Car Woes

By mid-September, I'll have my 2004 Chrysler PT Cruiser paid for.   What I need to do now is, convince the beast that that doesn't mean it can go off having issues to make up for that.

There was the belt replacement need three or so weeks ago.  But the chirping and came back, and this past week I had to solve that by having the shop put in a new belt tensioner.  This should have been the last I had to see of them till my inspection was due.

But no!  This morning, I was on my way to church, I was six minutes and 3.4 miles short of getting there, when ding! an alarm sounded over whirr of the breeze through the open windows.  I looked; the temperature indicator light was on.  What?  Looked again, the needle of my temperature gauge was moving upwards and in a moment showed as high as it could get.  Yikes! my radiator was boiling over!

Happily, there was a gas station just up ahead.  I let my momentum more or less take me into it.  Parked, raised the hood: yes, there was steam escape around the rim of the radiator cap.  No, I did not touch it or try to open it. 

Neither of the young men clerks in the station convenience store knew anything about cars, but they let me look up the number for the lube shop down the street.  Asked the guy there, any chance I can refill the radiator and get to church after all?  No, he said.  I obviously had a leak and I risked blowing a gasket and cracking my engine block.

Well.  I did that on another car, back in 1994, and don't want to repeat the experience.  So I had to wait for AAA and get the Little Red Dragon towed.

It's presently sitting in the parking lot of the repair shop, and won't they be surprised to see it in the morning!  When they put on the new belts for me they noticed coolant leaking, but they thought they'd solved the problem by installing a new hose clamp.  I hope it's just a hose needing replaced now, and not a water pump or whatever.  Tow truck guy cheerfully assured me the car is eminently fixable, which I knew:  I just don't like this being nickle and dimed to death.  Specially not now.

Wig Hats

Put on your high heel sneakers,
Wear your wig hat on your head,
Put on your high heel sneakers,
And your wig hat on your head.
Ya know you're lookin' mighty fine, baby,
I'm pretty sure you're gonna knock 'em dead.




For somebody as improverished and unfashionable as I am, I have acquired an absurd number of wigs.  I've even had to mount a separate shelf to help hold them all.Three from my friend Frieda*, the impossible one from Dorothy* the wigmonger, the two and 2/3 (counting the "halo" I wore for the first time on Sunday) I have from the ACS fashion prosthetics arm, and as of Monday, two from my mom.

One, which I can only describe as Texas Big Hair (sorry, Mom) is a reddish shade that is shockingly like the color of my hair as previously dyed (I know-- I kept a lot of it when I had it cut two weeks ago).  Color looks good on me; the style-- hmm, not sure where I can wear it, definitely dress-up party material.

But the other one is a lot more sensible and looks the best on of the whole lot.  It's a medium brown with blonde highlights styled in a short informal flip.  Kind of a Mariska Hargitay look, and if I want to evoke a celeb, I'd rather it were she than a lot of others.  I've worn that one a lot this week, and I think it looks the most like me; or at least, me when my hair is behaving.

Meanwhile, on Tuesday I figured out why the dark brown "Caitlin" wig looks so puffy and big on me.  It's too big.  I tried it on again and noticed, good grief, my ears are sticking out at a 45 degree angle!  I'd already decided I needed to trade in the "Sabrina," since it's way too blonde.  I called the TLC people and found out I'd measured the ear to ear dimension totally wrong.  Then I looked at the TLC wig from Frieda I successfully wore on Saturday, and discovered it's a Petite.

So today both of those went back.  Can't return them, since they were on sale, but I'm getting the replacements in the smaller size, with the long brown one in a tone with some highlights in.  Don't really fly with that stark '70s rocker look.  And the shorter curly one, I'm going with the same brown with blonde highlights that I like in the one Mom sent me.  I figure that way I won't freak people out so badly-- to the casual observer, it'll just look like I've got my hair curled or not.

I think I'll be a bit relieved when my hair comes out entirely.  Till then I'm wearing a little knit scullcap under the wigs to keep the loose hairs out of them.  And sometimes it's a bit hot and a lot of times it itches.  But I get used to it, I find.  After awhile, I'll be able to wear my wig of choice and forget I have it on, just like I can live my life and take care of my business and forget I'm dealing with cancer and chemo or any of that foolishness.

Just for fun, here's the remainder of the wig parade, mostly taken in my bathroom mirror:

"Caitlin," Take 1

"Sabrina," Take 1.  Not too bad in this light, actually . . .   But still not me.

Curly halo, with hat, of necessity

And I still don't have a picture of the awful one.

Where I'm going to use all these, I have no idea.  Too bad Dorothy* didn't have a René of Paris catalog in her shop.  The ones Mom sent are that brand, and his whole line looks very nice.  If I could have selected one like the short one, we would have solved the problem right away and I wouldn't be squirming under un embarras des richesses.

Hair Conditioning

I know what I said the other day about systematically brushing it all out; nevertheless, this past week I've been treating my hair like each separate strand was a silver penny slipping through my fingers.  At night I've been sleeping in weird positions to avoid rubbing any more out than absolutely necessary.  I dream about how to keep from losing it any faster than I have to, and keep myself semi-awake in the process.  The other night I had myself convinced-- in my dreams-- that if I slept in the guest bedroom, I wouldn't lose so much of my hair.

