Apropos of nothing

Before November 8 of this year, I had never watched an entire football game. That, plus the fact that I've never actually been to a football game, has pretty much left me out of contention for the coveted America's Greatest Football Fan title.

What was different about November 8 was that I had bought tickets for my spouse (a childhood Red Skins fan) and my son (a true-blue Bostonian Pats fan) to watch their two teams play at Gillette Stadium. For some reason, I felt that I needed to share the experience with them by watching the game at home on TV.

Now, my family was raised on baseball. We could see Wrigley Field from our house. My mother was a childhood Cubs fan, and so were we. My favorite sports-related factoid about myself is that, as a Cubs fan, I never knew that there was a Post Season. I thought that baseball just ended in early September. And the World Series? That was just some additional contest between two random teams, neither of which ever seemed to be the Cubs.

Anyway, I'm writing about football because, much to my suprise, I have found it to be a rather perfectly-paced game.  Baseball is graceful, filled with metaphors, and a statistician's dream. We don't play when it rains, and the game revolves around what has been acknowledged as the hardest feat in all of sports - hitting a 90+ mph flying object with a stick.

But it's slow. On TV, baseball is a napper's dream. You lie on the couch, you watch for a bit, you doze off, and, with the exception of the occasional amazing play, you can wake up and find that you haven't missed all that much.

Basketball is the opposite. It's fun, but it's too damn fast. You can't even look down to get your salsa properly placed on your chip without running the risk of missing a basket or two.

Football allows you to follow what's happening (especially with those very helpful magical black and yellow stripes on the field), but you can also check your email or take another dunk into the seven-layer dip if you need to.  And, overtime notwithstanding, there will never be a 33-inning football game.

But don't worry, Cubbies, I'm not abandoning you. But I have found a way to stay entertained during these cold, dark winter months.

Let's Make a Deal

Here's a dramatization of a thought that's been going through my mind:

Scene: Lexington, MA 1999

Gina: Who are you?

Cancer: I'm cancer.

Gina: What are you doing here?

Cancer: I'm here to end your life.

Gina: Well, I'm afraid that's not possible.

Cancer: What do you mean?

Gina: I mean that's just not going to work.

Cancer: Why not?

Gina: I have two little kids. They're five and eight. There's just no way that I'm going to have their mother die at that age.

Cancer: Right, but...

Gina: No "but." That just isn't going to work for me. At all.

Cancer: What if I come back in five years?

Gina: Ten and thirteen? Not much better, wouldn't you say?

Cancer: Ten years? That's fifteen and eighteen - pretty grown up, I'd say.

Gina: I wouldn't. They'll be teenagers. High schoolers. Not acceptable.

Cancer: Alright, Gina. I want to make this work. I don't even know why I'm saying this. I've ended the lives of countless mothers and fathers, and children even.

Gina: Your point?

Cancer: I'm going to give you fifteen years.

Gina: Fifteen years?

Cancer: Fifteen years, cancer free. Just raise your kids, enjoy every second, and don't worry about me. And then I'll come back for real. That's the best I can offer.

Gina: Thank you.

Oxygen

Last week I got a portable oxygen tank that allows me to walk much farther than I could otherwise. When I breathe in, it gives me an extra little puff of oxygen, which makes me sound a bit like a cyborg, but you get used to it.  Before that I could only walk as far as my lungs would allow on any given day - sometimes just around the block, sometimes a big farther.

On Wednesday I took her with me to the grocery store. (I know, she needs a name.) I'm reminded of the first time that I took my son out for a stroll after he was born. It was like stepping over the threshold of our apartment into a new identity. As if there were a huge neon sign floating above me with an arrow pointing down that said, MOTHER. It was terrifying.

This wasn't quite so dramatic. I am, after all, twenty-four years older. Still, it was odd. I knocked a few boxes down in my quest for oversize Ziplocs in which to brine my turkey, and some random woman came over to pick them up. "That's really OK," I started to say. "You don't have to..." Then I just stopped and let her pick up the boxes. When I checked out, the cashier asked me if I needed help getting my groceries to the car, which I didn't. "Did anyone ever ask you that before?" a friend asked. Nope. So, overall it was fine. I was just this generally healthy-looking person with an oxygen tube in her nose.

