One of my friends told me that

throughout her battle with breast cancer, people would often ask her if she had changed or she had learned something new or significant that changed her perspective on life. She told me that the only thing she learned is that, "I am the same bitch I always have been." Of course, she said it under circumstances that made us both laugh, but I think there was some reality to that for her. On the other hand, Rachel has told me that I'm not going through my own trials just so I can come out on the other side as the same person. Now that's a scary thought--staying the same. If I'm compelled to go through the hard stuff, and asking why doesn't get me anywhere, at least give me the reassurance that at some point down the road this is going to make sense to me, and if it doesn't, I will have grown enough as a person to be able be grateful for the growth.

Jacob came over the other night.

and said he didn't have any trouble getting back in to the US. He finished his work at DVC last semester and has just started his studies at UC Berkeley. I didn't primp or put on my wig for him. He wouldn't expect me to and he's the last person I should have to try to impress. We had a nice time catching up.

Insight:

unintelligent and inefficient people make me want to lean over the rx counter at kaiser and start smacking them with my walking stick. ask me about my day. or maybe. not.

Florida

was fabulous. Not because we stayed in condos right on the beach, the water was refreshing, and the meals were delicious. It's because I was surrounded by people who love me. And I met family members who I felt instant love for, just because they are mine! It was awesome to stand arm in arm with all my siblings, but it was even more wonderful to stand with them and realize that everyone else was ours, too. The Bruch's have a strong penchant for dark eyes and I have to say, beautiful women as well. We missed those who couldn't be there but rejoiced in the ones who were. I think Madelyn and Jeff came the farthest distance--the San Juan Islands. Uncle Don came the farthest distance by car. And we took generational photos. Unfortunately, I don't have pictures to post. I started to take them, but I felt overwhelmed, and I realized that I would miss all the visiting if I spent all my time trying to take photos and not miss anyone. This doesn't mean that pictures weren't being taken. I think there were at least four cameras going all the time. Those photos will be posted to a site such as snapfish or photobasket and we can see them there. All in all, the reunion was a great success thanks to Diannah's hard work and to families willing to join us. Mark your calenders. The next one is in two years, and that's just around the corner.

Rolan Andrew Dayley, 4 days old

Clayton and Michele's little one

was born on Thursday, Oct 4, 2007. I cried when Clayton first put Rolan Andrew in my arms. He is so beautiful, with lots of thick dark hair and full round cheeks. Something happened to me, physically, when I met him. I won't try to explain it because I don't think I can do the experience justice and to try and fail would serve no purpose. What I can say for sure is that tiny perfect humans are gifts from heaven, and being a direct line recipient of that is a gift as well, a gift that I realize, not every woman gets to experience. I'm very grateful to be Grammy. I can't imagine me without her.

Michele had a long labor but she did well. I am so proud of both her and Clayton. They are tired but reveling in parenthood. After meeting Rolan, Larry exclaimed: "He's so gorgeous it makes you want to drink him in with your eyes--forever!" What a poetic Papa! I will post pictures as soon as I can get them emailed to me.

Dearest Austin

I was hoping that for my 100th post I would have something amazing to write about. Well, I do. Chantel just called to tell me that your surgery this morning was a success. I knew it would be, but I couldn't stop myself from bursting into tears. She is probably giving you a kiss right now. You are such an integral part of our family. How I love you. How I prayed for you, and will continue to until you are running and jumping with your little boys again, pain free. May your recovery be swift and sure! In the meantime, know that you are surrounded by love from every side. xo Mom

I love black, gospel music,

just in case you didn't know. Last night I went to Oakland with Clayton and Michele and we listened to and watched Gladys Knight with her gospel choir at the interstake center. There was clapping and hallelujiahs, amens from the audience, and I felt like a child wrapped in a soft old quilt. There's something so Memphis about that kind of music for me. I remember Sunday School and Bible School in the summers..."Jesus Loves Me, This I Know, for the Bible Tells Me So..." And when Gladys sang those same words with such power and sincerity, I couldn't stop the tears from flowing.

