My Great Breast Cancer Adventure

Mom Time

Originally uploaded by my.third.eye

I spent the last week mom'ming it with Will, who hasn't been to SF since last November. It was heavenly to see him, although since it was the week prior to the start of the Writing Salon's new Fall Session, I had to work more than usual, which was a drag. I wished I'd had more free time to just hang out with him and/or go someplace(s) special.

That wasn't possible, but we did watch the first four episodes of True Blood together, which was really fun. And Olivia went crazy; I think she knows that he is related to me. I think dogs can smell genes or something. And we walked on Bernal Hill, and sat side by side on the living room couch checking our emails on our identical MacBooks. And of course I also fussed over him...gave him homeopathic cough syrup and honey/lemon tea when he started to cough after arriving. Fed him healthy food. Gave him unasked for advice. Hovered. Backseat drove. The usual.

Said goodbye this morning. Always a gut-wrencher, always causes a much bigger ache inside than expected, always that feeling of the house having become way way too empty all of a sudden. Almost desolate. Thank goodness I took a couple of photos I can look at to console myself.

He's flying back to Montreal, then leaving on Monday for six weeks in Charlotte, North Carolina, then on to Paris through December.

I'm moving on to looking for a new side view mirror for my car, which simply FELL OFF. And am also thinking of going on a new household campaign for a garbage disposal in our kitchen. I'm sick of dealing with leftover food gunk in the drainer. How expensive can a disposal be? How hard to install? Not that expensive and not that hard. Jack? Oh Jaaaaaaackie.......!

True Blood

Originally uploaded by my.third.eye

Have you watched it yet? When I saw ads for it, I thought "Dumb." When I heard them talking about it on the radio, I thought, "Gimme a break." But when I got sucked (ahem) into the pilot episode, I came very close to being hooked, albeit not entirely. When I went to HBO On Demand, however, and watched a couple of the "Making of True Blood" shorts, in which they interview the director and actors and author of the True Blood book(s?)...and others involved in the production, I became a hundred percent hooked, as in hook line and sinker.

I was a huge Six Feet Under fan, and True Blood is directed by the same guy who directed that. I've forgotten his name. Interesting man. So anyway, in my opinion True Blood is truly an original. Funny, quirky, satirical, political, gory, and sexy sexy naughty naughty.

Impetus!

Since I haven't posted much in the last couple of weeks, I will explain why: Mostly, it was because I spent my spare time trying to finish the new Writing Salon online "lit mag," Impetus!, featuring work by Writing Salon students.

I wish I'd had it together enough to have been doing this for the past ten years, because I saw so much wonderful writing during that time, and many of the people who did the writing are long gone, along with the wonderful pieces they wrote.

Ah well, water under the bridge. The big challenge now, aside from continuing to find the time and energy to keep this new project going, is getting enough people to send in submissions...and thus getting enough GOOD submissions. It's much easier to slog through a mountain of submissions if you end up finding some gems. But if the gems are too few and far between, it's difficult to keep at it.

Happily, I did finish the 'zine yesterday morning (click HERE if you want to see it) and sent it out to the Writing Salon mailing list. Now I have the weekend free for catching up on all my overdue bill-paying, desk-uncluttering, updating of the last six weeks of my Quicken accounting records, tidying the messy house (I still haven't even unpacked the one suitcase I took with me for our weekend jaunt last weekend), and making the long overdue schlep to Costco to buy more Writing Salon supplies such as paper towels and toilet paper, plus several cases of Pellegrino water for myself and Jack... and more kitty litter for Queen Reecy.

Oh, and I heard from Will a couple of days ago. He's back in Montreal (from Brazil) -- which he says he loved and really wants to go back to -- and now has a month off to rest between Brazil and the next performance gig, wherever that may be...possibly Montreal...I have to ask him.

Over and out.

Weekend Jaunt

Jack and I are leaving tomorrow for a weekend jaunt to visit Mary and D.L., her longtime sweetie, at their rural home somewhere out in the Tahoe area. Mary recently retired from her job as the owner of a high-powered real estate office in Pac Heights. A superb businesswoman and a wonderful, generous, down-to-earth human being, to boot, she is the one who helped us buy the loft where the Writing Salon now resides. We absolutely couldn't have done it without her  dynamic, no-nonsense guidance. What a sharp, wise lady she is. Also an artist.

And so off we go to the boonies, with no Internet access or TV. Yikes. Can I live that way for two and half whole days? Jack will be fishing, but what will I be doing? We had thought he was going to take me fishing with him and teach me a thing or two, but come to find out that D.L.'s brother is going to be there too, and the boat only holds three. Hmmmm. Much as I adore Mary, I am such a loner that I can't imagine staying in the house all day with her, trying to be sociable and chatty; I never do that with ANYBODY except Olivia. What will we DO? Cook? Heaven help me. But no, I don't think Mary is the kitchen type. Well, we shall see. I need to have more faith in, um, the universe?

At least I won't have to see anything on TV about politics, esp. about Sarah Palin. What a nightmare that woman is.

From a MoveOn.org email:

Palin recently said that the war in Iraq is "God's task." She's even admitted she hasn't thought about the war much—just last year she was quoted saying, "I've been so focused on state government, I haven't really focused much on the war in Iraq." ^{1, 2}

Palin has actively sought the support of the fringe Alaska Independence Party. Six months ago, Palin told members of the group—who advocate for a vote on secession from the union—to "keep up the good work" and "wished the party luck on what she called its 'inspiring convention.'" ³

Palin wants to teach creationism in public schools. She hasn't made clear whether she thinks evolution is a fact.⁴

Palin doesn't believe that humans contribute to global warming. Speaking about climate change, she said, "I'm not one though who would attribute it to being manmade." ⁵

Palin has close ties to Big Oil. Her inauguration was even sponsored by BP. ⁶

Palin is extremely anti-choice. She doesn't even support abortion in the case of rape or incest. ⁷

Palin opposes comprehensive sex-ed in public schools. She's said she will only support abstinence-only approaches. ⁸

As mayor, Palin tried to ban books from the library. Palin asked the library how she might go about banning books because some had inappropriate language in them—shocking the  librarian, Mary Ellen Baker. According to Time, "news reports from the time show that Palin had threatened to fire Baker for not giving "full support" to the mayor." ⁹

Even So

The content of most days can be predicted. Even so, the man beside you in the dining room, the man poking at his ham with his fork, this soberingly boring stranger, will eventually give you a starry night and three fine children.

During a brief intermission, inside a perfectly ordinary bathroom, the acquaintance bothers you, wants to speak to you. Despite your chilly demeanor, she exudes warmth, speaks of tomato bisque and the power of miracles. This intrusion provokes you into an insight and a realization about the nature of your marriage, a realization that will, in fact, be the very thing that saves it.

