Not Down Or Out

It could be worse. I might not be laughing.

Category: Cancer

Counting to Seven

Today it is the seventh anniversary of my cancer surgery. I am grateful beyond words for the seven years of life I have enjoyed since that fateful day. I have not forgotten that my surgeon first told me I was a stage three case. My prospects were a 45% chance I would be alive in five years. There has been no sign of cancer since January 2012.
Thank you family and friends for supporting my spirits, taking me to treatments, and for your prayers for me.
Thank you, Cook County Stroger Hospital And Adventist Hospital for providing me with care when I was without health insurance.
Thank you students at DePaul University and Roosevelt University for your patience with me as I underwent treatment.
Thank you authors and readers of my and so many WordPress blogs for your encouragement and advice. Some of you are gone from WordPress, some from this earthly plane, but you are not forgotten–especially Laura Lynn, Lori, and Micheal.
Thank You, Lord, for the gift of more life. I know I have not deserved it. Better people than I have perished from this horrible disease. I will continue trying to do what I can to help others in their hour of need.

Thank You!

Today is the sixth anniversary of my cancer surgery. I mailed a note to my oncologist yesterday to thank her for first off re-staging me from a stage III to a stage 1 with complications. When you go from having a 45% chance of being here in five years to something more like 80%, it changes your attitude. She was a kind woman, very patient, good at explaining, and she gave me good advice about taking prophylactic steps to keep cancer from returning.

The treatments were tough. I still think about my horrible Christmas in the Hospital when I feared I might die of the infection I got at the end of my six rounds of chemotherapy and weeks of radiation. I am happy that it was not necessary that I also go through the internal radiation the radiologist originally recommended. I think that would have tested even a positive attitude.

I am writing to thank you, too!

I got through the surgery, treatment, and recovery because of family and friends for whom I remain eternally grateful. My mom, my sister Kathy, her husband Jeff, brother Danny, his wife Lisa, nieces Maureen and Lisa, Aunt Joan, cousins Susie, Jerry, Gail, Al, Michael, Alice, Pam, and Courtney were there for me. My sister Kathy came out for a month to take care of me while I recovered from treatment. My brother Danny flew out to take me to chemotherapy. So did Maureen and her now husband Justin. Susie listened to all of the phone calls in which I weighed treatment options and worried about the side effects they brought. Alice and Michael sent me the cool yukele stylings that cannot help but make a person smile. I received the benefit of many calls and hugs, and prayers. And it is not lost on me that many of my family members had already seen our beloved Steve through years of cancer treatments that did not end as well as mine did. Steve was so strong. He made all of us stronger because of how he was such a loving man through trials that I can still only imagine.

Barb was there at the hospital with me after my diagnosis and she was with me on the day I met my oncologist and heard her advice and words of hope that things might not be as bad as I had feared. She took me to chemotherapy treatments and was with me for some of the dark days of treatment. She has earned her place as my best friend forever by sitting beside me and letting me talk through my reactions to some of the life-changing events I experienced. She knows I value her friendship and love her.

I have wonderful friends. Dominique came to see me in the hospital when no one else could. She brought me a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a comb when I was in so much pain that I thought I might die of my infection. It was the first time in days that I felt human. She brought her little machine that applied some kind of bio-feedback to my many scars and burns. She gave me probiotics that helped me recover from the chemotherapy. She was a great source of comfort that life would get better.

I am grateful to Mary who sent me money to have my apartment cleaned while I went through treatment. Like Susie, Alice, Barb, and Dominique, she was one of those rare people who could talk with me about the enormity of a treatment plan that leaves the subject in a scorched earth condition. My oncologist said that there were two types of patients; those who don’t want to hear it and those who want to talk about every aspect of it. We know where I fit in.

Roberta, how many times have you come to my aid with your thoughtful calls, emails, visits, and gifts of good cheer? After you and Mary recently showed up to sort out my apartment after I survived the May 2017 flesh-eating infection, I think it is possible to have both cancer and a flesh-eating infection and still be the luckiest person I know.

Paul and Gladys, you were always dropping me a note or picking up the phone to make a call. Paul, I still remember when you offered me some help with medical bills. That never became necessary, but I still remember thinking what a nice crazy that was. You are a lot of fun at a party! You bring it with you whereever you go.

I am grateful for Sue who came to visit me while I recuperated. She can sit down in a chair and take your mind to a far better place and leave you smiling. Great medicine.

I had some powerful people praying for me. Kathy had her group in Maryland. Kim Marie was on the job in Florida. Joelle did her share of heavy lifting on prayer as did all of my mom’s friends in EGV (Irma, Dee, Maggie, Jack, and Ollie). So did Rick and Karen. Diane, I feel I have known you forever and am so grateful to have leaned on your faith, too. Gladys and her novenas came through for me!

It hurt when the law school for which I worked terminated me for being diagnosed with cancer. But I got a lot of support from people there. I am grateful to Moses for not doing the same. Some of my favoriate students were people I met while going through the tough times of dealing with cancer in my life: Joelle, Millie, Joy, Josh, Tracey, Dayna, Djenane, Brian, Kim (and her mom), Russ, Anne, and Karen, to name just a few. The people at my other school, especially Carrie and Chanita, also were patient and supportive. Their support meant so much to me. That’s a fantastic group of people.

I have to thank the friends I made while going through treatment, too. Rodney, our talks and lunches were a blessed distraction from the every day grind of life. You made me laugh. Chicken and waffles may not be my thing, but we’ll always have chicken with quinoa, the enchiladas and brownie pie at Chilis, and the Greek buffet at Reza’s and the quest for cheap parking to remind us of our long conversations about things that matter.

So many people sent their good will from afar: my Aunt Arlene, friends Coundy, Steve, and Mark. Some of my former students wrote letters to the law school to protest my treatment. I feel so lucky to have so many wonderful people in my life. Lt. Alix even sent me her medal she received for being a Hometown Hero for active military service! Like I did anything to justify that by doing my best to get well. I never even met that brave and wonderful woman. Like heroes do, she would not even acknowledge my gratitude for her service or her undeserved and gracious gift to me.

I “met” lots of people dealing with cancer while I did through blogging. Mike is still alive–I think, but hasn’t been well enough to communicate for a long, long time. I pray for him, his daughter Anna, wife, and family. Laura Lynn died in October of 2016. I cry whenever I think of her incredible personality. We cannot say we ever beat cancer, can we? Not after we see some of the finest people we know succumb to it while young and with so much to live for. I honor the many no longer here and am grateful to see others still online when I return to my blog. Some of the bloggers who kept me going were:
Mike
Laura Lynn
Sheri de Grom
Knot Telling
YAPCab
helensamia
Tammy Carmona
liseybendy
bjsscribbles
oneanna65
Imarieallen
cindy knoke
Ingebird Scott
myeyesareuphere
tonitappcoutts
Dglassme
allbuthomeless
zippyrose
Cancer in my Thirties
banjogrrldiaries
ozhiggins
Puhili
Healing Eyes
doublewhirler
troutledge
beckyjmonroe
shelleydmason
mytholmroydmama
cowboylawyer
kymlucas
Carolyn O’Neal
iGameMom
thinkreadcook
lifesmanylesson
Denise McCroskey
Fierce is the New Pink
hermyleen
hypersensationalism

I could go on, but if it takes a village, I had one, an amazing one. And I remain, thanks to all of you and all of them, doing well!

