I never signed up for this...

Wedding Blues

Tonight I went to the wedding of Alli's high school friend and Shane's army buddy, who got together the night Alli lost her wedding ring.  Unless I want to write all night, I can't begin to address all the issues I have about weddings--which involve my mother and my two weddings and Alli's wedding and wedding dresses-- disappointments upon disappointments.   Tonight, Alli was the maid of honor and not the bride, so I could simply go as a guest and enjoy it. 

The current trend in weddings is way over the top--but this wedding was small and hands-on--mostly involving the hands of the bride and those people who helped her.  That included Alli and Shane, who worked constantly from the moment they arrived-- after driving 16 hours overnight all the way from Texas.  Typical wedding stuff -- from buying drinks to arranging centerpieces---which Alli and the bride were still doing 3 hours before the wedding.

The groom and Shane plan to get dressed at my house.  This is not a simple deal like putting on a tux.  They are wearing dress blues, an elaborate army uniform, complete with lots of moving parts including hats and gloves.  Two hours before the wedding, I am about to drive Alli to the bride's house just as the groom pulls up.  Only he's not alone.  His parents and sister are with him.  I have never met them, and know nothing about them except that they're from Oklahoma.  I also didn't know they were coming to my house to wait before the wedding.  I am wearing what I wore to sleep last night, but I tell them to go inside while I drive off to take Alli to the bride's house to get dressed.

When I get home, the guys are doing the uniforms upstairs on the other side of the house, Nick's family is roaming around on their own.  I introduce myself, but I don't even have time to be polite.  I have barely enough time to get dressed and make it to the wedding on time.  Of course, I could have gotten dressed earlier, or at least picked out my clothes.  But I never do that---I always leave everything to the last minute, so invariably I'm rushing, and usually late.  This behavior drives V crazy, since he's consistently punctual--but luckily, he's out of town and not here to witness this.

After I've showered and done everything else, I take out a suit I think is appropriate and put on the skirt.  Too many Dove bars later, it won't zip up.  I leave it halfway zipped up while I look for something else.  The phone rings.

"Mom.  Where are the guys?  They're late."

Of course I have no idea since I'm getting dressed but she is insistent that I go up and check.  I walk out of my bedroom heading for the guys and as I reach the kitchen, I remember.  Nick's parents.  They're all dressed for the wedding of course, as I enter with my wet hair and half-zipped skirt.  I don't remember their names but I do smile as I rush past them.  Welcome to California.

I find the guys way behind schedule.  Alli and Cora, the bride, are already at the church, waiting so the bridal party can take pictures. I let the guys know the bride is impatient, and I go back to finish getting dressed. 

Another outfit is too tight.  Alli calls again, sounding more urgent.  I go upstairs again in the second outfit that doesn't fit.  By now the parents are used to me, and the way we do things in California.  The guys are pinning badges and ribbons on the uniforms.  If you think our soldiers have a tough job just being in the army, try putting together a full dress uniform.

The guys need to really hurry up at this point, so I'm going to speed up too--and try to shorthand the story a little.  So  here's fast motion minus details.

I go back and find something that fits.  The guys leave.  The parents leave. I leave.  Shane calls.  He left his cummerbund at home.  I turn around and go home again.  I get the cummerbund and head back for the wedding.  Shane calls again.  I turn around and head for home again to look for his gloves.  I'm worried these details will hold up the wedding.  Shane says they won't.   Because he isn't at the church yet anyway.  He is following the groom, who is lost and can't find the church.   So are the parents who are with the groom.  I am on my way home for the gloves and beginning to think about staying there.

Alli calls.  Pictures are no longer an option. The wedding was due to start 20 minutes ago and they're missing the groom and his parents and Shane, the best man.  And of course, the cummerbund. 

As hectic as this sounds, compared to Alli's wedding which was arranged in 4 days, today's wedding is smooth.  It's a half hour late but everyone finally gets to the church and Nick and Cora are married and no one notices that Shane's cummerbund is not on Shane but on my lap.

Afterwards we leave the church.  I'm a little edgy.  Thinking of how I wish Alli had a real wedding.  We have to drive to the reception and I already have my keys in my hand---when the groom's parents approach me.  I'm of course wearing a completely different outfit than what they saw me wearing at home.  Nick's dad says to me, "We saw the picture of you and Alli with Clinton and Gore."

The one I used in my blog yesterday.  It was sitting on the counter while I was running through the kitchen.   I edge towards my car, trying to be polite but avoid getting engaged in conversation since I have a call to make once I get in the car.   

"So Nick tells us you have a blog."

