Le Monde de Fromage de Kate

Sarah turned seventeen on November 4th. I sincerely do not know how that happened. Time travel? Yes – time travel and/or the bending of the space-time continuum in a VERY scientific yet devious way. We didn’t notice until it was too late.

One of her birthday gifts was a brown, fuzzy scarf (the stretchy kind that you can make into a hood or a tube top or a Superman cape – does anyone actually do those things with it?) My Father looked at it and said, “Is that a new wig?” We found this most amusing. In the first place, Sarah doesn’t wear a wig. She has some hair pieces (braids and falls) that she can stick under a hat for fun, but she mostly sticks to do-rags and hats (the Guinness Book should probably take a look at her collection of head coverings – she’s well on her way to a record). Besides, take a look at the scarf as a “wig”:

Speaking of Ms. Sarah – I believe we are required to call her that now – she is a young lady and WELL past marriageable age – in this state, anyway (don’t get me started) – she is doing well. She is responding very positively to her chemotherapy; recent scans showed that many of the tumors in her neck and chest had decreased in size. All in all, the doctors are very pleased with the progress of her treatment.

Her high school paper wrote an article on her recently, Cancer Hits Home (no online link, sorry), perhaps incited by the fact that she is the only one at the school who can wear a hat – basically the whole notoriety of being bald, I think, but it was very well done. One of my favorite things that she said was:

When I go to Primary Children’s they make everything really fun. They have everything there. If you’re gonna get cancer, that’s the place to go.

I personally think Primary Children’s Medical Center should consider that as a possible slogan for their oncology department.

Sarah also said:

Life’s life. Life’s fun.

That’s a rather decent mantra, I must say: life’s life – life’s fun.

Happy Fortieth Wedding Anniversary, Mom and Dad!

Married September 10, 1965

I should say “Part DUH”; that would more appropriately reflect my utter cleverness in this scenario. Well, I did promise a sequel to this entry. I can tell that everyone has waited with bated breath, unable to be patient – they are CLAMORING AND BREAKING DOWN THE DOOR SHOUTING, “WHERE OH WHERE IS THAT OTHER BLOG ENTRY YOU PROMISED??????” Sorry – was that SARCASM????? Ah well, you’re getting it anyway.

I should say that there are things in my life about which I am an inadvertent purist. I had never plucked or waxed my eyebrows until last summer, for instance. They aren’t dark, and it just never seemed like a huge necessity. Besides, I have a great desire for symmetry in certain situations and yet I seem to be compromised in this respect. If I try to trim a photo by hand, for instance, I’ll cut one side, notice the other is uneven and cut it. But I’ll cut a little too much off and then have to go back to the original side and trim that, too (but I’ll overdo that slice as well). Pretty soon, the subjects of the photo are nigh unto headless and a two inch by three inch wallet-sized photo is now about an inch square. So I was hesitant to attack my eyebrows. I was always told that if you were too enthusiastic in this pursuit that you’d end up without eyebrows and they WOULDN’T GROW BACK. My childhood piano teacher, Theatis Barnett, was a prime example. Her natural eyebrows were GONE. She drew alternates in, but she placed them a little too high up on her forehead. Thus, she always looked slightly surprised. Also, she had orange plastic couches upon which she threw covers of pink faux fur and she often wore a pink cap (covering her VERY interesting jet-black/purple dye job) that had feathers all over it. But that’s a story for another time.

When Charles and Ashley asked me to officiate their wedding last year (leading me to inadvertently tell a number of people that “I was going to marry my brother”) I decided that I’d try to be a presentable as possible. I haven’t regularly worn makeup for years, for example. I spent hours and hours in high school “farding” (sorry, Grettir) as well as using my life-time’s quota of hair spray in order to accomplish such coiffure feats as the “newscaster hairdo” and the “bang claw.” One quarter at University, when I had an aerobics class first thing and a German class immediately thereafter, I discovered that no one noticed if I was made-up or not. Moreover, I didn’t make my self-concept any worse. Gradually, I’ve ended up only wearing makeup for performances (acting, singing) and very special occasions. Perhaps the fact that the music faculty always said things like, “You clean up SO well,” at various jury performances and concerts should have given me pause, but I decided that a low-maintenance approach to my daily ablutions was definitely my style. I stopped trying to fight the wildness of my hair, my legs haven’t been shaved in probably fifteen years (but one must shave their arm pits because they SMELL better) – I guess I do have a little hippy-granola-earth chick in me (complete with long skirts and Birkenstocks®, at various points).

