My cancer diagnosis and treatment plan unfolded like the petals of a flower in the sun. At first it was a tiny manageable bud, ready to be nipped

Then the petal opened up, and slowly the magnificent structure of the careful slow poisoning of my body—the enemy cancer was the target, but there was collateral damage. The baton relay of specialists who managed the stages of the assault was unexpected and continuous.

After I was handed off the team of surgeons and I video-met the oncologist, while I still had a drain in from my mastectomy, the oncologist with patience and kindness told me the new news:

The next phase was going to be 4 months of chemo.

FOUR MONTHS

I asked my questions, in a state of groggy shock. My husband was there too. “Thank you, that’s all.”

Click

I stood up and grabbed my husband and sobbed . I had come to terms with the diagnosis, and the surgery.

But 4 months of misery broke me.

Heh. It was way longer than that in the event.

The tear-drenched shoulder on my husband showed my despair and the value I place on celebration, adventure and joy.

2 and a half years ago, I heard what sounded like prison doors slamming from my oncologist..

6 months ago, in the twilight of my last cancer treatment, groggy and weak I took a leap of faith in the future and bought the plane tickets I to New Orleans.

My dear friend had a house there and I had a standing invitation. I’d thought of her and of that city while I lay abed dreaming of my chance to go.

As I write I am flying home— I had a full week to realized all those sleepless night dreams.

I didn’t go on Marti Gras, the famous celebration. I went on a Tuesday in October–an ordinary day.

And even so, the expression of joy music and fun was pumping.The machine was primed to keep going with celebration.

Musicians had learned the music

The people in the kitchen knew th4 recipe.

They didn’t forget after the parade was done.

My host took me to a gorgeous old bar, and the fourpiece band (Mostly brass) played all the songs.

Joyful and jumping.

And Then…

Witches—women in elaborate witch costumes—with all their friends walked into the bar. The band played on.

It seems that once they got the habit of dressing up, the people take any occasion to do it again.

Through the whole weekend, more costumes showed up as we went around town—a fabulous pirate, a green Poison Ivy. One older couple came to the Zydeco show in full body penguin jammies.

I tried to liven up the cancer treatment. Theses guys have tught me something.

Wear the costeume. Play the music. Yes, order the drink. Celebration is a habit I can pick up.

It is fall and cold has snapped. Only at night, some days are still too hot for long pants. But at night the calendar and the weather are agreeing that it is nearing winter.

We even had a full day of rain last week. My daughter said “I spent half of my life in a drought. Rain is startling.”

There is a nursery rhyme:

Rain Rain

Go away

Come again some other day

But we lived through the drought and longed for rain. We know that rain is a blessing.

We also know it’s cold and wet.

Blessings aren’t always comfortable.

Rain does not come every year but fire does.

No one wants a fire. Almost a year ago, the world watched as the terrible fires along the coast in Los Angeles destroyed so many buildings and history.

I cannot remember a year without a fire.

Rain is gentle. And we can work around be careful with the water that remains so we can get through the years of none.

Fire is not gentle. It consumes and roars through the hills faster than people are ready for.

I hear the stories of homeowners who don’t get out fast enough. Some of them get caught behind the fire or in the crush of evacuation and perish.

Some will stay to pour water on their roofs to keep the flames away.

The ones that make it are the heroes.

On this terrain—any terrain—life brings harsh choices. What’s the right one? The drought says be careful and conserve. Cut out extras and do the small things to conserve.

Fire demands immediate action. GO! RUN! GET OUT!

Or

Get the hose, and use all the water to spray the roof. Don’t Stop, don’t hold back.

As devouring as the fire, consume everything in reach to fight.

Fire and Rain

Each a calling.

When they come they require from me a response.

When it comes the choice is in my hands

Am I ready?

Two weeks ago I realized I’d hurt my neck and shoulders. It took me an absurdly long time to figure it out.

There wasn’t a moment of OUCH. It was a whole lot of things that led me to realized that I’d been injured for several weeks—months?—and I didn’t realize it until it reached a crisis.

There are sensitive nerves in the shoulders and neck. Nerve damage results in weakness. I thought I was tired when I felt like my head wanted to nod down.

My physical therapist friend helped me figure it out. I wished I’d seen him sooner.

Why is it that I always find what I’m looking for the last place I look?

Once I find it I stop looking. See, I thougth I had found the answer. I thought I wasn’t getting enough rest. I’d been going to bed early ole time, based on that theory.

I was totally wrong.

For hundreds of years, the best medical treatment was based on the four humors, Doctors check their patients for how choleric, phlegmatic, sanguine and melancholic they were. Leeches were part of the treatments then.

It was a working theory. Everyone knew you had to watch the humors.