Bad Taste in My Mouth

Thanks to free-graphics.com

Thanks to free-graphics.com

The saga of my termination by DePaul College of Law for having uterine cancer is about to come to an anticipated and unwelcome resolution. I spoke today with a representative of the EEOC who informed me that he is recommending that the EEOC close its file on my case and issue what is called a right to sue letter. I will have 90 days to hire an attorney to litigate the matter at my expense.

My summary of the report is necessarily brief because of the blog format, and that I must wait to receive the right to sue letter to see the actual conclusions before I may request a copy of the file under the Freedom of Information Act to learn more. This is my understanding of the EEOC investigation’s conclusions at this time:

1. My termination was not a violation of the Americans with Disabilities Act. According to current thinking, it was reasonable for the law school to terminate me after a positive test for cancer on Tuesday and before my Friday surgery because the university had a reasonable need to make sure I only missed one Friday class and I could not assure them sufficiently that I would in fact return Monday before my Friday surgery took place. I could ask to be accommodated for missing one Friday class, but apparently not for the weekend to see if I was able to return the following Friday.

It apparently does not matter that I was able to work the following week and every week thereafter. What matters is that no one could know before my surgery what would happen after it.

I guess the moral of the story with cancer is not to tell if you become sick. Had I given no information that my condition was cancer then the university would not have been so alarmed as to terminate me for having cancer.

Let’s recall what the person who terminated me put in writing:

Dear Cheryl: I was so alarmed to hear from Martha that you had to have surgery last week, but so pleased to hear from her that you are already on the road to convalescence! Please take care of yourself and don’t overdo it in an effort to achieve normalcy too quickly. You have been through a lot—both physically and emotionally—and you can’t expect to bounce back with no set-backs.
I understand that you are eager to return to your class this semester, and I know that your students would be delighted to finish out the semester with you; many of them have expressed concern about your health and enthusiastic appreciation for your instruction. I need to let you know, though, that after fully consulting with the Dean of Faculty, I felt compelled to make the decision to reassign your students to other LARC III sections. I sincerely hope that you recover from the surgery immediately, but it has been my experience that people in this situation always have slower come-backs than they anticipate. I had no way to hedge against the risk that you might return to teaching this week and then right away, or a few weeks later, find yourself simply unable to continue. My first responsibility is to the students’ learning and the smooth functioning of the LARC department, so I made the decision that increases the chances of maximizing both. I am sorry if my decision disappoints you, and I hope that you are able to understand the situation from my perspective.
We have every hope and expectation that you will be fully healed and able to teach in the Spring semester, and we will welcome you back in January with pleasure. If we can do anything for you in between now and then, please let me or Martha know. You have my every wish for your quick return to health and the fullness of life.

That letter doesn’t say I was terminated on the day of my surgery because I might not be able to work the next week. It says people with cancer always suffer setbacks and I might return and later prove unable to continue. If you cannot expect a law school to say what it means, then when should words put in writing matter, if ever?

2. Failure to pay the remainder of my contract for November to December 2011 until the following August in 2012 was just a “glitch.” The dean of the law school promised to pay me the remainder of my contract and then paid one last check and stopped. I was not paid until all my contracts for the academic year were completed, I determined the shortfall, and figured out which part of the university failed to pay me. But this was just a “glitch.”

And the reason it was a glitch and not intentional is that the university made a glitch in my favor in fall 2012 when it notified me that it would not offer me the class I taught every year for seven years but would pay me to teach a different class for the same money that semester.

In spring of 2013 it cut the pay for that replacement class in half. It now claims that the letter that offered me higher pay for fall 2012 was a glitch in my favor and the letter that cut the pay in half again for spring of 2013 was part of a preexisting plan.

If that does not make sense to you, then we are in agreement. The explanation does not rule out intention to punish me for making a complaint to the EEOC. I made more money before I had cancer than I made after the university received formal notice of my complaint to the EEOC.

The EEOC may take the position that the two “glitches” cancel out an argument of intent to deprive me of pay in 2011. I guess the lesson here is to not employ self-help. Had I not asked for payment before filing a complaint with the EEOC, not told the university I was filing, and waited to see if the fall 2012 glitch in my favor actually occurred, then it might not have occurred and it would have been difficult to show any glitches occurred. I would then–possibly–be able to show intent to deprive me of pay.

The fact that I was uninsured and needed my income to pay medical bills and that the delay from November 2011 to August 2012 caused me financial hardship is irrelevant. Money paid eight to nine months after it was due was paid soon enough to rule out discrimination.

The fact that I was declared unreliable and deprived of the opportunity to work is of minor significance to anyone but me. It appears that people paid to stay home miss nothing because the opportunity to work is not itself a right. Have you ever worked really hard for less money than you deserved to be paid and been proud of your work? Well, then you may understand why being deprived of my work when I was dealing with a cancer was painful to me, whether or not I was eventually paid to stay away.

3. No retaliatory intent or actions. The university revealed to the EEOC a preexisting plan (not shared with me even as of this date) to cut adjuncts to one course per calendar or academic year–which ostensibly explains why I was cut down to one class per semester after my diagnosis. I am not convinced this was the preexisting plan, but will have to see the file to learn more.

Additionally, while some witnesses overheard and reported statements that may have indicated some negative feelings toward me by the supervisor who terminated me and disparagement of my reputation to others at the university, that was “he said/she said” testimony and not sufficient for the EEOC to pursue further.

I wait now for the official letter to confirm my understanding of the findings. And I have a bad taste in my mouth. Sometimes what people do to you after you are diagnosed with cancer feels hard to bear, too.

But all of us who have faced such a diagnosis learn we are stronger than we thought. Cancer has tested me in many ways and I wake up every day since my diagnosis dealing with things that I never imagined would happen. Disappointment in the behavior of some people and institutions that surround me sometimes seems to go with the territory.

What will see me through this situation is the strength drawn from the other people and institutions that are there to lend an ear, a shoulder, a hand or a smile during the dark, dark days that have followed my cancer diagnosis. I appreciate everyone who has kept my faith in the goodness of people alive during the last two years. Thanks to you, I will never be down or out.

Humbling Experiences

Another Waiting Room

Another Waiting Room

My relationship with my gynecological P.A. is a work in progress. She very much wanted me to see a general practitioner in a clinic setting. So she put me into some waiting list for an appointment at a clinic in Logan Circle. The first time I came up for an appointment the notice came about a day before the appointment. I was unable to make it because I had to work. When I was last at the hospital to see my oncologist the resident checked and informed me I was scheduled for today. So I had a month’s notice.