Every day, moving through life’s humble domesticity — the washing machine, the jacket draped across the back of the chair, a bunch of ripening bananas — you are all that he ever wanted, nothing he ever wanted, and more . . . and less . . . than he (the man poking at his ham with his fork) ever wanted.

Chances are good that the roof will not be blown off the top of the house. Chances are good you will never get fat. Or starve. Or move to the coast of Greece. . . unless someone wanders through a door that should not have been left ajar . . . unless, while rummaging through a box looking for six blue beads, you hit an icy patch of unname-able emotion that sends you skidding wildly off to the left, into the ditch.

Chances are good that he will finish painting the exterior, and that you will take your darling terrier to the vet. The content of most days can be predicted. Even so. . .

The Unexpected

An image forms in the camera’s viewfinder. You’ve been interviewing shadows today. The trees make you euphoric, the air smells of jasmine, you could be walking in the sunshine or the rain . . . either one, doesn’t matter. Beneath the image, to your vast surprise, lies a flood of images yet to come — the unexpected future.

You have, at times, passed the time thinking about all that has been unexpected: The man in the tree, or the one at the party. The mysterious voice in your head, with its undeniably absolute decree. The guy at the auto repair shop. The house around the corner where you would someday go to live with the man from the tree.

Fueled by the denials and desires of youth, you often wore these men as if they were your skin. Now you lean forward, aiming to capture the image. You know that this thing happens and then that thing happens — all of it perfectly random yet perfectly planned.

You are in a constant state of mild suffering, photograph after photograph, walking through the smells of the street, surprisingly content, bent on doing exactly what you are doing, knowing that you don’t know what is coming even as you so carefully frame the next composition.

Grownuphood

I fell asleep last night thinking about how old I felt in comparison to all the twenty and thirtysomethings (and even a few fortysomethings) around me, who I keep thinking are clueless teenagers until I realize that no, of course they're not. They're grownups. But why don't they SEEM like grownups to me? Why do they seem like children so much of the time?

I came up with a little bedtime analysis of the ingredients (the three Cs)  required to become a certified, bonified adult:

Common sense, courtesy, and commitment.

The first two require no further interpretation (at least not to other grownups). The last may require just a bit. By commitment, I mean: Someone who understands and honors agreements, contracts, and promises. In other words, someone who knows how to stick to their commitments (and how to not make those commitments in the first place, if they know damn well that they have no idea whether or not they'll be able -- or willing -- to stick to them).

Actually, there is also a fourth ingredient, although I couldn't think of a C word for it. That ingredient is:

Ability to read and follow the instructions.

Mark my words, children. Mark my words.

That said, do I claim to be a bonified grownup?

Answer: Yes, when in the company of a bevy of clueless twenty and thirtysomethings. Not as much when in the company of my peers or grandpeers. Then I feel clueless, too.

(Oh, and if you feel inclined to poke a dozen holes in my theoretical equation, that's okay. Just do it with courteously, please.)

Not Much to Say

My armpit aches, and the accompanying puffiness (a feeling of padding, a swelling) preoccupies me every day. It scares me. I worry.

But work takes up a big chunk of my life, so I try to focus on that. I try to think up ways to keep it meaningful, interesting, new. Especially meaningful. Meaning is everything. I strive for it. I can either figure out how to make it meaningful, or I can grouse and kvetch.

I want my work to be my vocation or, as the Buddhists say, my right livelihood. I want it to be a practice, a sort of spiritual discipline. A meditation. A nurturing of the souI. I think a lot these days about what it means to have a practice. Do I have one? More than one? I guess I do. Sure.

Example: Walking the dog. I try to walk the dog every day and succeed at it about every other day. Writing is another one. Has been for almost the last forty years, although recently I’ve slacked off in order to pursue a new practice: photography. Actually, I have combined the two practices of dog walking and photography into just one practice.

Yoga is another practice. I don’t do it, but I think about doing it constantly. Thinking about someday practicing yoga is one of my practices. Sometimes I do stretches, which I perceive as a precursor to yoga, but if I stretch the wrong way my armpit starts to ache.

Maybe, I think, my life itself should be my practice. Every second, every minute of every day.

This morning at 6 a.m., my practice consisted of lying in bed in the dark, sweating all the usual small stuff, such as bills, death, and various other deadlines. I was also worrying about what to write for my writing group today, which is why I’m writing this. The problem is that I have nothing to say. My life is a daily repetition of the mundane as I attempt to ferret out dribs and drabs of meaning from within days filled with things like dish sponges, toilet bowl brushes, hard drives, vitamin supplements. smog inspections, tumor marker tests, and empty cartons of half and half still sitting in the refrigerator.

Mostly I just want to be out walking. That’s what I realized yesterday when I found myself beginning to pine, at 10 a.m., for a sidewalk and some fresh air. This is a relatively new development in my life. It shocks but also delights me.

Did I forget to mention that, as I was lying in the dark, I was also feeling resentful of my friends Tom and Ruth, who are both now retired? They have pension money, savings, and a house they own outright, a house in one of the most coveted neighborhoods of one of the most beautiful cities in the world. While I spend my day stressing about how to live a meaningful life while still working full time, they will be out and about today, looking for a new door for their latest house remodel. I know they worked hard to get to where they are. I know we have all made our choices. They clearly made some good ones. I clearly made some not so good ones. Still, I think, “Oh poor me, poor me.”

All I really have to tell you about today is the short tale of my other friend who has three very ill daughters, one with breast and liver cancer, one with spinal meningitis, and one who just had what may have been a brain aneurysm. It’s freaky, horrible, and wonderfully dramatic. I myself have nothing but the usual nothing stuff to drone on about, such as “Yesterday I walked the dog, today I will walk the dog, tomorrow I will walk the dog.” Or: We were running out of tea; I bought more. Or: “What’s wrong with my armpit? It aches.”

This longing for a practice probably stems from all my recent thoughts about death. The latest thing I’ve been trying to convince myself of is that death is really birth. I tell myself that my human adult life is analogous to the life of a fetus in its mother’s belly. The fetus doesn’t know that it’s not a “real” person yet; as far as It knows, it has a perfectly fine life floating around in there all warm and cozy and well fed. And it doesn’t want to die, which is undoubtedly what it thinks is happening when its entire world begins to convulse, and Its mother’s uterus begins to push It, painfully I might add, toward some uncomfortably skinny tunnel with a light at the end that really hurts Its eyes….eyes that don’t want to open, eyes that want to stay blissfully and peacefully closed.