Maybe if I'd been satisfied about my wig situation, but I wasn't, not yet.  Thursday evening I modelled the new wigs for the neighbors, and they said the blonde one made me look like Marilyn Monroe and the dark one like Joan Jett.  All very well, but neither of those women are me and I don't want to be running around in a costume.

But Friday night I got a call from my friend Ruth* in Kansas City.  Ruth has been through breast cancer, twice, and chemo, twice.  Both times, she lost her hair. 

"Ruth, the first time, you had a wig, didn't you?  I mean, I don't remember any between time when you looked any different, really."

Yes, she'd had her surgery in October, started chemo in November, and started wearing her wig pretty much right away.

"Did you get your head shaved, or what did you do?"

"I just let it fall out whenever it would."

Not sure why, but this was a revelation.  Suddenly I felt I could stop babying my hair; I could let it go.  And whatever remains for however long it remains, I can stick it under my wig and let it be. 

So yesterday morning I got in the shower and washed my hair.  Same routine as always:  shampoo, scalp massage, creme rinse, the whole process.  And big wads of hair came out and had to be kept from going down the drain.  Upstairs before the bathroom mirror, I brushed what was left and more came loose.  And glad I was for that, since for awhile there I looked like the Charles Emerson Winchester III character from M*A*S*H.  It's not totally gone, far from it, though from the back the righthand side of my head is a lot more denuded than the left.  But what's gone is gone and what remains, remains.

And I put on my Laura Ashley flower print dress, pulled on one of the wigs Frieda* passed on to me, donned a straw hat over that, and attended the annual Beaver Library Garden Tour.  And no one who saw me there knew a darned bit of difference.

Round Two, Week One

Received my second chemotherapy infusion yesterday.  Nurse Nell* was willing to forego trying to put the cannula into the back of my left hand this time, but the first wrist vein we tried eluded the needle when she put it in.  So it was back to the tried and true sites on the inside of my wrist.

No flashbacks to the keg parties at the college dorm from the Benadryl this time.  When I told Nurse Nell it hadn't made me feel sleepy, just drunkish, she gave it to me more slowly.  And as the afternoon wore on, I was certainly tempted to catch some ZZZZs!

I exercised some discipline and used the first hours mending two more sweaters.  I will not have the schoolchildren next fall laughing at the holes under the arms of my cardies!  That wasn't a penance, despite the heat outdoors.  They do an excellent job at the Cancer Center keeping the interior climate controlled, not too chilly and not too warm.  Haven't needed to use the quilt I brought yet.

This time, though, I didn't get as much Western Civ literature read.  Brought my laptop and wasted a lot of time trying to get online via the fragile guest wireless signal they provide.  Managed to make a couple of Facebook status reports, but otherwise I was refreshing and refreshing and trying, trying, trying to reconnect more than I was working or surfing.

My pod mates were all older gentlemen.  One being treated for abdominal cancer (Eh.  That's the metastasis from my ovarian cancer I'm trying to avoid), one getting chemo for colon cancer, and the other one, I didn't ask.  The colon cancer guy was on infusion eight in a course of twelve.  Wow.  He told me that people "sail through the first one or two treatments, but it gets rougher after that."  Uh, yes, I've heard that can happen . . . meaning that every good day or week I have is to be received with conscious gratitude.

(I'm on to preach at least three times this summer.  Wonder if I should write those sermons now, while I'm still feeling half-decent?)

They must all have been getting different medications than I, because none of them were sporting chrome domes.  Me, I'm thinning out more every day.  (More on that below.)

It was interesting, too, that I was the first one in the pod and the last one out.  I started my pre-meds a little after 11:00 AM and finished up my chemo at 4:30.  Only one other woman was there getting chemo after me. 

My report time was actually 9:45, but I saw the doctor and had my bloodwork done first.  Found out from him that yes, I may take my beta-blocker pill if I need it; yes, I can have a glass of wine or a beer if I want it; and the reason I've had the munchies the past week and a half is because that's what Decadron, the steroid they give me pre-chemo, works.  It has been weird:  First ten days post-chemo, I've craved small meals of very healthy food.  Then bang! my blood sugar was crashing at the most unexpected times and I wanted chips!  donuts!  cornbread!  hot dogs!  at all hours.  And don't show me a piece of lettuce, though every lettuce plant in my garden should bolt from neglect!  I gained nearly a pound and a half since the 21st.

Today I'm back to the healthy eating phase.  At the moment I'm consuming a nice salad of lettuce, shelled snow peas, purple sweet peppers, mushrooms, and shredded cheese, the first three ingredients all from my garden.

Last night, I ground up some more leaves and mulched more of the vegetable garden.  I'm feeling quite normal today, too, maybe because I'm heeding the instructions and taking my anti-nausea pills even when I feel just slightly queasy.

