Nightmares of a pill popper, and other hauntings

I dreamt I went to France and forgot to bring enough prednisone.

I had two but then accidentally dropped them in the dirt. I had no idea how to find a pharmacist who might be able to contact my doctor to get some more.

In reality I was in Wellfleet with enough pills to last a week: 210 of them. I did this because I had just filled all my day-of-the-week pill boxes and had thrown them in a bag to take on my long weekend. Sometimes when I am too lazy to fill all the boxes, I have to rummage through the bag and take out each bottle one at a time. In that case when I go to Newton overnight, I take the whole thing.

Diane laughs because for years I kept them in the same paper bag that I got them in upon my hospital discharge. The bag was falling apart, but I kept it out of superstition: If I had survived that long by using the same bag, I better not discard it for fear of something bad happening. I finally took a deep breath only recently and got a new bag.

It is important to bring enough pills because one time I didn't bring extras and I got very sick in Newton. Diane had to go to the local pharmacy and get prescriptions faxed from my doctor's office. It seems like an easy enough thing to do, but it was really a hassle, so for a long time she asked, "Did you bring enough pills?"

I had a beautiful day in Wellfleet yesterday, only to have a nightmare about my teeth last night. I had an appointment with a dentist at a hospital and was racing to find the right room. When I got there I found people lined up on stretchers being tortured by a dentist along the lines of the former Nazi played by Laurence Olivier in "Marathon Man."

As he approached me when it was my turn, I ran out of the room crying, dashing through corridors looking for an escape.

I have too many pills and too few teeth.

But I am alive and it's a beautiful day. My nephew Sam has just come back from one of our favorite bakeries, The Flying Fish, and he has brought me a blueberry muffin. Soon we're going to go for a ride on Sam and David's boat.

A (sort of) poem for the morning

The splotches on my arm are fading
I don't see any on the way.
and bad thoughts are at bay.

Maddie did her down dog
and licked my fingers when I did mine.

Then it was time for coffee.

New tools for dog training

Selfie of my hand

The clicker training with Maddie is going well.

The first time that I went out equipped with a bag of hotdogs, I had a chance to try it on a few dogs. Hot dog, little dog, click, treat. I'm sure I looked and sounded odd, but I think her association is beginning to change because when we were walking Sunday I got ready with my bag of hotdogs, but when the other dog came by and wagged its tail, Maddie wagged back.

I will still have to be on the alert for little dogs who bark like crazy, because dogs will react if they feel threatened. Why do so many little dogs do that?

The other day I was giving a progress report to our veterinarian, Dr. Kenworthy, and I mentioned that one time Maddie pulled me down chasing after a car with a dog in it. She said that was from exuberance, like a dog chasing a squirrel.

I just happened to mention this to a friend who has two big dogs and had bought a leash that is attached to a glove. She had an extra leash in her trunk and gave it to me.

I was using it this morning when Maddie tried to pull me as another dog went by in a car.  With the gentle leader head collar and the new leash it was no problem. I just redirected her head and we went back for breakfast.

Today we met animal behaviorist Kelley Bollen for a walk in Child's Park, and I got a chance to practice when a woman came along with two little white dogs. As soon as Maddie saw them, I clicked and treated, and as they passed near us and I continued to feed her hot dogs, all was quiet.

The only problem is that Maddie is supposed to be on a bit of a diet, and she is going to get fat from all these treats.

Let that ocean breeze blow

I am looking forward to getting out of this swamp tomorrow and going to the Cape, but first I have to get out of here, which will be no small feat.

The people I need to interview for the two stories that Mount Holyoke wants  for a Monday posting are available tomorrow only. The stories are both due tomorrow, and I am due to leave on time to meet Diane in Newton at 6.

Also I am the World's Worst Packer, even if it is only for a short visit. So I better get my act together tonight.

This is all under the shadow of Patricia's death. First and foremost of course I feel terrible about her and for her family. It is not surprising, however, that it makes me worry more about myself, especially in light of the slightly low red count and platelets that I had at my last test.

I am going through one of those phases where pools of blood form under the skin on my arms (the skin is thinned by prednisone), showing up as red blotches. I know what these are, but that doesn't mean I like looking at them. Plus the other night I was holding my face up close to an area on my upper arm where there are a few tiny red pinpricks. I wondered whether they were petechiae, those tiny red dots that signal low platelets. As I used to say to my children for emphasis when they wouldn't stop badgering me, No, no, and no! They were just tiny burst blood vessels.

I will get all this settled when I go for a checkup at Dana-Farber the day after we get back from the Cape. These days I usually breeze in, but a little tinge of anxiety will accompany me. My next visit wasn't supposed to be until August – my big three-month break – but it hasn't turned out that way.

Also on Monday, I am going back to the dermatologist to have her look at the spot on my left arm. I am sure that when I pointed it out to Dr. Neel about a month ago, he said it was nothing. But really I think it is another squamous cell. I have to stop myself from thinking that in the meantime it has turned into something more serious, thoughts fueled by the squamous cell cancer that has spread to Ann's internal organs.