So...I’ll travel down this dark, skinny, uncomfortable tunnel, possibly with a fair amount of pain, as the uterus of this life pushes and squishes me out, but then, once my eyes get accustomed to the weird new world I’ve entered, I’ll embark upon a lovely new journey, maybe as a leaf or a bird or a grain of sand. Or maybe all three. Or maybe something else that I can’t even begin to imagine.

In the meantime I must work on fortifying my chi. I will rub fragrant oil of chi into my breasts. I will take photographs of trash bins that exude their own special brand of chi, and turn these photos into a series, a series that I will call Trash Bin Chi.

My son is traveling the world; his life as a circus performer is wildly exotic, or so it seems from here in the kitchen where I stand at the counter sorting pills into a special blue plastic pill container for the week.

Another friend of mine has fascinating stories to tell of gray water, toilet mechanisms, fruit trees, raccoons, and a well that goes deep into his back yard.  Oh, and did I say that Tom sees his door-buying project as a chore? I order my resentment to go away. Where is my enlightenment?  What about my practice?

Soon I will be in a car on a freeway, heading — in yet another determined and hopeful stab at meaningfulnes —  toward the next meeting of my writing group. This, despite my tendency to be a dark and pessimistic person. I even wrote an essay about that once. Rupert, my boyfriend at the time, was absurdly optimistic and  light. Not a dark bone could be found in his body. I compared us and made a funny essay. I think it is still floating around out there somewhere on the Internet.

Mostly, though, I have but little to say. So I take photos of reflections that appear in windows and whirligigs. I capture tree leaves shimmering down into the metal hoods of cars. I’ve been working on abstracts, visual images of the void.

My armpit aches all the way down to my wrists and thumb. This distracts me from my practice. Could it be that the severed nerves are finally coming back to life, are being re-born? Yes, I believe that could be. Life is teeming with wonderful possibilities. Constantly. The trick is to be open to them. (Or might it be an excess of lymph fluids building up? Or could it be an inflammation?)

A friend of mine called to chat on the phone the other day. We hadn’t spoken in several weeks. She was just beginning to recover from a case of laryngitis, and said, “You’ll have to do most of the talking today.” But she was the one who had just gotten back from a two-week trip where she stayed in a cabin with nine other women, fed llamas, climbed mountains, played mahjong, and was cooked for on a farm by an old friend who is also retired like Ruth and Tom. Soon my friend will be leaving for Paris. She is unemployed but recently came into an inheritance and has money enough to live on for a while. She even found someone to take care of dear Fluffy while she is gone.

“Whisper if you must,” I said, “but you’re the one who ought to be doing all the talking. I really don’t have much to say.”

FAT Post

My latest reading material (I'm re-reading it) is the book Nourishing Traditions, by Sally Fallon. I'm starting all over, because it's so full of fascinatingly unpopular information about how to eat healthily...no way could I remember it all from just one reading.

Her introductory chapter includes sections devoted to the following topics: Fats; Carbohydrates; Proteins; Milk & Milk Products; Vitamins; Minerals; Enzymes; Salt, Spices & Additives; Beverages; and more. I never thought I'd be entranced by a book about such things, but oh well, never say never.

I will probably have to read each section over several times before I'll ever be able to remember and repeat/pontificate. But it seems worthwhile to do this, because what Fallon says makes so much sense. I should add that the tag line to the title of this book is: The Cookbook that Challenges Politically Correct Nutrition and the Diet Dictocrats.

I wish I could talk more people into buying this wonderful book -- and actually reading it. Here's how the section on Fats begins:

Fats from animal and vegetable sources provide a concentrated source of energy in the diet; they also provide the building blocks for cell membranes and a variety of hormones and hormone-like substances. Fat as part of a meal slows down nutrient absorption so that we can go longer without feeling hungry. In addition, they act as carriers for important fat-soluble vitains A, D, E and K. Dietary fats are needed for the conversion of carotene to vitamin A, for mineral absorption and for a host of other processes.

Politically Correct Nutrition is based on the assumption that we should reduce our intake of fats, particularly saturated fats from animal sources. Fats from animal sources also contain cholesterol, presented as the twin villain of the civilized diet.

The theory—called the lipid hypothesis—that there is a direct relationship between the amount of saturated fat and cholesterol in the diet and the incidence of coronary heart disease was proposed by a researcher named Ancel Keys in the late 1950s. Numerous subsequent researchers have pointed out the flaws in his data and conclusions. Neverthless, Keys received far more publicity than those presenting alternative views. The vegetable oil and food processing industries, the main beneficiaries of any research that could be used to demonize competing traditional foods, worked behind the scenes to promote further research that would support the lipid hypothesis...

The section goes on for another 16 single-spaced pages, full of information about, yep, FATS! And I swear to you, it's really interesting, and you learn all sorts of stuff about how the body works, health/disease, history, science, medicine, the media, culture, etc.

Excuses Excuses

It's surreal. I can't believe it's been nine days since I last posted here. Oy vey. I read somewhere that if you don't do a post every day...or at least in some regularly predictable way, such as every Saturday for sure, your readership will soon plummet. Given that my readership was never that huge to begin with, I'm sure, I wonder what it's at now.... two?

Hey You Two, how ya doin'? I'm back! But only barely. That's becaue I'm BEHIND on life. Bit off more than I could chew again (what else is new?). One bite I'm still chomping on: the new Writing Salon online publication that I boldly announced I'd begun, and which I said would be out by August 1st.

Well, here it is August 8th, and it's not out. I've worked on it some, but some is not enough. Some has to become DONE. So.... I'm spending the main portion of my Friday night reading submissions. . .  and thus trying to keep this post short.

10 Things I wish I had more time to blog about:

1. All the stuff I've been re-reading/re-absorbing about nutrition, from Sally Fallon's "cookbook" (but so much more than a cookbook, really), Nourishing Traditions. This is one of those MUST HAVE, MUST OWN  books.
2. My two visits with an osteopathic doctor, a woman I think is great
3. What I'm doing or planning to do about my swollen underarm lymph glands, and why
4. Olivia's play date today with her sister June
5. All the stuff I've been re-reading/re-absorbing about health, from Andrew Weil's classic, Spontaneous Healing. Another book that is a keeper.
6. Progress on the "improve the lighting at both Writing Salon classrooms" project
7. Playing with my new Canon Powershot G9 camera
8. Ongoing thoughts about all life's wondrous mysteries, big and small...for example, the souls of trees, or how the universe bestows so many of its blessings in the form of what initially seem to be problems or even disasters
9. My Zapper (but only after I've used it and had time to think about how to defend my use of it, if I come to the conclusion that it's worth defending)
10. The impending arrival of my "custom oil blend" from Dr. Bruce Berkowsky, which has been on order for several months and should be arriving next week. I can't wait to smell it.