My American Cancer Society wigs have come in and the best of them is the "halo" (tonsure!) you have to wear under a hat or scarf because it has no pate to it.  All of them need the bangs feathered out and thinned down, and I'm wondering if I've been a little too daring in ordering the Sabrina model in the golden blonde.  Though I've historically been on the blonde side, the dark brown of the Caitlin looks more "me," somehow.  And whichever one we're talking about, I think I have to get used to more bulk at the top.  Must be the Current Style.  But these aren't so bulky and wiggy as my "official" cancer wig is.  It still looks awful.  I tried it on for Frieda* when she came to pick me up yesterday morning and she thinks it definitely needs major pruning.

Oh, well.  I'm thinking of taking my whole wig wardrobe over next door the next time everybody gathers on the neighbors' porch and letting them say what they think.  If the golden blonde is agreed to be Too Much, I can always try again in my usual dark brownish (aka "dirty") blonde.

Once I'm satisfied I have at least one whole wig I won't be embarrassed to be seen walking about wearing in public, I'm going to drape a towel around my shoulders, take my hog-bristle hairbrush, and brush, brush, brush my hair right outta my head.

Transitional Hairdo

Here's what I had done to my hair last Tuesday, after which my friend Frieda* and I went and gorged ourselves at the Chinese buffet.  Now I'm no longer leaving bits of myself on the shrubs in the yard, and my hair doesn't feel so much like an alien entity perching on my head.

We didn't get any After shots that evening, because my stoopy camera was eating brand-new batteries like my dog would gobble up a piece of dropped raw meat.  But here's one I took in the bathroom mirror this evening.

Oh, yes, the problem-child wig is the one you see on the styrofoam head on the left in the background.  Looks better on it than it does on me!

Disaster

I picked up my official cancer wig this morning.  And it looks nothing like it did in any of the catalogs.   It looks awful.  At least, it looks awful on me.

No pictures, I'm afraid.  My new camera has eaten through all my AA batteries.

It's almost comical by now how Dorothy* the wigmonger can plop a mop of synthetic hair on my head, the sides all cattywompus and the top standing up like a drunk on sentry duty, and gush, "Oh, it looks so cute on you!"

No.  No, it doesn't.  But it looks like I'm stuck with it.

There's simply so much crap going on on top!  If it would curl like the picture or lie down flat, that might be tolerable.  But I couldn't get it to do either.

There seemed to be no question of Dorothy styling the thing for me.  Just as well-- I don't trust her judgement.

Took the bloody mess home, ran it through some cold water, and set it to dry.  Tried to get the curls to come back, thinking that would improve things.  Tried it on again this evening.  Not any better-- think Harpo Marx.  Tried wetting my brush and flattening the top down a bit.  Maybe, maybe it might be tolerable if I were in good clothes.  Definitely not compatible with my T-shirt and old KCPR Planning Division big shirt jacket. 

All is not lost.  One of the wigs my friend Frieda* passed on to me will do for the time being if the remains of my own hair get too thin or fall out before I come to some resolution.  That will take the form, I hope, of two additional and less expensive wigs I ordered this afternoon from tlcdirect.com, the hair and breast prosthesis arm of the American Cancer Society.  The wigs I got from Frieda were from there, and it seemed like the hair was denser on them with less "scalp"showing than with the expensive Gemtress model. 

I'm taking a risk with them, though. 

One is long and dark brown, to satisfy my yen, cherished since high school, to taste life as a brunette.  That's my official "just for fun" wig. 

The other is another try at what I was trying to get today, and it may turn out just as bad.  The good thing is that the TLC wigs are returnable, assuming you haven't mucked with them.

Those should come in two weeks.  I also ordered what's called a "halo" (looks more like a tonsure to me) in a version of my natural (undyed) color.  It's for under hats, and yes, I'd better remember not to take mine off.

Funny, this wig issue had me going so hard today that I didn't feel it as much as I might've when I got a call from my social services case worker telling me that my paltry IRA disqualifies me from getting assistance with the rest of my medical bills.  Through her I also learned that the reason I haven't had a direct deposit of my unemployment benefit the past two weeks is because Congress hasn't authorized the money past the week of June 5th.

Well.  At that rate, my IRA will get spent down very quickly.

But when it comes to it, I really don't want government medical assistance or unemployment compensation, what I want is a fulltime job.  But the wig I got today, I'm not planning to wear to any interviews anytime soon.

Shedding

Oh, if I ever lose my hair,
If my pate goes bald and bare,
Oh if I ever lose my hair,
Oh, if,
Oh, if,
I won't have to  brush!

I've been getting preliminary scalp twinges the past couple weeks, and the stray hair began floating out now and again for a few days now.  But this past Sunday evening, the shedding began in earnest.

I drove to evening service with the window rolled down, enjoying the wind in my hair (since I soon won't have that for awhile!). In the church parking lot, I ran a brush through my locks to put them back in order, hit a tangle, and a whole bunch of strands came out with it.  Yep, two weeks since the treatment, right on schedule!

Monday morning in the shower, a lot more emerged on my fingers after the conditioner.  I read online a month or so ago about a woman who, when her chemotherapy made her hair come out in the shower, collapsed on the shower floor and cried "for hours" until her husband came and rescued her.  Me, I don't have a husband (unfortunately) and none of my animals, brilliant as they are, have figured out how to work the doorknob.  So I was forced to be philosophical about the phenomenon and just towel-dry my hair as gently as possible and make sure the sheddings didn't clog the drain.

