Warm Wisconsin welcome, bad behavior on tennis court, & another tooth bites the dust

With new friend Mary Robinson at Wisconsin Welcome sign

I Went to Wisconsin without my laptop and neglected the blog. I did a little writing on the rehabbed iPad (I had dropped it almost as soon as I got it) and I'm sure it's not complicated but I have a leap to make before I can write a blog post.

The MacBook Air is my version of the old-fashioned well-sharpened pencil on a favorite pad, I guess.

Actually I went to Chicago, then on to Wisconsin. It was with my boyfriend. Just trying that on for size. I don't know what to say. He's not a boy.  Boyfriend and girlfriend kinda work, but not totally at a certain age.

In previous blog posts I wrote that "a friend" drove me to Dana-Farber. It's time to be a little more specific while at the same time not revealing too much.

I went to meet his sisters and extended family. So that was a big step. There are sensitive issues.

My "friend" and I have discussed the awkwardness of finding the right name for the significant other, or as my mother used to say, gentleman caller.

Not a partner: too much like you're dancing or in a business arrangement. Although I hear that a lot of people are using it. Not a companion, which sounds more like an aide. Or beau? I used beau for a while but then some people got annoyed and said to please use his name.

I like meeting people and finding out about them (occupational necessities), so I was only a little nervous about the trip. He said, "Just be yourself."

They were so friendly and welcoming, and interesting, that I was immediately relaxed and did just that.

I think it went well, but there were a few moments when I wondered what they thought. For example, we were in the middle of lunch at his sister-in-law's when my fingers decided to do back bends and cramp. Trying probably unsuccessfully to be subtle, I pulled at my thumb to try to straighten it out. His niece asked if I was OK. At the moment I wasn't, because when this happens it hurts a lot.

It isn't just my thumbs. My other fingers can bend backwards also. I couldn't do this if I tried, but when it happens they get a mind of their own. One doctor said this is related to my graft vs. host disease of the skin, though I've heard that it happens to other people who didn't get a stem cell transplant.

 I know that the limited range in my wrists, which is a problem in yoga, comes from the GVHD. (Sorry former and current news peeps, this is an oft-used acronym. The whole terms is a mouthful.)

My beau's sister-in-law said it could be low salt, and she gave me some Gatorade. It worked. I was so happy that I flapped my freed-up fingers around. She kindly gave me a bottle to take with me in case it happened again.

I seemed to have a connecting point with many of his relatives. For example, I talked to one about our shared chemotherapy after effect, neuropathy in our feet. For people who don't have it, it's hard to understand how your feet can be simultaneously numb and painful. I wrote about it in this article about the pain of having and treating neuropathy. 

After a night in Chicago, we drove some four hours to Stevens Point, Wisconsin, my friend's hometown. (How about special friend? Nah.) We had two lovely runs in Iverson Park, along a trail padded by pine needles and leaves.

We also went to Waupaca and Appleton. It was a packed itinerary. I got an actual state map and enjoyed trying to find my bearings...and attempting to fold it back the proper way.

On the drive back, we stopped at a tourist attraction, the Mars Cheese Castle. At first, when Mary mentioned it, I thought for a moment that it was actually made out of cheese! It isn't made of cheese, but there is a lot of it.

I didn't get any cheese because I'm toying with the no sugar, no dairy, diet. I got some pushback on it. It seems like there should be a way to make some changes but adhere to moderation, not total elimination of certain foods. In any case I didn't get very far without eating ice cream.

 It was my birthday on Friday, and while writing the beginning part of the blog, I was eating a large piece of my birthday carrot cake. It's hard to refrain from cake on your birthday. It's carrot cake so it must have something good for you in it. Those little frosted carrots on the top, per chance?

The day before, I had my 13th tooth pulled. As directed by the dental surgeon, I took two Ativan (two milligrams total). I really wanted coffee afterwards. My chauffeur obliged. He was a good sport. I don't remember doing this, but I believed him when he said I was falling all over the place.

