jennethink

JOYS OF FLYING

Today's Airport Observation

Why don’t they make the doors of the stalls in all airport bathrooms open outward, so you can easily get all your luggage in with you instead of opening inward where you have to put your suitcase on your lap in order to close and lock the door?

The Kansas City airport is the only airport I’ve seen that has figured this out.  And it is one of many things that makes me proud to be a Kansas Citian .. Kansas Cit-itian?  Kansas City-ite?  Whatever … it’s a nice airport.

Also, I’ve said this before but if I were put in charge of airport security tomorrow, my first order of business would be to give all TSA agents new pants one size bigger than their current pants.   I think this would solve a lot of problems.  I might also make sure they are long enough as well.  Or maybe I’ll save that for a Christmas bonus.

LOOKING FORWARD, LOOKING BACK

As I gear up for The Breast Cancer 3 Day series starting in Chicago in less than 2 weeks, I find myself dealing with all the practical issues of my role.  Once again, I'm taking on the role of National Spokeschick with The 3 Day.   Once again I'll be criss-crossing the nation this summer and fall stopping in 14 great cities as thousands upon thousands will be walking miles and miles to hopefully, finally raise the dollar - the single solitary dollar - that will fund the research that will put an end to this disease.  As I get ready to walk a bunch, talk a bunch, cry a bunch and laugh like an idiot in 14 cities, as I plan and prepare for my responsibilities, as I make yet another list of things to pack for the first event, I find myself getting a little, oh I don't know ... technical about the whole thing.

That's the thing about working for a cause.  You are still working.  And anytime you engage in "work" of any sort, it can become routine.  Granted, with this "work" the chances of it being routine are much, much less.  I mean, when you are eating dinner looking over a field with thousands of pink tents, walking alongside men in coconut bras and dancing on stage with teams of people in feathered boas and pjs ... well, "common-place" is not really how you'd describe it.

Still, there are aspects of the job that are just a job. And especially now, in the weeks prior to being ON EVENT, in the weeks without the amazing stories and powerful messages and touching displays of courage and stamina, I can almost lose sight of how important this cause is.

When I first was diagnosed with my own cancer, I spent a lot of time in the oncologist office waiting room.  Eventually, I started taking my computer with me to treatments and appointments.  That gave us posts like this and this.  But long before I even realized I would be posting at all about my cancer, I simply sat in that room with a notebook and pen.  Originally, I took the notebook with me so I could take notes about what the doctor said. However, just like college, most often these notes were pretty useless an incomplete.  I mean they weren't quite as bad as college ... they didn't have  my first name paired with the last name of my boyfriend written 100 times in cursive but more often than not I would end up with a page that had the date at the top, a single question scribbled on the page and nothing else save some doodles  and a grocery list squeezed in the margin.  So the notebook was pretty useless in the treatment room.  The notebook however did come in handy in the waiting room.   Writing is a good way to pass the time in the waiting room.  It is certainly better than reading those freaking cancer pamphlets.  I would often just sit and jot down notes about how I was feeling, what I was thinking or use the time as a short writing exercise.  A way to keep my writing skills sharp.  I would create little challenges and then try to meet them.  I would make myself both drill sergeant and cadet.

5 minutes on the color teal - GO!
Tell a story about beets - GO!
How many things in nature can you think of that are orange? GO!
(there are a lot of them, by the way)

I never thought much about those impromptu exercises. They've just laid there unread and uninspired in my old notebook.  In fact, I had completely forgotten about them until today when I reached for a current notebook from my desk drawer and pulled out an old one instead.  As I was flipping through it trying to find a blank sheet of paper  I came across what I assume started out as an exercise during one of my many vigils in the waiting room.  It was written just a few days before my first treatment.  When my spirits were still pretty high and my humor was intact.  I was still in that stage of pre-treatment when I thought the key was to attack this thing head on and partner with my body in getting rid of it and cheerio good fellow we’ll have this thing licked in no time at all!

When I was a kid my dad used to think it was hilarious to sneak into the bathroom while I took a shower and toss a glass full of ice water on top of my head.  It was not hilarious.  It was shocking, upsetting and painful.  This moment, written about in my notebook, was a modern-day version of that ice water tumbling over the shower curtain.  I remember the moment.  I remember the feeling.  One minute I was warm and cozy.  The next, I was confused, angry and shivering.  I fought it.  Tried to stay in the warm.  Tried to stay in the practical and technical, in the healthy and whole. But the moment was too strong, and the reality ... too real.