Actually, if I'm going to get horribly upset about all this, it'd be from reflecting on the fact that I've never had the privilege of identifying myself with my looks.  But that'd be a different post.

Upstairs, more strands in the hairbrush, more big wads for the wastebin.  I've also read of women who say their hair came out "in clumps."  Either they don't define clumps the way I do, or my hair's just thinning out hair after hair after hair, all over.  I was expecting to see big patches of scalp right away.  Nope, and thank God for that.  That would be disconcerting.

Until last night I kept my hair bound up in a highly-unfashionable but effective scrunchie.  Last night, I went to SuperCuts and got myself a short pixie cut, as documented by my friend Frieda.*  Transitional stage, as my long hair was starting to feel like an alien creature camped out on my head, but I just can't see myself doing the razor thing.  It reminds me too much of concentration camp prisoners and early church era shorn prostitutes and other shudder-worthy associations.  The new cut looks pretty good and it's too bad I won't get to keep for more than a week or two. 

Tomorrow I go pick up the new wig.  I had more trenchant and funny things to say on this subject, but I spent the whole day hauling river rock out of my west border and turning the compost pile, and I am exhausted.

Miss Tiggy-Wig

For something that isn't costing me anything, I sure am putting a lot of time and worry into this wig thing.

It's a very nice deal, really.  A civic women's group here in the county has a fund to provide up to $200 for chemo patients to purchase wigs to cover their hair loss, and somehow it works out that even if the wig you choose costs more than $200, you still get it gratis.

I figure that with one shot at my freebie, I want it to be right.

So.  The civic group has two and only two wig shops here in the county where the certificate can be redeemed.  In May, when I was still not allowed to drive, I rang and opened diplomatic relations with one of these ladies.  But before I could go see her, I talked to my friend Frieda*.  Frieda had gotten her own cancer wig from that shop, and hadn't been satisfied.  "She was really nice," she reported, "and she had a good selection to look at, but when she styled my wig she did a really horrible job!"

Oh.  Don't want that.  So a week ago yesterday I went to the other hair stylist/wigmonger on the list.  I'll call her "Dorothy*."

Oh, dear.  Dorothy was also very nice, but did not have a good selection at all.  I think there were three wigs in the entire shop.  And judging by what she said when she tried one of them on me, I'm afraid her styling abilities may have nothing over her competitor's.  But with me not being the one paying for this, I couldn't very well go away and try the other shop, could I?

But oh! she tried this one wig on me and said, "That looks really cute on you!"  Yeah, if by "cute" you mean the skanky teased-up style from the 1960s.  All I would have needed is a black headband, white lipstick, and some menthol cigarettes to complete the look.  Uh, no thank you!

Next one available was in a short, tightly-curled, I-get-my-hair-done-like-a-steel-helmet-every-Thursday-rain-or-shine old lady do.  I vetoed that before it got anywhere near my head.

The third one was equally impossible, so we turned to the catalogs.  I can't explain it, but most of the available styles seemed right out of the 1980s.  Think Big Hair.  Think poof and voooooolllllluuuuuummmme!  Good grief, are these really the latest models, or have these catalogs been sitting around here since the Reagan administration?

Finally, I picked two for Dorothy to order in on spec.  One longer and one chin-length, both with some easy curl to them. My own hair has a natural wave in it, so why not take advantage of the situation and get a wig that looks like what I wish my own mop would do on a good hair day?  I arranged to try them in two different colors, both pretty close to my own shade, but maybe a little brighter.  They advise that for chemo patients.

Two days ago, then, Dorothy left me a message saying my wig(s) were in.  And today, by appointment, I drove over to see which I should choose.  I was looking forward to trying them on, especially the shorter one.

But what's this?  When I arrived, Dorothy handed me three boxes, and none of them held the right models!

"Oh, no!" she apologized.  "Those must be for somebody else!  Your wigs aren't in yet!  Remind me which ones they were."

Through the superannuated catalogs again to find the ones I'd chosen.  And here were more catalogs for me to look at, while she took care of a customer.  I found a really cute wig in one of those and was wanting her to order that for me to look at, until she pointed out that it was what's known in the trade as an augmentation.  Just a hairpiece, in other words.

Oh.  Too bad.

Eventually, Dorothy admitted that she had ordered the three wrong wigs for me.  "So much has been going on in my life, I'm just that confused, you can't imagine!"  I went ahead and let her try them on me.  "Oh, that looks really good on you!"  No, sorry, it does not.  None of them.  Though it did help me decide which of the prospective colors was better.

I decided there was no point in me looking at a long wig.  In the summer I pretty much always wear my hair up, and what's the point of going for a long wig if I'm just going to make my head hotter by doing that?  So let's just reorder the chin-length one by Alan Eaton, okay?

But she couldn't find the fake-hair color sample ring for it.  And when she called her supplier to see about matching my hair for it, she was told her usual rep isn't handling that manufacturer any more.  She felt she probably could still get it, but I'd better keep looking.

Another customer came in.  I was showered with more catalogs, three of them from the same supplier, Gemtress.  Does she never clean these out?  Sat there looking at them with her ginger cat sprawled in my lap.  Same wig kept catching my eye, in all three catalogs.  Medium-short, softly curly, but shown styled in different ways.  A possibility, yes.