Now I remember they live in Oklahoma.  A state as red as they come. 

"You know," I say, "I'm not sure you'd want to read my blog.  I have some pretty strong feelings about this election."

"'We do, too." Nick's dad says.

His name is Marty and his wife's name is Ann and they have an Obama sign on their front lawn in Norman, Oklahoma.  They say a lot of their neighbors do, too.  They are political junkies and very well informed and what they want to talk about most of the night is....Sarah Palin.

It was a beautiful wedding.

 

Surviving Presidential Politics

As a child of lifetime Democrats and a devoted John F. Kennedy worshipper, I developed an early and permanent distaste for Richard Nixon.  When he re-emerged onto the political scene, I vowed to friends that "I'm leaving the country if Nixon is elected."  When he did get elected in 1968, despite my threat to emigrate, I stayed in college and did what I could to get rid of Nixon. (that is me with friends at a Vietnam moratorium in Washington, DC) 

The first time I could vote in a presidential election was 1972, when Nixon was running for his second term.  I spent 5 months of my life volunteering for George McGovern and again, I talked about leaving the country.  I didn't know where I'd go; I just didn't think I could survive "four more years" of Richard Nixon.

He was re-elected by a landslide, and I did move.  But only from Boston to Miami, which even with a huge Cuban population, is still part of the United States.  And I didn't need to make it through four years since Nixon was gone after two years, thanks to Watergate. 

Then Jimmy Carter was elected.  I was happy to stay in the country because by then I was working in television and I knew Jimmy Carter, and I liked him.

Around this time, I interviewed Ronald Reagan, and I remember wondering what kind of people were out there in California who would elect a movie star?  And being a governor was bad enough, but the idea of an actor as President of the United States?  We'd be the laughingstock of the world; how could the country survive such a thing?

Of course Reagan's presidency wasn't the disaster I imagined.  And the first George Bush didn't cause such strong feelings.  He didn't inspire me; but he didn't scare me.  And by now I was actually living in California, the state that likes to elect those Republican movie stars.

I had children by the time Clinton ran for President.  My daughter Alli was 8, already a devotee of presidential politics, and I remember taking her with me to vote for the first Democratic president in her lifetime. 

 And when I got cancer a few years later and thought I was going to die, I put on my wig and in the middle of chemotherapy I took Alli to a Democratic fundraiser, so she would have the memory of meeting President Clinton, the same way my father had taken me to see John Kennedy when I was Alli's age. 

I survived cancer.  But then I had to survive George W. Bush--like we all did.  And it was even worse than I expected.   In 2004,though I couldn't believe he would get re-elected, I was worried.  There was the war, talk of another draft, and one day I spoke to a friend who was seriously considering a move to New Zealand if Bush won again.  A few days later I saw a special discounted fare to New Zealand.  I'd never been there, and I bought tickets so Daniel and I could check it out during his high school spring break.  Just in case.

We loved New Zealand, but remained in the US, even though I didn't see how the country could possibly survive a second term with the worst president we've ever had.  He's leaving our country a mess--at home and abroad.  And even though there's still time for him to screw up something else, pretty soon he'll be gone.

Although I don't feel much better about the prospect of John McCain.  Not to mention my worry if McCain got elected and something happened to him--don't get me started, I refuse to mention her name. 

But I have learned a lot of lessons, after living through so many things I never signed up for.  And among those lessons Is to look back and realize I survived things I thought I could not survive.  Including cancer, and also including Richard Nixon and 8 years of George W. Bush.  I'm still here and so is the country.  Right now the United States is like someone who's just been through cancer: beat up and weak but still standing.

So even though I think this is the most important election of my lifetime, and even though I desperately hope Barack Obama will win it, and even though I feel right now he has an excellent chance to do that, I also believe that our country will survive either way. 

Although today I did check the expiration date on my passport.

It Happened Last Night....

...and like everything else in this blog, what you are about to read is true.

10 p.m. last night.  Right after Project Runway.  V's brother comes over with his daughter every week to watch it with V and me.  (The idea of that is quite a story in itself, but don't let me get distracted.)  Normally I'm happy to see them but this time even though I agreed that Joe should be kicked off Project Runway, I was almost rude to V's brother and practically kick them out like Heidi Klum does, since it's 10 pm. and I've been exhausted all day and want to write my blog and go to bed early.  The good news is that I've figured out how to write a blog during the day like a normal person and set it up to post late at night or anytime I want.  The bad news is I haven't done that yet because I keep procrastinating and and I haven't finished any blogs during the day like a normal person but keep waiting until right  before I go to bed.