I'd add a #11 saying "my son," but first I need to play catch up with him; we really haven't had much chance to talk over the summer. I guess if I really want to know what my sweet boy/man is up to, I'll have to become a more active Facebook participant, even though I'm about a thousand years older than the average Facebook user. I mean yeah, I have a Facebook account, but it's bare bones. I use none of its gajillion bells and whistles. Last I heard, though, he was doing great.

#12 would have to be "Jack," and I'd simply reiterate what a great guy he is and  list a few more of the reasons why I am so lucky/fortunate/glad/blessed to be with him.

I know this is a sucky post. Sorry! Nutshells and lists are never all that great, are they? Ah well, onward into the depths of another Friday night.

 

The Way It Is

Originally uploaded by my.third.eye

A friend of mine is taking the Round Robin class that I teach at the Writing Salon. A couple of days ago I sent out this "trash bin" photo as the daily prompt for the class. Every student has to look at the photo and write for 10 minutes; they can write ANYTHING they want to write. Whatever the photo makes them feel like writing about, they can write about it.

This is what my friend wrote, which I love:

The Way It Is

I love the thingy thingness of things, the way they exist
in a world about which we know nothing,
like that green garbage bin upended
in front of a violet wall: the bin doesn't see itself
as comic, lacking in dignity, upended,

or composed in an upside down world
in a lovely contrast to the violet stucco wall
lined with sunlight. It just thinks empty empty
empty empty empty empty empty empty. No,
it doesn’t even think that; it doesn’t think, not empty

or upside upside upside down or sun sun sun sun
sidewalk sun. No, it thinks nothing. It is empty empty
empty empty empty and yet full full full, filled
with its own essence, of which it has no concept.
It simply and only exists, upside down, right side up,

it is not considering whether to vote for Obama,
it doesn’t know the Giants’ score, it doesn’t know
it doesn’t know, it doesn’t know it’s green, upended
in front of the violet wall, it doesn’t know
someone has stopped to take a photo of it,

it doesn’t know it looks like a strange African animal
at a watering hole on the veldt, it doesn’t know
about the large German Shepherd that almost peed
on its cover. It is just as it is, without knowing it,
though we will never be able to see it just the way it is.

By Will Walker

It's Contagious

Originally uploaded by my.third.eye

My friend Ms. Massf sent this to me today, and I'm passing it on. If you want to grin and feel happy for a couple of minutes, click HERE.

Sometimes I Call Myself Lenore

This is a revision of a piece I wrote a little over a year ago. I had to take SOMETHING to my writing group last night, and since I haven't written anything new in quite a while (focusing on photography instead, right now), I found this:

The Delicacies

Standing in the kitchen, Lenore turned her back for all of three seconds, and Olivia stole one of the carrots off the kitchen counter and raced with it out to the yard, so happy. This made Lenore smile. She could never stay mad at the dog. Who could she be mad at, then? She felt determined to be mad at someone as she bit into her toast, licked the butter off her fingers, and scowled at her fate.

Then she took a disposable syringe out of the kitchen drawer where she kept her medications, and prepared to inject the mysterious mistletoe extract into her abdomen. She unwrapped the syringe, broke the glass top off the vial, stuck the needle into the vial, filled the syringe, pushed the needle into her skin, and pulled it out.

Then she swallowed the last of her toast, swigged down the final inch of dark French roast, and was, quite suddenly, surprised by the entirely unexpected arrival of The Delicacies. This was how she referred to her teeming battalion of waking dreams and imagined images, conversations, scenarios, surprises, disasters, ecstasies and possibilities.

Another ridiculously melancholy mood swept over her. She wanted to live. She couldn't help it. A particular memory of green brought tears to her eyes. This was followed by ripples of piano riffs, then the patter of rain on the skylight as it washed away several decades’ worth of self-deceptions. Nobody is in here with me, she thought. I'm alone. Locked in the center of a massive rock that no one else can enter.

She put on her stylish lime green Capri pants that were woven with the texture of leaves, and rallied onward. Her eyelids felt heavy, her brain hurt from all the commotion. Birds thundered by outside the window.

Any minute another sorrow bomb could drop. Any second she might drown in memories that were only that, nothing more. Last night she had dreamed she was sitting in a straight back chair, flying along at an altitude of approximately fifteen feet above the Valencia Street shopping corridor. She had known where she was going and why. But then she woke up to find herself on the couch where she had fallen asleep, and where gravity had resumed its hold.

In the bathroom she leaned over the sink to spit out her own special mix of cinnamon toothpaste and blood, felt that special, private pain that had been designed for her and her alone, and remembered that yesterday she'd forgotten to check her breasts for lumps – again.

After flossing, she recalled that she'd also forgotten to take her pills, pills that were meant to keep the wolf, with his cancer-ridden fangs, away from the door. Too many people had been making demands, causing her adrenalin to flash in gaudy neon. Clients and co-workers ached inside her neck. She'd had enough of them. Her arms itched. Her chin tingled with a bursting garden of tiny black angers. She wanted to sip a slug of whiskey out of a coral colored trumpet flower.

When Paul sauntered in through her third chakra, she ran a bath and immersed herself in a time when time had stopped again and again, when the woodcutter had held his ax suspended in midair as bees hovered half way between nectar and hive, and she —– Paul's princess, his queen — had held her breath on the verge of bliss.

How fine it felt to once again be falling under the spell of The Delicacies. One by one, the second, third and fourth in a stream of magnificently inappropriate ex-lovers arrived to cast their spells of temptation. Inflamed and on edge, she absorbed their familiar voices. She had no choice but to listen.

"Just receive me," said Paul, cupping both her cheeks in his hands. "That's right, Lenore. Open yourself up and let me in.” She crooned a rainy day ballad to the passing hours. As the cat commenced to snore on the fuzzy bath mat, she was overcome by a bevy of desires.

After her bath, she went back to the kitchen because she wanted to stuff her mouth with a dozen cinnamon donuts, one after another, washed down with gulps of ice-cold milk. She had to find a way to get back all that sugar, the thrill of carbs. Warm, just out of the oven, soft, melt-in-your-mouth donuts, infinitely wrong, infinitely desirable. She had to get something wild back, and she had to be mad at something.

Maybe she could be mad at Jack. Sweet Jack. Maybe that would work. Oh what a despicable thought! Thank goodness he wasn't at home. Thank goodness he had gone to see a man about a truck.

The joints in her ankles and knees were killing her. What did that signify? A side effect from one of the too many medications? Or another sign of her demise creeping far too close, too fast?

