Le Monde de Fromage de Kate

Yes, I have a STUPID subscription to Twittascope – a daily horoscope that tweets through my account (oddly, as though I post it – have never understood that part – but it causes greetings at odd times of day or night when I’m NOT around). I keep thinking it’s just an utter waste of space and time. Occasionally, however, it will say something that strikes me as amusing (mostly because of my complete lack of understanding of astrology; pretty much anything I do know I learned from Harvey Sid Fisher).

Yesterday, for instance, this tidbit was included in my horoscope: “Today’s Taurus Full Moon emphasizes your 4th House of Roots.” I thought this was HILARIOUS! Astrological insults to my substantial tookus AND my hair!

Today, though, I guess the planets aligned just so and Jupiter sat on Uranus or was in my 12th House of Creepy Stalkers – I cannot say for certain – but it was so spot on that it was SPOOKY:

You might know exactly how to improve your diet now, yet you aren’t telling anyone about your current realizations. Worse yet, you are tempted to do nothing, no matter how desperately the changes are needed. Fortunately, you are smart enough to remember the importance of taking care of yourself. Resist the waves of laziness and enlist the support of someone you trust.

I KNOW! In fact, I’m resisting the strong urge to CONFESS some of the truly frightening things I for no logical reasons have found recently NEEDED to be sprayed with whipped cream from a can. I think green smoothies are in order poste-haste!

I’ve been writing blog entries in my head (much to the delight of – em – the voices?). Perhaps, because, as a friend very diplomatically said to me, I’ve got too much time on my hands. Mind you, it’s only because I’ve been RESPONSIBLE and have been resting my lungs so that bronchio-spasms didn’t get out of control and that the consolidation would clear and the virus wouldn’t turn into some secondary infection. So, over a MONTH later, I find that I have briefly and tentatively left the house TWICE. (*Not counting a a couple days in Austin for the LIVESTRONG Challenge, but that’s a story for another time.)

It’s okay, I’m not complaining (at least not at the moment). I’m lucky it’s not worse; my oxygen saturation is always normal (even when I have secret pneumonia). It’s just that when you’ve got to stay relatively “quiet” and sometimes the meds make even gentle entertainment not very desirable, one has to assiduously work to control a brain, that I confess, runs on the edge.

So, all things considered, particularly at the moment, THE HORMONES… Oh – beg pardon – did I say, HORMONES????? Deal with it, squeamish ones. For such is life. FULL OF HORMONES!!! Bad ones, good ones, all sorts of HORMONES!!! Fine. Enough for now. hormones Okay, my most humble apologies – I shall set some things aside.

So we’ll hold off on mental illness, avulsion fractures (COOLEST NAME), crooked arms,@DeltaAssist reading and complimenting my blog (?), Mean Holidays and taking the “Challenge” out of the LIVESTRONG Challenge. And failed pies. I am putting all of those on the back shelf. Is that an expression? It SEEMS like it is an expression, so it must BE an expression, or it SHOULD be an expression.

Therefore, with no further ado, let’s talk about the important subject of THE BEST CHRISTMAS GIFT I’VE EVER SEEN ON THE COVER OF A CATALOG. It has been well established over the years that my mother receives pretty much every catalog imaginable. And I’ve written about some of the interesting consequences of this phenomenon.

Yet last week, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but THIS:

The only thing that could make it better is that these items, called “Belly Bumps,” are in the Museum Tour catalog. This catalog is chock-full of educational toys; there are categories for architecture, history, engineering, math, art and MONEY MANAGEMENT. This is the catalog that I saw Leif, who realizes he cannot receive every item on his extensive Christmas list, but who definitely wants “a couple of chemistry sets,” reading as though it were a secret, brand-new Harry Potter novel.

I could contend that I have a point. I MAY come up with one later (I may – don’t judge me). The truth at this moment is simply this: I want to run amok wearing a belly bump.