Later that day I was walking down the street, and I waved at a little toddler as I usually do, but this time I was a friendly person waving with an oxygen tube in her nose. The toddler smiled and waved back, as did his mother, so there's that.

Then yesterday at the movies, I was standing up facing the row behind me as I took off my coat, and the woman who sat facing me just stared full-on with an entirely unpleasant look on her face. I'm thinking - hoping - that she didn't mean to have that look. I'm guessing that she was thinking, "Hey, what's this young, healthy-looking person doing here with an oxygen tube in her nose?" I looked straight back at her, and in our silent conversation I responded, "Yes, I am young and healthy-looking, and I do have an oxygen tube in my nose. Now why don't you work on making some sense of that before the movie starts?"

Anyway, that's where I feel I am now, a walking reminder that people are going through all kinds of stuff - some visible, some invisible. If you're going through stuff, you are not alone, and you don't need to be invisible about it. And if you're not going through stuff, be humble and grateful.

Sorry, Californians!

I have been taking lots of long, hot showers lately. They just make me feel better. For most people who, like me, have basically as much water as we want, there's that critical point in the shower when you've washed, you've rinsed, and now it's time to get out. And yet you're still standing there under the hot, wonderful stream. For some people, the problem will be solved because the hot water will simply run out, and why ruin a great shower with a lukewarm finish? But for me, the only thing to get me out is either the clock - if I'm showering because I have somewhere to go - or my conscience. Don't waste water! Think of that ad with the fish who can't breathe out of water! (Oh, wait, I think that one's for asthma consciousness.) Think of what a big, bad, wasteful country you live in!  Usually that one gets me out.

Lately though, I've said "Fuck it." I figure that in a year I probably won't be showering at all. And no matter how long I live, in the end I'll use way less water than I ever thought I would. So, with apologies for my blatant overuse of the Earth's resources, I shall go on enjoying my too-too-long showers.

Trigger Warning: Throw Up

This morning I woke up early and decided to use the quiet dawn hours to label some old pictures. Pictures that my kids will probably go through one day and not know who some of the old folks are - people whom they never met, like my grandparents - or places that they may not recognize, like the home that I grew up in.

Then I stopped because I had to throw up.  (Well, actually, I seem to be one of those people who can't throw up - but that doesn't stop me from trying.)

This is odd, I thought to myself while kneeling on the bathroom floor. My last chemo treatment was a week and a half ago, and I haven't felt nauseous from it for nearly a week.  Maybe it's the Thai greenbeans that I ate just before bed last night.  Yes. I did.  Even people with cancer have their moments of weakness.

Then I thought, Well, Hell! I just spent an hour preparing to not exist. If that isn't enough to make a person want to throw up, then what is?

I liked that thought a lot. I'm all into embracing what is, and all, but sometimes the truth that I'm living with just makes me want to throw up.

In the end, though, it was probably the greenbeans.

Multiple Choice

Reasons why a person may go for a solid month without posting on her blog:

A. She forgot the url.

B. She forgot how to type.

C. She has recently come to accept the fact that she is going to die much sooner rather than much later, and now she is wondering whether everything that she wrote before was total bullshit.

D. Her dog ate her computer.

I'll let you ponder these possibilities, while I ponder whether or not I have the courage to keep writing.

Laughing Buddha

I'm wondering about attitude as choice.

The other day I was standing in the kitchen, thinking about how miserable I am.  Miserable is perhaps an overstatement, but I'm definitely not as symptom-free as I once was. Actually, I'm not even sure if it's fair to categorize my various ailments as symptoms of cancer. I seem to have acid reflux, which means that I walk around feeling anywhere from vaguely to extremely indigested much of the time. Then there's my left vocal cord, which isn't working for who-knows-what reason. So I definitely have my share of symptoms, but symptoms of what I'm not exactly sure.

