I'm Still here!

 

Big kid, little kids, on Wellfleet trip

.

I didn't write for a long time because in the height of the pandemic, everything that I was going to say seemed so trite and trivial. As you can see, I did it for a while, and then it was all I could do to concentrate on my paid writing. I was used to doing it out of the house, inspired by the coffee shop noise that due to my newsroom years makes me concentrate better than I do at home. But I'm not complaining, because I was privileged to be able to stay at home. In any case, for the handful of people still checking in, I should say that I'm still alive! 

I realized also that for my personal reference, the blog is a good resource. For example, in thinking about possibly going to the US Open, I looked up what happened last year and found this post about the magical qualities of my Nike tennis skirt. It helped me remember what was going on at the time.

 Also it turned out that I am a resource for others. For example, in the spring, I got this message: "Hi Ronni! My name is Lane - I found your number off of your website. This is a little bit random, but I am trying to track down the bench books in Wellfleet. My friends and I came there 6 years ago and wrote some entries, and when returning a few years later hoping to read our messages, the book we had written in was gone. We are coming back this week for another reunion and are determined to find where they are stored. I found your blog post which noted that they are maintained by a local resident. I was wondering if you had any information on who it was? Thank you so much in advance for any info you might have! " They had googled bench book, which is at one of my favorite places in Wellfleet, overlooking Duck Harbor, and found an entry on my blog, maybe this one. 

One thing led to another, and it's kind of convoluted, but they did find the keeper of the book, with some info that I gave them as a starting point. He texted that they were students at Carnegie Mellon University, in Pittsburgh, and I replied that I had just interviewed a professor from the school, for this story on pandemic pivots, and he said they had taken a class with her. Hashtag small world.

I have been doing the usual: jogging, playing tennis, dealing with skin cancer, doing yoga, writing... The skin cancer is actually not an aside like I just wrote it. I had one on my nose, a squamous cell as usual. I didn't think it would turn into such a big deal, but I ended up with 12 stitches on my nose. It was so hard to keep it bandaged. I needed help. Then I went to Boston to get the stitches out because I figured they knew best. But they left one stitch in, so I had to go to the local doctor anyway to get the stitch out. 

I am also dealing with a senior dog (14.5 years old ) who didn't bark her whole life and who now seems to be getting it out of her system. My vet wants me to see a dog behaviorist . (Apparently you can teach an old dog new tricks.) I know what the problem is. She must have dementia because she wants to be with me but goes into another room and starts barking and seems to forget that all she has to do is stay in the same room. I gave in and made the appointment because who knows, I might get some tips. I have been putting her on a leash and going into the other room where she is, for example the dining room, and bringing her back into the kitchen with me. I try to stay calm, because I assume that if I raise my voice, she will think I'm barking at her. But I am only human, and if she is in the same room as me and starts barking, I do sometimes say STOP! More often, I go over and give her a pat or just look at her and wave hello.

I volunteered at a fabulous program, Moving on Up With Tennis and Education, which will be the topic of another post if I don't disappear again. 

It was so exciting to get some freedom and go to the Cape with the family and not worry about hugging. The little kids have the beach in Fairfield, but they seemed to be exhilarated by the waves at the ocean. There were enough waves for it to be exciting but not so many that it was hard for me to get in and out. (And no sharks.) So I went in also. I got on my back and floated like my mother used to do. I looked up at the blue sky with the white puffy clouds. I will admit that Katie had to help me out. We had a moment when I did a belly flop in the shallow water. "Don't yank on my arm!" I yelled, or something like that. We had a good laugh. I didn't drown. We walked on the beach to the other parking lot where the cars were. (Long parking story, maybe not that interesting.) It was almost a mile, but Nell and Callen did well. 

I thought it was a bit of an overreach when Ben said he wanted to take the day ferry to Nantucket, have lunch at The Rose and Crown (an old haunt) walk around a little, and go back. But I was wrong. It was great. We drove approximately an hour to Hyannis, took the ferry that was only an hour as compared to the longer car ferry that we used to take, enjoyed lunch and walked a little and then went back. I told the kids about throwing a penny in the water as we left, as a sign that we would be back. We did it, so of course we'll have to go back. 

With Joe and Nell

Cape trip #2 is supposed to happen in a couple of weeks. Diane and David were away for the first one, and we have all been looking forward to getting everyone together. The taste of freedom was so liberating. And all those hugs. Now we are starting to worry about the Delta variant. I am back to wearing a mask in stores. I am back to wondering, what counts as "immunocompromised?" (Those are among the ones who might have greater complications.) Is it me? I don't know. I am still on one milligram of prednisone, which compromises my immune system somewhat. And the transplants themselves compromised my system...somewhat. But 12 years from my last transplant, (I wrote about forgetting my birthday) , I am not immunocompromised like people undergoing treatment or right after it. I asked Melissa way back in the EPA (Early Pandemic Era.) She said my immune system is good but not perfect.  We are still planning on going. Fingers and toes crossed.

Two-hour yoga, tennis slice, and other fun stuff

For New Year's Day, I first checked Serenity Yoga to see if there were any classes – there weren't – so I tried Yoga Center Amherst  and saw that they had a two-hour class combining music, chanting, and asanas.

So I signed up and went. It felt like the right place to be. Apparently a lot of other people felt so too. We were packed in. That was OK. It created a good energy inviting you to talk to your neighbor and go with the flow.

