The Ultimate Buns

I was looking through my photo archive for a picture of me with buns, and I couldn't find one. I don't know if this is because I have never had junk in the trunk or we just never managed to get it on film.

Doesn't matter 'cause I'm talking about the ultimate hamburger bun. Did you know that Fraiche, best new restaurant in LA, serves theirs on a gougères, that crazy deliciouos French bread that's like a savory cream puff?

Check it out at Open Mouth, Insert Fork. And seriously think about a Culver City field trip.

I saved $5.00 today!

I went for my bi-weekly triathlon at the City of Hope this afternoon - blood draw, chest x-ray and consultation. I even added a little distance to the event by parking my car in the regular patient parking lot instead of using the valet service.

Today's trek from the parking lot to the check-in center was the sweetest little walk I've taken in weeks. And wanna' know the best part? I saved the $5.00 valet fee.

Since my brother and niece, both Strothers, were visiting this last week, I've been reflecting a lot about what defines our family. The first thing on my list is that it will practically kill a Strother to spend more money than is necessary. For example, I broke down and bought a lemon a couple of weeks ago, and I'm still in recovery mode. (I'm hoping that the lemons in our back yard will be ripe soon.) Thank God that $5.00 valet charge is no longer on the "necessary" list.

Dr. Forman and I looked at today's chest x-ray and compared it to the one from two weeks ago. At that point, we concluded that the left lung was not improving. Today we decided that my left lung is "clearing," but still has some work to do. And my miserable, raspy cough is still going strong. But, hey, I walked from the parking lot, so we're definitely moving in the right direction.

The thing that's moving in the wrong direction again is my weight. I'm down three pounds from two weeks ago. How can this be? You should see the way that I shamelessly pack away food. You should have seen the way I got up the morning after the wedding and polished off a huge 8" wedge of left-over butter cream frostinged cake. Well, maybe you shouldn't have seen it - definitely not a pretty picture. I was smashing it into my mouth like a bride and groom at a wedding.

I could go on and on with stories of my gluttony. I'm consuming the same hefty amount of daily calories that I was when I was packing on pounds, but since my activity level has gone from zero to 60, I must be in fast burning mode.

During my wait at CoH, I got to catch up with another patient who I hadn't seen for several months. She had a donor stem cell transplant in January and bounced back almost immediately, but it turns out that her aggressive acute myeloid leukemia (AML) returned ten weeks after the transplant. She had another transplant in April (same perfect-match donor), is now in remission and looks fabulous. She was complaining about the bags under her eyes, which I couldn't see at all. And I'm sure those have more to do with life with a sleepless two-year-old daughter than chemo or cancer. She was beautiful and energetic and planning her daughter's second birthday party with 75 guests.

All I can say is, "Wow!" And did I mention that I saved $5.00 today?

Talking makes me tired

Isn't that strange?

I have so much to say and I want to be engaged, but delivering long-winded (and even short-winded) stories or explanations still wears me out. While getting ready for the Saturday wedding, simple questions like "Where does this platter go?" could make me weak in the knees.

Yesterday, 26 third and fourth grade students from the alternative Sequoyah School in Pasadena came to our yard to learn about the food exchange group and to pick fruit. We gathered under the massive avocado tree while I talked and answered questions about growing and sharing for 15 minutes. My coughing became out of control and I was soon exhausted. I was relieved to let the future gardeners scatter like squirrels to pick figs, avocados and persimmons.

When my loving brother recognized this tiring-talking phenomenon, he asked George to give the toast at his wedding. This morning I woke up filled with regret that I didn't give a toast to him and his beautiful bride Bonnie. The top of his wedding cake is in our freezer, so I'll have to wait until their one-year anniversary to make that toast.

Seems like my turn at being taciturn is just fine with our three cats. With them, the less yakking and yapping the better. Puss (the cat I adopted from my friend Bob) and I have become especially close over the last few days because I slept in "her bedroom" while house guests slept in the king-sized bed. Puss made a daily ritual of grooming my head of hair. She started by licking my curls with her tongue. Then she wet her paw and stroked my hair. She finished with gentle nibbles on my scalp. I never had to say a word.

And I haven't had to wash my hair for days.

Saying Goodbye to Summer

Goodbye fresh tomatoes and basil.
Farewell peaches and plums.

