For starters, birthday kisses from the dog

The first words out of my mouth today (at the crack of dawn, as my father used to say) were, "Go away, it's my birthday," but when the dog who doesn't bark made her intense yelping sound, I got out of bed and got down on the floor for our morning routine.

My arm over her back, her paw over my arm. I rub her belly and back and we look into each others' eyes. That is my morning medicine. I tried to take a photo, as you can see, but she doesn't like it. She went across the room and I tried it again. The sexy attire I'm wearing is one of my father's T-shirts. I had a drawer full of them and gave a few away and now I think I gave away too many because I could wear this one down to shreds. I talk about my mother a lot, but a photo of him pops up at odd

Gray haired ladies

times when I'm looking for something so I believe he's around also. I think he would be (I mean, I think he is) proud of my serve. He was proud of everything I did but worried about my serve. He wanted me to take the racquet back further down my back. I think I finally figured it out, thanks, of course, to serving lessons with George. It's not that hard but I twisted it and put a little slice on it.

Hi Dad!

You don't want to use the word torture for things that aren't really torturous, in light of all the horrible things in the world. Taking it down a level, in the past couple of days, people found different ways to "torture" me. First, on Thursday, when I checked in at Dana-Farber for my checkup with Melissa, the intake guy asked if I wanted them to leave the needle in, after the blood draw, so that it could be used at my next procedure, at 4 p.m., the ECP at the Kraft Family Blood Donor Center. Nobody ever asked me that before, but I said sure. Tina, a nurse who became my friend during my first year or so of ECP, had changed jobs and was doing the blood draws on Yawkey Two. She came over and explained the required needle to the nurse. The nurse got all FARBLUNGET.  Instead of putting in the required bigger needle, she did the usual one and slapped a bandaid on. This was after Tina had called my nurse Deb at the Kraft Center to confirm what I would need. Later when I got there and she asked if nurse number 1 had left a needle in and I said she hadn't, she said, sarcastically, "Of course she didn't."

So I got stuck three times instead of two.

My appointment with Melissa was mostly about dermatology. She said she would try to straighten out the confused state of affairs having to do with three dermatologists telling me three different things to do about my skin. Especially my hands, with each of them contradicting the other on how to deal with the pointillist canvas of pre-cancers and who knows what. But I don't want to ruin the day by getting too much into that.

My numbers were great. My platelets were normal, yay! I used to get the printout but I don't anymore. I know that normal platelet range starts at 160, and when I heard 190-something that was all I needed to hear. If you search the blog for "platelet," you'll see that I've always had a platelet problem.

Dr. Marty came in with a new doc on the block. We gave each other a hug. He explained to the new doc how we go way back. We laughed about what happened at last year's US Open when I had a crazy, itchy, burning rash and cold sores around and on my lips having to do with a "perfect storm" of decreasing Valtrex, an antiviral, and using Efudex, the chemotherapy cream. I wrote him and Melissa, and almost as soon as I sent it, he replied, "Get a selfie with Nadal," because I said that's who I was watching from the nosebleed seats. I wrote back that he was too far, and he said something along the lines of tell him to come up to you. As for the lips, I think he said to go back up on the Valtrex and use Vaseline. He had already given me some good medicine by replying so quickly and making me laugh.

Oh I almost forgot the other "torture."

At occupational therapy, Karen, the therapist, made me a hand brace to open up my left hand while I sleep. I sleep with my hands curled up into fists underneath my chin. Now I won't be able to do it. Together with hand exercises (when I do them), my hand is hopefully going to be able to flatten out in yoga (or any other time I want it to) and my hands will hopefully be able to get into "prayer position," the inability to do so having to do with graft vs. host of the skin affecting my fascia. In general, we don't want it to turn into a claw. I texted the photo to the kids and Katie said that looking on the bright side (if I can sleep) I'll be able to do a better down dog, which is just what I was thinking also.

I was walking around with the backyard birthday photos, at 77 Coronado St., Atlantic Beach, with Jane and Michael Kass in them and now I can't find them. They seem to have morphed into other beach photos. They'll turn up next time I'm looking for something else. They're such good memories. One of these days maybe I'll recreate something alone the lines of what my Vassar classmate, Amy Drake and I, did after college, driving down the coast (all the way from Portland, Oregon!) to LA. Now I should stop and get ready for a little trip to Fairfield for a little celebration to see some of my favorite people and talk to others.

I'm ether 65 or 10. Who knew?