I will confess that I was reluctant to go. I’m feeling pressure from the P.A. to take blood pressure medicine. My blood pressure has gone up and down. It was at its highest within minutes of learning I had cancer. I shed no tears–not even one for several months–but the stress was affecting my blood pressure for a couple of days. Within three days my blood pressure was back to normal and stayed that way until sometime in the last year. Back in about February it was 180/96. That was the day I had my second post-hysterectomy internal exam. I was over-the-top nervous about the exam. About a week before that appointment it was only 161/111. In May I started getting a swollen ankle and leg and felt the blood pressure climb. My oncologist doubled the dose of the water pill I take. That seems to help the edema and the blood pressure. I have my own cuff at home and take it periodically and my blood pressure was back in the 140/86 range. In August, my blood pressure was 151/92. Dr. H felt it was not a problem, particularly because I have lost weight since February and continue to do so. I am resolved not to start another drug unless I first research it. Once you start some of these drugs it is hard to get off of them and they all seem to cause more side-effects. I am tired of dealing with side-effects!

The other reason I was not keen to go is the hernia. Dr. H wants it fixed. I really cannot contemplate checking into the hospital for surgery after my December 2011 admission to hell there. I am well aware of the risks of exposure to infection in hospitals, and that place did not maintain cleanliness. I thought I might die in that place. I’m not going back there as an inpatient until it is the last option on the table.

October 1 is when the health insurance exchanges open in the U.S. I have not even been able to get a quote for health insurance since my diagnosis with cancer. This will be a new opportunity for me to obtain health insurance on my own. I have no idea what I can afford, but I pray I can afford some new options.

I went for the clinic appointment despite my misgivings. I arrived early. It took forever to find street parking. I entered and went through the same type of processing as at the hospital. Get up. Answer questions. Be seated. Get up. Answer questions. Be seated. It is like the childhood game Simon Says.

I brought work. Lots of work. And I waited. At one point my vitals were taken. My weight was down. The clinic is part of the same county hospital system as my hospital, but the nurse had to ask me about my allergies to medicines because my records were not available or she did not access them. It was so disappointing to know that once I saw a doctor we would need to go through so much medical history.

My blood pressure was 190/110! I had been waiting for some time amidst other patients. I have to admit it was uncomfortable. Small children crying. Wendy Williams (big news today–absolutely nothing), Bethenny Frankel (big news today–some people have friends who make them fat by cooking for them), Fox News (big news today–Sen. Ted Cruz read a Dr. Seuss bedtime story in his 21+ hour diatribe against the Affordable Care Act), and some other talk show that drove me up the wall as angry people yelled at each other.

All voices today at the clinic were heavily accented. I did not recognize my own name when it was called, and I speak some Spanish. My ex-husband could speak Spanish. I’ve heard my name spoken with that accent. At one point, I heard my name and got up and went over to the reception area only to find no one looking for me. All three receptionists were taking on phones. So I said to myself, “Now I’m hearing voices.”

As soon as I sat down, the receptionist called me again. She said, “Sorry, I forgot I called you.” I was not the only person having trouble focusing.

I should be used to this. But I am no longer sick. Just pained after surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation.

The nurse asked if I felt okay, and I did. No headache. No stress other than the situation. I had plenty of work to do, deadlines approaching, and twenty things I’d rather be doing. Even unpacking sounded great.

Two hours after my scheduled appointment I was out of work to do. I was sitting next to a man with a bad cold in the waiting room. I was tired. I was unbelievably sad that there were so many people for whom this was the best option for care. I told the receptionist I needed to leave. I had work to do.

The receptionist called a nurse who put me in a room. Then I heard my future doctor (Dr. S) ask someone to prep the woman in the next room for a procedure, and he went in there. I waited another fifteen minutes before I left without seeing the doctor. It did not matter if he would be free in five more minutes or in fifty. I was as twitchy as I ever get and needed to get out of there.

This is nothing new. This is medicine for people without health insurance. I think by now I should be philosophical and copacetic. But I am tired and stressed and I wonder how anyone with a job ever gets medical help in the system. From the time I left home in the morning until I got out of the clinic I had spent more than four hours without meeting the doctor, and I fell behind in my work.

I am grateful to have this as an option, but I am praying that the Affordable Care Act means I can afford insurance and schedule an appointment instead of being ordered to appear on a day when I need to be at work. I am praying that one day soon I will be able to speak to a doctor about my concerns for more than five minutes.

I have felt bad all afternoon for leaving, but I am now one-half day behind in my work and have non-negotiable deadlines to meet on Friday. This semester I have 25% more students in one class and am paid 40% less than I would have been if law schools could help their graduates find jobs in the current job market or if full-time pay was a little lower than it now is.

At the rate I’m going, tomorrow for me will be like a blister on the back of your heel when you’re wearing new shoes and it is still morning.

Some days I have to remind myself that I am just underpaid and not down and out. I may be feeling humbled by my circumstances, but I still have my sense of humor. That’s the real reason why I’m Not Down or Out.

Worst Case Scenarios

Two Rooms to Go

Two Rooms to Go

I manage fear by imagining the worst case scenario and convincing myself that I can “handle” it. Once I have done this, I do not think about it any further. I am very stubborn about this. If I find myself worrying over the “what ifs,” I get up and enter into an activity and focus on the activity. My tactic has not been working as well as it usually does. I am not happy about this.

Lately I have been as worried about the side-effects of cancer treatment as the return of cancer. All of the packing, move, and unpacking have coincided with the end of summer term and start of fall term at school. There never was a summer vacation. SO many projects are waiting for me and I cannot give them my full attention until I unpack at least one more room. I am down to having made some progress on four rooms. My living room and storage room are a shambles (see photograph taken minutes ago). Ordinarily I would take my mind away from obsessing about my health by working on a project. I used to write a novel every summer (I have several in my desk drawers). I researched my family tree back to the 1400’s one summer. This year my activity has proven inadequate to take my mind off of what ails me because my primary activity has been making things worse.

My ears are ringing. TV would distract me from that, but my TV is piles of boxes away from where I sit. My hands are alive with neuropathy. The left hand tingles the most. I took almost all of my six chemotherapy doses in that hand. My joints rarely bothered me before treatment. Now my knees hurt. When I say they hurt I mean that I sometimes have to use a cane to climb the back stairs. I rock back and forth before getting up from a low chair. It has not been this bad since the last weeks of chemotherapy and radiation. I have what appears to be arthritis in the joint at the base of my left thumb. It has me grabbing things gingerly–always contemplating the possibility I will drop something. Aargh! My doctors want me to get my hernia fixed. It feels like it is a little bigger when I measure it with my eyes or hand. I have to lift with my knees. Oh wait. They are already iffy.  I’ve considered the worst case scenario (that things will go downhill) and now want to move on to activity, but the only activity available is more unpacking, which keeps getting me focused on my health concerns.

I'm so dizzy, my head is spinning. Photocredit: clker.com

I’m so dizzy, my head is spinning. Photocredit: clker.com

 

I work for awhile but then have to stop. There isn’t a comfy chair in the place right now. I climb up into my bed and lie down. Sometimes I take a nap, but it is tough to sleep. Right now my landlord Zen is scraping the wood frame around my big front window. The noise is intermittent but deafening. This started Thursday night at 8:30 p.m. and continued until after 11 p.m. It resumed Saturday night at 11 p.m. and went on until 2 a.m. I could go out and complain, but I am SO tired of conflict. I have considered the worst case scenario and have resolved to hold off a little longer before pursuing it–an argument that could mean I will have to move at the end of my 1 year lease. How long can it take to scrape that big picture window? Surely this is the last day his toil will interfere with mine. When the noise got so loud I could not continue work on this blog I went back to unpacking.