So I kick V's brother out the door.  And then I do whatever it is that wastes time like I always do and now it's around 11 when I start the blog; and of course, because I really am determined to change the course of history and go to sleep early, it just so happens that tonight it takes a long time to write my blog (the one about People magazine) even though it's not a very important blog or a very serious blog or even a very good blog.  Which seem to be the ones that take the longest to write.  People have actually asked me about this, and now you have your answer.  I could expand on it, but I am not taking the bait.  I am sticking to writing about last night's blog which finally I get done even though it took so long and there are so many things at my desk to be doing at the same time I'm writing my blog, which I do in between sentences.

I finish the blog and post it and now it's already 2:30 a.m., which is WAY beyond the time I wanted to go to sleep.  I don't go right to sleep of course, but I start answering some of the emails which are piling up.  By the way don't take this personally if you sent one of those emails---I'm not suggesting I don't want them, just that I'm slow getting to them.  I am talking about both political and personal emails although the political is intruding into my life and becoming personal-- and I finally get around to this and it's almost 4 a.m. when I'm ready to get up.  Every night when I do that, my cat Peppy is either sleeping within 2 feet of me or else gets up from my lap or the keyboard and follows me to bed.  And now I realize: I haven't seen Peppy for awhile.

She's not in my office and I haven't seen her for hours.   And since she's the kind of cat who doesn't hide, but wants to be around me all the time, her absence can only mean one thing.  Actually her absence can mean she is absent, which is logical since Peppy is an indoor/outdoor cat.  But we don't have a doggy door (or a catty door) so Peppy has to be let in and out whenever she wants which is basically all day long.  I never let her out at night.  And I think she CANNOT be outside tonight because I was the one who threw V's brother out the door, and I'm fairly sure Peppy didn't scamper out with them, even though she's been known to do that.   I hate her being out at night since there are raccoons and other animals outside in the dark.  So since I did not allow her to escape, and she was definitely with us during Project Runway, and I did not open the door any other time since then, and that leaves V who went to sleep within a half hour of Project Runway ending, and even if V did go outside, which I don't think he did, he should know better than allowing Peppy outside at night.  So I am left with only one possible answer to where Peppy is:  Peppy is dead.

This seems like a pretty extreme thing to think but years ago, I heard that when cats are ready to die, they go someplace and hide and die.  We had two cats, and the other one is now dead, and his death is actually believe it or not, a pretty funny story, but he did not go someplace to hide and die-- so I still don't know if this is true but it's always what I think when I can't find Peppy.  (one result of having an empty nest and no children to soak up the worry)   Plus only hours ago, just before Project Runway, V asked me if I had taken Peppy to the vet lately.  When I asked why, he said she is eating a lot more, which is unusual behavior (even though V feeds Peppy more often than I do, like a typical cat, she likes me better) and yet he thinks she is getting thinner while she's eating more.  I hold Peppy and see her all day and I never noticed this and she looks the same to me and since I DID take her to the vet recently, I told V I wasn't very worried when he asked about this hours ago, but NOW I am very worried when I remember this conversation and I can't find her.

I go to the front door and call her, in case she happened to slip outside somehow.  Since this has happened before.  And normally when I call her, she comes running in like the dog she really is in her heart.  But she does NOT come running in now, so I look all over the house for places Peppy might have gone to die (Can you believe someone like me actually raised two children??)  and I can't find her in any of her favorite places or any places at all.  By the way this requires getting a flashlight and going through our bedroom in the dark since of course V has been asleep for 5 hours already.  And now it's maybe 4:30 but I know I won't be able to sleep anyway until I know where Peppy is.  This by the way has also happened before.  So I go back to the computer and I'm already seeing some new emails to add to my pile of unanswered mails, since it's already morning on the east coast.  I open a few messages and then I go back to the front door and call Peppy again more loudly---pretty loud for a quiet neighborhood at 4 in the morning.  But she doesn't come running.  So I start thinking about how my daughter Alli is coming into town this weekend and what a downer this will put over the whole weekend and I am already mentally writing a blog about Peppy's death.

This is not healthy.  Not the mental part, I'm used to that, but the physical part.  I really need some sleep.  So I get in bed.  Normally I read before I go to sleep, but I figure I'm so exhausted I'll be able to fall asleep anyway.  That's wrong, of course.  And now I'm sleepless and thinking how impossible it will be for me to fall asleep since Peppy either sleeps on top of me, or comes in during the night and climbs on top of me to sleep.  But I resist the urge to get up again or even to pick up the Blackberry next to me on the nightstand.  And I just lie there feeling very hostile since next to me is V who I know fell asleep 7 hours ago the instant his head hit the pillow which really annoys me that he can do that no matter what else is going on. 