Anyway, back to the kitchen. On this particular day, I happened to look up from my usual grimace, and my gaze fell upon a magnet on our fridge. It's a picture of Laughing Buddha.

Our Buddha doesn't look exactly like this, but you get the idea. I've seen that magnet hundreds of times, but this time it spoke to me, and said, "You know, Gina, you could just as easily be laughing." I could be laughing. I began to wonder if my mopey attitude was a matter of choice. Was this the attitude that I thought I should have? The attitude of the cancer patient? Of the acid reflux sufferer? Of the person with a malfunctioning vocal cord?

It is possible. I could be laughing. And, to be fair to the Buddha and to myself, I often am. But there's something scary about letting go of the mope factor - about laughing while suffering. I'm not sure what that's about. If I'm fine with how I am, am I no longer striving to get better? Of course I am. Will others no longer care for me or about me? Of course they will. 

Last week I was trying to explain to my students how meditation is not thought, and that we try to let go of thinking when we meditate. A student raised his hand, and with a concerned look on his face asked, "But what will happen to my thoughts?"  I assured him that he would not lose his thoughts, at least not the ones that matter. Perhaps that's my fear of embracing the Laughing Buddha - but what about my cancer? My acid reflux? My vocal cord?  Of course I know the answer. They will all still be here, at least for the time being. So now let's see if I can laugh in their presence.

The Voice

One of my vocal cords isn't working. It refuses to move. This condition can be caused by many different things - a virus, trauma to the area. The bottom line is that at this point I don't know why it's being so obstinate, and I am hopeful that it will soon see fit to resume its duties.

Anyway, the upshot is that my voice is odd. Sometimes scratchy, sometimes warbly, and in general higher than it normally is. I can't stand it. You know how sometimes you hear a recording of yourself and you're like, "Ugh! That's what I sound like?!" But I literally cannot stand the sound of my own voice as I speak. I stand in front of my classroom, and as my mouth is saying things like, "So, is it still possible to feel sorry for Macbeth at this point?" My mind is saying, "God! How can they be listening to you? That voice! It's so grating! Are they just pretending that it doesn't bother them?"

So there's that. It's humbling, actually. The fact that my students - and colleagues, friends, family - seem just as happy to listen to what I have to say, even though it sounds like it's coming from an old woman in a Scooby Doo episode.

And speaking of what I have to say, I find that I'm a bit more selective now that the sound of my own voice pontificating is not as pleasurable as it used to be.  Sometimes I'm sitting with a group of people, and, even though a thought may come into my head, I often decide that it's not really worth the trouble of sharing it, and instead I just listen.

People say really interesting things when you stop and listen to them.

Oh yeah, and perhaps the hardest part is that I can't yell.  And by "yell" I mean speak in a normal-for-my-family tone. We speak loudly. That's just how we are. So I've had to ask my students to actually listen to me when I'm speaking, because I can no longer speak over the din of their inattention. And the other day, a friend actually leaned forward to hear what I was saying, because we were in a noisy restaurant.

Several lessons, then, from this annoying voice of mine. Can't wait to get it back.

The D word

Why are we so tolerant of death in some instances - flowers and leaves, the occasional goldfish - but so intolerant of it when it comes to ourselves? We are constantly surrounded by conditions that remind us that everything that comes into being will also cease to be. We finish books. We eat a delicious piece of pie. Sure, we can have another piece, but eventually the pie will be gone. Our moods come and go. It rains and then it is sunny. Sounds - whether the annoying roar of the neighbor's lawnmower (didn't he just mow his lawn two days ago?) or the melodic call of a songbird - arise and fade away. We have a precious possession, and then it is broken or stolen or worn out or willingly passed on.

But my life? That is mine! Sure, I know that I was not always here. There was, I am told, a pre-Gina world into which I arrived, and logic and nature tell me that there will also be a post-Gina world from which I will have departed.

Maybe our clinging and refusal to accept this absolute truth has something to do with size.  When a plant dies, I may be sad. A tree, though? That's way more tragic. A car hits a squirrel. Yuck. A car hits a deer. What kind of heartless asshole would hit a deer?!

