Le Monde de Fromage de Kate

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!

DISCLAIMER: I have chosen to maintain the anonymity of each “she” in the following quotations. And NO – they are NOT all me. Perhaps I didn’t say a single ONE of the following. (Okay – I did NOT say them ALL – half, maybe, but not ALL.)

While perusing:

“One day,” she said wistfully, “I’m going to buy a big ol’ larynx.”

A few days ago:

“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “I guess you just have to pee every day and hope for the best.”

Earlier tonight:

She replied wearily, “What she really needs is a poop shoot.” Long pause, blank stares – “Well, that IS the technical term for it!” With this the children concurred.

Lastly, a classic:

“I just want to rip those pants right off of him!” she said angrily.

CONFESSION: I confess: These quotes, even in their original contexts, were not necessarily any more coherent.

This contention would be more aptly supported if I could remember the precise discourse resulting from an advertisement on some “family” channel for a piece of schlock Romeo and Juliet/West Side Story remake involving two families with competing pizza parlors (I kid you not). I claimed that one really CANNOT remake Romeo and Juliet; Shakespeare “borrowed” the storyline, after all, so any retelling of it now is just a cheap West Side Story rip-off (West Side Story, admittedly, was a very clever update, but even it was taken from the classic story that was based on a archetypal legend in the first place).

“Yes,”replied my sister, “You really couldn’t remake West Side Story unless you did it with dogs and cats.”

She went on to explain that members of the family had actually discussed this “non-traditional” casting recently, trying to decide whether it was more fitting for the cats to be the “Jets” and the dogs to be the “Sharks” or vice versa. We ultimately agreed that cats should play the “Sharks” and dogs should portray the “Jets.” Then we started thinking about the “casting pool” possibilities within our own troupe of family pets. MY cats won the female leads (Fiona, the lovely ingénue, Maria, and BeBe as the feisty Anita – she is the mezzo, after all). I believe we decided this after imagining what a splendid job they’d do of “I Feel Pretty.”

You may find this discussion already disquieting enough. Trust that instinct. But we persisted in setting up the casting and imagining the choreography for the musical numbers. The culminating moment, I believe, was when I said, “But I just COULD NOT cast Zeke as Tony.” Even we felt a little ridiculous then. (BUT any discriminating person would have to agree with me, as Zeke is a three or four pound poodle – a DORKY poodle at that. It just would NOT work.) We need more dogs.

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 give up. Beautiful Kenji, my 2003 Opal Silver Blue Metallic Honda Civic Hybrid, shall henceforth be known as “The Deli Sedan.”

One might think that I’d not fallen down or had any other sort of unfortunate mishap since May 3, 2005. Rest assured, this is NOT the case. I am covered with my accustomed number of bruises (mysterious and otherwise). I broke a glass last week. On another occasion I broke a plate (A CORELLE® plate – “break resistant” my ass – I believe that “break-resistant” by their definition means, “Will not break into normal pieces like other dishes but will shatter so that every single broken shard has a deadly knife-like point”). I have dropped the contents of full ice-trays at least three times recently. I’ve spilled plenty of…everything. I also got overly aggressive with some “no-pain, no burn” eyebrow “waxing” stickers. For a few days it looked like I had eyelid leprosy (now they are just suspiciously flaky). BUT I’ve decided that if I regaled my readership (and they say I’m not an optimist) with every tiny little accident that I suffered it would not be at ALL interesting (this is, naturally, operating under the premise that ANY of my calamities ARE interesting in any way).

Never fear, I do have something for you today. Amusingly enough, I was not the faller or spiller or bruiser or whatnot – it was my PARENTS! I was merely the unlucky victim. My Mother and Father had taken a deli tray to some sort of potluck festivity (using my car). When putting the tray on the backseat floor, my Father did not securely fasten the lid onto the sandwich spread (some variety of seedy, vinegary, mustard imbued concoction). My Mother attempted to clean this substance from the floor, where it had mostly soaked into the floor mat. This begs the question: Why was my Mother cleaning up the spill that was my Father’s fault, especially considering that she cannot move without the assistance of a walker right now? I suppose that’s a topic for another day (and it brings up some stories that just embarrass the HELL out of my Father) – tee hee.