The last time I check the clock it's 5:34, and the next time I check it's 8:12, and even though I was hoping I would wake up and find Peppy asleep on top of me as she always is, today she isn't.  Before I get out of bed to start writing her obit,  I call V to ask if he's seen Peppy today.  He of course had no idea she was missing, and it turns out he did see her when she came waltzing in the door this morning after spending the night outside, since she did escape last night somehow but I am so happy I am not blaming anyone and I don't interrogate V and instead of her obit, I write this and soon she is back where she belongs.

 

 

 

Good Hair Days

Lately I've been mostly reminiscing or ranting, but today I'm thinking about something that has the potential to affect the mental and physical well-being of almost everyone:  good hair days.  I have lots of good hair days, unlike some people I know.  Make that many people I know, men and women alike, who are completely obsessed by their hair. 

There have been times in my life when I've been obsessed with hair, too--but this is not one of them.  I'm only thinking about hair because of meeting Arianna Huffington this week.

I don't know how Arianna felt, but for me, that was a pretty good hair day.  Arianna didn't mention anything about my hair, but other people did, who saw the picture and noticed how LONG my hair is.  Even my daughter Alli called from Texas, wondering if I had gotten extensions.

The hair is all mine.   And according to those who know these things, my hair is very very age-inappropriate. This much hair was maybe age-appropriate the last time it was this long.  

Which was in 1995.  When this picture was taken.  I was actually sitting in a hair salon and a stylist was about to do my hair--but this was NOT a good hair day.

5 minutes after this picture was taken, the stylist cut off my long hair.  

     

I didn't cut my hair to be stylish or to play a part in a movie or something.  I cut off my hair to make a wig out of it.  Because I was starting chemotherapy. 

 I wasn't one of those brave women who get a crewcut or buzz it off ahead of time.  I wasn't brave at all about losing my hair and I had no intention of losing it a moment sooner than I had to.

A few weeks later, my new short style didn't look so cute.  This was definitely NOT a good hair day. More of my hair was in my hand than on my head.  And what was left on my head was just resting there.  Like a welcome mat.   It also felt like a welcome mat---with the same rough texture, thanks to a few weeks of chemo.  I didn't care-- and still had desperate fantasies of salvaging some of it.  Even though by the time of this picture, I had stopped trying to do anything with my hair.  I didn't wash it; I didn't comb it.  Every time I even touched it, more came off.  

The day after this was taken, the rest of my hair kind of slid off my head.  I can't show you a picture of how I looked completely bald-- because I don't have any.  In order to have a picture, someone would have to take it, and no one could take it because I never let anyone see me bald.  Not my husband.  Not my children.  I saw myself bald but only when I had to.  I could barely stand to look in the mirror. 

I wore wigs and hats and scarves.  And my hair did grow back.  Even though at the beginning it was really curly and short, and my husband V. said I looked like George Clooney. 

I could live with that.  I  like George Clooney.

And having my hair look like George Clooney's hair meant a good hair day.  Because ever since I was bald, every day is a good hair day.  A great hair day.  And I am lucky enough to have had continuously great hair days for the past 13 years. 

And now whether it's age-inappropriate or not, there's a reason my hair is almost as long as it was 13 years ago.   Because someday in the future I am going to sit in a chair in a hair salon and have  a stylist cut it off again.  Only this time I won't be making a wig for me.  I'll be donating my hair to Locks of Love to make a wig for someone else .  And I have a feeling that is going to be the best hair day I've ever had.

Remembering on 9/11

I ended my last blog saying I needed to get back to "real life".  Only I forgot I'd be writing that next blog tonight.  The day before September 11.  The day when "real life" stopped.

V and I first heard when we got a panicked call from our friend Carol, unable to reach her daughter who worked across from the World Trade Center.  She was frantic to somehow get to New York.  Within a few hours we learned Carol's daughter was safe, and I thought we had escaped any personal connection to this horrific tragedy.  It wasn't until the next day that I found out about Carolyn.

I met Carolyn when Alli was in first grade.  Carolyn had identical twin daughters--just like their mom--blonde and beautiful, with hearts of gold.  No one could help falling in love with them, including me and Alli.  We spent endless hours together--moms and kids enjoying the innocence of childhood. 

  Carolyn was one of those gorgeous women who wasn't obsessed or aware of how beautiful she was. Although on the inside, she was going through a tough time--divorced, raising three children alone, under the constant stress of being  a working mother.  She never lost her cool---mentally or physically--even the day she was  so distracted in the school carpool line, she accidentally ran her car right into the wall of the school.  Carolyn took that in stride, like she took everything else, juggling her responsiblities and still able to laugh about it.

