"Let food be thy medicine and medicine be thy food" —Hippocrates (460–359 BC)
Once or twice a day, prior to a meal, I heat up a small cup of my homemade chicken broth, to which I've added a tablespoon or two of virgin coconut oil and a dash of celtic sea salt. Yesterday I got wildly inspired and added two tablespoons of ground pumpkin seeds (which I got from Wilderness Family Naturals because their seeds have already been "soaked and dried."). Today I used sunflower seeds, also from WFN. (I ground them in my mini Krups coffee grinder thingie.) Yummy.
If you click on the "soaked and dried" link above, you can read about why seeds are so much more nutritious if you first soak them in water, then dry them out before eating. Same for nuts. It's easy to do. I soaked and dried a batch of walnuts yesterday (Jack is hooked on them too; they taste better, we think, than raw ones). The reason I bought the pre-soaked seeds from WFN was because, well, there's only so much soaking and drying that a person can do. Easy though it is, you still have to draw the line SOMEwhere!
Oh, and of course there are a jillion ways to eat nuts and seeds. Plain. Or mixed with goji berries. Or with cheese. Or sprinkled on salads or in soups. Or mixed in with rice. Or in your cereal or oatmeal. (I didn't know that pumpkin and sunflower seeds were so full of protein.)
My latest bedside reading: Spontaneous Healing by Andrew Weil. It's in paperback and is an easy and entertaining read (Weil's story of how, twenty-five years ago when he was younger and much more naive, he went off on a two-year search for healer/shamans in the Amazon, plus lot of anecdotal true stories about people who have healed themselves using a variety of alternative means, plus advice on how to live healthier in order to prevent illness and disease before you're entrapped by it).
It's also an informative and enlightening look at how our Western medical system works (and/or doesn't work), and why and how it could be changed. And, most importantly, it's about how, as individuals, we could SO greatly benefit if we would change our basic ways of thinking about wellness, illness, health and healing.
Here's a snippet from the early pages:
"I was in this remote part of South America because I was searching for something I believed to be exotic and extraordinary, something worlds away from my ordinary experience. I was looking for insight into the source of healing power, and the interconnectedness of magic, religion, and medicine. I wanted to understand how the mind interacts with the body. Above all, I hoped to learn practical secrets of helping people to get well. I had spent eight years in a prestigioius institution of higher learning, four studying botany and four studying medicine, but I had found no clear answers to my questions. My botanical studies awakened a desire to see the rain forest, meet native practitioners, and help rescue fast-disappearing knowledge of medicinal plants. My medical training made me want to flee from the world of invasive, technological treatment toward a romantic ideal of natural healing..."
I especially liked the story of his relationship with Dr. Robert Fulford, an osteopath:
"...He often told patients not to come back. "When do you want to see me again?" they might ask as they got off the table. "I don't need to see you again," Dr.Fulford would say. "You're fixed." But don't I need any follow-up?" they might persist. Dr. Fulford smiled and shook his head. "I took the shock out of your system," he would say. "Now just let old Mother Nature do her job." If there was any disappointment among Dr. Fulford's patients, it had to do with their not having to see him again, since the experience of his treatment was so satisfying.
Gradually, I began to realize that I was seeing something quite extraordinary. This old man of strong hands and few words was, in fact, fixing people who came to him with a wide range of disorders, ofen in one session of therapy that, on the surface, seemed minimal. I heard tale after tale of longstanding problems resolved after one or two visits to Dr. Fulford, problems that had not responded to conventional medicine. And these were not just aches, pains and other musculoskeletal ailments but also hormonal and disgestive disturbances, sleep disorders, asthma, ear infections and more. How could such undramatic treatment give such dramatic results?
I began to ask Dr. Fulford about the why and wherefore of his methods. What was the theory behind them? Just what was he doing? The answers I received sounded like nothing I had learned at Harvard Medical School."
I'm only on page 105, though; 243 to go.
One of the biggest ways that our media misleads us is by tossing out phrases that twist statistics so that we end up thinking that those statistics are much more significant than they really are. Most of us (including ignorant or lazy reporters and, yes, doctors) aren't trained to understand how to interpret statistics in a meaningful way.
So. . . appropo of that, you can read another perspective on the latest media news frenzy touting the recent "dramatic decline" in cancer deaths here, in Ralph Moss's newsletter, Cancer Decisions.