I cannot BELIEVE that I published the previous “post” – nay, one more attempt at the Great American Novella – in the wee hours of the same day I ended up with copious hematomas, unsightly bruises, a broken big toe and my right arm in a sling AND a splint. When my typing powers are back (ouch for now) I shall have to elaborate.

In the olden days I regularly posted to my blog even when my life had gone all pear-shaped. And the pear had gone rotten. And someone then stepped on the rotten pear. And then the rotten pear was tracked out onto the dirty streets and distributed to the vultures and ravens and those greasy mean birds whose name I forget.

I should make a disclaimer: I am pear-shaped. SO pear-shaped. And I take comfort in the fact that it’s more healthy than being apple-shaped. But one’s OWN shape is very different from the shape of one’s life.

Many things have happened and not happened. Now don’t think I’ve lost my profound edge. Many of these events, however, deserve to be revealed with lovely pictures and poetic words. And as my computer is… hibernating, I cannot do such entries justice. Oh – IT IS NOT DEAD! I just have jiggled the power cord input into a mess and haven’t yet had the nerve to attack the thing with jeweler’s screwdrivers. And a mallet. And unlike when my motherboard AND hard drive crashed, removing all the keys and cleaning out the feline hair with compressed air doesn’t seem like the answer.

And on a completely unrelated note, SHEESH! You could hang meat under this desk!!! I’m going to get hypothermia. (Stupid Windows machines.)

Let’s just cover something stupid I’ve done, then. There is ALWAYS a plethora of blunders from which to pick. And if my life’s misadventures entertain even ONE person, my mission is complete. Or something.

As evidenced by the fact that I have an ENTIRE category entitled “I fell down,” those who know me well are aware that I am capable an impressive variety of mishaps. This one is new. And for the sake of argument let’s rate things by the standard of “better than a poke in the eye” or NOT. This is NOT.

If you’ve not stopped reading already, I shall end the suspense and let you know what I did:
I lacerated myself (specifically the corner of my mouth) with food. Yes, FOOD.

In my defense, organic tortilla chips are DANGEROUSLY SHARP! And please consider the alarming sensation of the salsa that smothered the offending chip. ¡AY, CARAMBA! Nevertheless, I shall NOT write a strongly-worded letter to the organic tortilla chip people, because then they’d have to put a WARNING on the bag about the fact the chips should not be used as weapons, and it smacks of the kind of warning my mom and I were discussing the other day. She’d been reading the safety precautions for a hairdryer and one of the warnings was, and this is deadly serious: “DO NOT USE WHILE SLEEPING.” The thing is, they have to put these disclaimers because SOMEONE ACTUALLY DID WHATEVER THEY MENTIONED. So, no, I do not want to be the “BEWARE THE KNIFE-LIKE EDGES ON OUR CHIPS” person.

But here’s where I got into a quandary (mild, I will say, but a quandary nonetheless). This wound is NOT a cold sore or a fever blister. However, as it is right on the corner of my mouth, thus:

1. You cannot really bandage it.
2. Typical first-aid salves are not appropriate as they are not to be ingested – even accidently (in fact, POISON! POISON!!!).
3. The sore constantly gets wet because one must STILL eat and drink.
4. It still LOOKS like freakin’ herpes!

I tried a variety of remedies: Unrefined shea butter (lovely stuff, but better for HEALED wounds), Smith’s Rosebud Salve, a Burt’s Bees® “protective” product that evidently they don’t make anymore (never knew its intended use – the packaging is VAGUE, making me wonder now if it is intended for one’s – em – nether regions), Neosporin® Lip Health™ Overnight Renewal Therapy™, and no doubt I threw some Bag Balm® in there somewhere. I realized that over-moisturizing of the wretched sore was NOT really helping. I needed antiseptic. Or a face-lift.