Hello squash and pumpkins.
Welcome soups and stews.

Summer is fading. Fall is here. Find out more at Open Mouth, Insert Fork.

Picture Perfect

A bowl of flowers and a photo from a simpler time replace night stand clutter.

Picture perfect.

Those two words kept running through my mind as I prepared our house and gardens for my brother's wedding and reception on Saturday. As I worked through each room, I felt like a zealous dermatologist eliminating pimples, blackheads and unsightly wrinkles. I was ridding the world (or at least my house and yard) of imperfections one flaw at a time.

The night stands in our bedroom were prime offenders. A pitcher of water, a half-filled (or was it half empty?) glass, a box of Kleenex, a dozen prescription medicines and TV remote control littered the top while newspapers, magazines and books filled the bottom shelf. It looked like a collision between a pharmacy and a book store. I cleared the debris on both stands and replaced it with simple ceramic pots overflowing with variegated leaves from our garden and fresh hydrangeas and mums.

I swapped an old dresser for an antique armoire that had been taking up residence in Cynthia's room for the last decade. With its rich bird's eye grain, cavernous hanging space and full length mirror, it was the perfect bridal accessory.

Room for storing bridal party finery inside and reflection for primping outside

Like an aging actress preparing for high definition TV, our bedroom was ready for the scrutiny of a camera.

But then a funny thing happened. Families flooded in and chaos ensued. A two-year-old flower girl transformed into a princess, but refused to wear her ballet slippers. Three other small boys streamed in and out . The bride and bridal party slipped into their dresses and fussed with hair and makeup. The bed became cluttered with clothing, coat hangers and makeup, with a small space left for a sleeping five-month-old baby boy. And, once again, my night stands runneth over. It was a glorious mess.

Through it all, two photographers clicked away. The room had been stripped of its picture perfection and replaced with more interesting qualities: life, emotion and depth.

The whole experience made me realize how hard I work at attempting to put on a picture perfect facade in my own life. Sometimes I fear what lies beneath the surface, and other times I fear that there's nothing beneath. But during the worst of my recent illness, I was completely stripped of veneer. I looked sick and acted sicker. I had no energy, talking was tiring and I was content to do nothing for hours at a time. I could barely put on my clothing, let alone put up a front.

In short, I was a mess and the worst possible company. I could only take and had nothing to give. But, to my surprise and delight, friends still wanted to spend time with me and care for me. I am still so touched by this fact.

The beautiful flower arrangements on my night stands will soon fade and clutter will no doubt take its place. My energy is returning and I feel myself slipping back into attempting to put on the picture perfect front. When I become overwhelmed with the self-imposed expectations, I'll remember the chaos in our bedroom and remind myself that the most interesting shots are the real (and sometimes messy) ones. And that my friends will be my friends regardless.

Martha Immersion Monday

I ate Martha's fried chicken and baked her daughter's favorite chocolate chip cookies while watching the Martha Stewart Show. That's what I call a Martha Immersion Monday.

See how the cookies came out at Open Mouth, Insert Fork.

The Lazy Woman's Guide to Blogging

Actually, it wasn't laziness that made me decide to repost a blog article I wrote more than a year ago. After reading Ronni's latest post on runnerwrites.blogspot.com, I started thinking again about how cancer survivors are frequently described as "heroic" and "courageous." Weak, cowardly and lazy rarely come up.

I reread the article and relearned a thing or two. I told you I was a slow learner.

Loved Ones Recall Local Man's Cowardly Battle With Cancer

Did you laugh out loud when you read this headline from the satirical newspaper, The Onion? I did.

Why is it that the use of the words "cowardly" and "cancer" in the same sentence tickles our funny bones? Comedy critics would tell us that it's the surprise factor or incongruous pairing that produces the chuckles. We expect cancer battlers to be strong and courageous, not weak and cowardly.

All of this has inspired me to think about why most of us naturally ascribe these adjectives, strong and courageous, to those battling cancer. Over the decades, I've known many friends and acquaintances (several of whom have died from the disease) who battled cancer. Each did it in his or her own way, but in every case I would describe the person and their battle as strong and courageous.

