It's Not About The Hair

Bald Barbie

2012-02-04T06:54:00.000-08:00

I'm the glad the clamor for the Bald Barbie has died down. Last month people were petitioning Mattel to make a bald Barbie doll so that kids on chemo or who had alopecia could have a doll they could relate. I'm not even going to go into all that because at the time I couldn't stop thinking about an experience I had in October at the Uganda Cancer Institute in Kampala interviewing kids with cancer and their parents.

Her belly was swollen and hard and you would swear she was nine months pregnant—except that she was three years old and sitting on her father’s lap. Veroneeka had a Wilms’ tumor the size of a football.

Veroneeka’s father explained to me that he sold his whole crop just to get to Kampala. He was thin as a bamboo pole. He handed me the prescription for Veroneeka’s chemo. It was a long list. I recognized a chemo that I myself had had: Cytoxan. I didn’t envy her.

It turns out I didn’t need to envy her because her father couldn’t afford it. The Ugandan Cancer Institute, as often happens was out of medicines. If that’s the case, then they write you a prescription for chemo and then you go to the pharmacy to buy it. The pharmacy might not have it. If they do, you return to the hospital and they give it to you there.

Chemo in Uganda is a bargain: six-hundred bucks cures most kids with lymphoma. I interviewed parent after parent and the story was the same: they spent everything to get diagnosed and get to Kampala. So there was no money left for chemo.

I wanted to reach into my pocket and say, “Here. Six-hundred bucks. Take it.” But I didn’t have six hundred dollars in my pocket.

What I did have was a backpack full of food bars and little stuffed animals. So when the interview was over, I gave Veroneeka a stuffed dog with ridiculously enormous eyes. She simply sat there silently turning it over and over.

Then I asked her father, “Well, if you have no money, what do you eat?”

He answered, “When Veroneeka does not finish her meal, I eat what she has left.”

I stood up and reached into my pack. “Please take these.” I stuffed food bars into every pocket of his worn shirt. And when he stood up to leave I gave him some more which he put in the pockets of his pants.

He took Veroneeka’s hand and I watched her waddle away. Six hundred dollars to cure her. I considered the cost of my equipment.

My video camera would cure two children. My microphone or twelve pairs of my headphones: one child. I’ve been doing these calculations since I got back. So when I read about the push for the bald Barbie, I did the math in my head: at twenty bucks a pop, thirty Barbie dolls would buy chemo for one child.

And like Veroneeka, I simply sat there silently turning it over and over.

Fear of Recurrence

2012-01-13T17:05:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year!

And now for the mail (edited for length):

Your book was recommended to me by a nurse since I had Stage 2b breast cancer. She thought your book might help me feel a little better and that it might help me deal with some issues I had. She was right and I enjoyed it very much. I will be reaching my 1 year diagnosis date on Feb. 23. I'm told the type I had could return at any time because it was in my lymph nodes plus it was an ugly aggressive cancer. Even though I am a Christian and must believe God can heal and is in control, it is hard to ignore the previous statement from the Dr. What are your thoughts to help me with this issue?

Two of my favorite words in the English language: both/and. You can both believe your doctor and believe God can heal. For one thing, your doctor said your cancer could return at any time and that could be 2050. That's the definition of "any time," although we like to think it means "in the next few months."

If you find you are living in a way that is mindful, generous, forgiving, compassionate and playful, because you think cancer could return any second--then carry on.

But if you find that thinking this way has made you fearful, contracted, irritable, impatient and close-minded, then STOP THINKING THIS WAY.

Seriously. I've seen it go either way. Fear of recurrence can liberate you and/or cripple you.

The thought of recurrence crosses my mind a couple times a day and when it does it's like a wake-up call.

Hello? Don't waste a moment.

That doesn't mean I'm crazy busy, it means I'm conscious, aware, curious and grateful for whatever I'm engaged in at the moment: making coffee, turning over in bed, scratching the dog, taking out the garbage, having a bowel movement.

Both/And. It can both drive you crazy and set you free.

And don't worry about choosing between God and your doctor. You know what they say about doctors: they all think they're God anyway.

I'm so glad you liked my book and thanks for taking the time to write.

The Gift for the Giver

2011-12-14T18:02:00.000-08:00

Here's what I have learned about gift giving: your pleasure must be in finding and giving the gift because if you're counting on the recipient's response then the gift is really about you and not them.

Here's how I learned this--again. Last June my "faux son" graduated from college. My husband and I consider him and his sister our "faux children." We've known them since they were infants, but more important, we've traveled to exotic locations with them and their parents and endured jellyfish stings, mosquito bites, sprained ankles, food poisoning, heat exhaustion, lacerations and serious fevers. This creates bonds that shopping at Toy 'R Us simply can't provide.

In 2000 we went to Greece and rented what our British neighbor called a "vulgar" pink house on the island of Corfu. We loved it. Our faux son was eleven. While playing on the beach I found this rock. It looked like an eye! We called it "The Eye Rock" and considered it magical and mystical.

I kept this rock until 2011 at which time I thought, "I know just what I'm going to give Faux Son for graduation--the Eye Rock!"

I found a suitably big ring box and lined it with velvet under which I put some quilt stuffing and made a perfect little indentation in which the Eye Rock nestled. But I wasn't done.

I now had to write a blessing from the Eye Rock. I thought about this young man and how smart and kind and sensitive and funny he is. I thought about his hopes and dreams for the future. Overcome with love and affection for him I wept as I wrote:

May the Eye Rock give you Vision to see beyond boundaries and obstacles and see all sides.

May the Eye Rock give you Focus when you need it most.

May the Eye Rock give you Hindsight to learn from your mistakes.

May the Eye Rock give you Foresight to prevent mistakes.

May the Eye Rock enable you to look deeply within yourself.

May the Eye Rock give you Clarity to see what is best for you and those around you.

May the Eye Rock help you see the Divine in every person you meet.

I read this over and over and cried each time. I envisioned him holding the Eye Rock and reading the blessing whenever he was troubled--a bad romance, a work problem, a health issue.

I folded the blessing accordion-style so that it fit into the box. I attached a red silk ribbon onto the parchment so that if you gave it a gentle tug, it would majestically unfold in all its wisdom.

His graduation dinner was at a fancy restaurant and his family and friends were all there. I couldn't stand waiting. I handed him the box and said, "Congratulations, sweetie. Please open it."

I held my breath. He opened it. "Oh, the eye rock," he said. "I remember this."

"Pull on the ribbon."

He pulled on the ribbon and the blessing unfolded. He took a few moments and read it. "Cool! Thanks, Auntie." Then he gave me a hug and got another glass of wine.

So you may be asking yourself, "What did you want?"

I wanted him to choke back tears, hold his hand over his heart and say, "Oh, Auntie, this is best present anyone has ever given me! I'll always think of you whenever I look at it. I'll treasure it forever."

Okay, writing that just now, I'm actually laughing aloud. But this is the High Drama that ego just loves! It took me a while to remember the tears of pure joy and love I shed while thinking of him and putting his gift together.

I realize now that I was also crying because I wished someone had written this for me when I graduated college. I was sure I would have avoided all kinds of problems if only I had had an Eye Rock. Or someone who could have given me one.

My greatest satisfaction was in the making and the giving of his gift. So in this Season of Giving and Great Expectations please find joy in the journey because the response at arrival is uncertain.

May the Eye Rock help you to always see Light in the midst of the Darkness.

The Miracle Continues

2011-11-14T16:04:00.001-08:00

Max has reached Red Alert and is running in circles scream-barking. I fling doggy treats in his direction hoping he will shut up. My ears bleeding I stagger to the door and see my friendly UPS man has left a box on my porch.

I carry in the box and Max sensing Something of Interest immediately quiets down. He prances ahead of me into the kitchen. This is the doggy equivalent of the person who says, "Oh, can I help you with that? Here--right this way. Yes, let me help you," and then does nothing to help.

Holy Hot Dogs! An enormous box of COOKIES from Arran-Paterson the Scottish Cookie Company! Max must have known it was treats from his homeland! I scream-bark and run in circles around the kitchen; do a couple donkey kicks off the counter and dig into the box.

This is a dream come true.

Over cake, over ice cream, over pie, over custard, over hill, over dale, I would take a cookie any day.

I find a hand-written note:
Dear Debra,
Please enjoy!
From all at Patersons

Oh, my God! WHAT shall I get my new Scottish friends for Christmas?

To refresh your memory: this is the company to whom I sent a complaint message. See post "It's All About the Chocolate" dated, November 2nd, 2011

Here is what they sent (All spelling is just like it is on the package and by "biscuits" they mean "cookies."):

Giant Cookies: Custard Cream; Triple Choc; Bourbon Cream; Fruity Oat. Biscuits: Apple and Cinnamon; Milk Chocolate and Orange; Chocolate Chip and Stem Ginger. Dunking Bars: Fruit Shrewsbury, Double Choc Chip, Oat and Raisin, Choc Chip and Orange, All Butter. Then there are Orang-U-Tangys, Clotted Cream Shortbread Fingers, and Cheese and Mild Chilli Oat Bites.

As noted in my November 2nd post, many of the packages boast, "No pork, alcohol or palm oil." This conjured up an image of a pig slathered with palm oil, sunning on a beach and drinking a Mai-Tai. Well, there's none of that in these products!

I'm sure Kosher Jews appreciate no pork. No alcohol suits many people. No palm oil?

Well, it turns out that by not using palm oil, they are saving the orangutangs. Vast areas of rainforests in South East Asia are being destroyed to make way for palm oil plantations and it's threatening their survival.

So I guess the more Orang-U-Tangys I eat, the better for the rainforest! And the orangutangs! Not so much for my thighs.

Wow. I can't get over a big company responding to a consumer--a foreign consumer--this way. A pre-Christmas miracle.

I'll think about sharing . . .

Leave On Your Inner Light

2011-11-14T15:29:00.001-08:00

Oldprotective husk

encountersperfect conflict,

revealsinner light.

Lunaria. My friend Annie and I see these plants on our morning walk. The first time I spotted one I said, "Money plant! This is how you make money!" and then I showed her how to rub the dried pods so that the husk comes off to reveal these opalescent leaves.

She turned 50 last week so for her birthday I wrote the above haiku and gave her a framed photo I took of a money plant--except that now I like to think of it as the "Inner Light" plant.

Sometimes it takes just the perfect amount of conflict, tension or friction for us to lose our old skins, our old way of being. We all shy away from this. "I don't like conflict!" And yet when we meet it and allow it to show us a new way, our inner light is revealed.

Most of us are conflict averse but how can there be any life without conflict? What happens when the shovel hits the soil? That's conflict! Without that conflict the soil will remain hard, unforgiving and nothing in it will grow. Except maybe weeds.

The next time Truth sticks in my throat because I'm too afraid of conflict to say it, I hope I remember the Lunaria. If all I get is a headache maybe the conflict will help reveal the other person's inner light!

It's All About the Chocolate

2011-11-02T07:13:00.000-07:00

You know how you have a complaint about something you buy but never really do anything about it? Or maybe you actually write to the company but never get a response, let alone a personal response? (I'm talking to you, Starbucks.)

Well, miracles do occur! There I was last month on a flight from Amsterdam to Seattle after taking an eight hour flight from Entebbe to Amsterdam. So I was a little tired. A little cranky. A little bored. A bit dissatisfied with my KLM meal, particularly the cookie onto which I had pinned all my hopes of gustatory delight and rejuvenation.

While on the plane, I wrote the cookie company a letter. I've always believed that when you complain you need to at least offer some suggestion, some kind of possible solution to the problem. I then emailed the letter when I arrived home.

I woke up this morning to their reply. I love these people.
I especially love Allan Miller their Sales and Marketing Director of Paterson Arran who not only agrees with me but promises to accept my solution and make a change immediately!

See our correspondence below. Enjoy!

Note: You will need to know that on the wrapper it reads, "Contains no palm oil, pork or alcohol."
______________________________________

Dear Paterson-Arran,

Just ate your Bronte doubly choc chip biscuits which you describe as “bursting with choc chips.” Let’s discuss your definition of “bursting.”

Mine: Dolly Parton in a 34B bikini top, Barack Obama on knowing Osama Bin Laden was dead, but having to keep quiet for a while; King Henry VIII (RIP) in thong underwear.

Yours as evidenced by your “doubly choc chip biscuit:” rocks scattered on a concrete driveway; fingernail clippings on the bathroom floor; hair pins on the floor of a car after a heavy make-out session.

In other words I’m afraid you use “bursting” when you really mean “scattered.” After a meal of chicken w/risotto, half cup salad, dinner roll, butter, Jacob’s cracker, cheese, every one of which seemed to live up to it’s hype—meaning none—we have your final biscuit as dessert and it was such a let down.

Perhaps it was the eight hour flight from Entebbe to Amsterdam. Perhaps it is the false hope I carry for abundance on the flight from Amsterdam to Seattle that makes your biscuit such a crushing disappointment to me.

It is crispy. It is crunchy. “Bursting” it is not.

My suggestion: add more chocolate chips! A biscuit such as yours should be nothing but a vehicle for chocolate chips. And I’m sure you can do this without bringing in any palm oil, pork or alcohol.

If this suggestion is not agreeable to you, perhaps you would consider a name change that is a bit more straight forward and to the point: Super Crunchy Crispy Chocolately Biscuit! Just the facts, ma’am.
Thank you for your time and attention.

Best regards,

Debra Jarvis
KLM/Delta flight #233
___________________________

Dear Debra,
You are right. Thank you so much for taking the time to write so thoughtfully and wittily. If it wasn't for the fact that I'm so sorry our biscuits disappointed you so, reading your email would have been more of a joy.
After a little reflection I see your point exactly and we'll address this immediately. For this particular product line I can't heap more choc chips in I'm afraid, but the text on the pack will change as you suggest - maybe not in time for your next flight on Delta #233 but it will change.
We do offer a wide range of other products and, by way of thank you, I'd be happy to send you some if you wish - just let me have a postal address. Maybe you could let me know if I've got some other stuff wrong!
Thanks once more.
Kind Regards,
Allan.
Allan Miller
Sales and Marketing Director
________________________________
So who knows what will really happen? For now I take joy in the personal response. Hope you experienced some vicarious joy too.

Oddly I now feel the urge for a little nibble . . . on something crunchy . . .

And Then There Was Light

2011-07-25T17:00:00.001-07:00

I've neglected gardening on our creek bank for the past two years because I was really pissed that our gorgeous, gigantic poplar tree, under which I planted 100 daffodils, fell over into the creek leaving us with an ugly rootball.

Apparently I can hold a grudge for a long time.

As we all know, Nature abhors a vacuum and in that short two years salmon berry, laurel, horsetails, blackberries and God-knows-what ran rampant on the bank. I'm not sure why I was motivated to get in there and clean it all out, but I was shocked at what I found.

Several sad, half-dead hostas, puny pulmonaria and struggling astilbe that were ready to die. All for lack of light--because of my lack of care. Neglected.

Here's my spiritual lesson in this: if I don't take care of That which is blocking out the Light, That will simply continue to grow and block it out. Then I'm stuck having to a do a lot of painful (blackberries, remember) and time consuming work.

This has happened in one of my relationships where I've been too chicken to speak up and I just let things slide. One in particular was nearly dead from not tackling Light-blocking issues. Now we are working hard to save the friendship.

Seattle had two, count 'em TWO amazing days of sun during which I did all this yard work. But I can't wait until it's sunny and I feel inspired.

I must tend my garden all the time, vigilant against crowding by weeds, lack of Light or lack of water.

I stand corrected.

Elegy for Ellen

2011-03-07T15:58:00.000-08:00

Close

My friend Ellen De Bondt was killed yesterday by a drunk driver. It was a Sunday morning and who in the hell thinks about drunk drivers on a Sunday morning?
http://www.peninsuladailynews.com/article/20110307/news/303079998/suspected-drunken-driver-kills-port-angeles-nurse-in-two-truck-crash

My former boss called me this afternoon to let me know. I was stunned. I hadn't seen Ellen in awhile, but when I was a staff chaplain at the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance I used to bike to work and Ellen and I would chat in the locker room every morning.

It's a bonding experience when two sweaty women discuss their ride (or sometimes in Ellen's case her run) into work while shouting over the shower and hair dryer. My hair dryer that is. Ellen always let her amazing hair air dry.

She had a wide grin, wild hair and bright blue eyes. It astounded me that for someone who loved the outdoors, she managed to be happy while being indoors most of the day. Ellen was a nurse in the pain clinic and like being a chaplain in a cancer center, you get a different perspective on life. I can't remember her complaining about anything. She was always cheerful, sweet and enthusiastic.

