Peggy's prompt-----shifting gears

Peggy’s Prompt— “shifting gears”

I’m shifting gears again. I’ve been in “drive” for a number of months, cruising along with the same meds, the same side effects, the same tumor markers, for long enough now that it—the condition—was beginning to feel “normal” (to paraphrase Prince Charles—whatever “normal” is). Anyhow, the bizarre night about 3 weeks ago when I kept waking up with a sharp cough (and now realize I was probably trying to catch my breath) was the beginning of the shift in the gears—a slide toward reverse, which I hope will some come to a stop and then shift again, probably at the beginning into first gear—slow and with lots of effort, but hopefully, quickly move into second and third and even fourth or overdrive—although I’d be more than happy with third gear. Just not this reverse, please. Not only do I not like the physical symptoms, but it scares me. I’m not a big fan of backing up. Going forward has always felt a lot better to me. Oh, my. This analogy is bringing on a cough. A bad sign I’ve slipped out of neutral again into reverse. Damn these gears, shifting without any input from me. Well, I’m ready to take control again. Bring on the new chemo and let’s shift back into first gear.

Peggy's prompt---this she knew for certain

Peggy’s Prompt    “this she knew for certain”

This she knew for certain, as she’d repeated it to me numerous times during my adolescence. “Have your fun BEFORE you get married.” Coming from Mama, there was no mistake about what that implied. Getting married was going to be the end of the fun. That’s when responsibilities, duties, obligations, respectability took over, and that was no fun. Mama never laid out specifically what she meant by fun, but I assumed she meant the freedom that comes from spending your money on yourself, the unlimitless opportunities to do what a later generation would call “doing your own thing.” “Don’t be in a rush to get married,” Mama would say. You’ve got plenty of time. Look at us (meaning herself and her sisters). I was 26, and Martha and Bet were nearly 30. Live a little.

Later on, when I married (for the first time) at 23, I think Mama was disappointed that I married, in her view, so young. Of course, in her experience, once a young woman married, she immediately became a full-time housewife and baby-maker, even if the babies stoped after two. Wives only worked if their husbands couldn’t fully support them, and my father, even as a poor commercial fisherman, was determined to be seen as a man who supported his family. And thanks to my mother’s cooperation—her sewing all of our clothes, her incredible thriftiness, and her willingness to sacrifice her own desires, and even needs, or order to help provide for the family, he managed to hold hid head high as the “sole provider.” But it took its toll on my mother, who although she derived some satisfaction from her successes as a frugal housewife, was never happy with her situation. She felt that she had gone from the hard work and financial struggles of a farmer’s daughter too quickly through a relatively affluent self-sufficiency, right back to a lifetime of hard work and financial struggle as a fisherman’s wife. How she cherished, almost grieved for those days of independence when she had had a good job where she was well-respected, an apartment that she shared with either her sisters or other working girls her age, a white Ford roadster convertible (ooh-la-la) and a closet full of dresses and high heels, ready to look glamorous at work or when she stepped out on the town—which, I gather, was frequently.

Anyhow, she was determined to pass along to me the wisdom she’d gained since getting married, and that was to have as many years as possible for yourself before getting married. This she knew for certain.

Peggy’s prompt—pink slippers

Peggy’s prompt—pink slippers
I looked at the photo of the pink slippers on the front of the mail-order catalog for things related to breast cancer. Pink ribbons, pink baseball caps, pink socks, pink shirts/pants/skirts/dresses, pink undies, pink shoes, and, highlighted on the front cover, pink slippers. Pink high heeled mules with pink feathers on the top. Not comfy flat, soft, fleecy slippers, but glamorous sexy “fuck me” slippers. This has gone way too far, I thought. Enough with the pink, which I never liked as a color anyway. But what woman in the throes of cancer treatment could even manage to stay upright on those things? And who would feel like even trying? And if she’s “beaten” breast cancer (meaning she’s more than five years since diagnosis, not that she’ll never get it again), she’s sick to death of all the pink. In fact, pink, to me, mean Pepto-Bismol, which I could never take without gagging. So pink is out for me.

Let the do-gooders and the Junior League have their pink stuff. The everything pink decorations, the 5-K runs, the pink ribbon pins, the “Save the Ta-Tas” T-shirts, the pink bumper stickers, the October Breast Cancer Awareness month. I’m only too aware of breast cancer. And I can’t stand pink. So count me out of anything that uses pink as a synonym for breast cancer. I feel sorry for baby girls whose mothers feel the need to dress them in pink. Unwittingly they are “glorifying” breast cancer. I say dress the babies in purple, the old lady color, to symbolize their potential long life, free of breast cancer and pink awareness.