What color, though?  Wig hair color numbers seem to be somewhat consistent across manufacturers, but there's nothing about the assigned digits that tells you anything at all about the shade or hue of the color.  I simply had to go though the samples, detach the likely ones from the ring, and check the chart to see if that wig came in that color.

Wasn't much of a choice, if I intended to go with a color more or less like mine.  Soon as Dorothy was free, she came and held the possibilities up against my own hair, so I could check them in her singularly ill-lighted mirror.  Funny I'd do what I did, letting her talk me into a tri-color light-brown to medium-blonde shade, considering what I've learned about her aesthetic judgment.  But it was either that or settle for a very drab, dark, solid shade.  So I'll risk it.

And it will be a risk, because the wig I decided on is-- unlike the ones she mistakenly got in for me to look at-- not returnable.  Whatever color I chose today, that's what I'll be stuck with.  Dorothy was willing to try to order the Alan Eaton wig I'd originally wanted, too, but what would be the point?  I liked it, but good grief, this catalog dates back to 2006.  Very possibly it's no longer available.  And seeing she told me the Gemtress model was better made, and seeing that it apparently can be dressed up or toned down, let's cut the fooling about and just order the one.

And please, Jesus, let it be good!  I've been taking this hair loss thing a lot more in stride than some women do, but I think I'm hanging a lot on having my official wig make me feel good and look presentable.

Dorothy had me write down the manufacturer, model, and color of my choice on a 3x5 card.  Lord willing she doesn't lose it, or misread it, or misconstrue it.  I've already wigged out over this enough as it is.

Some Observations

I'm thinking it might be useful for me to say a few things about my first chemo session this past Monday.

(Note photo of me in back yard afterwards, with bandaged wrist. And with hair, still. Very messy hair, since the photographer had to leave and didn't have time for me to find my brush.)

• In the first place, getting chemo was a full day's work! From the time I arrived in the waiting room to the time my friend Frieda* came to pick me up, it was eight hours or more.
  
• The treatment pods have four recliners in them with four IV stands and two TVs. I was the second patient in mine Monday morning. The lady who was in before me was on her final round for colon cancer.
  
• The nurse who took care of me-- I'll call her Nell*-- was really patient and thorough in telling me exactly what was going to go on in my chemo and what side effects I could expect over the course of it. She answered questions as long as I had them. What I don't get is, why, considering that I heard all that before the drugs began to flow, I seem to have retained so little of it!? I'll be glad for Frieda's notes, when I get them.
  
• On the other hand, Nurse Nell wasn't so proficient at getting the IV started in the back of my hand. Blew up the vein-- ow! and had to go for the wrist. It doesn't look so bad today, and I wonder if they'll be able to try again there the next time.
  
• I was not at all thrilled to learn that my pre-chemo blood counts fall around the 33 percentile of what's considered adequate and healthy. I kept asking her if I could improve that by eating better. No, she kept insisting, my baseline is perfectly healthy and normal for me. It is what it is. Yeah, maybe, but I dislike having so little leeway. They have drugs they can give you to get your counts up so you can go on with treatment, but still. (I've been eating iron-rich food since Monday, anyway. Makes me feel I'm doing something for the cause.)
  
• I got four anti-side effect drugs, fifteen minutes per bag, before the cancer-killing drugs proper begin. I can't quite remember what each of them does, but the most impressive one was the liquid Benadryl. Yikes! They say it puts you to sleep; it made me feel like I'd just come from a residence hall kegger! I brought in a sweater to mend, and was taking the last few stitches when the deck, so to speak, began to roll. "Shall I give into it?" I asked myself. Decided not. So I kept my eyes open and my posture semi-upright and went on to read Sophocles' Oedipus at Colonus, even if I had to use the bookmark under the lines to keep from reading the same sentences over and over!
  
• The chemo drugs took longer Monday than they will at subsequent treatments, because Nurse Nell started them slowly to make sure I wouldn't have a bad reaction. Not sure what that would have been. Swelling up? Turning purple? Suddenly sprouting legs on top and walking on my head? Whatever it was, it didn't happen, and things proceeded according to plan.
  
• Three hours and ten minutes of the Taxol gave way to about an hour and fifteen minutes of the Carboplatin. Kept reading Sophocles through it (finished Oedipus at Colonus and went on to Antigone), even though the TV had been turned on long since by a lady who was in with her husband. Medical shows and Dr. Phil most of the day. Did you know they have an operation where they can remove half a person's brain and leave them with fairly normal function? Didn't catch what this is supposed to cure, but it's fascinating what you learn.
  
• I learned also that with all the liquid being pumped into you, if you feel like you gotta go, you gotta go. With the drug-induced unsteadiness and the shopping-cart perversity of the IV stand wheels, I couldn't help but feel I was about to be pulled over and busted for DUI on the way to the unisex can. But it was nice how nurses and other patients' caregivers would step back and let me use the bathroom ahead of them, even if they were there first.
  
