trying

Dipping toes in

a nip

of a fish

threatens

the clipped sound of I

A blanket of numb

wraps around me

between me and the urge to write

encased and unsafe

in pain

all the time

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I’m here. It’s me. LOVE.

In my 50th year, I got a cancer diagnosis

Medical waste. You have no idea. If you’ve spent any time in a hospital, then again, you do.

If the way we live is making us sicker (though through advances in science, we have longer lifespans), we need to change it. We are stuck.

Cars, plastic, disposable everything. Cars, plastic, disposables. Single-use. Not biodegradable. Not safe. Medicines flowing from our bodies into the water supply and into the ground and into everything else.

Did you know you can take your own cups and bottles to take-out or fast food places? Sometimes they will refill your insulated coffee cup. Sometimes they will refill your giant, heavy-duty plastic cup. I have 2 of these and we have 3 thermal, hot beverage cups. Just peer into any garbage can outside of any strip mall in America on a Saturday or Sunday and see if you might not like to try. Have a plan. You can take your own re-usable utensils places; this is harder to remember. You might feel queer. But you might inspire others. You can put paper napkins in your compost. You can put paper bags in the recycling. You can take your own bags for fuck’s sake don’t tell me you still use the store’s plastic bags when you grocery shop. Save that for times you really couldn’t attend to this small commitment. You don’t have to be perfect, but we all have to WAKE UP. Do what you can that’s easy. Baby steps. You can do this. It matters. Oh, and don’t idle your car.

I feel less sad. I had fun yesterday. I was exhausted all day, but I had fun.

I feel a little happy this morning, I’m tired.

I’m self-absorbed. How long?

I feel the light of the universe flowing through me.

I shaved my head because Violet and a friend of hers shaved their heads and I thought FUCK IT, it’s time. I waited so long for a haircut that my hair was unruly and unflattering, but since my hair will fall out from the chemo (Cytoxan) I got yesterday, this was a great option. In about 3 weeks, my hair (what little is left) will fall out. I am not afraid or upset about this. HAIR GROWS BACK.

The problem is my face looks very raggedy to me. That part is harder. Our hair becomes attention, a focus, beauty.

Violet decided to shave off her hair separate from my situation; still it’s kind of strange, but only in my mind in a way that I wonder what other people might think. Do they think she did it for/because of me? She didn’t. Her friend goes through many hair manifestations and so does Violet. Fun. It grows back. Don’t be afraid of changing your hair!

I picture my bones white, so white. Vibrant and healthy. Calm. After all these months of picturing them in this way, not every day, but enough, it is easy to see them this way.

Calming the marrow. Stopping the proliferating rogue cells. That’s a little harder. Let’s have at it. I will have at it.

I slept well last night, but am mildly nauseous (Cytoxan does this). I’m still tired so will probably go back to sleep. It’s morning.

When I say I shaved my head, I don’t mean bald. There’s a nice, soft stubble. It’s soft to run my hand across. You’d like it. It’s a pleasant sensation.

Don’t forget to sing. I forget. My friend who drove me to Boston and stayed with me Thursday night so we could be at Dana Farber at 7 am Friday morning, reminded me to sing, to recite poems we knew from when we were young. Play is not unique to humans, but it is essential for happiness. I’ve been forgetting. That makes me sad; but I have every day of my life to choose to play.

Teenagers play in different ways than when they were little kids. Adults, too. Slowly, we forget unless we are immersed. Stay immersed in play. Do this. Remind me, too.

Love, send healing light whenever you can. Sing. Chant. Drum. Stomp. Recite. Play. Kiss your children and your friends, male and female. Kiss your family. Kiss.

I am greater than this cancer. I am bigger than this cancer. I am bigger than what it or the meds can do to me. I am strong. I am determined to be free of it for good.*

2 mantras:

There is no room in my body for multiple myeloma (or any cancer)

There is only room for healing light and love

Can you see that? I can. Sometimes, and at least more often than before.

*but it scares me to think this. I hope I get better at it. When I can’t pull for myself, I am so incredibly grateful for your help. I know without a shred of doubt that there are hundreds of people pulling for me, some praying, some visualizing, some singing, all sending love and hope. Some helping in the most concrete ways: food, rides, goodies.

