Getting a 'visit' from my mother, thinking about Atlantic Beach birthdays

Atlantic Beach birthday 

A week or so ago I dreamt that packages were arriving with my address in my mother's beautiful handwriting. I was confused. I sensed that she was around but was upset that I couldn't see her.

Then last night, she was standing right next to me saying she had sent them. It was so good to see her. Maybe she sensed that just sending the presents wasn't enough and that I needed more. 

I had the dream that I have had before. I want to go to the beach house (in Atlantic Beach) but we can't go there. Someone else is in the house and they won't let us come. My parents say we just can't go there anymore.

The puddles in the streets here in South Hadley the other day reminded me of the puddles on Bermuda Street, riding our bikes through them after the rain. The humidity made me think of driving to Long Beach to get ice cream at Baskin Robbins, my mother getting mint chocolate chip.

Best present ever

My informal research has turned up an interesting factoid: Birthdays weren't such a big deal in some families, but they definitely were in ours. At night: "Wake up to a happy birthday!" In the morning, sleepily, kicking the present at the foot of my bed with the crinkly light blue cover. The present of all presents: the blue Smith Corona typewriter. My sister was jealous about my summer birthday and I was jealous of hers in the winter. I didn't like being thrown in the pool, at day camp, with my clothes on. The parties in the back yard were pretty sweet, though. The trips to Cedarhurst to buy the party favors were a lot of fun. She made a centerpiece and attached ribbons to it and the ribbons went to each place with a little favor on it. The memory game helped me later on in my writing. Study random items she put on a tray and try to remember as many as possible and then write them down.

Later when I outgrew the parties, my parents took some friends and me out to dinner.

My 50th birthday party, here in South Hadley, seems like yesterday. It was more than a year after my first transplant, so I had gone back to work at the newspaper. Paper people and neighborhood people were coming. I was just going to have cake. "You can't just give them cake!" she said, or something like that, and we rushed to the store and got what turned into a big festive spread.

I have also had the usual nightmares. I want to go back to work but the newspaper has closed. Or I go into work and there are more empty desks than there are people.

In real life, though, I've done some dreamy and maybe even daring things. I rode Margaret's e-bike and got the feel of it. It wasn't really daring because it was on a bike path, though daring because my crew doesn't trust me on bikes. A matinee at Jacob's Pillow, to see the Martha Graham Dance Company, with a drive on back roads to and from, was dreamy. A ladies' lunch with Tami/Tamar in West Hartford (our annual summer meeting) doesn't fit into daring or dreamy but I'm into the Ds so I'll say it was definitely a lot of fun.

Headless at Tanglewood

Did I say that I have a big birthday coming up? My sister reminded me that it's cause for celebration. Part of me knows that. The other part has internalized our culture's ageism and thinks I'm pretty much over the hill. At least I can walk up a hill when at many points I couldn't even do that. I didn’t get past Season Two of Grace and Frankie and decided to revisit it and I’m glad I did because it’s making me laugh about all this aging stuff.

On Sunday when we were at Tanglewood, I was taking a photo of the beautiful scenery when a woman came up and asked if I wanted her to take a photo of me. I said OK, sure. She chopped my head off. Maybe she was trying to tell me something.

Of vampire bites and another bad trip

I've been telling people that the three raised, irritated spots on my neck are a vampire bite. At my last dermatologist visit, Dr. Lieu froze multiple spots, including these, that she said were actinic keratoses, potentially precancerous. These three did not go away. On Thursday when I bumped into Dr. Marty, my friend the infectious disease specialist, on my way to my checkup, I asked what he thought they were. "Vampire bites," he said. I guess I'll have to buy some garlic and wooden crosses.

Actually I will apply Efudex twice a day for four weeks. Dr. Lin, my primary dermatologist, said to do this after I emailed a skin selfie to her yesterday morning. So yes, I spent a relaxing early Sunday morning trying to get a good closeup of little bumps on my neck. She gave me her home email so I sent it there, with a copy to work. I'm a little hesitant to bother her, but the spots were hurting and a cause of concern. I have to admit they hurt because I pick and pull when the chemotherapy cream starts to irritate them to the point where they flake off. Reminder to self: Go get a bunch of little bandaids.