I include this in my blog not because I enjoy being a voice of yet more negativity, but because I feel compelled to at least attempt to help clarify how to know when a statistic is worth paying any attention to. I know this sounds dry, dry, dry, but these stupid media errors are dangerous. We have to understand that cancer is not a disease that we are on the verge of curing. Sorry, but that's the truth.
This one goes even farther back to when Will was (little did I know) beginning to travel down the raucous road to a movement-filled circus life:
My sister Jill has two grown sons and both, like their cousin Will, are amazingly athletic. Here are some pics she just sent to me of her youngest, Graham, who was on one of the Olympic snowboarding teams. That's Jill next to Graham when he still had long hair (later cut off, says Jill, for something called "Locks of Love").
Sans Sexy Sunglasses:
After haircut, after winning some sporting event or other:
I'm telling you, it's in the Underwood genes (but must skip a generation!):
And here's one of my other nephew, Jill's oldest son Shoji, with his girlfriend. Shoji is also a snowboarder, but right now he's working as a sushi chef in Oregon, I think:
As I write about my liver and limes, raw milk and sprouts, beet juice and broths, Vitamin D supplements and mistletoe injections...I am also acutely aware that there's no way for me to know if the road I chose to take — the road less traveled, which did not include the chemo and radiation that I was told I HAD to do — was the "right" one.
This morning I checked in on the saga of another breast cancer blogger, someone who chose the fully conventional "let's blast/burn/slash/shoot/bomb/poison/strangle and KILL this motherfucker" treatment route. Her cancer was very different from mine - more aggressive, for one thing; if I had been in her shoes, who knows what direction I would have gone. Maybe the same one, maybe not.
Anyway, she had barely recuperated from that treatment nightmare when the cancer came back a couple of weeks ago. Now she has to do it all over again. Her latest blog entry made me feel grateful that I'm not in her shoes. It also made me wonder if I ever will be, which put a bit of a damper on my Thursday morning. But the sun is out, Olivia is snoozing at my feet, and I am very very happy that today I have the health and the strength to run my business, earn a living, take a beautiful walk in heavenly San Francisco, and continue to lead a relatively normal life here in New Normal.
In a little while I'll be heading over to the Writing Salon to continue working on my Furniture Rearrangement Project (aka Chaos Project). Must have it done by Saturday when classes begin.
I've never been a good vegetable and fruit eater. Not really. Too lazy to learn how to cook good vegetable dishes. I've become better at it in the past year, but I still struggle. It's so much easier (and more appealing) to grab some yummy, sugary carb than to take the time to create a tasty salad or a vegetable dish that requires more than quick steaming (and even that takes time...i.e. cutting and cleaning the veggies first...I've never had the patience!). So one thing I'm trying to do is add more sprouts. I try adding them into things I really like, like cheesy quesidillas, omelets, or even soup.
The American Cancer Society believes that 30% of all cancer is due to inadequate consumption of vegetables and fruits. About 91% of Americans fail to achieve target recommendations, that is, 5 vegetable servings a day or 2-3 pounds a week. Asians who consume from 15-20 servings of fruits and vegetables a day have a much lower incidence of some cancers.
Vegetables of the cruciferous family isolate the anticarcinogenic constituents of Brassica plants. Glucosinolates (appearing in cruciferous vegetables) can inhibit, retard, or even reverse experimental multistage carcinogenesis (Fimognari et al. 2002). As enzymatic processes hydrolyze glucosinolates, isothiocyanates are released, including sulphoraphane. Sulphoraphane wields a strong arm against cancer, promoting apoptosis, inducing Phase II detoxification enzymes, increasing p53 and participating in the regulatory mechanisms of the cell's growth cycle. Necrosis (localized death of diseased tissues) is typically observed after prolonged exposure to elevated doses of sulphoraphane.
For the past several years, researchers at Johns Hopkins University have urged the inclusion of broccoli sprouts in the diet. According to Dr. Paul Talalay, broccoli sprouts have 20-50 times more anticancer sulphoraphanes than grown vegetables (Fahey et al. 1997). Eating a few tablespoons of sprouts daily can supply the same amount of chemoprotection as 1-2 pounds of broccoli eaten weekly (Talalay 1997). —from the LEF (Life Extension Foundation) newsletter
Sunflower seed sprouts are another really good one - highly nutritious!