• Plowed through my patient's binder, as much as I could. Every damn last possible side effect is in there, it seems, and what to do about them seemed confusing and contradictory. Emphasis on seemed. Clearly (as clear as anything was the other day!) there was no point in memorizing it all. Wait and see what happens, and go from there.
  
• Frieda and I prayed in the car before going in; my request was that God would somehow use me in this to minister to other people at the Cancer Center. Didn't think I had, really, but as I was waiting for Frieda to pick me up I got to talking to the lady there with her lung-cancer-fighting husband. Me, I thought I was just passing time and maybe being a little nosy. But when I was bidding her goodbye, she told me what a great comfort and help my words had been to her, and how much better she felt having talked with me. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at what God can do, but I never cease to be amazed when He does it through me.
  

I've been doing pretty well since Monday. A little queasiness now and again but nothing alarming or eruptive. Some suppression of my sense of taste and appetite, but nothing that keeps me from eating anything sufficiently savory. I've gone to a continuing education session at the Presbytery office and done a decent amount of gardening; I get tired maybe before I would ordinarily, and have to remind myself that this isn't "ordinarily" and stop and do something sedentary.

I know it'll get more challenging as it goes along, but I'll jump off that bridge when I get to it.

Zombie Wars

I've often wondered why people have such an instinctual dread of cancer. It can't be simply because up till recent times it was pretty much always fatal. Tuberculosis, for instance, was just as much a death sentence and people didn't go around talking about it in whispers. My grandfather's first wife died in her 20s of consumption and from their letters I know they both knew she was doomed even before they got engaged. Everyone around her knew she had TB. Everyone was open about it; it was a fact of her life until she had no life left.

And I don't think cancer's basic horror is that it involves your own body turning traitor on you. Auto-immune diseases do that, too. So do infections. I remember a line from a Bill Cosby routine where he's recreating the scene when his mother took him to the doctor to see about getting his tonsils taken out. Doc says something like, "Kid, your tonsils are like sentries that're supposed to keep the bad stuff out. But in your case, they're fighting for the other side."

True, there is a mystery to cancer in that its cause is often so hard to trace. Otherwise perfectly healthy people (like me!) can pop up with it. It's not like you catch it from Aunt Martha at the family reunion-- in all due respect to an old lady I heard of, who kept the photo of a family member who'd died of melanoma securely wrapped in plastic, "Because it might be contagious."

But still, I don't think that's the font of the primal fear of cancer. I think it has to do with our dread and loathing of zombies.

Yes, zombies. Ever notice how our society's sick fascination with those monsters has grown along with our rising cancer statistics?

Anyway, I'm no expert on the Undead, but cancer cells and zombies have a lot in common. Both are mindless. Both have no "purpose" but to devour and assimilate the living. Both replicate themselves in fast and horrendous ways. Neither contribute to the good of the body (politic), but rather, feed on it and destroy it. And worst of all, both zombies and cancer cells are frighteningly difficult to kill.

Speaking seriously on cancer, I read someplace recently that that's what makes cancer, cancer. Ordinary helpful healthy body cells do their jobs then die off and are replaced. Cancer cells have mutated so they don't know it's time for them to die. They're so biologically brain dead, they don't even know they're damaging the body they infest from the word Go.

The idea of something mindless and destructive and horrendously hard to kill growing in you and taking over your system is inherently creepy. No wonder people have traditionally feared cancer and not wanted to mention its name. You don't want it to be true, and at the same time, you don't dare ignore it, unless you want your innards to be the physiological equivalent of those popular zombie-apocalypse films.

We are told on Very Good Authority (Wikipedia, right?) that the only way to destroy a zombie is by going after its brains before it goes after yours. Fighting cancer, we have a few more weapons, which is good, because this battle is real.

And I, tomorrow I'm engaging in front number two in my own zombie wars. We had the cutting-out campaign in late April; in the morning we begin the chemical warfare. I expect to be a bit battered before it's over this September: you have to expect to take a few hits when you're combatting the Undead. But fight I shall, and by God and St. George*, I expect to win.
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*You'd think I'd invoke St. David, wouldn't you, if I'm going to invoke a saint at all. But St. David isn't known for his military prowess, and St. George is. Besides (should my fellow-Reformed object), I'm being more literary than religious. 'k?

Pouring

Raining, raining, raining, raining, raining . . .

And me reminding myself that my first summer in this region, 2003, was very rainy, as was 2004, and, I think, 2006, and so on, and so on.

This is not apocalyptic. This is southwestern Pennsylvania normal.

So buck up, girl, and do something useful.

Early this afternoon I called another nearby car repair shop at a venture and made an appointment to bring my car over at 2:00 PM. They were willing to put on the alternator belt I bought, though it wasn't their usual policy. And would've done it this afternoon. But the mechanic told me there was two belts involved, and the alternator belt is the one on the inside. Since it's so hard to get at them in the PT Cruiser, it'd make much more sense for me also to buy the other one, that goes to the air conditioner, the idler, the generator, and so on, and get it replaced at the same time. And come back Friday to get them installed.

He didn't think I was in danger of the alternator belt breaking, unless it got caught on a pulley. So I can afford to run some errands in the meantime.

The second belt, which I ordered this afternoon, is in at the AutoZone. I'll pick it up tomorrow.