I am grateful. Thank you.

Here I am right before the buzz cut. I’m not sure I am brave enough to show you after. In time, when my face is more rested. EVERYTHING shows when you are almost bald!

Bursting with love, Katherine

love and kisses to you all!

 

 

 

 

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nuts and bolts. maybe that’s what this is.

So. Damn. My computer screen is going crazy—for about 4 days now, it periodically goes to diagonal static lines. My computer, how old is it? I can’t remember, not too old. I know I need to get a diagnostic on this, but this is not gonna be the week.

I may be out of a computer for a few days if my screen goes dead. Sucks because it is my lifeline right now. I can’t drive and Hubby will be away for a few days. I am covered for people helping and schlepping and bringing food and carting kids, but the computer is how I can ask for more help…ah well, ’twill work out.

Here:

Annie made this little guy the other morning. He was quite tiny—maybe 8″ high. Annie thought he looked evil with his red berry eyes so she gave him a sword. Later I think the dog knocked him off the railing. Silly dog.

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twinkly’s parenting of teens advice column-vol. 1

Perhaps, like me, you have children of the teenage persuasion. I have two, of the female variety (homo sapiens sapiens teenager femini)

I am happy to report that the following news item appeared in our local weekly paper’s POLICE REPORT yesterday:

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 25

DISTURBANCES

• 6:59 p.m. — Police kept the peace at a South Amherst home where a teenage boy refused to follow parental instructions to empty the dishwasher.

♦

Well, didn’t I think that was the cat’s pajamas until I was shopping earlier today and witnessed the following scene. This screenplay is based on actual events.

INT. TJ MAXX STORE, HADLEY, MASS – WOMEN’S COATS – A SATURDAY – DAYTIME

MOTHER, approximately 47, slightly disheveled and definitely exhausted in appearance; and DAUGHTER, teenage

MOTHER stands next to daughter in front of coat rack

MOTHER

Don’t tell me what to do. Ever! I’m in charge.

twinkly’s astute, perceptive, and erudite commentary on the screenplay:

While at first it may appear that the character of MOTHER was indeed in charge, upon closer inspection one sees that if in fact she were truly in charge, both in feeling that she was and in the reality of such, she would not have needed to speak at all. The scene would have played very differently.

FIN

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falling out of the blogosphere

Long stretches between posts are now commonplace for me.

I learned a new phrase (and concept): uncanny valley.

I love the sound of it tremendously, but I don’t like the meaning. It’s a theory, nothing provable, but certainly it sheds light on the way I am simultaneously fascinated and repulsed by plastic surgery.

I am glad to know that I can still learn new things. Maybe I’m not hip, that I never knew the concept uncanny valley. The world is too big for any one person to know. We keep chipping away at it, gaining knowledge in pebbles.

I fell away from my writing and into an uncanny valley

I notice that my sleep is very disturbed lately. This is due in part to the fact that I have to wake up every weekday morning at 6:30. I still get up to help support my kids in that transition between home and bus and school. I am happy to do it, but I hate my lack of sleep.

I’ve pretty much given up on cooking. I still clean the few rooms which are not filled floor to ceiling with clutter. I couldn’t even clean when I was in the worst of the pain and immobility.

I still love the laundry. I like my fridge to sparkle white and bright inside. I organize to an extent. But I don’t give a crap about cooking for the most part. I feel so burned out. Maybe this is only since I’ve been injured, maybe longer. I can barely remember a time before this injury.

Instead of my summer schedule when I may wake in the early morning hours and can fall back to sleep until as late as 9 or 10, I wake around 4 am, am up for an hour, then have to wake up at 6:30, but I barely fall back to sleep most nights. I am getting about 4-6 hours of interrupted sleep–that’s it. I’m not too happy until I have my coffee but I can fake it most mornings til then.

When I feel good from good and long rest, I forget that I’ll ever be a victim of my insomnia again; and yet after all these years, it still rears its ugly head.