I've been expressing my opinion about the benefits of including raw milk/raw cream/raw cheese in your diet, as opposed to pasteurized, for some time now. Most of my friends (and probably most of my tiny band of blog readers) pretty much ignore the posts, either because they don't drink milk anymore anyway, or because they never see raw milk or cream in the store even if they WERE open to to trying it, or because they think it's kinda nutty (as in: breast cancer has turned Jane into a health food nut!), unnecessary and maybe even dangerous (E coli, E coli!).
I never have time to go into any long explanations re: what I've learned about this topic over the past few months. So imagine my delight when I came across today's story in Salon.com: The Udder Truth.
My delight turned to dismay when I read the subtitle: Raw milk really is a wonder tonic, say devotees, who meet secretly to buy it and swear it reverses chronic diseases. But is it safe to drink? The official word: No.
Dreading what I thought I was about to read (a diatribe against raw milk) I was pleased to find that the article wasn't that at all - it's just that the editors at Salon.com blew it with the subtitle; they should have at least italicized the word "official."
Anyway, the article is actually quite well written — informative, fair, and not dumbed down — and there are a large number of both pro and con response letters from readers.
My friend The Great HatesLivernik will love this one.
Go to this page for more info about the wonders of liver. I especially liked the sections on "The Anti-Fatigue Factor" and "The How-to-Do-It part of Eating Raw Liver" (from among the numerous choices, I opt for the delicious frozen pellets).
What fascinates me about the anti-fatigue factor is the fact that after over 50 years, it's still a mystery. No one knows what it is in liver that creates this "factor," and this fact — the fact that conventional western medical science does NOT have all the answers and is continually steeped in mysteries that are far from being solved — helps me to remember why I chose not to accept all the conventional treatments for breast cancer, but rather to do some exploring and thinking and questioning on my own. . . .because when it comes to The Mysteries, our playing field gets leveled; doctors and patients become peers.
1/4 cup goji berries
2 cups pure water
1. Soak berries in water for 4 hours or more, overnight is fine
2. Blend in blender until well blended
Optional: 1/4 cup fresh blackberries, raspberries or blueberries (low in carbohydrates and high in antioxidants) can be added to the puree. You can also add other fresh fruit such as apple, mango and/or banana, but these are higher in carbs and lower in antioxidants). If you use just the goji berries you''ll have a nice nutritious goji berry juice. If you add additional fruit you will have a delicious smoothie.
If this isn't sweet enough for you, you may want to add a little natural, raw honey or agave nectar. (I'm not used to the taste of goji berries, so I definitely need to add sweetener; I usually add mostly Stevia, from the little packets, plus maybe a little raw honey.)If I want to make a REALLY healthy smoothie, I add some kefir or yogurt to the goji juice — until it's much thicker, half a banana, a quarter cup organic blueberries, a couple of tablespoons of coconut oil, and two raw — yes, raw — egg yolks (from pasture-fed, organic chickens).
Every time I go to see Efrem Korngold at Chinese Medicine Works, he works on my liver because my liver, which is an incredibly important organ, is weak. Like the majority of other Americans, I've led a life of excess...too many unhealthy, over-processed foods that have had all the nutrients sucked or bleached out of them, too much work and not enough play, too much worrying about money money money... all of which overtaxed me and my poor liver.
What happens when your liver isn't working optimally? Well, its job is to rid your body of numerous nasty toxins. If that doesn't happen, you end up f....cking yourself over in oh so many ways. For example, I need my liver to get rid of excess estrogens in my body - not all my estrogen, but the EXCESS estrogen. If my liver doesn't do that, I can end up with estrogen dominance, which can, for some women, be a contributing cause of breast cancer (or breast cancer recurrence).
There are many ways to work on strengthening your liver. Efrem does acupuncture focused on just that. He also gives me herbal concoctions.
But if you don't want to do acupuncture or get the herbs, here are two simple tips for strengthening your liver: 1) Drink a cup of hot water with the juice of one lime in it every day (or as often as you want), and 2) Add 1/2 to 1 tsp. a day of lecithin granules to your diet.
Efrem said that the lime drink is like "giving your liver a big hug." My lips puckered big time, the first time I tried it. Now I'm used to it, though. In fact, I like it.
Iodine is necessary and good for everyone, and especially important for people with certain health problems (i.e thyroid issues or fibrocystic breasts and/or breast cancer. . . and more). Make sure you get enough of it (not as easy as you might think - no, our salt doesn't always contain it, and even when it does, it's not enough).
Here are some facts about it, which include a video clip with Dr. David Brownstein that I found especially interesting. Or, if you have the time, check out this radio interview with Dr. George Flechas.