As children, we didn't grow up going to black churches, but the music FEELS so warm and familiar. Is it genetic memory? I have memories of gospel music flowing through open car windows as we passed church after church going grocery shopping at the Piggly Wiggly, the shoe repair, then stopping at the Wonder Bread factory for a free sample loaf of hot bread. And it didn't seem to matter what day of the week it was. Gospel music seemed to permeate the streets. I have memories of walking from the car to our church on Sundays and hearing music from another big church across the street so full of joy and enthusiasm for life, as though the music was part of the fabric of Memphis. Indeed, given the slave heritage, it must be. I have visions of domestic help singing while they worked, loud and raucous, or sweet and tender. Everywhere, that music wove itself into the fabric of my childhood. No wonder I loved it so much last night.

Black congregation churches in downtown Memphis are are large, stone, and full of beautiful stained glass. The churches out in the country are more simple, white clapboard usually, with green lawns and frequently an attached cemetery. No matter the building, the sounds are the same. Last night, what a gift. I made a trip home and oh, my Southern roots. How grateful I am for them, for their strength and for how deep and wide they extend, surpassing boundaries of color and race and wrapping us all together in a dialect of song.

The Way They Look

It's always in the eyes of strangers but sometimes includes their mouths, too, the way they look at me when I pass them in the grocery store, at Kaiser, or on the street. Occasionally it's in their words, or lack of them, as well. Women tend to smile more than men do. Most children are especially forthright and curious. And most teenagers look away, except for a whole group of them I met once at the motel in Santa Nella.

I was swimming in the pool when they came down and began throwing a football, shrieking and laughing. Several of them initiated conversation with me, both young men and young women, and I discovered they were a Christian youth group from Washington heading to Mexico to build houses for the poor. What positive energy! Obviously, they didn't care that I was bald and I wondered if some of them even noticed at all.

I get the most direct eye contact at Kaiser from people I pass in the hallways with looks that say, "I know what you're going through," or "Hang in there, I've been there, too." Sometimes there's so much compassion in a face that I want to cry. Sometimes there are so many sick people though that I want to cry for that reason too! The Kaiser nurses have been phenomenal the way they treat me. I'm truly nurtured when I go in for treatment.

Throughout this treatment, not all communications have been positive though. Ask anyone who knows me well and they'll tell you that I'm not defensive or judgmental. In fact, I tend to give people the benefit of the doubt. Sometimes I'm even naive to the point of frustrating other family members. But recently in a grocery, a mother and her son were talking about me, and I know it was about me because they were rude enough to stare and point several times while they did it. I was in line, paying for groceries, and they were across the aisle waiting for customer service. The boy looked about 11 or 12. I had the impression he was asking his mother innocent questions. But, since we live in California and some women choose to shave their heads, I felt strongly that this mother was giving her son false information. Her face held a combination of derision and sarcasm. They continued to stare at me and I stared back. It's the only time I've wanted to confront someone directly for their rudeness, but I didn't. I let it pass.

This other experience was so painful it made me cry, for a long time. Granted, I had just been recently diagnosed with cancer, but the insensitivity of the other person hurt me to the core, and I'm sure she didn't have a clue. I'm only writing about this as catharthis.

I was in Idaho with Larry. We had gone to see Mother before my surgery. One night we were sittting outside bar-be-cu-ing with family when a woman drove up to drop off one of the girls who had been babysitting for her. She and another family member stepped over to the side of the car and began talking, out of earshot. It was another one of those instances where I wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt, realizing that I felt ultra sensitive and ultra vulnerable, but the women were not only glancing back and forth at me whilethey talked, one of them even had her mouth covered with her hand--as if Icould hear her. Eventually they stopped talked and wandered over. The woman who had driven up made it a point to tell Larry, "Well, I remember you from last year but (looking at me) I don't remember you." Insensitivity #1 since I wasn't with Larry on that trip. After a bit of chit chat she told Larry how good it was to see him, blah, blah blah, and then Insensitivity #2, her eyes literally flickered past me so briefly that I still feel like crying when I think about it. I think she said, "Nice meeting you," or some usual comment, but she was looking at the sky, or the garage behind me, anywhere but at me. I, however, was looking her in the face. Shortly after she drove away, I excused myself from the table, crying and went to the trailer. Larry came after me and as we talked about it I realized that the way she didn't see me, she might as well have said, "I don't have to acknowledge you're presence because you'll be dead soon." Now granted, I have no way of knowing what she was really thinking. But the way she interacted with me hurt more than I can say. My diagnosis was new. I was still in shock and felt bewildered, sad, why me? what if? not to mention a whole lot of fear. That night I felt like a soon-to-be non-person. If anything, I'm learning to be even more sensitive to others through this experience. Ok. So I put it out there and I'm not going to give it any more energy.