Ellen referred a lot of patients to me--people who were learning to live with their chronic pain or hoping for relief from their crippling pain. When I saw the photo of Ellen's destroyed car, all I could think was, "I hope you did not die in pain. I hope you died instantly and flew out of your body in a rush of joy and freedom."

I've been walking around the house all day weeping. I was touched by the call from my boss that he would think to let me know. I realize too that hearing his voice and remembering Ellen brought up some grief I still have about leaving my staff position.

Ellen and I used to talk about living with pain and how if you can't relieve it physically, it is sometimes relieved psychically. I found this to be true for myself. When I was working in the clinic I had a bad mountain bike crash and broke six ribs, each one in two places. It was unbearable most of the time, that is, until I went in to see a patient. Then I never noticed it. Seriously.

It seemed that in reaching to out to others in pain, my own disappeared.

So perhaps this afternoon my dog Max and I will go visit one of our hospice patients. A little pain relief.

I can still grieve for Ellen and miss my job but rejoice that I knew this wonderful loving Bright Spirit. I hope she is running, biking, kayaking, hiking, swimming in some lovely precious world that is free of drunk drivers.

Oh, RATS!

2011-01-24T18:09:00.000-08:00

It's really hard complaining about anything once you've had cancer, or once you've been a chaplain because you've heard all kinds of really sad stories that makes your complaint look pathetic and ridiculous.

So last Monday when I tripped while running and tore my hamstring, even though the pain was second only to breaking ribs, I felt like, "Oh, geez, well, it's not cancer," even though it meant I spent two days in bed lying on ice packs and gulping Aleve. And I could not sit down on anything. ANYthing if you get my drift. My doctor said, "It's because you're sitting on swollen muscles."

Swollen muscles. I got this image of a horse's rump that has been pounded by sledge hammers. "Hamstrings take a really long time to heal," he said. "A really long time."

So then on Friday when I woke up with chest cold that went up into my head I thought, "Hamstring tear and a bad cold. Well, it's not cancer."

But Sunday night was the last straw. I opened the towel drawer in the bathroom and there was a stack of gnawed towels and piles of RAT SHIT!!!!!

Yeah, yeah, I've had cancer and that sucks but RATS?!!!! I am so grossed out I can hardly stand it. We set a trap.

But the point of this post is that cancer kind of ruins guilt-free whining about the normal everyday things. But now that I think of it, being aware of the rest of the world sort of ruins it.

Maybe that's the point of awareness, to ruin our complaining, to realize that it is not really necessary to whine about anything. What percentage of the world share their daily lives with rats?

The trick is to laugh at yourself as you complain and then pray for the rest of the world.

Well, thanks for letting me work this out with you. I feel much better in all ways. And now I've got to get to that trap.

The Feel Bad Talk

2010-12-17T17:36:00.000-08:00

A few week ago I received this message from my friend Jon who is an oncology nurse.

"Can you write a wonderful meditation please on the spiritual needs of those of us who give care and support to those who have a cancer diagnosis?

Cancer patient care-givers (family) and patients get a lot of air time (and rightly so) regarding what they deal with, and I have been in a caretaker role with my dad as he was dying with metastatic prostate cancer so I get that. I don't think that the mental, spiritual, and probably physical impact of what we do as nurses (and yes, physicians and other providers as well) is well understood. Many speakers address this issue but, from my perspective, it is presented in a "nurse appreciation day" format that lacks depth and appears to be somewhat cliché. It seems to be a "feel good" talk that lasts until the next day when it is back to business as usual.

Speaking for myself (which is all I am able to do) I agonize over patient outcomes. Every patient that dies reflects another life I have been touched by, which I feel as a loss. No matter how compartmentalized I try to make my interactions with the people I am privileged to share lives with, I can't escape the impact of their death. When I don't feel that loss, I will no longer be able to do my job. This is a catch 22 situation which is not understood."

Well, Jon, I understand your frustration with the "feel good" talks. So I hope you're holding onto your lab coat because I'm going to give you the "feel bad" talk.

I know you and I know the good work you do. You say the compartmentalizing is not working out, so why not just let everyone you meet really touch you? Let every crappy diagnosis you encounter make you even more fiercely determined to live life to the fullest. Continue to feel the loss which means you will feel bad and sad and basically shitty. Whatever made you think you could do this job and never feel that way?

But here's the question I ask you and always ask myself, "Would I rather have not met this person so as to avoid the grief of losing them?" When it comes to love, everyone loses at some point because EVERYONE DIES. This is the state of our existence. But would you rather never love? Of course not.

Let yourself cry until you think your eyeballs will fall out. I've done this very recently and though it now takes my face longer to recover, my heart feels calmer and lighter almost immediately.

You can see you are getting no sympathy from me because my experience is that sympathy is no help at all. I find when I want sympathy it is because my slobbering dog of an ego really wants strokes for how noble and courageous and compassionate and "special" I am for doing this work. So I pat the doggie on the head and say, "Yes, you are noble, etc. and how great that you get to do this work. Now get on with it."

I think when we are doing our best work, we are simply channels for the Spirit. I love that feeling of Spirit working in and through me. It's so freeing because then I don't have to be in control!

But the downside of that is that I don't have control! Talk about Catch-22. We certainly have no control over Death. For me, doing things that I can control helps mitigate all that loss and powerlessness I often feel. So that means I bake bread, I make mosaics, I write, I garden, I walk outside. In all these things I control the variables (except perhaps weather and slugs).

And I spend time goofing around with friends which is why I posted the pic of me drinking a Margarita. So I ask you, Jon, what night next week do you want to have a drink?

YouTubeDebutUpdate

2010-10-27T12:09:00.000-07:00

The video in my last post just received an Award of Merit from the City of Hope ACE Project. I'm thrilled! It's up on YouTube so everyone can access it.

I wish Denise Echelard was still here so that I could see her face as she watched the final edit. I do think that somewhere, somehow she knows what is happening and is getting a big kick out of it.

Denise died a year ago this month. But here is what you should know: she quit her cancer treatment in January of 2009 and her doc told her she would be dead by March 2009. She received palliative care (no treatment) and had a pretty damn good life until around late September 2009.

That is the power of palliative care--and Denise. She was a force to be reckoned with: strong and funny and open and intense.

Denise, where ever you are: thank you so much.

YouTubeDebut!

2010-10-25T16:57:00.000-07:00

Blast From the Past

2010-10-15T10:19:00.000-07:00

It seemed only right that I received this completely unanticipated email message in September which is the beginning of the school year.

It was a message from my 6th grade teacher Bob Edmiston! Being in his class was life-changing for me. How great was he?

I dedicated my first book to him.

What was so great about him?

He thought out-of-the-box and so taught us 12 year olds to think that way too. He pretty much tossed out the science textbooks because really, how excited can you get about science by reading? Science is about doing!

So he took a storage room and transformed it into a dark room. He taught us about F-stops and shutter speed and exposure. We developed our own film. We printed our own photos. I came to love the smell of developer. Sure there was the time we were jumping off the counters to see how far we could go in the dark. But no one got hurt. It just got noisy.

We learned about microscopy and climatology and botany. We learned how to shoot a Super 8 movie. I learned so much and was so proud of my work that I still have my Botany, Microscopy and Photography final projects. (I swear I am not a hoarder.)

He also taught us about culture. He took us to a Japanese restaurant and we ate raw fish! (Please keep in mind that this was in the sixties.) We worked with clay but we didn't make just little coil pots. We made raku pottery.

The most valuable gift he gave to me was encouraging me to write. In fact the subject line of his email was "The girl who liked to write really long stories." And we had all kinds of assignments: mystery stories, historical stories, stories based on TV shows. Writing was important to me because I felt that there was little else that I could do really well.

A couple other kids and I were working on a parody of "Get Smart" and our main character was called "Soxsmell Dumb." Get it? Very sixth grade, I know.

I so appreciate teachers because they can, whether they know it or not, determine the course our lives, for the better or for the worse. If you are teacher, please take your job seriously. I don't mean be serious, because God knows Mr. E was one of the funniest people I've ever known. Just know that who you are and the way you teach matters.

Mr. Edmiston wrote me a recommendation to get into UC Berkeley and then he sent me what he said was a copy, but was (I think) a joke. It's hilarious. I still have it somewhere and I'll post it as soon as I find it.

And I'll ask him if I can share about his life which was amazing to me since I thought all the excitement pretty much left his universe when I went on to Junior High.

Maybe I need a Permission Slip.

Came and Fallow Me!

2010-08-14T17:24:00.001-07:00

I can't explain why I can't stop doing it, but it feels so good that I don't really care.

I'm experiencing some kind of wonderful Cleaning Mania. Dusting, vacuuming, steam mopping, baseboard scrubbing, silver polishing, project finishing--get out my way! That mirror looks dirty!

Is it some premonition of my impending death? I say this because for the last 25 years whenever Wes was really late I started cleaning because I was sure the cops would be at my door to take me to the morgue at Harborview to identify his broken body and smashed up bike and then everyone would be arriving to comfort me which would be horrible, but at least I wouldn't have to worry about the house being dirty.

But I've been at this all week so I don't think it's that.

It could be because my sister arrives on Monday. But she's come here when this house was a pig sty. Seriously. She's been here when I had crap everywhere and was so disorganized that I could barely mumble an apology.

And yes, upon her arrival, we do play this game called "Mean Real Estate Lady." Because she has bought and sold more houses than I've ever lived in, she has vast experience with agents who inspect her house with an eye to selling it. (She is going through this now.)

So pretending to be the Mean Real Estate Lady, she walks around looking at my house and says stuff like, "What is this here for?" in a very critical voice. It could be something meaningful like the two carved wooden monks on the piano that my friend Claude willed to me. He died of AIDS and I treasure them because they remind me of our conversations about all things spiritual.

I have put the monks next to a Greek icon of the Virgin Mary holding the Baby Jesus. You know, keep the religions together. Because on the other side of the piano is the goddess Kuan Yin, a meditation bell and a Buddhist dorje. I think it's cool, but it might be the kind of thing that a prospective buyer finds hideous.

Or sometimes the Mean Real Estate Lady says things like, "Isn't this a little worn/stained/dated?" Or, "This is a bit cluttered, don't you think?"

If I get even a bit outraged, my sister says, "Hey, it's not me talking! It's the Mean Real Estate Lady."

But honestly, I don't think this is why I suddenly have all this energy for cleaning. I think it is because I am finally, very deeply rested. You know how you come home from work and you look at something and say to yourself, "Yeah, I really need to do that." But then you just can't do it, because you're tired. Deeply tired.

But I don't feel that way anymore! I have energy for all the cleaning and unfinished projects that have piled up in the last few years since me getting cancer and working as a chaplain.

I'm convinced I have this new found energy because in June I decided to spend the summer being fallow. I love this concept of letting a field lie unplanted to replenish it. If you take a superficial look at it, you might thnk, "Whatta waste! Something could be growing in that soil!" But actually, something is growing very deep within that soil that we can't see.

What did this mean for me? It meant that I wouldn't work on any new books or films, or audio documentaries or essays or commentaries, but instead would spend time taking in instead of putting out. I gave myself until September 1st.

And it has worked. But it was hell at first. Such guilt! Reading for hours? Sloth. Gardening all day, for days at a time? Indulgent. Drinking great wine when we're not having company? Hedonistic.

Gradually I got used to it. The most "work" I did was visiting hospice patients with Max. And because he's the main attraction, I'm off the hook.

I recommend this. You may not have the luxury of being able to be fallow for an entire season I like did. So try a weekend. A day. Or even a few hours.

Let me know how it goes.

And why I'm so driven in the first place? Well, that's for another post.

Notes From A Broad

2010-07-21T16:35:00.000-07:00

Here is a good way to go through life: as if you live with a small dog or as if you are in an art museum. Either one requires you to look around before you move, before you take a step to see who or what your action will affect.

I've been in Europe for the past month which meant quite a few art museums. I was astonished at the number of people who back up to look at a painting and back right into someone because they didn't look around. They were just caught up in their own little worlds.

Because I live with a small dog (who thinks he's a big dog) I've learned to look around before I take a step. Before he came to live with us, Max lived outside all his life. He never lived around feet and ankles and legs and therefore did not how unpredictable they are. So it my job to look out for him.

I think this is an excellent way to live in the world, always asking myself if my words or actions are going to cause me to crash into someone or step on them. So yeah, go through life as if living with a small dog.

Finding Meaning Through Dolphins

2010-04-09T13:30:00.000-07:00

Two weeks until my workshop "Finding Meaning Through Cancer" which happens on April 24-25 here in Seattle. It's sponsored by the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance, the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center and Healing Journeys.

This has been a lot like putting on a wedding. There are a million details to which I must attend: getting the venue, thinking about the food, parking, getting out information.

But unlike a wedding I have to think about getting the word out so people will come (which is sort of the opposite of a wedding). I've been schmoozing with drug reps and restaurants owners and store managers to see if they will donate money, or lunches, or water or art supplies.

I talk with organizations and fill out applications for grants for scholarship money.

I've pitched myself to radio and television stations. I've been rejected and ignored and feel like a has-been prostitute when I find myself muttering, "But you don't know good I am!"

And then suddenly I'm amazed at the generosity of friends and family who are willing to donate money for scholarships. Willing to give money to strangers to help them find meaning in what is usually labeled just a big, fat, sucky experience.

Like a wedding, the reception gets all the attention, but it's the ceremony that really counts. So in-between all the whoring I work on content. Refining ways to help us get to our feelings and core beliefs.

At the workshop I'm doing some talking and we're doing some group sharing and some visual journaling and some completely original movement work and then of course, the spontaneous hilarity that occurs at workshops like this.

My head feels like a popcorn popper as ideas are constantly bursting forth. It's exciting. It's thrilling. It's nerve wracking.

Above is a painting I did on my birthday, March 27th. I went to a workshop called, "Painting From Within." I was just playing with the greens and the grays--just squishing and brushing and wiping the paint when I stepped back and suddenly saw the two dolphins. I was stunned. It was not my conscious intention.

I swear.

Dolphins have appeared in my Big Dreams and once when I was swimming in Tobago. A pod swam around us and they scared and thrilled me. They are big and very strong. The force of their bodies as they swam by pushed me through the water. I had thought that they were the size of German Shepherds. They are really the size of mini-vans.

I put my head under the water and could hear them talking. "Eee-eee!"

Even now, I can close my eyes and feel the warm, silky water and hear them. I am hearing them say that I can lighten up and trust. All is play now! No worrie-e-e-e-es!

Anyone reading this post and wanting to donate money for scholarships can go to www.healingjourneys.org, click on donate and put "Finding Meaning" in the comments box.

Or "Finding Me-e-e-e-e-eaning!"

When In Doubt, Grout

2010-02-22T18:11:00.000-08:00

This was my big project for the day. I wanted to take advantage of this gorgeous weather, so my decision was to either work in the garden, or grout a mosaic egg that I finished tiling months ago.

I'm in a finish-all-projects mode, so I went with the egg. The egg is ceramic and my original plan was to put it in the garden. But it was so much work that I'm feeling quite protective about it. I think it will stay in the house until the weather warms up and then The Egg will have a home on the deck where we can see it.

Here's one thing I learned doing mosaics: always keep your mistakes. This means if you try to cut a square and it breaks into a rectangle, don't throw it away. Keep it. You will use it later.

I feel the same way about "failure," or the so-called "bad experience." Don't throw it away, save it. You will use this experience later to your benefit.

Note To Self

2010-02-12T18:31:00.000-08:00

I received this message today (w/names omitted and edited for brevity):

I know you probably get plenty of emails from bewildered individuals like me, but can I just say I really need some advice, just like all the other bewildered. I have even re-read your book, seeing if it answers
this big question, and maybe you did, but since the answer wasn't lit up in neon with the preface "HEY YOU: HERE IS YOUR ANSWER," I missed it.

And maybe the answer is in there, but it is hard to really "get it" because it is a life experience, and like all the books on childbirth, which even told me all about childbirth, it just didn't tell me about MY childbirth. Somehow uniquely surprising. So apologies if you did actually answer my question, but could you re-phrase the answer?

The background: My neighbor has Stage IV breast cancer. AND she has three children. (You are probably getting an inkling where this is going?) And, well, she is ~my neighbor~ and this is, you know, the Pacific Northwest. We have, for a decade, pretty much minded our own business (even though our kids play every once in a while), there is no deep and meaningful relationship-- just our nice, you-on-one-side of the
street and me-on-the other-side, sometimes a pleasant nod and a wave.