Her top priority and passion was always her kids---but there was pride in her work, too.  I remember once visiting her office, when she excitedly pulled me into an editing room to watch the video she was producing for Van Halen.  I knew nothing about their music, but the video "Right Now", knocked my socks off, and later won the MTV award as Video of the Year. 

In some ways Carolyn was a role model, since I found myself a few years later in the same situation as hers--going through a divorce, trying to manage working while being the kind of mom who always puts your children first.  Then Carolyn fell in love, got remarried, and settled into a calmer, happier life.  And soon the same thing happened to me---only my remarriage came with a move out of Los Angeles.  Once we left,  I saw Carolyn only on rare occasions when I came to LA and brought Alli to see the twins.  But the girls remained in touch over the years, and the twins were Alli's last connection to the life left behind in Los Angeles.

Just before her senior year of high school, Alli was in LA with her dad, and spent the night at the twins'.  Carolyn, warm and fun as ever, reminisced with her daughters and mine, about their shared childhoods, since it was just days before the twins would be leaving for college.

A few days later, Carolyn and her mother flew east with her girls, both enrolling at Rhode Island School of Design.  Carolyn was so close to her daughters that she planned to rent an apartment nearby so she could visit as often as she could.  Once the girls were settled, Carolyn and her mom headed home.  They took an early morning flight out of Boston, the plane that hit the north tower of the World Trade Center.

I found out about Carolyn on September 12.  I was distraught---and tried to imagine what I would say to Alli when she came home from school.  I remembered other times I'd been forced to deliver bad news to her:  Mommy and Daddy are getting divorced; Mommy is getting remarried and we are moving away from your school and home and all your friends--and your Dad;  Mommy has breast cancer.  How could I possibly tell her Carolyn was dead?

With the resilience of youth, Alli took the news better than I did, and seemed to recover faster.  I had not been close to Carolyn for years; but having faced death myself, her death tormented me.  I replayed in my head the horror she might have seen or felt in her last few moments, scenes I could not get out of my mind.  It didn't seem possible that Carolyn, so alive and vibrant, could disappear, just like that.

It took a long time for me to absorb and comprehend.  What was shocking was not just the horrific nature and suddenness of September 11, but this example of the irony and capriciousness of life.  I had desperately envied normal mothers like Carolyn--healthy, happy, unscarred, doing the simple things like taking children to college.  Meanwhile I was living in fear that I would die, and not experience those simple things; that my children would be left motherless.  Suddenly, in the blink of an eye and a cruel twist of fate, it was Carolyn's children who were motherless; and Carolyn who was gone, not me. 

                                                                                   Soon after 9/11 I heard about a planned memorial at Ground Zero that would be made of a wall of tiles honoring the victims.  I painted a tile for Carolyn, mostly yellow because to me, she represented everything sunny and light.  The project never got off the ground, but I took the tile home and kept it.  Just to have something that represented Carolyn.  Not that I could ever forget her.

Olympic Moments

I completely get addicted to watching the Olympics every four years.  And my favorite part is what defines the Olympic spirit.  The moment when some athlete, often a relative unknown, reaches deep into themselves and finds a hidden power that allows them to rise up to some glorious height they never knew they could achieve, and probably never will again.  We witnessed one of those classic moments this week when 32-year old Jason Lezak anchored the American relay team and powered himself to a swim that seemed beyond his physical capacity.  An Olympic moment for the ages.

I've never won a medal, so you might be surprised to learn that I, too, had an Olympic moment.

In 1984, like everyone else living in Los Angeles, I sent in my official form requesting tickets to the Summer Olympics.  Unlike everyone else, I won the Olympic jackpot--tickets for the most sought-after events, the opening and closing ceremonies.

It's odd to think that so many years before 9/11, there were so many fears about terrorism at the L.A. Games--but there was a lot of discussion about the potential for a terrorist attack, especially during the opening ceremony. 

I was a world-class worrier in those days, and all I needed was something like this to set me off.  Plus I had just become a mother 6 months earlier.  Which raised my worry quotient to Olympic proportions.  I became absolutely convinced that something bad was going to happen at the opening ceremony.  I felt incredibly lucky to have the tickets in our possession, and I really wanted to go.  But fear won out, and I insisted that H sell our tickets. (By the way, this was not the cause of our eventual divorce but it certainly didn't help.)

Of course nothing bad happened at the opening ceremony.  Or during the entire two weeks. The worst problem the Olympics brought to Los Angeles was the traffic.  And afterwards I was really annoyed at myself, that I missed an Olympic opening just because I let fear get the best of me.