Last week a man came up to me in a hardware store with a smile on his face and said, "I like your hair-cut." I told him that it wasn't mine by choice. He explained that he and his wife had just gone through breast cancer with her; we stood and talked together for awhile. Their message was basically to hang tough because the end was in sight, that life would get better soon. Kevin and Christine. They both hugged me. Rachel and I were both crying when we walked away, so touched by the kindness of strangers.

More about Jacob

Ok, so I realized that I should have prefaced the previous post about Jacob by telling you that what I wrote, I wrote last year. Since then, after a period of about six months, Jacob called me again out of the blue. I was shocked to hear from him but he always makes me laugh, even when I'm mad at him. He is a very deep thinker and he had decided that "we can be friends without the sex." Well, finally. He's been in this country for almost five years now. I met him soon after his arrival when he was taking ESL classes at DVC (hence the reference to his English teacher) and I was happy to hear that he's coming around to my way of thinking--at least in that aspect. Since then, we've enjoyed a respectful but still passionately intellectual friendship. Jacob's father is a retired literature professor from the University of Tehran so Jacob grew up on Rumi (Lucky!) and our conversations never fail to include some reference to poetry. Once in awhile he'll call me out of the blue just to ask a grammar question. The most recent was, "Why do Americans say that they ride "on" an airplane but "in" a taxi? Recently he left for Paris and then home to Iran to visit his family. He was going to be gone for awhile. I don't know if he's back yet or if he was even allowed back in. I hope so. I'll keep you posted.

Missing my complex friend

Jacob presses his fingertips together and leans forward with his elbows on his knees, his white shirt open at the neck concentrating on my story and my face. I lean forward. He is watching me so intently, I see the story I’m telling reflected in the depths of the brown and gold flecks in his eyes. I’m aware of the shape of his lips, the way his short dark hair curls back from his forehead, springs into place after he runs his fingers through it, trying to find the right English word to express himself. I think about kissing him but push the thought to the back of my mind. He is an intent listener and my pulse quickens when I realize my words have the power to take him with me to a far away country. He goes willingly, and suddenly, I want to stay connected to him in this way that transcends physical intimacy and leads to it as well. ‘Don’t play games with me’ he said once, and I’m jolted to know the power I wield in one kiss, one conversation, the vulnerability that he protects successfully—most of the time.

His habit has been to reveal the stereotypical, Middle-Eastern, macho, bullshit male, which is only a small part of him. Small but so strong! He laughed when I called him that once. “Tell me again so I can remember!” He knows I am right and he was both surprised and amazed that I read him well. ‘Tell me about my other self’ he said. Because his ego loves to hear more. The other part is moved by poetry, loves his country, would die for it, misses his family, honors his parents, thirsts for knowledge and truth—that’s the Jacob I love, and that’s the man who struggles within himself, his place in the world, his fears. Does he think he’s so different from everyone else? Life is like an orchestra, he said, with everyone playing one note. We are all looking for the person who plays the same note we do. When we play our own note, we don’t have to worry, we don’t have to look because we attract others to us, those whose notes are in harmony with our own. But if that’s the case, why does he give up first chair so easily?

I will not see him again for some time. I will not call him, and I doubt if he’ll call me again. Last night the idea of a man and woman being friends was unthinkable. ‘No,’ he’d said, ‘Unless I were gay and you were a lesbian, then we could be friends.’ Maybe it is impossible, not because of gender, but because what we want individually and separately is more different than I thought. I believed our emotional and intellectual energy was stronger than our mutual impasse over sex because those are the spiritual manifestations of ourselves, which are much stronger than the body. Casual sex is impossible unless those elements are missing completely or existing at a very minimal level. Not so with us. But I made it easy for him to walk away by confronting his motive: getting beautiful and intelligent women to sleep with him. ‘Is that your game?’ I asked. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘That’s my game.’ But his eyes flickered down and away from me when he said it, caught in a lie, his ego riding herd, once again.