Currently my home is filled with waiting “activity.” There are boxes upon boxes still waiting to be opened, organized, and re-stored. It has become a mindless activity. Yesterday I assembled ten power strips not already employed somewhere in my apartment. Of course, there are three rooms without a single power strip plugged in so they may yet find usefulness. Are power strips like cats and bunnies? Do they reproduce every season regardless of need?

I love office supplies. My dad and I used to enjoy going to office supply shops together. I must miss him even more than I acknowledge. I have a four-drawer vertical file cabinet half-filled with office supplies and there are boxes I have not yet opened. Everything is now moving into space with other like items, but I find myself wondering, what if I cannot recall in what storage bin I assembled all my highlighters? Will I go back to the Staples store and buy even one more? The concern that I will has prompted some worst case scenarios of its own.

I found some items I have no recollection of purchasing, too. Last night I collected several containers of tools and hardware supplies. I can never find a screwdriver when I need one. Somewhere in the storage room I cannot even enter yet, there are two tool boxes. I needed a screwdriver last night and started opening and shutting boxes in search for one. I discovered I have power tools! I thought I had one electric screwdriver, but my brother Danny gave me one as well. Is that too many for a single woman to own? Can I host an evening at my home and invite others to use the tools with me so that all may be happily employed at the same time? Maybe I should choose between them and give one away? Should I keep the one I bought because it has many great features? Or should I keep the one Danny gave me? Because there is something really sweet about my brother imagining there is anything material in the world of which I am in need.

He and his wife Lisa rode their new motorcycle to my home last Sunday. Danny installed my two air conditioning units in windows for me. I was afraid to lift them as I already need to be getting my hernia fixed soon. Lisa stood in awe of the piles and told me she thought I could get a million dollars if I sold all of it. I dismissed the idea at first, but if I sold them for $1 apiece . . . . What might be the worst case scenario for that concern? How many paperclips can I get with $1 million?

Just in time, Zen is taking a break. I think I’ll try resting. Maybe I can manage a short nap before I succumb to the urge to drive to the nearest Staples store for paperclips!

Photocredit:abcteach.com

Photocredit:abcteach.com

Checking In

Back at the hospital

This morning I went for my six-month exam. Other than fatigue from having survived a swift move, I have been feeling well. In late February/early March. the daily, serious pains associated with radiation cystitis abruptly stopped. In June I determined that the other side-effects of cystitis–distress and incontinence–were well behind me. I stopped taking the Oxybutynin that had been prescribed for me. My bladder and bowel seem to have healed from the effects of chemotherapy and radiation.

I have had several “clean” pelvic exams and tests for cancer cells. My last scan was June of 2012. It showed no signs of cancer. In October it will be twenty-four months since my hysterectomy. In December it will be twenty-four months since treatment ended. I was thinking there would be a scan and blood tests, but there were no tests today.

My oncology team wants me to undergo surgery to correct a pre-hysterectomy hernia. The surgeon who originally diagnosed my cancer was going to repair it as part of my hysterectomy, but he ended up having someone else perform the surgery. That doctor did not touch the hernia. But it was in the way of his reaching my lymph nodes. As a result, no lymph nodes were tested–which explains why my chemotherapy and radiation treatments were “adjuvant.” They addressed risks unknown. I learned that the scans also can be confounded by the hernia, and that my radiation was more extensive because of the state of my “habilis.”

Everything looks good right now, but, if cancer were to return, everyone would feel better if things got “tidied up.” There’s no question but that I would like to get this addressed as well–EXCEPT–I do not have health insurance, I do not have the money to pay for this surgery, I am about to start school and cannot imagine undergoing surgery during “school time,” and the very thought of checking in to the hospital after my December 2011 experience there is out of the question unless it would save my life.

I am returning this week to teaching at the law school that terminated me the day of my hysterectomy. The law school is facing declining enrollments and has decided to cut the compensation paid to adjuncts, like myself, by 40%. At the same time, it has increased class size by 25%. The school has conducted its own internal investigation of my case and has cleared everyone involved of any breaches of university policies.

I suppose that means that the school would support my termination a second time if I underwent surgery–even if my surgeon said, “You can return to work next week.” That’s what the surgeon said last time.

The EEOC is examining my case now. I would like to wait for the results of that investigation before chancing fate on the subject of job security. As if an adjunct has any job security.

The Affordable Care Act will go into effect this fall. I would like to wait to see whether I can afford insurance when the new exchanges open in my state. I might have new options for treatment at a hospital that does not scare me.

The doctors think the charity that covered so much of my post-surgical care would agree to pay for this surgery if I appealed to it. That will take some time.

The doctors want me to go now for a mammogram. My cancer was estrogen-related. Some breast cancers are estrogen-related. So, I’ll do that. My maternal aunt died after more than a decade of dealing with breast cancer, so I will have the test.

My weight had dropped somewhat. My blood pressure was much better. I’m only taking a water pill for that. The doctors put off until my next check-up an ultrasound of my legs that might rule out varicose veins as the reason for my sometimes swollen right leg. No one else reacted when I mentioned the possibility of lymphoedema–which means nothing. I know that it could be the reason for my swelling from reading the excellent blog http://lymphnodetransplant.wordpress.com/. Check it out if you have unexplained swelling after surgery or other treatment that might have affected your lymph nodes’ ability to function.

I am seeing a GP in late September. I see the P.A. for another gynecological check-up in October. I can investigate my insurance/charity/surgical options between now and my next oncology appointment in February 2014.

I am feeling relieved to have gotten through this check-up, but my definition of “relief” has changed from “phew” to a sort of uneasy reduction of the alarm level from orange to yellow.

Photocredit: ripsaw-defence.co.uk

Photocredit: ripsaw-defence.co.uk

A lot can happen in six months. And I have some checking to do before checking in again with my oncology team.

Changed

Living in and out of boxes. Thanks to http://www.clker.com/cliparts/d/2/6/5/1257091961369948851sheikh_tuhin_Packing_and_Moving.

Thanks to http://www.clker.com/cliparts/d/2/6/5/
1257091961369948851sheikh_tuhin_Packing_
and_Moving.

Many things have changed in the last few weeks. I am doing my best to stay focused on what matters and not let myself feel overwhelmed. Some days it has been harder than others.

I had plans for my summer. I have not managed to act on them. I planned a trip to DC to visit my sister and her family. My mom and I were going to head east together and stay ten days. I had to cancel the trip. Mom did not go without me. I was going to reunite in DC with John, an old college friend I had not seen since 1978 or 1979. I have many friends in DC, some of whom were amazing sources of support during cancer treatment, like Mary, Roberta, and Paul. It will have to be some other time.

I was going to start a new independent contractor position handling executive searches of partners and practice groups for large law firms. I spent many hours learning all about the firms and trends. I could not start the searching because of the big task that ate my summer. All that research must sit another week or so. By that time summer will be over. Fall classes start in about nine days.