So. A neutron bomb has gone off and it is time to change our lovely distant relationship because well, it seems pretty non-optional in light of all the care that is going to be needed. And I have even tested that
idea out on several different clergy and no one has disagreed with that statement about non-optional relationship change (freaking Christians).

Plus, I pretty much know this is what I am called to be doing. How? Because anytime that I have been called up by God it has involved something that scares the beejeezus out of me, I try to come up with some good reasons to avoid it, it has involved caring about someone other than myself (some of those times people have fit into that neat, other-side of the street definition) and has involved giving up my brilliant plans for the near future.

The question: How do people live through something so incredibly scary and sad? It has been easy to go into organization hyper-mode because order is so lovely, and so impersonal. But it is the personal stuff that
is next on the agenda, I am imagining. The personal stuff of seeing my neighbor get really sick, and frail, and maybe even unable to care for her kids. And maybe even talking about scary things like dying and what will happen to her children.

How in the world do people do this? How in the world does someone go through something like this with another person? How in the world can I do this?

Thanks for any advice, your experience and your wisdom. I will really appreciate it because so far one of my coping strategies has involved closing the blinds to avoid looking across the street. And we all know reducing any form of light during a Northwest winter is a terrible idea.

Yours,
Stumped

Dearest Stumped,

Here's my answer to your question: How in the world can I do this?

I want to warn you that my answer is such a cliche, such well-worn advice that you have heard a thousand time that it may make you want to spit.

Here it is: One day at a time.

Seriously. That is how people go through life, because really, you can't actually go through any other way, now can you? You are trying to be in a future that you don't even know will happen. How do you know you will see your neighbor "get really sick, and frail, and maybe even unable to care for her kids. And maybe even talking about scary things like dying and what will happen to her children."

How do you know that's going to happen? How do you know she will talk to you about dying? How do you know it's going to be scary and sad for her? Or did you mean for you?

So how in the world can you be with your neighbor? One day at a time.

When you were pregnant did you spend all your time thinking about delivery? It never hurts to be informed, but how could you spend every day worrying about the delivery? You would entirely miss the life that was happening right in front of you. Childbirth! Talk about scary!

Here's an idea. Give her a copy of my book. Then you will have something to talk about that isn't directly about her, but the conversation may get to be about her.

And you know what? Don't assume that she will want you to get all neighborly all of a sudden. I just now started thinking about neighbors on my street that I don't know well and how I would feel if they were suddenly coming over all the time. I would freak out!

You may want to be closer, but don't assume that she does. And you can't take it personally if she doesn't.

I think perhaps today is simply Bewildered Day, because I, myself have been in a State of Bewilderment for most of the day. So you are not alone. In fact, the first thing I did this morning was write to two close friends asking for advice. My subject line: Help Me! So there you go.

I hope this helps. Don't hesitate to call or give my number to your neighbor in case she wants a (im)perfect stranger to come in and listen to her talk about her experience.

It's great that you care, Stumped. If I thought worrying helped ANYthing, I'd say, "Angst away, my friend!" But it doesn't, so don't.

Be here now. One day at a time.

Thanks for writing and reminding me.

Community College Collage

2009-12-30T16:30:00.000-08:00

Spiritual revelation at community college? It happens.

It was the fall of 1998. I had just lost a job and felt raw and vulnerable. In an attempt to turn lemons in lemonade—instead of sitting around the house and muttering, “Those bastards!” I decided to attend North Seattle Community College full time. I enrolled in all the classes I’d always wanted to take.

French 101 was like jumping into an unheated swimming pool. I gasped and sputtered with shock. Nothing was familiar. I couldn't read the words, let alone pronounce them. Throughout the class the professor would put a hand behind his ear and say, "Ecoutez!" Listen. Attention! Pay attention.

Oddly, I would hear his voice in my head at different times during the day—while talking with a friend, while witnessing an argument in the grocery store, while hearing the wind whisper through the trees. Ecoutez! And I found myself listening the same way I did in class: wondering what can I learn from this? Attention!

If French was a cold pool, Drama was a bubbling hot tub. I was comfortable and hungrily gobbled up everything my professor said.

"Nothing is random, everything is intentional," she said, meaning that in a play, every word, gesture, action and prop had meaning. Could this be true of my life? Looking back it did seem as if everything, even difficult things, lead to a place I would not have otherwise gone.

Then there was Drawing. The first day my professor intoned: "Get the big picture first. What are the major shapes? What is your perspective? Check your proportions."

His words went straight to my heart. How many times had I failed to see the larger context? Or looked at situations from only my perspective and then later dared to see it from another side and found myself suddenly understanding? And as for proportions—I could be the Picasso of reality perception.

We learned about lights and shadows. "Without shadows, your picture has no depth, no dimension." I knew he was talking to me. Nothing is random. Like most people, I wanted to avoid life's shadows. But he was right: without them life was flat and superficial—a cartoon drawing versus a Rembrandt.

It was our study of "negative space, " the space between objects, that set me to hours of pondering. He gently chided us: "Don't focus so much on the object. Without negative space, your picture is just a cluttered mess. And don't forget that half of drawing is standing and looking—not making marks on the paper. How else can you see what is needed?"

But if I wasn't making marks on the paper I felt lazy and irresponsible—the same way I felt watching the clouds or drinking a cup tea. Guilty and unproductive! But perhaps I needed to make "negative space"—time between activities, so I could stand back, look at my life and see what was needed.

In our culture, negative space is not valued. We cram our lives with more objects and activities until our lives feel like cluttered messes. Just take a look at the annual Christmas letter. Have you ever seen one that says, "After work I come home and putter around. On weekends the kids goof around in the yard or whatever. Sometimes I see them just talking to each other."

Singing class brought more insights. "Stay in your body and sing what you're feeling!" my teacher bellowed. "Breathe from your back!"

We breathed. We huffed. We puffed. We gave each other shoulder massages. We pretended to yawn to lift our soft palates in order to hit the high notes. We sang with our tongues hanging out.

After a while I started to get more comfortable with the high notes—they just sounded bad. "Your problem is that you hit every note with such force," my professor said punching her fist into the air.

I blinked. Well, that's how I do everything in life, I thought.

She continued, "You need to learn to sing the note gracefully—you don't need all that force." I didn't need all that force? That's a revolutionary concept. Could this possibly apply to the rest of my life? Stand back and look.

I went to learn about theatre, art, singing and French. But I came away knowing about listening and attention, negative space, lights and shadows, force and grace.

Community college—I highly recommend it.

A Christmas Story

2009-12-22T13:39:00.000-08:00

I was in the fourth grade when my father got the idea of putting a 12 foot aluminum Christmas tree on top his ham radio tower. My sister Lynie and I were wild with delight. "Yeah, Dad, do it, do it! Please. We'll help. It will be so-o-o neat. " My mother rolled her eyes.

Every day after school we would come home to find my dad working on Project Christmas Tree. My mother called it Project Stupidity. Lynie and I helped by putting the aluminum branches into the silver painted trunk. Spurred on by our enthusiasm for the project, Dad also decided to put a motor on the tree so that it would spin around. Then, in a moment of true genius, he installed two floodlights so that it could be seen at night.

At last the moment came to crank the tree up into the sky. "Wait," Lynie said. My dad and I looked at her expectantly. I was expecting something dopey to come out of her second grade mouth. "Ornaments," she said.

"Ornaments!" I yelled running back to the house. I knew just where my mother put those boxes of new red glass balls.

Nobody spoke as we reverently hung the balls all over the tree. I hung up the last ornament. "It's beautiful," Lynie said in whisper. She was right again. It was prettier, more wonderful, more fantastic than any tree I'd ever seen. It was alive--it shivered as the wind blew through it's aluminum needles. Finally my dad cranked it up, up into the sky.

"We have to get some distance," my dad said. "It's like looking up a flagpole at flag. You can't really see it. Let's go over to the Gemco parking lot after dinner and look at it from there." Gemco was about half a mile away as the crow flies.

I could hardly eat dinner I was so excited. My mom didn't want to come to Gemco with us--she was mad that we took her new Christmas ornaments. Lynie and I covered our eyes the way to the parking lot. We didn't want to spoil it. We got out of our Dad's van and there--up in the sky--there was the silver tree. It looked like it was floating. It was magical.

You couldn't really see the Christmas balls, but you could tell it was spinning round and round like the ballerina in my jewelry box. It was so beautiful I started crying, but managed to croak out, "Project Christmas Tree is a success!"

But not for long. Two nights after Christmas, we had a terrible storm. It rained heavily and a gale force wind came up.

The next day, and for several weeks afterward, people, known and unknown, came to our door. Usually they would hold out one of the aluminum branches and ask, "Is this yours?"

My mother would thank them, take the branch, close the door and then mutter "Stupidity!" under her breath. All the branches blew off except for two. All the ornaments were missing except for one. And that one my dad broke when he took down what was left of the tree.

Lynie and I didn't talk about it. That is, until Easter vacation when a strange man rang our doorbell. He said he lived over by Gemco. He carefully reached into the brown paper bag he was holding. "Is this yours?" he asked. He was holding one of the Christmas tree's red glass balls. But now it was actually pink. "I came across this in my garden," he said smiling.

Lynie gasped. "The Christmas ornament that turned into an Easter egg," she said. "It's a miracle." My mother thanked him, took the ornament, shut the door and didn't say a word.

2009-11-23T06:18:00.001-08:00

Normally I love cemeteries. When we travel I go out of my way to visit them and photograph the tombstones, the flowers, the landscape. I look at the dates and wonder if the long life was well lived or short life much grieved. I like being reminded that I’ll be along at some point, so I mustn’t waste a moment. I come away from cemeteries inspired.

The exception is war cemeteries. Once there I immediately feel depressed and hopeless. My throat gets tight and suddenly there is a hockey puck sitting in my stomach. I can’t take a deep breath.

We were in Washington D.C. over the weekend. Wes wanted to see all the war memorials and Arlington cemetery. I said okay, but no to the Vietnam Memorial because I’d been there before and couldn’t stop crying. And I insisted that we walk all the way from Dupont Circle (about 4 miles) because I knew that would be the only redeeming thing for me. I was right.

I cried the whole time: at the World War I memorial, the World War II memorial, the Korean War memorial, the Lincoln memorial, the rippling pond at Bobby Kennedy’s grave, the eternal flame at the Kennedy grave and especially at all the military graves in Arlington.

I kept thinking, “What a waste.” I know many would say, “But we are free because of these dead!” And first I thought no, there has to be a better way. You want X, I want X. If you are dead, then I can have X. That’s basically it, right? Isn’t there some way to deal with that?

I said to Wes, “The bottom line is that war is about young people dying because of arrogant, power hungry men.”

Sexism alert: if women ruled the world would it be different? What mother would want her precious children trained to take human life, to regard others as “the enemy” so as to make killing possible? What mother could send her children off with the potential not only for death, but to return broken or permanently damaged—not just their bodies, but their spirits?

But what about fighting against oppression? Are you supposed to let evil dictators rule? Should we still have slavery? Genocide? Hunger?

On the stone wall at Bobby Kennedy’s grave is a quote from him where he was quoting Aeshylus and it was something about “look within and tame our own savage beast.”

So perhaps I was wrong. Maybe the bottom line is that war is about dealing with the dark, selfish, I-perceive-myself-separate side of humanity. The side that says, “I am better than you. I should get what I want. I will kill you to get what I want.”

This is the side that is within each one of us. And if you don’t think you have a dark side, I invite to remember how you felt the last time someone cut in front of you in line or you didn’t get the vacation you requested or a teacher yelled at your kid and made her cry. Or they took away your aisle seat and put you in the middle—between two really large people.

I walked around Arlington thinking about the savage beast, the dark side within. I also thought about the Light within. I looked at those thousands of grave stones and wondered if these men and women had lived, what cure, what music, what art, what poetry, what invention, what idea did the world miss because they were killed before they could offer it?

I overheard a tour guide talking about “all the heroes buried here.” I know there are people buried in Arlington who went “above and beyond the call of duty.”

But I’ll tell you who my real hero is. My hero is the one who one who can see a better way. My hero is the one who prevents the war before it can begin. My hero is the one who can tame the savage beast within.

Follow Up

2009-10-16T12:37:00.001-07:00

So the Washington State Book Awards ceremony was a blast. Paraphrasing a winner, it's nice to get local recognition or any award because as writers we're always wondering, "Is anybody out there?"

In other news, I was on KING Morning News. Here's the link:
http://www.king5.com/video/in-studio-index.html?nvid=407547

I still can't believe I said "Brazilian bikini wax" on television.

Enjoy.

It's Not About the Award

2009-10-14T10:47:00.000-07:00

Tonight is the awards ceremony for the 2009 Washington State Book Awards. It's Not About the Hair did not win, but it was a finalist in the history/biography category.

I know I sound like a loser actress when I say that I was thrilled to be a finalist. But I was! Seriously. It was even more thrilling because I didn't know I had been nominated and the congratulatory e-mail was a nice surprise. It just proves to me that often unknowable things are happening for us right now, that will come to fruition at a later time.

I recently got a big boost in Amazon sales but I don't think it was because of this award. It was because the infamous "sex chapter" was excerpted in CURE magazine:
http://www.curetoday.com/index.cfm/fuseaction/article.show/id/2/article_id/1246

I've been getting all sorts of messages about that, mostly saying, "Yay! Someone is talking about sex!" Well, I'm glad I'm able to help. But no one knows about WSBA because they don't usually publish the list of finalists. Just the winners who also get $1,000.

So I'll let you know what the ceremony and reception is like. It's at 7 p.m. at the Downtown Library in the Microsoft auditorium. It's open to the public which makes me suspect it will be catered by Costco.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Three Things

2009-09-16T11:17:00.000-07:00

Three things I have discovered this year which have been life-changing: 1) the soaker hose, 2) eyebrow dye and 3) the Mars Coat King.

The Soaker Hose
I no longer have to spend hours hand watering my garden. I just hook up the hose and walk away.

Eyebrow Dye
I no long have to spend minutes dinking with my eyebrows. I just dye them and it lasts for six weeks.

The Mars Coat King
I no longer have to get Max groomed every few months. I brush him with this magical comb that pulls out all the loose hair. I trim his bangs and beard and he's good to go. Such a handsome guy. I could knit a sweater out of all the hair I pull off. Well, first I'd have to spin it into yarn. Then learn to knit.

I never promised this would be earth-shattering, soul-jarring news. Just three things.

Try Tri Again

2009-08-19T18:01:00.000-07:00

So that's me in the middle coming out of Lake Washington two weeks ago at the Danskin Triathlon.

I did the Danskin in 2004 and was training for 2005 when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Okay, so there was a teeny tiny part of me that thought, "Now I can stop all this insane training!" Ha.

It's taken me five years to get in shape again and even though I'm five years older and ten pounds heavier, I finished thirteen minutes faster than 2004. While I was doing the run (which is the worst part because your legs are so dead) I kept thinking, "Well, this is way better than getting chemotherapy!

I was faster because I learned to swim freestyle the whole way and most important, to not dally in my transitions. This got me to thinking about my transition from a staff chaplain at the SCCA to a sort of freelance chaplain/writer/public speaker.

I've grieved over leaving my community there: my colleagues and the patients. This was especially hard when I learned that one of the nurses got married and not only was I not invited to the wedding, but another chaplain did the ceremony.

But then I also realize that I have not gone out of my way to keep connected to people there. And in fact, sometimes avoided going up to my old unit. The reason: I wanted to give the new chaplains a chance to get settled in and let the staff bond to them.

Also: one time I was talking with a patient about being in a film I'm making about palliative care. The new chaplain got all squirrelly about it. Like, what was I doing there? And did our boss know about it? And did I chart it? And I kept reassuring him, "I wasn't seeing him as a chaplain. There was no need for me to chart."

So for the past year I've been so sad about this and kept telling myself, "Well, you're in a transition from this job you so loved. These things take time." The triathlon showed me that there is no need to dally in a transition: put on your shoes and helmet and get on the bike! Take off your helmet and start the run!

Quit mourning your old job and embrace your new life! Sure these things take time, but I don't have to draw it out! Plus: I can't even stay connected with some of my closest friends so how can I possibly stay connected to people I saw only at work? Get over it!

The staff at the SCCA are some of the finest people with whom I've ever worked. If I want to stay connected to them, it's up to me--now that I'm out of my transition.

Therapy Dog

2009-07-13T12:34:00.000-07:00

I had my first therapy dog visit with Max.

It was a disaster.

