jennethink

FOUR FAMILY MEMBERS AND A TRUMPET

Well … it seems The Kid is playing the trumpet. Actually, you may already know that because you might have heard her practicing. This past week we were all in sunny florida with Momme and decided to have a little jam session. Meaning, we all wanted to jam cotton in our ears.

Ba-da-ching!

Actually we all decided to try and play. Luckily, I had my camera nearby and was able to catch most of our little musical soirée. I'll want to use this for an audition video at some point for something, I'm just sure … or for evidence to establish my mental state and get me out of some crime in the future.

Here are the videos. Make sure you turn your sound up … well, or down.

This first one is The Kid playing her, um, scales? I think that's what she said she was going to play. Turns out she only knows 4 notes so it's a rather short scale and apparently the order of those notes isn't set in stone. Now-a-days I guess you can just play any old note whenever you like.

Lovely. She's no Dizzy Gillespie but she is dizzingly cute when she plays, you gotta give her that.

Next I decided to give the horn a shot. As you can see from the video, I picked it up rather quickly. Then I tried to play it and that didn't go so well - <rimshot> - this was my third attempt at a song in the kid's music book. I was playing it so Momme could guess what the song was.

Huh. Watching it again I'm just as surprised as I was then that she didn't get it. I'm not sure what her issue was. That is clearly Go Tell Aunt Rhody, as if you didn't already know that!

Next, The Hub gave it a shot. Don't be too impressed. It turns out he played coronet in Jr. High. So, he was kinda a ringer. Then again, so were my ears! Boo-ya!… try the veal! He's also playing Go Tell Aunt Rhody (well, honestly, we didn't have that much to choose from). However, he'd never heard it so Momme and I had to sing along. He was doing really well until he learned some disturbing news about the old grey goose at the end.

And rounding out our session is Momme. Man, I love me some Momme. Prior to trying out the trumpet she said four or five times she would probably have a heart attack. She was completely confident in her inability. However, she surprised herself. And frankly, all of us. My favorite part is when she realizes just how good she is and calls for her music!

And that, my friends, rounds out the trumpet session. I had a massive headache for about 6 hours after this. As did, I'm sure, the neighbors. Oh and, 4^th grade music teachers should have a free pass into heaven, in my opinion.

OPEN LETTER TO MY OKLAHOMA CITY CAB DRIVER (ALL OTHER CABBIES FEEL FREE TO TUNE IN)

Overwhelming air freshener smell

OR

Overwhemling cologne smell

Pick. You can't have both.

Love,

Jenne

Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

BUNKO CLUB

You don't even know. Tonight was my introduction to Bunko – Commando Style. I played Bunko a long time ago and remembered enjoying it. So when my mom told me there was a group of ladies that play every Friday night, I thought we should go and check it out. I've never met these ladies before – well, that's not entirely true. My mom was there and I knew her (she's only played with them once) but other than that, I was with strangers. And I have to be honest, when I thought about a game of Bunko with the little old ladies who live in my mom's quaint Florida community I really sort of expected to be cooed over and given home-baked cookies and patted repeated on the hands and told what a lovely young woman I was.

Instead – and please know, I'm not making this up – I was cursed at, jostled around, ordered to pick up the pace between rounds, repeated yelled at to "ROLL, KEEP ROLLING" and once told to shut up. I'm not kidding. One of the little old ladies told me to shut up. And why? Because I said "Well hello again!" when we changed tables. I can put up with a lot. And I've been raised to respect my elders. And normally I'm very sweet to the Geritol crowd but with that one "shut up" it all changed. I sat down, tucked my chair up under the table, and thought Okay, you wanna play, sistas? Then hey howdy, we'll play … and I spent the next 90 minutes being the most aggressive, most sarcastic and worst version of myself. I hollered at slow rollers. I yelled for the top table to ring the bell. I slapped the table and scowled at the dice when the wrong numbers came up and I added a very distinct "eh, fuggetaboutit!" once or twice with Anne from New Yourk had a good roll.

Needless to say, I was invited back next week. They love me.

And, by the way, don't let the smiles in the picture fool you. I had to practically promise to pay their Medicare Part D to get them to take this picture with me.