I vaguely remember going into the Odyssey Bookshop and picking out three books for him to buy me. (Educated, Less, and the first Louise Penny book, recommended by his sisters and echoed by friends.)

Unhappy camper

The next day I said we could return one because it seemed like a lot. He said it's only three books. Did I say he's a mensch? Also, my dog has a crush on him.

There is a string hanging down from the stitch in my gum where the tooth used to be. It is hard to avoid playing with it with my tongue. It hurts on and off, more so at night. The oxycodone makes me have hallucinatory dreams, but it works the best.  I need to repeat this or else people will think I'm a drug addict: My doctors don't want me to take much Tylenol because it is bad for the liver, in which I have some graft vs. host disease. Advil and the others are not good either, for a variety of reasons.

On my birthday we went to George's smaller (than Wednesday) clinic at the Holyoke Canoe Club. It was a fun time, as usual.

But sadly, in other ways, the stars do not seem to be aligned over my happy place, specifically in our normally relaxed, low-key, Saturday and Tuesday group.

My other groups are set up so that we plan ahead to have an even number. In this group, whoever shows up, plays, so you might have one player at a time rotating in for the server.

It's not my first choice because you don't play a full set. But I realized that the socializing and coffee-drinking while waiting your turn is part of the fun.

If there are more than two people sitting, however, I get antsy. So I either leave or on occasion have asked someone to hit with me on another court. This still leaves one extra person so that anyone who wants to rest, gets a chance to do it.

Last week when a third extra person arrived, I asked another of the "sitters" if he wanted to go on another court to hit. It would still leave one to rotate in.  Believe me, I know what it's like to be tired, so I have compassion.

A player, "E," bellowed, "YOU SIT! We need to rest!"

Excuse me? I wondered, would he direct a guy this way? I think not. Was he being a bully? I believe he was. After I had my turn serving, I packed up to leave. With tears in my eyes. Nobody likes being yelled at. But in addition, for me, an element PTSD comes into play.

I went home to walk the dog. Who does not bark at me.

Saturday was even worse. I went to tennis despite having a bad night's sleep and being a little "off" because of the pain and the remnants of the night's drugs. When I got there, it looked like three would be sitting, but then another player arrived. So we had eight, two women and two men. I was excited. Good for real doubles.

We had some good rallies but they beat us, 6-1. It seemed like it would be obvious to switch partners. They were a stronger team, let's face it. I was off a beat, and so was my partner. I suggested switching, but my partner wanted a rematch. Actually, he INSISTED.

It started out OK, 1 to 1. Then this happened. A ball came right to my partner, just a little bit higher than his head. He ducked. Our coach, George, would say that a good player is always ready to back a partner up. But I guess I'm not that good. I said, "Oh, C, tell me if you want me to get it and I'll go for it."

I didn't think much of it because partners say things like this to each other all the time. And I didn't say it in an angry way, because who am I to get angry with a partner?

The next game when I was serving, a ball rolled half way into the court, near where he was standing at the service line. Etiquette, or just plain being reasonable, calls for the partner who is not serving to pick up the ball. He looked back at me and said, "You get it."

Normally talkative, he didn't say one word after that.

We lost the second set 6-1.

When we were sweeping the clay, he picked up the brush and lowered his head. He would not look up. I grabbed the line sweeper and walked alongside him. "What's the matter?" I asked. He wouldn't answer. I repeated the question. He glared at me.

"I hate you," he said.

"You're just as bad as R," he said, referring to a player who he thinks takes it too seriously. (First I put the whole name in and then took it out.)

"I don't criticize you when you make a mistake. Don't you tell me what to do," he said.

I was stunned.

I followed along for a while and said I was sorry, I wasn't criticizing.

He walked off the court to where George and a group of other players were sitting.

I went over to the other player cleaning their side of the court.

I asked if she heard what was going on and if she saw what had happened during the game. She said she saw him go silent after the point that I referenced.

She suggested that to clear the air, I should just repeat that I was sorry.

So I did it.

"C," I said, "I'm sorry."

He looked up at me with (sorry about the cliche) daggers in his eyes.