We went to an adult family home for people with dementia. This is a place in our neighborhood that we have passed on our walks and I would say to Max, "Some day when you're a therapy dog, we're going to visit there!" And so I went and visited the manager last week. She was very sweet and delighted to have us come.

On Friday I washed and brushed Max. Did the same with myself. It was a beautiful sunny day. Janet met us at the gate and showed us how to open all the locks and gate handles. We walked in and she introduced us. Smiles from all the staff. Most of the residents were quietly looking off into space or down at the floor.

So how was I to know there was a cat behind the Barcalounger?

The cat peeked his head around the corner and Max saw him. Max went wild barking and the cat streaked across the room. I felt as if I had a Tasmanian devil on the end of the leash. Some of the residents looked over at us and more distressing, some of them were completely unfazed.

I apologized profusely and took him out. I felt like a parent whose child is throwing a tantrum in the grocery store. Now I understand why parents give in and hand the child an open box of Lucky Charms. Anything to stop the madness.

I calmed him down and we returned to the house. That is I thought I calmed him down. There was a terra cotta pig sitting by the door and Max saw it and began what I can describe only as "scream barking." After a few seconds he stopped as it dawned on him the pig was not real. Now it was his turn to be embarrassed.

The manager was completely unruffled. She invited us to come to another one of her adult family homes a few blocks away. That visit went better as there was no cat, but one of the residents kept trying to feed Max a pine cone. He made the biggest impression on the staff, all of whom want us to visit again.

We will. As soon as I recover.

Love and Blessings

2009-05-26T13:26:00.001-07:00

In the olden days (and on The Simpsons), the bad kid is always writing a hundred times on the chalkboard, "I will not throw spitballs," as a way of reinforcing good behavior. But we now know that it is more effective to give yourself positive suggestions, i.e. "I will pay attention in class."

A couple of weeks ago I had to pre-sign 200 books before a talk I gave. So I wrote, "Love and Blessings, Debra Jarvis" two hundred times. (I really believe that each of us has the power to bestow blessings on another.)

For the rest of the day and well into the next I felt loving, forgiving and generous. Love and blessings. Two hundred times. I'm thinking about doing this every morning.

Good Friday

2009-04-10T12:22:00.000-07:00

I read the obituary page every day. I say each person's name aloud in my head--especially if the obit is very short and makes me wonder if any body cared. (I suppose if no one cared there would not be an obit.) I really like when they show a photo of the person in their prime and then one of them wrinkled and saggy, the experience of life etched on their faces.

Seeing the two photos is such a good reminder that this is supposed to happen: the aging, the wrinkling, the hair turning white. It's not sad. What makes me sigh with sadness are photos of young people in their prime and that's it. They died. They will never age.

That's why I like Good Friday because it's reminder that all of us, at some time in our lives, have been or will be crucified. (Don't believe me? Think of junior high.) I even like that weirdo, in-between limbo that is the Saturday before Easter. When I was kid I used to wonder, "What happened to Jesus's molecules on Saturday? Were they rearranging themselves to make him alive the next day?" (I was into the idea of molecules.)

I like that rearrangement idea. Usually we have to rearrange some things after we've been crucified: our ideas, our identity, our opinions, our emotions. We do that so that we can rise again.

May your rearranging and resurrections go well. Peace to your molecules.

Ashes To Ashes, Time To Dust

2009-02-26T16:07:00.000-08:00

"You are butt dust and to dust you shall return."

Luckily I don't have a problem with butt dust. But (there it is again!) for the first time in seven years I almost forgot yesterday was Ash Wednesday. That is because I am not working at the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance as a chaplain right now.

For the past seven Ash Wednesdays I would play my cedar flute at a noon service in the chapel. Then another chaplain and I would go around and dispense ashes to any staff, families and patients who wanted them.

A patient told me, "I feel marked for death because I have cancer. But we are all marked aren't we? That why I like Ash Wednesday: other people receive the ashes and realize they are marked too."

She had a point. You know how people look at you when you have ashes on your forehead? It's very similar to the way they look at you when they find out you have cancer.

This is how having cancer improves your vision: you can see the ashes on everybody's forehead.

Indulge Me!

2009-02-10T10:48:00.000-08:00

The Catholic church is once again giving indulgences! This means you can shave off some of your time in Purgatory. Yes, even after Catholics confess their sins and are absolved, they still have to spend some time in Purgatory before they can get into Heaven. I'd like to think that Purgatory is the equivalent of the mud room: you wipe your feet, hang up your wet coat, stow your umbrella and now you're ready to go into The House. But my Catholic friends say it is much worse.

Full disclosure: my Catholic friends don't even believe in Purgatory. But for those who do, indulgences are a great thing.

But what about us Protestants? We have our own Purgatories, you know: sitting next to someone yakking on a cellphone; talking to a guy with corn in his teeth; preachers who use football analogies in their sermons; baby showers; feeling fat; feeling unfit; feeling a fart in the dentist's chair; head cheese; headaches, Cheese Heads and big toes blisters when you're only half-way there. And these are just a few!

But now, for a limited time only, I'm offering indulgences. (I can do this because I'm ordained! In a real church!) Comment on this blog and you'll receive a pass to avoid any of the above mentioned and any of your own Personal Purgatories!

Just imagine going through your day and not having to enter Purgatory once! You'll thank me for it and all your friends will be amazed. For the low, low price of one comment.

Void where prohibited.

Musical Cares

2009-01-15T14:45:00.000-08:00

I'm making a film for patients and families about palliative care. My friend Carla is shooting it and I'm interviewing people. Today was the second day of shooting and when I woke up this morning, I felt that unmistakable feeling of anticipation and excitement.

This is the beginning of my new life! So much to learn! On the way to the interview I put on an Oldie station and when they began playing the Doobie Brothers, I felt just like I did in high school: young, excited with my whole life before me.

I'm no longer "young", but I still have my whole life before me, it's just that statistically it's a lot shorter than it was when I was a teenager. That and the fact that it's a little harder for me to get up from a squat.

But back to the music--it was absolutely energizing and invigorating. I listened to Carole King, the Beatles, Three Dog Night, James Taylor, the Doors! And as I rocked out, I felt that anything was possible.

So my suggestion: if you want to start anew, find the music from the time in your life when you felt the most freedom, promise and excitement. Play that while reminding yourself, "Today is the beginning of my New Life!"

Do this until you feel excited about your life even when you are not playing the music.

Happy New Year!

Making It

2008-12-23T09:17:00.001-08:00

A couple weeks ago a guy comes to my door and says, "Hi, my name is Gabriel."

"Oh, sure," I think to myself. "Next you'll have some Important Message for me."

But that really was his name and it turned out that he was here to take away our woodpile which we had been trying to give away for months. So he was angel!

He took away all the wood, but accidentally left the rails to his truck in our driveway. I called him to let him know. I got his answering machine which said, "Hi, this is Gabriel. Leave me a message and make it a nice day!"

Make it a nice day. Not have a nice day. Take some responsibility for how you receive what life gives you! Make it, don't just take it. I love that.

So he really was an Angel with an Important Message for me.

The Cat Lick Church

2008-12-06T18:43:00.000-08:00

I recently received this e-mail:

Dear Debra,

I am having a small religious crisis and need some help. I was raised in the Catholic Church. When I got married we had our marriage recognized by the Catholics although my UCC minister friend married us. It was more important to us to be married by someone who knew us than by some random priest.

When we were going through the pre-Cana process the priest had me sign a piece of paper saying that I would raise my children Catholic. I thought that I would probably do that at the time. It was also to satisfy my parents and my husband's mother.

Now I am thinking that I would like the choice to go in a different direction. I might end up with the Catholics but I have some problems with their stance on abortion, gay marriage, well, actually homosexuals in general, in addition to other political things. And I was really turned off by the whole priest sex scandal.

I also have difficulties with the Pope and the Vatican as a whole. I do, however, really sort of love the religion itself. It is the people that bug me.

The Old South Church has made a good home for me over the past few years but I don't know that I am going to stick with the United Church of Christ. I think faith is important and I need to do some exploration.

Is signing a piece of paper really a contract with God?

--M

Dear M,

I totally get your feelings about the Catholic church. In 1984 I was in Rome, staying at a monastery with a Catholic priest friend and I nearly converted. Why? Because I loved the liturgy and how the Catholics really appreciate and the Mystery of it all. And then there was that really cool art. And the incense. And of course the to-die-for vestments! Although I don't care for the Pope's hat. However I like the staff/sceptre accessory.

But like you, there was the issue of all that THEOLOGY that I just couldn't stomach. I realized I could take all the good stuff about Catholicism and use that as a Protestant. So that's why I get how you feel. So I don't think it's the people who bug you--I think it's their theology.

No, you did not sign a contract with God and I think Jesus would be laughing his long-haired bearded head off to hear that a group of folks devoted to Him (the Catholic church) could demand that you raise your child to believe exactly what they believe about Him.

I say wherever your soul feels fed is where you want to be. Wherever you are fed, comforted and challenged. If you feel that way at Old South Church stay there. Go to Mass at Christmas and teach your child an appreciation and acceptance for a different denomination. It will please the relatives as well.

If you say that you feel God is leading you to a different denomination (emphasizing that we are talking about the same FAITH here for Chrissake, excuse the pun), who's going to argue with the Voice of God? And nobody can argue with your feelings--you feel what you feel.

Happy Advent!

Debra

Proud To Be An American--At Last

2008-11-06T13:26:00.000-08:00

For the first time since I was a little kid, I feel proud to be an American. Seriously. Wes and I were in Europe a few years ago, just after the Iraq war started. Every time we showed our passports we said, “We didn’t vote for George Bush. We’re so sorry.”

Often I felt like lying and saying I was Canadian. I was so ashamed of my country.

But all that has changed now that Barack Obama is president elect. We stayed up Tuesday night and watched the returns and I wept and drank champagne. Yesterday morning I got up, read the paper and wept again. I was deeply moved and little hung over.

But most of all, I am hopeful.

Signs and Miracles

2008-11-02T11:58:00.000-08:00

I think sunsets are miracles. And sunrises too. Even when it is cloudy in Seattle, the very fact that it gets lighter tells me the sun is out there somewhere and that seems miraculous to me. This particular pic was taken in Alaska, but sunsets are not what I want to talk about.

I want to talk about miracles and signs. Of course it's possible to read something into anything, but other times it is so clear. Here are two examples.

My 23 year old friend Charlie died a couple weeks ago. I had met him fifteen months ago when he came in for treatment of his recurrent Ewing's sarcoma. He had a face like an angel and was one of the sweetest most engaging young men I've ever met. He always asked, "How are you doing?"

He received lots of chemo and finally had a stem cell transplant. He was in a coma in the ICU when his father called me and said, "Deb, Charlie is dying. His heart is giving out. If you want to come say good-bye to him, that's okay. But don't come because of me. I'm fine. All this time it's pretty much been just me and Charlie and it's seems only right that it is just the two of us at the end."

I had already said good-bye and I love you to Charlie and I knew his dad wanted to be alone with him. So I went down to our little creek where there is a water fall. And I stood there with my hands out and prayed for Charlie. I said, "Charlie, I'm sending you the sound of this rippling, rushing water and I hope you can follow that sound and find your way out. Follow this clean, refreshing, renewing water and you will be okay." I stood there praying like that for about fifteen minutes.

I went back into house and the phone rang. It was Charlie's dad. "You're the second person I'm calling," he said. "Charlie died about fifteen minutes ago."

Through my tears I told him about praying for Charlie and he said, "Well, I believe it. He probably heard you."

You could say it was a coincidence, but it was a miracle to me. But there's more.

A couple days later I called to check in and see how Charlie's dad was doing. "I have amazing story to tell you," he said.

He explained how when Charlie got a recurrence fifteen months ago, his dog, a Husky ran away. "We looked all over for that dog," he said. "We drove around and posted signs and checked the animal shelters--no sign of him.

"So my wife and I came home after making all the funeral arrangements for Charlie. And who is sitting at the front gate? His Husky dog! Fifteen months later! And I knew that it was Charlie saying, 'Dad, I'm really okay. Don't worry about me.'" It was the ultimate comfort to him.

I just don't think you can say that was a coincidence. Well, I suppose you could but then I would worry about the kind of person you are.

Me--I live in a state of perpetual wonder.

Pooped But Recuperating

2008-11-01T13:21:00.000-07:00

I feel as if I am recovering from an emotional/spiritual marathon. So this is my new morning routine: back to bed with a book, a latte and Max.

I'm definitely recovering but I found that just because I resigned from a job, didn't mean I could just resign from everyone's life. So in the three weeks after I officially left my staff position, I visited folks in the hospital and officiated at two funerals. In between that I tucked in a lecture and workshop in Denver. And a reading San Jose. And a reading in Seattle.

It's all glorious work, even the funerals--especially the funerals because I know how different it is to have an officiant who actually knew (and loved) the deceased. One of these people was a woman I visited the very first week I worked at the clinic. She was amazing and fun and I looked forward to seeing her every week. It's still hard for me to believe that she is dead.

I promised her years ago, that I would do her funeral and just because I was no longer officially working, didn't mean I would break a promise. After she died, another long-time patient died and then I felt as if all the loose ends were tied up. And last weekend was my last speaking engagement and I am grateful for that.

So Monday I went to a mandatory "Boundary Training" that is required of all UCC clergy. My initial attitude was quite whiney, "W-a-a-h, why do I have spend an entire day learning that I shouldn't sleep with parishioners. I already know that and besides, I don't even work in a church!"

But I decided to change my attitude precisely because I couldn't stand myself being such a brat for eight hours. Instead I said to myself, "There is something in this for me. I'll go into it expectant with my palms up and my hands outstretched." I think this is a pretty good way to go through just about anything because it changes your perspective immediately. Instead being petulant (which feels good for about ten seconds) I became curious, wondering what piece of wisdom I would bring home.

ANYway, the most important learning for me was that clergy are very good at running on imitation energy and we are very bad at saying, "No." They talked about how we can appear to be very energetic and present, but actually be completely empty inside. And how if we continue to do this, we are heading for destruction.

I so related to that. There were times when I was asked to see a patient and I just didn't have the energy but I would do it anyway. Because it's hard to turn down a nurse. Because this is my calling. Because I didn't want to ruin my reputation of being responsive. Because I'm a pleaser, etc.

But now I see how dangerous that was and how I was getting quite crumbly around the edges, like the last cookie in the bag. So now I'm in the recuperation phase, hence reading in bed with Max and a latte. What's even better is that Wes makes the latte for me.

I'm also happy to report that I've said no to two things that I really did not want to do. I was asked by two different agencies to do "The Ask" at their fundraiser luncheons. I hate asking for money. I really do. I really support both these agencies and even offered to be the keynote speaker at one. But in a very healthy and definite way, I absolutely refused.

Yay! for me.

Gone But Not Forgotten

2008-10-06T14:59:00.000-07:00

For two weeks now I've been trying to think of a witty way of saying that I resigned from the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance. Nothing comes so I'll just have to be straight about it.

For months now I've felt an ever-so-insistent nudging from Spirit. The message was, "Hey! We've got other things for you to do. But you have to leave the SCCA." Unthinkable! I loved my job and had always seen myself working there well into my eighties at which point I would be taking a cab to and from The Seattle Home for Really Old Chaplains.

I knew that to ignore the urging of the Spirit was at my own peril, nevertheless, ignore it I did. But the Divine always wins. I have the Happy Problem of having many speaking engagements all over the country. In the past, I used Leave Without Pay to do this. But there is a new rule at the SCCA that doesn't allow that, so I found myself using all my vacation time to give talks until I got to a point in September where my boss said, "I can't approve this trip because you have no more vacation hours."

How could I not go to Dana Farber and Massachusetts General? My boss and I discussed the possibilities: keep my job by changing my status to per diem chaplain. I would lose all my benefits, but it would give me the flexibility to travel.

So I could do that or I could actually . . . resign. My boss and I agreed to think about it over the weekend.

All day Saturday I tried on the decision of staying on and somehow working out all this travel. I felt tired and anxious.

When I woke up on Sunday I said to myself, "Now I will try on the decision of resigning from the clinic." I instantly felt as if I lost twenty pounds. I felt a heaviness leaving me. I heard the angels singing in their firmament,"What took her so lo-o-o-ong? We nearly had to kill her-r-r-r!"

Which was true because for the past two months I hadn't been sleeping and my heart would pound at night as I thought of all the things I had to do and then I was cursed with a Job-like gastrointestinal problem. Let me just say that if bathrooms were bars, I'd be considered an alcoholic because I was in one five times an hour.

