Where Were You?

I spent my morning at Mountain Fold Books with Dave Reynolds, creative writing teacher at the Fountain Valley School.  We debated line breaks. He talked about the allure of azure and other Latinates, while encouraging us to stick to the direct and honest Anglo-Saxon for imagery.  Then we read a poem called Where I Was by Dan Brown (not that Dan Brown), in which the author recalls where he was the day Kennedy was shot.  After that came a poem written by one of his high school students, which was modeled after Where I Was.  Her poem was, appropriately titled:  Where I Was, only it told the story of where she was on 9-11.  Then we wrote poems about where we were, on some significant date in history.  There is something about being given a form, a structure, and fitting your story into it, that is not cheating, but rather it is liberating within a constraint.  I think we have forgotten what it means to learn by imitation of the masters.  Anyway, here is mine.  It is titled, of course:

Where I Was

I was sitting in the front row of all

Places.  My eighth grade algebra class

Was solving for x in silence: the

Way Mr. Gunther liked it.   We feared his

Citizenship grade.  Every

Time you talked, he made a red x by

Your name in his always-open

grade-book. 5 x’s equalled 1 grade

deduction, 10 x’s equalled 2, and so on

in predictable function form.

The equation I don’t remember much

About:  your basic exercise

In keeping everything

Balanced.  How whatever you

Do to one side, you have to do

To the other. Algebra is nothing

If not just. The memorable thing

Was that the PA came on.  How our

Secretary began, “Attention, students”-

But not the announcement I expected.  Not

How the after-school dance was

Canceled. Not lunch menu changes.  Not

that the volleyball players

were to be dismissed after 5th period -

None of that. What the words amounted to

Wasn’t the worst thing: not

"President Reagan has been shot."

But rather that I had cheered.  Half the

Class erupted into applause.

Mr. Gunther, for the first and

Only time that year, closed his

Gradebook, stepped out from behind

His desk, and talked to us-angrily but with 
Conviction-about something other

Than solving equations in two variables.

That day,  I learned that compassion

Should always come before

Politics, and that citizenship means more

Than keeping silent and avoiding red x’s.

geometry is death math
a one-degree-at-a-time backwards death march
from one hundred eighty to zero in a lifetime
infinite possibility and perpendicular pomposity
end at the forty-fifth parallel while waiting for results
that don't come

because
once again
we have failed
to ask
the right-angled
questions

can u follow?

the end

So chemo is over. Twelve infusions and 28 weeks later, I can safely say I have arrived. Still intact. A bit more fragile. A bit stronger.

I had my first experience of running into someone I hadn't seen for awhile, and giving the abridged version when she asked me how chemo went. Yeah, I was hospitalized with a neutropenic fever over Christmas break, had severe neuropathy, shingles, and lymph cording... it was hell, but I made it.

It was strange, looking back on it like that. The day was sunny, I was strolling rather happily around the neighborhood taking in the tulips, and the fuzz on my head was as downy as a newborn chick. All of the sudden, it seemed as if I had awoken from a really bad dream, the details a bit hazy.

And now to the most Frequently Asked Question That I Am Getting Tired Of Answering. It comes in various forms.

Is it all gone now?
Did they get it all?
So, there's no more cancer?

I know what they mean. They want to know if I'm going to live. And for how long. Cancer is all about "how to talk around death". I appreciate most the people who have understood that to be diagnosed with cancer is to look mortality in the face and have a serious come-to-Jesus talk.

Anyway, here's the answer, as well as I can explain it:
First, the data, from a handy computer program that takes into account your age, general health, size and grade of tumor, and number of lymph nodes affected: With no treatment except surgery, I would have had a 62% chance of being alive with no recurrence in ten years. With chemo, it brought it up to 82%. If I choose to take Tamoxifen, it will bring that up to an 88% chance of seeing the year 2019. Chemotherapy doesn't "get it all". It gets about 99.9% of any cancer cells that might have leaked out of the tumor into my lymph system. It only takes one rogue cell, traveling around and deciding to lodge itself in my bones or lungs or liver X number of years in the future, for the cancer to return. There are no guarantees. It will never be "all gone".