IN ANSWER TO YOUR KEYWORD SEARCH, “INSECURE ABOUT A PORT SCAR”

So. I've mentioned before that I occasionally check my stat counter to see what keywords are bringing people to this blog. This little exercise can be great fun (when I see a key word such as "gazongas") and troubling (when I see something like the title of this post). Sometimes, as with this combo of keywords, it's obvious why the person landed on my site. I probably used that exact phrase once or twice in my writings. So it makes sense. But I wonder if the person left feeling comforted or confused. Maybe a little of both.

My first thought when I saw that search was: well, crap … because I know that feeling and dang it all, it stinks. But then I have to be honest and say - maybe I'm projecting. The more I think about this, it could be taken more than one way. Is this person "insecure" as in feeling self-conscious and unattractive because of the scar left behind? Or is this person insecure as in worried about the scar because it has changed or maybe looks infected? Could be either. Has this person undergone chemo and had the port removed and is now staring at an ugly scar in the mirror or are they looking ahead wondering whether or not to even get a port because it might leave behind an ugly scar? Or maybe it is none of those. Maybe it is a spouse or friend of a patient trying to comfort them. Maybe it is an in-touch, extremely empathic doctor trying to learn more about why his or her patients hate the scar the port leaves behind or maybe, just maybe, it is a captain of a freighter who, while docking, crashed into the shore line and is concerned about the damage.

We may never know.

But we can guess. And my guess is there is someone out there looking in the mirror after putting on a new top with a v-neckline wanting and hoping to feel downright pretty and instead is gazing at a healed wound with an unhealed heart.

As those of you who were with me during the chemo months know, a port is a nifty little device that is placed underneath the skin so a patient can receive chemo without having to start an IV each time. There are many things to like about having a port. And honestly, when I first got mine, I loved that thing. It made me feel all bionic. I thought it more than nifty, I thought it downright neato. I liked the idea of it. I liked knowing I wouldn't have to endure having an IV started all the time. I liked the uniqueness of it and I even sort of liked the feel of it beneath my skin.

However, I grew to hate it. There were lots of reasons for that. Some I posted. Some I didn't. Let's just say the honeymoon period for Jenne + Port didn't last very long and I yearned for the day that little device would be removed from my chest.

The procedure to put the port in isn't too terribly long or difficult - the surgeon simply opens up a small "pocket" in your chest underneath the skin and slips the port in. After that he or she places the line from the port (the tube that will carry the chemo) into a vein and makes sure the line goes directly into the heart. Then he or she stitches the incision closed and blingo-blango, you're all done. The procedure to remove it is even less of a hassle. In fact, it is much like pulling open a Fed Ex box ... just sort of get a hold and yaaannnnnnnk. Under local anesthetic, the surgeon opens up the skin, grabs the port, and puuuuuuuuuuuulls (and yes, I could feel it). Out comes the port, out comes the line, in go a couple of stitches. That's it. The only problem with both procedures is the surgeon has to cut into the patient to do both. That's two incisions pretty much in the same place. And a scar on top of scar tissue can be downright - well, ugly. It doesn't heal very well. Which makes sense - a hurt on top of another hurt somehow equals more than two hurts. Wounds like that just don't heal up without some sort of significant mark left behind. As anyone who has gotten their heart broken by the same person more than once can tell you.

So there is a scar. And it is ... well ... nasty. Red. Puffy. Fat. That's how I'd describe my scar for the first year after my port was removed. And anything ... a n y t h i n g described as "Red. Puffy. Fat." is going to make a person feel insecure. Unless you've got the hots for the Kool-Aid guy. Today my scar isn't so much puffy and fat ... but it is still red. And it is noticeable. The scar from my biopsy has all but disappeared but the port scar shines on ... some 2 ½ years later. And I see it. Every day. I notice it. I sigh when I put on something that reveals it. I make the defeated pffffft sound with my lips whenever I catch its reflection in the mirror. I tug neck lines of new outfits up and down, left and right, and up again while in dressing rooms trying to figure out if that scar will be exposed.

I guess all I'm saying is, I get it. I really do.