She spent whole nights listening to mysterious creakings and groans, or wandering lost and un-enrolled on college campuses, or running from nasty tidal waves. At the crack of every dawn she struggled to swim up from the murky depths, to get herself back into the light of morning coffee. Who knew what? Death and disease had the whole world stumped. Her breast continued to twinkle with migratory twinges and aches, unidentifiable prickles, stinging sensations that randomly came and went.

All the stress had jammed itself inside her feet today, and she had no idea what to do. Too many conflicting opinions on diagnosis and treatment equaled chaos. She wished for some kind of holiness to heal her misbehaving joints and bones, anointing them with the strength they'd once enjoyed, the strength of youth and innocence, heightened states of emotion and passion, no rust, no mold, no dead-end cul de sacs.

Once upon a time she'd had waist-length hair that flowed down and around her head like a waterfall made of Caribbean sand. Heads had turned when she walked down the street, her hair cascading to her hourglass waist. One admirer had called her "an incongruous collage of cool blue sky and rich, fertile soil." Hah! Those had been the days.

The orthotics she'd bought at the drugstore made her hobble and weep a stream of invisible tears that dribbled onto every uphill slant. Whenever she stretched her legs or raised her knees, she grew rapidly older and was forced to claw at the air in an attempt to drag herself back toward the adorable A-frame house where she now lived complete with a lawn, a sprinkling system, a dog and a man with whom she exchanged sweet little everyday kisses. On the top of their toilet tank sat one predictable philodendron. Last Sunday they had spent the afternoon buying a swirly green shower curtain. Their refrigerator contained homemade chicken soup. There were bananas and grapefruits and apples coloring up the kitchen counter with yellows and reds and greens. She hated her hair and the hideous new skirt that made her look as if she were on her way to an Iowa square dance.

A flock of inflammatory memories emerged from behind the arc of an imaginary rainbow. They flew in a great circle above her head and came to roost in the eaves of her discontent. A buzzing vibration nestled loudly into her forehead until finally it was muffled by the thump of heartbeats coming from her neighbors' houses.

She wanted to smack the face of the faceless enemy, but what would be the point of that? She turned on the tiny TV that sat on the kitchen counter, between the olive oil and the blender. This was where she lived too much of her life these days, here in a world that had once smelled of steamy sex but now reeked of Dr. Phil and Oprah.

What was she so anxiously pining for, really? A vacation? A poem by Emily Dickenson? No. She needed more, a hammer or a flood or an out-of-control fire. Or maybe she required a bolt of lightning that would blaze down to strike the mystical soul of her pineal gland. Maybe it was time to force the thundering birds to come tumbling out of the sky, falling every which way until they slammed into their final epiphanies.

Outside the window, red rain-wet leaves were plastered onto the asphalt. She stared at them until flashes of heat blazed into her peachiest, most luscious core, and some weird god smeared her mascara with a chatoyant blur.

Leaving the Dog Park

Originally uploaded by my.third.eye

This is the path that Olivia and I walk on as we are returning home from the dog park at the bottom of St. Mary's rec center. To the left is the rec field where kids were playing soccer yesterday.

This path always makes me feel like I'm out in the country, even though, off in the not-too-far distance to the right, is the freeway. . . complete with whir buzz of traffic. But that's okay. The city is the city. You find idyllic slices of nature wedged between soccer fields and freeways, and you rejoice.

A FaceBook Exchange

Me:

Okay, does using FaceBook make me a hipper mother? (I keep forgetting I have it.) So . . . what's up, kiddo? Where and how are you now? This Enquiring mom wants to know.

Will:

 

Yeah, you are the hippest mom out there, you know that!

I am in Barcelona now. Just arrived yesterday from Cyprus. We will be here for two weeks. Now the real fun starts! it is hot, and there are people out everywhere. I think it´s time to go the beach, so I will give more news soon. Love you mama.

Stranger with a Kind Face

Originally uploaded by my.third.eye

A couple of days ago Olivia and I ventured out of Bernal and over to Noe Valley. We walked up and down Church,  Chattanooga and Vicksburg streets, between 24th and 20th.

At one point Olivia tugged me over to this man who was sitting by himself on the curb where the streetcar tracks curved toward Church from 20th and Chattanooga (or Vicksburg, I forget...). She doesn't ever tug me toward just anybody; some people are clearly more appealing to her than others, as was this guy.

He had a kind demeanor, which made me brave enough to ask if I could take his picture. I'm trying to branch out to including human beings in my photos, and it's not at all easy to do. In addition to having to ask people's permission, I'm finding that the limitations of my cheesy little point and shoot camera are more obvious when I attempt such shots. Why that is, I have no idea because I understand next to nothing about the technical stuff.

It's probably a good thing, though, that the "portraits" look like nothing more than snapshots, because it'll push me to get a DSLR camera.  I'm in danger of becoming stuck in a technically stagnant rut with the point and shoot, afraid to venture beyond f2.8, auto, landscape or macro settings.  How dumb is THAT?

I'm writing this as I eat granola from Three Stone Hearth, with raw milk from Claravale Dairy. So yummy and healthy.

Now it's time to trek upstairs to the home office to begin the gargantuan task of dealing with the mountains of backlogged paperwork, bills, accounting, Writing Salon registrations, Writing Salon marketing and PR chores, and probably even moldy food on my out-of-control desk (as well as the entire area around my desk, within a six-foot radius).

The only reason I'm finally going UP THERE to No Woman's Land is that Jack's accountant is coming over this afternoon to work for him for a few hours, in said shared office, and it would be too embarrassing to let her see my half of the space. Ta ta!

Ed and Miles

Originally uploaded by my.third.eye

We often see Ed and Miles at St. Mary's dog park. Ed has a way with dogs. You can just tell. Miles is a big old sweetheart, the epitome of a loyal, loving canine.

Ed often makes a strange little breathy whistling sound, and while the other dog owners stand clumped together chatting, he sits set apart. To be honest, I don't think he's missing out on much. The chatting gets boring after a while. No one else captivates my imagination the way Ed does. No one else gives me that bittersweet, wistful feeling that makes me feel more alive than I do when participating in the group's chirpy banter about dog toys and the stinky smell of the grass fertilizer.

Back to the Future

Back to the Future
Originally uploaded by my.third.eye

Moving the Writing Salon to the Mission has inspired me to start tromping around in that neighborhood, as well as my beloved Bernal. I still love Bernal best, but it's fun to go someplace new. That's the glory of San Francisco . . . every neighborhood is a little world unto itself. Is it any wonder I've never gone back to the towns I grew up in? Sameness, sameness, sameness. Block after block after block. Homogenous up the wazoo.