Anyhoo, like I said, when Charles and Ashley asked me to officiate their wedding, I definitely wanted to detract as little as possible from the elegance of the occasion. And since there were a few people taken aback by the idea of ME as the officiant – my grandmother said, “Will I have to hide under my chair?” I thought I’d do what I could. Tangentially, I must ask: What exactly did my grandmother think I would do? She has seen me perform many times and be poised and graceful and certainly appropriate. I wonder if she had visions of me gyrating starkers in front of the audience and loudly singing, “You’re MARRIED, you’re MARRIED,” while beating the bride and groom with switches of sacred herbs and instructing the congregation to chant “be happy and [selectively] fertile” in Latin. I’ll never know – I didn’t want to ask.

But as I am an Ordained Clergy Person as opposed to an wizened male English Vicar, I thought I should be as kempt as possible. I went to a salon with Sarah where we had our hair trimmed. She also had her eyebrows waxed, and it got me thinking (about vizened male English Vicars, apparently). The next day, I went to another salon. I had them cut long layers into my hair and had my eyebrows waxed for the very first time. I must admit – they did look much better. HOWEVER – and this is perhaps why I cling to some of my inadvertent purist behaviors – there were repercussions. Now wayward eyebrows grow in places they’d never sprouted before. These errant brows, if I didn’t pluck them and have periodic salon waxings, would probably cover the entirety of my eyelids. I would be “Yeti-eyed” as opposed to “doe-eyed.” Not attractive.

But I was going to talk about my virgin hair. Since I’d never dyed it before, it seemed like I should wait until a special occasion to do it for the first time. So when my hair was short for the first time since childhood (and secretly I’d noticed that most of my natural highlights were now in the BACK of my hair – which I cut off – and the front was becoming gradually more dull and darker with a few gray interlopers) it seemed like the right occasion. I did ask the advice of the beauty supply purveyor (thank god) about dye types and colours. Had I not, I would probably have ended up “Annie” red or “Munsters” black or a combination thereof. I didn’t want to end up dying my body, too, so I’d concocted a protective barrier of plastic wrap, athletic tape (not as sticky as the medical bandage tape). It was very complex (after all, they don’t call me “Kate, The Safety Dog” for NOTHIN…). I mixed up the dye and the developer (or the transformer of the magic colour crÚme or whatever it’s called) and it looked disappointingly wan and pale. I began to wonder if I shouldn’t have ignored the advice of the beauty supply professional and used something bolder. But after I’d donned yards and yards and yards and yards of plastic wrap and athletic tape – elaborately fashioned into a protective shell that probably would work as a space suit with only the addition of breathing assistance, the dye mixture had turned EXACTLY the colour of squid ink – I kid you not. I was a tad taken aback by this, but I soldiered on. I applied the goo with latex gloves (I’ve spent enough time in medical settings to know the many uses of these handy implements and how to take them off so you get the contaminated inside of one inside the other with them both inside out in a neat, clean little package). Since I had “virgin” hair (the perms of my childhood having long ago grown out and having never dyed it – yes, I have born-again “virgin” hair) I was told the colour would take very well. Therefore I was paying strict attention to the instructions and the time one should leave the dye. I set a timer and sat down on a shielding blanket of clean garbage bags to watch TV. I was watching a show on TLC (The Learning Channel) about human “mating” and sex and the neurological and physiological connections that can be studied and measured. Don’t be mistaken – it was VERY scientific (and they had managed to get wee little cameras into VERY interesting spaces I would have thought unlikely if not impossible). I should have been able to hear the timer buzz from where I was – seriously. After a while, it occurred to me that it seemed like it had been long past time for the alarm to go off. I went to check; it had indeed ended WHO KNOWS how long before. So after being vain about my hair getting darker in front, I ended up with darker hair EVERYWHERE. I reiterate: Don’t dye your hair for the very first time SOLO in the middle of the night.

I guess that’s not really a very interesting tale after all. Especially since – IT IS JUST HAIR. Oh – we did manage to get almost everyone in the family to add purple highlights to their hair (at Sarah’s request – it is her favorite colour and violet is the colour for lymphoma ribbons and whatnot). They don’t really show too much in my hair. Even in Sarah and Shirleen’s blond hair it isn’t THAT obvious. When I locate them, I’ll post the pictures of the temporary mauve hair color (that washes right out) that we purchased for the chicken people who didn’t want to have semi-permanent streaks. My Father looked like Mister Heat Miser.

