In a funk after flu shot, and trying to run through it

On Monday I went to CVS and got a flu shot. I figured that by the time I made a doctors' appointment, I might get the flu.

Since I've been poked and prodded countless times, you'd think that I'd be tough. I didn't get hysterical or anything. But I did get a little whiny. I said it hurt.

"Well,  it should, I just put a hole in your arm," the nurse said.

I asked the usual question – would I get sick – and she said that since it is a dead virus, I would not.

Since I like to do things differently, yesterday I felt sick. And my arm hurt. Waaaaaa.

I had promised Maddie a walk. We went to the bank. She lay down on the floor and made herself comfortable. The teller came around and gave her a dog biscuit. My ATM card was not working, so I went to her cubicle and sat down while she made me a new one. Maddie came over and sat with me. I looked at the photo of the teller's dog. It was a Shih Tzu.

I told her about the time when I brought my dog Simon to live in Greenfield at my Aunt Marge's house while I looked for a place to stay. I had gotten my first real newspaper job, at the Transcript-Telegram in nearby Holyoke, before I graduated from Boston University's journalism master's program. (Thank you Jon Klarfeld.)

Simon was possessive about his food. The little dog came over to investigate. Simon snapped. And, unintentionally but still not a pretty picture, broke the little dog's jaw. I felt terrible, of course, but luckily the dog was OK. It's a good thing that everyone loved Simon. I got to stay until I got an apartment in Florence.

Ah, memories.

In any case, yesterday, still not feeling great, I walked Maddie around the lake. When I came back, I looked out the door and thought about how in the way-back-past, if I felt slightly under the weather I could get rid of it by going out for a run.

I wanted to be able to do that. My legs felt heavy, and a stood for a while, looking out the window. I put my leg up on the counter and stretched. (Actually, I my hand ASSISTED my leg in getting up onto the counter. ) It could have gone either way. But I went out for the so-called run, back to the lake, which is about a mile around.

My run was about the same speed as my walk. I bumped into a friend and walked a little way with her. I said that if I wanted to get back to the point where a run was a cure-all, I would have to push through the first part, which was always the hard part. I've done it a few times but not consistently enough. Tennis is easier.

Thinking about this, I wondered, enough for what?

Not enough to get the runner's high, but enough to be a lot more than back after my last transplant when I couldn't even turn myself over or get out of bed.

A little perspective helps.

In any case, my phone said that by the end of the day, between getting to the bank, to and from the lake, and around it twice, I had done, or rather trudged, five miles.

I almost called it quits but I went to Northampton to Megan's yin yoga. It is a hassle to get there and not the best time for me – 6 p.m. – but it always calms me down.

Feet (or rather heel) don't fail me now

Tanglewood on a beautiful day 

After fear of relapse and fear of death, the thing I fear most is return of the dreaded heel pain, plantar fasciitis.

It practically crippled me for months that I had it years ago, and it was a pain to get rid of, cured finally by the soft orthotics that I got from physical therapist Ken Holt out in Montague. I complained bitterly (a favorite word of my father's) about it, while not complaining at all about leukemia. So the twinges that I have had lately have set off alarm bells. I do not want to go back to the period when I couldn't even walk down my driveway without piercing pain.

It might have started from walking barefoot more than I used to; a friend doesn't allow shoes in the house, and I walked barefoot until I could find the appropriate footwear to put on in place of the slippers offered. The slippers were almost the same as going barefoot because they were flat, plus, they were ugly! I repurposed a pair of old sandals by cleaning them. Opinion varies on whether going barefoot is good or bad for plantar fasciitis; in my case it is bed because I need the support.

Then I exacerbated it on an otherwise lovely day at Tanglewood with the Boston University Alumni Association and guests last week. (Some people were confused by my FB posting saying I was with the BU group because they thought I went to Vassar. I got my undergrad from Vassar and my master's in journalism from BU.) I have been to Tanglewood many times but never took an official walking tour like I did last week. Learning about the history was interesting on the beautiful day, but I did it in shoes not made for walking. Hence by the end of the day my feet really killed.

