It's good to get out of the neighborhood

The news has been so distressing, it was good to go on a few outings this weekend. Getting away doesn't make it go away, but a change of scene sure helps.

I had mentioned to someone that I wanted to go to the Brattleboro (Vt.) Farmers Market, first, because I heard it was fun, and also, because a reliable person recommended a vendor who was selling good CBD oil. The person to whom I was speaking said, "That's where all the hippies are!"

Farmers' market booth

She was right. It was totally cool. We got some good fruit, veggies, bread, and other stuff, and we hung around listening to the music and watching the crowd. It kind of made me want to move to Brattleboro. 

CBD oil may provide relief for neuropathy. Since the gabapentin prescribed for me only takes the edge off but not much more, my feet could use some help. We found the vendor, who also sold us CBD-infused chocolates. Though it does not get you high, it is supposedly good for relaxation. 

CBD is typically extracted from the cannabis plant as an oil or a powder. The oil or powder can then be mixed with a gel or cream that can be rubbed onto the skin or ingested orally. According to the National Pain Report, "One of the most well-known compounds of the cannabis plant is THC or tetrahydrocannabinol. Once the THC is broken down by heat and ingested, it can create a high. Although THC and CBD both come from the cannabis plant, it is only THC which is mind altering and gives you a high."

I got permission from my Dana-Farber team to try CBD as a cream, but they said not to ingest it. I only tried it twice, so the jury is still out.

On the way home, we stopped at the beautiful Bridge of Flowers, in Shelburne Falls, Mass. 

It is open April 1 through October 30. A committee of green thumb volunteers changes the plants seasonally, making it one of the wonders of the area.

They provide a list of each bulb, perennial, shrub and annual that you will see, not only month-by-month but also according to each half of the month!

I realized afterwards that my photo was a little crooked, so I am taking the liberty of reposting one from the website, approximating the day we were there, when the leaves were just beginning to turn. 

So many people were taking photographs of the flowers it reminded me of being with Katie in Park Guell, where it was hard to get out of the way of somebody's photo. It's something about color and design, I guess.

I'm talking about the fantastical public park system, in Barcelona, designed by the architect Antoni Gaudí. When I blogged about it in 2012, I said, "Crowds of people took photos all over the place as though intoxicated by the shapes and colors. It was impossible to stay out of everyone's way. We got a little crazy too."

(And for a side trip down memory lane, one of those photos is below.)

In Barcelona, 2012

On Sunday, I went solo to the North Quabbin Garlic and Arts Festival, in Orange, Mass.

Quick: What were the four towns flooded to create the Quabbin Reservoir? (They are Dana, Enfield, Greenwich, and Prescott, and you can read more about the lost towns here.) Orange, obviously, was not one of them, but it is in the area. 

There was plenty of garlic, which I don't actually like, but I do like arts, so that is why I went.

After two good days, I'm wondering what could have precipitated last night's weird and distressing relapse dream. I posed the question to a friend at tennis this morning, saying, it's been nine years, and still, I have these dreams. She said it's PTSD. I basically know that, but I usually know what brought it on, and I have no idea.

In my dream, I had gotten a good manicure and pedicure. As I was admiring the ruby/maroon color on my fingernails, I noticed that the color was coming off before my eyes. I looked down and saw that it was vanishing from my toenails too. Suddenly it was all gone. For some reason, I knew it was a sign that I was relapsing.

I told my mother. We talked to the doctor. He (I think it was my first doctor, Dan DeAngelo) said that I was OK for now. I had a level of eight of some marker. He said that when it got down to six, we would have to take action. The action would consist of giving me some shots. If they didn't work, he could do it again. But I would only get two chances. I was afraid and upset.

I don't know what to make of it. But I know that I'm lucky that in real life I got more than two chances.

Saint Patrick's race day memories

Happy runner, 1980

The Saint Patrick's Road Race, held yesterday, brings back intense memories.

One of my parents took the photo at right as I finished the race in 1980. I don't look much worse for the wear after running the course when it was longer, about eight miles, going up and down the hills at Holyoke Community College. A bunch of us at the Transcript-Telegram would run up and down those hills after work. I didn't have many cares except for starting my career in journalism and catching the eye of the editor who I would later marry.

My time was pretty good, I think about 54 minutes when the course was reduced to a 10K. By that time I was at the Sunday Republican, talking to my runner friends the next day about how I could have run faster if I tried. They said that if I ran speed intervals I really could do it. One of them said jokingly (I think) that I was a wuss. Or something friendly like that. I did occasionally pick it up between trees or other markers on the road and sometimes on the treadmill got to eight minute miles, but that was about it for me.  Now if you ran or even walked with me you probably could not believe I was ever that fast.