And, yet, most of us who are currently in the trenches feel uncomfortable with these descriptors. Jonathan Alter, in his Newsweek cover story about his battle with mantle cell lymphoma, described it this way. “Friends later said I handled it courageously, but they were wrong. American culture rewards cheerful stoicism, a quality that cancer patients usually display in public but find difficult to sustain in private.”

I often think of Alter's words when I find myself crushed with emotions that are contrary to the "cheerful stoicism" I usually display and genuinely feel. After my last release from the City of Hope, I was required to report back on the following day at 8:30 am. I was exhausted. I was dealing with the loss of my hair. My body was covered with unhealed sores, a cheetah-like rash and bruises. My lower legs looked like they were decorated in dots with a red, fine-point Sharpie. (I later learned that this is a hallmark of a low blood platelet count.) I was hideous. As I burst into tears while walking from the parking lot to the hospital, I thought, "I'm NOT strong and courageous. I'm weak and cowardly."

The truth is that I was a person in need of support, a hug, encouraging words, and I got all of those things as soon as I walked through the doors of Hope. And I got it later when I talked with friends who had experienced a similar ride on the cancer coaster.

One definition of "courageous" is "consciously rising to a specific test by drawing on a reserve of inner strength." I like this definition because the implication is that the corageous person doesn't know the reserve existed prior to the "test." When I admire someone else for being "strong and courageous," my unspoken questions are always, "Could I rise to the occasion if the same thing happened to me?" and "Do I have the necessary reserve of inner strength?"

I find myself asking these questions a lot these days. Whenever I see a mom with a young child with leukemia. After I chat with patients whose primary residences are out of state and they are taking up temporary residence in So. Cal. while undergoing treatment at CoH. When I make contact with someone who has undergone more than one bone marrow or stem cell transplant. When I talk with someone whose disease has come back after being in remission.

I ask myself these questions every time I think of my friend Wayne, a 65-year-old college math professor, who biked daily from Altadena to LA. After a freak cycling accident in February, he is a quadriplegic. This formerly physical and mental athlete is just now beginning to regain feeling and movement in the tips of his fingers. When I spoke with him two weeks ago, he, like Christopher Reeve, was quick to point out, "I'm still Wayne."

There's no doubt that Wayne epitomizes strength and courage. Could I be as courageous under the same circumstances?

Wayne’s life changed dramatically from one moment to the next with no time to mentally or physically prepare. Mine, on the other hand, has been a gradual adjustment. When my ocular surgeon told me that the tumor on my eye was mantle cell lymphoma, he added that I would most likely be treated with radiation therapy. I thought, "I can deal with radiation, but I don't think I can handle chemo." The next thing I knew, my hematologist told me that I would be undergoing chemo and I thought, "Once every three weeks. That's not so bad. I can handle that." In the end, doctors told me, "You must undergo a high-dosage treatment as an in-patient and you will have a stem cell transplant when it's all over."

By the time I heard these words, I was ready to digest them. If I had heard them right after the initial diagnosis, I doubt that I would have been able to "consciously tap into reserves of strength" as quickly.

When we were going through our turbulent years with Cindy, I was active on a listserve for parents whose children attended the same group of "emotional growth" boarding schools. Parents sometimes posted chilling stories about children who ran away from the programs, which were typically located in rural or mountainous areas. At the time, I thought, "I don't think I have the strength to handle it if Cindy ran away." Two years later, she did just that from a program in Utah. And, of course, I did handle it; I had no choice. It was an excruciatingly difficult time, but we all got through that and other crises, thanks in no small part to others who had been on or were traveling similar journeys.

I find myself wondering the same thing about cancer returning after being in remission - that dangling sword of Damocles that threatens every cancer patient and survivor. Naturally, I believe it when I tell myself that I'm gonna' kick this MCL to the ground so that it never comes back up again. But after Elizabeth Edwards' cancer returned, I heard a commentator state that our society puts tremendous pressure on cancer survivors to do just that. The reality is that cancer sometimes returns, regardless of the treatments and the attitude of the patient.

In spite of my fears, I know deep down inside that I will deal with what I have to deal with when I have to deal with it, with the help of my family and friends. Sometimes I think the most courageous thing we can do is to admit that we have no (or a limited supply of) inner strength and seek out others, both professionally and personally, who can help us through these "tests."

And that, my friends, is no laughing matter.