An improvised life

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

I'm thrilled my surgeon was able to cut me open and remove my cancer, but thanks be to God for my physical therapist for repairing the damage. Thanks to her, my arm motion is greatly improved, and with it my outlook on life. I had my radiation simulation, which is when they do a CT scan to determine exactly how they’ll line up your body for radiation, and tattoo little dots on your chest to use as guidelines for each session. The plan is for me to start in two weeks (they’re busy), and to have 33 treatments, the last five of which are a “boost” to the scar area, which is apparently especially vulnerable. The point of radiation, and of all of it, is to try to eradicate any cancer cells that may be lurking in my body. Cancer cells are tenacious, and even when you poison them with chemotherapy, cut them out with surgery, nuke them with radiation, there is still a decent chance they’ll sneak back to life at some unknown future time. Hence the fourth prong of the attack: I’

I’ve been corresponding with a friend who, like me, experienced traumatic loss. When she returned to her church, she said, people gave her forlorn looks and asked, "How are you doing?" While everyone meant well, it was stressful. Finally, someone came up to her with a smile and said, “We’re so glad you’re here.” That felt better.       I can relate, I told her. Not long after John died, I was invited to a holiday party. I wanted to go – I wanted to be surrounded by warm laughter and smiles, to soak in the good energy. But I dreaded the pitying looks and meaningful “How are yous.”  Finally, I got a marker and an 8.5” by 11” piece and wrote, “I’m ok, thanks! Can we talk about you?” I taped the paper to my chest and went to the party.   It worked. I saw people catch my eye, begin to assume crestfallen demeanor, then take in the sign and – smile! I had an evening of laughter and escape, and didn’t have to talk about myself.   One of my mother’s key pieces of