After appointments on two days, a mixed report

The good news is that I have something to be upset about that is not as serious or sad as what has been going on recently, and that I have more crazy car service stories to tell, and that I think I have finally been able to get rid of Westport Transport, the company that has been giving me so much grief.

They took me to Boston yesterday for my checkup (platelets 240, yay) followed by ECP, and were supposed to bring me home today because I made back-to-back appointments and stayed overnight at Margaret's so that I could see Dr. Lin, my dermatologist, today.

Last night when I got the call from MART, which provides rides to patients making trips throughout the state, the automated voice said, "This is MART, calling to remind me of your pickup tomorrow at 11 a.m. for your appointment at 1 p.m. Thursday, Jan. 14."

When I called the vendor (Westport Transport), to say it would not be possible for them to pick me up in South Hadley because they had already brought me to Boston, the dispatcher or owner or whoever answered said to call back tomorrow (today), they were already done for the day. When I called back this morning, he said he couldn't afford to take a one-way trip.

I said they had done it yesterday, why not today, and since they had placed a bid for me they better get me home. He said to call MART, it was their mistake. After I waited on hold for 37 minutes, the woman who finally answered the phone put me on hold while she checked with the vendor. When she came back, she said that she would find another vendor because Westfield Transport was going to double its rate. I said that my appointment was at 1 and she said to put in a 3 p.m. pickup for my trip home because that would give her plenty of time to find someone else.

Dr. Lin froze more than a dozen spots on my hands and neck and then biopsied two more suspicious looking ones on my nose and cheek. With my face stinging, I went downstairs and used the automated system to check on my ride. It said I would be picked up by my old nemesis, Westfield Transport, the one that had refused to take me, at 3.

When I called the friendly dispatcher to find out if this was true, he said MART had canceled the trip to find another vendor but had been unable to find another and so his company was being kind enough to send someone from Springfield (he had just left) so that I would not be sleeping overnight in the lobby of the doctor's office.

My new driver arrived around 4:30. From the the car, I called the owner and asked why he had made such a commotion about bringing me one way when he had done it the day before. He didn't have a very good answer for this. I took the opportunity to tell him to NEVER place a bid for me again because I will have my tank full of gas and decline the ride. He said FINE.

Some people have asked me why I don't just drive myself since it is usually a hassle. I have done that occasionally. But I usually return to my original reason: It saves me money and the wear and tear of driving and the risk of getting sleepy at the wheel.

The driver regaled me with stories about the addicts he drives to methadone treatments. He said he could write a book. Most say they want the extra high and plan to keep on using. Some say they find  ways to get medical marijuana to double the fun.

After we got off at the Ludlow exit and were driving through Mount Holyoke, I told him to look out for students.

"A thousand points if I hit one," he said. I asked, "WHAT?" He repeated it.

I went straight to get Maddie out of the Pet Hotel, where she stayed because Jim and Jane are on a cruise. It was nice to see her. When I came into the cold house around 8, the smoke alarm was beeping. It needed a battery.

So that was my day.

Sunday morning wanderings

I usually go to Maggie's spinning class Sunday mornings at the Holyoke Y. It is quite a wake-up call and energizing and fun. But it did not happen today, so, for a total change of pace, I went to an alignment-based yoga class at the Hampshire Regional YMCA.

Sometimes people don't realize that most Y members have reciprocity at other locations. These two Y's have different personalities, each with something different to offer. I have their schedules side-by-side on my desktop. The people at the Holyoke Y know me better and have been wonderful and instrumental in helping me get back on my feet and stay there.

Whenever I have a new yoga teacher, that teacher sees that my left hand will not flatten out. As happened today, the teacher comes over and asks if I can undo my claw. Well, if I could, I would. I don't really say that; I just explain that I assume it is arthritis, which I think I also have in my wrists, because I cannot make a 90-degree angle between my hands and my wrists. It probably hurts my down dog because I don't have a good foundation. This teacher suggested, as others have done, to roll up my yoga mat at the front for more support. Also, she brought me over a chair when she saw that I had trouble balancing. I appreciated that.

I am thinking of going back at 4:30 for Pilates. Looking at the schedules, I realized that I could spend a whole day going back and forth between Y's, but then I wouldn't get anything else accomplished.

On my way home, I stopped at Breezy Acres and almost had a full lunch while Evelyn gave me samples of almost everything in her case. At one point I had four plastic forks in my hand. I came home with enough food for dinner...chicken soup, baked beans, antipasto and a new supply of my favorite apples, Macouns. I said I vowed to make some good soups this winter, but my soups always taste so bland and watery because I don't have a sense of what to add. I guess I could read a recipe.