Sarah’s second chemo infusion was Monday. She had an allergic reaction to one of the drugs (luckily she could still breathe) so she also got a big ol’ dose of antihistamine. Having had a number of such antihistamine doses myself (although I usually was privileged to receive an epinephrine shot at the same time – UP down – UP down – EEEEEEEEEEEEEH!) I can vouch for the festiveness of that experience. Apparently it’s still necessary that she receive that medication, so next time it’s in the mix she will get the antihistamines up front. HUZZAH!

Here are a couple of pictures, one taken just recently and one from last year I happen to run across. Red suits her.

Cheongsam Blond

Maryland, 2004

Short Hair – Bare Feet

Utah, 2005

And I don’t want my OTHER niece to feel left out, so here is a recent picture of her (still wearing her mother, I guess you could say?):

Paisley & The Green Dog with Headless Ashley

Kansas, 2005

Goodbye, Janis Joplin.

Sarah had her first chemotherapy today (yesterday, technically).

So Far So Good

Her doctors at Primary Children’s staged her definitively with Stage II Hodgkin’s Lymphoma (with an “A” rating – she can have outpatient chemo, etc.) after the final CT and gallium scan. This means no cancer in the pelvic region, no cancer in the bone marrow and none in the liver and/or spleen. She has significant fast-growing growth in the “mantle” region (chest, neck, etc.), so she couldn’t be staged at Stage I.

On Friday her hematologist/oncologist, Dr. Afify (very cool name, I must say), said that she needed to cut off her very long hair now, so that it wouldn’t become an infection risk as it fell out. I understand why she made this request (even though Sarah had wanted to hang on to her tresses as long as possible); Sarah has TONS of thick, long hair. Since she has a Central Broviac® Catheter, she cannot shower. She has to bathe piecemeal, you might say, and Shirleen (her Mother) and I have been washing her hair in the sink. Shirleen took to calling the extensive mass of sopping hair “the sweater.” I’d have to concur with that designation. Shorter hair is much easier to care for in this situation (and, not to put too fine a point on it, probably less traumatic to lose in chunks).

I had promised Sarah that when she had to cut her hair that I would cut the required ten inches off of mine to donate to Locks of Love. Sarah wanted to hold on to her big braid of hair (cutting out the “middle man,” you might say), and as she is her Mother’s daughter (Shirleen can make ANYTHING), she figures they can somehow integrate it into a hat or hairpiece of some variety.

Therefore, Saturday was salon day. Shirleen and my Mother and Sarah had pedicures (which I like to call “pedigrees,” for some reason – I did work in Genetic Research family studies for five years…). Sarah, Salon Queen du Jour, got to dictate the vivid purple nail polish.

Then we went for the dramatic SEVERING OF THE LOCKS. Lest you think I’m being ESPECIALLY over-dramatic, I should point out that Sarah has had long, long hair for years (and considered it her crowning glory). Add to that the trauma of the cancer and the treatment and you name it – this haircut was going to be a big deal. As for me, I haven’t had short hair since I was in grade school. (Okay – I know this process is NOT about me – but it is my blog, so I feel obliged to include some personal explanatory information.) This was a time in my life when Shirleen, with her long, blond mane was “pretty” and I, with my “rat’s nest” of short hair – that’s what a barber called it (and this was during my ultra shy period) – was “cute.” I, as children are wont to do, thought this meant that Shirleen was pretty and I was ugly. This upsets my Mother to this day, because she certainly didn’t MEAN it that way. But she does take SOME credit for the somewhat horrific incarnations that my hair went through when I was a child, since she cut it most of the time. She also tried to even out the wave/curl with perms (this never worked) and in most of my school pictures there are two plastic barrettes (bows, dogs, flowers – you name it) framing my face. As a matter of fact, she and I were talking about my scary hair and she pointed to a little framed trio of pictures – my sisters and I circa 1978 – and said, “And that was a GOOD hair day for you!”

I must also point out that my family found this very picture

of Ramona Quimby in one of those Scholastic book fliers and tormented me with the rather startling resemblance between the two of us. It’s rather astonishing that the original image still exists, tack holes, rips, tape and all. This is owing to my parents’ GIANT BULLETIN BOARD OF DOOM (but that’s definitely a story for another time). Oh, stupid childhood trauma. I won’t talk just now about the other equally tragic incarnations that my hair went through after I, admittedly a tad late in my life, achieved coiffure autonomy. Perhaps THAT’S a story for another time. Then again, it’s just hair (though MINE has tried, on more than one occasion, to KILL ME – this is the gods’ honest truth – the hair gods, I guess).

Here is the sweater – still damp, the twenty-five pound anaconda that they severed from Sarah’s head, and an “after” picture:

She, of course, instantly looked absolutely DARLING, though she suffered from frustrating light-headedness as a result of losing the “sweater.” Shirleen looks great, too.