MEANWHILE, Last week's two-day Boston trip, with the light therapy on my skin one day and checkup the next, went well medically but ended up being a logistical nightmare that I imagine had medical consequences in terms of rising blood pressure. 

I wrote some of this Wednesday when I was waiting for my 3:30 p.m. ride home:

While waiting for a ride that is already an hour and a half late, after a conversation with an idiotic dispatcher, I'm back on the ride complaint tangent. My checkup with Dr. Alyea was at 1:30. Knowing the wait, I had called MART, the ride provider to medical appointments, to schedule the ride home at 3:30. They said I could always call if I got out earlier. I got a text from a Mark, confirming the pickup. I asked if he could pick me up earlier if I was done sooner, and he texted back, earlier than what? I replied, earlier than the 3:30 pickup. He said no.

I was done earlier, so I went across the street to Starbucks, then went to the pickup location at the designated time and called to ask Mark when the driver would arrive. He said, not until way past 3:30. I said I had to get home. He said, they told me after 3:30, and since it's one-way, it's a discharge, and when it's a discharge, it's always later. I said it's not a discharge, I'm at a medical offices, not a hospital, and he said he didn't know where I was, he was just the dispatcher. Say what?

Well, I often have one-ways when I do a back-to-back. Yesterday I came for ECP, slept at Diane and David's, then got a ride to Dana-Farber for the checkup, and then scheduled the ride home for today. I said, I've been doing this for nine years and I know that it is not a hospital discharge. He said we could keep going back and forth or he could contact the driver to find out when he could get here.

I miraculously got through to MART's complaint line. The woman placed me on hold and said she would investigate. When she got back to me, she said it was a new contractor, they did not understand how it works, that sometimes patients want to go home from an appointment, not necessarily from the hospital. ALSO there was a bad accident, he was stuck in traffic, and patients waiting to be picked up were calling from all over the place.

I didn't think it was unreasonable to have a 1:30 appointment and get home by 6:30. My friend Ken Ross, who would be reviewing The Royal Danish Ballet at Jacob's Pillow, had asked me to go with him. He was going to pick me up for the approximately one-hour trip to bucolic Becket. It hadn't been a great day at ECP, and I was looking forward to it. The nurse had missed the vein, leading to pain and a geyser of blood. A different nurse got it into the right place on the second try, but once the arm has been disturbed, a remnant of pain lingers.

Ken and I texted back and forth. When it appeared I would not be home by 6:30, I suggested going home, jumping into my car, and meeting him for the second act. We agreed on that plan. When the driver finally arrived, he said the dispatcher had sent him too far away to possibly pick me up at 3:30. I did my Facebook Live version of his dialogue, typing onto as he complained that the boss knew he didn't like driving in Boston but sent him anyway, that he has anxiety and phobias and is on several high-potency drugs and is on disability, that the boss actually gave him no exact time for my pickup, that he might not get paid, but he has to pay his bills... 

I felt worse for him than I did for me and gave him a nice tip.

 I probably should have stayed home once I got there around 8, but I was determined. So I drove the hour to Becket and got in for the second part. It was beautiful but very short! Afterwards we sat outside and had a drink and talked. (Mine was only a wine spritzer.) We go way back and have a lot in common and a lot to talk about. That news "thing" clicked right in. I remarked that you couldn't sit down with any old person and have a lively discussion about SEO.

It was after midnight when I got home. By that point I was wired and couldn't go to bed. I made the mistake of going on line and catching up on the latest disastrous news from the border. Note to self: Next time read a book.

I was glad I ended up going, but the next day I could barely move, and it took a couple of days to recover.

An almost week, in days

Almost a week and and more running in circles than running around:

Last Wednesday was a good day for George's clinic because I didn't have to go to Boston for the light therapy so I could stay longer. After the nearly three hours of fun, some of us diehards stayed for a game of triples.