So I resigned and cried my way through the week, including a very nice Good-Bye Tea that my boss arranged. I hated leaving the staff, my patients and especially my colleague Mia because we had Big Plans to redecorate that horrid little office we share. Even more important was that I was so looking forward to working with her and so we sat and just wept for a good hour in our office with the lights low so that it felt like a funeral parlor but without a dead body present. I realized that just because it was absolutely the right decision didn't mean it was not going to be hard as hell.

Then my sister arrived and we flew off to Boston. I did a reading and three talks and we walked the Freedom Trail and saw Paul Revere's grave and the Old South Church. But most magnificent of all was the historic Filene's Basement at which I found three beautiful bow ties for Wes which were marked down to $19.00. From $50.00!

I still can't believe I resigned as it hasn't felt like I'm not working because I returned from Boston and gave two more talks and have three more to go before the end of the month.

But here's the thing: just because I resign my job, doesn't mean I resign from people's lives. So I'm still in touch with many patients. More about that later.

And no, I don't know exactly what I'm supposed to do next . . .

Crazy Rich White People

2008-09-12T17:22:00.000-07:00

From August 29, 2008

Today we continue our discussion of fashion, moving on from Crabby Rich White People to Crazy Rich White People. Please see the photo above.

As matriarch, we have the still attractive Lauren Hutton, she of the gap-toothed smile. Her clothes say what she’s thinking, “I’m comfortable with who I am—especially since they upped my Wellbutrin.” She is looking with great fondness at a miniature pony.

Behind her is her husband who is cooking corn and lobster on the grill. Clearly he works out. There is a big bag of charcoal near the grill which leads us to the obvious conclusion: the pony is next.

Two of Lauren’s grandchildren are wearing fairy princess dresses with wings. We can only hope they are her granddaughters because God help them if they are her grandsons. But that is not what makes them crazy—way over on the right is a kid with a trumpet. (Oh, sorry--he got cut off) Have they lost their minds? You’re giving a six year-old a trumpet? Why don’t you just give him a Howitzer?

The real mystery is the kid in the foreground with the black T-shirt and red devil horns. Is he the bastard son of one of those dudes in the back? Or of the patriarch??! Quelle horreur! Maybe he’s just one of those lonely kids from a neighboring estate whose parents are into Satan worship.

The fairy princess with the knitted Thug Hat is sitting on her mother’s lap. Clearly her mother is looking enviously at the pony’s bangs and thinking, “Oh, crap, I wish I’d had my highlights done.”

And you probably didn’t know this (how could you?) but that same woman always has a child or a dog or someone on her lap when she is being photographed because (I hope you’re sitting down) her hips and thighs are enormous. Seriously. Had all those kids and the weight just shifted. Pretty face—but truth be told, she’s built like a bass. (The musical instrument in front of which she is sitting—not the fish.)

And since I mentioned it—why does anybody but professional burglars and perhaps people who work on boats in freezing cold wear Thug Hats which I believe are also called Watch Caps? The only way they could be more unattractive is if the Thug Hat is way too big and then folds over and you look like one of the Seven Dwarfs. It’s a Fashion Don’t in my book.

Also—I have to ask—where are the black people? Are there no crabby or crazy rich black people? What about Michelle and Barack Obama? I’m not saying they are crabby or crazy, but I bet they are at times. Who isn’t? But I am saying they are rich. My prediction: after he is elected, we’ll see ads with more black people. You read it here first.

In fact, there was no one of color in Vogue. Honestly, I turned up ONE ad in Vogue with a black woman and she was with a white woman advertising Payless shoes! Those are cheap shoes!

So ends the lesson for today.

On Vacation!

2008-09-02T19:53:00.000-07:00

08/28/08

Normally I strive to write something on this blog that is thought provoking, poignant or inspiring. But guess what? I’m on vacation, so the hell with that!

On Labor Day vacation we go to a funky, mildewy (but cheap) set of cabins on the Olympic peninsula. We started going here about 15 years ago because they take dogs.

Every year on this vacation I buy the gigantic hernia busting September issue of Vogue magazine, which after reading it, I use to work out my upper body especially after seeing all those pix of twig-armed models. And I don’t mean they are armed with twigs. But that is an intriguing image . . .

So today we leave behind the world of spirituality, cancer, existential meaning and discuss something really important: fashion!

More pointedly, models posing as Crabby Rich White People. Please look at the above photo and you will see what I mean.

What is wrong with these people?! They are wearing up-to-the minute fashionable clothes, they live in that mansion in the background, they appear to be in good health, and for god’s sake—they have dogs! Eight dogs! Seven Labrador retrievers (one is cut off) and what appears to be a Springer Spaniel.

How could you not be smiling with all those dogs? Especially the Spaniel. Those dogs can be nuts and totally hilarious. See how that guy is holding him with both hands? Probably because the Spaniel was jumping around like he had a chili pepper up his butt. I, myself, have seen Springer Spaniels run around like this and it’s very entertaining.

But do these people looked amused? No. They look angry, serious, snooty, smug and oh-so-bored with life. Maybe the tags on their panties are poking them. Perhaps they picked up a little giardia from drinking that pond water and they’ve got to get to a bathroom!

The grandmother has got the Queen Elizabeth thing going with the plaid coat and the head scarf, but you can tell she was a hottie in her time. She’s thinking, “None of these little bastards are getting my money. I’m leaving it to the Spaniel.”

And there are two horses! Everyone knows horses can be fun! But maybe they’re just visiting and that’s got everyone pouting and thinking, “If we only owned our own horses, then we’d be happy.”

What family is this? I do not think they are from Seattle although there are Canada geese in the pond and God knows we’ve got zillions of them here. Well, I don’t care who they are. I don’t like any of the clothes in this photos except for the fur coats.

And I like the one on the Spaniel the best.

Radio RVOG

2008-08-18T15:15:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I flew to Colorado to celebrate the 70th birthday of a friend of mine. It was a six a.m. flight out of Seattle. It was a four hour car trip to the mineral springs. We pretty much all agreed we would not do this again for one weekend.

But all the travel gave us plenty of time to witness the Random Voice of God (RVOG). Like a "found" poem the RVOG is everywhere. We first encountered it at a toll bridge where we read the sign, PROCEED WHEN CLEAR.

That is good spiritual advice. We all noted it accordingly. Don't proceed if you have no clarity. Just wait. All shall be revealed in the fullness of time.

Trudy's birthday party was held at a spa famous for their mineral hot springs. One of the pools accidently got up to 120 degrees and we considered poaching chicken in it. But that was just another sign from the RVOG: STAY OUT OF HOT WATER.

That night as Trudy was handing out pieces of birthday cake, some edge pieces with lots of icing, some not, she asked Stacey, "What would you like?"

Stacey replied, "I'd like an inner piece."

"Wouldn't we all!" I shouted. But it was really the RVOG at the food fest reminding us that an inner peace is desired by everyone.

So I suggest put it out there to the Universe: I WANT AN INNER PEACE.

Where have you witnessed the RVOG lately?

Sand Through the Our Glass

2008-08-02T07:33:00.000-07:00

Last month when my dad called to tell me my mom was in the hospital getting blood I just froze. I thought, "This is the beginning of the end." My stomach was in a knot the whole time I was on the plane.

I was surprised and relieved when I walked into her hospital room and she swung her legs off the bed and said, "When can I leave?" I forgot how getting blood perks you right up. But I did notice she looked older and a bit tired and I couldn't deny that she wasn't moving quickly.

My parents still live in the house in which I grew up. So of course I sleep in my old bedroom. But it no longer has the fabulous orange walls and flocked wallpaper I chose on my sixteenth birthday. And now there are picture frames for my mom's paintings all over the floor and there are paintings on every square inch of wall. Seriously, there is no space on the floor to put my carry-on suitcase. It's like sleeping in the storage room of the Metropolitan Museum.

I intensely dislike all of the paintings except one, and ironically, that one is hung behind the door. The one I like is a knock-off of a Thomas Kinkade. I like it because the colors are bright, like am Impressionist painting. All the others are these dark, Dutch Master-type paintings that she did while under the tutelage of one particular instructor who made everyone paint like him. I laid there in bed and looked at those paintings and thought, "If she dies before me, what am I going to do with these things?"

So in some ways it didn't feel like my room because of the hideous paintings, but when I turned off the lights, I could smell the jasmine that was growing just outside my window and when I woke up in the morning, before I opened my eyes, I heard the same birds chirping and it felt just like my old room and I felt just like the teenager I was when I left.

Then I got up and looked in the mirror.

Now I know that as humans, we are supposed to grow old and die. I talk about this with patients all day long. So you'd think I wouldn't be so shocked to see serious crow bars (they are way past crow's feet) and a downward droop to every part of my body. Tick, tick. Time marches on. If my parents are aging, that means I'm aging too. The sand is flowing through the hour glass--it's not just theirs, it's ours.

The beginning of the end? Or the end of the beginning? Perhaps there is no beginning and no end.

I'm going to go with that for now.

Grace Under Pressure

2008-07-26T10:20:00.000-07:00

It's almost impossible for me to believe that I have not posted since June. But there was Wes's bike accident. My mom's GI bleed which required three pints of blood. My dad's prostate cancer diagnosis. My mom's surgery.

Every day during the entire month of June I whispered to myself: "Grace under pressure." I said this as I drove to the Emergency Room to be with Wes. Someone opened a car door as he was riding his bike. The corner of it went through his chest, broke some ribs, bruised his lung.

He had called me from his cell phone and I could hear the ambulance sirens in the background. "Oh, here they are," he said cheerfully. "I'll call you from which ever ER they take me to."

I had a great dinner ready: nice wine, marinated chicken ready for the grill, cheese and bread to start, fresh vegetables. He was five minutes from home when he hit the door.

When I got to ER I asked, "Oh, honey, what were you thinking about when this happened?"

"Dinner."

As many of us know, the ER ironically has a reputation for the slowest service in the world unless you have chest pain or are seriously bleeding. Wes said they made a big fuss over him at first and then nothing for hours. Finally a CT scan. "You have to stay overnight," they said.

I went home at 1 a.m. and behold! Someone left me a nice assortment of cheese and fresh bread! I had forgotten to put it away. So I ate some cheese and bread and opened the wine and drank a glass of that too. The whole time the dog is looking at me like, "What's with the new hours?"

It turned out they wouldn't suture the wound because it was considered "dirty" so Wes had to pack it twice a day with saline-soaked gauze. He was in a world of hurt for a few weeks, but yesterday, for the first time he went without any kind of bandage.

It's a miracle how the body knows how to heal itself.

More in another post about the urgent trips to California.

An Onion For Your Thoughts

2008-05-23T09:39:00.000-07:00

I saw the onion goggles hanging on a display in the produce section of the grocery store. They promised maximum clarity and protection and would keep you from crying when you chop onions. But I saw them as potentially perfect bicycling glasses.
And I was right! When I arrived at work the next morning, my eyes weren’t teary and bloodshot. I was thrilled!

But a colleague asked, “Well, now what are you going to do when you chop onions?”

“Cry,” I answered, “And pray.”

I have always rejected any attempts to protect myself from onion tears—chopping them under water, burning candles or matches, freezing the onions before cutting. I don’t want to avoid the tears because I use that time to tap in to the pain of the world.

I imagine all the people on the planet besides myself, who are crying right at that moment. And as I chop, I cry in solidarity with them. I open myself to take on a little of their spiritual pain and I lift them up. I lift them up. This means I don’t pray anything specifically, I simply see all those crying eyes surrounded by a healing light.

So the other night as I chopped onions to sauté with my Swiss chard, I prayed for the people killed and injured by the cyclone in Myanmar. I lifted up the people running their military junta who are refusing—refusing!—international relief efforts.

I cried and prayed for the families in China who are suddenly homeless; whose children have had limbs amputated, whose loved ones were crushed to death.

I wept in awe at the woman who after days of being trapped, told her husband, “We must stay alive. There is a reason that we are spared.” Such strength and wisdom in the midst of so much pain.

My tears were also about the kindness, the generosity of international medical teams who are there struggling to provide care—in a foreign country. And suddenly I stopped praying in general terms.

I imagined myself there unable to speak Chinese. It wasn’t the goggles that gave me maximum clarity, it was my tears. So I prayed for the aid workers, that their lack of language skills would be supplanted by their ability to speak the language of love and compassion.

I prayed that they would have new reserves of patience, wisdom and understanding. I prayed that their hands would be strong and sure and gentle.

Ats we ate, my husband and I talked about these world disasters. At the end of dinner, he turned to me and said, “I loved the chard, but it was a little heavy on the onions.”

The Closer

2008-05-12T18:10:00.000-07:00

Today I was the Closer.

In baseball the Closer is called in to clean up the mess of a game or to keep any gains from being lost. In medicine, the Closer’s job is similar—smoothing over sticky situations or tying up loose ends and saying good-bye. This can happen before a patient is discharged home to get well or before they are discharged home to die.

In the latter case, the Closer is not necessarily the doctor. It turns out to be the person who has the closest relationship, the most credibility with the patient. And sometimes the Closer is me, the chaplain.

The doctor, the nurse and the social worker had all told the patient she was going home to die but she didn’t believe them. I ran into her family in the waiting room.

“You have to tell her there is no more treatment left,” her daughter said. “Tell her the cancer has spread everywhere.”

But I knew that is not what I needed to say to make the patient understand she was going home for the last time.

I had known this lovely woman for the six years she had been treated for angiosarcoma, a rare vascular tumor. I never saw her without her wig and make-up. The first couple years it was easy for us to talk about dying and death. But as it happens with many patients, the less hypothetical death gets, the harder it is to talk about.

I sat down next to her bed and took her hand. “I have an agenda,” I said. This is exactly what I was trained not to do. A chaplain should never come in with an agenda and the focus should be on the patient’s needs and not the chaplain’s.

She squeezed my hand and smiled. “You’ve always been honest with me,” she said.

I knew that I didn’t have to talk about the futility of treatment, the extent of her cancer or multiple organ failure. She looked right at me so I seized the moment. “I’ve come to say good-bye.”

She was shocked. “Good-bye?”

“Yes. Years ago you and I talked about this day coming and it’s here now. So I want to thank you for all our wonderful conversations.”

She blinked, still unbelieving. “But I wanted to die vibrant and kicking.” Ball one. This was going to be harder than I thought.

“I know. But people with cancer don’t usually die that way. If you want to go out vibrant and kicking it’s best to have a massive heart attack while doing the cha-cha.”

She smiled. Don’t think it’s easy to say stuff like this. But as the Closer you know what your job is and you have to do it. The only reason I could say it was that it true and not saying it would hurt her even more.

I continued my farewell. “I always looked forward to seeing you in the clinic for chemo. I loved talking with you and your husband. But I know it sucked for you.”

“No, no! It didn’t—it wasn’t bad for me! I looked forward to seeing you too!” In spite of all the pain meds on board, she was still the gracious hostess. “I loved talking about books, and wigs and jewelry and praying with you. Thank you so much for being there for me.” That sounded like a good-bye. Strike one.

For every chemo she received, I had laid my hands on the chemo bag and prayed over it. My prayer was usually something like, “May this chemo help her body remember how to heal itself.” Her body had healed itself for six years, which is pretty good for angiosarcoma.

She adjusted her wig and said, “I just don’t want to give up hope.” Ball two.

What does this mean, “to give up hope?” I hear this all the time, as if accepting reality is some moral failing. As if it’s not possible to both accept the reality while hoping for a miracle healing.

“What are you hoping for?” I asked.

Silence. For a long time. Strike two.

“Perhaps what you’re hoping for has changed,” I said. “Maybe it’s time to hope for a peaceful death, or comfort for your family or hope that you’ll be able to let go gracefully and gently.”

I waited a moment before saying, “I think it takes more courage to let go graciously—“ I opened my palms gently, “than to hold on tightly.” I clenched my fists until my knuckles were white.

She stared at my hands and tears rolled down her face. “All right. But I’d rather be doing the cha-cha.”

Strike three—and my turn to cry.

Sisters Are The Best Medicine

2008-05-10T16:59:00.000-07:00

I'm sure my I.Q. is lower because my sister was just here and I laughed my brains out for five days straight. Seriously. I looked like this photo 90% of the time. Well, okay, maybe I didn't look quite this good. (David Belisle took this as a possible cover photo for the paperback coming out this Fall.)

Lynie accompanied me to a breast cancer conference in Denver. We had a blast eating dinner in the hotel, shopping, drinking tea in bed and talking at night, drinking coffee in bed and talking in the morning.
I really cannot explain why I feel so refreshed and renewed. I've come back from other conferences tired and sick of cancer. So I can only guess that it was because Lynie was there.

