Expecting the unexpected, and being right

In the waiting room after Mohs surger

Yesterday when I went to the Mohs Surgery Center at Brigham and Women’s Faulkner Hospital, I had a feeling that the spot that had been in my ear had disappeared, although there could be a trace of something.

Dr. Lin, (Jennifer), had said the spot was too small for her to biopsy, so that is why she sent me to a specialist. She said it could be a skin cancer or a pimple. Jeff drove me, and I said we might be going all the way for a pimple. I imagined a quick visit leaving time to go out for lunch or take a walk in the Boston area afterwards.

I figured the visit wouldn’t be wasted, because I always have other spots to show.

My ear was indeed fine, but a spot at my right temple looked suspicious. A nice Fellow examined me first. Nice fellow, it sounds funny to say. He said the spot might be a basal cell carcinoma. When he called Dr. Schmults in, she agreed. I signed the papers giving permission for a Mohs, and I lay down on the table.

When she started to apply the anesthesia, I said I had written something nice about her, and she better not let me down. She laughed and said something along the lines of it putting a lot of pressure on her.

As usual, she did a good job. She applies the anesthesia in repeated little pin pricks so that you can hardly feel it. At 2:18, while she was operating, I heard my phone vibrate. It was the widely mocked presidential alert.

I had to wait an hour while she looked at what she had taken out. When she returned, she would know if it was a basal cell or squamous cell and also whether she had gotten it all.

My reaction to presidential alert

It gave me a chance to follow #PresidentialAlert on Twitter and see all the fun people were having putting their own words into it or tweeting reactions. I retweeted some of my favorites. 

The nurse called me back after an hour. It was indeed another squamous cell. The doctor had gotten it all, so she wouldn't need to go back for another pass. The Fellow zapped some other spots I pointed out, a few on my hand, one at the top of my head (he cut a little bit of hair out to do it) and one on my nose. The zapping hurt more than anything else.

The nurse said not to exercise or do yoga for four days. That’s a lot for me. At least it’s OK to walk. When the squamous cells have been on my leg, the restrictions have been worse.

Of course there wasn’t time to do anything. When we got home, it was after 6. I had run out of prednisone, so we went to the store to get the prescription. The anesthesia started to wear off, and the area of excision started to sting. I took some pain medication, and we walked down to Food 101 for dinner. It was a balmy night.  I told my chauffeur that he was a mensch. He also turned out to be a good dinner companion.

It had been a long day, so I don’t know why I wasn’t tired. I stayed up to watch Stephen Colbert on the Late Show, followed by James Corden on the Late Late Show. Both were having fun with the Presidential Alert. Corden did his Take A Break bit at one of Los Angeles’ hottest restaurants, going around to give employees a break. I laughed so hard that I forgot about the blisters on my hands and nose and the bandage on my face.

It's good to get out of the neighborhood

The news has been so distressing, it was good to go on a few outings this weekend. Getting away doesn't make it go away, but a change of scene sure helps.

I had mentioned to someone that I wanted to go to the Brattleboro (Vt.) Farmers Market, first, because I heard it was fun, and also, because a reliable person recommended a vendor who was selling good CBD oil. The person to whom I was speaking said, "That's where all the hippies are!"

Farmers' market booth

She was right. It was totally cool. We got some good fruit, veggies, bread, and other stuff, and we hung around listening to the music and watching the crowd. It kind of made me want to move to Brattleboro. 

CBD oil may provide relief for neuropathy. Since the gabapentin prescribed for me only takes the edge off but not much more, my feet could use some help. We found the vendor, who also sold us CBD-infused chocolates. Though it does not get you high, it is supposedly good for relaxation. 

CBD is typically extracted from the cannabis plant as an oil or a powder. The oil or powder can then be mixed with a gel or cream that can be rubbed onto the skin or ingested orally. According to the National Pain Report, "One of the most well-known compounds of the cannabis plant is THC or tetrahydrocannabinol. Once the THC is broken down by heat and ingested, it can create a high. Although THC and CBD both come from the cannabis plant, it is only THC which is mind altering and gives you a high."

I got permission from my Dana-Farber team to try CBD as a cream, but they said not to ingest it. I only tried it twice, so the jury is still out.

On the way home, we stopped at the beautiful Bridge of Flowers, in Shelburne Falls, Mass. 

It is open April 1 through October 30. A committee of green thumb volunteers changes the plants seasonally, making it one of the wonders of the area.