And I know what you're probably thinking - those of you who aren't insecure about your port scar and those of you who don't think the port scar is a big deal. I know what you are thinking. You are thinking "Hey! It's not that bad!" and you're thinking "But gosh, wasn't it worth it?" and you're thinking "I'm sure no one but you really notices it" and you're thinking "Look here, in the grand scheme of things, does it really matter?" I know you are thinking all those things because I have thought those things myself. But this post really isn't about you. So maybe just hush it for a bit, okay?

Once, a while ago, an oncology nurse patted me tenderly on my port scar and told me it was my badge of honor. And then she called me "angel". It touched me. Deeply. And after that, I didn't mind my port scar so much. But that seems a long time ago now and every time I dress I see that scar. Every time I wash, I feel it. Every time I put on make-up, I contemplate covering up the scar with concealer. Not necessarily because it is ugly ... but because it labels me.

Port scar = Cancer patient.

Remember that scene in Jaws where Hooper and Quint are comparing scars? Remember how they share how and when they were wounded? They are laughing and sharing and loving the memories. And then Quint is asked about a scar on his forearm and he responds, "Oh that? That was a tattoo. I had that removed." And Quint goes on to tell the story of the U.S.S. Indianapolis and what happened to him. Do you remember how the jovial atmosphere of the room changes in an instant? Remember how he looked as he recalled those moments? Remember how he spoke of that time? How he didn't just share, but relived those moments when he looked at that scar? How when he spoke of it, he folded inside himself a little bit and stopped singing and stopped smiling as if that scar reminded him of an experience so painful, so difficult, so life-changing, so significant that no matter how far he was from it, it was still etching scars into his soul?

Remember? It is one of the most beautifully raw scenes I've ever watched.

I started this post hoping to answer a question. Hoping to provide comfort. Hoping to convince and cajole and to give confidence. And I just realized I can't do that. I can't do any of it. All I can do is say to you - you who typed "insecure about a port scar" into a search engine and fumbled onto this blog - I get it.

And maybe, when you get a chance, watch that scene from Jaws and think not how YOU feel about YOUR scar, but how you feel about Quint when he shares his.

OPEN LETTER TO COLLEGE (AND PRO) BASKETBALL SHORTS

Two more inches and I'm going to start calling you basketball longs. Love, Jenné Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

THE JIG IS OFFICIALLY UP

Of all the things I suppose I will find someday in her room, this just may be the most upsetting to me.

Clearly did not give birth to this child …

OPEN LETTER TO MY NEW DEODORANT THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE "POWDER FRESH" BUT REALLY STINKS LIKE GARDENIA.

I would have preferred the B.O. Love, Jenné Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

TRI’D AND TRUE

In 2 months I'll be participating in my first triathlon. (I'll wait while you check the url. Yes, it's me.) I know! I never thought I'd do one either. Besides the fact that preparing for a triathlon is an awful lot like working out, the big hiccup for me is that there is an entire section of this event devoted to running. I tried like hell to find a triathlon that didn't include running and instead included something like, oh I don't know, shopping or dining but no luck. Bottom line is, if you're going to compete in a triathlon, you're going to have to run. And I think you know how I feel about that.

Running and Jenne just don't mix very well. We're like oil and the Exxon Valdez. We stick together for a short while, but really it's just a disaster waiting to happen. And wildlife will die. I just don't run well. I once decided that if I ever die in a horrible and tragic violent crime, it will be because I refused to run. Killer would be all "Run or die!" and I'd be all "Can I hear those choices again?". Running just doesn't feel right. It feels wrong – I mean like, morally. Like the entire time I'm doing it I feel ashamed of myself. Humiliated and violated at the same time. And it isn't like I haven't tried to run. There have been a number of times when I've decided I'm going to become a runner. And I try. I try and I try. With no luck. "Maybe you're trying too hard" a runner friend of mine once said. "Maybe you should work up to it." And she proceeded to tell me to not try to do so much straight away. Instead, she said just run for a block, and then walk for a block, and then run again … she said to do that and it would make a big difference in the misery factor. So armed with this half-assed notion and a full-assed rear end I headed out the door. I got to the end of my block. I crossed the street and then broke into a run. I ran for a block then I stopped and walked for a block. Then I ran again. Then I walked. Then I ran. Then I walked. Then I ran. Then I threw up. Then I went home. The entire way home I thought my head was going to blow off my shoulders. My face felt hot and emergency-room red and I could literally feel my pulse in my ears … and it felt like machine gun fire.