I broke down and went to – you guessed it – the cold sore and fever blister section in the store. I shall restate that one. I sought out the CURES for cold sores and fever blisters in the store. I have NOT been suffering the “pain and itching associated with cold sores” so that wasn’t really any help; an analgesic wasn’t the point. I didn’t need the surprisingly expensive “quick” treatments with the “serious medicine.” And forgive me, “Herpecin-L” folks, but it seems like we’ve moved AWAY from naming the CURE after the DISEASE. At the very least you could append an “ANTI” to the beginning. I’m just not inclined to purchase, say, “Mysterious Rash or Boil” cream. I might be SLIGHTLY more likely to purchase “ANTI-Mysterious Rash and Boil” cream, but OY WEH! [DISCLAIMER: I have not purchased any variety of cream or salve in that category. Recently anyway.]

Anyhoo, this is what I finally chose:

It’s inexpensive, it’s antiseptic, and I smell faintly like a ninety-two-year-old dowager. More importantly, it seems to be working. So HUZZAH for Campho-Phenique®!

Ooooh. That reminds me of my fondness for Tiger Balm Sports Balm (ULTRA-strength non-staining!). I carry oodles of tension in my shoulders and neck and I’m crooked (my BODY is crooked, this is NOT a statement of my ethical propensities… oh, never mind). I used to slather the stuff on. Suffice it to say it’s STRONG-SMELLING. One might say über-fragrant, in fact. This was NOT a popular choice with my erstwhile spouse. I personally think that sleeping in the same bed with someone who reeks so strongly of sinus-clearing vapours might be a GOOD thing, but I guess NOT.

There is ANOTHER bird in the chimney. Or, perhaps, a completely DIFFERENT another bird. At least I know better than to attempt THIS again.

Sooooo, rest in peace my avian friend. What a week.

The first time I saw it I was startled. The second time I was a unnerved yet mildly amused. However, the subsequent five billion times I’ve seen this Facebook ad, I have been gravely concerned.

Speechless. Yes, speechless momentarily.

Phew! THAT’S over. And now, WHAT IN THE HELL?

Are you a Mom? Are you making a piddling to middling amount of money? YOU ARE IN LUCK!!! Evidently, Mass Murderers Deranged Serial Killers Educational Society of America has a SCHOLARSHIP for YOU! Oh – wait – maybe not… But your own personal psycho-killer may help you get you a well-deserved PELL grant!

Why is this funny? (Or utterly CREEPY?) Because, it seems, this is no joke. Like I said, I’ve spotted it MYRIAD times.

IS IT JUST ME?

One year ago I knew my Beloved Grandma would die today. I recognized the signs. By evening, when everyone else had left for the day, I was dosing her with the appropriate medications hourly. I intended to do it all night if needed. It was not necessary.

I’m still second-guessing myself; I find so many things that I could have done better – I could have made my Grandma more comfortable AND comforted. I know I must let it go, but the sound of a voice crying out in pain and confusion stays with you.

I sang to Grandma. I sang with more intensity than I think I’ve ever mustered; I sang with every fiber of my being. I wanted to sing the Pie Jesu from Fauré’s Requiem, but I couldn’t get my Mother’s voice out of my head. She sang it so beautifully at the funeral of Helen Ann Williams Pawlowski, one of the other dear Mothers of my childhood. And she told my wonderful Pamela, who always was a sister, really, that she was not an orphan; she said she’d be her Mother, too. You cannot sing when you remember that.

So I played it for her. And then I started In Paridisum on a loop. But you always think there is more time. I’m glad I had leaned down close to her ear and touched her face and given her my thanks, all my love and told her to go to my Grandpa, for he had waited almost sixty years for her.

Though I didn’t know it until a few minutes later, I heard my Grandma’s last breath, just as I walked from the room to get doses of medication. When I went back into the room less than a minute later, I stood there with my hands full of syringes of liquid medication – just stood for few minutes at the side of her bed. I thought she might start breathing again (it happens) but she didn’t. I went and put the syringes down and came back to check her pulse. 11:55 p.m. January 6, 2009. Time of death.