I was really losing my mojo for work: sick of all the technological changes that were adding hours to our days and fed up with administrative duties that made me want to scream. When I received an e-mail telling me that I needed to come in for my annual TB test, I thought perhaps I should burn down the employee health building. I felt as if I just couldn't fit one more thing into my day. When was I supposed to see patients?

I missed my happy self. And yes, I suppose it was also because a month before I went off all my hot flash meds which are really anti-depressants. Like many cancer survivors, I was just sick of taking pills. Besides, I was, as my oncologist said, on "homeopathic" doses: 37.5 mg. of Effexor XR in the day and 25 mg. of Trazodone at night. Since the doses were so tiny I simply stopped taking them. I couldn't believe the sadness and rage I felt a few days a later.

I now know that I should have taken them every other day for a while. But because I was taking them for hot flashes, it never occurred to me that they might be affecting my moods. Because when you take an antidepressant for hot flashes, how does your body know? While I was on them, I would have told you that I perfectly fine---well, maybe not quite as sharp as I used to be. But who is?

But once I stopped taking them, I realized that the world is going to hell in a handbasket and I can't do a thing about it. And did I mention all the reckless morons on the Burke-Gilman trail who are trying to run me down on my bike? And horrible lighting in my hole of an office?

Funny I never noticed any of this before.

So it took a good month to get those drugs out of my system. And then I got a good whopping dose of Lynie and every since then I've been right as rain. I knew I was back to my old self when we were on the plane home and the guy in front of me had his armrest up, with all the volume buttons staring me in the face, taunting me, tempting me.

I poked Lynie. I silently pointed to the buttons. Her eyes widened. Then I pushed the volume button all the way to twelve, which is the highest it can go. We were laughing that kind of wheezy, silent laughter that made us weep and jerk like widows keening at a grave.

The guy never put his headphones on, but every time we looked at the armrest we fell apart laughing. The flight attendant came down the aisle and I expected her to say, "You girls go to your rooms right now!"

But she just said, "Seat belts?"

I would have answered, but a hot flash came on. Yes, the hot flashes are back, but so is my mind. They are not as bad as they were a year ago, so I'm just going to deal. And if things get really bad, I'll go visit my sister.

Report Card

2008-04-29T21:00:00.000-07:00

"I can't believe all these people who have just come out of the woodwork to help us!" This coming from a young mom with breast cancer.

"Well," I said, "Getting a cancer diagnosis is like getting a report card on how you've treated people, on what kind of person you've been all these years. So it sounds like you and your husband are getting straight A's."

She smiled and then asked, "But what about the people who seemed like our friends and now suddenly aren't there?"

I just hate it when one of my brilliant analogies falls apart.

Dumbledore To The Rescue

2008-04-19T12:19:00.000-07:00

I’m always looking for new ways to talk about death. The latest was given to me by a patient named Elizabeth who, like myself, is a big Harry Potter fan. She also is the mother of two small children and has an aggressive type of breast cancer.

I’m sure by now you all know that Harry’s mentor Dumbledore died in the next-to-last book. Both Elizabeth and I agreed that what we found so moving and inspiring was Dumbledore’s influence on Harry after Dumbledore’s death.

“You know,” she wrote in an e-mail, “Even though Dumbledore really did die, he continued to “exist” for Harry, not in a supernatural way, but in whatever knowledge, insight, wisdom and courage he gave Harry before he died. I think it’s the same way for us. We can set so much in motion by affecting the way people will think and act as they move through the world. And if you listen hard enough to know who they are and what to give them, people will figure it out without you.”

Of course the “people” to whom she is referring are her children. Elizabeth and I have talked about death before and as she said, “I’m perfectly okay with death, whenever that happens. I suspect I’ll have the easy part. But thinking about my kids without a mommy/protector/secret keeper scares the living crap out of me.”

“What helps you with that?” I asked.

She answered, “When I start to freak out about my kids losing me, I can chant the ever-so-comforting mantra ‘Dumbledore.’ And I think about all the Sirius Blacks, Molly Weasleys, and Remus Lupins who would love and care for my kids because I convinced them to love us, and even the reluctant Snapes and Aberforths who would help them because I'm going to convince them they must. And course my husband would be pretty reliable too.”

Almost every parent I meet considers their kids to be special. Harry Potter is special and he is also an orphan and that is the fear of every parent with cancer—that their kids will be without a mom or without a dad.

I want to comfort other patients and explain to them about Dumbledore “existing” after he died and that they will too. I want to urge them to look for the Molly Weasleys and Remus Lupins in their lives.

But many people haven’t read Harry Potter.
So I’m thinking Harry Potter should be required reading for every parent with cancer.

Or just anybody.

How Not To Be

2008-03-28T11:19:00.000-07:00

I've been watching, "What Not To Wear" while I work out on my exercise bike. It's mildly entertaining, but here's the show I'd really like to see: "How Not To Be."

Voice over: Welcome to, “How Not To Be!” On today’s show we have a woman who is disgruntled, whiny and indignant. The gift shop at her clinic won’t carry her book because she is an employee! Today’s hosts are Guatama Buddha and Jesus from Nazareth.

Jesus: We’ve been filming her for the past week. In this clip we see her in the gift shop talking to the managers.

Debra: Hi! Where’s my book? You don’t have my book here!

Manager: Soon, soon!

Debra: Wow—I can’t help but notice that you’ve got five other books from my publisher. One of them is even a book by a doctor at Harborview! And you didn’t order mine? It's about cancer! Patients love it! It will help them!

Manager: Soon, soon!

Buddha: Jesus!

Jesus: What?

Buddha: No, I just meant—well, she certainly is persistent. In this next clip we see her talking to her boss.

Boss: By the way, the rules are that they can’t sell your book in the gift shop because you’re an employee.

Debra: Criminy! It’s book about cancer, about this very place. In fact, it’s a great big valentine to this clinic. If they should ever make an exception, it should be for this book!

Boss: (shaking his head) Those are the rules.

Debra: You know, Boss, I know the chain-of-command and I understand that you are my direct supervisor, but you know what my dream scenario is? It would be that several administrators over you would call me in and say, “Debra, we love your book! And we’re so sorry we can’t carry it in the gift shop.”

Boss: I’m sorry.

Buddha: Well, cue the violins!

Jesus: (sarcastically) Yeah, wow, my heart is breaking.

Buddha: In our final clip, here she is complaining to one of her fellow chaplains.

Debra: So they said everyone wants the gift shop to sell their stuff: jewelry, cards, etc. If they did it for me, they'd have to do it for everyone.

Chaplain: But this book can help our patients! Do you think any of the administrators even read it?

Debra: I doubt it. I even gave one of them an advance copy, a bound galley and I didn’t hear a word. Well, you know, a prophet has no honor in her own country.

Jesus: Hey! That’s one of my lines! Funny how people seem to remember only the scripture that supports their position.

Buddha: Tell me about it! You should hear how people bring up “non-attachment” when they’re dumping someone.

Jesus: (laughing) I thought that was the only kind of file that Buddhists will e-mail—you know: non-attachments. Ha-ha-ha-ha! Get it?

Buddha: Jesus Christ!

Jesus: What?

Buddha: So let’s go find Debra and see if we can break up her Pity Party.

[Cut to Debra dozing on the couch while waiting for her husband to come home. There is a half-empty glass of wine on the coffee table.]

Jesus: I see the wine, but where’s the bread?

Debra: (waking up) Huh, wah? Oh, you guys!

Jesus and Buddha: Yes, dear, we’re here from “How Not To Be!”

Debra: Oh, man. Who nominated me?

Buddha: Your No Self.

Jesus: Your Inner Soul

Buddha: Your Spacious Awareness

Jesus: The Holy Spirit

Buddha: Pure Consciousness

Jesus: Seraphim and Chera-

Debra: (interrupting) Whatever. What’s the problem?

Jesus: What’s the problem? Well, first of all, how much wine have you had?

Debra: Just half a glass. I mean you know, “Drink some wine for thy stomach’s sake,” and all that.

Jesus: (to Buddha) See what I mean about scripture? (to Debra) I didn’t say that—that was that boozer Paul writing to Timothy. Anyway, let’s take a look at what’s hanging in your Anxiety Closet. Buddha?

Buddha: Oh, my God! So much of this went out in your twenties! Righteous indignation, self-pity, anger, unappreciated, arrogance, vengeful.

Debra: Wait--that’s not really vengeful. That’s wait-‘til-I-win-a-big-writing-prize-then-they’ll-want-my-book-in-their-stupid-gift-shop.

Jesus: Well, clearly Buddha you haven’t mentioned childish, juvenile and deluded! Listen, honey, it’s all gotta go!

Debra: What? Can’t I just keep righteous indignation?

Buddha and Jesus: No!

Buddha: Okay, we’re giving you five thousand years of sacred scripture to go through. And you’ve got to come back with things that replace all that crap in your Anxiety Closet.

Debra: (grumbling) Fine!

[Cut to Jesus and Buddha watching a video of Debra on their laptop.]

Buddha: (happily) Well, there she is reading about the Four Noble Truths.

Jesus: And yes, I see she has the Gospels open and next to that the Bhagavad Gita. But wait!

Buddha: Oh, Lord!

Jesus: Yes?

Buddha: She's reading her own book! We told her sacred scriptures!

Jesus: Do you think she believes her own book is a sacred?

Buddha: We’ll find out after this!

[Commercial break featuring the show "Project Fun Day" in which people compete to inject a little fun into the day of a down-trodden person. Hint: provide food, water, clothing and shelter first!]

Jesus: We’re back! Let’s bring Debra out and see what she’s found!

Debra: First of all I had to find compassion for myself because once I started thinking about it all I realized how unevolved I am and then I felt ashamed of myself.

Buddha: Yes, yes, compassion for yourself—very Buddhist.

Debra: And I saw that staying angry is getting me nowhere. In the Psalm 37 I read,

"The angry ones draw their swords, the angry ones aim their bows
To put down the poor and the weakened and to kill those who walk on the path of righteousness.
But their sword hits their own heart, their bows will be broken.
With his poverty, the righteous one is richer than all the angry ones in their abundance."

Jesus: (grinning and high fiveing her) Shut up! Love those Psalms.

Debra: Then I read about the Eight Wordly Conditions: Gain and loss, praise and blame, pleasure and pain, fame and disrepute and we’re all grasping after gain, praise, pleasure and fame 24/7.

Buddha: Yes, you go girl! Very important to understand.

Debra: Then I read: "To be angry is to let others' mistakes punish yourself. To forgive others is to be good to yourself.” So I’ve forgiven them and that's good for me!

Buddha: And we have to ask why you were reading your own book It's Not About The Hair.

Debra: In the introduction I do go on about being whiny and tragic and stuck. So I’m taking my own advice and letting go.

Jesus: So you’re letting go of this whole book-in-the-gift shop thing?

Debra: I’m letting go of my emotions around it all. The Bhagavad Gita reminds me that I’m entitled to my actions, but I have to let go of the fruit of my actions.

Jesus: Does that mean that you’re going to take action around this?

Debra: Stay tuned!

Buddha: Good God!

Jesus: Yes?

Take Note

2008-03-18T16:07:00.000-07:00

Just when I think I'm all totally grown up and able to clean out my closets and basement and purge my life of extraneous crap, I run into something I've been saving since sixth grade. And I can't throw it away. It's a note that was somehow intercepted by my friend Russell who got it from his friend Mike.

Background: I had a huge crush on Dan (the subject of the note) since fourth grade. We were good friends because in spite of the fact that I talked a lot, I also listened. So that made me the confidant of almost all the boys because they could tell me with whom they wanted to go steady or were going to ask to go steady (whatever that meant!) and up with whom they were breaking. (I'm pretty proud that I did not end that sentence with a preposition. Where are you Mr. Scheckler?)

ANYway, Katy and Martha were two girls in my class who were best friends. What I remember about Martha is that she talked about how she put her pubic hair in doll hair curlers. What I remember about Katy is that she had beautiful handwriting. They too had a crush on Dan until THIS NOTE.

In case you can't read it:

Dear Mike,

Don't tell Dan Our dreams. You can tell him we are loseing [sic] interest in him because he doesn't like us anymore and he loves Debbie Jarvis. We would like him if he liked us. (Tell us what he says!) We would tell you more but its [sic] embarrasing [sic]("forget it" is crossed out). Don't show any body [sic] this note, please.

From, Martha and Katy F.

I remember getting such a thrill when I read that. He loves Debbie Jarvis? He loves me? He loves me?

Of course everyone saw this note including Dan and that's when he stopped talking to me. He mostly talked to me about "loving" Nancy G., but now he didn't want anyone to think he "loved" me. But for one day I believed that I was the object of his affection. I read that note over and over. And in a very weird way, reading it now still thrills me, but for a different reason.

It thrills me because I can see how from the beginning, as far back as I can remember, kids, people liked to talk to me about their secrets, their desires, their hopes, their fears. This is pretty much what I do now, just be a friend and listen. I hated this in Jr. High because I wanted a boyfriend, not a "friend" friend. Thank God I went to a different high school from my childhood friends. Nobody at the new high school knew I was the girl who was "just a friend" to all the guys---although that's how High School turned out too.

This note takes on a special poignancy because a couple months ago I reconnected with an elementary school friend who let me know that another boy on whom I had a crush was still living in the area. He married his high school sweetheart and she had just had a recurrence of cancer. I immediately sent them a copy of my book. But last night I found out that she is dying and has just entered the hospice program.

How can this be? I can only see him and his wife as Jr. High school students and Jr. High kids don't die of cancer. News Flash, Jarv: You're not in Jr. High school anymore. My friend requested prayers for them. So of course I will pray for them, that they would have courage, and peace and comfort and ease.

I'm keeping that note and I love that forty years later I can still be a "friend" friend and offer up prayers. I wouldn't want it any other way.

Undetached

2008-02-29T19:12:00.000-08:00

Leap year! I'll take this extra day to tell you about a question I got asked this week. I had just given a talk at the University of Washington and an audience member asked me how I stayed detached from my work.

"I'm not detached," I said. "I don't mind going home and thinking about all the people I've met in the clinic."

I just figure that there is something for me in every encounter and it's up to me to mine that experience for all it's worth. If I don't think there is something for me in every patient encounter then I'm going to get burned out pretty quickly. So that means I think about my day at home.

My model is Mr. Jesus who was never detached. Talk about no boundaries! He was eating dinner with whores and IRS men; letting little children climb all over him and going out fishing with the guys.

Doesn't seem detached to me.

I know this model isn't for everyone but I don't think I could do it any other way. That also means I've had "patients" over for dinner and selectively given out my home phone number. No regrets so far.

McGreedy

2008-02-19T19:21:00.000-08:00

A couple weeks ago I heard Jim Wallis of Sojourners magazine says something like, "We don't lack the resources for there to be enough for everyone in the world. What we lack is the will and the incentive."

Right on, Jim! It's all about greed, isn't it?

It's a pretty well known concept that having some measure of inner peace is just as important as advocating for world peace. You know, peace begins at home. Which got me to thinking about my own greed--at home.

How is the desire for a huge company to make profit, any different from my desire to have biggest piece of cheese on the plate? Or one more piece of cheese despite the fact that my belly is full? (But my mouth wants more.)

I don't think it's all that different. But here's the thing: it's not as if only developed nations have greedy people. The poor are greedy too. Humans are greedy and the continual challenge is to overcome our own greedy natures. Or decide to be greedy in a different way.

I, for one, am working on being greedy for silence, for peace, for laughter, for justice, for God.

I'll let you know how this works out.

Pardon My Begging

2008-02-09T18:28:00.000-08:00

A friend just wrote to me that she has been reluctant to go to India because she couldn't handle the poverty. Well, the poverty will be there whether you go or not. It’s a question of do you want to deal with your feelings of guilt, outrage, helplessness, confusion, despair and wonder?

I can’t get the image of a little girl pressed against the car window. She was gesturing to us to give her something to eat. Then she put her hands together in namaste on her forehead and pressed them against the window. And there were those dirty, little brown fingers pushed against the glass. And we didn’t have any rupees. We didn’t have anything. She wasn’t angry, she was smiling and inviting. I wanted to give her something. I wanted to put her in the car, take her back to hotel and give her a bath.

Then the light changed and we went another mile and there was another group of kids. This time Wes dug around and found a few McVitie’s biscuits in the bottom of his pack. A little boy was pounding on his window, not as sweet as my little girl. The light changed. Wes rolled down the window and gave him the biscuits. He looked at the biscuits and threw them back into the car.

I swear to God here was my first thought: Beggars can’t be choosers.