The cleaners came to do Jack's house today. I am pleased to report that all surfaces are now wiped, swept, dusted, or mopped.
I spent the afternoon continuing the process of rearranging all the furniture upstairs and down, as I try to turn what WAS my personal living room that rarely had to accommodate more than five or six people, into a classroom suitable for seating up to 13 students plus the teacher. It began to rain as I was shoving the piano across the room, and I stopped to listen to the sound of the raindrops on the skylight. That sound has never, ever brought anything but happiness and comfort to me.
I am also pleased to report that I ate spinach at both lunch and dinner, drank my beet kvass at dinner - instead of wine - like a good girl, and rewarded myself at the end of the day with a deviant cup of hot chocolate made with raw milk, raw cream, and pure chocolate sweetened with raw honey and a few drops of Stevia.
Now I'm half-watching Kyra Sedgewick on The Closer, as I attempt to blog EVERY DAY because...because...because...because I must make the attempt even though I don't yet have any photos of my adorable grandchild to save me from myself. And also because Ms. K and Ms. Mass will cut me no slack, although I can't imagine who would want to hear about Jack's dustless house or my spinach.
In lieu of an epiphany for today, I will simply say that Kyra (aka The Closer) fears she may be pregnant. Did you know that she is married to Kevin Bacon in Real Life? They don't live in Hollywood. They live on the East Coast, away from all the celebrity crap, and have been married for quite some time. Good for them. Meanwhile, Brad P. and crazy Angelina J. lasted for exactly two minutes after he adopted her children.
And how about that Diane Keaton doing her sexy sixties thing? The TV is filled with her skin cream commercials and also the ads for her upcoming "older women can still have sex" movie. Supposedly she has had no plastic surgery. Maybe, but what about Botox and collagen, huh, huh? Or what about fancy New Agey acupunture face lifts? She must do SOMEthing.
I wonder how Lenore is doing on this rainy Tuesday night. Probably out dancing somewhere, or stirring her vodka martini, or betraying someone, or being betrayed, or eating a pint of Hagen Daaz vanilla swiss almond in one sitting. Oh Lenore.
Okay, I'm either mystified or pissed or both. How is it that my closest blogging friends — the ones I turned on to blogging in the first place (you know who you are)! — are all managing to toss out daily posts, PLUS are all also constantly commenting on each others' posts, whereas I can barely squeeze out two or three posts a week, and not nearly as many comments???? Don't any of the rest of you ever rest from posting and commenting, posting and commenting, posting and commenting??? Geez Louise! I feel like an outsider now, peeking in on your busy busy busy blogging lives. What is your secret? Comments, please.
Yesterday I sprang for a housecleaning service to come and wave its magic broom over my knee-deep-in-dustballs abode. It took three people (working at 110 mph) an hour and a half. I'm slowly teaching myself that I can't do everything, which means re-prioritizing how I spend my money (i.e. I am now more inclined to save my pennies to get housecleaning help, rather than spend them on, say, having my hair dyed and highlighted). Well worth it. And such a good way to begin the New Year. Next week they're coming back to do Jack's house too. Wahoo!
After the cleaning crew left, I sat down to a pre-made, "nutrient-dense" lunch from Three Stone Hearth, delivered to my door by Planet Organics: Homemade chicken soup (made with long-simmered bone stock and pasture-raised chicken) over pre-soaked-in-whey brown rice), to which I added fresh-cooked spinach, and a side of Three Stone mashed pinto beans (their healthy version of refried beans). Then I had a small handful of mixed, pre-soaked and pre-roasted crispy nuts from Wilderness Family Naturals, combined with a small handful of goji berries.
I woke up this morning thinking, as I swung my feet over the edge of the bed again, about all the people I've known who have died in the last decade. My brother, my mother, my father. Helen's sister. Karen's lover. That 14-year-old girl in my son's circus class whose safety buckle malfunctioned during a routine trapeze trick. Just go, I say to myself. This appointment does not require high drama, requires nothing more than two hands that can grip a steering wheel, two legs that can carry you into the doctor's office.
I can still smell my own salt. It was everywhere in my dreams, rampant all night long as I washed up onto shore after shore, sloshed against the sides of the tub again and again, and ran down the kitchen drain carrying a load of leftovers. My salt. In the sky, under the ground, in my tears, on my tongue, in my bones and genes. I flowed through copper and steel until the universe poured me into the cat's blue dish. I filled toilet bowls and gutters, too. In one rustic rural town, I became a river with the force of the Nile. Boats of strangers rode on my back. In the end I turned myself into a cloud that filled the sky with salty rain.