I am an idealist at heart, yes. I see the bright side of just about every godddamn problem there is. I believe the best about everyone. Pollyanna should have been my middle name. If I had to, I could find something positive to say about cat poop!

But that doesn't take away the fact that there's a 12% chance that I won't see my youngest son off to college. You see, this is where cancer takes your mind in the darkness. It's not to be dwelt upon, but it is also not to be ignored.

When one is in the middle of treatment, there is focus, purpose, a singular task. Now that I have been released from chemo and have more decisions to make (more on that later), I find myself in a strange tormented limbo once again.

number 12

Today, 4/20/09, at 4:20 PM, the IV machine beep-beeped for the last time. I thought I would cry, but I didn't. The boys were all there, I had had a good two-hour nap in the chair, and I just wanted the hell out at that point. I told the nurses no offense, but I never wanted to see them again. (I'm sure they've never heard THAT one before!)

When John and I arrived this morning at 9:15 AM, I was weepy without end. Brownie, 92-year-old Brownie, who volunteers in oncology, who brings me warm blankets and hot lunch and cold applesauce, and, when asked the secret to a long life doesn't hesitate when she answers: "I guess I just don't worry very much"....... anyway, Brownie was the first to say good morning, and unfortunately she got the brunt of my didn't-get-enough-sleep-last-night tears.

Gunda took my weight and blood pressure, and Susan drew my blood. That hour and a half wait for the lab reports was one of the longest of my life. Luckily, all was well, and my twelfth chemo infusion was under way. After some IV Pepcid, steroid, and Benadryl, the last bag of Taxol was hung. At that point, I knew that freedom from having my port poked was a mere three hours away. I slept through most of it, thanks to the Benadryl.

I became particularly close to one nurse, Anne. She was the witness to several of my breakdowns, as well as the one who broke the news to me that Matt, a 20-something young man I sat next to on occasion, had died. When she hugged me on the way out today, I did shed a few tears, and told her that I couldn't have done it without her.

That evening, Grant, Bennett, John, and I ate sopapillas from La Casita and drank Ibarra Mexican Hot Chocolate around the fire pit, each making a little celebratory, ceremonial toast. Then Grant and Bennett light sabered around the backyard. How I love watching them become Jedi in their minds and bodies and souls. It was after 9 PM before we finally came in; if you know me, letting my kids stay up that late on a school night is virtually unheard of! But I've learned a lot, and one of the things I've learned is that special events allow us all to break the rules. I've also learned how easy it is to take a sick day (thanks Klayton and Suzanne!), and that I should do it more often.

So I've come to end of this chapter, and am going to close the book for awhile. There will be more..... radiation, hormone therapy, lab tests for ever and ever, but I'm letting all that go for now. At least for the couple three weeks until radiation begins.

For now, here's a toast to 82%! According the stats, I have an 82% chance of living 10 years with no relapse. I'm going to make sure and take Brownie's advice, and not worry about the other 18%!

At about 9:15 PM, 12 hours after arriving in oncology this morning, we popped the final balloon:

bye-bye nine!

I'm ashamed to admit that my first thought upon opening my eyes this morning and reentering the world of light and life was not, "Hey, it's my son's tenth birthday!!!" but rather it was, "Oh, chemo."

I lay there for a short while. After I had slowly crawled out of my own ego, John and I walked downstairs and sang Grant awake.

Later, after taking the boys to school, Brandy drove me to chemo. It was, thankfully, uneventful. Grandma came over for Chinese food and cake. At the end of the night, Grant popped balloon number nine. He's no longer nine. I'm no longer stuck at nine. These two events, his birthday and my chemo, will be inextricably linked in my memory for as long as I live.

all things considered

They may simply look like bottles and pills to you, but to me, they have become a life-saving ritual.

Every morning and evening, the same. Swallow 21 pills. (For those of you watching the numbers, that's 42 a day, my age... again) Then there's the flaxseed-grinding, the smoothie-blending, the green-drinking, and the tincture-swilling.