I called my Mother. She was not surprised. I called hospice. I received, by some miracle, a call from my friend Grettir before anyone showed up. Bless him for having miraculous timing, compassion and patience when my life falls apart.

I had the privilege of helping the hospice nurse prepare my Grandma’s body for the Funeral Home. With reverential care she pulled the access needle from the port and removed the other tubes, we took off the cannula, she cleaned my Grandma while I helped move her body, and finally we put on a clean gown on her. She had to dispose of all the medications and she left. The funeral home gentlemen came and before they zipped up the home-made quilted shroud, and though I knew she was gone, I kissed my Grandma on her cool, smooth forehead.

I might protest at this juncture in some other entry that I had a point. I’m not sure that I do, unless it is to say that some moments in your life will never be forgotten. And many of these moments are ingrained on my psyche forever.

I had entries written in my head for my Grandma’s birthday (in JULY) and for other occasions, but they never made it to the page. Well, the title did. For when I was alone a year ago tonight – so alone – after they took my Grandma away and my Mom left, I didn’t know what do to. I had decided to stay with Lucy, her cat. That’s when I looked at her things. That’s when I laughed at some of the “collections” and cried at the beautiful letters written back and forth between she and my Grandfather.

I put on her anniversary band – ten diamonds in a band of white gold. She bought it herself on her Fiftieth Wedding Anniversary and it was the ring I remembered her wearing the most in the last decade. She was a little embarrassed that she’d purchased it for herself, but we all reassured her that my Grandpa would have wanted her to have it.

The ring is mine now. At some point after her Birthday, I started wearing it not just regularly, but night and day. My LIVESTRONG™ and other wristbands are a fixture as well unless I’m showering or the like. The most recent, a colo-rectal cancer wristband sent to me from Germany – a gift from my beloved Soul Sister, Henrike, was purchased in my Grandma’s honour.

So day and night, I wear my Grandma’s ring. I sleep with the diamonds on, because I cannot forget one year ago tonight. Nor can I forget a lifetime in which my beautiful Grandma was always, ALWAYS there for me. I will love you forever, Grandma.

A year ago today I was sitting with two hospice nurses (one of them was also a registered nurse) in my Grandma’s bedroom. She was sitting on the edge of the hospital bed that had been delivered earlier (which the delivery man so kindly switched about with me AFTER the frame was put together so it faced the “right” direction). My mom was in Kansas. My uncle was on his way from Washington State.

One year ago today the nurses were asking her questions. She could answer some. I helped with others. She could scarcely make a mark on a piece of paper any more unless we gave her a marker instead of a pen; she was so frustrated.

One year ago today I wanted to be able to tell them there was no time. While the nurses were wonderful – knowledgeable, kind, honest, comforting – I sat wishing there had been time to say, “THERE IS NO TIME. She will not be alive by the time the musical thanatologist can be here. She may not make it to the day that she could have a bed bath. She won’t be able to speak – literally speak – to the counsellor. Ah well.

One year ago today is somewhat a blur, though some moments have stayed stayed with me with such clarity that I feel like it was yesterday. I remember rushing through the drive-through at Wendy’s because it’s so close to the condo and I’d only had coffee that day. I remember finding bedding for the hospital bed and thinking that I was making the bed in which she would die. I remember that the weather started out clear but SO cold. I helped the medical supply delivery man carry things up the stairs. He kept saying I needn’t help, but I said I didn’t mind. I needed to do something.

One year ago last night I had stayed at the hospital after Grandma was admitted after that endless day in the ER on January 2, 2009. That was after she’d been on the floor for possibly hours. I was supposed to take her to an appointment and she didn’t answer the phone to tell me when. I think I knew on some level that she was NOT just getting ready. I don’t think I didn’t wanted to call the paramedics again. I think I knew it was the end. I should have… I should have done many things. But I must lay that to rest. I know I must.