I planned to clean house. Life has become tougher since cancer. I could see that I needed to house clean, not just with broom and mop but by tossing things. I did get that house clean, but now am in a new, smaller apartment that costs me more money, and it is a mess. I’m not sure when I’ll get back to what used to feel like a mess. I’m taking life one box at a time and dealing with whatever I find there.

I planned to rest. I am very tired. The last semester of school was particularly tiring. I taught some part of twelve different classes in the months from January to July. I wanted to take a few naps. I wanted to sit in the shade somewhere and read a novel. I wanted to continue juicing and work on a few good habits.

Instead, I MOVED. It has left me exhausted. The new apartment is on the first floor of a two-flat. The landlords live upstairs. Things did not go as planned. The new landlords ripped off the decking behind the house as soon as I signed a lease (news to me as the subject did not come up until after I gave them a security deposit agreed to sign a year’s lease). The deck did not get finished until Thursday of this week. During my move I could not use my off-street parking space. I paid for street parking and got a $50 ticket one day for coming out five minutes too late to feed the meter. This home has more front steps than the last one did. I feel each one as I climb and climb dragging stuff I no longer care about into a new place I don’t like.

 

It was not cleaned well before my lease started. It was supposed to be, but was not. So there already has been conflict to resolve. It took five days to get that resolved.

My friend Barb helped with the packing, but there was no time to weed out the unnecessary from the necessary. In the final days of the move I shed plenty of stuff but some of it I wanted. I have so much junk that just got carried along. It feels like I will still be unpacking until my next move.

I hired movers and a cleaning service to get me out of the old apartment. (There went the money saved for health insurance under the Affordable Care Act.) By Tuesday, when I was sitting on an empty can in my old apartment watching Irena clean the old place I had no physical strength left. I could not manage to make one more trip to my car. I just left when the place was clean. As Barb said, “It will have to be enough. Let it go.”

I slept on my mom’s couch all last week. She had my brother’s dog Shamus for the week. It was not restful, but it was better than sleeping in my bed in its new, tiny space. I still have not managed to make that bed and had to discard both my couches because they would not fit in the new place. There was no place to rest in my new place.

My hands tingle all day long. My joints are so painful I dug out my seven remaining, unexpired pain pills, originally taken after surgery, to go to sleep at night. I have had two showers all week. I am too sore to climb into the tub at my mom’s house. I’m not sure how she does it, the sides are so high.

The movers dumped things in my house, sometimes (often) ignoring my color coding of boxes. I already have a pre-surgery hernia that the surgeon did not fix. I have to be careful dragging things around. I have one room that is corner-to-corner filled with boxes. If I need anything in that room I must kiss it goodbye for a long time.

Other stuff has been happening at the same time. In the last days before the move I heard my ex-husband’s application for an annulment from the church was moving forward. The application was welcome. The timing is not so convenient.

I gave up my home phone after AT&T wanted to change it for an 18-block move. Why is that necessary? They could move it to a cell phone–giving me two AT&T cell phones that never get more than two “bars” any place I want to make a call. Why can’t they assign the number to a different landline? Now I have one phone that rarely gets a line. I get messages hours after the calls and have to get in the car and drive to get them.

I kept working, part-time, but it kept me busy. I finished three classes. I held an information session for people wanting to become paralegals. I attended a meeting at which I was trained in responding to an armed shooter in a school setting. That was eye-opening. I gave a presentation on using social media to network for a job. It was well-received, which means that I am still getting requests for help from people two weeks later. I will finish another 12-week class tomorrow. I got out an issue of the biweekly newsletter that I write and edit. I learned that both of my fall classes that start in the next 30 days will have new textbooks. What were the chances?

Thanks to http://www.picturesof.net/_images_300/A_Colorful_ Cartoon_Cubicle_Drone_with_a_Mess_Moving_Boxes_All_Over_Royalty_Free_Clipart_ Picture_100805-171487-856053.

Thanks to http://www.picturesof.net/_images_300/A_Colorful_ Cartoon_Cubicle_Drone_with_a_Mess_Moving_Boxes_
All_Over_Royalty_Free _Clipart_ Picture_
100805-171487-856053.

 

I keep going with a new mantra–Cancer did not kill me. This move is not going to kill me if cancer couldn’t. I am not happy about many of the recent changes in my life, but I am tough and resilient and hopeful that things will work out if I keep working at it. I am tougher inside even if weaker on the outside. I have seen my worst fears draw close and know that most of the rest of this stuff is just stuff. I will handle it in time.

I remain not down or out–but changed. Wish me luck with the unpacking.

Bedside Thoughts………

I am so sad at the thought that Mike’s time with us is winding down. I cannot recall the last time I was so sad, but I pray for him to have it his way–whatever that means. And I’m asking you, even if you do not pray, to send out positive thoughts to a kind person doing his best to lend others a hand in what is for most of us is the toughest challenge in life–dying.

Fun at Funerals

Clip Art

Clip Art

Most of the funerals that I have attended have been sad even when death seemed like a relief for the deceased and his or her family. However, as I wrote in my last post “I Miss Sherry,” sometimes funerals are far from sad. They may even have funny elements that overcome tears. I have attended another funeral that included humorous moments and my mom recently attended one that crossed the line into territory that was ironic, if not funny.

About ten years ago I attended the funeral of the husband of a woman who had taken care of an ailing relative until that relative’s death. I was grateful for her kindness to my relative and remained in contact with her for many years after my relative’s death.

We had nothing in common except for the shared experience of caring for a lovable person until her death. I do not want to be disrespectful of the woman who gave so much loving care to my family member so I will call her Jane for purposes of telling this odd funereal story.

Jane grew up in a home fraught with anger and tension. When her family was ambivalent toward her, it felt like a relief. She spent some time in foster homes where she was unpaid help around the house. I have the impression that she never felt at peace in any of the places she lived.

This made Jane determined to own a home of her own. She lacked the education to do many jobs that might have brought her goal within easy reach. Caregiving seemed a good fit to her sunny and patient temperament. I hired her to care for my relative five days a week for several hours a day. She handled the evening meal and put my relative to bed at night. Jane made sure my relative was clean and comfortable.

Jane did so much more than that. She brought so much humor to every activity that I sometimes stopped in while she was there to share in the laughter. In her day, my relative was irreverent and often laughing, but the aging process was taking its toll. She was more often unintentionally funny than intentionally so. At times she was quite depressed and claimed she was ready to die. Jane did her best to cheer up her new charge. I still laugh when I recall walking into the room at an inopportune moment and hearing Jane say with no expression in her usually animated voice, “And now it’s time to wash the beaver.” My relative’s ankle was held high in the air–the way a cat might extend its leg while grooming its hindquarters and Jane was about to apply soap and water. My relative’s embarrassed grimace melted into giggles at the sight of my open mouth.

Jane was good company. She talked about herself without airs or humility, as if everyone’s life was as hard as hers. After my relative died, she called me up and said she would not be at the funeral, not because she was moving on easily but because she lived to serve the living and it was someone else’s job to shepherd the dead to their resting places.

She called to invite me to her home, and I felt I could not say no after all of the kindness she had shown someone I loved dearly.

