An improvised life

The technician who did my initial mammogram last June looked familiar – she lives in our neighborhood and takes walks with her family. If she recognized me, she didn’t say so, a silence I appreciated as she coaxed my breasts and torso into a series of awkward poses. Finally, she asked me to have a seat in the inner waiting area, but to stay in the bathrobe in case the radiologist wanted more images. I waited, relaxed and comfortable, availing myself of the tea and magazines thoughtfully provided. When Lorie returned, she called me in for more images. This time we worked at squashing my armpit – site of the offending lump – into submission. Picture trying to turn your armpit inside out: it just wasn’t meant to work that way. Lorie was gentle and apologetic. And supremely poker-faced. My friend MK MacNaughton debuted an art show at the Juneau-Douglas City Museum a few weeks ago, and sent me a version of the exhibit printed on card stock. Called “Secrets,” the show features M

Cancer and cancer treatment somehow failed to make a real impression on me; assuming the cancer didn’t kill me, I figured after treatment I would return to my normal level of physical function and ability. But with last month’s hospitalizations, I experienced the new and unsettling reality of a possibly chronic condition affecting my ability to inhale, along with everything that requires a good solid breath of air. I felt vulnerable and disheartened, unsure of my recovery, overwhelmed by blood draws, recurring symptoms, and the accompanying pharmaceutical armada that arrived. Last Thursday, as I started the third week of my tapering dose of corticosteroids, the now-familiar chest pain returned. At radiation I asked the staff to take my vitals and sure enough, my blood pressure was down and my heart rate was up: pericarditis symptoms were back. By Friday I had taken another spin through the ER, which is a pretty handy one-stop shop when you need a quick echocardiogram,

A friend recently wrote sharing news of her partial victory in a difficult divorce. I sensed a wariness in her tone, which suggested no one greet this bit of good news with too much enthusiasm. I responded to her:   “In my experience of trauma and transition there are no big moments of closure, victory, or exultation. It is a process, tiring and winding, up and down, internal and external, non-linear. Sometimes others want to inject these artificial, wishful concepts – especially ‘closure.’ You are wise to quietly head off too much cheerleading from well-meaning friends and family who may not understand the ongoing nature of the process.” This circuitous, unpredictable trajectory has been the theme of the past month for me. I was cruising along, maybe 95 percent done with my cancer treatment, when an ominous chest pain set in on February 1. A cascading series of medical mishaps and other setbacks put me in the hospital for the better part of the month (that’s just an expre