By the time the Olympics returned to American soil in 1996, I wasn't worrying about terrorists hurting me from the outside.  I was worrying about things hurting me from the inside--since I'd been diagnosed with breast cancer a year earlier.  I was so worried I would die in the near future, that I was seeking life experiences that would build memories for my children after I was gone.  So V and I were taking them to the 1996 Olympics in Atlanta.

Naturally, because I wasn't worrying about bombs, there really was a bomb.  A woman was killed right on the Olympic grounds two days before we were scheduled to leave.  My first instinct was to immediately cancel the trip.  No way would I take my children into such a dangerous situation.

You'd think that cancer might have cancelled out some of the lesser fears.  But I was still afraid.  Of more bombs in Atlanta, and lots of other things.  But it was the Olympics, after all.  And after years of watching athletes dig deep to find a hidden reservoir of strength, I did some digging, too. 

While the world watched as gymnast Kerry Strug had her magical moment on the vault, and Jason Lezak had his heroic moment in the pool, only my family was there to witness my Olympic moment, as I stepped on the plane bound for Atlanta.

BURNING BRAS WITH KEIRA KNIGHTLEY

I always thought she was gorgeous.  That face.  That skin.  That elegant willowy body.  And talented.  Period English films.  Pirate action movies.  A teenage soccer movie.  What couldn't that girl do?

In addition to all that, Keira Knightley, age 23, now becomes my inspiration.  For standing up to the Hollywood system and the popular culture and for demanding that she be accepted as she is: with micro breasts.

By doing this, Keira seems to be speaking directly to me.  Directing me to do what she did.  Demanding that I be accepted as I am: with missing breasts.

Unlike Keira, I didn't grow up knowing the particular agony of being a flat-chested teenage girl.  In fact, I had the opposite experience.  My breasts were nearly full blown by age 9, when my mother forced me to get my first bra--a 34B.  And my cup size didn't stop there.  So my bustline was the opposite of Keira's--and I always envied the flat-chested girls.

Which proves that we all want what we don't have.  And also proves that you should be careful what you wish for.

Because when I was 45, I got my wish.  My breasts betrayed me.  They conspired with my body to commit treason.  They were tried by a jury of doctors, and found guilty of pre-meditated murder.  As the intended victim, I served as the judge.  And I sentenced my breasts to death.  I cut them off.

This was in the 90's, when the trans-flap breast reconstruction surgery was just becoming popular.  It truly was a brilliant idea--they take your excess abdominal tissue and use it to make breasts--making this one of the very few perks for women who need mastectomies.  New perky breasts and a tummy tuck at the same time.  For me, the chance to fulfill my fantasy of having an A-cup size.

My other lifetime fantasy was to be thin.  Thanks to cancer and chemotherapy, I was thinner than I had ever been.  And that meant, according to all the plastic surgeons I consulted, that they could not perform the new state of the art surgery.  I didn't have enough tissue in my tummy to make even one size-A breast, let alone two.  I was too thin.  Another good example of "Be careful what you wish for."

So much of life is about timing.  Today, 12 years later, I have enough tummy tissue to make breasts for the whole neighborhood.  But at the time, my only option was implants.

I'll spare you the details and cut to the chase.  After living with the implants for a few months, my body rejected them.  Leaving me flat-chested. Not flat-chested like Keira--but with scars and lumps and bones and skin.  So I did what most women did in my situation.  I wore fakes.

I could write a book about my adventures with breast prostheses.  I would get dressed every morning like every other woman, only my routine was a little different.  Panties, bra, breast, breast.  Since I hated mastectomy bras and stuck to real lingerie, my fake breasts would occasionally slip or wander out of place when I wasn't looking.  I am embarassed to admit to environmentalists that I accidentally lost a pair while snorkeling at the Great Barrier Reef.  And I always wonder whether some future tourist will think they've discovered some strange new species of coral.

After ten years with two mounds of rubber perched on my chest, I finally gave them up.  Just stopped wearing them.  I'm lucky that my husband could care less; I am past the days when construction workers would hoot at me; most people who know me already know I had breast cancer.  So why was I bothering to live a fantasy?  Like Keira, I chose not to have my body artificially enhanced.

I adapted my wardrobe to include more scarves, more shawl collars, and got a bonus from the fashion industry when babydoll tops and other loose styles suddenly got popular.  I was good to go.

It's been almost two years since I tossed out my breasts and honestly if I did not write this piece, I would bet that most people who know me would never notice I stopped wearing them.