Vanessa James, an old acquaintance who is a professor of theater at Mount Holyoke, was there, and the three of us talked about politics. Her son has an interesting job working for Joe Biden. We talked about whether or not Joe will run, and we agreed that after Hillary's performance in the #DemDebate, it seems increasingly unlikely.

When she closes for the winter, I'm going to miss going over there to our little community gathering place. I told this to Evelyn, who is always so cheerful, and she said not to worry, she's going to be open for quite a while longer. Also, there is always Tailgate Picnic.

Working at home, to a chorus of hammering

There are two white vans in my driveway this morning as I write this, one belonging to the painter, Bert, and the other to the electrician, Ralph.

Bert is outside hammering on the shutters after painting them and the back of the house, and Ralph is upstairs banging on something while he installs a new bathroom fan. Bert, a politics junkie like I am, is listening to NPR while I have on "The Daily Rundown" at the same time as I am getting the day organized.

Things fall apart, and it is expensive to put them back together, but I like the sounds and activity even as I miss the camaraderie and commotion (when it was full) of the newsroom.

Bert, a history major at UMass, became a painter because it was something he loved. He also loves to discuss life and politics, which we do one snippet at a time when he is here.

The pine needles drift from the trees outside my kitchen, where I write. If a combination of leukemia and the decrease in the newsroom staff hadn't cost me my job, I would still probably be working. But I can't complain about being at home, because when I looked across the room to the window nearest my desk in the newsroom, I saw Route 91.

I am lucky to have interesting and varied work now, but with the unpredictable nature of freelance writing, you never know what's around the corner.

I just finished a story for Mount Holyoke on a fascinating trip that students took to Sicily, complementing a class that they had taken on the island's culture, history and literature. This afternoon I am going to Chef Rufus's Full of Flavor Diner in Springfield to write a profile of the owner for Holyoke Community College because the owner went there.

Tomorrow I need to go to Boston for another medical appointment. I don't need permission from anyone but myself to take the day off.

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.

Writing more, and feeling good about it

Five years ago, I was so wobbly of mind and body that I wondered if I would ever be able to do anything again.

I've written a lot about the physical aspects of coming back, but not so much the work-related.

I wanted to keep writing, but I was out of a job, my clips were old, and my resume needed freshing up. Just working on the resume was an ordeal, as was trying to figure out how to refashion myself as a freelancer. My friend at Dana-Farber, Saul Wisnia, gave me the opportunity to write a piece for Dana-Farber's "Paths of Progress." He connected me with a freelancer who had worked at Dana-Farber, and she told me to reach out to all my contacts. It seemed an overwhelming task, but at least I had one new clip.

I got one story to write, and then another and another. I still didn't have a full plate and wanted to do more with my time, so I started volunteering at The Literacy Project teaching ESL to adults. Just recently I felt like I could do more (it may sound like I play tennis all the time, but I really don't) so I started researching other volunteer opportunities.

Around that time, I was asked to fill in temporarily in Mount Holyoke's communications department, writing three stories each week for the news and events section on their website. This was right up my alley! I have been doing it for a few weeks; I get the assignments on Monday and they are due on Thursday.

It has been going really well, and it feels good to have gotten a mental tuneup. I am not used to that intensity of work, so the first week it ran through my mind at night. But I got it back quickly. When I got my first newspaper job at the old Transcript-Telegram, the deadline pressure made me feel sick. But I got used to it, and now the ability to write fast and focused is serving me well.

Running while distracted

Every runner knows that some days you have it and some days you don't.

On Tuesday, I just didn't have it. I felt sluggish as soon as I started out on my four-miler. It was a beautiful day, perhaps a little too windy but sunny and crisp yet not too cold. I plodded ahead, super pokey. After a few minutes I took my sweatshirt off and tied it around my waist, and then at least I felt lighter.

Perhaps  my problem was the humongous blueberry pancake I ate for breakfast when meeting my friend Ken and his girlfriend for a nice breakfast in Northampton at Green Bean, a great place where you choose your own mug and can take endless refills of delicious coffee. I had an egg for protein with my pancakes, but the total effect probably was not conducive to running.

Anyway, I did perk up the further I ran and even managed to do a few quick intervals. But I wasn't really into it. My head was practically swiveling around on the Mount Holyoke campus looking for people I might know, so I could stop and talk to them.

I thought I saw a professor friend up ahead and jogged to catch up, thinking we'd chat for a few seconds. But it turned out to be someone else. Then, as I passed the library, where the Rao's coffee shop is, I even thought of poking my head in to see if anyone I knew was there.

My inner coach was fed up.

"What are you doing? Talk later, run now."