Or maybe it's about time. The longer something - or someone - has been on my path, the more likely I am to forget that it is not an essential and permanent fixture on that path.

Anyway, I'm sure that none of this is news to any of you.  Nor is it news to me.  Perhaps that's why I find it so confounding.

Move over

Sometimes in a quiet moment I check to see whether I have some cancer thoughts worth sharing. And sometimes, if I find none, I actively dig around, like, "I know there must be something here that we can serve the guests."

Anyway, here's something that's rumbling around in my head as my daughter applies for post-college jobs and my son gets ready to embark on a three-month backpacking trip as the next step in his culinary journey.  They are finding their respective places in the world. And as they begin to take up more space on the human map, I begin to take up less of it.

Yes, I have lost a little weight recently, but of course that's not what I mean. Rather, I've been watching younger colleagues take up the mantle when it comes to the essential work of confronting bias and fostering an atmosphere of true love and respect for one's fellow.  One friend and colleague was incredibly passionate and successful in this area teaching a Contemporary World Issues history course last year.  This year, she was not assigned to the course, but you'd never know it from watching her plan her lessons. "You've discovered the secret!" I said to her the other day. "For you, every history course that you teach, whatever it's called, is actually Contemporary World Issues."  I was reminded of when I realized that every course that I taught - whether American Literature, English 10, or Modern Literature - could more accurately be labeled, "Anti-Bias Awareness and Training."

I also gave up leadership of my beloved Diversity Committee. (Come to think of it, they haven't held a meeting since that happened. Maybe I should call someone.) But they will regain their bearings and continue to make our district a safe and supportive atmosphere for all who work there. (If they don't, I'll have to kick some ass. In the meantime, I'm going to give them a chance to do that on their own.)

And I've stopped making stuff.  I used to love making things out of Sculpey, or repurposing things like jar lids.  Here's a sample:

Now, though, I'm not really drawn to putting more stuff in the world. Not that I begrudge others the joy of creation. It's just that I think I've taken up enough space in that particular way, and I'm happy to stop.

Then again, who knows what tomorrow's mood may bring.  You may find yourself reading a post about my new crafting passion or how I gave up giving up the Diversity Committee. As Rabbi Sheila Peltz Weinberg reminds us, "Every day Creation is renewed." And that certainly includes us.

A few more

And here are a couple of thanks on a quiet evening after a sunny day with no back pain...

1. No back pain. Day Three of not a single capsule of Advil, Tylenol, Aleve, etc. My research oncologist will say that the trial drug is already working. My other oncologist will say that the Prilosec took care of the acid reflux. I don't give a shit which one of them is right. Let them both celebrate. I have no pain.

2. I'm alive. A friend has recently stopped treatment and gone into hospice care. In spite of, or perhaps with this all, she is brave and fabulous and remains entirely herself. There is a saying in old Jewish culture that you can know a person, "b'kaso, b'kiso, u'v'koso." I wrote the Hebrew words so that you can appreciate the alliteration.  In English, in his anger, in his pocket, and in his cup. Meaning that we show our true character when we're angry, when it comes to how we use our money, and when we're drinking. Some wisdom there, sure.  I would add, "b'cancero" (in his cancer) which is a total butchering of both English and Hebrew but I can't resist the alliteration. The depth of my friend's character comes out in the fact that she has not changed at all. She is not bitter; she is not angry; she is not afraid.

3. There's a Psalm (27:4) that we sing during the High Holydays, and it's been sticking in my mind. Here is a translation that I really like from Rabbi Rachel Barenblat. She has changed references to Adonai (often translated as "God) to "You": 

One thing I ask, I ask of You (Adonai), I earnestly pray for  That I might dwell in Your house all the days of my life Knowng the beauty, the beauty of You, and to dwell in Your holy place!  Here's the Hebrew: אחת שאלתי מאת ה' אותה אבקש, שבתי בבית ה' כל ימי חיי, לחזות בנועם ה' ולבקר בהיכלו. I was struck by these words when we sang them this year, because a) I love the beauty and simplicity of distilling all of our yearnings into one thing - to recognize and dwell in holiness, and b) For me that yearning is fulfilled. I don't mean that I dwell in holiness because I'm super holy - whatever that means! I dwell in holiness because most of the time I can see it.  I can see how incredibly precious this crazy, painful, mixed-up world of ours is.  And it is truly wonderous.