I'd love to ramble for a while, but today's my "make more Writing Salon flyers" day. And first I have to redesign the old one; I've decided I have to come up with a one-size-fits-all generic flyer to replace the assorted variety of flyers that I've been making and updating every session, and which show individual classes, photos of every teacher next to every class, current class dates and times, snippets of course descriptions, etc. etc.

For the first several years that I was in business, I think it was necessary for me to go to these admittedly exhausting lengths. But when 2008 comes to a close, I will have been in business for 10 years, and one reward of hanging in there for this long oughta be that I don't have to advertise as much...or as fancy.

Honestly, I've known for years that I should do this, but I was AFRAID to cut back and simplify -- afraid that this would be a huge mistake, that I couldn't risk it. But you know what? Fearful or not, risk or not, it's time to give it a shot. The only way I'll ever be able to keep this business going  for another 10 years is if I learn to work smarter and calmer.

Ah the wisdom of becoming older. When I was 54, I knew nothing. But now that I've been 55 for eight whole months, it has all become clear to me. :-) Becoming an old crone does have some advantages.

Cancer Mortality Rates

Ann Fonfa just sent this email out to the listserv I'm on, for women who are using alternative treatments for breast cancer; I don't think she'll mind if I pass it along:

Nancy E. Davidson, MD, during her Presidential Address yesterday, spoke of both the accomplishments of scientific and clinical research - which have contributed to an annual 2% decline in cancer mortality and a growing population of cancer survivors - and the multiple challenges facing ASCO (American Society for Clinical Oncology) in the coming years:

Dr. Nancy E. Davidson Reflects on Accomplishments, Challenges of Oncology Community During Presidential Address 

This article was sent to me by the American Society for Clinical Oncology where more than 15,000 oncologists from all over the world gather to listen to talks and visit ENORMOUSLY expensive Pharmaceutical exhibits (paid for by patients).

It is unimaginable that 2% is considered EXCELLENT but it is.  In any other area of life, this would be seen as absurd.  But oncology has its own rules.

Visit our website and encourage anyone with cancer to do so as well.  Our meeting Second Annual Evidence-based Complementary and Alternative Cancer Therapies will be held January 8-10, 2009 in West Palm Beach, FL.

Ann Fonfa

http://www.networkforgood.org/pca/Badge.aspx?BadgeId=106174
Ann Fonfa http://tinyurl.com/8yw8r (see this article on us)
President, The Annie Appleseed Project
www.annieappleseedproject.org

Information, education, advocacy and awareness on complementary, alternative, natural cancer therapies. Make more fully informed treatment decisions The information provided is for educational purposes only. It is not meant to diagnose or treat any health condition and is not a replacement for treatment by a healthcare provider.

Today's Topic: PhytoEssential Oils, Healing and the Mystical

As I was showering this morning (an activity that often leads me into creative and reflective trains of thought), I suddenly remembered — after having not remembered for the first four hours of the day — that I had a two-hour telephone consultation appointment with a Dr. Bruce B., scheduled for 1:30 p.m. A few days ago he sent me a brief email questionnaire that asked, basically, for a few facts about my medical/health history. Oh, and he wanted to know my sun sign.

My connection with Dr. B. thus far is that I have been using, for a couple of months, several of his essential oils that he has created for his "Spiritual PhytoEssencing" work: "The use of essential oils for deep soul-spiritual work integrating classical homeopathy, modern physiology, Chinese and herbal medicines, Kabbalah and anthroposophical medicine."

Question: Why do I take them and what effect do they have on me?

Answer: I take them because I think they might help me to fight breast cancer on a deeper level than just physical. But as for the effects, I don't know. Nothing "dramatic" has happened since I began using them.

Second Question: Do you think you were "had?" Is this yet another form of mystical mumbo jumbo quackery for gullible, desperate, diseased people who will grasp at anything and everything in hopes of defying mortality?

Answer: I hope not. I don't THINK so. But I have no proof one way or the other. I'm going mostly on the fact that I was drawn to it. How's that for a logical, scientific, lucid and reasonable response?

I have six small but potent bottles of oils. They are:

1) Fragrant Chi
2) Fragrant Mountain Air
3) ImmuneEssence
4) Master Chakra Blend
5) Aura Cleanse
6) Clear Thought.

There are different ways to apply/use the oils (actually, to be precise, four are oils and two are flower essences). Sometimes I put five to seven drops under my tongue and hold them there for 30 seconds before swallowing. Sometimes I put two or three drops in a spoonful of aloe vera gel and rub it into my chest, neck, armpits and the underside of my upper arms. Or . . .  I put two to three drops on one wrist, rub my wrists together, and then put my wrist up to my nose, breathe in the fragrance deeply, turn my head to the side, and exhale slowly; I do this 15 to 20 times.

Anyway, I answered Dr. B's emailed questions, and even added that in addition to being a Libra, I am Aquarius rising with a Gemini moon.

And then, this morning in the shower, I began to wonder what in the world Dr. B. and I were going to be talking about for two whole hours. What would the nature of this "consultation" be, for heaven's sake? Why hadn't I been more curious about this, earlier on?

As I stood under the hot stream of water washing my hair, somehow I made the leap to a line of thought that went something like this:

Will our conversation be about mystical stuff? Is he going to try and do some sort of mystical psychoanalytical assessment of my soul? And will this lead to some sort of deduction that will help him to then create a more "customized" oil blend for me? One that will work even better than the ones I already have, which are not customized for my unique soul? Gee, that's quite a tall order for Dr. B. He's gonna have to ask some really fantastic deep profound intensely probing questions, and then be a super-cali -fragalistic-expeeala-docious interpreter of my answers! Man, I can't remember what he said the charge for this would be. Shit. Oh well. Let's see. Maybe he'll ask me if I've ever had any mystical experiences in my life. What will I say if he does? Hmmm.

I then tried to remember all the mystical experiences of my life, which wasn't so hard to do because I've only had two or three. I mean, I've had more than two or three mystical'ISH experiences. I've had lots of THOSE. Watching a sunrise can be mystical'ISH. But I'm talking about  the REAL BIGGIES, the Mystical Experiences that knocked my socks off. Those have been considerably fewer and farther between.

Mystical Experience #1:

1977: When I went to the kooky church service (at the insistence of my kooky hippie girlfriend, Elyce) that included a psychic reading with the minister, Pearl, as well as a five-minute "healing" session performed by several of her helpers. During that healing session, one of the helpers held his hands about an inch away from me, holding them for several seconds at a time over different parts of my body. When he got to my forehead, something bizarre happened. First my forehead got warm. Then warmer and warmer. Then it started to tingle and vibrate. Then it began to feel as if it were pulsating...until finally it felt as if I was having sort of a continuous orgasm in my forehead. It wasn't exactly an explosive orgasm, but more of a steady, low-key, but EXTREMELY PLEASANT orgasm.