She now has a mod “do” that is disconcertingly reminiscent of my Mom’s good sixties hair (believe me, there is a distinction to be made there). Then me – here’s before and the aftermath:

The stylist cut four ponytails off to get the optimum donation. Then she just went for it. She texturized, she made some of the ends “piecy,” she even used that instrument that has all the tiny razors in it. These are processes I have only experienced vicariously when watching Nick Arrojo. The result seemed to get high marks from others, but it is a little shocking to look in the mirror and see just a little bit of the “rat’s nest” child. Really, in the scheme of things, it IS JUST HAIR. And I looked in the mirror that night and sometimes thought, “That’s fun hair.” Then I would catch a glimpse at another moment and think, “OH MY HELL – IT’S HALEY MILLS IN THE PARENT TRAP!” Another glance, it would be fine. Then, “Blessed Saints of Tresses and All That is Holy, It’s THE OTHER HALEY MILLS FROM THE PARENT TRAP!” Truthfully, I’ve nothing about which to complain. It’s not as though I got my hair done in a cabin at summer camp by my newly-found twin using craft scissors; I received a very nice haircut. It’s the shock, perhaps, of having the little ringlets shorn from my neck with CLIPPERS (BAAAAAAAAAAAAH!).

ENOUGH! I’ll say it again – it’s just hair. HOWEVER, there will be a sequel to this entry that has to do with interesting experiments in hair colour (Sarah dictated purple highlights for ALL, for one thing). Mostly, I have to confess what happens when one decides that, though they have NEVER had their hair dyed and they have CERTAINLY never dyed it by THEMSELVES, that they should go solo with permanent hair colour in the middle of the night.

But seriously, I could and should just say over and over again, “Sarah, you ARE SuperGirl! I’m so proud of you!!!”

Now I’d BETTER go bald.

Sarah is my sixteen-year-old niece. This was her response to someone’s comment about the oodles and oodles of hats and scarves acquired for her at the Park City Outlet Mall. You see, she has just been diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. Wednesday, she had various tests and examinations all day at Primary Children’s Medical Center. Thursday she had a biopsy, had a tunnelled central catheter implanted, and had two bone marrow samples extracted – one at the cheek-top of each “glutei” (that is the technical term, isn’t it?). She spent the year in Maryland with one of my brothers and his wife for the unique experience and “for fun.” Unfortunately, she spent a percentage of that time being poked, prodded, tested and having to carry around fecal samples at Johns Hopkins (lucky to be there, though) – you name it, because 1) she has Iron deficiency anemia, but cannot absorb iron supplements and must have bi-yearly transfusions, which it turns out could be a side-effect of her diagnosis of 2) Ankylosing Spondylitis, an autoimmune disorder/type of arthritis, and 3) in the last few months she has developed an alarming number of fast-growing “polyps” or “nodules” in her lymph system, which led to the diagnosis of Hodgkin’s Disease.

She amazes me and I want to applaud her. Not only has she been a real trooper through it all, she has the intelligence, wit and strength to still be, if you’ll pardon my saying so, a big smart ass. You go, Girl! I love you!

So many anniversaries today. Sixty years ago today the Enola Gay dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima. One year ago today, young Simon died (see “Perspective,” “Goodnight Sweet Prince,” and “I Have Learned What It Means to Wear Yellow“). I have been sitting and looking at the sunlight filtering through the leaves of the huge English walnut trees in the front yard and thinking about Simon. I’ve also been thinking about illness and death and those who I love so much. Some are going through Hell. We need to learn to go through Hell and still laugh, I guess.

Simon at his “Celebration of Life Party” on July 1, 2004.
He and his family are laughing at
“Marcus, The Funny Man Who Does Tricks.”

This sunny day is for you, Simon. I hope Japan is also sun-drenched today. Finally, this light is for you, Bean. Thank you for the many luminous days you gave to me. Wow – it has been four “official” years and we had an entire decade together (more even – three “legally sanctioned” and seven, shall we say, “creatively endorsed” and four or so years before that during which I was privileged to know you. This year…who knows where to put that one – I could come up with some suggestions but they would, no doubt, be unthinkably ribald). See? I’m learning to still laugh even if I cannot have eleven or perpetuity. Happy Anniversary.

Glen Orrin Richardson

November 5, 1957 – July 29, 2005

Glen battled with cancer many years ago and was required, because of life’s always ironic and sometimes cruel humor, to face it again (starting three years or so ago – one month after he was remarried). Exactly twenty days before he died Glen signed off an email to me with, “Love and peace to you, too, Glen.” I can’t envisage a better elegy for him, so:

Love and Peace to You, Glen.