It didn't detract from enjoying the music while sitting in the Shed, a totally different experience from sitting on the lawn, on the day of Yo Yo Ma's "Little Carlito" entreaty. Such a pleasure to hear a star speak like a "real" person, even giving the number of the Stockbridge and Lenox police departments should anyone find the conductor's lost dog. If you read this story, you will discover the happy denouement.

I agree with my friend Ken Ross, who said of Yo Yo Ma in his review on Masslive, "One thing I will say about Ma that really makes him stand out - he always looks so happy to be performing on stage. Some artists might look like tortured souls. In contrast, Ma often has a genuine smile on his face when he's playing. And today was no exception. Other things I noticed about Ma today during his performance of Schumann's Cello Concerto - his effortless transitions, his crystal clear tone, his lighter-than-air touch and his superb sense of rhythm."

Meanwhile, back to my feet...I  stretched and iced a lot during the week and began to feel reassured that the twinges would stay at just that. Though you never can be sure because it can sneak up on you.

Race volunteer

On Friday I was a volunteer at the T-shirt handout for the Bridge of Flowers 10-K in Shelburne Falls, held on Saturday. I was with others from Northampton's Cancer Connection, which, among other non-profits, benefits from the proceeds. We worked at the Shelburne-Buckland Elementary School for a couple of hours, with a break for a spaghetti supper and ice cream. When chatting with some of the runners while in line, I told them I was a runner who wasn't running...much. I told them I was playing a lot of tennis and the running was taking a back seat. Still, I had a twinge of envy as I gave out the T-shirts.

Afterwards, I drove to the Bridge of Flowers, walked across and back, and lingered for a while. In the twilight, it was so beautiful that it was hard to leave.

Bridge of Flowers at dusk

Yesterday when I woke up early enough to go for a run and with no tennis planned, I said to myself that if I was still a real runner and not a so-called one, I would take advantage of the cooler morning to go out and do it. With tennis usually taking precedence, I last ran about a week and a half ago.

So I laced up and stretched and out I went. My mind was its usual chatterbox, but by the time I got into it a little, it had quieted down. I got a taste of why I like it so much as I got into a little bit of a groove. I tried my best to pick it up a little between certain markers and felt pretty good.

When I checked my mileage on my phone after, I was surprised to see that I had gone 3.7 miles. Nothing hurt. Still, today, I got a few more twinges. I better pay attention to them. In many ways when you get to a certain age, running is not good for the body. But it is definitely good for the soul.

A day of odd happenings

Yesterday was strange.

It started with my usual routine these days, checking the three spots where I have put nifty black mousetraps that allow me to release the mouse in a bag without looking at it and then place the peanut-butter-laden trap back in its place. The family likes the silverware drawer, the lazy susan, and the area under my sink. Every time I put the silverware back in, I have to take it out and wash it. So it is on my kitchen table. I found the mouse in the drawer.

(This post is in chronological order, not order of importance.)

I did a phone interview for a story I am writing and did some stuff around the house.

Then, I went down to Enfield to get in on a group lesson with George. I am enjoying my clinics in with Michael, but I wanted to check in with George to brush up on my slice. It was just me and one other woman whom I had not met before. George used me as a slicing model! When introducing us, he told the other woman that I had had three bone marrow transplants. Actually, I said, it was four. He said they must be doing something to my blood in the ECP because my strength, flexibility, balance and movement have greatly improved.

After that, I went to Starbucks to buy some coffee to take home and sit down with the newspaper and have a cup to get me back home. I started talking to people, left, and forgot my coffee.

Back home, I decided to go to a yoga class at 7:15 at Serenity Yoga because I am not going to be able to make my usual Saturday morning class. While waiting, I browsed the freelance writing jobs on line, found one that I liked, and applied to it. Then I went to yoga. I was the only one there, so I had a private lesson in which the lovely teacher, a sub, gave me excellent new tips on keeping my balance, such as finding four spots in my feet and pressing them firmly into the ground. She also gave me a wedge for my hands. It helped with the arthritis in my left hand that is a problem when doing down dog.

At home, now around 8:30, I steamed broccoli and cooked a little ravioli and checked my email. I had gotten a response to my job application. The editor sent a three-page press release and asked me to rewrite it in 300 words, with a focus on the message that the employer wanted to convey, and return it within 24 hours.

It reminded me of being back in Jon Klarfeld's journalism class at Boston University in which he gave us the chronological information on a fire story, with the lede buried (something about a person in a bathtub), and we needed to rewrite it in order of importance, and if we failed, be greatly mocked. I say this with affection because it toughened me up and he did it with a sense of humor.

I violated my rule of not writing before bed and stayed up until 11:30 rewriting the press release. I tossed and turned and woke up tangled in my quilt and sheets. This always happens, but in this case I thought I needed to get the job done quickly.

Today, I had planned to go to the Northampton Y for a yoga class. But I have go back to Longmeadow to get my coffee, so I signed up for the round robin in Enfield. I thought of canceling because I am bleary-eyed. But I already said I would go and that is what I want to do. Hopefully I will be able to see the ball.

Mom and Dad to the rescue

This time of year reminds me of two times that my parents had to "rescue" me.

I put the word in quotes because I wasn't in such dire straits as I made myself out to be.

The first episode happened earlier in the spring of 1974, when the cherry blossoms were out on the Vassar campus. I thought of this today when the weather turned from soggy to sunny and Maddie and I walked around Mount Holyoke, so beautiful with the trees in still in bloom.

Near the end of the spring semester at Vassar, I came down with a high fever and a terrible case of strep throat. After landing in the infirmary, I called my parents in tears and said they had to come. They rushed from New York City to Poughkeepsie, expecting, from the sound of my voice, to find me languishing in a dark room.

Instead, I was in a pleasant room with a view of the beautiful trees, being attended to by a nurse who was applying cold washcloths to my forehead. My mother really got a kick out of this episode, and she told it over and over.

It was around the same time of year when I was about to get my master's in journalism from Boston University. I had the inverse attitude of when I called from the infirmary: I said it was no big deal and they didn't need to come. But at the very last minute I had a change of heart...and they hopped on the shuttle to Boston, arriving just as I was getting my diploma. I could see them waving to me from the audience.

Of course my mother didn't need to be asked when she rushed to my side for the beginning of my chemotherapy some 10 years ago. My father would have done the same had he been alive.

People say I've been pretty stoical throughout the bad things that have happened to me. It's an interesting about-face for someone who was such a drama queen.

Watching hockey from another angle

It is probably safe to say that I was the only person at last night's University of Massachusetts/Boston University hockey game taking pictures of the announcer.

To be more precise, the back of the announcer's head, because that's the only angle I could get.

I was at the UMass Mullins Center ostensibly watching the game but really there to hear Joe announce it. He has been the public address announcer for several UMass football games this season (including the one at Gillette Stadium, where the Patriots play) but this was his first hockey game.

Having watched Joe play hockey in high school and college, I was much more interested in going to a hockey game than I was in seeing football. I went with Jim and his friend Bill and had a good seat almost directly behind Joe but many rows above where he sat in a booth down at the ice.

 I walked down and sat behind him and took a few photos on my phone to send Ben and Katie. Did I wonder if I looked a little odd? Yes. Did I care? No.

When we first heard Joe, I looked at Jim and asked, "That's him?" Of course I knew it was, but it was announcer Joe, not everyday Joe. He sounded, and was, 100 percent professional.

While everyone cheered for the players, I shouted "Yay, Joe" after I heard his voice. (Don't worry, nobody but Jim could hear me.)

I did, by the way, also pay attention to the game, which ended up in a 2-2 tie,

But for me, the main attraction was my son. I was, as they say in Yiddish, kvelling. Definition: To beam with pride and pleasure, most often about the accomplishments of your children.