July 7, 2006
Old people.
This room is filled with old people.  Even the young people are old people. There is an young old guy with a hat and a dark mustache in the corner.  The guy is in the corner, not the mustache. He's falling asleep.  I guess he's waiting for someone or maybe he's just  found a nice place to take an overdue nap or it could be he feels like I do - exhausted - and doesn't have a notebook of graph paper and a mechanical pencil to keep him from drooling on his chin and doing head bobs. Wow.  He's a big head bobber!  Whoooosh forward .... Recover. Wooooosh back .... Recover.  A quiet rocker, a aged headbanger without the ipod and the heavy beat he slowly bobs.  Now less drastic.  Bob. Bob.            Bob.  Maybe he's dreaming of Whitesnake or ancient Deep Purple although his sox's hat makes me think more Bullet Boys or Warrant.  I'm not sure why.

But what the room lack in youth they make up for in attitude.  Hellos, conversations, latch hook.  It's not a bad place really.  For what it is.  Which is a bad placed indeed.

Funny thing is all the posters around the room show young people.  Young people smiling. Young people laughing. A 30 something lady with a sundress and a fun hat looking at the camera like isn't this just he funnest thing ever? If it weren't for the word CANCER on the poster, you'd think this darling was pitching ice cream or toothpaste.  The really sexy kind of toothpaste.  There is no way that lady on the poster has cancer.  If she did, we'd all want it.  Give me her cancer!  Damn!  That broad looks great! 

The headbanger is awake.  He woke up when the door opened. The door opened when his wife - I guess that's his wife -  came out of the back.  She has test results in her hand.  Those are test results.  Her head is covered with a bandana. And there are precious few hairs dangling from the back.  Those are the saddest hairs I've ever seen.  The two of them are tucked in that corner.  I don't think I would have really noticed them at all except he just  exhaled. It wasn't loud.  I was just a sound, a breath, an expulsion of air but I recognize it.  I know that sound. It's defeat.

I can hear them - headbanger and wife.  They are murmuring.  The two of them are talking.  We are all, the rest of us, not looking - we are all trying to give them a tiny bit of privacy there in the corner.  We have all become intent, engrossed in what we are doing. I'm writing.  The lady next to me is working a puzzle. The couple on my right is reading a copy of good housekeeping - both of them reading the same copy. And the couple next to them are studying a paper calendar.  We all do business while their world comes apart.

The murmurs have stopped.
They are getting up to go.
I can't look up.

"Beverly,"  the nurse says softly from the window, "we'll call you next week, okay?  Have a good weekend."
The last line is said with compassion.  I finally look up.

The headbanger is crying.

I hate this fucking place.

We have come so far in the treatment of cancer.
Sometimes we need to be reminded treatment isn't enough.

THANK YOU, RANDY PAUSCH

I can say nothing right now other than facts.

Randy Pausch died today.  It was not unexpected.

Here is his last lecture.

It is worth watching the entire thing.

I hate cancer.

TAKING A BULLET

Someone once said when you think you can't write a lot because you don't have time or think you don't have anything to say, simply create a list of bullet points. Which can be just as interesting, if not more so, as a long drawn out paragraph about your life.

 

So since I feel crunched for time,

Pressured to post,

And void of deep, meaningful thoughts, I'll give 'er a shot.

 

Here goes

 