But I'm glad I got this off my chest.

And it is thanks to Keira Knightley that I came out of the closet.

Women of my generation burned our bras to make a statement.  That isn't going to work because I don't wear a bra anymore.  And apparently, neither does Keira.

But my hope is that by her simple act of defiance, Keira inspires a new generation of women to accept their bodies--and all women to realize that our breasts don't define who we are.

Personal Best

I'm ecstatic to report that V and I broke the anniversary curse--in fact, we've done a complete reversal.  This time we chose a GOOD luck date--and I got the best possible anniversary gift--a clean PET scan.  The perfect way to enter our 15th year of marriage.  As I mentioned in my last blog, my first marriage lasted 14 years.  So I am entering new marital territory--aiming to reach my "personal best."

When I woke up yesterday, the morning of V's and my anniversary, I already had an e-card waiting for me from someone who had read that last blog.  Here's what the card says:

"Happy Anniversary, and best wishes for a long, healthy and happy marriage-- and a new 'personal best'."   And it was signed from H.  My first husband.

In the 16 years since we separated, H and I have each experienced the highs and lows of life--many of those times shared by necessity because we share our two children.  Since day one of our lives apart, we've tried to put aside our own emotions and grievances in order to be good parents.   Despite living 300 miles apart, we've shared parenting fairly well.  But there are also things we didn't share so well.  We've sometimes hurt each other and along the way we've sometimes hurt our kids.  We've argued about logistics and money and why H insisted that Daniel take a shower every night before bed even when he was exhausted. 

Our lowest point as exes came less than two years ago.  Since the kids were older, I was sure we'd continue moving farther apart permanently.

In the same way that a crisis can take people who are close and push them farther apart---it can also work the opposite way.  In our case, a crisis took people who were far apart and brought them closer together. 

So H and I started moving towards the middle again.  Maybe we're older.  Maybe we appreciate having someone to remember our shared history.  Maybe we're both really proud of how our joint project turned out (the two kids).  Maybe we've both learned that life is too short to carry so much baggage.  Even the airlines are charging for baggage these days---why should we all carry ours and also pay for it?   

H loves nothing more than a good bargain.  And so do I.  Without ever discussing it, I think we've each made an individual decision to stop paying and carry less baggage.   

It's a lot easier this way.  And a lot better. 

And I'm feeling better all around.  With a great PET scan and a great anniversary date and a great husband, I have complete confidence that in my marriage to V, I will reach my "personal best".  And for demonstrating character and class, I have to honor H--- by sending me that anniversary card, he proved that he has reached his own personal best.

Strategic Scanning

Alert readers of this blog might have noticed the phrase "PET scan" slipped into my last post. A casual mention of a not-so-casual subject.  For a normal person, even a routine test is stressful--like a mammogram or a colonoscopy.   For a cancer survivor, the sophisticated scans exponentially ramp up the anxiety level.  Most people view them as a necessary evil--but my strategy was always denial.  I didn't get scans at all.

Besides denial, I also used procrastination.  (Warning: do not try this at home.)  Not only did I skip cancer scans, but I also delayed the heart scan my doctor suggested to find out if I had suffered any damage from chemotherapy.  I finally got the heart scan---10 years later.  My heart was fine, but the scan revealed a small nodule in my lung.  Which is why and when I finally had my first PET scan.

The lung nodule was dismissed as a problem, but this new scan revealed a new concern: enlarged lymph nodes.  Always a worry for a cancer patient, that is why my doctor ordered a followup PET scan 6 months later, which is the one I mentioned yesterday.

                            Outsmarting Superstition

6 months later would have put the second PET scan just before July 4.  Need I say more?  (If you need more, see "Independence Day")  There is no way I would have a PET scan anywhere near July 4--so I scheduled it for today.  Only now do I realize the full implications of my superstitious nature.  Because if I get bad news this week, then I am going to pollute yet another date in July---my new and pure anniversary, July 25.  (Now see "Happy Anniversary")  Life can really be complicated.

But it's too late to switch and the PET scan is happening.  Today.  I am debating whether to even blog about it.  Do I want to go down that road?  Even with myself?  Letting negative thoughts out into the universe?  Not to mention letting them out into the blogosphere and exposing the extent of the stuff that can go on inside my brain?  But what's the point of a blog if I don't write about this?  I decide to go for the full monty.

Before I even leave the house, there are issues.  I'm told to wear comfortable clothes.  But those clothes need to be completely neutral--- with no bad history or negative associations.  I'm told to plan on spending two hours.  I spend almost that long deciding on the perfect reading material--to draw me in and distract but not be too depressing.  (And I wonder why V thinks I'm high maintenance.)