This is not about our cultures, our religions, or the push-me-pull-you nature of sexual energy. He is a coward. Every time we’ve become close, he seems surprised. ‘How do you know these things about me in such a short time?’ he asked once. “No other woman knows me like you do.” But the closer we get, the strong his desire for sex is. He uses masculine virility like a shield when it is nothing more than the grand illusion that he is impervious and in control. I am not asking him to be someone else. I’ve never asked him to stop bringing girls home, just to stop treating me like one of them. I don’t expect him to change his beliefs to fit mine either. He is a fool because a friendship, one which seems easy for him to walk away from, is worth much more than being able to say he had an orgasm with his English teacher. I’m afraid too, but at least I know that I’m alive.

Love Birds

I love these two. They love each other. And everyone is delighted about their new little boy, due Sept 24. Clayton and Michele bring me joy. They are so good to each other and looking forward to being parents. Tonight I looked up from the dining room table and saw them walking up the walk. They spent the evening here and had dinner with us. Still no decision on the baby's name, but I think, unless they feel really inspired, that it's better to do what they're going to, and that is wait until he's born and then decide on his name. Can't wait to hold him.

My garden is flourishing

What a great son. Michele and I sat in the shade and watched Clayton till the soil.Bare dirt...Clayton made a second trip and brought soil ammendment.

After Clayton dug out my garden path, (his third trip) Larry and Clayton brought material for the pathway. A week later, Larry brought a vibratory sander over to compact it.

The early days. Notice how small the tomato plant is.Marilyn came up from Monterey and worked in my garden.

A night view of four of my eight tomato plants.

A night view of the birdbath.Progress!

Love Gifts and Wellness

I've been feeling for a long time that LOVE is going to make me well. I feel it every time I receive a card or letter, a "checking in" or "how are you?" phone call, or receive some kind of unexpected gift. I have enjoyed visits both planned and surprised, breakfasts out, a drive up Mt. Diablo, friends who never hestitate to say "yes" about taking me to and from chemo and sitting with me during the 5 hour interim. I appreciate all of you more than you know, especially my wonderful family both here and out-of-state.

Well, this week in addition to flowers, beautiful jewelry and fantastic books, I received several more lovely and unexpected gifts, reinforcing my feeling that LOVE will make me well. It has! Even though I have to finish the regimented treatment, my doctor told me that the most recent blood tests show no sign of cancer!! The three "fs" friends, family and faith. That's what did it I'm sure. Here are some photos from this week. I love you. All of you.

No, that is not me. She has hair. These are from my view of the cancer treatment center yesterday. I was inclined so the ceiling was part of the view.Everyone gets treatment together, lined up on both sides of the room and two chairs at the end. I was at the end on the left so it was a good photo op.I hope the lady in orange didn't mind the photo. I didn't notice her looking until I saw the picture.

Beautiful, powerful gifts. My darling Telly made the quilt for me to use during chemo. The blue lobelia flowers are from my friend, Marilyn, who also spent a lot of time planting two flats of petunias in my garden, and the painting is from my friend Kirsten (below).

In honor of Owen's 1st day of kindergarten

Chantel's 1st day of kindergarten and Brandon's 1st day of 3rd grade.Picture day at school. Can you find Chantel? (hint below)

Family Time

John and Nick jammed together the other day. They sound great together.

An attempt at a family photo.

Early morning cartoons. Dennis and Anthony didn't know I was there.

Busted! They found me out.

Sometimes this house is really quiet and I realize then how much I enjoy having family around. Fortunately, the house isn't very quiet very often. These photos are from this past week.