"Don't talk to me," he said.

WHAT?

How rude, how ungracious, how juvenile!

This person by the way has been a big supporter through the cancer stuff, and, I thought, a real friend.

You could psychoanalyze...maybe he was mad that the other guy was playing better, maybe he had a fight with his wife, maybe he got out on the wrong side of the bed....

But again, I ask, would he talk this way to a guy?

I can't imagine he would.

Meanwhile, I saw I had a missed call from Katie.

I walked over to the river and sat on a chair. And started crying so much that she probably thought something terrible had happened.

I said I wished I was tougher and had said, "Don't talk to me like that."

I was also crying because I was tired, because it had just been my birthday and my parents weren't there, because I thought of all the parties at Atlantic Beach, and because the sweet photo that my sister posted of the two of us and our mother and Sam in front of 77 Coronado Street made the memory so vivid, and because I lost another tooth and the absence of the tooth generated a dull ache as though the tooth were still there, and because I will need another bridge costing thousands of dollars, and because I thought I knew someone and it turned out he was just another bully on the playground.

Afterwards, my reaction made me think of that horrible presidential debate in which Hillary Clinton turned and smiled when Donald Trump was coming menacingly close to her, after which she wrote in her book that she wished she had said, "Back up you creep."

Clinton wrote, “Maybe I have over-learned the lesson of staying calm, biting my tongue, digging my fingernails into a clenched fist."

The author of an article in Quartz wrote, "The passage is a clear appeal to the women who supported her. And Clinton’s reaction is relatable to anyone who has been harassed or intimidated—even if it wasn’t live in front of the entire country—and didn’t immediately react.

Then again, that's how many of us were brought up, and there is something to be said in favor of staying calm.

Of high blood pressure and gratitude

Reading Underground Railroad at Dana-Farber
during light treatment in order to avoid the news

A post that I came across in a blog-sharing group struck me as something helpful to share. I want to get to the part about going on blood pressure medication and not wanting to, and how it got to be this way, but first, an interview with Maya Angelou and various sources on how keeping a gratitude journal is a key ingredient to happiness.

This could be especially helpful these days when the irrational behavior of a certain individual can threaten our own equilibrium.

I did something like this a while back, sending to a friend, and a friend sending to me, five things we were grateful for on each day. It was great for a while but was hard to keep up. This one seems easier. Just three things.

The end of Avenue Q when we saw it way back when concluded with an applause-generating phrase, George Bush is only for now, which was changed when he left office. You could substitute Donald Trump is only for now, but that might not have much of a calming effect because he and his minions are so terrifying.

I would put him third on a list of the reasons for my high blood pressure.

1. It started with the Mohs surgery three weeks ago, and with the knowledge that they were going to remove a larger than usual squamous cell cancer from my ankle and cut a slice out of my stomach, while I was awake, to use as a graft in the hole. A couple more pieces of me chipped away. As I wrote, it wasn't as bad as the anticipation. But the pain was intense enough for about a week that I took double the usual dose of pain medication.

2. My routine was disrupted, the source of my endorphins gone. I was unable to play tennis or go to yoga or even walk very far. The doctor said to limit it to 20 minutes, just for walking the dog, not an exercise walk. I did that gingerly. I also did a little stretching and tried to meditate, but it was hard because I was either in pain or falling asleep from the drugs.

3. Donald Trump. Nuf said.

After the high reading at the Mohs center and another at a local doctor's office, both of which seemed to be variations of White Coat Syndrome, I got a prescription for Losartan (and instructions to drink less coffee.)  But when I took out my old blood pressure monitor the next day and the numbers were normal again, Melissa said it was OK not to take the pill. She said to monitor it, though.

I then made the mistake of sitting at the computer for a long time, writing with breaks to read all sorts of bad news, and remembering that I hadn't taken a reading that day. I should have sat quietly before I did it, but I didn't, and it was 202 over 118. I usually run normal (120 over 80 or so) or even lower.