Thursday was off to a good start with yoga followed by a visit to the Northampton Farmers' Market and sitting on a step, eating blueberries and talking to a friend from the newspaper. Then pedicure so my toes would look decent for my trip to Jacob's Pillow with Ken Ross, who would be reviewing Hubbard Street Dance Chicago for Masslive.com.

The pedicurist wouldn't do my left big toe because I had nicked the skin when I hastily cut my toenails without taking the polish off. (Lazy!) She said I should go to go to the doctor because I probably had an infection. So I covered it in a minion bandaid (might as well be cute) and got an appointment the next day.

When riding in the car with Ken, I heard the ding ding ding of texts coming in. I didn't want to be rude and look but finally did and saw that it was some of my high school friends talking to our friend Nancy, who had been in Nice and who was in nearby Cagnes sur Mer and heard what she thought was fireworks and of course  had to do with the truck attack in Nice.

Luckily Nancy was safe, but having a friend so close (who maybe even would have been there) underlined the horror.

Jacob's Pillow

My friends said they would have a drink, and although I don't like to drink before a show, I had the Pillow's special drink when Ken and I had a quick pre-show dinner. I tried to concentrate on the beauty around me.

The show was very dark. Here is Ken's review.

The next day my doctor said he would not give most people an antibiotic,  but he gave me one because I was so "special." He also told me to soak. The news of the day was so full of doom and gloom that I vowed not to watch my usual Friday night news programs. But when we went out for ice cream, a friend told me that a coup was being attempted in Turkey.

It seems like only yesterday that I was a travel agent handing out brochures about things to do in Turkey at our travel fair in Mr. Saltzman's 6th grade class at P.S. 198. My friend and I ate our ice cream while watching the coup. It was surreal and scary. I could not believe I was staying up late watching this happen but I couldn't take my eyes away.

Saturday, super hard yoga class, super hot day, dog walk and nap.

Sunday, semi-private lesson with George. Really great. Then I came home and got down in the dumps because I wanted the sequence of events to be what it was in Atlantic Beach: tennis, shower, then tuna fish sandwiches made by my mother and served on a beautifully decorated tray in the backyard. "Where did everyone go?," I wondered and got tears in my eyes.

Just then, Katie called. The saying is that the child is father to the man, but don't forget about the child being mother to the woman. She said she knew how I felt and recommended getting out of the house. Just then a friend called so we went for a walk. Then I realized that it was the night for the Ko Festival Story Slam, and thought that would be a great way to get over myself as well as a good time to say hi to my friends Dan Green and his wife, Sabrina Hamilton, Ko Fest's artistic director.

The true stories, told a la The Moth, represented a range of experience, from funny to sad, pointed to poignant. I could not believe that one woman up there was telling my story. It was about a mother's difficult (is wrenching too strong a word?) last days with her daughter before her daughter heads to college, and the last minutes in the dorm when you linger, and then the moment when you say goodbye and realize what a wonderful young woman your child has become.

Trying out Hoka One One

Afterwards I searched the storyteller out and told her how much I loved her story and how much I related to it. She was talking to another woman who was saying the same thing. This kind event is so great because even if you can't directly relate to an experience, you can relate to the storytellers.

Much better and more uplifting than watching an attempted coup in Turkey.

Yesterday before a tennis match (so-so) Jim Bloom took a photo of me in the sneakers that I wrote about in my story for Womensrunning.com. Sneak preview: they are supposed to help runners who suffer from osteoarthritis in the big toe, or hallux limitus, which is threatening my running more than all the serious things did.

Now I'm trying to limit my exposure to The Republican convention. But it ain't easy.

'Pillow talk' in the Berkshires

I didn't do anything crazy yesterday – just took a little walk – but I jumped at the chance when my friend Ken Ross texted and said he had an extra ticket to that night's L.A. Dance Project's performance at Jacob's Pillow.

Almost show time

Ken, who was reviewing the show, gave me door-to-door service. I enjoyed everything, from the chance to catch up while driving, to the magical setting in Beckett, to the ballet set in modernistic scenes in three acts, each different, with a touch of narrative and humor included.