The natural-colored herbal gel caps are from my neighborhood witch. The unnatural-colored yellow pills are from my oncologist. I used to house them in different places in my kitchen, until I realized that they all belonged together.
What's inside all those gel caps, you ask? Here's a sampling of some of their exotic and everyday ingredients:

Manchurian spikenard
Turmeric
Quercetin
Luo han gou
Indian Gooseberry
Boron
Vanadium
Goat weed
Vitamin B6
Royal jelly
Korean ginseng
Suma
Rosemary
Ashwagandha
Black pepper
Cordyceps mushroom
Eleuthero root and leaf
Japanese Knotweed
Licorice
Holy Basil
Bromelain
Creatnine
Chromium

In addition to swallowing all those pills, Heide also has me drinking a green concoction composed of brussel sprouts and kale and cabbage and spinach. It's lemon-lime flavored. Really. The smoothie protein powder she gives me contains (gasp!) colostrum! (It's from cows, not humans, of course, but still... weird.)

The yellow ones you see are prescribed Potassium and Protonix. And then there are the toughest and cruelest of them all, the ones you can't see here, the chemo drugs: Adriamycin, Cytoxin, Taxol.

The way I look at it, I've got to use everything under the sun available to me.

As a teacher, I've drawn from diverse sources: ITIP, Kagan, Love and Logic.

But those are all systems; it's the people, of course, that have had the most influence on who I am as a teacher.

I have had many guiding forces, from my nazi-like advisor when I was a student teacher, to my paternal first grade teacher, and many more in between. Mrs. Phelps (advisor) taught me how to direct instruct and maintain discipline, and kept her kids loving her and learning much with a strange but effective mix of toughness and love. Mostly, she demonstrated the self-sacrifice and hard work it takes to make sure every single kid "gets it". Mr. Witham (first grade teacher) allowed me to call him "daddy" (my parents were recently divorced), told fractured fairy tales from his imagination before they were popular in books, and made everyone feel safe. I can't remember a word of criticism ever leaving his lips. (My mother sent me his obituary when I was 24 and in my first year of teaching. When I read that he had died of AIDS, I cried like a baby).

I believe what makes me such a great teacher (humble, too, aren't I?) is that I draw upon a variety of teaching techniques and influences, as long as they feel mostly true to me. If it works, use it! We get so bogged down in the "right way" of teaching or parenting or medicating that we lose sight of the ultimate goal. And as every parent knows..... every child is different. As every doctor knows.... every patient is different. What works for one might not necessarily works for another.

I guess that's why I instinctively mistrust parenting experts, politicians, priests and educational consultants (yes, especially them..... and their publishing companies). They are only selling one product, it's the answer, and you have to believe in it. Period.

I don't buy it. And so my arsenal of healing includes it all. Chemo, pills, tinctures, MRI's, EKG's, plants from around the world, yoga, flaxseed, and $5,000 shots of Neulasta.

All things considered, the most important factor, I suppose, just like in teaching, is the people. That'd be you. Thanks for being a part of my treatment plan!

when does 7/12 equal 100%?

I hate fractions. I tell my adult students that there really is no reason to know how to add, subtract, multiply, or divide fractions if you know how to change those fractions into decimals. I still believe this. But what I have learned over the past few months is that thinking in fractions can be very natural, and more comforting, for some reason, than a decimal or a percent.

Back in October, twelve chemotherapy infusions were staring me in the face.


I wish I had had these balloons when I started, but I didn't actually get them until I was nearly half-way. They arrived from Denver in December. Of all the gifts I have received (all the food, all the cards, all the emails, all the books....), THIS has got to be the greatest one so far. Twelve balloons in a packet, complete with instructions. Instructions that took into account my children, and their need to be involved. The boys and I blew, numbered, and taped. Together. Then we popped.


Ever since October, I have been counting in fractions. One-twelfth done. Then one-sixth. One-fourth. One-third. Five-twelfths. One half. All this counting brings me to where I am now: seven-twelfths.

The bright colors make me happy. Bumping into them as I walk through the door reminds me that I CAN, indeed, do this thing. Finish it out.

Only now I may not have to. I'll let you know more after I see the doc tomorrow. But it seems that seven-twelfths may, indeed, be 100% for me.