention.  That’s the ultimate house call.  But it is evidence of the level of esteem Dr. Wolff is held in his area of expertise.  Dennis and I were just happy the sheik hadn’t purchased the good doctor and retained custody.  Flying to Qatar for our appointments would be terribly inconvenient. 

Dr. Wolff is quite pleased with Dennis’ progress, and has modified the chemo regime to be a little more humane.  He assured us this would not compromise the efficacy of the drugs, but would allow for greater tolerance.  Ok.  We can do that.  In fact, Dr. Wolff is trying to persuade Dennis to consider taking a 1-month sabbatical from treatment altogether.  I’m not sure either of us is willing to consider that right now, but it is on the table for discussion.  Each decision demands deliberation.  We were pleased it is an option.  We continue to focus on the possibilities.

As if it were a feral instinct, the urge to live life in the left lane prompted us to drive to Cedar City for the Shakespeare Festival.  This has been an annual tradition since medical school.  It is our cultural sweet spot.  We reunite with old friends and young grandkids to celebrate the creative imagination of a playwright who lived light years before computer-generated special effects.  The strange thing is, the kids were entertained by it all.  Perhaps seeing sword fights and Professor Harold Hill’s marching band with seventy-six trombones live on stage was actually better than 3D.  Go figure.  Everything old is new again.

We had tickets for “Richard III,” but decided to turn them in.  It takes a certain energy reserve to watch the dastardly villainy of “Dicky 3.”  (Talk about disfigurement!) Where Shakespeare is concerned, the “Wars of the Roses” is not exactly a stroll down the garden path.  Besides, we get enough of murder, ambition, fatal curses and colossal ineptitude just watching the nightly news. 

So, reciting our own soliloquys parodying “Richard III”:  “Now is the summer of our discontent…” we waxed hysterical in iambic pentameter and opted out of the historic carnage.  We’ll save the cruel swath of blood for next year when we return to The Globe.

At the moment, our favorite quotes are from Dr. Wolff, the preferred Bard of the moment:  “Based on Dennis’ CT scan, we’re heading in the right direction.”

No poet could have said it better.