Wes turned to me and said, "I think he wanted money."

A few days later I’m back in Seattle getting crown work done. It’s a two hour job so I asked for the nitrous oxide. The assistant put the mask on my face and I said, “Oh, I don’t remember nitrous having an odor.”

“It doesn’t. That’s our peach-scented mask!”

Little brown fingers pressed against the glass.

After a minute it became clear the mask was too big. “I’ll give you the pediatric mask,” the assistant said. “It’s grape-scented.” Then she opened up a tube of lip balm and said, “This is your lip balm, it’s yours to take home, but I’ll be applying it on your lips because your mouth is going to get stretched out.”

Little brown fingers pressed against the glass.

I just heard last night that Mitt Romney spent 40 million dollars on his campaign. I pay three dollars a can for dog food. The dentist gives me a grape-scented nitrous mask and my own lip balm.

Here’s the thing about going to India and seeing all the poverty: you don't come home with answers, but it makes you question.

Little brown fingers pressed against the glass.

A Dutiful Wife

2008-02-04T12:44:00.000-08:00

So we just returned from India. We were gone only ten days which is short considering it takes about two and a half days to get there. Wes taught for four days at a science conference held at the Indian School of Business in Hyderabad. As a Dutiful Wife I was forced to go along with him and spent most of my time swimming and reading, "A Suitable Boy" by Vikram Seth. It was only 1, 474 pages. The title of my next book will be, "A Dutiful Wife" and it will be 1,475 pages.

We secretly ate in the student cafeteria whenever we could. It was fun being with the students and I liked being able to refill my own coffee. The Faculty Dining Hall had white table clothes and I was forever trying to remember if my bread plate was the one on my left or my right. Plus there were all these waiters whisking things away. I was acutely aware of the beggar children just a few miles from campus, so I was very uncomfortable with all this formal dining. In fact, I was uncomfortable dining at all. (More on that later.)

And here is the amazing Taj Mahal at sunrise. I thought it was a palace, but it's really a mausoleum. Yes, that's right. When you finally get inside, the actual room is the size of a large McDonald's restroom and there is the tomb of Mumtaz Mahal ("Chosen One of the Palace") and her husband Shah Jahan ("He Who Builds A Really Amazing Mausoleum For His Wife").

It turns out that Mumtaz was the love of his life, soul mate, friend, lover, first wife. And yeah, sure he had a harem but I'm assuming they were for when Mumtaz was hugely pregnant or having her period. She bore him fourteen children in seventeen years.

So she dies giving birth to their fourteenth child and he is bereft. Despairing. Since Porshes weren't yet invented, he decides to build--big time. But here's my question: Shah, why did you wait until after she was dead to build her this breathtaking place?

Why wait to say, "I love you"?

I saw a patient last week who when her husband left the room told me, "My husband has been so attentive and concerned. He insists on coming to every chemo with me. I know he loves me, but he's never been so out there with it."

He's scared witless, I thought. And sure enough, when we prayed together at the end of my visit, he was holding my hand so tightly my fingers had indents from my rings. He whispered, "Amen" after me and tears rolled down his cheeks.

As Wes and I walked back from the Taj Mahal to our hotel, he asked me, "Well, what did you think?"

"Don't wait until I'm dead," I answered.

Power Outrage

2008-01-08T19:47:00.000-08:00

The other night my friend Lisa had dinner with us. She was talking about an elderly woman who told her, “My sixties were my favorite decade. I didn’t give a shit what anyone thought and I felt totally empowered!”

I said, "Wow, that's great to hear! I can't wait!"

Wes said, “If Debra gets any more empowered she’ll be a sub-station.”

Which makes me wonder: can someone be too empowered? Does Wes think “empowered” is synonymous with “bossy?” And exactly what is a sub-station?

2007-12-17T09:20:00.000-08:00

Flashback to June 12, 2005: It was four days before my first chemotherapy and the impending taste bud destruction. For my “Last Supper” I chose Lola, a modern Greek restaurant. That means you can get grilled octopus and dolmades, but you can also get high-tech martinis and wild Pacific prawns.

Our server was young and beautiful and her dark hair was rinsed cherry red. She cheerily explained the specials and asked if we had any questions. Having just had a mastectomy, all I could think was, “Have you had your mammogram?”

Instead I blurted out, “Of all the restaurants in Seattle, this is the one I chose for my last meal before chemo.”

She blinked for a few moments and then smiled and said, “I’m so glad you chose to come here.”

Since I was feeling like I was about to be sacrificed, I considered the lamb for my entrée. But I pushed away the dramatic mental images of my martyrdom and reminded myself, “Cancer is the enemy. Chemo is the defense.”

So I chose something I thought was symbolic of my new attitude: goat; cider braised with honeycrisp apples, roasted shallots, and celery salad. It was divine and I say that as an ordained minister and experienced foodie.

Our awareness that this was our last dinner out before six months of unknown chemo side-effects made every bite, sip, scent and sound sublime.

“This is the best dinner I’ve ever eaten,” I said holding hands across the table with Wes. He could only nod since his mouth was filled with chickpea fries, but I saw his eyes well up.

Our server came back to ask if we wanted dessert. “Just the check,” Wes answered.

She gave us a big smile and said, “You’re welcome to pay next time you come in. This one is on the house.”
We didn’t leave for another twenty minutes because we couldn’t stop crying.

So this December was our 22nd wedding anniversary and the next day was my two year end-of-chemo anniversary. “Let’s go to Lola!” I said to Wes.

I made the reservations and then, after a moment’s hesitation, told the hostess our experience from two years before. “I know it’s crazy,” I said. “But is she still there? She had cherry red hair.”

“Hold on.” I was on hold for a few moments and then someone picked up.

“I remember you,” the voice said.

It was her—Sabrina our server who is now a manager! We were coming in Friday night which is the only night she managed at Lola. Coincidence? I think not!

We were a party of six and Sabrina bought our appetizers and desserts. I gave her a copy of It's Not About the Hair. We ate, we drank, we laughed, gratitude flowing faster than wine. I ordered the goat and it was as delicious as I remembered.

Before we left I hugged Sabrina and said, “You just don’t know how many times I’ve told that story of my Last Supper.”

“I’ve told the story too!” she said. “I understand about the eating because my mom had chemo.”

I was stunned. “Gosh,” I said. “I didn’t realize that. How is your mom doing?”

She hesitated a moment. “She died—when I was little. But I still remember.”

I gave her another, longer hug. Clearly, in the few years they were together, her mother had taught her about love.

No wonder that night had felt like the Last Supper:

Do this in remembrance of me.

And she had.

He Lives!

2007-12-16T14:29:00.001-08:00

Max lives! He is going to be okay and apologies to those of you who thought he died because I hadn't posted in a while. It took over our lives for three weeks, but yesterday his wounds healed up enough to take off the hateful Cone! It will take a while for his hair to grow back, but we can live with that.

Here he is in his Christmas outfit, a gift from my boss Stephen and his family. The shirt is perfect--it hides his scars and keeps him warm.

The first few weeks after his surgery we let him sleep on the bed because he was wearing the hateful Cone. But that meant he slept on me. On my chest. On my belly. The first week he wanted to be anywhere on my core. Maybe because I felt as if I had a piece of my heart torn out. And a piece of my soul. Some people thought he was afraid. But I think he was healing me.

2007-11-26T09:45:00.000-08:00

Max has had the Fentanyl patch on him for three days now. You could say he's acting either like an angsty teenage stoner (staring out the window, sighing and whimpering) or a love-sick hero trying to snap out of it (staring out the window, then vigorously shaking himself and whimpering).

This had been so, so hard for us. One thing that helped immediately was a suggestion from Max's teacher Judi. "Don't talk to him in a 'Sympathy Voice,'" she said. "He'll hear the distress in your voice and that will compound his own distress."

Honestly, I'd been talking to him in Baby Talk the whole time and I just stopped and he was a little better. Well, I know I was. I keep saying in an optimistic tone, "Well, Max, we'll get through this. And then you can tell the story of how you survived the pit bull attack!" It's doesn't erase the pain (either physical or emotional) but it proves to me once again, that's it all about on what we choose to focus.

I can't very well pretend this is no big deal as I apply hot compresses to his oozing, bloody wounds. I've been forced to think hard about forgiveness in regards to Max's attacker, or more correctly, the attacker's owners. So I'm forced to take my own advice: "Feel your feelings, give them a voice and then move on."

Max seems to be processing this whole thing pretty well in spite of the fact that he is on major narcotics and wearing that hideous plastic Cone on his head. I give him a break from The Cone when I can be around to make sure he doesn't lick and pull out the stitches.

Yesterday was the first time we left him alone (with Cone on) because I officiated at a funeral. It was a bright, crisp, achingly gorgeous day. The burial was at a small cemetery in Mt. Vernon and the memorial service at a beautiful little church in Conway. In my homily I talked about how when all is said and done, the most important things in life are not things at all, but the quality of your relationships. Who loves you, who have you loved and more importantly, who have you forgiven?

After the burial service we walked back to the car through the cemetery. I looked at all the different gravestones. Did any of these people take their anger or bitterness to their graves? If they did, it didn't matter now.

Just then a sharp wind cut through the trees and blew leaves and sticks across the gravestones. And at that moment I let the wind take all my anger and fear around Max's attack. I didn't want to carry those feelings to my car, let alone my grave.

Attack!

2007-11-24T18:25:00.000-08:00

A terrible thing happened last Sunday night. Max and I were out for our usual evening walk and he was attacked by a pit bull terrier.

We have walked past that house hundreds of times and I have never seen this dog.
I found out today that he was in the garage and his owner opened the garage door and he shot out. He didn't growl or bark, but I heard him coming, turned around and he attacked. It happened in a heartbeat.

The next thing I know, he has got Max in his mouth and OFF THE GROUND. Of course scrappy little Max is fighting like crazy. I did not know what to do. Honestly, I'm great in an emergency. I can do CPR. I took life saving and could probably rescue someone from drowning. But Sunday night was different. And I remembered what Max's teacher Judi said about how terriers will fight to the death. (Max and Wes and I are in a class for him to be a Therapy Dog.)

It was like two Tasmanian devils and all I could do was scream. And I screamed and screamed and screamed. I was afraid to let go of the leash because I thought then he could run and I wouldn't be able to find him. After a while I couldn't even watch any more. I was sure Max was being killed. This was one of the most horrible and violent experiences I have ever had.

I screamed so loud and so long that a couple on the next block leaped in their
car and drove over. Finally a young woman came out of the house, pulled her dog
off Max and punched her dog in the face and shouted, "What are you doing?!"

I have NEVER in my life been hysterical. Until Sunday night. I picked up Max and was sobbing uncontrollably. All I could say was, "Oh, my God. Oh, my God," over and over again.

By that time lots of neighbors came out and one of them screamed at the woman
about the dog. The dog owner said, "This dog is going to the pound tomorrow!"

One of the neighbors said, "That's what you've said before!"

I walked under a street light and put Max on the ground. He could walk and everyone said, "Oh, he's okay." But then we saw all the blood. Janet and David, the nice couple from the next street over took us to the emergency vet on Lake City Way. The pit bull owner never even came out to see if we were okay. She just disappeared.

I called the police and they came took a statement from me. They went to the dog's house and talked to the owner. Gulp.

Max spent the night in the hospital. Poor Wes arrived around midnight to all this craziness. But I had a sexy hoarse voice from all that screaming! So you know what we did? No, no, we were way too upset and exhausted for that. We opened a box of chocolate truffles and began eating them one by one!!! So therapeutic. Life saving, actually.

When they brought Max out to me the next afternoon I almost fainted. Thank God Judi was with me. He was shaved from the shoulders down and had five Penrose drains in him. I had no idea how many lacerations he had. He looks like someone took a knife to him.

He is such a little trooper. He never made sound, not a whimper. I'm happy to tell you that today is he is doing well. Well, right at this moment he is okay because he is sitting in Wes's lap. Yesterday was another story.

He was shaking and shivering and crying and we thought he was septic. We went back to the emergency vet and they thought his wounds looked fine but that his pain was out of control despite the meds I gave him. So they put on a Fentanyl patch and now he is totally stoned, but feeling no pain. I'm still applying the hot compresses every three hours to let the wounds drain.

Animal Control came over today and had me write down what happened. While I was doing that they went and took the dog. Then came back here and I had to go out to the truck to identify him.

Oh, my God, I had no idea how upsetting that would be! First of all, it was creepy to see the dog, but then I felt so bad for him because he was scared and whimpering and pooped in his cage and had bad owners who didn't train him.

But you know what? They told me that both this dog and their other pit bull already have one report on them. They got out and attacked a dog in it's yard. That is so sad!!!! The owners would not voluntarily let this dog be put down, so I asked Animal Control to issue a citation. I'll go to court to keep this from happening to anyone again. My guess is that once owners realize that they have to pay kennel fees to animal control while we wait for a trial, they will agree to euthanasia.

So we have LOTS for which to be thankful. If Max hadn't fought back, he'd be dead. If I had let go of the leash, the pit bull would have carried Max off and killed him. He had puncture wound right under his eye, but not in his eye.

And, oh, yeah--the next day I went to see my oncologist and found out that my MRI was clear, my osteoporosis is a teeny-weeny bit better and that my Amazing Boss was incredibly understanding about me taking the week off to stay home with Max.

We are blessed.

2007-11-12T12:37:00.000-08:00

Well, all this book stuff is great fun and I love walking into bookstores and putting a stack of my books on the counter.

The salesperson asks, "Would you like to pay for those?"

And then I say, "No, I'd like to sign them!" Hee-hee! I wish I could be more dignified about this, but I tell you I'm practically wagging.

I'm also having fun speaking everywhere which I usually do for free, just travel and lodging. I said to my friend Carla, "I feel like such a whore because I'm saying, 'Yes!' to anyone who asks me to speak."

She said, "Whores get paid. You're more of a slut."

So there you have it, I'm a Speaker Slut--but only until the end of 2007. That will end the first trimester of my book's existence, which as many of you know, is the most important time period for the growth and development of a book.

After that I must cut down on the speaking because I do have a job I love at the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance. And I will have to be professional and ask for money.Wednesday I leave for Houston to speak at M.D. Anderson. I love looking at all these other cancer centers and see how they compare to the SCCA.

I went to a big cancer center in central New York. They had a gorgeous lobby with a pianist playing a grand piano. The gift shop was huge. Beautiful art everywhere.

The infusion suite was small, dark, cramped and strung with cheesy Halloween decorations. There were no windows. I don't remember seeing any beds. How could you fit a supportive friend or family member in these little cubicles, let alone a chaplain?

One last word about my central New York speaking tour: here is actual quote from the organizer of one of these luncheons: "Many felt that the subject of death and dying was not appropriate for a group of survivors and supporters."

Then who is the appropriate group? I must tell you that I'm not a downer cow when I talk about death. It's actually pretty funny and entertaining. And when you get a cancer diagnosis you always think about death. I gave a similar talk here in Seattle and they loved it. Go figure.

In other news, my MRI last week was clear. Woo-hoo! However I still have osteoporosis in my hips, but in my spine it's been downgraded to osteopenia.

No sky diving for at least another life time.

On The Road

2007-10-15T11:28:00.000-07:00

Susan, thanks for your kind comment. It was an honor to marry you and Rich.

And now for the news: I've just returned from a nine day speaking tour in upstate New York. It was eighty-five degrees the whole time and my friend Carla and I thanked All That Is Divine for air-conditioning.

We drove from town to town and I spoke at three different Susan G. Komen events. They were all lovely, but the most fabulous was in the tiny town of Elmira, New York. They have no paid staff, only volunteers. The event was magical: organized, beautiful, well thought out. The people were kind, warm and generous.
I'm just now getting feedback from all these talks and I've managed to piss off a lot of people because I wasn't "preachin' Jesus" and I talked about death. The folks that loved my talks, loved it for those exact reasons.

Yes, of course I know that I can't please all the people all the time, but there is still this little kid in me that feels a bit stunned. Especially when I read a comment from a woman who is praying that I get back on the straight and narrow, quit using "shit" in my writing (oops) and stop talking about Buddhism.

Here's how it's shaking down: Those Who Have Never Had Cancer: didn't want to hear about spirituality or death; Cancer Survivors: loved hearing about both; Newly Diagnosed: Scared Shitless. (oops) Everyone agrees that my talk was unforgettable and that people are still talking about it.

New York state is fifty percent Catholic unlike my own state of Washington which is the most "unchurched" state in the nation. (And proud of it!) I realize what an amazing liberal bubble I live in here in Seattle. I'm speaking at the Komen Event here on October 27th and will rethink my talk--but not much.