I should be so lucky.

Later that morning I had breakfast with the know-it-all friend who suggested this method of getting into running. I explained in great detail my little adventure. She listened. She laughed. She almost got water thrown in her face and then she turned serious and said. "Look, I totally understand. But believe me, if you just keep doing that … if you do it over and over … if you do that same thing like every other day for 3 or 4 weeks, in the end, you won't throw up and you won't feel like your head is going to explode. I promise." And all I could think of was that sounded like an awful lot of work to just not throw up. Let's face it, I could stay on my couch and not feel like my head was going to blow off my shoulders … in fact, it's one of the things I sort of like about my couch … there is rarely any head explosions happening there. And so that's what I did. I stayed in and on my couch and sure enough, right away I felt like I wasn't going to throw up.

But deep down the urge was still there – is still there. Deep down I want to run … or rather, I want to want to run. Deep DEEP down I want to be able to effortlessly glide across the ground, to run next to The Hub and have meaningful conversations, to join one of those running groups and keep pace with other people while we enjoy each other's company and the sound of our feet slapping the pavement.

Then again, deep down I also want to be a kangaroo … and frankly, that ain't happenin' either.

Still, I have signed up for and have been training for my first triathlon. Run included.

For those of you who don't know, a triathlon is an event consisting of 3 legs – swim, bike and run – in that order. (As a reminder, I only have 2 legs – the right and the left.) There are different distances of triathlons, the most well-known is the Ironman – which consists of a 2.4 mile swim, a 112 mile bike and a 26.2 mile run. I won't be doing that. And I won't be doing the Olympic distance either. I will however be doing the half-olympic distance. Which is a 750 meter open water swim (that's a little less than ½ mile for the metrically challenged), a 20 km bike (that's 12.4 miles) and a 5 km run (that's agony). I'm not a swimmer – I like to swim. I enjoy being in the water. I know how to move in the water to decrease my chances of drowning but I wouldn't call myself a swimmer. I'm not a cyclist either – the giant bruise on my left hip and cuts up and down my right leg sort of prove that. And clearly, I'm not a runner – even though I've somehow worked my way up to actually being able to run (and I use that term very, very loosely) for 45 minutes without stopping (or puking). Regardless, in 2 months I'll be doing all those things. In that order.

Swimming

Biking

Running

Kind of exciting, isn't it?

OPEN LETTER TO THE 70 YEAR OLD SELF-APPOINTED QUEEN OF THE POOL WHERE I SWIM WHO FINDS NOTHING WRONG WITH TELLING EVERYONE, INCLUDING ME, WHERE AND WHEN AND HOW TO WORK OUT THEN ASKS ME IF I INTEND TO KEEP COMING TO THE POOL AND IF SO, WHEN.

You don't know me very well, do you?

 

 

Love,

Jenne

 

ME AND YOU AND A DOG NAME BLUE AND PRETTY MUCH EVERY ONE ELSE TOO

Last Thursday I went for a run. I had to. It was such a beautiful day here - 80 degrees and sunny with a breeze. I mean, that's great weather at ANY time but right smack at the end of winter and just a mere 4 days after a big SNOWSTORM and man, that made for a good day.

There is a trail near our house - The Trolley Trail - and I love running on it. It cuts through a nice green grassy swath of land and winds pleasantly past cottage homes and quiet streets. Even though I love the trail, as I left the house I was somewhat reluctant to use it because I assumed there would be quite a few more people on it than usual. But since the trail is so perfect and it was the perfect day, I headed down there anyway and began my run.