I’ll miss you, you towering Basso Profundo (furthermore, such a “profound” bass in myriad ways). I am so gratified that you left this life with the love, peace and support you most richly deserved.

Here are Glen’s Obituary and his last words.

I had always intended this blog to be utterly and wholly ridiculous and I vowed that it would contain nothing profound, nothing too personal and certainly nothing of great importance. I’ve already broken that promise more than once, though I’m not sorry about every infraction (see I Have Learned What It Means to “Wear Yellow”). However, I think I do regret the previous entry a little. But I’m going to leave it, anyway. Everyone who knows me is already aware that I’m a crazy lady (or a crazier lady) and those who don’t know me probably don’t and shouldn’t care too much. I’ll just say this: If you don’t want to read an entry that may cause you to cringe and shudder and cry, “Too much information! Too much information,” you may want to skip the entry below.

Then again, you might want to read The Cookie Incident. It’s a little funny. And the Down The Stairs episode is somewhat amusing, too.

And here’s something that could make ANYONE feel better. Here is my youngest nephew, Anders. This picture was taken almost two months ago when he still looked a little like Winston Churchill:

Anders Christian Brondum
Born December 23, 2004

The Right Honourable Sir Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill
November 30, 1874 – January 24, 1965

See?

Please Wear Yellow with Lance! Buy a Live Strong Wristband benefiting the Lance Armstrong Foundation and show your support for cancer survivors, cancer education and cancer research.

I wear yellow; the Live Strong wristband was my very best gift this Christmas.

Young, YOUNG Dad

My father survived “cancer-free” for 14 years after second stage prostate cancer (and after a radical prostatectomy when he was only in his 40’s). But that cancer has suddenly returned and has inundated his bones. “Opportunistic Cells,” they call them. Indeed – they are absolutely everywhere.

So, I wear yellow. I wear it in fond memory of Helen Pawlowski and Joan Koralewski, other dear mothers of my growing up, who died too, too soon of merciless organ cancers. I wear yellow for Pamela and Janae (and their families) – my “brat pack” sisters forever and always. I never take the time to tell them how much I love them.

Simon Craig Vodosek
May 17, 1997 – August 6, 2004

I wear yellow in memory of Simon Vodosek, an 8-year-old boy who spent half of his short life with neuroblastoma and still managed to teach and enrich the lives of everyone he met (and continues to do so with his legacy). I wear yellow for Mary, Markus and Miriam, Simon’s family. They are truly “survivors.” Mary sent emails to ME during the time Simon was dying, concerned about how I was doing.

The Gorgeous Bride and Her Father

I wear yellow in memory of Laurie Walker, mother to my sister-in-law, who made every single one of her only daughter’s wedding invitations by hand and helped choose the gorgeous crimson wedding dress – yet she could not be at the wedding because of her disease. Nevertheless, her presence touched everyone there; the officiant (okay – me) only got through one line of the service before crying. Laurie died on September 17, 2004, almost exactly a month after the wedding, having survived eight long years of leukemia/lymphoma. I wear yellow for Ashley and her family, who managed to celebrate and grieve, simultaneously, with such dignity. I CAN wear yellow because of Ashley. Thank you for the bracelet, Ashley.

And, yes, I wear yellow in memory of Mister Rogers, the most gentle, honest and kind icon of my childhood, who died on February 27, 2003 after battling stomach cancer. “Mister” Fred Rogers supported my creativity, my whimsy and my love of music. Most importantly, Fred Rogers taught everyone, by perfect example, and best said in his own words, “I feel the greatest gift we can give to anybody is the gift of our honest self.”

This Logo Goes On T-Shirts Every Christmas
(Hopefully with more discovered genes added)

I wear yellow, also, in hope and support of Dr. Lisa Cannon-Albright, director of Genetic Epidemiology at the University of Utah and former director of the now defunct Genetic Research (where I worked for five years). She was one of the key players in the discovery of the two first breast cancer genes (BRCA1 and BRCA2), a prostate cancer gene (p16) and several others. Now, in what could be the ultimate definition of irony, she suffers from breast cancer herself. And I wear yellow to support the work that she and her colleagues around the world (some of them my dear friends) do every day to decipher the mysteries of cancer and other diseases.

But mostly, and foremost, with all my heart, I wear yellow in support and love of my father and in the hope that he survives enough of the future to do all the things he cares for most.

My Father Doing What He Loves Best

(Being The World’s Best Grandpa)