I paged Melissa, who always gets back to me quickly. (Thank goodness for Melissa, and for caregivers like her.) I asked her if I was having a heart attack. But I wasn't having chest pains, so she said to take a pill and relax and call her in an hour. By then it was back to normal. But she said that after three high readings I should take the pill.

We are going to reevaluate after I am back to my routine. I started with tennis Monday and yesterday.

The nurses at ECP yesterday said to pay attention and make sure it doesn't go too low. This morning it was lower than usual, 106/75. I texted the friend who I've been discussing this with, "Better drink some coffee." We had also been discussing the impact of salt, and she texted back, "Or eat salami."

Today, it was good to get back to yoga. I took it easy, knowing how sore my arms would be if I did every down dog and plank. I left the Northampton Y feeling calmer. But in the car I turned on NPR and listened to a story about the Mexican president canceling his US trip due to Trump's insane claim that Mexico is going to pay us back after we build the stupid wall. I fumed. I do not want my tax dollars to go to that wall.

I definitely wasn't going to take my blood pressure after that.

That gratitude journal could be a wall between sanity and insanity. Tomorrow I will start by writing that a certain big sweetie is bring a little sweetie to South Hadley for lunch.

Falling flat on my face, getting back up

With Connie Britton at Hillary Clinton Keene office

If you do a good thing for yourself followed by something that is not so good, do they cancel each other out?

Of since the bad is second, does that take precedence?

Or what if you finish with a good? Then you might end up ahead.

OK, so...During last Sunday's second presidential debate, I almost immediately texted to my friends, regarding Donald Trump's lurking behind Hillary Clinton, "OMG, he's going to hit her." I half-joked that I would take half an Ativan but it had gotten too late and I knew I might be sleepy the next day.

The next evening, Monday, I wasn't that up to it, but I went to yoga. When I got back I was still anxious about several things, and, if you can have a fond memory of being in the hospital, I had one about my late nurse friend Vytas coming into my room and giving me a whole milligram straight into my catheter. He would stand beside me for a few minutes, with that little smile of his, and watch me thankfully drift away. I thought what the heck and popped the whole thing. I don't use it very much, which of course is good , but it therefore has a greater effect on me than when I was taking it more frequently.

I didn't think much of it. When it was time for me to take Maddie out before bed, I did my usual thing, turning on two lights. Sort of my usual thing because I usually also take the flashlight. When we went out I called to her, "Come on Maddie, do your business." And looking out at her and not at the step, I missed it and crashed down face first onto the walkway. Glasses flying, I landed on my nose. My knee and chest also took a hit. She sat there. I lay there. My nose bled.

Getting myself up, I went into the house and called my good friend Claudia. I don't remember the time, but it was after 10. Luckily she was with Katie's friend Kristen, a newly minted physician's assistant, and they came over together to look me over. Seeing nothing major, they packed me in ice and put me to bed.

Over the next few days I was increasingly sore. My nose turned black and blue enough so that I thought it might be broken. On Friday I had an X-ray and since I didn't get a call, I assume that it is fine. The first few nights it was so swollen that I had trouble breathing. I took some ibuprofen for a few days after getting permission from Melissa. (Good for reducing swelling and pain, bad for kidneys.)

Mostly I was embarrassed and annoyed with myself and generally putting myself down. I was also upset that I missed one of the last weeks of Wednesday tennis.

But, feeling between 75 to 80 percent today (thinking of my father who liked to talk about his health in percentages), I went on my second canvassing trip to Keene, NH. I actually went to Marlborough, NH, but we left from the Keene office. The shift didn't start until noon, but we got there to see Connie Britton, who is campaigning in New Hampshire for Hillary Clinton, Maggie Hassan and the other Democrats.

I loved Friday Night Lights and was thrilled to see her. "You guys are democracy in action," she said to the assembled volunteers, mostly all of us on this shift from Massachusetts, before leading us in the ultimate Coach Taylor pep talk, "Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose."

This week marks the beginning of the GOTV (Get Out the Vote) part of the campaign, and it is interesting to see how they start this effort that was such a successful part of the Obama campaign. I went with two other people to houses identified as having either Democratic or unaffiliated voters, asked if the Dems were all set or if they needed any information, and had some interested conversations with the ones who said they had not yet decided.