What's more, it didn't go away when I went back to my folding metal chair. No. It stayed in my forehead all the way home on the bus. Slowly it faded, but whenever I thought about it, it came back. Soon I figured out that I could "summon" this delicious forehead feeling whenever I relaxed and made a focused effort. It was my first real experience with . . . what? Was there a name for this? I had no idea at the time. None. But it occurred to me later, maybe when I was flipping through some 70s era spirituality book that made some reference to  "chakras," that perhaps my forehead-clitoris  had been some sort of chakra.

I did a bit of research and decided that somehow or other, my forehead chakra, which I also decided must be somehow connected to my pituitary gland, had been -- for lack of a better word -- "activated" during the healing session.

The amazing thing was that I managed to retain this ability to re-summon these "chakra sensations' for several more YEARS. What was the point of them, though? Partly I suppose it was an introduction to the art of meditation. Sort of.  But not exactly. And partly I suppose it was something that got me thinking about all the things in life that I didn't understand or even realize existed. Wonders of the world. Mysteries. Other dimensions of reality. Stuff like that. Of course, what I think about it now and what I thought about it then are not the same. What I thought about it then was...hell, I can't honestly remember anymore. It was a long time ago. But even now, once in a blue moon, I can summon that feeling back. This seems important to me. Significant. Worthy of renewed investigation.

Mystical Experience #2:

1979: The day I was walking down Polk Street with my "Portable Picnic" basket (I sold lunch food to shop and office workers, out of a picnic basket; that was my first really cool, oddball San Francisco job) . . . and from out of nowhere, I heard a voice inside my head, and the voice wasn't my own, and this voice said, clearly and distinctly and calmly: "George is going to be the father of your child."

George was a guy I had dated briefly, six months earlier. But that relationship had ended. I  wasn't even THINKING  about George that day as I ambled along Polk Street. I was so dumbfounded by this totally unexpected voice with its wildly unexpected message, I stopped walking and just stood there gawking on the sidewalk. Just stood there thinking, What the hell was THAT? WHAT JUST HAPPENED, HERE?

You see, the voice, as I said and want to reiterate, WAS NOT MINE. And it had a great, calm authority. It had power. There was no question that it knew what it was talking about.

A few months later, I bumped into George on the street. Pure coincidence. By then I had a boyfriend named Michael. Oh well. In 1983 I gave birth to my and George's son.

Mystical Experience #3:

I'm not sure there is a #3. I mean, giving birth to my son was mystical, in a way. But not in the way I'm talking about now. Not in the woo-woo, other-worldly, quantum physics spirituality sort of way. Having a child is mystical in the sense that the experience of Pure Love is mystical. But not in the sense of exploding pituitary chakras or strangely authoritative alien psychic voices.

I find that I'm tempted to say now, upon retrospection, that my first needle aspiration breast biopsy may have been a mystical experience. Why? Because something about the intensity of my response to the way my breast ached afterward felt strangely out of proportion to the intensity of the ache itself. It wasn't a particularly strong ache. I didn't even take a Tylenol. That's the thing, though. Why didn't I take the Tylenol? Why did I choose to keep feeling that ache? I could have drugged it away. But I didn't want to. I felt a need to focus on that ache. I saw it as my gift: a reminder that I wasn't immortal, a reminder that I had better make the best of the time I had left.

The lump turned out to be benign. Or so the biopsy said. However, three years later the lump got bigger, I had another biopsy, and this time it did turn out to be cancer.

The mysticalness of this experience is murkier, I admit. Maybe it's too much a stretch. I'm not as sure of it as I am of Mystical Experiences #1 and #2.

So let's just let it sit for a while and I'll come back to it later. Maybe I'm missing some component. Maybe clarity will arrive if I am patient and keep taking my Clear Thought drops.

In any case, Dr. B. will be calling me in less than an hour and a half. Upon further reflection, I doubt that he will grill me about my history of Mystical Experiences. What a silly notion. I probably veered off down that riff of a path because I didn't and still don't want to deal with cleaning up the kitchen or going out to buy more cat food.

In summary: These are my unanswered questions for today:

1) What the heck does it all mean?
2) Where will it lead?
3) And how much will this phone consultation cost me?!?

...to be continued...

More About HRT and Breast Cancer (Yes, I'm like a dog with a bone)

The following words are my "lay person's" words. I suspect that a doctor might deem them to be overly simplistic. I'm sure they ARE. But even if they are simplistic, they may still be right:

I continue to be discouraged by the amount of conflicting information one finds when trying to understand why most conventional breast cancer treatments order you to: 1) Stop all HRT (hormone replace therapy), and 2) Take estrogen blockers, so that you essentially erase all the estrogen from your body (Note: This is recommended for women with ER+, PR+ breast cancer, which means estrogen receptor positive and/or progesterone receptor positive). Tamoxifen blocks estrogen. Arimidex does too. There are several heavy duty drugs that do this, and they don't all work exactly the same way, but the end goal is the same.

Doctors will tell you (as will many studies) that these estrogen blocking drugs will signficiantly reduce your risk of having a recurrence, compared to women who don't take them...or women who actually continue to ADD estrogen to their bodies, with HRT.

Well, that's right. But what they don't tell you is that your risk of DYING sooner is greater if you stop HRT and/or block your estrogen. How can this be? It can be because your body needs estrogen to be healthy, and if you take the estrogen away, you end up dying sooner FOR OTHER REASONS, EVEN IF you are more likely to have a breast cancer recurrence.

What you always have to remember is: Survival is primary. Avoiding recurrence is secondary.  But doctors are focused on telling you what to do to prevent CANCER, and that isn't necessarily the same as what to do to LIVE LONGEST.

One theory as to why women with breast cancer who don't block estrogen live longer than women who do is that estrogen protects your bones, keeps them much healthier and stronger. This in turn may help to keep you from getting metastatic bone cancer (that is, breast cancer cells that have metasticized to your bones).

So. Let's say you have the following choice. You can:

1. Have a recurrence sooner, and then have to deal with it by, say, having a second lumpectomy or perhaps even a mastectomy. And/or by increasing your alternative treatments, which ARE out there.

2. Not have a recurrence as fast, but end up instead with metastasis to the bone.

My choice would be #1, because #1 is less likely to kill me than is #2. I will most likely SURVIVE longer (and in less pain) if I opt for #1.

Granted, neither choice is appealing. But...tough shit.

Oh, and one more thing. If I end up with metastatic bone cancer, I bet there will be people who say, "Poor Jane, she believed she had a better chance of not getting it if she stayed on HRT, but look where that got her."