Thanks

Cloudy day with aching back - seems like a good time to think about what I'm thankful for.

1. My sturdy body. Specifically the fact that I fell down a flight of stairs the other night and didn't break anything. Yes, full-on slide on my back down a flight of wooden stairs. And nothin' but some bruises.

2. The incredible luck that I have to work in a place where I can say, "I feel crappy," and the response is, "Go home."

3. The fact that yesterday I spent a total of about half-an-hour talking to my kids on the phone.

4. And not because anything was wrong.

5. My spouse loves to cook.

6. We have money to eat out when she's sick of cooking.

7. My friends don't take it personally when I don't answer the phone.

8. And when I don't call them back for a few days, they just call again.

9. I'm happier when I'm working than when I'm not working. (Not counting vacations and weekends, of course!)

10. Bernie Sanders could conceivably be our next president.

Olive Oil and Teaching

I have survived three work days in a row. Three. Tres. Trois.

I love my students. I love being with them in the classroom. There is a vibrancy and an organic nature to everything that happens there. That's why I will never get bored with teaching. What teacher can know what fate and chemistry will bring in the fall - the personalities and life experiences of twenty teens, combined with the personality and life experiences of my own self. It's like saying - I'm going to put together four ingredients...try to guess what the result will taste like. My life as an episode of "Chopped."

I know the room number, the book titles, my hopes for their growth and discovery - that's about it. The rest unfolds day by day.

To be honest, there is one ingredient that I always bring. Kind of like, whatever I make for dinner, I know that I will use olive oil. My olive oil is my deep conviction that every privileged person in this country must do what she or he can to make this a true place of opportunity for everyone. If you don't believe that, or if you're not willing to open your heart to that possibility - well, I guess it's kind of like coming to my house for dinner and being allergic to olive oil. I'll do my best to feed you, but it's gonna be a struggle.

So that's about it.  Hello and Salaam to the person who logged on from Saudi Arabia. You made my day. And Finland - a new and faithful reader.  I hope that's not creepy - I don't know who you are or anything. I just get a list of countries, like this:

Blessings!

This morning a friend came over to do an acupuncture treatment while my regular acupuncturist is in China.

Then, this afternoon, as I headed out to get the mail, I was greeted by this:

Yup! Flowers! (I guess they didn't fit in the mailbox.) And no, your eyes are not deceiving you. Those orange ones do precisely match the ones that my squirrel friend has been happily and sadistically devouring.

But wait, that's not all. Something that did fit in the mailbox was a package for me with Cranberry Goat Milk lotion! (And if you're wondering, yes, the temptation to taste it is great, but so far, I'm restraining.)

Yeah, so that's what my life is like.  Filled with blessings (including a pot of Esther's Chicken Soup that arrived on my porch earlier this week).  Hope yours is, too.

p.s. Here are my new lovelies in their new home:

Bed #2

I'm afraid to get out of bed.

Yesterday was one of the worst days in recent memory - 11 hours at MGH, and an aching back more or less throughout.

Today, however and miraculously, I have woken up after a sound and uninterrupted sleep feeling perfectly fine. Finer, in fact, than I have in the past month. So I'm lying here thinking about going for a swim after a brief MGH visit, doing some school work with a settled mind, maybe I'll even cook something!

And that, my friends, is why I'm afraid to get out of bed. What if I don't feel so great after I stand up? Take a few steps? Actually do some of those marvelous things?

The irony actually makes me laugh. What a great story - the woman who felt so good that she was afraid to do anything for fear of screwing it up.  There's also probably a profound metaphor in there somewhere, but I'll leave that to you to ponder.