When I walk into the kitchen, my visiting friend Lenore is already at the table painting her nails. "I don't want to be buried in a coffin in a grave," she announces to me without looking up, and without any detectable segue from bougainvillea pink to the topic of funerals. "I plan to do death my own way, thank you very much. Open caskets, ugh! Cremation is the only option. Did you know that green tea fights wrinkles? It's full of antioxidants."
I reach down to stroke my cat Greta's head. Take a deep breath, I say to myself. Your breasts have always been full of lumps. It'll turn out to be nothing. Just another stupid cyst.
Lenore, who I haven't yet told about my lump or impending appointment, rattles on. "You know, sometimes I make a mental list of all my ex-lovers, and it's enough just to say their names, although these days I'm hard pressed to remember all their names! I'm sure there was a time when I thought it would be impossible for me forget a single one of them. "
"Nothing is impossible," I say, swirling the cream into my coffee. "The most awful things are not impossible. Dementia is not impossible. Senseless war, not impossible. Reality TV, not impossible. Death, caskets, coffins, none of it is impossible."
"You're certainly in a fine mood," says Lenore. "Well, neither is buying this house of yours impossible, or finding true love, although I'm sure you'd beg to differ. Or getting a fabulous haircut. Or losing twenty pounds. Or writing the book you keep saying you've got inside. Or living to hold the grandchild you claim you want, although I can't imagine why you'd ever want to be a grandmother. Really, I can't."
I dump the paper filter full of wet coffee grounds into the trash, then stare at Lenore's feather boa that is now wrapped around the dining room lampshade, and I wish I could absorb some of that feathery chutzpah of hers. Look how fortunate you are. You had a radiologist who did her job and sent you a note saying: "There is an abnormality. Get thee to a hospital for follow-up tests."
I try to imagine what receiving a scary diagnosis would be like, and decide that my head would probably feel as if it had been chopped off and tossed into another universe. I suppose the word "metastasis" could appear, and, if it does, I wonder what will remain after all is said and done. Two unread books on the bedside table? An unidentifiable vegetable in the wok? A motherless son?
I force myself to stop trying to envision the unenvisionable, and to concentrate instead on listening to the small but definite sound, like a tiny faraway siren, that has become a continuous background noise inside the depths of my right ear. Do I have tinnitus? Should I look it up online? Wouldn’t that be a better way to spend my time than trying to get a handle on the idea of death by rehearsing it over and over in my mind until I have it memorized every step of the way?
Yesterday, at Lenore's instigation, I ordered three pairs of high heels over the Internet — in turquoise and purple and chartreuse. I've never done such a thing before and can clearly see the folly in it. But maybe I need to make more room for folly in my life. Otherwise, the hell of the habitual might gobble me up.
So. I will drive to the hospital and pick up my mammogram film and its accompanying report. Then head on to the surgeon's office for more tests. On my way back I will stop at Radio Shack to buy a telephone battery. Why can’t they sell those things at Walgreen's, along with the regular AA and AAAs?
I hold on to Jack's hand in my mind. If surgery — lumpectomy? mastectomy? — ends up on my to-do list, he'll get me to the hospital and back. But it's a slender stem, this feeling that I'll be supported. I could flop over so easily, like yesterday's tulips.
I fill a water glass and swallow my mouthful of vitamins as Lenore looks on with one upraised eyebrow and a questioning tilt of her head. Lenore spurns the vitamin supplement routine, preferring to start each new day with whatever her taste buds fancy and without an ounce of regard for minimum daily requirements. She fuels her body with a secret formula that I long to know but at the same time fear.
After Radio Shack I will head north into the wind, smelling the smell of my own salt along with the smell of my salmon-breathed cat, fresh pine nut and basil pesto, and the long-ago (seventeen years, to be exact), sweaty scent of warm dirt and grass baked into the softness of my five-year old son's hair.
The smell of life is jumping all over the board today. It includes even the scent of maverick cells gone wild with the thrill of springtime and blossoming. And who can really blame them?
While there we met a man who had just moved back to SF after a seven-year stint in Philly. His dog Pepper, a feisty black and gray Australian shepherdy type breed, was the same age and size as Olivia, and the two of them ran their hearts out on the hillsides, up and down, this way and that.