 Here is the link to the essay that I wrote for the New York Times magazine's Lives page after my fatigue and slower time during the 2003 race led to my leukemia diagnosis. The other photo is of me at the Quabbin Reservoir when I got out on a break from chemotherapy and just wanted to be near the water. My mother took the photo. I must have been cold because I had two sweatshirts on. I look at both of those photos and can't believe either of them was me. After the little outing at home, it was back to the hospital and on to the rest of the story.

Showing off my bald head, 2003

As people who know me know, I have run the race many times since. I have the energy to run it again. I know because I played two hours of tennis Friday night and could have played more except for my toe starting to hurt and the sight of the pizza calling to me.

Just as I was incredibly frustrated by plantar fasciitis, now I am frustrated by one big toe that hurts after I run. People who know me also know that I never complained about leukemia but complained, and continue to complain, about my feet. I think I could ease back into it in my new Hokas, but as of yesterday I was not ready to try it.

I was sorry when I went down to watch Ben that I wasn't doing it. I have mixed feelings about being there. But I wanted to see Ben and be in the mix of it. Well, I parked my car so far away that I walked about a mile to get to the start. When I walked to the finish I was on the wrong side and had to walk all the way around to get to the side where I could see the finishers. I stood there with my camera ready, stood there for about half an hour, and then realized I had missed him. With thousands of people milling around, I decided I would never find him or Joe.

So I walked down to Canal Street. And realized that a nightmare of mine had come true. In my nightmare, I'm walking, usually around New York, and am unable to find my car. There I was in Holyoke and I couldn't remember where I parked my car. I thought I might have to flag down a police cruiser to drive me around. I didn't write it down because I thought I would remember it.

Then I played a memory game. I remembered it was the last name of a woman with whom I had recently connected on Facebook. And then it came to me. Wendy Bower. It was Bower Street.

I was sad that I couldn't run the race, but happy that I found the car.

I treated myself to a Coke to wash down the hotdog that I had bought, drove home, and thought about something else. I was glad to talk to Ben later and find out that he had a good run.

Calm and not-so-calm

Walking down the path to the Quabbin was easy; walking up was harder.

Last week my friend Barry and I took a took a drive (with dog) to the Quabbin Reservoir. Located in Belchertown (Mass.), it's not far, but it's like another world. It's peaceful as can be, with beautiful views of water and hills. People love to fish there; bird-lovers go there a lot too. As for me, it's always good to get out of the neighborhood, and we had a good little walk there with Maddie. But it has a strange story that carries with it a slightly eerie feeling. Most people in Massachusetts probably know all about it. It occured to me that people from other states might not. I didn't when I moved here.

The official website gives some of the basic information:

Quabbin Reservoir is one of the largest man-made public water supplies in the United States. Created in the 1930s by the construction of two huge earthen dams, the reservoir is fed by the three branches of the Swift River, and seasonally by the Ware River. Quabbin's water covers 39 square miles, is 18 miles long and has 181 miles of shoreline. When full, Quabbin holds 412 billion gallons of water.

In order to flood the vast area of the Swift River Valley in the 1930s, the entire population of four towns had to be relocated. Hundreds of homes, businesses, a state highway, a railroad line, and 34 cemeteries were also moved or dismantled. Over 6,000 graves were relocated from the Valley to Quabbin Park cemetery.

But this is impersonal and doesn't include much of what people around here know, starting with the names of the four towns: Dana, Prescott, Enfield and Greenwich. The reservoir was created mainly to get water to Boston, and many of the locals were not too happy about being told to leave their homes and let them be knocked down. But they weren't given a choice, and the flooding started in 1939.

One interesting website shows photos of each town the way it used to be. There are also a lot of books on the creation of the reservoir, including a children's book, "Letting Swift River Go," by Jane Yolen, an author who lives in the area. I remember reading it to one of my boys years ago, and when we were finished, he said, "Don't ever read me this book again."

Anyway, it makes for a good outing. The water doesn't cover the whole area, so you can see remnants of stone walls, cellar holes and other things. We stopped for muffins and coffee in nearby Amherst on the way back, making the day complete.

I'm still working on carrying my serenity with me when I go into the clinic. I knew on Monday that my platelets would be low, because the petechiae were popping up on my face. After I saw my counts, I went into a tailspin, imagining my death, my funeral, the works. My platelets were down to 3. They haven't been that low for ages. Actually the rest looked fine: My hematocrit was 27, low enough to be tired but high enough for me to get around without being winded. My white count was still normal at 4.9, but I wasn't happy that it seems to be going down a little: The time before it was 5.2 and before that in the high 5s.

Melissa found me in the infusion room and said not to worry. She said she had talked to Dr. Alyea and he thought there was a reason for the low platelet count. When it was consistently lower, I had been taking a drug called Amicar to help with clotting. When the count was higher, I went off the medication. He said to go back on it because it may have been helping me hold on to the platelets for a longer time.

Melissa also said the white count was fine. She said I could return in a week instead of going twice this week. So I will try to keep my mind off of it. Thanks everyone for your suggestions and support on my last post when I also wrote about being fixated on my counts.