Then it was back to the office, where, same as last week, they had some yummy food. The reporter in me still appreciates free food, and the canvasser in me was hungry.

Putting pain in perspective

A moment of reflection on pain.

Facebook usually sends photo memories but this week I'm getting blog posts.

This time three years ago I was having a hard time recovering from the kidney surgery I had gotten on Katie's birthday. I remember standing in the kitchen and crying because my pain medication wasn't working and the doctor hadn't returned the call I had placed about taking more.

I wrote that I relished a little bit of pain free time.

Now I'm getting ready for tennis and not in pain at all. I might be in some pain later in the day when the needle goes in my arm at ECP but that will be fleeting and then I'll have dinner with Margaret and Nick.

The only pain is the sound of Donald Trump's voice in the background as I record Morning Joe so I can skip through the commercials and get the latest political news while I eat my cereal.

When the news gives you nightmares

In my dream, I was hanging out with George W. Bush. He had just won re-election again. He seemed like a regular guy. I asked him what he thought of Donald Trump. I said to myself, compared to Trump, he doesn't seem so bad. (I think I got this in my brain because I read somewhere that now Mitt Romney doesn't seem so bad.)

We walked by an old boyfriend. The boyfriend gave Bush a half-hearted congratulations, saying, "Congratulations...I guess." Then he started screaming at Bush, and I had to drag him out of the room. I said that if he wanted to get anything done, he would need to speak more calmly. I knew why he hated Bush so much, because I felt the same way. "If it weren't for his bombing of Iraq, the Islamic State would not have arisen from the chaos," I said.

We had a meeting. Bush said he couldn't remember what Planned Parenthood does. I said, "It provides vital healthcare to women." Then, someone started a fire. I bunch of us were running, running, unable to see where we were going. I ran through the Wesleyan campus and then wanted to get to Vassar. I asked Siri for walking directions, but she was busy talking to some people I could hear in the background. "Pay attention to your job!" I yelled.

We found our way out of the smoke and ended up at a little house where the people took us in. I was drenched from running in the rain and needed a warm shower. We looked out to the road and saw a stream of people coming to the house (refugees?) The owners said they didn't know how they could accommodate all those people, but they let us in and we had to scramble up some small stairs to where we could take that shower. (I think we still had Bush with us.)

I was missing school, no, actually it was work. But the worst part was when I looked in my bag and saw that I had only one of the boots that I had bought in Spain. I said I'll never replace it. Someone said it's probably in your other suitcase, and I hoped it was. I think this comes from having thought I lost one of the earrings Katie had bought me in Rome, and being so down on myself for not putting the little plastic thingies on the back, and then finding it in the couch.

Well, that covers just about everything.

After going to the Odyssey with a friend on Small Business Saturday last week and buying some books that I want to read, I bemoaned the fact that I am don't read as many books as I would like to. She asked what I was doing. I said, reading the newspaper, watching the news, checking out Twitter, checking Facebook, starting first thing in the morning. She said the news can wait and suggested I get up and read a book.

The next day, I read a story headlined, Addicted to Distraction. The author wrote that he was horrified to find that when reading a book, he realized he was reading the same line over and over, having lost the ability to concentrate. It is an interesting story that probably speaks to many of us. Among his distractions was "hungrily searching for new tidbits about the presidential campaign." He tried a detox just to see if he could do it. He succeeded, partially, but then drifted back.

I grew up needing to know. When we went on vacation, my father bought two copies of The New York Times so nobody would have to wait. My mother took hers to bed at night. She, too, sometimes had trouble getting to a book because she needed to read the paper first. We discussed politics and current events. It is not by chance that I found my way to a newspaper job.

The world is a train wreck; the Republican race is scary. It is hard to turn your head away. But clearly a break is in order. I am going to spend a lot of time reading a book this weekend. My only schedules events are walking Maddie and going to yoga. But first, I have to read The New York Times and check the TV news.