Peggy’s prompt—the pebble

Peggy’s prompt ---The pebble

I just bought three bags of river pebbles to refresh the ones that were here when I bought this house seven and a half years ago. The ones the previous owner had probably used to spruce up the house for sale—edging the one “empty” side of the house (the one that has very little landscaping—still). And in some other strategic places around the foundation where little else can be done to make it attractive. Seven plus years is a good amount of time to have used the same edging material, but in that time I’ve also developed the lack of ability (or rather, my Back has developed the inability) to do heavy yard work. And toting bags of river pebbles around is definitely heavy yard work. I prevailed on one of the outside employees at the garden store to load the pebbles into the back of my car, where they sat for several days before I sweet-talked my just-barely-middle-aged neighbor guy into moving them out of the car and piling them in front of the garage door. Next I plan to borrow the same neighbor’s wheelbarrow—assuming I’m strong enough to push it around loaded with pebbles—to get the pebbles to their final destinations. Well, at least their destinations in my yard. They still have a ways to go before they wind up as sand on some beach. But for now and the foreseeable future, they’ll be residing in my yard. If my wheelbarrow plan fails due to a complaining back (mine) I guess I’ll just have to scoop a few pebbles at a time into an empty kitty litter pail (of which I have several, as you can imagine) and walk around to the various spots in the yard for delivery. Shouldn’t take more than the rest of the summer (which hasn’t really arrived yet) at that rate. But I’m nothing if not persistent. How do you think I ever got a PhD? Perseverence and persistence. Plus I don’t like admitting that I can’t do something anymore that I used to do with ease, so consequently nowadays there’s quite a lot of the breaking the task down into tiny bits that can be done over and over. It’s like being two years old again, except my center of gravity is higher (and wider) and therein lies the problem. But I digress. By the end of the summer, my house should be neatly flanked by renewed strips of river pebbles, placed there slowly, but lovingly, by yours truly.

Peggy’s Prompt—beside her chair

 beside her chair


Beside her chair, she kept all the necessities for her day—cell phone, keys, glasses, a bottle of water, the morning newspaper, the TV remote, a stack of library books, a package of peanut butter on cheese crackers, some grapes. Other than potty breaks, which she kept to a minimum by being sparing on her water intake—perhaps not such a good idea, but what can you do?—she was set until Max came by, bringing their lunches. What she would do without Max she didn’t know. He was so faithful, so diligent, so kind—so different than he’d been before her decline. Well, sometimes adversity brings out the best in people, even the adversity felt by other people. Anyhow, she was grateful. Max was coming through in the clutch. She just hoped he could last until all this was over. This long decline which only had one ending, but which at the moment felt so far off. Despite all her infirmities, as long as she didn’t try to do too much, she didn’t feel all that decrepit. Just a little tired. Maybe a twinge of pain if she moved her neck in just the wrong direction. But not bad, really, if you don’t mind sitting in one chair all day long (except for those inconvenient and complicated potty breaks), doing essentially nothing but existing.

Existence had never held a whole lot of charm for her. At least not the “mere” existence she currently had. Existing and living were two distinctly different things to her, and what she now had was not living, it was existing. And it was boring. Not to mention it made her feel guilty. She had been the doer, the go-to person, the achiever, the too-busy one in her past life. No more, though. Now she moved like a sloth, in slow motion, carefully. Can’t afford to fall, she knew. That would be the end, for sure. On the other hand, what would be so bad about hurrying up the arrival of the end, she wondered. In so many ways, the end of her living had already arrived. About the only thing left was the complete shut-down of her internal organs. Really, she was only a baby-step away from being dead as she was. Still, she hadn’t really given any serious thought to squirreling away a stash of pills to hasten the inevitable. Of course, she’d long since passed the time of being able to obtain those pills for herself, and who wants to put up with pain in order to save the pill for later. Oh what a quandary, she thought. I might just as well try to take a nap.