They provide a list of each bulb, perennial, shrub and annual that you will see, not only month-by-month but also according to each half of the month!

I realized afterwards that my photo was a little crooked, so I am taking the liberty of reposting one from the website, approximating the day we were there, when the leaves were just beginning to turn. 

So many people were taking photographs of the flowers it reminded me of being with Katie in Park Guell, where it was hard to get out of the way of somebody's photo. It's something about color and design, I guess.

I'm talking about the fantastical public park system, in Barcelona, designed by the architect Antoni Gaudí. When I blogged about it in 2012, I said, "Crowds of people took photos all over the place as though intoxicated by the shapes and colors. It was impossible to stay out of everyone's way. We got a little crazy too."

(And for a side trip down memory lane, one of those photos is below.)

In Barcelona, 2012

On Sunday, I went solo to the North Quabbin Garlic and Arts Festival, in Orange, Mass.

Quick: What were the four towns flooded to create the Quabbin Reservoir? (They are Dana, Enfield, Greenwich, and Prescott, and you can read more about the lost towns here.) Orange, obviously, was not one of them, but it is in the area. 

There was plenty of garlic, which I don't actually like, but I do like arts, so that is why I went.

After two good days, I'm wondering what could have precipitated last night's weird and distressing relapse dream. I posed the question to a friend at tennis this morning, saying, it's been nine years, and still, I have these dreams. She said it's PTSD. I basically know that, but I usually know what brought it on, and I have no idea.

In my dream, I had gotten a good manicure and pedicure. As I was admiring the ruby/maroon color on my fingernails, I noticed that the color was coming off before my eyes. I looked down and saw that it was vanishing from my toenails too. Suddenly it was all gone. For some reason, I knew it was a sign that I was relapsing.

I told my mother. We talked to the doctor. He (I think it was my first doctor, Dan DeAngelo) said that I was OK for now. I had a level of eight of some marker. He said that when it got down to six, we would have to take action. The action would consist of giving me some shots. If they didn't work, he could do it again. But I would only get two chances. I was afraid and upset.

I don't know what to make of it. But I know that I'm lucky that in real life I got more than two chances.

When dreams come true, it's kind of freaky

On Sunday night I dreamt three things.

1.     I was playing tennis, and my forehand would not go over the net. Someone said I had to get under it more. I tried, and got some, but not all, over.

2.     I bumped into a friend with whom I had had a fallout. He was walking towards the parking lot of The Republican. “Happy New Year!” I said. He looked back and said, “Same to you.”

3.     I had parked my car in the gated lot at work. When I went in to get it, I realized that I needed a key card to get out. I was afraid I would be stuck inside. But I waited a while until a car went out and I followed that driver, and the gate opened and I got out.

On Monday, these things happened.

1.     I was playing tennis, and my forehand kept going into the net. I told my doubles partner that this had happened in my dream, that I got under the ball, and it went over. I tried it. It got a little better.

2.     I went into Starbucks and bumped into the friend I had dreamt about. I told him I dreamt about him. He asked if it was bad. I said that no, I had just wished him Happy New Year. So in real life, I wished him Happy New Year. He wished the same to me.

3.      I parked in the garage in Northampton later that day and went to do some errands. When I got back to my car, I realized that I had lost the ticket. I went to the pay station and pressed the Lost Ticket button. I would have to pay $20.

I canceled the request and wandered around the garage, retracing my steps to try to figure out where the ticket had fallen out of my pocket. No luck. I walked out to see if I could get a new ticket, but it needed the weight of a car. By this time it was pretty late.

A young couple walked into the garage after paying for their “get out of the garage” ticket at the pay station. I asked what they thought would happen if I drove my car out after them. He said that probably the bar would come crashing down on my car. I got an idea. I asked if, for a few bucks, they would drive out and then drive back around to get a ticket and then back out and hand it to me. The guy said, sure. (I hope Dave Molnar isn’t reading this.)

They put their ticket receipt into the machine, drove out and around, got a new ticket and handed it to me. Success! We all smiled. I went to give him the dollar bills I had pulled out of my purse. He said that he wouldn’t take it for a favor. I thanked him and said that it would come back around, and someone would do a favor for him. We went our separate ways, smiles all around.

So….Last night I dreamt that I needed to go on a diet to lose five pounds. Does that mean I need to do it?