They're such beautiful creatures when they have a wide open space to be free. The fog blanketed the grass, too, and both dogs got righteously wet as they tussled and rolled on the sweet green swells.
Toward the end of our walk, we took the man, whose name, I think, was John, to see The Great Bernal Hill Owl. There he was, high up but visible — big, soft, regal, brown and preening himself. John, a nice laid back guy with good Hill Vibes, thanked us for showing him, and then we went our separate ways, descending past the lone bird on her mist enshrouded wire, back into the rush and crush of the Non-Hill World.
Per the official name of this blog, I'd like to reiterate that I started this blog because I wanted to record at least some small part of my "breast cancer adventure" (or "journey") for three reasons: 1) To help myself, via self-expression, to feel better and thus cope/heal better, 2) To more easily be able to keep my friends up to date on how I'm doing, and 3) To share whatever information I've culled from my own experiences and research re: how to deal with breast cancer on every level - physically, psychologically and emotionally.
I can now say, as others said to me over a year ago, "The first year is the hardest," because that's when your learning curve is the steepest, especially if you're interested in exploring alternatives or adjuncts to mainstream conventional treatment approaches. (And of course it goes without saying that it's hardest because, most likely, you are also diving into one or more active treatments, ranging from surgery to chemo to radiation to any number of possible alternative treatments, i.e. Iscador, supplements, and lifestyle revamping (diet changes, stress reduction, exercise regimens, spiritual reassessments, etc.).
I hope that if you, or someone you know, is struggling with a breast cancer diagnosis (or with ongoing treatments), you'll check out the information in my sidebars. What I've put in the sidebars is only the tip of the iceberg - I've got a file cabinet full of research info. that I haven't had time to include. But at least what IS here might offer a few starting points for those who are feeling overwhelmed, terrified, confused -- or all three.
I would especially recommend these links, which are excellent introductions to non-conventional healing possibilities (for many different kinds of cancer, not just breast cancer):
That's all I have time for today. Oh, and...
...May we all commit to a positive-minded and open-hearted start to a New Year filled with love, peace (tolerance and acceptance of other peoples, cultures, races, spiritual beliefs, sexual preferences and all the other wondrous diversities in this life!), plus courage in the face of fear.... and joyful creativity.
I'm ringing in the New Year slowly, groggily. Didn't go to bed until 2:30 a.m. (after watching the end of Super Size Me), then up at 5:50 a.m. to let Olivia out, feed her, then back to sleep from 6:30 to 10:45 a.m.
Still in my PJs at 1:40 p.m., having had a lunch-like breakfast that included fresh cooked kale, goat cheese, refried beans, and pre-soaked brown rice at noon. Hmmm. Told myself yesterday that I'd WORK today, starting bright and early. Uh....
Jack just went off for a New Year's Day walk at Crissy Field with Olivia and his daughter, Emerald. I was wistfully tempted to go but forced myself to stay here in order to work work work, and also to finish making the chicken stock that I started yesterday. Should be a good 7 or 8 quarts. It has been simmering for almost 24 hours now; soon I'm going to add the wine and a bunch of parsley (adds another dimension of enzyme richness if thrown in at the end).
The house smells SOOOOOOOOOOOO warm and good, scented with the brothy deliciousness of carrots, celery, onions and ginger and mineral rich, magical bone marrow.
Then I really MUST leave here (Jack's house) and go to my "old" house which has now become basically: 1) My cat Reecy's house, 2) a rarely used office, and 3) the Writing Salon classroom. I have a morass of office work to catch up on, and I need to visit with Reecy, who gets lonely when there are no evening classes going on over there.
What I'd REALLY like to do, though, is stay here and write and nap, write and nap, write and nap (and eat more chocolate) for the rest of the day. Maybe pop some popcorn too. That would be heavenly.
I'll let you know which way I decided to go, next post. (Riveting stuff, eh?)
Last beautiful sunny Friday afternoon I went out walking on Bernal Hill with Will and his girlfriend of over a year, Val. Val is younger than Will (17),and still goes to school at L'Ecole Nationale de Cirque in Montreal. She's majoring in hand-to-hand, the same as Will did, and has two years to go.
This was my first time meeting her, and she was a delight — sweet, smart, unpretentious, and fun to stroll around and chat with. She taught me that "fou" means crazy in French, so that I can now call Olivia my "fou fou little pup!" when she's acting deranged.
I wish Val didn't have to go back to Montreal so soon (early Wednesday), but at least I now know firsthand that my son is doing well in the young love department.