But they would be saying that without having all the information. Important information would be this: Immediately after my bc diagnosis, I was ORDERED by the doctors to stop HRT asap. I had my doubts but was scared to death, so I ignored my doubts and did what they said. For the next year I went without the protection of HRT. In addition, I allowed them to talk me into taking Arimidex. Granted, I stopped it after only three weeks (instead of six months or more), but still, those three weeks of "estrogen eradication" really did a number on me.

SO: Basically, during a time right after two surgeries, when I was MOST vulnerable to cancer cells being spread via my circulatory system, after being disturbed by surgery, I allowed my body to get weaker. I went without a crucial defense: estrogen. Also testosterone. Also progesterone.

Do I worry that this was a mistake? Yes. But I try to let that worry go, since there's nothing to be done about it now. All I can do is move forward armed with more and, I hope, better knowledge and confidence in my own judgment.

How I Became a Bone Broth Convert

As I've mentioned before in this blog, I've radically changed how I eat since my bc diagnosis. Since I'm not and have never been much of a cook, this change did not come easy. I floundered madly for several months, knowing that I needed to make big eating changes, but feeling utterly overwhelmed when I attempted to become Little Miss Healthy Organic Super-Nutritious Betty Crocker Cooking-for-Breast-Cancer-Prevention and Immune-Strengthening Kitchen Goddess Extraordinaire.

I fumbled along, trying to find my new food groove (reading this or that supposedly healthy-but-mainstream "cancer prevention cookbook" and/or trying to follow the vegetarian diet guidelines and recipes from the Block Cancer Center in Chicago - where I went for treatment consultations when I was still unsure whether or not I'd do chemo or hormone blockers).

It was a chaotic and confusing time (like I said, I'm NOT a kitchen person), until finally I stumbled upon an internet site for the Weston A. Price foundation, and VOILA, it resonated for me, I started researching their diet, and right around this time I learned, through sheer dumb luck, that a group of Bay Area people were embarking upon a new business endeavor called Three Stone Hearth community kitchen.  And what do you think they were planning to do? Make and sell exactly the kinds of Weston A. Price foods that I wanted to start eating. As in: readymade. As in: You place a weekly order and either pick it up at their Berkeley kitchen or have it delivered to your front door.

I HAD learned how to do a SMIDGEN of the things that eating this way requires. For example, I sorta learned how to make bone broths and sauerkraut and crispy nuts -- the key word being "sorta." But I had a long long way to go. The key word being loooooooooooooooong.

So. Three Stone Hearth was a godsend. A miracle. I signed up to be a "member," and have been ordering from them every week for the last two years.

Here are but two examples, taken from their website, of why I LOVE Three Stone Hearth:

Broth-based  Soups and Stews
Each week we offer at least one soup or stew made from a based of slow- simmered bone broth.  Bone broths have been made and eaten for millennia because they are so rich in minerals and gelatin, which makes them nutrient-dense and soothing to the digestion and  nervous system.

To learn more about why “Broth is Beautiful”, click HERE.

Cultured Vegetables            

Each week we offer at least one cultured vegetable such as sauerkraut, kimchee, pickles, cortido, chutney, or salsa. These traditional condiments are lacto-fermented so that they are full of active enzymes  and other important nutrients. To learn more about why these old-fashioned foods are so health supportive, click HERE. 

 

Indulge Me?

Originally uploaded by my.third.eye

Okay, I have to admit I'm depressed about my recent Healthnet insurance payment HIKE. Since my bc diagnosis in Sept. 2005, my monthly rate has gone from $326 to . . . as of yesterday . . . $671. That's with a $1500 non-prescription stuff deductible, plus an additional $250 deductible for prescriptions, which still require an average co-pay of around $35.

$671.00 a freaking month!!!

Now get this. In 2007 my medical expenses were around $20,000 including the insurance payments. This was for occasional doctor visits, lab tests, and mostly a wide variety of expensive supplements or Chinese herbs. Guess how much HealthNet paid for, for the ENTIRE YEAR?

$573.00. Yup.

They don't pay for my Iscador injections or for acupuncture or herbs or Vitamin D or iodine or ...the list goes on forever. And I'm not even asking them to pay for chemo or radiation or Arimidex or Tamoxifen, because I'm not DOING any of those conventional treatments. Even if they paid for all my supplements, it would still be way cheaper for them than paying for chemo and radiation.

ANYWAY, it would cheer me up immeasurably if you'd indulge me by going to this website, where I'm having one of those fun "five minutes of fame" episodes:

ImageKind

So far I am the only person on earth who has bought any of my photos. I have several of them, now framed, sitting on my dining room table. Last week I showed them to five members of my writing group, who all said nice things like, "Oh, these are great, Jane!" or "I like this one," or " "Great colors."

I don't require standing ovations or even money. Just occasional words of encouragement or praise. Especially when I need to get my mind off of the woeful unfairness of our health insurance system.

Three Very Important People

Jack scanned this photo for me, so I don't know how to make the  rest of the white page go away. You should double click on it if you want to see my neck wrinkles better or, oh yeah, if you want to get a bigger gander at our close friend, Carlos. I've got to remember to send a copy to him, because I know he will want to have a picture of himself standing beside Jane Underwood and Jack Carroll.

Ann Fonfa, for Starters!

Here's the last line in "Blogmaid's" comment from the day before yesterday, which I'd also like to respond to:

How can we make you an authority so that others (ie the mainstream medical establishment) will be more willing to listen?

I have no idea. My first thought is "forget ME!"....there are women out there who have been working tirelessly, for YEARS, chipping away at the mainstream medical establishment. Take Ann Fonfa, for example, who created the website annieappleseed.org (the link to which has been in my sidebar every since I began this blog).

Ann used alternative treatments to heal her own breast cancer and is still here to talk about it more than a decade later (and her cancer was NOT mild; she has diligently dealt with numerous recurrences, and she never had chemo or radiation).

Ann changed her whole life around after her breast cancer experience, and has put all her energies, for all these years, into trying to get the word out about alternative breast cancer treatments. In addition to her amazing nonprofit organization/website, she goes to conferences and symposiums all the country. She does interviews. She writes articles. She is all over the place, as much as she can possibly be considering how little money she has to do ANY of this. I mean, compare Ann's resources to the resources of our pharmaceutical industry!

Ann is a valient warrioress (real word? not sure...) who has taken on a 'project' - a mission, really - so huge it is mind-boggling. I, in comparison, can barely make time to write a few paragraphs on my blog, which is probably read by a grand total of two dozen people, most of whom don't have cancer.

I just typed Ann's name into a Google search. Here's the page that came up:

Click here

I hope somebody out there who stumbles across my occasional stabs at helping to "educate" others will take the time to read about Ann Fonfa and all th