I am not overweight but I know the wishful thinking behind the dream. I am not happy with the way that mygraft vs. host disease of the skin has caused my stomach to stick out. It is more than being of a certain age. It has made some of my clothes unwearable and some just plain uncomfortable.  I know it’s a small price to pay, but that doesn’t make me like it any more. It has been described as feeling like there is a band around your stomach. It has to do with the fascia, the layer beneath the skin. Losing weight, alas, isn’t going to do anything for it. That is why I keep getting the ECP, or extracorporeal photopheresis, aka light therapy, aka sunburn of my blood, which has helped soften my skin and keep it from hardening more but alas has not done anything for the popping out thing.

In Wellfleet: some sadness, some sun, also tipping over but having fun

View from the bench on an overcast day

One of the first things I did on this little trip to Wellfleet was to take my beau over Uncle Tim's Bridge to the bench book. It is one of the most peaceful spots that I know.

We sat on the bench, and I wrote down my thoughts about coming here with my kids, and about how restorative it was to sit there and let your cares drift away. A nearby resident has been maintaining it for years. When it gets filled up with peoples' thoughts, someone takes it and places a new one in a little wooden treasure chest.

Waiting for table at Beachcomber, 2012

I looked up Uncle Tim's Bridge bench book and my blog post, Wonderful Wellfleet, came up fifth. I must have unintentionally good SEO or something. It was from 2012. I wrote this about our visit to Provincetown: "Joe, who is understandably upset by my falls, watched me like a hawk when we walked through Provincetown's busy streets. Step up, step down, step up, step down, he said. At one point when we were all in a gallery, I "escaped" by going out to the street by myself. "Hey, come back here and get back on your leash!" he said. I ultimately just walked along holding his arm, which was comforting because I knew I wouldn't fall."

I also wrote about how the seals seemed to be getting too close to the shore on the ocean side. Most everyone now is talking about the seals, what to do about the increasing population that is bringing sharks closer to the shore, and specifically about the recent fatal attack.

Jeff and I walked on that beach, Newcomb Hollow, on a day so misty that my glasses kept getting wet. People stood silently for a few minutes at the memorial for 26-year-old Arthur Medici. You don't want to speak badly about the dead, but all around, in the discussions, some were wondering why he and a friend went so far out, off-season, on a day when there was no lifeguard to warn them of the danger.

Memorial at Newcomb Hollow Beach

Some local officials want to cull the population of seals, which are on the endangered species list, but many are against that and are proposing other ways to keep swimmers safe, and to help fishermen who say the seals are taking their fish. Maybe the idiot climate-change deniers should wake up to the fact that there is a scientific reason that the warming oceans are contributing to the problem.

But back to good things.

The sand was hard, providing a good surface for a run, so I ditched my Tevas and went up ahead a little when walking on the beach on this moody day. It was actually a trot, in between a walk and a run. But it felt good. I stopped to do some yoga.

 Out of our four days here, only one had some sun, but in a way it was good because we didn't have to worry about getting sunburnt. We covered most of the bases: a walk along the bay and beach, dinner at Mac's restaurant and lunch at the dock, a little shopping, a walk around Provincetown, coffee, a visit to a newfound treasure – Chequessett Chocolate –  in North Truro, dinner at a new discovery, also in Truro, Blackfish, (formerly a blacksmith shop), and just plain breathing in the wonderful air.

I also spent a little time in an ambulance.

We were biking on the bike path. I got a "foolproof, "step-through" frame after my accident on my old bike. To me it does not seem like a real bike. But of course it is, and you see more and more of them around. Anyway, it was quiet so we didn't have to make full stops at the stop signs. When we got to Orleans Center, there was a sign instructing you to get off your bike. Jeff stopped and went across.

Cloudy day on Newcomb Hollow Beach

Maybe I was daydreaming about how I used to work there, and about how it looked different from when I hung out there with my high school boyfriend.

Maybe I hadn't stretched enough. I don't really know. My right foot was on the ground, and as I lifted my left foot over, my toe got stuck in the frame near the pedal. The bike started to tip over. I had that moment when you say, "Oh, no." I tumbled to the pavement. The bike tipped over onto me. The brake handle cut into my shin. I sat cross-legged and took one look at it and squeezed my hand on top of it. I was wearing gloves and pressed them down hard. It looked like a good gash.

I motioned to Jeff. He came over, walking pretty slowly, because he said later that he thought I was taking a rest to do yoga. He went back to get his bike. A couple stopped. The man went into the bike shop right next to wear I was and brought out some gauze. Jeff brought a bandana over. We made a tourniquet. A nice Orleans police office, whose name, appropriately, was cutter, said he sees all sorts of crashes at the same spot. Some ride right into the yellow pole.