• I think the UPS man drives too fast up our street
• I can't stand it when I delete ONE, SINGLE, SOLITARY ITEM from my desktop and my trashcan icon shows a full trashcan
• Today I went for a run and was halfway through before I realized I had my top on inside out
• I think the caps lock is a dangerous tool
• I wish it were as easy and straightforward for adults to make friends as it is for my 9 year old
• Doing dishes by hand isn't so bad if you keep up with it
• It's amazing how many conversations are ruled by defensiveness. I'm shocked how often I'm talking with someone and can either feel my defensiveness rising or sense theirs. How did we get so defensive? Why are we so ready to fight at every turn? Why is it I can't have a conversation with someone about something and listen instead of trying to convince? I can't stand it when I give someone a compliment and they shrug it off or laugh or act as though I'm not sincere. And yet, I do the same thing. Often. What is that? Are we so concerned we're going to be hurt, set-up, have the rug yanked from under us that we can't risk accepting a compliment? When did we lose our sense of self? Why do we look to others to affirm us? Why are we so ready to give up our dreams, sacrifice our beliefs and keep our opinions under wrap? Why do we spend hours and days and meetings and conferences and dollars developing our client's brand or our business's mission but never ONCE think about our own? Why are we so wrapped up in what others say, think and do and what they say, think and do about us and say, think, and do when we aren't looking and how what they say, think, and do impacts us? Why do we make the grand, huge assumption that they even care about us when they are probably too worried wondering what you think about them. Why did we stop asking what we wanted to be when we grew up? Why did we stop giving grand answers? When did we stop developing our person and start focusing solely on our personalities?
• Boy, that last one was a biggy.

OPEN LETTER TO THE FOUR CANADIAN 20-SOMETHING YEAR OLD BOYS WHO LET ME RUN WITH THEM IN PAMPLONA LAST YEAR (WELL, NOT REALLY *WITH* THEM - THOSE 20-SOMETHINGS ARE AWFULLY FAST)

Dear Ben, Jared, Pat and Jordan,

HAPPY ONE YEAR!

It’s been a year.   Can you believe it?  One year since we made those toros our bitches in Pamplona.  One year since we all ran like idiots down those cobblestoned streets.  One year since Jared … I think it was Jared or was it Pat … broke his promise to his mom – or was it his girlfriend (same?) and did the unthinkable.  One year since I found the four of you standing in the street looking all uncomfortable and walked up and said “Hey, guys, are you running?” and then weaseled my way into walking through the gates with you.

One year.  I know all too well how much can change in a year.  July 10, 2006 I was sitting in a chemo chair feeling poison being pumped into my body.  One year later I was in Pamplona feeling my legs pump as fast as they could go – but not fast enough according to the ass behind me that shoved me down.  In 2006 I didn’t know if I would live.  In 2007 I felt invincible. 

For weeks before the run, as my sister and I were planning our trip, we would talk about me running.  We talked about the fact that they frown on women running.  We figured the hard part wouldn’t be running, but walking in alone.  We talked about how difficult it would be for me to just stand there – alone – waiting for the rockets to go off.  I said over and over again that I didn’t care.  I’d walk in there alone if I had to.  I said over and over again I would crawl under a fence if I needed to.  I said over and over nothing would keep me from running that day. 

I knew all along that I’d be running alone.  I needed to.  I wanted to.  Fighting cancer isn’t a team sport.  You do it alone.  You take the chemo.  You feel the effects.  You force yourself to get out of bed.  You fight when you want to give in.  You eat when you want to puke.  You smile when you want to cry.  You do all of that by yourself.  Alone.  All the support in the world doesn’t change the fact that the cancer is in YOUR body and YOU have to fight it.  It may not be a death sentence.  But it is solitary confinement. 

So running alone felt right to me.  It was my way of putting an exclamation point on the end of that sentence.

But deep down I was nervous …not of the run, but of walking through the gates by myself.  Of standing there, with a bunch of dudes speaking Spanish and getting pumped up and not being a part of it.  I was worried I’d do something wrong and get tossed out.  I was concerned I’d just stand there, like the girl who is last picked in gym class, alone, embarrassed and awkward. 

So I had a plan.  I thought if I could just find one person to walk in with.  If I could just target some guy who looked confident and spoke English, I could ask him if I could walk through the gates with him and then I’d be okay.  I was sure I could find someone … and for 2 days before I ran, I kept looking.  My sister and I, we kept trying to find someone.  We’d overhear people talking about the run.  We’d ask them if they were running and they’d say no.  We’d start conversations with people hoping they’d mention running.  We’d eavesdrop on every English conversation we heard hoping to hear, “yes, I’m going to be running and I sure wouldn’t mind someone walking in with me!”  But we never found anyone.  We came close a couple of times but no one ever bit. 

The night before the run I went to sleep knowing I didn’t have anyone to walk in the gate with me but praying I’d find someone somehow anyway. 