And immediately began laughing. EVERYONE was on that trail. Every. One. Anyone who has ever gone for a run, thought about going for a run or knows how to spell the word run was out. And not just runners ... there were walkers power walking and couples casually strolling and moms pushing double strollers and dads carrying kids on their shoulders and kids walking dogs. There were people on mountain bikes and families on cruisers and little kids peddling big wheels. With every person I passed and every one that passed me I got more and more tickled. I could hardly wait to see who was coming up next and half expected to see a guy in a bowler hat sitting way up high on one of those bikes from the 1900s with the giant front wheel and tiny back wheel or a couple of kids pushing a hoop with a stick. It was just the most delightful day. And there I was running and giggling in the midst of it.

When I went through chemo life was difficult - not impossible, but difficult. I would go into treatments feeling pretty good and in a matter of a few hours feel as though I couldn't move without help - and often, I couldn't. When I would leave chemo, I would lean on The Hub and shuffle along slowly, sometimes groaning. There is a bench just outside the automatic sliding glass doors at the Cancer Center and The Hub would lower me gently down to the bench while he'd race off to get the car and bring it around so I wouldn't have to make the trek to the parking garage ... the same trek I bounded through on the way in just a few hours before. Sometimes we would leave chemo and go get a bite to eat ... we could pretty much guarantee that it would be the last meal I would eat for days so we'd make it high calorie goodness like corn chowder and gooey ham and cheese sandwiches and bowls of ice cream with fudge sauce and a brownie on the side. As the months went on and the cumulative effects of chemo caught up with me, those lunches became obsolete but in the beginning they were a bright spot in what was a downright bleak time. By the time we'd get home the steroids that I got with each treatment would kick in and I would want to start a puzzle. Early in treatment we discovered I couldn't concentrate well enough to work a crossword and although an avid reader in non-chemo life, I couldn't seem to make my eyes follow a trail of words on a page, so jigsaw puzzles became popular around here. We went to Target at some point and pretty much bought every puzzle they had ... boat scenes, flowers on a hillside, mountain peaks, the statue of liberty and even a puzzle of Da Vinci's Last Supper (which was fun to put together because my mom kept calling the disciples' robes their "costumes" ... as in "Is this part of Jesus' costume or is this someone else's costume?" Which made me laugh every time. The Hub finally and gently said, "Um, I don't think those are costumes as much as just what they wore." Poor Momme, she was so tired back then). As the steroids wound me up, we'd dump a new puzzle and begin working. Sam and Julie would come by in the evening and join in. The Hub would at regular intervals get up and get me a glass of water. I'd ignore it for a while until he'd threaten to tell my mom and/or my doctor I wasn't hydrating then I'd choke it down. Water tasted just like the chemo they pumped into me and it was all I could do to drink the required 6 - 8 glasses a day. As the night wore on, people would leave or go to bed. I'd sit hunched over for hours hunting for the next piece and the next. Slowly creating something beautiful. Sometimes I'd stay up until 1 or 2 in the morning working a puzzle until either it was done or I was. Eventually, I'd drag myself to bed, curl up and sleep.

By the next morning, every bit of that late night steroid-induced energy was gone. I'd wake up feeling hung over - only without the great memories of a fun night out. The side-effects would have kicked in and every bone in my body would ache. My skin felt thin and paper-fragile. My elbows felt like steel points threatening to rip open my hide and my muscles burned a low, steady pain. Suddenly any strong smell was too much. I'd get sick when my mother brewed coffee or cooked meals. Loud noises sent me to bed. Music actually hurt me. It was painful to listen to anything. My eyes would blur if I looked at the TV too long and even the stream of the shower would be too harsh. I would be so weary and tired but unable to sleep. Nothing helped ... not really. We'd try every remedy, every tip and trick but those days following chemo were endlessly painful. Other symptoms came and went. Sometimes I was sick - padding to the bathroom, or leaning out the car door to vomit. Sometimes my mouth erupted into painful sores. Sometimes I'd have bouts of fatigue so severe I couldn't finish a sentence. My breathing became labored halfway through chemo and the burn with every breath would make it difficult to get the little bits of air I needed. Occasionally pain would rocket through the bones of my arms or legs and I would buckle and cry out. My mouth tasted coppery and awful and my skin smelled burnt and dead. Every so often, my mind would go blank and I had trouble thinking simple thoughts. The bleomycin compromised my lungs and I suddenly was unable to yawn without pain severe enough to bring tears to my eyes and I would grab my chest and sob and gasp for air at the completion of each sneeze.