Jane had married a man at least twenty-five years older than she was. In his prime, he was a handsome man with a modest income and boundless patience for a woman with little education and few skills. Their home was partly self-built, partly constructed. The entire front yard was a habitat for artificial creatures made of painted Styrofoam, plastic, wood, and plaster. There were deer and reindeer, castles and birdhouses, welcome signs and whirligigs. The dining room walls were covered with shelves of knickknacks. By knickknacks, I mean to include everything from gifts you collect if you buy a McDonald’s Happy Meal to china figurines. There were plaques with funny sayings. There were LP records, cassette tapes, CDs, and VHS videotapes. Jane and her husband Ed had dogs. I am an attorney and I dress in black nearly all of the time. It only took a moment for me to attract enough fur to the cuffs of my pants to form my own pet. As I took an offered seat I knew that it would take a dry cleaner to rid me of the fur that transferred to the seat of my pants.

The living room was in the part of the house that Jane and Ed had built themselves. If you dropped a pen, it might roll across the floor because one end of the house dipped while the other seemed to have buckled. There was an upright piano that Jane played while the dogs howled in a cacophonous chorus that called for everyone else to clap because a sing-along was not possible in the din.

It was not Christmas time, but the room was filled with expensive moving dolls in winter garb. While we snacked on cheese and crackers, Jane turned on the dolls. Some of them, like the little drummer, played Christmas tunes. Some of them kissed Santa.

Jane smiled at me when I complimented her on the staging. “After the childhood I had, every day is Christmas and I never want to forget that,” she said.

Ed turned out to be an ailing man himself. All day long he waited for Jane to come home and take care of him. He was a big man and it was plain that Jane put her back into getting him up and getting him down and waiting on him with love and consideration.

She insisted that I have a tour of the rest of the house. My heart just about broke when she showed me the tiny tub in which she bathed her husband. There were three beds in their tiny bedroom. There was a double bed for Ed, a cot for Jane, and a twin bed for the dogs.

Everything was broken and she was proud of the fact that these were things she found scavenging others’ curbs on the night before the garbage men would come. She even had a word processor. It was not really a computer. Maybe it was an advanced electric typewriter. Ed was teaching her to write. She was writing her story because she had no children to be retelling it for her and felt the need to leave some record of her life.

She was not entirely selfless. Shortly after I arrived we were joined by a neighbor who let me know that Ed helped keep a roof over Jane’s head and helped her with decision-making. Bob took care of her physical needs.

I will confess that I was a little surprised, but maybe I shouldn’t have been. Jane’s earthy humor came from some place. I came to understand that Bob kept her young even if he was only a little younger than Ed.

Ed seemed oblivious to their neighbor’s intimate relationship with Jane.  I say that because, after a dinner that good manners compelled me to compliment, Ed tried to do a little heavy-handed matchmaking. I beat a hasty retreat when he suggested that the four of us watch Debbie Does Dallas.

Yikes!

Yikes!

I sent Jane Christmas gifts for several years. I once took her to lunch at a dive in the neighborhood. I went to the mass at which she and Ed renewed their wedding vows and met the patchwork community of blood and foster relatives she called family. Bob was there in what I am prepared to swear was the same combination of baseball cap, t-shirt, jeans, and windbreaker as he wore when I first met him. Everyone else present was someone Jane had cared for or a family member of such a person. There were people in wheelchairs and children with braces on their legs. I fit right in because I, too, had experienced this simple woman’s kindness and cared about her.

She was the wealthiest person most of them knew, and you didn’t have to work at it to overhear several try to borrow money from her. Ed handled this with a gallantry I would not have expected. He would struggle to his feet and get an arm around Jane’s shoulders and say very gravely, “I’m sure Jane would love to help you out. My wife has a tender heart for everyone who has helped make so much happiness in her life. Blame me for her not lending you money today. I don’t have long now that the lung cancer has got me. Jane’s going to need the money to bury me.”

He died shortly after they renewed their vows. I took my mom along to the funeral for company and because she had never met Ed, but had certainly learned a lot about Jane.

We had a long drive to the funeral home. The priest who officiated at their renewal of vows came to say a few words over the casket. Ed wore a handsome suit that Jane had bought in a thrift shop in anticipation of the event. She led us to the casket and pet his hand with hers like he could tell she was still at his side. “I took good care of him and he did the same for me,” she said before turning to greet other guests. I cried for her and for him and a little bit for myself, because I have had many gifts in my life but have never been loved like she was. I have never been so conscious of the fact that what matters most in life doesn’t have a price tag.

When it was time to leave for the cemetery, the pallbearers were assembled. Ed was there in his usual windbreaker and baseball cap. He was the only person who dressed for the occasion. The rest of the pallbearers were boys in t-shirts, jeans, and gym shoes. Most needed a bath and a comb.

They escorted Ed’s body in its simple wooden casket out to the hearse. Mom and I walked out to my car where we expected the funeral director to line up cars so we could proceed to the cemetery. It was the same cemetery where my family has plots, but we were quite a distance from it.

Most of the rest of the group, including Jane, were still inside the funeral home when Mom said, “Isn’t that the hearse leaving?”

It was. The hearse took off at about 40 miles per hour without waiting for the mourners to assemble. It left a trail of dust and a couple of skid marks on the pavement as the driver tried to control a crazy turn. We took off after it and did a pretty good job of following until the driver powered through a red light and swung up onto the highway. My brakes squealed as I struggled to stop before a truck could take us out. Some of the pallbearers had managed to follow us. They had no idea where the cemetery was. I led the small caravan of pick-up trucks and RVs to the cemetery. It was about a forty minute drive that required us to make various twists and turns. Several times we had to pull over and wait for someone to catch up.

In the privacy of my car there was plenty of time for Mom and me to discuss the fact that we had never been to a funeral like this one. Usually there are a couple of cars driven by representatives from the funeral home. Everyone has a sticker or two on their cars to warn other drivers that this is a funeral cortege. People turn on their headlights for the same reason. Someone blocks busy intersections to ensure the entire party gets through if a light changes. Ed was about to be buried with much less pomp and ceremony.

When we got to the cemetery there was no sign of the hearse or any other hearse. I drove to the sexton’s office and Mom got out to ask for directions. She was just coming out when one of the pallbearers yelled, “There he is. Don’t let that varmint get away a second time.”

Sure enough, the hearse hurtled past us toward the old section of the cemetery, crossed a busy street without regard to oncoming traffic, and came to a shuddering stop by an open grave.

It was a hot day, but a little breezy. The pallbearers decided to cart Ed’s casket over to the grave so all would be in readiness when the widow showed up. Bob opened his trunk and revealed a cooler of beer. He offered us a bottle. My mom whispered to me, “What time is it? Ten in the morning?”

It was nearly eleven. I also declined his offer.

My mom egged me on to “give the hearse driver a piece of your mind.” I declined because I doubted he would listen. He reclined on the ground beneath a tree and read a newspaper.

The other pallbearers hauled folding chairs from their vehicles and set them up. Folks had picnic baskets and blankets. They started chomping on fried chicken, potato salad, and watermelon. We had quite a wait. Mom and I sat in the car and talked about the scene before us. Someone turned on a car’s radio and there was a festive atmosphere.