Ken pointed out in his excellent review that the moment the dancers donned sneakers at the beginning of the first act, you knew that you were in for something special. It is interesting to see dancers looking like everyday people in street clothes performing extraordinary steps that ordinary people couldn't ever do! And as someone who can barely balance on one foot, I am doubly and triply impressed.

Adding to the magic, at the end of the show, the back of the stage gradually opened to reveal the woods outside (just, it seemed to me, as the dance became more naturalistic and free-flowing).

Also, I got to add another ticket to my ticket bottle. (I noticed when taking a close look that I had an $8 ticket from the Mount Holyoke Summer Theater alongside the slightly more expensive Broadway shows and the less expensive (free) tickets to Shakespeare in the Park.)

I had had a cup of coffee before I left home, so it was a little hard to get sleepy, especially with visions of dancers in my head, but it was worth it.

Love those Kisses

Sorry to be a lazy blogger.

Life continues to be busy. Katie leaves for Brandeis next Sunday, and what with vacation, dorm room shopping, Monday's visit to Dana-Farber (all-day affair no matter how you cut it), coffee and walks with friends, a beautiful evening at the Jacob's Pillow Dance Festival in Becket and a pleasant long lunch-time visit today with my cousin Betsy and her husband Michael (who I see only about once a year), I haven't had time or energy to sit down and post.

Lunch by the way was nice. The humidity has passed, and it was a sunny, comfortable day, with the sun streaming through the windows. I served a big salad, a pasta salad, local peaches and blueberries and a homemade blueberry/peach pie. (No, I didn't make it. My talent lies in having found, in my opinion, the best farm stand selling it.) I ordered it from Evelyn, co-owner with her husband and baker extraordinaire at Breezy Acres Farm in Granby.)

Anyway, I wanted to report on Monday's clinic visit. Donna drove me (thanks, Donna!). When I get a ride, I feel so much better than when I go alone.

The wait at the clinic was relatively short. My counts were about the same as two weeks ago. On paper, I didn't love some of the numbers, but Melissa said everything looked fine.

As I predicted when eating plate-fulls of fish and chips on Cape Cod the previous weekend, my sodium went up, although it is still low. Unlike for most people who want to reduce their sodium, my sodium has been low, so up is the right direction.

My energy is better. I've been talking longer walks and have pretty much, thanks to physical therapy, learned to stop zig-zagging. My balance has improved, too. I was surprised that my hematocrit remained at 25.7 (out of a normal range of 34.8-43.6). In other words, I'm still very anemic. Usually I can feel the low, but I don't. I guess my body has adapted.

My platelets were stuck at 76 (normal=155-410). But that is not dangerously low. And my white count, at 9.4, was basically normal (normal=3.8-9.2).

After this hassle- and drama-free visit, we had a few hours before heading back. After taking the "T" downtown to check in with Donna's daughter at work, we returned to Brookline, where we had both lived, though at different times and when we didn't know each other.

Procuring a tin box of Barton's Almond Kisses was the highlight of my day. We got it in a very Jewish section of the area called Coolidge Corner, at the Israel Book Shop. As I discussed with the woman behind the counter, most everyone's Jewish grandmother had these gooey candies on her coffee table. The description on the tin reads "Smooth and creamy chocolate caramel kissed with whole almonds."

They are relatively easily found in New York, but harder to get elsewhere. The woman at the Israeli Book Shop said shoppers come from all over. The allure isn't so much in the candies as in the tin itself: black background with colorful figures. My grandmother actually kept the candies on her coffee table in a cut glass container with silver tongs. She kept the box in the kitchen.

When I told my friend Deb about my find, she knew exactly what I meant and practically squealed with delight. She didn't want the candy, just the tin. I told her I'd bring her one. Actually, the candy doesn't seem to taste as good as it used to (it's very sweet), but that doesn't stop me from eating it and enjoying the tin.

We keep the dog biscuits in one of the tins now. I have to be careful what I grab.