At 6:55 the next morning I kissed my sister on the cheek, climbed down from our spot on the fence and walked away from her.  I came up the side street by myself.  I waded past so, so many drunks.  I weaved in and out… heading toward the dreaded gate.  I walked alone.   I was going to run alone.  It was okay.   But I felt awkward.   My heart was thumping.  I was a little sick to my tummy.  I wished it was different but shit fire and save the matches, alone or not, I was going to walk through that gate.

And that’s when I saw the four of you.

You will never know.  You will never fully understand what the four of you mean to me.  You let me walk in with you.  And for that, you would have been my heroes for life.  But you did so much more.  You talked to me.  You told me of your trip across Europe.  You shared your stories with me.  And you listened when I shared my story with you.  You stayed with me when they let us go just three minutes before the rocket went off.  You even jogged a little with me after that first blast. 

And then I lost you …  the four of you ran ahead… fast little buggers that you are.  I lingered.  I so wanted to get near those bulls.  I wanted to cheat death … one more time … feel danger brush by me again … so close … but miss me.  Again. 

I got knocked down right before the arena.  And I did the unthinkable … I got back up!  The bulls had rushed by and I was determined to run into that ring … if not ahead of those horn then I would be behind them.  And so I chased those tons of beef and burst into that ring with my arms up and yelling as if that whole place was waiting for me … only for me … just for me.  And I swear I thought nothing could feel better than that.

I ran around and around the ring.  I was laughing so hard.  I was crying.  I was disoriented.  I was waving.  I was yelling “OLE! OLE!” for no reason at all, just because it felt like the right thing to say.   And that’s when you found me again.  One of you picked me up and spun me around and around.  And the 4 of you were screaming “You did it!!! YOU DID IT!!”  and while you were yelling I was trying to figure out a way I could smuggle you into my luggage and take you home with me because in the space of 1 hour of waiting and a 3 ½ minute run you had worked your way into my heart.  My big, mushy, chemo-damaged heart.

And I will never, ever forget you.

Happy Day,dear wonderful friends ... wherever you are

RUNNING OF THE BULLS - SAN FROMMIN STYLE

It wasn’t Pamplona.
It wasn’t teeming with people.
There were no drunks
(well, other than my neighbors who watched from their porch)
There were no medics.

There was only one rocket
(the “rocket launcher” forgot to send up the other three)
There was only one “bull”
There were two runners
But only one of them didn’t wet her pants a little from laughing.

Last year, on this day, I would have said nothing was better
Than scampering away from those Spanish toros
On those cobblestone streets
An ocean away
With a bunch of clumsy, machismo-ites.

This year … I don’t know …

I think we gave last year a run for its money.

THE PERFECT STORM

Last night during Bike-On-A-Stand class it started raining. I realize after typing that sentence that you may not know what Bike-On-A-Stand class is. Simple, really, it's just a regular stationary bike class … once called a "Spinning" class but it turns out that someone owns the terms "spinning" and asked my gym's owner to pay him a fee for using that term to describe the classes he was offering. My gym's owner thought of a better idea.

And Bike-On-A-Stand was born.

When you Bike-On-A-Stand, you follow the instructor and do what you are told. Mostly. You use the tension of the bike to increase resistance. You pedal, pedal, pedal until your heart is content … and then keep pedaling for another 55 minutes until class is over. Sometimes you actually stand up, increase tension and "climb a hill". This part of class is just delightful. And occasionally, when I'm not trying to keep from puking, I actually enjoy Bike-On-A-Standing. It is a great workout and the instructor makes our class tons of fun. Sometimes we sing along to the music. Sometimes we quote along to the movie he's playing on the wall in front of us. And sometimes we pass around a cowboy hat and take turns going yee-haw.

I know. I need to get out more.

Anyway, during Bike-On-A-Stand class it started raining. Hard. It rained and rained. The sky got dark. The water was coming down like someone was using a fire hose on the sidewalk. It began to hail once or twice. The wind blew. It was crazy. Loud. Wet. Ugly.

This is not the perfect storm I'm writing about, by the way.

After class The Hub and I made a mad dash to the parking lot. We jumped one, two, three HUGE puddles to get to car. Unfortunately, I didn't see the fourth puddle and landed smack in the middle of a small lake. Up to my ankles. My shoes, my socks, my feet … soaked.