It’s been 5 months since my initial injury and I’m still not able to do yoga or to bike or swim. It’s been draining, frustrating, painful, disturbing. I am getting better, but I have really bad hours and days and nights. Soon, I hope, soon, I will be back to my old self. I know the sleep will change once I’m not in pain throughout the night. I am seeing a new physical therapist who does a particular kind of work that is unlike most physical therapy. After one session, I was monumentally better, but now my body is fading back into the habit of injury. For the next 3 weeks at least, I will have 2 sessions per week and I am hoping that will turn the tide for a good long while.

This is only the beginning. I need to write here. I hate to have such a long body of text without any images to break it up. I hate to write about the minutiae of my life and subject you to it, though you read by your own free will and I am grateful for your presence.

I will try to do better from now on out. I think my active mind will calm if I write more regularly and I won’t wake up at 4 am thinking the words.

I have so much to tell you.

♥

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save the date

if you write poems about pomegranates, don’t bother submitting to us*

I’ll be a featured reader next month at Unbuttoned, Thursday, September 12, 7-8:30 pm. There are usually 6 open mic slots followed by one or two featured readers. I know I’ll be reading alongside another poet.

Luthier’s, Cottage Street, Easthampton

*roughly quoted from a literary journal on their submissions page. Why do I bother with fucks like these? Where are my people?

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I’m not kidding with this

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run ‘n’ bitch: virgin spring run

[experienced and written on Thursday 3/21]

the air lightens around us

1. I do not expect you to understand this post. There are bits that I have left purposely un-puncuntuated and one part that I left flimsy, poem-like. Not that I want my or anyone else’s poetry to be flimsy, but sometimes I like flowy words for no reason but the sound and feel. So we call it poetry and let it pass. Not all of life need be tidy and tight.

2. because you don’t have to number something if there’s only one

you know me as the [sometime] bike ‘n’ bitch, but I’ve got a new pair of high-heeled sneakers on; yes, I’ve been a dabbler in running, but there’s a new phase a’comin’. I just know I will be able to run the whole stretch of my block and back without stopping within the next little while, few months, year. To be honest, I’d settle for being able to do yoga again first. It’s the longest I’ve gone without a class in over 4 years. Sigh and fuck inexplicable injuries!

the neighbor who bikes to the racquet club was walking in the ‘hood with her husband

a woman was stopped at the end of the street, probably standing right in a pothole, with her Great Dane who did NOT have its ears or tail cut (hooray for humane decisions). The dog was so good, so patient. The owner was training her (him?) and it was a sweet sight. Who’s a good dog?

what is this?

it’s a dog snood

After her mom stopped her car at the end of their driveway, a small child opened the passenger door, ran to the mailbox, and flew back with the mail. So small and wee, jet-black hair waving in the current her speeding body created. Was it a boy with long locks? I waved and said “you are helping; that’s a good thing,” and he, rightly, took a little step back toward his mom and squinted across to me and shyly asked “what?” and I repeated what I said. I waved to the mom, too, so she knew that I knew that we all knew it was safe. It’s good thing when children are taught to be cautious of strangers.

On my way back from my very short “beginner’s loop” (though I’ve been a beginner for years), I cursed the sidewalk that our neighbors seem to feel is beneath them to shovel. I’ve actually heard the wife chide her husband for shoveling too much. Isn’t that backward? I thought hen-pecking happened because men didn’t do enough around the house, but somehow, she thinks that anyone who walks the neighborhood doesn’t deserve a clean, shoveled, safe stretch of sidewalk. Now I know I’m bashing a sista, but when it comes to sidewalk safety and being a good neighbor and doing your part, especially if you are able-bodied and home much of the time, I got no patience for ya.

In fact, in the last few years, this is only the second time I’ve seen their stretch shoveled and on my run, the path was EXACTLY ONE SHOVEL-WIDTH across. You gotta have some balls to shovel only one shovel-width, but I think the wrong kind of balls. The snow was heavy as water, yes, but only about an inch-and-a-half deep by mid-morning on Tuesday. Their stretch of sidewalk is about 20 feet across. You know how much sidewalk we have? about 75′. Fuckers.

with the sun behind me, I made a shadow-shape on the blue snow and I watched the motion of my hips, unmistakeably me; no matter how much weight I gain and cringe to think of how I look, it’s me. Unmistakeably sexy, me. This is my walk, this is my gait, this is what people see.

