An improvised life

On July 4, 2004, I watched an only-in-Alaska sporting event called the Mt. Marathon race in Seward. Runners climb 3000 vertical feet in a mile-and-a-half, then turn around and scream down the mountain. The fastest runners average 12 miles per hour on the descent. To borrow from Woody in Toy Story , “That’s not running, that’s falling with style.” The mountain is mostly bare rock, and you can watch much of the action from the streets of Seward, where the race starts and ends. I watched runners stumble across the finish line mud-spattered, bloodied, gasping for air. I had to do the race. I just had to. The giddy thrill of my spectating experience instantly morphed into a delusion that I would run the race the following year. I wandered around Seward babbling my newfound ambition to anyone who would listen. Locals explained that I would literally have to win the lottery to get a race number. I was undaunted. Undaunted, that is, until I hiked the trail the next day. Pa

The past few weeks have been dominated by Stuff. We sent 300 pounds of Legos and other assorted goods to Alaska by barge, mailed three boxes of books and files, and filled five 50-pound suitcases to take advantage of Alaska Airlines’ free checked baggage for Alaskans. We got rid of even more stuff. We gave most of it away but there was one item I had a hard time letting go of – a Kenwood car stereo deck. It’s not that I wanted it, I just wanted money for it. The car stereo (upside down, sorry) Remember Shel Silverstein’s poem, Smart [i] ? I read it to Alder recently as he was learning about money, and I couldn’t help thinking I’d been the fool who turned her dollar into five cents. Yes, this has something to do with a car stereo. It starts last summer, when in my frenzy to leave Juneau I failed to ship my car to Seattle. In August, while driving a borrowed car, I rear-ended someone (a car dealer, it turned out). [ii] I again considered shipping my car down, but it w

In the first months of diagnosis and treatment, lists of questions littered my spiral cancer notebook in preparation for each medical visit. Questions like this: Can my specimens be saved for potential genetic, pharmacogenetic and pharmacogenomic studies? (Yes.) Should I take probiotics during chemo? (No.) When/how will we scan or otherwise gauge response to chemo? (MRI, halfway and after chemo.) How long between mastectomy and radiation of I don’t get tissue expanders? (about a month) What are the pros and cons of a skin-sparing versus regular mastectomy? (Use your imagination.) What is gated breathing? (a way to minimize collateral damage to the heart during radiation) When can I get my port removed? (Unfortunately I rushed this one.) Does L-glutamine help with Letrozole side effects? (Nah.) Why does radiation make you feel tired? (It kills tons of healthy cells.) And so on. Yesterday I saw my cardiologist (well, his physician’s assistant)

I attended my 25th high school reunion in Boston last weekend. High school for me did not involve pep rallies, parties, sex, drugs and rock-and-roll. Alas no, I attended an uber-academic, all-girls, 8-year prep school. I don't even try to describe to Alaskans the bizarre over-education I got, with highlights like mandatory declamations (that's speeches to you mere mortals) in Latin on Exelano Day. That would be March 4 -- a homophone for "march forth," or exelano in Latin. Of course. The reunion was intimate and inspiring. There was no scramble to compare notes about money and accomplishments, to flirt or one-up each other. I felt instead genuine warmth and openness in the vignettes and insights my classmates shared in our too-brief time together. One told me she felt lucky her husband turned out to be such a great match for her because she married him for all the wrong reasons -- she liked his smell and how hot he looked in his beach-style attire. One told me abo