Icky. I hate having wet shoes on. I mean I really hate it. It's worse than a rock in my shoe or a bee's wing in my teeth. It's worse than a splinter in my thumb or a mosquito buzzing around my head. It's worse than broccoli. I just hate it. I hate the sloshing. I hate the squishing. I hate the slipping and smooshing. Ugh, I'm getting all wigged out just thinking about it right now. I hate wet shoes. And last night those shoes were the wettest shoes in the world. They couldn't have been wetter if they were made of sponges. Or water. Maybe if someone actually strapped aquariums around their ankles and walked around they might be able to tie me in the wet t-shoe competition but it would be close. My toes turned to prunes. My feet swelled through the power of diffusion. I was a living example of osmosis gone bad. I couldn't WAIT to get home and get out of my very wet shoes.

Of course, as luck would have it, we had to stop by the store on the way home. Goody. More time to walk around in my wet shoes. Squish slosh smoosh …into the store. Squish slosh smoosh …get a cart. Squish slosh smoosh …squeeze the avocados. Squish slosh smoosh… find the raspberry dressing. Squish slosh smoosh grumble… get the eggs. Squish slosh smoosh grumble cuss ….find the bread. Squish slosh smoosh grumble cuss get a look from The Hub ….head to the checkout. Squish slosh smoosh roll my eyes but say nothing ….head to the car. Then drive home. Then go inside. Then unpack the groceries. Then let the dogs out. Then finally … FINALLY head to the bedroom to take off my shoes.

Every so often in life the universe aligns in such a way that amazing things happen. Someone is delayed on a flight and runs into an old love in the concourse. An adopting couple overhears a conversation about an unwed mother and within months has a child to call their own. A Midwestern girl travels to Austin for the weekend and finds a restaurant that serves chicken-fried avocado (more about that story later!). When these amazing wonderful things happen we call it fate. Design. We say "someone was looking out for you." And we smile. Oh how we smile.

Occasionally, however, the universe aligns differently. Every so often a series of events happens in such a way tragedy occurs. Looking back, we are amazed that everything happened just so … in just such a way. We can see multiple opportunities for the situation to be saved but alas, something always goes wrong. This leads to that, and that leads to the other thing, and it was a full moon, and no one was on watch and the captain only spoke Portuguese and etc. etc. Big Bang Boom. Disaster. When this happens, we call it The Perfect Storm of events. Where, if just one thing had happened differently, the outcome would have been vastly changed.

My feet had been soaking in my shoes for a while.

My toes were nice and soft.

My shoes were tied tightly.

I was angry and uncomfortable.

And beyond eager to get my shoes off.

I stood in the bedroom. As I pulled my soaked workout shirt off, I put my right foot on the back of my left sneaker and pried it off. I peeled off my soaked right sock and tossed it on top of my soaked right shoe. As I was pulling off my shorts, I put my bare right foot on the heel of my soaked left sneaker. I pried. And pried. Those laces were tight. I pulled down with my foot. I tried to pull up with my heel. I started to say to The Hub "will you go put my sneakers in the dryer …" and that's when it happened.

My right foot slipped.

My left shoe, still firmly on my foot, flew backwards.

AND RIPPED MY ENTIRE TOENAIL RIGHT-THE-HELL OFF OF MY TOE

Much later, after we dealt with the situation (which including pulling the toenail the rest of the way out, stopping the bleeding, disinfecting the raw lump of meat on the end of my toe and documenting the whole thing in pictures) I asked The Hub if he knew right away what had happened. He said, Yes. I said, How did you know? He said, Because you said "Oh Dear Lord!" And I said, Well I could have just scraped my foot. And he said, No. Not the way you said it. Besides, no one says "oh dear lord!" if they just scrape their foot.

He makes an excellent point.

I do believe the universe is constantly in balance. Some call it Karma. But Karma implies that good = good and bad begets bad in your own life. I prefer to think in much broader terms. Good things happen. Bad things happen. But somehow the universe is always in balance. So, for whomever met the love of their life or ate a fried avocado last night at about 9:30 …. You're welcome.

Disgusting pictures here … don't say I didn't warn you.