Dancer Dreams, Still

Last semester at Mills in a dance class I discovered not only my core, physically, but a spiritual core related to movement, grace, strength and beauty. Today I started another ballet class at DVC. Mondays and Wednesdays. I stayed after and explained my situation to the instructor, that some weeks I won't be able to make it; she understood and turns out she did her graduate work at Mills so we already have a connection. I'm so looking forward to moving again. There's nothing like dance and what happens spiritually when the body and the soul communicate.

Older and Bolder

The following is meant to be read out loud with a straight face to at least one other person. The first time an older relative read this she said, "Oh, isn't this the cutest thing?" while my sister laughed silently at me beneath arched eyebrows.

Sing Ping Dong Ding Pong

I ‘ll ping a sing

you pong a ding-dong song

ping-pong, ping-pong

little white round balls, and

just our smiles—that’s all

ding a pong-ping sing

ping song-a-dong-song

asingalong!

I’m coming over now

ding-dong ding-dong

Ping Pong?

The Lesson

we morphed through adolescence and sex ed in 45 minutes vaj-eye-na ee-jack-u-late pee-nis and got it when she told us the origin of her name “Twinkle” a metaphor, and laughed out-loud behind our hands don’t tell the boys skipping toward home I remembered I am grown up now and stopped tried to walk like Doris Day in “The Thrill of It All” ur-in-ate (not tt) in-ter-course and, it’s not a doodle testing the new syllables outloud with each step Imusttellmymothereverything always pulling the heavy worn dictionary from the shelf because how could she have known those words my mother having learned them from her mother and her mother before her? I rush in and vocabulary spills like sugar cookies bursting in the vanilla scented kitchen but she turns heat rising slams the oven door and the sound bangs against the window above the lilies in full bloom while she white knuckles the black receiver to call the school no I try not to fall into the chasm in the linoleum take a deep breath will myself to appear to her what I must have been before lunch a vein in her neck bulges beneath the strand of silk pearls my heart thuds against my training bra and finally she replaces the receiver smoothes her apron her face proud that I am such a bright little girl and every day—after that—I walk home and pause at the front door to change my face fold the new one carefully between the clean pages of the crisp black and white text how was school today? she asks fine I answer and bite into a warm oatmeal cookie while she hands me a tall cold glass, of milk

Insomnia

It's coming up on 2:00 am. Can't sleep. Tried prayer and focused breath work, watched a documentary on the Cuban missile crisis of Oct 1962 when I was four, John was nearing open heart surgery, and Rachel was brand new. I channel surfed for over an hour and got to see my favorite scene from Jerry McGuire, but still, sleep alludes me. Marilyn will be here this morning to hang with me for the day. We've been friends for 24 years, since I was pregnant with Clayton. Her visits always ground me and I haven't seen her since graduation. Likely, I'll need a nap at some point, especially if I continue to stay up, since today was busy and productive and I didn't rest at all. But I'm looking forward to being with my dear friend. I should have been asleep by 10:00 tonight.

A loner bong sits here next to me, along with the computer and printer, bills and get well cards, and bottled spring water. I'm to return the bong to its owner when I'm well, or I can keep it "for sentimental reasons" and I just may do that. After all, the first time was hilarious and otherwise, when I'm 80 who will ever really believe me? I suppose I could take a picture of myself...hmmm. Funny, but having cancer has given me permission to disregard (finally) what anyone thinks about me, what I do, how I look, what I wear or don't. Black and shiny, this bong is a large phallic symbol disguised as a car's gear shift, but its a phallic symbol plain and simple. (I'm more aware of these things since attending Mills, an all women's college). I'm tempted to smoke some tonight, but so far I've only used pot during chemo week and not often, although the results have been amazing and terrific, ok'd by my doctor and endorsed by several friends for various reasons. I probably would have tried it anyway unless the doc had warned me of some terrible drug reaction. But when I told him that I had some marijuana and I'd never tried it before, he looked at me and said, "Never? Where were you?" and later I had to admit that back when all my friends were doing it, I was having babies and canning peaches, making quilts, growing a garden, and kneading giant batches of bread dough, long before bread makers had been invented. I didn't miss a thing. Bottom line, I get pain relief and deep sleep when sleep medication and/or pain meds don't do a thing. Tonight, I'm not hurting, at least not physically. I just can't sleep, so writing seems to be the next best thing.