Oh, it's lonely at the back

I like identifying birds through their songs. I'm pretty good at it. I especially like realizing that I've been hearing a bird sing, but haven't been paying attention. It comes upon me slowly: "Oh! There's a hummingbird being territorial!" or "That's a crow's talking to itself!" I will then look for the bird and see if I can determine what it's really up to.

Something similar happens on the bus. I'll be sitting there, baking in the five square inches inside my mask when I'll realize someone on the bus is hacking away, coughing up vile globs of crap that better not travel to me. It comes upon me slowly: "Oh! It's a man not covering his mouth while he coughs and he's spraying all over the place!" or "That woman just sneezed into her hand and is now grabbing a railing with the same hand!" I will then not look for the idjit and see if I can determine what they're up to. I know what they're up to; being bad.

The bus home last night was very crowded. The first bus I took got me into the downtown core, where I caught my regular bus home. I was one of the first riders on the bus, and I sat toward the back. The bus filled quickly as it moved through downtown. No one would sit next to me. A few people chose standing rather than sitting next to me. The last empty seat on the bus was left empty, I assume, because of my facial furniture.

*****

I'd like you to meet one of the free-standing hand sanitizers. To the left is my new BFF. They're distributed throughout the building I work in, and they dispense tidings of great cleanliness. When I see one I walk over, get the goo and debug myself. I'm hardly aware I'm doing it. It's become a second nature.

Many of my coworkers are sick and still coming into work. Many are staying home. I was supposed to be in a meeting yesterday with a coworker who's a walking germ. I told him if he didn't cancel the meeting, he would be the death of me. I told him when I'd be away from my desk, so he could come in and do whatever work is so dreadfully important that he places everyone at risk.

I felt for his pod-mates, so gave them masks.

*****

I have an appointment with a Naturopath in a few weeks. Seattle is home to Bastyr University, and there's a research physician there who specializes in cancer and diet. Yikes, what a CV!

In order to see her, I was asked to enroll in a research project. Since I'm getting traditional treatment (i.e. poison) for cancer, they'll pair me anonymously with a cancer patient who's seeking non-traditional (i.e. not poison) treatment. Then they'll watch and wait and see which one of us gets cancer again or who dies first, I guess.

The main reason I initiated seeing her was I assumed I'd be exhausted from the chemo and wanted to find out if making changes to my diet would help. So far, I'm not fatigued, though I do have my second chemo treatment tomorrow and I will be waiting for side effects.

*****

I have never met my cousin Carrie (pictured here with her sisters), but we began corresponding recently when I was working on my family tree. Her mother and my father were first cousins. (her mother's still living and my father isn't, so should I say they "are" or "were" cousins, I wonder...) She sent me an email yesterday, telling me that she had ovarian cancer a few years ago.

Her mother sent me this photograph of a pumpkin with a ball of yarn on top. It ends up that Carrie is a woman after my own heart. She's a geologist and a spinner/weaver. When her hair started falling out from treatment for ovarian cancer, she spun it into the ball of yarn.

Here is an abbreviated version of what she wrote about this experience:

Picking fiber is second nature to a hand spinner. We delight in separating seeds and grass from clean locks. The slip of the strands through our fingers, the sweet aroma of clean wool, the satisfaction of preparing to spin yarn produces a feeling of accomplishment.

Standing in the shower one morning, my hands running through squeaky wet hair, fingers collecting handfuls of fiber with each passing move.

This all began 14 days after my first chemo in August, 2006.

This new fiber posed a puzzle. How should I prepare it? How to spin? What to make with the yarn.

It was eerie, combing my hair on the 4 pitch English combs. After the first few handfuls, it was easier to think of it as rather odd sheep’s wool, especially when I pulled it through the button diz. The roving slipped through the hole in an array of dark and light, curling easily into a little nest.

As I spun up my hair, a sense of control came over me. Where initially the ovarian cancer diagnosis seemed overwhelming, a silver lining appeared ... or should I say a silver yarn.

Now for the project ... a small bowl, perhaps?

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Today at work, my coworker Paul had his head shaved, as mentioned in a previous post.

Yesterday another coworker photographed the two of us blond bombshells.

My hair has begun falling out, and Paul's now sporting a very close crop. I'm hoping that we can have our photo taken again when we're both mostly bald.