Hopefully the ocean breeze will blow some of these thoughts out of me.

(Don't) cast a spell on me

The other day I got a comment that requires a post all of its own in response to a mention I made about National Infertility Awareness Week:

"Mama Alisha Lura cast a fertility spell for me a few months back and i ask her to recast it a couple of months ago, well today i found out that i am pregnant i couldn’t be happier. i cannot express how wonderful a person she is and i believed without her fertility spell i would have never gotten pregnant."

The reader, "RM," provides a link to the website of Weebly Wizard of the 7th Order, a professional spell caster and High Priestess who says she can cast

love spells, money spells, beauty spells, success spells and custom spells.

The testimonials include:

"Thanks Wizard 7thOrder, your break-up and binding spells work. I don't think of the guys who hurt me anymore and don't meet them anymore.”

"Oh my god!! Wizard 7thOrder thank you so much! My parents are now wealthy and the one who use to bully our family,dont even know where she is when i used your binding and revenge spell at her!"

"thanks for the revenge spell. you are amazing! the girl is already dismissal from our company of her bad behavior."

and, 

"Wizard 7thOrder you make life worth living I was so nervous and worried about my lackluster realtionship, your passion and eros spell brought an intense physcial passion and intensity to our relationship that I have never had with any partner."

I don't want anyone to cast a spell on me, thank you very much I have had enough trouble, and therefore I am not going to criticize anyone.

I am just sharing.

Making comments about comments

My blog is among the many that have "comment moderation," meaning that I can see a comment before it goes on.

This is for avoiding spammers or just plain inappropriate comments, for example one time a bunch of us were deluged with comments by a Chinese spammer.

But there are other reasons for choosing not to publish. Often the comment is a means of getting you to click on the link to the name of the person or organization who has posted, in other words it is just a way of getting free advertising.

A while ago someone wrote:

Oh feeling bad to hear that you had such dental issues. But you are a brave person, I am 100% sure that you will win through all of your troubles of life. God bless and happy winning in advance :) on False teeth, here I come

I posted this one because it had come from the Glascow Denture Studio in Scotland, and I did not think that they were trying to lure the mostly-American readers of this blog across the pond to get dentures. I was actually touched that someone other than myself was feeling bad about my teeth.

People who want something usually preface their request with: "I follow your blog and I really find it inspirational.

I bet they say that to all the bloggers.

Readers sometimes want to write a guest post, but there are just too many requests to accommodate, plus a blog like this with a specific point of view isn't the right place them.

At times of a national observance week or month  – such as National Infertility Week in April –  people want to write guest posts on topics such as getting pregnant after cancer. A worthy topic but not relevant to this blog.

Occasionally someone will request to either write a post or have me write about a victim of mesothelioma,  an aggressive cancer related to asbestos exposure. These are sad stories, but like the cancer magazine to which I sometimes contribute, I could not even touch this due to the plethora of mesothelioma lawsuits in progress.

On a lighter note, someone recently wrote asking if I wanted to buy a "Cancer Sucks" T-shirt or other related merchandise. I already have a button to that effect that one of the nurses gave me, and that is all I need, thank you very much.

This and that

It's nice to have a nurse friend to save me another trip to the doctor by taking my stitches out.

"Nurse Jo" came over last night and removed the pesky five stitches from my right arm. The last couple of days I left them uncovered and hoped nobody minded because the large bandaid was doing a number on my skin. I was good about not playing tennis except for having to play a makeup match that was only half the time because we got rained out after a set in the first attempt. The stitches stayed in and we won the second set for the match.

Jo is coming back tonight to make sure all the little pieces of the stitches are out because the skin had grown around them.

I'm almost positive that I'll get the left one biopsied when I go back to the dermatologist in a couple of weeks. Both spots are both on the underside of my forearm, making me think I don't do a good job of putting sunscreen on my whole arm.

A group of crazy tennis players went to George's clinic today, and although it was hot it wasn't too bad because the breeze comes off the river. George calls it his air-conditioned court.

When someone hits a cone, the other people are supposed to do pushups according to the number on the cone. When somebody (I can't remember which person) hit cone number 2, I got down and did 2 pushups (with my knees on the ground, which I still think of as "girl's style, although that is kind of silly.) Taking a break under the umbrella, I had some watermelon mixed with grit from the court. Yum.

Today I was working not on slice or spin but on taking big steps. George said it's better for balance, for getting the ball sooner and for looking authoritative. He had me walk around the court swinging my arms and gliding. It makes sense, but it's hard to practice when you're walking a dog.

I asked if it counted that five years ago I couldn't walk at all. That was a joke, really, but I do flash back often to those days when I could hardly walk from my hospital room to the nurses' station. Running after the ball, short steps or long, is a lot more fun.