He called the paramedics. They came in an ambulance. An Orleans police officer took Jeff to an Eastham police officer who took him back to get the car. I said why don't we just bandage it tightly so we could keep riding. They said they didn't think so.

The paramedics took me into the ambulance. I lay on the stretcher and had a lovely talk with the female paramedic. We talked about many things, ranging from plantar fasciitis to the propensity of  seals. She showed me a video, taken from above, of seals along Monomoy Island. There are apparently 50,000 off the coast.

I guess there aren't many nerve endings on the shin because it was stinging more than hurting.

Jeff came and we went to urgent care at Fontaine Outpatient Center. A friendly doctor said that in season, every day they see some 150 patients who have had some sort of accident. My blood pressure was high, though not terrible, about 155 over 100. I was glad that I had Ativan in the car.

Ooops

The doctor gave me 12 stitches. I also got a tetanus shot. He said that if I put a sock over it, I could bike the next day. That takes us to yesterday. We biked around some trails in Provincetown and ended up a beautiful Herring Cove Beach. A (relatively) new concession stand, Far Land on the Beach, appeared in front of us. It had a solar roof and not-your-traditional offering, such as kale salad, which the woman at the window promised that they massaged, so it wouldn't be tough.

Looking out at the sun glinting on the water, we had the best kale salad with chick peas, and a fish sandwich with french fries. I held up a crispy french fry and said, this is the life, a crispy french fry, a fresh fish sandwich, and kale salad that actually tastes good.

Too bad this is the last day. I'm sitting on the little deck.

Our Airbnb hosts, Susannah and Russell, have three baby goats. It's funny to be on a beach vacation and hear goats in the background. The black cat, Fiddle, is around here somewhere. Susannah is going to make us eggs. Every day she bakes wonderful muffins. She made blueberry, cranberry, and her speciality, with chocolate mixed in.

Yesterday, I stretched before I got on the bike. Jeff watched me get on and off and concluded the tipping over thing was a fluke. Since we did pretty well yesterday, we're going to take one more bike ride before we leave the Cape.

View of Herring Cove

I wanted to jump in a pond, especially since there wasn't time to jump in a lake in Wisconsin, but now because of the stitches I can't do it. That's OK, though. It's a beautiful day and we're going to meander out of here and make a couple of stops, including maybe a bike ride at Nickerson State Park. It's hard to leave Wellfleet, for sure.

Joe called and I told him that the bike tipped over onto me. He said it's an improvement because it wasn't a bad fall. After one of my BIG falls, Aldo, the Mount Holyoke tennis coach, said I need to learn how to roll when I fall. That's kind of what I did, so I guess it goes with my theme of learning how to fall, in general.

Trekking, schlepping, & celebrating

I am just getting around to writing about my great trip to “the old country” to celebrate Rosh Hashanah. 

I got back on Tuesday, feeling kind of scrunched up from a lot of driving, and then thankful for Wednesday morning yoga, and got back in a car to go to Dana-Farber. Thursday I overslept for the first time in a long time. I woke up only a little before 9:30, which was tricky because I had to be at the Bay Road Tennis Club for my contract time at 10. It's not too far, so I made it, but I didn't get to stretch...or even fully wake up until a ball hit me in the left ear, somehow causing the opposite side of the frame to cause a little bruise behind my right ear. But anyway... 

The trip included: services at the 92^ndStreet Y, traditional post-service lunch at Three Guys Restaurant on 96th and Madison (the old neighborhood) with Katie, Ben and cousin Joanne; family dinner in Queens; hanging out in Brooklyn with Katie and discovering cool restaurants and new neighborhoods; getting rush tickets to see “Beautiful” ($40 orchestra seats) and wandering into my high school friend Amanda Church’s art exhibit in SoHo. 

If the sun came out once, it was for a peek through the clouds. Every time we thought it had stopped raining, it seemed to still be drizzling. I went in my summer clothes and had to borrow a sweatshirt. I had a sore toe, brought on by hiking in shoes that don’t have as much give as the sneakers I usually wear. It is black and bruised and half-off, of great interest to me but understandably not that fascinating to others. When it happened before, it was my runners' badge of honor for going 10 miles. Now, unfortunately, it's just for being careless. 

It slowed me down, somewhat. Still, what with walking here and there and up and down subway stairs, we put in our 10,000 steps most days.