Until a better theory came along.

That’s not giving the right picture. The first theory—that one that everyone agrees on—does not let go without a fight.

It’s predictable. I’ve talked about The Structure of Scientific Revolution before. Theories about how things work, and what is going on, they are very sticky. People keep to their first idea very persistently.

I was really sure that I was not getting enough rest. I wondered if I needed to eat more vitamins or something. Why was I so TIRED all the time? I couldn’t keep my head up.

It wasn’t a bad idea to get extra sleep, I’m sure. But it wasn’t the root cause of my problem.I didn’t suspect that my neck muscles were weak, yet in hindsight I see I should have thought of it.

I have more energy now that I’m letting my shoulders heal. Since I clearly was hanging on to the wrong end of the stick on this, what else am I doing wrong?

I’m pretty sure there are a lot of things I’m wrong about. I just don’t know what they are yet. I should not stop looking.

I’m unemployed and I don’t have any office to go to every morning. I used to have a different place and different faces as part of my day. Not anymore.

I have to create a space of my own, separate from my home. The usual thing to do is to go to a coffee shop with my laptop, buy a coffee and a sweet and settle in.

I tried that, even going to a coffee shop a bit off my usual path. But after the second time I signed the check I started thinking: did it really have to cost money to leave my house?

The small town is so peaceful and pastoral. I walk my neighborhood every day. After all my travels this summer I’m seeing possibilities in the public spaces.

It could feel too pastoral, like there is so much nothing going on I might lay flat and join in the nothing.

And as soon as that thought appears, I think about the stuff that has happened in my life while I have been in this town. I am not great at doing nothing. RIGHT NOW it is peaceful, but I remember so many things that happened in this place.

It reminds me of those small incredibly peaceful villages in the countryside, typically England but it could be anywhere, which somehow provide the resident detective with regularly occurring murders to solve.

Murder, she wrote. And my favorite, Masterpiece mysteries from the BBC. For many years those were my favorite to watch as I fell asleep. Britain doesn’t have gunshots (as much) so it is peaceful to watch well-spoken people walk about finding clues and solving things.

I am giving it a try. I have a metal coffee cup with a lid. True, no one is here to refill it for me. But with my notebook, laptop and pen at a table by the park, there is some life in my morning.

Squirrels are chasing each other up the tree. One has a fat acorn in its mouth.

Two men are separately walking tiny dogs across the basketball court

A group of gray-haired women in knit leggings and athletic shoes are intent on getting the dance moves synchronized, as a graybeard runs the camera and sound system.

And a toddler give me side eye before she runs giggling to her person—Mama? Big sister?—by the playground.

Like ripples on a water’s surface, disturbances stay small in the larger context. I enjoy the bustle but it leaves me space to find my own drama. The clues can be seen to solves the mysteries of my life. I have my own personal murder village if I choose to look around. What excitement would I wish to experience. That’s what the pen and notebook are for.

Sitting at a table where we could see the band with our drinks in front of us, and a man passing by says “I like your shirt.”

I turn around, but he’s clearly talking to my friend. I love her, but I had spent a lot more time on my outfit. She was wearing a t-shirt. She smiled up at the guy, “Yeah, my brother used to work a Space X.”

Oh. Now that I think about it, the Space X t-shirt is worthy of notice. That’s a group I’d like to be associated with.

When I was a teenager I tried to build my identity with whatever scraps were lying around, and clothing choices were very significant. I got whatever cast-offs I could find and assembled my look carefully. I wore mismatched socks every day as a signature look. The goal at the time was to be different. I didn’t want to be like everyone or even anyone else. I wanted to fit in by standing out. On my own terms.

But my T-shirt wearing friend had a philosophy I’d ignored. Advertising what sort of group I did want to join.

As I’m doing the job-hunting thing again, I advertise what group I’d like to join as I carefully phrase my resume. ”Pick me for your company!” I don’t like how I choose to (have to?) portray myself to the market to get invited to join the sort of business I want to be part of.


When I was a teenager, socks and underwear the only new clothes I got. I have more resources now. I could wake up from the old script and signal what I’m hoping for.

We are grownups at the table, drinking our adult beverages as we scan the people nearby and the far horizon. It is clear to me now that I every person is unique. Now I’m looking for ways to categorize people.

A slogan on a t-shirt is a good way to show it. In a wide world of unique individuals, obvious signs help.

I think about my sad little ankle socks back then.

I can find old versions of my resume on my hard drive. These are snapshots of my attempts to be relevant. Cringe.

And yet the saving grace is that I’m not the only one with awkward attempts. Any high school year book shows the experiments with style. Nobody come out looking the way they imagine.

Each day is a new canvas upon which to sketch the outline of who I’m trying to be.