Mary Kate

I met Mary Kate when she was part of the welcoming committee at Voyagers' orientation for our first Fall semester. While not completely new to homeschooling, I was new at this homeschooling coop and a bit tentative. Mary Kate didn't waste any time. She plunked herself down in the chair next to me, the omnipresent reporter's notebook in hand: you know, those long, thin, lined ones. After the usual introductions, the recruitment began. “How old is your child? You have a boy? Excellent. Is he interested in Shakespeare?” she asked. I had no idea if he was interested in Shakespeare but her enthusiasm almost made me hope he was before I really knew what she was talking about.

It turns out that he did perform in Voyagers Shakespeare Company; Mary Kate was a producer. Those notebooks of hers contained every last detail of each production from rehearsal schedules to costuming to publicity to ticket sales. Once, when the notebook went missing, we all dropped what we were doing and scoured the premises searching for it. I found it on a windowsill just behind a flap of curtain. She shrieked in delight; she was saved!

We attended Voyagers on different days so our only real connection was through Shakespeare. Until The Diagnoses. When I learned Mary Kate had melanoma, I joined our mutual friends with feelings of shock and sadness. I had a few private conversations with her, mostly of a practical nature, concerning how her treatment would impact her involvement at the coop. We didn't touch on how her diagnosis was affecting her family, or her personally, at all. Until my diagnosis.

We were in the Voyagers office when I told her, and the bond was instantaneous. I was new to this cancer thing and didn't realize at that time how this disease unites those afflicted. Mary Kate grabbed my hands in hers and we let the tears flow, something neither of us allowed often. Although our cancers were different, both diagnoses were late stage, and dire. From that point on, outside of her close circle of friends, mine was one of the few calls she would take. We let each other prattle on, didn't ask too many questions, appreciated the importance of just listening. My youngest kid had recently celebrated a birthday; I told her how I worried I would not see another. Her only daughter, 6 or so at the time, had been dreaming aloud about her future wedding; Mary Kate had to leave the room so her sadness wasn't revealed.

I was lucky. My treatment plan was straight forward and went smoothly. Mary Kate was not so lucky. Regular treatments didn't work; she must have been enrolled in every clinical trial available. When they found a tumor in her brain, I accompanied her to the brain oncologist; her husband was unavoidably out of town and she wanted someone non-emotional who would ask tough questions and take good notes. I was honored. When she returned from yet another trial, this time at the National Cancer Institute, I picked her up at the airport and watched her doze off in the passenger seat on the way home. “I just have to hang in there until the technology catches up,” she said. “I know it's stupid, but I'm pissed that I'm losing my hair.” She had great hair, long and thick and red. She had every right to be pissed.

Today, a day after Mary Kate passed away, I can't get her out of my mind. I hope I never completely do.

Self Indulgent Rant

Having a hard time lately shaking off this feeling of impending doom. It's like when Charlotte in the Sex and the City movie won't go on her usual runs in the park after she finds out she's pregnant because she's scared. “No one gets everything she wants,” she says. That's what I feel like these days. OK, this week.

Of course this has to do with the upcoming CT scan. It's been 6 months since the last one; that's the longest I've gone. The rational side of me says, that's great. The further out from diagnosis I am with no visible trace of disease, the better. The irrational crazy side of me wonders why am I so lucky? Those teeny tiny cancer cells have come back and are multiplying, we just haven't been able to see them yet.

I've been too cavalier with my health lately. I've let the pounds pile back on. I'm inconsistent with my workouts. I enjoy my martinis too much. I'm mean to people who piss me off. And I'm worried I'll be punished for all of it.

Yes, it's stupid and irrational. But that's the way I'm feeling.

This is what I am doing today.






No food since 9AM; only clear liquids for the rest of the day, with nothing at all after midnight. This is my third time in, so I guess I'm kind of an expert. You have to drink 2 liters of vile tasting liquid, camouflaged as “lemon lime,” in order to clean out your system for optimal viewing. Bathroom proximity is a must. Everyone says the colon preparation, my activity for the day, is the worst part of the procedure. I guess that's true, unless you get results like I got the first time around. Waking up to the white coat at the foot of the bed telling you that there is a tumor in your colon so big that the scope couldn't get by it and you have to go down for a CAT scan right away -don't even get out of the bed, we'll wheel you as is– that's the worst part of the procedure. Trust me.

So, I'm trying to keep the prep in perspective. I can hang out in my bedroom and watch movies all day, breaking frequently for the obvious reason, without feeling guilty. Good variety of films: Summertime, with Katherine Hepburn and evocative scenery in Venice (although they took a boat to what they referred to as Murano; it looked more like Burano to me, with its colorful architecture and fishing boats); Milk, which is beautiful and sweet and heartbreaking and I keep hoping for a different ending every time I see it; and Wuthering Heights with Laurence Olivier and the magnificently overwrought Merle Oberon.

Tonight, between bathroom breaks, it's reality tv all the way.

And, first thing in the morning, I jump on the scale. I'm counting on being 5 pounds lighter.

Phil

I first saw Phil in the chemo infusion room last spring. I thought he looked kind of familiar, in that way people do when you live in a small town. He caught my eye, gave me a quick nod, then went back to his book while the drugs hopefully worked their magic. You learn etiquette quickly in the chemo room: some of us are talkers and some of us are loners. Phil, like me in the chemo room anyway, was a loner. I pulled out my own book and settled in for my 4 hour infusion. Then Phil's wife walked in.

I hadn't seen her for awhile but knew who she was immediately. We each have a son the same age and a few years ago, she and I commiserated on the bad teacher our boys were stuck with. We spent a year as more-than-acquaintances-not-quite-friends. I ended up pulling my son out of school just before the end of that tumultuous year; they toughed it out. I hadn't spoken to her in about 7 years but would see her from time to time taking a walk on sunny mornings after the school buses had picked up the kids.

She came over and sat with me for bit. I told her my story. She told me Phil's. He's doing great, she said. Treatment's almost over. Good news! I exclaimed. You must be so relieved. Good-bye, good luck. I didn't see either of them after that day.

Phil died last week.

Some days, it is harder to be grateful than others.

The Line for the Bathroom

I was in San Francisco visiting with friends last week; on Saturday, we spent a glorious day at the Farmers' Market. We wandered for a couple of hours testing olive oil and eggplant and peaches. We wondered at the freshness of the melon and the olives, and the friendliness of the farmers. The sun was shining and our east coast selves seethed with envy at this abundance. The snacking make us hungry; so we sought out lunch.

I finished my roasted tomato soup and needed to visit the ladies room. As I approached, I was dismayed at the line. Again? A long line at the bathroom? It was gorgeous and sunny out and I did not want to be in a line in the dank interior. No choice, though. I took my place and noticed the woman in front of me.

She was wearing a familiar shirt: American Cancer Society Relay for Life. Purple print on white. “I was in the Relay earlier this year,” I told her. “This is my first Relay as a survivor,” she said. “Me too,” I told her. Our eyes locked and that indescribable moment happened; it's happened to me before. I know what you are going through and you know what I am going through. Relief, and the need to talk. I then found out that the Relay was occurring there and then in San Francisco. She was taking a quick bathroom break. When you're going through chemotherapy, a bathroom line is a joy. It's real life.

I never found out her name. We acknowledged the beauty of the day. We each have 2 sons and 1 daughter. Isn't every day we are here magnificent? We walked out of the bathroom together.

“What's your name,” she asked. I told her. “With a 'Ch?' I will light a luminaria in your honor.” The sobbing begins; it happens often. I'm still not used to it.

A long bathroom line can be a good thing.