At one point when we were left to do our own thing and it got a little confusing, I got into one of my favorite and most calming poses, legs up the wall, supported by a block, only legs in the air, without a wall, like this image from Gaia. (I read someplace that you should do legs up the wall every day. It's a great way to get your thoughts to take a nap.)

I had vowed to take the day off from writing, but that didn't happen. I walked over to the Black Sheep Deli and got a coffee and a treat and sat in a favorite window seat. My resolution of staying calm got hijacked by the the caffeine. I guess going with the flow meant going and getting a coffee and writing.

Next I went to the Hadley Target and found it packed, like the yoga studio, only with a different vibe. It seemed like everyone who wasn't at yoga was shopping.

I had called Monday for my ride to Boston (for the light therapy, or ECP) but everyone had left early. I waited on hold early Tuesday morning for about 45 minutes, and when someone finally picked up, they said they couldn't do same-day service. I remembered to book ahead through February, but in the meantime I drove myself.

Due to accumulating scar tissue in my left arm, the nurse has had to jiggle the needle around. This is not a good feeling. Once in, it stung and then hurt, but some Tylenol took the edge off. Since I have been using two needles, the process goes much faster, around two hours instead of three.

Three sessions ago, I was curious about why my hematocrit was a little low, a little over 29. The curiosity bordered on concern. But two weeks ago it was 32, and yesterday it was 33. (Normal range for women is 34.9 to 44.5.) The doctor who visited me said that the lower count resulted from loss of blood in the procedure.

I slept at Diane and David's and then got up early enough to get to Bay Road on time for my tennis contract at 10. The traffic leaving Newton made me a little nervous. But it cleared up and I made it. We had some good games, but I don't understand what's up with one of the women. Sometimes she's friendly, at other times prickly.

She doesn't like the way I slice when we warm up at the net (says it isn't a good warmup because she can't hit it back), so today I hit it flat. The last time she said it, I said that's how I play, and I continued to do it, but in the interests of a good warmup, I did it differently today.

One of the players in George's summer group said that when she goes to Florida, her slicing gets everyone mad, so it must be the same effect. It's hard to change, because when we're with George, we hear about it when we DON'T slice. By the way, it works pretty well in a game.

Roger's backhand slice

Then, when she was at the net warming up, she didn't think I got enough to her, and she complained that she wasn't getting a good warmup. THEN when, in between points, I hit the ball over to her and said "heads up," or "coming," (one of the two) it didn't come near her, but she said something in an annoyed tone because she didn't like the way I sent it back. I'm still not sure what the problem was. I think maybe she wanted me to throw it instead of hit it. If I had thrown it, it wouldn't have gone very far.

Geez Louise.

I've been on the verge of saying something to her, and some day I might, but it hasn't come to that. Some day when we're warming up, maybe I'll ask to either be with her or hit opposite someone else and say that the reason for it is that she doesn't like the way I hit. Maybe that will get the point across that I've paid George and The Enfield Tennis Club a lot for that slice and I'm not going to give it up.

'Writing your way to happiness'

The headline in a New York Times Well column on Monday – Writing Your Way to Happiness – could not help but grab the attention of a writer.

This according to Tara Parker-Pope:

The scientific research on the benefits of so-called expressive writing is surprisingly vast. Studies have shown that writing about oneself and personal experiences can improve mood disorders, help reduce symptoms among cancer patients, improve a person’s health after a heart attack, reduce doctor visits and even boost memory.

Now researchers are studying whether the power of writing — and then rewriting — your personal story can lead to behavioral changes and improve happiness.

(That link leads to a study involving patients with renal cell carcinoma whose cancer-related symptoms were reduced and physical functioning improved after a trial of expressive writing.)

Those who keep journals know the benefits of writing down your thoughts. Sometimes it helps you figure things out. Sometimes it takes the pressure off and you can let a thing go.

After reading the Times column, I rummaged through my hospital stuff from the bad old days and found my journal, in which I wrote big thoughts and little ones. I "told" the journal some things that I was reluctant to say. For example, a day still stands out in my memory when I dragged myself and my IV pole down for a walk on the Pike and went through an area where cheerful people were laughing and talking, and I could not stand the fact that they were so happy. After I described the scene in my journal, I could let it go.

In high school we wrote with fountain pens dipped in ink, on blank white paper bound in black. It felt very artistic. Given some distance when I looked at them quite a while ago I was so embarrassed about writing repeatedly about a certain boy that I THREW THEM OUT. I think there should be a law against ever throwing out your diary. I still have the little red one from fifth grade with the "fool-proof" lock, however.

Well you can't throw out a blog. Sometimes I'm not even sure why I have written it since 2008, but I keep on doing it.

 I remember talking about our blogs with PJ – she had two, The Plog and Word in the Woods – and she said she didn't even care that much if people read what she wrote; she just wanted to do it. And Ann, of course, wrote almost until the day she died.

Naturally a writer likes to be read, therefore I like people to read my blog. But I also get upset with myself for falling into the trap of counting "Likes" and comments, a common malady for bloggers except for all but the most confident, I assume.

I have from time to time thought of stopping, but I keep going because writing the blog accomplishes that interesting thing described in the Well column, while not exactly what what you might normally think of as happiness but something more like calm.

This mechanism is undoubtedly why there are so many cancer blogs, and actually so much written about cancer and writing, for example a program at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center in which patients work with professional writers to create pieces that are staged by professional actors.

Websites on this topic include Writing and Healing: A Mindful Guide for Cancer Survivors, with prompts to get writers started, although judging from the way that words seem to pour out of the people who write about cancer, that doesn't seem especially necessary.