If my goal is to sell books, then I have to tailor my talks so that people will like me. If people like you, they buy your books.

But you know what? That's not my goal. My goal is to get people thinking about death and dying and get comfortable talking about it. Talking about does not bring it on. If talking about something brought it on, I would have lost five pounds long time ago.

Being able to talk about death is freeing. I think that's why cancer survivors loved my talk--because cancer forces you to think about death. They've all had to think about it and it was refreshing for them to hear someone speak publicly.

As more responses come in, I'll share them with you. Tonight is my first reading at Third Place Books in Lake Forest Park. Wine and cheese at 6 p.m. Reading at 7 p.m.! I can't wait.

Another Wedding

2007-09-23T20:25:00.000-07:00

When the invitation came it sounded like a blast: a family wedding in Cambridge, Maryland in the beautiful home and garden of our cousins. We knew the celebration would be fantastic. But when it came time to go, all I could think was, “If only I could stay home this weekend, I could get so much done.” I felt frazzled, thread-bare, worn and unfocused. If only I could stay home and catch up.

I would tell you all things I wanted to do, but frankly, I’ve totally forgotten about what I was frazzled. All I can say is that I went from a world where I felt it was “all cancer, all the time,” to one where we were eating crabs with all the cousins and spraying one another with flying shells and laughing and drinking and proposing toasts and reminiscing about the generation before us which is all gone now and realizing that we, yes, us, were up now as the “leaders” in the family, the older generation, but we all felt like lost children and wanted so badly to have another line of family in front of us.

But it was not to be.

I think about death a lot because I work in the cancer field and I’ve had cancer and I’m starting to promote my book so people are asking me questions about dying and death. But this wedding (which was a family reunion of sorts, as all weddings are) made me think about death in a nostalgic, wistful way as opposed to a medical way. Perhaps it is because the elders in my husband’s family did not die of cancer, but died at pretty ripe ages of pneumonia, Alzheimer’s, a heart condition. So far no one in his family has died of cancer. How refreshing. I actually forgot that people do die of “old age.”

So our flower girl is now a married career woman and a mother of two. Her daughter was the flower girl in this wedding. Time seems to circle back on itself and I found myself thinking a hundred times throughout the weekend, “How can this be?” Because of course I still feel like I’m thirty-two, the age at which I entered this family.

But when I sat in our hotel room putting on my make-up in the bright sunlight I realized with a shock that I did not have the face of a thirty-two year old. And I had to remind myself that this is what is supposed to happen: you age.

The fountain of youth is in Seattle because it is usually overcast and without all that nasty harsh sunlight, you can’t see how old you really are.

But one of the great things about aging is that you just don’t care so damn much about what everyone thinks. How else can I explain why, after working out at an Orlando hotel last month, I jumped into the pool in my athletic bra and panties? There was nobody there and my panties were brightly colored and just how different are they from those nearly transparent Speedos that men wear?

I rest my case.

Labor Day of Love

2007-09-03T10:47:00.001-07:00

Yesterday afternoon we went to a wedding in the Rose Garden at the Zoo. I have officiated at many weddings, but never one in the Rose Garden, and we dearly love this couple so both Wes and I were excited to attend.

An old friend of the bride and groom, the officiant had just gotten his license off the Internet. He was so eager that he started the wedding without the bride. Then he stopped and we all stood up and waited for the bride to come down the aisle. He forgot to tell the people to please sit down after the scripture reading. So we looked around at one another and just sat down.

Later, at the reception, he bragged about how it took all of forty-five seconds to get his license and it takes three years for most people to go through seminary. His girlfriend said to us, “Yeah, wasn’t he great?! You know how you go to most weddings and it’s not at all personal and the minister is just reading something? This was much better.”

Kudos to me for just sitting there with my mouth shut. As Wes said, “I didn’t want to make him feel bad.” I didn't say anything about how the only personal thing he said was that he introduced the couple to each other. And then he read some stuff about marriage. And both Wes and I noticed he got off on saying, “By the power vested in me by the state of Washington, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” No one says that anymore. It’s so unnecessary.

What he didn’t get was that you don’t go through three years of seminary just so you can officiate at weddings. You do it because you feel called by God to serve as a minister. Weddings are such a tiny part of it. If you work in a church, there’s putting together the Sunday service which means picking the scripture, the hymns, getting the readers to read the scripture, writing the sermon, gathering the announcements, practicing your sermon. That’s just for Sunday.

Monday through Saturday there are the committee meetings, the counseling, visiting the sick, praying for your congregation, helping with the youth group, dealing with any personnel and building maintenance issues, meeting with community clergy and taking part in various walks and demonstrations. Then there are the funerals and the weddings. It’s unbelievably hard work.

I never felt called to parish ministry. As a hospital chaplain, ministering to patients, families and staff means that I concentrate on just a small portion of a parish minister’s job. Perhaps I do more funerals than a parish minister.

And yes, I officiate at weddings, but only for close friends. That way the service is very personal. I refuse to be paid because this ceremony is my gift to them. I know I can give them something nobody else can.

I also know that at a wedding, every married couple there relives their ceremony. And every couple there, married or not, thinks about their relationship. So it's an amazing opportunity to offer words about love, forgiveness, spiritual growth and calling forth the best in one another.

I wish I had asked this Universal Life minister if he was going to start doing funerals now. But of course you don’t need any power vested in you by any state to officiate at a funeral.

The Seat of the Soul

2007-08-21T06:35:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago Wes and I went on a three day silent meditation retreat. It was at a Buddhist retreat center. The schedule was basically this: up at 6:15 a.m., 45 minutes of sitting meditation, 30 minutes of walking meditation, 45 sitting, 30 walking, meal. It went on like this until 9 o'clock at night.

Wes sat in a chair (as did many people), but I chose to sit cross-legged on a meditation pillow and then switch off and sit on my meditation bench. I sit half-lotus all the time in yoga, no big deal. However I have never sat like that for 45 minutes. It was brutal.

Cross-legged was brutal on my ankles and my knees. Meditation bench was brutal on my butt and my knees. By the end of the second night, I thought I was going to die. So I thought for the last sit of the night, I would be in a chair.

There were these green plastic lawn chairs that cost about 25 cents to manufacture. I was a little late getting in and everyone was in place so I quickly grabbed a chair and sat down in the back.

Instant nirvana. It was like sitting in the lap of a lover; like sitting in a hot fragrant bath; like sitting on a heavenly throne. Why had I been torturing myself for two days? Why this was the most comfortable chair in which I had ever sat! I felt embraced by the chair, loved by the chair.

We were supposed to be doing vipassana meditation which is being in the present moment and simply watching your thoughts arise. Here were my thoughts:

I love this chair.
I want one of these chairs.
Could I could put it in the living room?
I would meditate every day if I had one of these chairs.
I wonder if they have them at Fred Meyer?

You can see this was not keeping me in the present moment. So I decided to do metta meditation which is "loving kindness." You think of someone and then send them unconditional love.

May you be peaceful and happy.
May you be safe and protected.
May you be strong and healthy.
May you live with ease and joy.

So I started with that, praying for myself first, which is what you are supposed to do. I couldn't help thinking how peaceful and happy I'd be if I had one of these chairs.

Stop thinking about the chair! And then I thought, "Ah, Grasshopper! What you resist, persists!" So I did metta for the chair.

May you be peaceful and happy. You would be in my house.
May you be safe and protected. I would never leave you out in the rain.
May you be healthy and strong. May you never break a leg. Or your back. Or your seat!
May you live with ease and joy. I would give you your own little corner.

I couldn't stop. At the end of the sit I realized that it was my physical pain that kept me in the present moment. For the rest of the retreat I was either on my pillow or on my bench. Brutal, but focused.

Enlightenment eluded me that weekend. And I've never found those chairs. But I'm keeping my eye out for both.

The Parent's Reaction

2007-08-18T17:17:00.001-07:00

Spray-paint around the bumps? Did I say someone should spray-paint around my parents? How about a giant CAUTION sign and then red flashing lights?

My mom is so mad that she couldn't even speak to me just now on the phone. My dad however, spoke to me and explained. "She thought you used too many cuss words. And she didn't like the part about sex. She's not even sure now that she wants anyone to buy it. "

Let me just say here that ANY swear words would be too many for Mom. In 256 pages I use maybe ten swear words. But to tell you the truth, I breathed a sigh of relief because what I thought she would be mad about--my writing about estrangement in the family--he never even mentioned.

Phew!

So I explained to Dad that patients tell me all the time that no one ever talks about sex after cancer and no one is writing about it, so that's why I thought it important to write about it.

"Well, I see your point, honey, but your mother's so upset she's been snapping at me all week. She's like an alligator with PMS."

I thought that was pretty funny, but felt bad that she was taking it out on him. It made me wonder about what she thought I was going to write. Sigh.

I believe I have to speak my truth with love and compassion and then let the chips fall where they may. I'm not responsible for anyone's emotions but my own. At the same time I'll confess there is this little girl in me asking, "Mommy doesn't like it?"

How To Handle The Bumps

2007-08-17T14:58:00.000-07:00

So I've been riding my bike to and from work every day since May. I take the Burke-Gilman trail because it goes along the lake and there are no cars allowed on it. It's about seven miles each way.

There are lots of big bumps on it caused by tree roots and some kind soul has spray-painted around many of them so at least you can see them coming. Here is my latest observation about that, which of course, I find to be a perfect metaphor for coping with life.

One way to approach on-coming bumps is to hold tightly to the handle bars and just coast over them. This makes you feel as if you have more control, but it transmits the force of hitting the bump right up into you arms and shoulders. It also hurts your butt.

The other way is to keep pedaling and sort of post, like on a horse. You rise up just a tiny bit from the seat and loosen your grip on the handle bars and hold them lightly and gently.

It is somewhat counterintuitive, but after riding for the last three months I can tell you that the latter approach is superior. It hurts way less.

I think this goes for things like test results, performance evaluations and your family's reaction to your new book. Our tendency is to brace ourselves and rigidly hold on for dear life. We would be better served by relaxing and holding the situation lightly and gently.

So I continue to move onward and breathe as I wait to talk with my parents and my sister about their reactions to It's Not About the Hair. I sent them advance copies last week. My sister e-mailed that she liked it and liked reading about my patients. She didn't say anything about what I wrote about our family.

I'll call my parents tomorrow and let you know how it goes. I wonder if someone should spray-paint around them?

In Good Taste

2007-07-13T09:16:00.001-07:00

I just read that as some people age, their tongues lose the ability to taste bitterness. I think that happens in our emotional lives as well. So the older we get, the less bitter we are about life.

But of course this doesn't happen with everybody. I'm always shocked and saddened when I meet patients in their seventies and up who have been carrying a grudge for some fifty years or more.

It seems that having cancer can make old grudges float to the surface like so many dead goldfish. I recently saw an elderly man who said that forty years ago he found his wife with his best friend "ten toes up and ten toes down." He recounted this experience with such anger and venom, it was as if it had happened yesterday.

After a while we got around to talking about what it would be like if he could let go of his bitterness. He looked shocked. "Why would I want to do that?"

"Because then you wouldn't have to carry around that poisonous anger."

He shook his head and muttered, "Ruined my life."

It was as if he was carrying around a little old ratty blanket covered with filth and burrs. He didn't want to give up the familiarity of the blanket in exchange for the release of his pain.

He didn't have many friends and had successfully alienated his kids. As his son later told me, "Who wants to be around a toxic waste dump?"

I don't mind losing my ability to taste bitterness because it increases my ability to taste the sweetness of Life.

I like to think that it's a gift of aging.

Just So You Know

2007-06-30T13:09:00.000-07:00

Mingle² - Online Dating

Monday Morning

2007-06-25T17:47:00.000-07:00

I know my neighborhood pretty well so I can tell when sod has been laid down, or a fence put up, or flowers planted. I love walking my dog Max on Monday morning because I get to see the fruit of the weekend labor.

This morning I saw a woman start to get in her car to go to work, but she paused and stood there looking at her newly planted garden with a kind of awe and appreciation for the work she had done. You know how you do--you sort of stand there and think, "How the hell did I ever do that?" Then, with a groan, she got in the car. (Sore muscles are always the most painful a couple days after the labor.)

As a chaplain I get to be with cancer patients as they are doing hard personal and spiritual work. Going through chemo and surgery is like laboring all weekend in the garden. But unfortunately for me, I don't often get to see patients on "Monday" after they have done the work and experienced the transformation.

But once in a while, I'll run into someone a year later and that's when I get to have the "Monday" experience. I get to see the fruits of their labors. Their hair has grown back, perhaps they have a new appreciation for life, perhaps their family has a new appreciation for them. Maybe they've discovered who they really are. It's a gift for me to see how they've grown.

But this growth doesn't happen all at once. In the same that way planting a shrub doesn't necessarily mean that it's taken root; having cancer and all the realizations that go along with that doesn't guarantee personal growth. You have to water, weed and feed your new self.

And just so you know: I don't allow Max to pee on any new plantings. It just doesn't seem right.

How Did I Cause It?

2007-06-17T14:47:00.000-07:00

Although I am a graduate of the Shit Happens School of Cause and Effect, when I got my cancer diagnosis, I did exactly what everyone does: I tried to figure out how I got it. I regularly exercise, am in a happy marriage, and eat well. But here are the things that immediately came into my mind:

Too many protein bars! That summer when low-carb was all the rage? I ate chocolate/peanut butter protein bars all day long. I also ate those low-carb fake candy bars that contain artificial sweeteners such as acesulfame potassium and neotame. Frightening to pronounce let alone ingest.

Not enough meditation! I had a good meditation practice going for a while, but, well, things got busy—um, yeah. Maybe meditation would have calmed down any abnormal rapidly dividing cells. Or perhaps the Divine was trying to tell me something, but I wasn’t there to listen.

I should tell you that I use these words interchangeably: God, the Divine, the Universe, the Presence, Mr. Martha Miyagi. I’ll explain that last one. I don’t have a visual for “God.” She/He/It has always been an inner voice for me—a combination of Mr. Miyagi from “The Karate Kid,” and Martha Stewart—before she became a felon.

I figured that Mr. Martha Miyagi said, “Well, cancer ought to slow her down. That will give her time to meditate.” I got very zealous about meditating right then because I was afraid that if I didn’t the Universe would cut off my legs.

Didn’t take a real lunch! I had a bad habit of working through lunch. This was usually because a lot of patients came in between 11 a.m. and 2 p.m. If I took lunch then I’d miss them. Then in the late afternoon, I would eat lunch at my desk while charting. This is not considered good self-care. But I thought, What if the patients who don’t see me this week die? It gradually dawned on me that if they did die, it would probably be because of their cancer, not because they didn’t see me.

Fired from my job! Seven years before my diagnosis I was fired for a book I wrote, and I was devastated—much weeping and gnashing of teeth! The stress of that must be what caused it.

So those are all the reasons my mind provided. But I know that I can never trust my mind. So I meditated and went deep within and asked my heart, “What caused my cancer?”

My heart said, “Shit happens.”

Fame or Enlightenment?

2007-06-10T14:52:00.000-07:00

It’s Not About the Hair: And Other Certainties of Life and Cancer is coming out in September. I find the whole thing all very exciting. No, this is not my first book, but it is my first hardback which makes me feel all writerly and proper.

“You’re going to be famous!” This has been said to me several times in the past two weeks. Even my own dad said, “Honey, I hope they sell lots of copies of your book and that you’ll get famous.”

I said, “Dad, that’s not my goal. I just want to make a difference—help someone on their journey.”

At first I wondered if people thought that was one of my values, as if the goal in my life is to be famous. Then I was in a meeting last week and we were saying good-bye to a guy who is going off to get his MFA in directing.

“You’re going to be famous!” someone sang out.

He laughed, embarrassed and said the exact same thing I said, “That’s not my goal.”

It occurs to me that this is simply a value of our culture where everyone is trying to get on TV, have their Warholian fifteen minutes of fame, or even just be famous for being famous. (I refuse to write her name.)

Recently I was reading some Sufi stories and some Zen stories and they often start out: “There was a man who was seeking enlightenment.” (Okay, so they weren’t gender inclusive.)

Seeking enlightenment! Imagine that! No one has said to me, “Oh, you’re going to be enlightened!”

Cancer doesn’t care about your degree of celebrity or enlightenment. It’s an equal opportunity disease. Perhaps fame may get you better medical care, although it shouldn’t. But fame won’t affect your response to chemo or surgery or radiation. But perhaps enlightenment does. So I’ll continue to seek it.