Peggy’s prompt—spring—

Peggy’s prompt—spring


Spring. I’m not motivated to write about spring on this chilly, cloudy, drizzly day, even though the flowering trees are all abloom, and the flowering shrubs like forsythia and spirea are gorgeous. The day just doesn’t have a “lift” to it, even though I’ve just come from a raucous lunch with five of my cancer support group gal-friends. Even though we didn’t mention it, the occasion for the get-together was near the front of my mind the whole time, and that was to give Barb a pleasant outing while she deals with the death of her forty-five year old son from either an accidental drug overdose or suicide. Death, or loss, was the unspoken extra place at the table. We told funny stories in which we shared pieces of our past lives, we laughed a lot, we talked way too loudly, I’m sure, for the comfort of the other diners in the restaurant, and we hugged each other when we arrived and when we left. But spring was not at our table, really. We weren’t yet ready to deal with re-birth and growth and futures, not when the tragedy of the recent past was still so present. But we did our best to enjoy, to provide comfort, to “be present” with our grieving friend, who showed no outward evidence of her inner pain.

the color of joy

Peggy’s prompt—the color of joy—30 minutes—042211




If gray is the color of sadness, and black is the color of fury, what would be the color of joy? Something bright, like red, or brilliant, like silver? Or maybe it’s all the colors, arranged in a rainbow. Probably though, it’s not a single color all the time, but rather is the primary color we associate with a particularly joyful memory. For me, sometimes it’s blue, as in the blue sky meeting the blue of the ocean; sometimes it’s yellow, as when my son drew a shining sun in pre-school; often it’s black, as when my gaze falls on my Eartha Kitty. My favorite color is red, but usually that’s associated with clothes or home furnishings or dishes—accent colors, not the overall impression of color.

People who have had near-death experiences often talk of seeing a white, or golden light that shines at the end of a dark tunnel, along with having a sensation of peace and joy. So may the color of joy is the absence of color pigments, as in paint, or all the colors, as in light beams.

If I were given a limit of one color to my world, I’d choose white; if given two, I’d add black; with three, I’d add red. After that would come purple, green, blue, and yellow (gold). Pastels would be way down the list. And browns and grays and tans might not appear at all. That’s my selection, I know that other folks would choose different ones. For example, when my mother was bed-ridden awaiting her last breaths, she asked for a washcloth. When my father brought her one from the bathroom closet, she waved it away with the comment “you know I don’t like green.” Obviously green was not a joyful color for my Mother. But I’m not sure I know what would have been joyful for her. Not too “loud”, for sure. Not my favorite red. It would have been something softer and more subdued—a dusty rose or a light blue, perhaps. I think my Dad would have chosen more sea-related colors—green and blue, probably. My sister seems to like the pastels and oranges and beiges, the opposite of me, although we have pretty much the same coloring of hair, eyes, and skin.

Anyhow, if you want to make a joyful splash of color to celebrate my passing, please make it red, and leave off the grays and browns. And no pink, for gosh sake. I’m sick of breast cancer pink. I never liked it (pink) anyway, and there’s no joy for me in being reminded (of breast cancer).

Peggy’s prompt---sometimes—20 min

Peggy’s prompt---sometimes—20 min




Sometimes----the beginning of many a song. Sometimes—always a feeling of melancholy comes over me when I hear “sometimes”..Sometimes when we kiss...Sometimes I feel like a motherless child…Sometimes. Once in a while. Occasionally. A few times. Seldom. Not all the time. Nothing is jumping up at me. Perhaps it’s the pain, which is easing off. Or perhaps it’s the pill which enables the easing off, but also causes drowsiness. Do not operate heavy machinery until you know how this medicine affects you. I like the pain easing off, but I don’t like the drowsiness. I already feel like half a person in terms of what I do every day. I was thinking that because my joints, especially my hips, hurt so bad that I can not really do tai chi properly, that perhaps I ought to break down and join a Y and go and swim or do water aerobics. But then how would I pay for another monthly bill? Give up the housecleaner? No way. That’s my most favorite way to spend my money. Sigh. Just keep going in the red in the effort to feel better? Is it better to feel better in my body but have more worry/anxiety in my mind? How about less anxiety but more body pain, which is what I’m doing now. These choices. It’s times like these that I really resent how money, often money that I earned was spent in the past, and how little I have to show for it. If things had been different, and I won’t go into that, I’d be sitting pretty today in terms of money. I’d probably still have the cancer, but I’d have much more financial freedom. Oh well, no point in dwelling on that. Nothing about the past will change. And I want to keep as positive as possible. Today I read about a woman who was “battling” breast cancer, in treatment, for 17 years. I hope I don’t do that. Or at least I tHINK I don’t want to do that. As I told Alice yesterday, how do you know when you’re done with the battle, the treatments. How do you quit? Maybe you don’t call it quitting. You call it surrendering. I just don’t know.