In the years since Ed’s death I have read a bit about how our attitudes toward death differ in different parts of American society. I would have had trouble eating in the presence of a dead body roasting in the hot sun, but no one but my mom shared my compunction. Death was a normal part of life and Ed’s closest friends were enjoying a little private time in his company before burying him.

Eventually we got in the right mood because we expressed no surprise when Jane and the priest and the rest of the mourners arrived and Jane scolded the men for beginning without them. They jockeyed for the remains of the picnic while the cemetery staff looked on in amusement. It took some time for us to get to the business of burying Ed. By then it was long past the time when people cried.

Bob smooched Jane’s cheek and wrapped an arm around her waist in casual contemplation of their future. The pallbearers tossed a ball to each other in the middle of the cemetery road. The priest headed home after hugging Jane and wishing her well. Jane thanked everyone for coming then asked a cousin to turn up the music because she had always liked the song that was playing.

I had planned to drop my mom off and proceed to the office, but that seemed out of keeping with the celebration of Ed’s life that his widow, family, and friends had planned. We decided to go out for lunch.

My mom’s other “fun” funeral was the funeral of one of my high school classmates. Rick (names changed in this story, too) died of a heart attack at the age of 50. His parents are my mom’s very good friends. Rick was a difficult man. When I met him in high school, he was a “stoner” who liked to dress in a leather jacket and hat and jeans and boots. He made fun of me for being a “brain.” He studied anthropology and worked “digs” in various parts of North and South America. He may have smoked some stuff that was good for what ailed him but a little mood altering. He taught classes. He bought a piece of rural land on a tree-covered lot and built an underground bunker where he reportedly lived with chickens. I am pretty sure some of this is lore rather than truth because, if it were entirely true, it would all be too strange.

He got a girlfriend pregnant and she had the baby (named Todd), so Rick was a father. But he never paid child support or sought to spend time with his son. The boy’s mother, Haley, was a free spirit in her own right. She tried hard to make things work, then took her boy and went in search of Rick’s “alter-ed ego.” She married an Air Force airman. His name is Joe. He is, by all accounts, a solid and dependable man. They had a baby named Tom.

This did not give Haley the settled and normal life you might imagine. She got involved in some church that decided to do its best to convert Russians to the Christian faith by trading conversion for U.S. citizenship. While her husband was deployed overseas near Iraq or Afghanistan, she arranged to bring three children to the U.S. All were young adults, close to the age of independence. They hoped to achieve U.S. citizenship and economic “independence” in relatively short order in exchange for accepting Jesus Christ as their savior. Haley also hoped they would adapt and move on swiftly.

One proved to have attachment problems. These were demonstrated through various incidents in which the child “acted out”–whatever that means. Haley sent that child to someone in Florida who claimed to be able to work miracles with children with attachment disorders. We never heard about her again. A second child learned English, finished high school, and moved out. Again, I cannot recall ever hearing of him again. The third was a “keeper.” He finished high school and managed to get scholarships and jobs to finance college. He seemed to embrace his new family as well as faith and friends in the U.S.

The adoptive/adopted kids were not the only ones growing up during this timeframe. Todd and his half-brother Tom grew up as well. Rick’s parents worked hard to stay in Todd’s life. They made trips to bases where Haley and Joe were based. They paid for Haley, Joe, Todd, and the rest of the family to visit them. They paid for other things, too. All this time Rick was a missing-in-action dad working out of his bunker in the woods.

On those few occasions when Rick came to town to visit his parents there were problems. He appropriated family heirlooms. He picked fights. When his parents changed the locks on their home, Rick strode around the house yelling for them to let him in like a scene from the story of the Three Little Pigs. He eventually showed up during a visit by Haley, Joe, and Todd. He met his son.

He huffed and he puffed and he blew the house down.

He huffed and he puffed and he blew the house down.

 

No one thought the meeting had made much of an impression on Rick or Todd, but children are unpredictable and so is blood. The boy may have romanticized his “real” father. An intelligent, socially maladapted eccentric sounds like a perfect antidote for a spit-and-shine airman of a stepdad looking for folded corners on a sheet and blankets tucked in so tightly that you could bounce a quarter off the bed during weekly inspections.

Father and son may not have ever met again. I cannot recall hearing of any other meetings. When Todd was about eighteen years old, Rick’s parents got a call from a county sheriff. Their son had not shown up in town for awhile. Someone thought that was odd. An officer drove out to the bunker to see if Rick was around. The officer discovered that Rick had died and been gone for some time.

It was a time for regrets and lots of tears. No matter how difficult the relationship was for them, Rick’s parents grieved over death. Rick’s parents had him cremated and arranged to have his remains buried in a local cemetery where they will one day be laid to rest. The land and bunker where Rick lived had liens against it for unpaid taxes. Rick had not left much. Even the missing heirlooms were gone. I don’t recall hearing he had any chickens left at the time of his death.

Rick’s parents paid for Todd to attend his father’s memorial service. Joe planned a trip that would bring him into town a couple of days later. He would pay his respects and collect Todd. Haley chose not to attend.

Everyone gathered at the cemetery at the appointed time, including my mom. I was not there, so may have the facts a little out of focus. A friendly minister was on hand to lead a small group of about ten people in prayer for Rick. A female relative brought an iPod and some speakers and played some appropriate music. Two cemetery employees stood by to cover the urn with dirt at the conclusion of the brief ceremony.

Rick’s parents said a few words about the son they would miss–had long missed. When the minister concluded the brief ceremony and Rick’s mom was weeping softly for her troubled son, Todd made his move. Snatching the urn from the ground, Todd tucked it beneath his arm like a football and took off with it.

The assembled senior citizens lacked the reflexes necessary to stop it. Todd’s grandparents yelled after him to stop. He yelled over his shoulder that his dad would never want to be buried in anyplace as dumb as a cemetery. Todd didn’t have a car. Everyone scurried to their cars and pursued him. All to no avail.

They have not heard from Todd since the memorial service. They called Haley, but she declined to comment on the matter. Joe, who was scheduled to visit a couple of days later, has not been in touch.

Rick’s parents have talked about what happened. There has been speculation that Todd rented a car and drove to Wisconsin to spread his dad’s ashes in the woods where he lived and died. However, Todd never saw the lot or the bunker and did not grow up in the Midwest. He knows Air Force bases here and overseas. How could he have made it to his father’s last home without help?

Did Haley and Joe assist in the “theft”? We do not know. They are adamantly silent.

Perhaps Todd still has his father’s cremains. If so, his grandparents would be happy if he returned even a portion of them so that they could bury Rick beneath the headstone they had ordered that now marks his death but not his final resting place.

There was talk of filing a complaint with authorities, but that would have been done to find the cremains. No one wanted to create a legal record of Todd’s actions that might mar his future. Who owns the cremains of a person survived by parents and a newly adult child that inherited nothing else from his father? Do the parents have the priority claim because they claimed their son’s body and paid for the cremation? Does the son, as heir, deserve to make the decision?