Like I said, life was difficult.

However, it wasn't continuous. Those awful symptoms that plagued me each treatment would only last for a few days - longer as treatment went on - but for the first ½ dozen or so treatments, those post-treatment symptoms would only last a week or so. And since my treatments were 2 weeks apart and since I didn't have to start taking nupogen shots to boost my white blood cell count (side effect: horrible bone pain) until a couple days prior to treatment, that meant I had at least 3 and maybe as many as 5 really good days before I had to submit to the poisoning again.

At least 3 really good days.

The oddest part of it was as quickly as the symptoms would come after treatment, they would seem to go a week or so later. Sometimes I would go to bed feeling the heat and pain and heaviness of those awful side effects and wake up feeling light and calm ... as if the symptoms stole away in the dark of night. They all got together hitched a ride out of town. Stow-aways. They snuck in then slipped away. I'd wake up and wow ... I'd feel like myself again. At least for the time being.

One of these renewal days, a few treatments in, I felt good enough to make lunch plans. I can remember driving downtown to pick The Hub up for lunch. I can remember having a normal conversation at lunch. I can remember seeing a few people on the way back and actually enjoying talking with them. After I dropped The Hub off at the office I started home. The day was nice and I rolled down the windows on the car so I could feel the warm air. As I drove the song "Unwritten" by Natasha Bedingfield came on the radio and I freakin' blasted it. The song sounded great. The sun looked great. My lunch tasted great. And I felt ... GREAT. I felt SO GOOD. Nothing hurt. I could think. My body wasn't rebelling against me. I might go for a walk later. I wanted to talk to people. My bones didn't hurt. I'd eaten spaghetti and meatballs for lunch. I didn't need a nap. And I LOVED THAT SONG. And it was at that moment, as I was flying down the highway feeling the wind whip over my bald head that I began weeping. Big, fat, wet tears slid down my cheeks and I did nothing to stop them. I wasn't crying because I was broken or because I hurt ... I was crying because it was all so good. Life was so very good. And I felt ...good.

That was the most dramatic example of renewal, but it happened every time. Every treatment I would have a moment - after the side effects subsided and I started to feel normal again where I would just marvel at how good it felt to feel good. More than once I would turn to The Hub or my mom or a friend and say "I can't believe you people feel like this all the time!" It was a wonder, a miracle that anyone - let alone most of us - could feel this good and this was NORMAL.

And then ... just a few days later ... the normal was gone. And I was back in the quagmire.

26 months ago, I had my last treatment and felt those horrible side effects for the last time. That means 7 - 10 days after that treatment I felt good again. But for the life of me, I can't remember that feeling of feeling good. The amazement I felt that day in the car and all the other times is only a memory for me. Just like I can't remember the bone pain, only that I had bone pain; I can't remember the feeling good. I only know this feeling that I now feel every day once made me cry with happiness.

I went for a run last week when the weather was perfect. When I went, there were so many others out with me - enjoying it, loving it, drinking it in. And it was no wonder. Weather like that is not to be taken for granted. That was Thursday.

Saturday it was just as beautiful. The sun was shining, the breeze was light and lovely, the temperature was perfect. Trees were budding and my tulips had poked through the ground. It felt like spring was here to stay. It seemed the snow and ice was a memory. At 3:30 in the afternoon, on this perfect spring day, I drove by the Trolley Trail.

It was empty.

And maybe that emptiness should have made me sad. Made me angry that people weren't taking advantage of the beautiful day. Made me upset that people were just taking the nice day for granted when just a few days before it was so special they just had to be out in it. Maybe it should have bothered me. But it didn't. Because part of life is taking it for granted. There is beauty in that. Beauty in the hope and confidence that I can let a gorgeous day slide by without notice because there will be others just as gorgeous that follow.

And as much as I wish I could remember the feeling of feeling good enough to cry ... I'm grateful that I don't. Grateful that I take it for granted.

There is more than beauty in that. There is mercy.