The next day I got into my car, intending to keep a couple of appointments in Salt Lake City. I was assailed immediately by the strongest vinegar/mustard/mystery-substance odour that I’ve ever experienced. I called my Mother just to confirm that I was not being poisoned by anything and she explained what had happened. The stench, though, was so overwhelming that I had to cancel my appointments, turn around, and immediately drive to the nearest super-duper car wash. I had the mats and carpets shampooed after I had the exterior washed. I even condescended to use one of those tree-shaped “air fresheners” that I tend to dislike. Of the myriad choices I opted for the “vanilla” scent. Now my car is redolent of baking. That makes no sense, I know, but it’s as logical as, for instance, “piña colada” scent (“No, officer, we are not having a drunken fiesta – it’s just piña colada air freshener in the shape of a tree, naturally.”) Anyhoo, I left the windows open on the car as directed; I put the mats in the sun to dry as I was instructed. The car itself did smell better. The mat from the back seat, however, still absolutely reeked! I left the mats out of the car and let them air out for a few days but to no avail. Yesterday I went back to the super-duper car wash and had them re-wash the carpets and the mats. What do you know – when the mats were dry the back seat one STILL stunk to high heaven.

This is where I got creative (in this scenario creative=desperate). I tried special extra-strength pet odour/stain cleaner – the type that comes with two separate canisters. Don’t you just LOVE that? Are they asserting that the cleaner is made of two such potent substances that they CANNOT possibly touch until they are directed at the appropriate filth or some radical explosion will occur (like all those bright pink explosives in the movies – you’re done for when the fuchsia pink chemicals mix with the others you are DONE FOR! Rabies vaccine is the same colour, incidentally, so maybe they are giant rabies bombs). Super-explosive pet cleaner didn’t work. Next I tried extra-strength Febreze®. Numerous applications didn’t make any difference. I resorted, next, to the kind of cleaning product that I usually assiduously shun – super-toxic death chemical inventions that take up more space on the container with alarming warnings of death and destruction than with instructions. Yes, I purchased an automobile interior “cleaner/deodorizer” that alleged it would not only get rid of any stain and/or questionable aromas, but it would also prevent future stench. And if you think I’m being a chemical pansy (or an overbearing, tree-hugging ecologist) I should tell you that just the propellant for this stuff contains butane AND propane (does it function as a barbecue or a rocket or a lighter as well?). So yesterday, with this caustic death substance, I shampooed the HELL out of the car mat (using mountains of scary foam and scrubbing endlessly with the brush from the cap). I was theoretically supposed to remove excess cleaner with a damp cloth, but I’d finally loaded the thing with so many death-bubbles that I took a hose and sprayed the thing until it didn’t foam anymore. Fear not – I figured since they say you should wash your car on the lawn (if you insist on doing it at home) so that all the cleaners and gunk don’t end up in the ground water that rinsing that mat on the lawn would probably serve the same purpose. Perhaps we should not tell my Father? Then again, he was the spiller culprit in the first place.

Today I went to smell the mat under the delusion that it couldn’t POSSIBLY contain a single molecule of the mustard/vinegar/spackle (?) dressing. I was mistaken. I’ve decided that this is FOR CERTAIN the material one should use if they need to permanently tag an item with some kind of scent (and they don’t care if it makes you ill to smell it for too long in a confined space). I hit the thing again with oodles and oodles of extra-strength Febreze®. Nope. It was time for more hazardous chemicals. After I’d scrubbed the thing until I was utterly wracked with pain and still found an alarming number of the little mustardy seeds on the scrubbing implement, I gave up. I hosed the mat (on the lawn again) thoroughly, to say the least. It’s been in the sun again for hours. To tell the truth, I’m afraid to go and smell it, so I shall just leave you in suspense in regards to the success or failure of my pollutive efforts. You are welcome to contact me for the results later, as I’m sure all y’all are on pins and needles with unbearable curiosity about this matter. Oh, the life I lead.