Did some online research on Asperger's Syndrome. Especially wondering about the subject of AS and moral responsibility. Best perspective on that comes from people who have Asperger's themselves.

I'm reminded that as I teach, I have to keep in mind not all misbehaving students do so because they're deliberately being obnoxious. And not all kids with autism disorders or learning disabilities have been diagnosed.

An alarming thought: What if the reason why my Presbytery won't let me go for another solo pastorate is because they think I have some social development or behavioral disability, and they're too scared to tell me so? And that "You did nothing wrong" means "You just couldn't help it?" Whatever "it" was?

No, I don't think I do have that sort of inborn disabiity. But it wouldn't surprise me if they thought so, the way the PC(USA) seems unable to operate in terms of sin, repentance, and forgiveness any more.

What else? Made a cake out of canned pears and their syrup emulsified in the blender. No recipe. Toothpick in the center came out clean after 45 minutes, and the edges had pulled away from the side of the pan. Still, it's mushy and pudding-like. Underbaked, or just the nature of the formula?

Rain, torrential and streaming, from a yellow-gray sky. Then a steady drip, drip, drip from the surfeited gutters. Darkness falls.

I need to go work on stripping the stairs to the third floor.

The pear cake needs more baking.

Wonder if the pan needs regreased.

It's still raining.

Raining.

Raining.

Too Much Drama

A rant, with a moral in the tail:

Got a call early this afternoon from the mechanic's, saying my car was done and I could come get it.

I've known since late Saturday afternoon that my neighbor was right, the front brake rotors needed replaced. And since I pulled the codes off the car myself on Thursday, I knew that the check engine light was on because of something wrong with the knock sensor and because the car was misfiring on all cylinders. Yesterday, the mechanic called and said he'd located a Technical Service Bulletin from Chrysler describing this problem and recommending tackling it by replacing the sparkplugs and wires and installing (reflashing) an update onto the engine computer. This turned out to work, and now the car was fixed.

I'd picked this local garage-- I'll call them O'Brien's*-- over the dealership because the latter is several miles up the Interstate and I was nervous about driving the Little Red Dragon far and fast with an undetermined misfiring problem. True, last time I dealt with this mechanic, he'd expressed some odd and alarming opinions on the moral wrongness of customers bringing in parts for him to install, on the principle that to deprive an auto serviceman of the markup was to take food out of his children's mouths. He thought the same about shade tree mechanics who fix friends' cars very cheaply or for free: not that it might not be wise in terms of getting a good repair, but that it was actual theft from the professionals. But this time there was no question of bringing in pre-purchased parts or letting an amateur have a go at it; I needed a shop that had Chrysler diagnostic equipment and didn't require too much driving to get to, and O'Brien's fit the bill.

So I walked over to pick up my car. As I wrote out the check to pay the bill, I asked Mr. O'Brien some questions about what had been done so I understood it. Everything seemed to be amicable and informative. One thing I inquired about just before I went was, should I expect anything different about the way my PT drove at first, since I'd read that a computer reflash could necessitate its needing to "relearn" some things about how you drive and all. He told me it might be a little rough on idle for a bit, or maybe stall out when I stopped at intersections. But it'd get over that soon.

Good, that's the kind of information I needed. I took my keys and my paperwork and went out and got into my little red car. No check engine light on, great! but it was making a high-pitched jingling sort of noise!

What is this? I know it wasn't doing it when I brought it in. Was this part of the computer's relearning things? I nearly reparked it and went back into the shop to ask, but thought well, maybe it was.

I had to go by the Post Office to get stamps, and by the time I got over there I decided I had to find out. The noise could be heard on idle or while driving, and it wasn't going away. I got out my cell phone and called.

Mr. O'Brien was put on, and when I comfirmed that yes, it sounded like crickets, he said, "That's probably a belt."

"Is that part of the computer relearning things? It wasn't doing it before."

No, he said, it wouldn't have anything to do with reprogramming the computer, and I should bring it back and he could take a look at it.

So I did. By the time I got there, it wasn't jingling at idle anymore (maybe because there had been slightly-rough idle, which now had settled out), but when I revved the engine, there it was. He located the problem belt for me (found out a little later it's the one for the alternator), and that's when things got very bizarre.

I can't guarantee the chronology of the conversation, and maybe it doesn't matter. But Mr. O'Brien proceeded to inform me that he'd been very offended when I'd told him that "It wasn't doing it before," because that was as much as to accuse him of having caused the belt noise himself. That it probably was doing it before, I just hadn't noticed, and now I was noticing only because he'd worked on it. That when he used to work for a dealership, customers would bring cars back with issues like this and they'd put a new belt in for free, but he couldn't afford to lose that kind of money on things that most likely had been going on before anyway; indeed, he said, he'd noticed the noise but I hadn't mentioned it for repair, so far be it from him to run up my bill by being like the dealerships and suggesting it be replaced! And, he said, he has Asperger's Syndrome so he's very precise and does everything in a very set, determined way and now I was bringing my car back and implying that he'd done something wrong by-- by what, I'm not quite sure. Close as I could tell, he thought I was accusing him of some incompetence that made the belt suddenly start to jingle and chirp.