Right. It occurred to me that maybe I need a running partner, but I can't think of anyone I can ask at this time.

I focused then, and on the home stretch, I ran as fast as I could.

"Finish strong, finish strong," the inner coach said.

And I did.

The girl who cried wolf

Downtown Amherst, Mass.

The dogwood trees and flowering bushes are in full bloom here in Western Massachusetts.

It's a beautiful time of year. My mother always liked to visit around now, and the scenery inspired her to tell and retell a story about me.

I was a crybaby at Vassar during my first two years when I wasn't very happy. It's interesting that I have turned out to be relatively stoic about my illness (in contrast to my foot problems, about which I complain noisily.)

One time as my father drove me back to school along the Taconic Parkway, about a two-hour trip, I said that I was sick sick sick, and he needed to take me back home to NYC.

(Yes, he turned around, and my parents pampered me for one night.)

In the spring of my sophomore year I developed a problem that really was something to cry about. I got a terrible case of strep throat, with a high fever and piercing pain.

I ended up in the infirmary, and I called my parents from bed, crying on the phone that they had to come because I was suffering and miserable. They came the same day, only to find me in an infirmary surrounded by beautiful trees and bushes and cared for by a sweet nurse who spoon-fed me ice cubes and placed cool compresses on my forehead.

My mother laughed and said I had made it seem like some sort of dungeon. But my parents gave me what I wanted, a special kind of TLC that only they could give.

Yesterday when I walked Maddie past the Mount Holyoke infirmary, surrounded by similarly beautiful landscaping, the story replayed in my mind.

I wish my parents were here to laugh with me about it.

Dog, and sodium, misbehave

Got lab test results from local blood draw Tuesday which showed that my liver was stable but not normal. Still, I got the go-ahead to reduce the prednisone to 30 mg. from 40. Meanwhile my sodium had dropped, necessitating a recheck yesterday.

I ate as many salty snacks as I could tolerate (I wish it was sugar!) and found out today that it was a little better but still low. I later took a salt pill. We'll see. My stomach is a little messed up again, and I woke up this morning shaky, wobbly and dizzy, then perked up when I had some juice and breakfast. Went for a walk with Barry, and he was kind enough to hold the dog. I hadn't totally recovered my strength from this morning, so that was a good idea.

Man's (and women's and children's) best friend is driving me a little crazy. She has still not resolved her house-training problems. She's good for maybe two days in a row, and then she leaves me an overnight nugget. I've stopped feeding her afternoons, and I've given her the run of the house. She could sleep with me, but she likes it downstairs, where she has her bed and her favorite place, the corner of the couch, covered with an afghan.

All happy, she runs up to get me around 7 a.m. and leads me down. If she's done something, she either cowers or acts like nothing is wrong. I have to drag her over and point it out. From time to time she barks at me. But she is a very passive dog, so I just get her on the leash and bring her over. The vet says I should crate her again, but Maddie was actually kind of weird in the crate. They're not supposed to, but she would do her business in there anyway and then inch away from the mess.

Today she wasn't so great on our walk, either. (I'd say she was "bad," but for dogs, that is not a pc word, as in "No Bad Dogs," only "bad" owners. Oy!) We tied her to the leg of one of the lightweight tables, told her to briefly hold our place, and went into the Mount Holyoke library, where there is a Rao's coffee shop tucked inside. While we were getting our stuff, a student came in and said, "Your dog is freaking out." Barry went out and found that Maddie had dragged the table all the way to the door, where she was whining and barking.

Then we went to the Odyssey Bookshop, an independent store that I like to support, and tied her for a minute or two there. I've done this before, and she usually sits and chills. Again, she went crazy.

So Barry sat with her when I got my books – "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo," by Stieg Larsson; "Truth and Beauty," by Ann Patchett; and "Autobiography of a Face," by Lucy Grealy.

I'm starting with the first, a bestselling mystery and apparently a quick read, which is our book club choice before we break for the summer.

Meanwhile back to the dog...While I was writing this post I decided I needed a Coke, one of my major comfort foods, or drinks. Down the street at Tailgate Picnic, the place we call the deli, I hooked Maddie's leash on the white picket fence and told her sit quietly on the grass while I ran in.

She was just fine.

Maybe she liked the grass.

Or maybe she had been crying for her good friend Barry, and once it was just the dog and me, she didn't need to fuss.

Anyway, now she is curled up, lightly snoring, sleeping and cute on her bed. Maybe all that carrying-on helped wear her out. Katie and Joe are both out – Katie's in a play that I'm seeing tomorrow, and Joe is watching the Bruin's game with friends – so it is nice to have the dog for company.