I have been doubly remiss in several important blog categories (am I not cute – I think my blog categories are IMPORTANT), specifically “Cheese Thoughts” (which is really bad considering the name and ostensible focus of my site) and “I Fell Down.”

Let me address the issue of my négligence de fromage post-haste:

The Ideal Cheese Shop (they send me cheese-email – I like them) is having an “Around the World Sale!” from July 23 through July 31, 2005 (sorry – slightly late notice). You can “Save more than 20% on the selection of delicious cheeses from around the world.” I think I would lean towards the Il Giardino Reggiano Parmesan, the French Bucheron and the Prima Donna from Holland. But I must admit that I find the “Maytag Blue” from Iowa intriguing (though I’m slightly put off by the whole appliance connection).

URGENT EMGERGENCY CHEESE ANNOUNCEMENT

My very most favourite cheese shoppe, the Juhl Haus Deli and Market, has unexpectedly CLOSED!!! I couldn’t get to their website, and I called the management at Foothill Village and they confirmed the horrible tidings. I am seriously bereaved. There is no equivalent; there isn’t a single place that even could presume take its place. The closest substitute would have to be Liberty Heights Fresh in Salt Lake City; they actually have an impressive cheese selection for such a small market – for any market, really (they also carry organic produce, imported foodstuffs and lovely artisan bread, etc.) and it’s a charming shoppe.

Sigh. I’m still sad.

Yes, I will eagerly debase myself in return for free loose gemstones (genuine jewels – NOT synthetic or “created” ones – I do have some pride, afterall). If you take that as your cue to snort and cynically exclaim, “HA!” please keep it to yourself.

As a matter of fact, I will willingly volunteer to humiliate myself for gratis precious stones. It is, afterall, an unusual opportunity these days.

First of all, I MUCH prefer Crazy For You when it doesn’t involve being in a much smaller, quieter production of A Little Night Music with a BIG ol’ equity cast of Crazy For You thunderously hoofing in the much larger, fancier theater overhead. Also, we got royally screwed when it came to dressing rooms because of them. DAMN YOU, YOU PAID GERSHWIN HOOFERS!!! Actually, I knew some lovely people in that cast, and I realize it was nothing personal when they added festive tap-dancing percussion to, oh, perhaps Every Day a Little Death or Send in the Clowns (if Sondheim were dead he’d have wept in his grave; as he’s alive I’m sure he was blissfully unaware of the whole fiasco). Moreover, it was not their fault that the management paraded through the halls with elderly potential donors while we were trying to do wigs and makeup in the halls (wretched dressing room situation – remember) wearing pretty much nothing but tights and corsets. I cannot decide if this might have provided a sort of impetus to donate money to the theatre or if it was a big detraction to dishing out the loot. I certainly don’t claim to be easy on the eyes corseted and sparsely dressed.

Anyhoo, at the Scera Shell production of Crazy For You tonight, replete with dashing Link Hogthrob – Sorry – it’s Lank Good-fer-Nuttin (or something fairly close to that), I rather enjoyed myself (especially after the elderly “sing-along” couple left – JUST BECAUSE YOU KNOW THE SONGS DOESN’T MEAN YOU SHOULD SING THEM FROM THE AUDIENCE, n’est pas?). And Holy Belt-buckle, Batman! I also got the inside scoop on some of the backstage action from go-betweens, Zoe and Emma. And Emma regaled me with some of the amusing snafus that have occured during other performances. That was very enlightening.

But surprise, SURPRISE – who was standing there after the show – in their very famous flesh (except wearing clothes) clear from New York – my lovely friends Michael and Frank! (True – hadn’t actually met Frank until tonight, but I already considered him my lovely friend because of Michael – you just get to be lovely by association.) It was too, too surreal and serendipitous. Thanks for the memories, Michael! And thanks for patiently bearing with all the memories, Frank! And last, but certainly not least, many thanks to you, Lank, for the belt buckle and all for which it stood. You were tremendous!