$40 Broadway ticket

Having left home a little later than I planned last Saturday (who, me?) I drove down to Stamford, thinking that would be faster than parking in New Haven and taking the train from there. (You have to walk quite a ways in the station, and Stamford is more manageable). It probably wasn’t faster. Several bad accidents backed up the Merritt Parkway. 

I had an adventure after leaving Grand Central, when I found out that one of the trains that Katie had told me to take wasn’t running. A guardian angel (even older than I am, an RN from Jamaica) told me to follow her, "at no cost." We got onto an alternative train, which meant I got off at a different stop in Brooklyn than planned.

I packed light, but by this point my little purple suitcase felt heavy. Up the stairs I trudged, coming up onto the street into the midst of a flock of black-clad men celebrating the end of the Sabbath. It was the Lubavitch World Headquarters. Who knew? Katie did when she walked down from the other direction and motioned me to come across the street.

It was late and we were hungry. We went to a nearby Indian restaurant. I was surprised at how well it sat with me. (When we newspaper peeps ate down the street at Sitar, I could only eat one dish that didn’t bother me.) 

The only other diners occupied a long table behind us. It was a 60^thbirthday celebration, festive and loud. We didn’t mind, though, because it was entertaining to watch them. We sang happy birthday along with them, and they gave us each a piece of delicious, moist, chocolate cake. (Nutritional consultant, I hope you’re not reading this.)

I told Katie that it might have taken less time to go visit her in Minnesota!

With Amanda Church painting at
 Steven Harvey Fine Art Projects

On Sunday we went up to the art gallery and then further up to Broadway to seek out our rush tickets. My little theater guide (not so little, actually maybe taller than I am) did it again. I never knew from rush tickets. But now I do. The same-day, discounted tickets are not always available. We lucked out.

I had been a doubter about “Beautiful.” I thought it would be a too-nostalgic trip down memory lane. But I was wrong, and I was surprised, both by the story of how Carole King grew up in Brooklyn as Carole Klein and became Carole King when she sold her first song at the age of 16. I had no idea that she had written for so many groups. The story of her breaking out and singing her own songs – gasp – was interesting in that it would be taken for granted today.

And it was a treat (and a surprise) to see the role played and beautifully sung by Abby Mueller, sister of Jessie Mueller, who originated the role.

Monday we went to meet Ben. We got off at 86^thstreet and picked him up at Starbucks, then walked to the Y with him. From playing on the roof as a kindergartener there to going to services with my parents, I have many memories of time spent there. 

We like the rabbi, Elka Abrahamson, who combines a light touch with reverence for the holiday, the celebration of the new year, 5779. Some of us like the cantor more than others. It is controversial to some because he is a cantorial soloist, not a “real” cantor. The sound has changed since the days of my youth, from the choir, with an organ, to a band, with a combination of rock and klezmer sound.

I miss some of the traditional, more somber, singing, but in a way it’s better, because especially in the first year after my father died, the music made me sob into my prayer book.

And while I have to admit to occasionally nodding off in the past, and being rescued with help from those little candies my mother carried in her coat pockets and purses,  I never once felt sleepy.

I would have lingered over honey cake and challah, but we needed to keep moving. So it was on to Three Guys, then out to Queens via subway, then taking an Uber back to Brooklyn because it was more direct than the train.

The next morning, after bagels with Katie, I got back on the Metro North train for the first leg of my trip home. At this point I was tired and wished I had a longer train ride and a shorter drive home. But I had one-third on the train and two-thirds in the car.

 Fatigue might account for the moment when I burst into tears after finding out that I had accidentally parked in an executive garage, not the public garage, and that the cost of parking was more $110, much more than the public garage, which I had tried unsuccessfully to enter. 

It was an easy mistake (at least, if you’re me) since they are side by side, and when I was slowing down to find the entrance to the public garage, drivers behind me were so ferociously honking that I took the first garage entrance I saw.

Maybe these were held-back tears from missing my parents so much during the holiday observances. I know I’m not alone. Holidays can do that to you. I doubt I'll ever experience anything as beautiful as  my mother's holiday dinners. 

It’s always hard for me to leave New York, and top of that, even harder now because it involves leaving our newly minted Brooklynite. So I lollygagged, and by the time I got back home, it was dark. It seemed like it took a long time to get back, but not enough time to count all my blessings. These included having been on this planet to see the cutest set of first-day-of school photos ever, in my opinion, at least.