All through this, I'm in conciliation mode, telling him no, not at all, it's just that it was new to me and that I wanted to make sure all was well with my car before I got it too far away. I tried to adduce an example of a time when something unrelated did go wrong with a car just after I'd picked it up from the repair shop, thinking to say, "Hey, it happens, that time I was glad I brought the car back, I learned from that experience, so now I'm doing the same."

He wouldn't hear it. "That makes as much sense," Mr. O'Brien said, "as me saying I had a bad experience at the dentist when I was five years old and now I won't go to the dentist." I could not get him off his idee fixe that by noticing the belt noise I was somehow insulting or condemning him and his work. And once he mentioned his Asperger's, I went into pastoral care mode. Let's be understanding and gentle and all the rest of it.

It did no good. He kept insisting the noise had been there all along and to "prove" it, told a story of how his sister-- his own sister!-- had started hearing some noise or other right after he'd fixed her car for something, and the noise and the repair had been totally unrelated! If his own sister could do that, why then, certainly I--!

His anecdote was even less to the point than my story about my old Mazda twelve years ago in Fremont, Nebraska, but no use in mentioning that. Especially not when he was growing ever more defensively emphatic that I had deliberately insulted him by bringing the car back when he'd said it was the belt. There was nothing wrong with the belt, he said; his own car has been making noises like that for a long time, and, he was sure, so had mine!

I nearly got angry back at him as he kept on like this, imputing thoughts and motivations to me that were grossly unfair and untrue. But I remembered who I am, and I considered his Asperger's, and kept my anger down. But when he wound up by saying that he's a trained professional and he knows what he's talking about, I couldn't help it-- I said, "Well, I'm a singer, and I would notice if my car was making a high-pitched noise like that."

"You're a singer?" he said. "So am I." And he goes back into the shop and brings me a CD of country-western tunes penned and sung by his brother and himself. I haven't listened to it yet.

But back there on the street, I was so busy playing pastoral counsellor that I never got around to saying, "Never mind when the noise started, how much would it be for you to make it go away? How much just to replace the belt right now?" Maybe since he thought it was actually still good . . . He certainly never suggested that solution, he was too busy questioning my motives and assumptions.

So I took the CD in the PT and drove away. I had errands to run. The belt noise was a maddening, headache-inducing whine. At the supermarket, I decided, no, I didn't want perishables in the car until I'd dealt with this. Screw Mr. O'Brien's attitude towards customer- bought parts, I was going to the neighborhood AutoZone to do something about it.

The nice clerk there first tried to set me up with a can of belt conditioner. He even came out with me and sprayed it on.

It didn't work. The belt chirped and jingled as much as ever.

He looked more closely at it. "It could cut soon," he said. (The clerk, by his nametag and appearance, seemed Persian in origin. So it didn't surprise me that his English was a little creative.)

"You mean, break?"

"Yes. Break, cut. Especially out on the highway. It's getting worn."

Now, you could say this is just the opinion of a guy at the auto parts store. But let's say he's right. Mr. O'Brien said he didn't do anything with the belt because I hadn't mentioned it. Well, I originally booked the repair session because of the engine light only. I only mentioned the brakes because my neighbor said something to me about it later on. You mean if I hadn't said anything about the brakes, Mr. O'Brien wouldn't've fixed them, either? I'd been thinking I wouldn't go back to him because I can do without the defensiveness and the drama, but if he's going to use his Asperger's as an excuse to overlook unsafe situations, I don't want to go anywhere near his shop again.

I bought a replacement belt. The auto parts guy said it would be easy to put on, pointed out how under the hood, and even printed me out a diagram on how to do it. He said the area repair shops get their parts from them anyway, so it'd save me time if I had it already. And if the shop preferred to get it themselves, I can bring it back. Sounds fair to me.

Then I called another repair shop in town. They didn't seem to mind me bringing the belt, but they couldn't get to it till Friday. Friday! I've got places I have to get to! Maybe I know some guy that'll put it on for me?

After that, more errands (no highway driving). Noise still there, drilling into my brain. And the feeling of depression, weighing into my soul. Damn! a week later, and my car still isn't fixed, I'm having to spend more money on it, and here I can't insist on sensible treatment from the repair shop because the owner has an autism spectrum disorder? Why don't I just start whining about having cancer? (Oh, yeah. Because I don't want to go on the assumption that I still "have" cancer-- the chemo is only for "just in case"). Or maybe I can justify being a pain in the ass because I'm going in for chemo this next Monday? Does having Asperger's absolve a person from trying to see something from another's point of view, especially when the one who has it is aware of his condition? I hated being falsely accused! I hate being broke! I hate that my hair won't lie right and looks awful all the time! I got more and more depressed and had to make a special effort to smile and be kind to the people I encountered as I finished my shopping.

Getting home and making a meal of lots of fresh fruit and tons of (homegrown) lettuce elevated my mood. But now that I've had my rant, I have to remember that defensiveness is not pretty or productive, no matter what causes it. I have to buck up and remember that in the weeks to come, my feeling pleh from chemo will give me no license to inflict my discomfort on other people. It's not their fault I'm fighting cancer. May I refrain from doing drama unto others, as I would not have them do drama unto me.