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

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

I met a woman a few years ago who had suffered a severe concussion that resulted in brain injury. About six months after her injury, she updated friends on her condition. Her window of cognitive capacity had increased to four hours; after that, she said, she was physically and mentally wiped out. A previously busy and involved working mother, she now rested most of the time, and had to make constant tradeoffs. For example, if she balanced her checkbook or called a friend, would she be able to manage the next part of her day?   “My doctor describes my cognitive capacity like a gas tank,” she wrote. “Mine is smaller than it used to be, or it burns up more gas to do the same tasks I used to be able to do several of.” I was almost 18 months out from John’s death when I received her update, and I recognized myself in her description. I was fighting to maintain my involvement in the world around me, but felt increasingly unable to give my children what they needed, unable