One year ago yesterday: All day in the ER. Scans, blood tests, more scans (some I kept saying, “she’s just had those”), more tests… Calls to her oncologist. The first time in my life I’d EVER seen my Grandmother confused (she was completely with it even when in renal failure months before that). And late that night, the doctor and intern asked me to come out and speak to them. Then they thought better of it. They came into the room and I stood across my Grandma’s bed from them while they explained that there was unusual and horrifically rapid metastasis from the lymph nodes (about which we knew) to her lungs and to her brain. I remembering covering my mouth with my hand; I don’t know why. What could I say?

One year ago last night the doctor and the intern said that her oncologist said that she could have part of the transfusion that had originally been planned for the day if she wanted it. It was established that it might make her feel a little better (and somehow they let me know that it was not cruelly life-sustaining). She said she’d take it. Then we waited, again, for another doctor to admit her. I had to step into the hall and called to tell my Mom that she had to come home right away to see her Mother before she wouldn’t know she was there.

One year ago last night SO many calls then and the next day in the halls of the hospital. One so that my meds could be brought so that I could stay with her that night. Many others to family, to her church, to ask my older sister which hospice she’d been researching. I was on the phone, huddled against the wall, weeping – I don’t know who I was talking to – and I remember one of the social workers (was it a nurse?) coming by, putting their hand on my shoulder for a moment, and walking on.

One year ago today this morning, the oncologist, wearing his University of Utah Hoodie, stood in the hall with me while they were x-raying an injury of her arm. The process was hurting her. And he just sensed what he could say to me. He said, slightly exasperated, “What are they going to do if it IS broken?” He told me that he was really surprised about the metastasis. He’d seen her on New Year’s Eve; she’d walked right into the office. He thought there MIGHT be spots on her lungs. He studied the films (which were a few weeks old) at length. But he also knew she had had pneumonia.

One year ago this morning he said, “She has a few days to a week.” “Probably closer to a few days, as she’s not eating [hadn’t eaten in the ER and had only had a popsicle in that day].” Then he walked into her room, told her she looked horrible (which made her smile and almost laugh). He said, “Let’s get you out of this horrible place. We could radiate the brain cyst, but I don’t think it would give you much. I think you’re very, very tired and want to go home.” She nodded.

One year ago today, because of some blessed miracle, bureaucracy took a back seat. The necessary equipment was arranged for delivery. It was acknowledged that I could stay the nights with her, so the hospice team was contacted and scheduled to arrive. I barely had time to get back to her condo and figure out where to put the equipment before she was transported home.

One year ago today my Beloved Grandmother came home to die. And one year ago today I promised her she would not be alone.

It has been, speaking precisely, an age and a half plus a freckle past a hair since I posted a “Fact of the Day.” Oh, I still get them. But they repeat. And repeat. Or they come through while I’m in the midst of the very important things I do… you know – those things I do… And thus I do not always read them. But today, I was treated to this:

There’s something inherently funny about the phrase “suckled by goats.” Is, too! Okay, to ME then. ENJOY!

In short, please wear yellow and think pink!  Do the first in support of the important cancer awareness, recognition, fund-raising and remembrance activities taking place all around the World for LIVESTRONG™ Day.  The second I’ll talk about tomorrow (in the meantime, please visit the Pink for October website).

As for my LIVESTRONG™ Day activity, I am, even at this late (early) hour not certain I can make it happen.  I will post more information later today.  BUT, never fear, there’s always someone who’s on the ball.  If you visit the LIVESTRONG™ DAY 2009 page you can find an activity in your area in which you can participate.

Lastly, please make a difference with this quick and painless activity: Sign the “Healthcare Reform Now” petition.  Together we can encourage Congress to pass life-saving health insurance measures that would protect cancer survivors and others.  As a special bonus, you can try and find ME (or, rather, a portion thereof) in the photograph on that page (and, evidently, a number of others – I’m the LIVESTRONG™ “Find Waldo,” it seems).