The grief point where my rib meets my sternum, over to the left, above my heart, where the voodoo darning needle was plunged, still brings a rush of pain and tears. But it’s getting better.

Running and me? Two steps forward, one step back.

My health? The same.

Aging is a motherfucker, but sometimes I fight the good fight. Today was one of those days.

Look how James Brown seems to float above the floor. That is about how I felt today when I walked out of my acupuncturist’s office and my ribcage was pain-free.

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Holy Cow! It’s the Silos on youtube!

What I was going to write was “fuckin’ A, it’s the Silos on youtube after all these years”…but I felt like it would be bad form to have the word fuck in my blog title. The day may come that warrants the use of the word as such, but even with all of the crap that the Congress expects us to eat, chew, and swallow, I have not yet felt the need. I did have my day on Facebook using the word fuck in my status update, but that was not a first; even children, teens, and the elderly read that! Egads man.

Actually, since nobody seems to read my Facebook updates, the news feed flying by by the milisecond as it does, here is what I posted:

Fuck you Wayne LaPierre and all of your ilk. Between the gun irrationalists and the rest of the GOP trying to make the fact of my anatomy some reason to legislate the hell outta my constitutional rights, fuck you. Saying fuck you feels offensive to me, but I’m gonna use a liberal meme and say the offensive thing is the behavior and lack of reasoning of the GOP and TEA partiers. What I’m doing is using words, not legislative action to shut people down. Our nation is being held hostage by corporate interests and lunatic fringe fear-mongering cavemen and women. I’m so tired of it. No wonder we feel defeated. I know I don’t have a million bucks spare to pay off a congressperson.

http://billmoyers.com/episode/full-show-foul-play-in-the-senate-and-todays-abortion-debate/

http://www.motherjones.com/politics/2013/01/pro-gun-myths-fact-check

Okay, now that that’s out of the way, let’s get on with the raison d’etre of this post. THE SILOS! Relief….

If you liked that, I highly recommend listening to more of their stuff. Here’s another one of my favorites:

And another, prolly the only reason I have ever wanted to know Spanish. In the meantime, you can think of me as the girl who really knew how to use the word fuck, in English.

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Mirena and Me

Here’s a likeness of the little baby that was inserted by an MD into my nether regions 2 weeks ago. I hope it is as nicely centered in my uterus as the one below is centered here on my blog.

I finally found an OB/GYN who I like, amazingly in the same practice as the asshole who did a vaginal ultrasound in January and failed to tell me that I have a fibroid tumor embedded in my uterine lining which was causing me to lose copious amounts of blood for 5 months.

I have now been off of my oral progesterone for 13 days. Not a day has gone by in the last 3-and-a-half months in which I didn’t bleed, but it is GETTING BETTER ALL THE TIME.

I have woken up 2 mornings in a row with color in my face (sort of).

I have gone on 3 hikes this week (including that crazy big hill on Rattlesnake Knob—vigorous!) in which I did not find myself gasping for breath.

The Mirena IUD is made by Bayer, the same company that manufactures my cat’s flea medication and your favorite brand-name aspirin.

When I visit my family in Germany, traveling from the airport or train station, we always go by the Bayer plant in Leverkusen, on the Rhine River.

I feel so global. Where was my IUD manufactured and does it have traces of flea poison alongside the miniscule amounts of progesterone that it administers to my uterus at regular intervals?

I tried to look for the IUD strings last week, but I could not find them. At which point I was already having intense pain on my R ovary and bleeding heavily. In my panic, I called “Dr. L w.” I was sure my IUD had migrated and was already perforating my abdominal wall and was about to emerge from my nostrils, but “Dr. L w” assured me that we will look for the strings together on my upcoming 7-week follow-up appointment.

Looking up my cookie with an OB/GYN to find the strings of my Bayer-engineered IUD?

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