Rick’s parents feel like they have been deprived of “closure.” Closure is everything in modern times. It is the nearest thing to commercial failure for ending a once successful movie franchise. It is burial that usually gives closure when a child has been lost and the family has waited in vain for his return. We can mourn lost loved ones any place, but a grave offers expressions of grief a locus that the four winds or a box beneath another “lost” relative’s bed cannot.

The memorial service has meant the loss of another family member. Rick’s parents have invested many years in sustaining a relationship with a grandson who has finally forced them to admit that their son is lost to them and will likely never be found. Now he appears to be gone, too.

Rick’s mom has gone for some counseling, but she has given up on understanding what happened.

The two funerals are connected in my mind. We choose our friends but we don’t get to choose our family. Jane had very few comforts in childhood but manages to revere people who were charged with caring for her and let her down. Todd was surrounded by love but chose the one person who kept him at arm’s length when he felt his loyalty torn in two directions. Sometimes death means a quick transition to a new life for a loved one. Sometimes death fails to put a period to the sentence of a difficult life. Both funerals serve as reminders to me that whatever comes my way, I’ll handle it better if I keep my sense of humor.

You Gotta Ride the Rails, Little Lady

Grandpa Tom

Grandpa Tom

This week I had to cancel plans to visit my sister and friends in Washington, DC because my landlady has decided not to continue leasing my apartment. I have to move and the news has upset me. I know, I kicked cancer, but, seriously!!! I am tired. And I cannot help wondering why I never get the “test” in which you get a million dollars and the heavens watch to see if you will use some of it for charity.

Someone from among my friends suggested that I should have planned a trip to Disney world. She says that, if she kicked cancer, that’s where she would go.

I do not have children. I am not required by the natural law of making children’s dreams come true to visit the place. My family visited Disneyland for our last “family” vacation in about 1972. My sister and I were in high school. Grandpa Tom wanted us to see the West. He was 100% Irish, but he retired in Santa Fe, New Mexico with Grandma Elsie (50% Swedish/50% German) and he “went native.” He adopted the bolo tie. He explored every historical site in the area. He read the history. He had always told us stories of natives living in the western states while the women (sometimes Grandma Elsie all by herself) washed the dishes.

In my grandpa’s stories, the natives were smart and possessed a wonderful sense of humor. I am not sure where he learned his stories, but his father was a railroad engineer (as in a designer of the engine cars). They lived along the railroad tracks in many American cities. Perhaps his father told them. Perhaps he read them. After he moved to New Mexico there was little talk of Ireland. He identified with the native cultures. We think he adapted his “look” to blend in. He even started to refer to the Spanish that claimed the territory and subjected the native population to their rule “bloodless devils.”

He wanted my sister and me to take the train to New Mexico. We traveled by ourselves. Our parents loaded Danny into the backseat of the station wagon and set out by car while Kathy and I shared a two-bed sleeper compartment and dined in the diner car with its linen tablecloths and napkins.

(c) cardcow.com--Hope I don't offend by borrowing this photo.

(c) cardcow.com–Hope I don’t offend by borrowing this photo.

It was a wonderful experience. Having spent several preceding summers under the camp names Kettle and Little Pot at Norwesco, a Girl Scout camp in Wisconsin, with five cots in the tent, this was luxurious. We even had misadventures. We stored our Brownie Hawkeye camera in the tiny cabinet in our sleeper until our porter exclaimed that, “You don’t put your camera in the shoe box.” We were unaware of the fact that he could access shoes from the shoebox when outside of our room so that he could shine them. “Everyone knows you can’t leave your camera in the shoebox.” That was not true until after we rode the train. Grandpa had wanted us to see the world from a train and we learned many things from our experience. One thing that I learned was that a train ride can be marvelous! I loved the many luxuries and the stress-free travel.

Brownie Hawkeye Camera

Brownie Hawkeye Camera

We met up with rest of the family in Santa Fe. After an excellent exploration of the surrounding area, we set off in the station wagon for Arizona and then California. We visited with one of my dad’s friends from the Marine Corps. The two men posed gut-to-gut after deploring the way in which married life had softened them. At the last second one of them sucked it in and made his buddy look bad. I think it might have been my dad. He was a prankster.

We visited my mom’s dear friend who lived near the ocean. Her family seemed unfamiliar with Chicago. The kids kept asking us about Illinois where we “pushed cows and pulled pigs”–whatever that means. The culmination of our trip was a day at Disneyland.

I can remember every detail of the railroad ride to Santa Fe, but the only thing I can remember of Disneyland is Pirates of the Caribbean.

Fast forward about thirty years to the summer I took my niece and her son to Disney world. My plan was to rest in the hotel room. I was exhausted after a difficult project completed while I was sick with an upper respiratory infection. I was hospitalized the evening before my departure. I thought I was having a heart attack, but it turned out that my esophagus was seizing following weeks of coughing. I slept and read novels in the comfort of an air-conditioned room. Lisa and Ryan spent day and night in the park.

I only joined Lisa and Ryan one day. I paid for the lunch with the costumed cartoon figures and wanted to see Ryan’s reaction. I drove to the park and took a little train ride to the correct portion of the park. As I recall, I went to Frontierland. The heat was devastating for me. Then we ate lunch. I took pictures. When lunch was over the kids decided to continue on with their steady pace of rides and meals. I arranged to pick them up later at the park. Lisa asked me if I would mind taking back with me a bunch of souvenirs.

A storm was rolling in off of the ocean. I carried my umbrella, Lisa’s umbrella, a purse, a camera bag, and a bag of toys. At one point it did rain, and I was grateful to be under cover by that time. I joined the line for what I presumed was the little train that would take me back to the park entrance. I waited with lots of other people, but it never occurred to me that we were all waiting in the covered waiting area for anything other than the little choo choo. No one spoke with anticipation of a roller coaster–no one. When we finally entered a building the wood-slatted walls of the building reminded me of the train station. Then I turned a corner and saw the loading area for a roller coaster. It was the California Gold Rush ride.

A costumed employee who looked like Pecos Pete waved me toward the ride. I did not want to get on the ride. I explained my reluctance. I did not want to ride a rollercoaster. I was sick. I did not have anyone with me to share the ride. I was holding too many items to hang onto the handrail.

“There are only two choices,” he said. “Get on the ride or push and shove your way back out of here.”

It was, for me, an impossible choice. I refused to get in.

That’s when Pecos Pete snarled, “You gotta ride the rails, little lady!”

I got in and Pecos Pete locked me in. For the next five minutes or so I screamed as my behind slid from side to side in my seat. It was all I could do to hang onto the items in my arms. I did not have a free hand to stop the relentless motion.

I screamed until I coughed. Then I could not stop coughing.

When I got out of the rollercoaster someone had to grab my hand and drag me out. I looked like I had been dragged through the bushes backwards. A park employee came over and offered to escort me to the train ride when I could not stop coughing even after they got me some water.

The moral of the story is that you take a train when you want a scenic ride in comfort, but you never know when you buy your ticket if you’ll be taking a choo choo or riding the rails with Pecos Pete.

I may not like the fact that I will be moving in the next forty-five or so days, but I can complain all I want and I will still have to ride the rails. The thrills and chills are part of the price of the ticket in life.

I’ll keep you posted on how it turns out.

%d bloggers like this: