Tennis in the heat, weird dreams in bed

At my happy place, Holyoke Canoe Club

I dreamt I was in Atlantic Beach (Long Island) site of idyllic summer days. My father was gone. My mother didn’t own the house anymore but had an agreement with the woman who did own it that we could use it on weekends. We went for a weekend. I planned to run on the boardwalk and take a walk with my mother. 

We heard that the woman was coming earlier than expected, with her kids. I have seen this woman before in my dreams. She isn’t nice. She wants to rearrange the furniture. We have to “butter her up” so she lets us continue to use it. I say to one of her daughters, “I grew up playing kickball in these streets. I need to keep coming back.” 

She says she will take care of it. But they want us to leave early. There will be no time for the run or the walk. I ask my mother if we can stay an extra couple of hours and maybe hang out with our neighbors, the Lublins. It doesn’t seem likely.

In another part of the dream, I am down at the ocean. It is supposed to be calm. But the waves are rough. A tidal wave approaches. I dive into it, then come up for air. I run to dry land, into a room, but the water seeps through. Then I am standing under an overhang. The wave crashes over it. Tiny droplets fall onto my head. Tidal wave dreams seem to be about surging emotions. I have a lot of variations. I think I did OK in this one.

I also dreamt that I walked into my mother’s jewelry store and stood back in shock when I saw my aunt Cinny behind the counter. I thought, “But you’re dead!” When I walked closer, I saw that it was a woman with red hair, with a strong resemblance to my aunt. 

Out of the blue, a voice said, “You believe in Jesus!”

I said, “I do not believe he is the son of God, but I do believe he was a good man.”

NEWSPAPER DREAM alert! 

My friend and editor Mimi thinks I should stop already, but I don’t know how to tell my subconscious to get out of there.

In the dream, I went into the newspaper office and talked to some reporters who were there. I asked if (managing editor) Wayne would let me write three reviews a week. I said I really missed being in the office and would even do it for free. A reporter said they were letting go, not hiring. I decided to go to the library to look for other newspapers that might accept a review. Then I remembered that I was a freelancer and could pitch anywhere I wanted.

In real life, I have been playing a lot of pretty good tennis. It is a little crazy to do this in the heat. It is of course not good for my skin. But I don’t see how you play tennis this summer without getting sun. I finally found a relatively comfortable sun protection shirt, made in Australia. I wear sun protection gloves. I use sunscreen. It is my therapy and so I continue to do it.

I have skipped a couple of George’s Wednesday clinics at the Canoe Club in favor of yoga with Meghan at the Hampshire Y. The clinics are like summer camp for adults, and a lot of fun, but it is also so much sun despite starting out on George’s “air conditioned” court near the river. He makes it really difficult if you say you need to leave early. (I know, I’m a big girl, but if you know George, you’ll know what I mean about how hard it is to do the opposite of what he says. Note to self: Next time just do it, to save your skin.) Also: Do not neglect the yoga. It provides an important balance.

I had to play singles in a summer league match. I haven’t played singles in a long time. I have a claim to fame in winning at the Districts in singles. A long long time ago.

When I was practicing on the Mount Holyoke courts, I chatted with the coach running the summer tennis camp. I told him I was a little nervous about playing singles. He said, “I always tell people, 'You’re a tennis player, not a singles or doubles player.'" That made an impression.

Out on the court, I said “bounce, hit,” a method I learned from reading The Inner Game of Tennis. It helps quiet mental chattering and calm nerves. I reminded myself that I was strong. I fixed my strings (not really because there is nothing to fix; it is just another technique that improves focus.) I bounced around on my toes, despite getting tired. It helped me keep energized.

We played the whole two hours. I have to admit that by the end, my back was stiffening up. 

I won in two sets, in a “timed match,” meaning we ran our of time when I was ahead by two games at 5-3. I think I won the first set 7-5, but it is mushing in my memory with last night’s winning match in the heat, this time doubles, with my summer team, the Paper Dolls, with a fun partner. I had already played in the morning with a regular Monday group. When we stopped, the sweat was dripping into my eyes to the point where I couldn’t see.

I mentioned to my partner that at Dana-Farber, my home-away-from-home, they wouldn't be happy about all the sun on my skin. I can't remember who knows what.

She asked if I was in treatment. I have a good nutshell summary that consists of past leukemia and current side effects including problems with my skin. If there is time and it seems appropriate, I throw in four bone marrow transplants. She said you would never know it.

When we were done, I walked very slowly out of  Forest Park . You could say I trudged. I headed straight to Friendly's for a mint chocolate chip ice cream cone.  By the time I got it, that ice cream tasted pretty great.

Sliced finger gets in way of slicing on court

Today is a tennis day, but I couldn't go because I was being nice to the dog.

Specifically, when cleaning out the fridge for trash day, I decided to slice some chicken off the bone for Maddie.

The knife was in good shape because I had sharpened it for Passover. So it made a nice cut when I missed and sliced right into my index finger on my left hand. I bandaged it and wrapped tape around it but it continued to bleed. I thought briefly of walking down to the fire station – there is just one house between us – but thought better of it and called Fire District 2. I stressed that it wasn't an emergency.

The assistant fire chief, Todd Calkins, arrived in a jiff with an EMT. They went into their "boo-boo kit" (their word) and bandaged it and wrapped it tightly. They said it looked like it might need stitches. They also said I should look into whether my tetanus shot was up-to-date.

Todd recalled the day when I called the fire department in a panic when I came home from work and saw smoke pouring out of the nearly-completed addition. I was pregnant with Katie. I had just picked up Ben and Joe when I saw it. I ran in and got my dog-three-times-removed, our big black Lab, Winnie. I later learned that a carpenter had flicked an ash into a barrel. Apparently in a few minutes, the old house would have burst into flames.

Todd said he had two other houses in a similar state that same night.

They said they would take me to the ER. I said I would figure it out.

The bleeding stopped. It only hurt a little. Thus, I dilly-dallied.

I am still trying to get organized after the informative and productive but overwhelming writers' conference I went to earlier this month (May 5-6), presented by the American Society of Journalists and Authors. It was my first time as a member. I had gone last year as a non-member and found it so beneficial that I decided to apply for membership, got in, and got psyched for the full benefit of two days as opposed to the general public's one day.

Loaded down w/ bags at #ASJA2017NY

I realized that I didn't write a blog post about it. All I did was put a photo on FB. I was too busy BEING THERE NOW. Short version is that it offered the camaraderie that I miss from my newspaper days. I learned a lot from the many sessions, made connections with editors and got cards from editors with whom I didn't have a chance to speak, got story ideas, felt supported, enjoyed the conference-supplied Starbucks coffee, and even had a chance to sneak in a visit with Aunt Marge and (cousin) Jeanne.

Even before I left the conference, I took some time to send follow-up emails to editors. I did more of that when I came home and thought about stories I would like to write or pitch. I guess germinating is all part of working.

But I've been feeling a little like some of us tennis players feel after the Districts, the USTA tournament up a level from the local leagues.

You expend so much anticipatory energy – and so much energy there – that for a while afterwards you need a little break from tennis. Thought bubble: "Don't let me ever look at a tennis ball again! Well, maybe not never ever."

Back to that slightly sliced finger. Somewhere around 3 today, I called my internist’s office to see about the tetanus shot. Turns out I had one two years ago. They don’t do stitches, so the nurse suggested Urgent Care. When I got to the one on Memorial Drive in Chicopee, only a couple of people were before me, while earlier in the day it was busier. So by lingering at home, I had saved myself waiting room time.

A physician’s assistant took off the bandaid. It didn’t look bad enough to need stitches. Instead, she used skin glue. The application process made it hurt more than when I got there.

Since it’s the left hand, hopefully it will be better in the morning and I can play a little tennis. I have a lesson that I don’t want to miss.

All of this really happened

When talking to Dana-Farber's assistant VP for Gift Planning Alice Zaff at the recent Chefs for Jimmy, I told her I would send her the link to what Dr. Alyea and Melissa wrote about me in the fall 2014 e-newsletter, Advances in Hematologic Malignancies.

I directed her to the second link down, Complex Case Study: Four Stem Cell Transplants for Acute Myeloid Leukemia (AML).

There, she would see my story, starting with my diagnosis in 2003 at age 48 after unusual fatigue during the Saint Patrick's Road Race.

I won't repeat the whole megillah; you can read it if you want by clicking on the second link. When I reread it, certain things jump out at me: the nearly four years in remission after my first transplant; the relapse in 2007 (not included in their telling was the fact that Korby and I had just won at the Districts); transplant #2 with an unrelated donor (allogenic transplant) ; and six months later, pancytopenia (empty bone marrow), followed by transplant #3.

Picking up from there, they wrote: "Six months after her second allogeneic transplant, the patient's peripheral blood counts again declined. A repeat bone marrow biopsy demonstrated second relapse of AML. She was readmitted to Brigham and Women's Hospital with fever and neutropenia in December 2008, and did not re-emerge for four months. She underwent another induction chemotherapy with a high-dose cytarabine-based regimen and had multiple life-threatening infections, including pulmonary aspergillosis and cytomegalovirus (CMV) colitis with a related gastrointestinal bleed. Other complications included delirium and severe edema."

They didn't even get around to talking about the kidney failure and the coma.

It was during that stay that I received my fourth transplant, on Jan. 31, 2009, with a different unrelated donor (Denise).

Today when I looked at a bottle containing 300 vitamins at Costco, I said to my friend, "I don't know if I'll live that long."  That kind of "joke" still comes out of me reflexively. After I hit the five-year mark, I was no more likely to die of leukemia than anyone in the general population, but once you are afraid for your life in the way that I was, it doesn't totally leave you.

God willing and the creeks don't rise, tomorrow I will go to Fairfield to celebrate my seventh birthday, or re-birthday, thanks to Denise and Dana-Farber.

Back on the team

I have been on the fence about rejoining my tennis team.

 Comfortable with George's clinic and weekly round robins, I asked myself whether the added pressure of being on an official team was worth it.

But I always wanted to get back on the team, and when Korby needed more official 3.5 players to create a team, a signed up.

Donna and me before our match.

I was always a 3.0, but in August 2007 when Korby and I won our match at the Districts, where the winning teams from the area compete, I was bumped up a level to 3.5. A few days later, I learned that I had relapsed, and I was back in the hospital before I ever played a match at the higher level.

Yesterday, Donna and I played my first 3.5 match.

I had butterflies the night before and talked to Ben, who reminded me that first of all it's only tennis.

Yes, we are playing for brownies and not big bucks, but when you've played league tennis for as long as I have, it takes on a life of its own.

Ben also reminded me that just getting to this point is a huge accomplishment. He said that maybe I couldn't see it that way because I was not in the room that night in 2009 at the family meeting when Dr. Alyea said there were 50 things wrong with me and I might not make it.

"I'm so proud that you are going to walk on the court again and play official USTA tennis," he said. "It doesn't matter if you lose, 6-0, 6-0.

When we got out on the court yesterday, that's what I thought was going to happen after we lost the first set 6-0.

The ball came faster and with more consistency, and my mind drifted off the court. "As soon as this is over, I'm going to get out of here and appeal my rating and get back on a 3.0 team where I belong. Bla, bla bla."

Our opponents were nice...and younger. One of them was tall with a long black ponytail and reminded me of my younger self.

In the second set, after we somehow won a game, I readjusted and thought, hey, maybe we could do OK. Donna reminded me to focus on the ball, not on the score or outcome, and to keep my feet moving.

I reminded myself to just get it over, giving them the chance to miss. It worked, and they made more unforced errors. My serve kicked in, and sometimes their return went into the net. That was a big confidence booster.

 When we won the second set 7-5, I was so in the zone that when I saw Donna smiling, I asked, "What just happened?"

It was incredibly hot and humid. "I'm sensing a fall in our energy level," Donna said. "We have to keep our feet moving." She was right. If you show that you're tired –which I was – they will take advantage of your body language. So I danced around (with effort!) a big contrast to when I could barely lift my feet off the ground two years ago.

The score was 2-1 us as we neared the two-hour mark when the match ends. If we won the next game, we won the match.

 3-1, us.

 Donna beamed and came towards me.

"Did we just win?" I asked.

But I knew the answer.

It was an incredible feeling, one that is still with me now.

Afterwards, we went upstairs for cheese and crackers, and I got a chance to catch up with other players whom I hadn't seen in years.

When I called Ben later, he said, "This is one of the top five stories in all my years of observing and covering sports, from little league to the pros."

Well, I wouldn't go that far.

But it feels great to be back in the fold.

Then and now

This time last summer, I went with my tennis team to compete in the regional tournament known as the Districts, formally called the District Championships. The team, sponsored by the USTA, is in a Western Massachusetts league. When you win your regular season or place second, you advance to the Districts, where you play teams from different states. It's always the first weekend in August, which last year was Aug. 4 and 5. If you win there, it's on to the Nationals.

Players always get a little worked up at the Districts, where the competition can be intense. The location changes from year to year; last year we went to Southern Connecticut and played teams from that wealthy area. For our first match, our opponent was the team that eventually won the whole thing. The women were tall, svelte, tanned and for the most part gorgeous. They had long blonde pony-tailed hair. They were nice, but we couldn't help but call them the Barbies. They wore turquoise and white outfits; our colors were yellow and black. In the restroom, I heard one of them call our team the Bumblebees. I hope this doesn't sound like sour grapes, but they looked like they played every day. My partner and I lost.

Playing with a different partner in the next match, we won against a more normal-looking team. It's a great feeling to win at the Districts, where, when you come up from the court, everyone claps.

Our team went out to dinner, had a few drinks and generally had a good time together, whether we had lost or won, although I have to admit that over the years when we lose at the Districts, many of us dissolve into an agonizing post-mortem in which we play the "If only I had...." game, as in "If only I hadn't lost my serve so many times," or "If only I hadn't hit that last ball out," etc.

If only my tennis loss was my biggest problem.

Physically I felt great at last year's Districts, though I was anxious about my doctor's appointment that coming Monday. My doctor had been keeping an eye on a worrisome decrease in my white blood count, and on Monday, a blood test would show if the counts were still low or if they had recovered to a normal level.

Monday, Aug. 6, 2007: The blood count was still low, and the doctor performed a bone marrow biopsy to find out of the leukemia had returned.

Wednesday, Aug. 8, 2007: I went back for the results. The leukemia had, indeed, returned, after nearly four years of remission. The good news was that there was only a little, but the bad news was that I would need to go back into the hospital and undergo chemotherapy again, complete with hair loss and other side effects. This time I would get donated bone marrow instead of last time when I was transplanted with my own cells.

Friday, Aug. 10, 2007: I was admitted to Brigham and Women's Hospital for the start of chemo.

I was in shock when I heard the news. My friend Margaret, who was in the waiting room, had come to support me just in case I had bad news. I don't think either of us expected what happened. Margaret burst into tears.

It's impossible to keep from saying "This time last year..." And impossible to stop the anniversary from raising your anxiety level.

But you can foster your positive thoughts too: This time last year I had leukemia and this year I don't. I have great doctors who know what they're doing. This thing is curable. I'm going to be OK.

The other day I took the dog for a walk on a trail where I used to run, and where I hope to run again. I noticed a root sticking up that I had stumbled over before. This time I stepped over the root. So, I said to myself, just because you were tripped up before does not mean you will be tripped up again.