                        In the Moment

The PET scan involves an injection of radioactive material.  I won't even start on that subject. Then you wait about a half hour for the radioactive stuff to permeate throughout your body.  I get out my stack of reading.  Sorry, I'm told, no reading.  I'm not allowed to move around.  Not even my eyes.  So I'm left alone in a room with only my own thoughts for company.  Great. 

Can you imagine trying to take control of your brain in this situation?  What if I think negative thoughts?  Could that negative energy make the results worse?  Should I expect the worst case scenario?  Would that help me accept anything less than the worst?   Or is it a better strategy to think positive?  And risk being devastated and blindsided if it is bad news?  Should I try to ignore the fact that I'm in the middle of a PET scan?  Should I try to think about something else?  Count sheep?  Recite the Periodic Table of Elements even though in my most lucid moments I might only be able to name 5 elements?   Should I picture the faces of my children?  And think about how lucky I am that I was already given more time than I expected?  But if I feel grateful, will fate think I've had enough good fortune and switch it up again?

Somewhere around now I am helped out of the chair, and onto the PET scan itself.  I have to lie perfectly still.  The technician tells me it will take about 25 minutes and leaves the room.  I shut my eyes and rewind the tape that just played in my brain.  After about 15 minutes the technician enters and apologizes.  Something was wrong with the computer and they have to start over again. 

Another rewind.  My mind floats off.  This time my thoughts aren't focused on cancer.  Or on me.  Lying inside the PET scan tunnel, I actually manage to relax a little.   I think I bored myself.   Or maybe after everything I never signed up for, I realize how useless it is to worry.  To guess what will happen.  Or how I will react.  And whatever happens, the one thing I know is that I will deal with it.

The test is over.  I tell V they had to repeat the test-- and suddenly I remember my original mammogram when they had to repeat the test and it turned out to be cancer.  Is this a bad sign?  Does it mean....oh forget it.  I haven't eaten any carbs or sugar in 24 hours.  Let's have lunch.

Building Bridges

While you've been busy discovering my innermost secrets, I turned the tables and became a fly on someone else's wall.   His name is Randy and last night I spent hours reading his blog--which is the best one I've seen so far.

His blog is only one story on a website that draws a million people every month.  Called CaringBridge.org---it's used by people in a medical crisis such as illness, hospitalization, accident, premature birth.  The patient or someone in the family writes the blog, and everyone who knows or cares about this person can read it to stay connected no matter where they are. 

I can't think of a better application for the amazing power of the internet.  And I wish there had been something to connect me to people during my experience with cancer---when I felt DIS-connected, alone and isolated.  I never heard of Caring Bridge until last night when someone told me Randy blogged about his cancer journey.

I met Randy at a party a year ago.  He was tall, handsome---and bald, my first clue that we had cancer in common.  Within minutes, a brief conversation standing at the food buffet switched gears from cheese puffs to chemo---with an immediate depth that sometimes can happen when you recognize a fellow traveler.  It was clear Randy was an amazing guy even before his cancer diagnosis--well-informed, warm and witty.  Now finished with a long grueling treatment, he and his wife were about to take their two kids out of school for 6 months to travel the world--one of the few benefits of cancer being that you learn to live in the moment. 

That one conversation, inspiring and intimate though it was,  was an instant in time---similar to countless others that blend into the fabric of life.  I knew the family returned because I ran into Randy once, very briefly, at a high school baseball game a few months ago.  But our paths didn't cross again until last night-- when I read his blog.  Through his online journal I met his beautiful wife and his adored children.  I got to know his favorite music, the friends all over the world who love and admire him, and mostly I got to know his character through the story of his battle against cancer---which cut short his life at age 46 a few days ago. 

The heart of every cancer survivor sinks when one of us dies.  That could be me.  The fear buried just beneath the surface rises up to the top.  That could be me. 

I can't stop thinking about Randy--and yet the fear is not what strikes me most.  By now fear to me is like wearing high heels---it hurts but after awhile you get used to it.  And it's also not just that his death is unfair and tragic and he gave so much and fought so valiantly.   For me, Randy struck another chord---not through his death but through what he wrote about his life. 

Randy is in my heart today because I saw into his heart. I got to know him through his words, as a human being, as a man--- as his children will someday be able to know the remarkable man who was their father.  Through his words Randy helped me see what I didn't see when I showed up in San Francisco, and what I didn't get about what is going on all over the world:  why are people blogging?  Why are people reading?  I still don't know the answer for everyone else; but because of Randy, I now understand it for myself.