Sunday, June 05, 2011
The Princess and the Fibroid
We’ve decided to name it. We’ve not thought of quite the right name just yet, but we do think it deserves a name all its own, since it has become such a living, breathing, palpable* presence in our lives over the past few days.
*Blatant, conspicuous, obvious, overt, flagrant, tangible , and though it may not be quite clear, it is plainly present . Funny how fear makes you hyper-aware of every little thing, like the exact meaning of the words you choose to use when writing about the things that scare you. This nameless, large, white roundish mass inside my body does scare me. She has made me sit up and take notice, and I do believe she is a “she”, rather than an “it.”
I mean, it’s not like she’s located in my liver. In that case, it would more definitely be a “he”, because men drink more than women, and are always getting liver diseases and dying of painful yellowing jaundices, after their long careers of drinking. I don’t know the percentages, but if this fibroidal thingy of mine was on the liver, she would be a “he.” If she’d made her grand entrance in the prostate, there’d be no question, and I would find some jaunty, man-about-town moniker for it, like Casey or Chad. Chad the prostate fibroidal thingy! Or if she’d shown up in the intestinal tract? Wouldn’t “Henry” or “Marvin” be just right? Something workmanlike and useful, indicating the everyday usefulness of the internal organ thus attached to? No. This new close companion of mine is definitely my new BFF, and she is a girl.
Why do I consider her a new best friend forever, I bet you’re wondering.
Is this some sort of Stockholm Syndrome spin-off? This surprising intruder is holding me hostage and in order to bargain for my freedom, I am falling in love with it? No. Not exactly that. Because it will free me, one way or the other, and it will have nothing at all to do with how we feel about each other. First of all, she cannot feel, she can only be present and grow. That’s all she knows, since I am assuming she has no actual brain. But of course, what is a brain? And what do I know about a brain’s actual nature and power? But I digress.
She will be my new BFF because even if she is a kindly visitor, and her stay inside my body is a short –lived one, she will , in some deep way, be with me forever because she has changed me forever. Because of her, I am thinking about heretofore- unthinkable things up close - illness, death, pain and suffering - and I am learning much. I am on the brink of learning it all – knowing it all – embracing it all – as a result of my encounter with her. One never forgets a truly brilliant teacher. Never.
We are in process with this surprise visitor, and all the right things are being done. As far as her ultrasound goes - yes, this guest inside my body has already had her photo taken - she shows no signs of anything to be truly terrified of . Nothing turned bright red when they flooded her with color to see if cancer is present (cancers, I learned, need a lot of blood to live and grow, and when ultra-sounded with color show up bright red and orange. My Best Fibroid Forever showed up large and white. Still, she must be biopsied and examined and cleared of all possible hiding menace.
So, like the Princess and the pea that kept her up nights, my best fibroid friend has been keeping me awake nights, contemplating death, illness, pain and suffering, and so I've decided to meditate on these very subjects more, read what Buddhist teachers have to say about them, and get right down to the nitty-gritty: we all die some time and every moment we live, we are in fact that much closer to living no more...at least in this particular body. And I have decided that even the pain and terror - as part of my life as they are - must be embraced and loved.
*****************************TIME PASSES*****************************
Fiona the Fabulous Fibroid is dead! Long Live Fiona! She has been successfully removed, and all signs indicate she is of no danger, and never has been. I wait for final word on the various biopsies, but my wonderful doctor assures me all is well, and I feel much relieved. i went into St. Francis Hospital three days ago, went under general anesthesia, before doing so made great pals with all the staff of nurses in the Come and Go Unit (Paul calls it the In and Out Burger Unit), and was taken home by Peter very shortly after it all began. The removal took far less time than they anticipated. I only vomited once, as the anesthesia wore off. And the pictures Dr. Milkman gave me of Fiona show a clear, pink and healthy uterus, after Fiona is removed. I am told my uterus looks exactly the way a healthy woman's-my-age should look. Yet, still, I contemplate the eternal verities, and shall continue to do so for some time to come....maybe even from now on.
And thus, Fiona will live on. I love what she has taught me.
Meanwhile, I have another column in this month's Marina TIMES - about San Francisco's weather - and have been asked to contribute regularly. I came to SF to write. So, you betcha! COntribute? Oh my yes....so stay tuned!
*****************************TIME PASSES*****************************
Fiona the Fabulous Fibroid is dead! Long Live Fiona! She has been successfully removed, and all signs indicate she is of no danger, and never has been. I wait for final word on the various biopsies, but my wonderful doctor assures me all is well, and I feel much relieved. i went into St. Francis Hospital three days ago, went under general anesthesia, before doing so made great pals with all the staff of nurses in the Come and Go Unit (Paul calls it the In and Out Burger Unit), and was taken home by Peter very shortly after it all began. The removal took far less time than they anticipated. I only vomited once, as the anesthesia wore off. And the pictures Dr. Milkman gave me of Fiona show a clear, pink and healthy uterus, after Fiona is removed. I am told my uterus looks exactly the way a healthy woman's-my-age should look. Yet, still, I contemplate the eternal verities, and shall continue to do so for some time to come....maybe even from now on.
And thus, Fiona will live on. I love what she has taught me.
Meanwhile, I have another column in this month's Marina TIMES - about San Francisco's weather - and have been asked to contribute regularly. I came to SF to write. So, you betcha! COntribute? Oh my yes....so stay tuned!
Labels: SF life
Monday, April 11, 2011
Tempus Fugits...When Maybe It Should Slow Down to a Walk
The more time I spend with myself alone at my writing desk thinking about what I want to write, and thinking of all the myriad things there are to write about, the more sensitive I've become to crowds of others and the tempo at which they travel through life. Most everyone seems to need to go very fast through the day, or at least they seem to need to go very fast from one place to another, from one activity to another. The world seems to be doing a lot of speeding.
Along with that has come a lot of crowding : crowding of activities so that there are more of them within the same 24-hour period, necessitating more speeding in order to get them all accomplished.
Now, I have always done the same. My life tempo has been rapid for as long as I can remember: i've spoken far too fast, my eating goes quickly, everything has been on speed-dial for as long as I can remember in my life. I have crowded more into one hour of time than most, and have striven to accomplish it all within even shorter times. My datebook pages have been black with appointments, and that used to make me feel good. A hurry is what I was always in. And now....well....now it's not.
And I have to say I like it better when it's not. Much much better.
Because now I can actually hear, see, smell, feel and touch the world around me as it goes by, and the discoveries I am making are endlessly entertaining. I try not to dwell on how much I've missed as I have sped through the years. Instead, I focus on what is in front of me right now, and pretend that my very skin is soaking in what is around me. I am trying to float on wings - slowly flapping wings - of discovery.
My observations of others' speeding can get - I must tell you - very judgmental, harsh and rigorous.
And as they speed by me, in their cars, pushing their grocery carts, plugged into their blue teeth and chatting to the air with a sense of great urgency like they are at a meeting that demands all they've got rather than buying baby food and yogurt, I feel sad that they are missing being where they are....and that I spent so much of my life doing the same: missing it all. Finally, missing the very process of living itself.
Sad, really.
I sat writing in a restaurant recently, and a striking older man, dressed all in black, with a dashing red scarf at his throat, and a spiffy black fedora angled rakishly on his grey head. A snappy white shirt accented where his black jacket met his chin. He was a Toulouse L'autrec walking. Only, he was quite insane. He sat alone at a table, and was talking feverishly to......air. No person was there, even though he was talking to one or two of them as if they most definitely were not only there but were deeply involved in a very important business meeting with him. I envisioned him at the head of some corporate Board meeting table, or at a weekly staff meeting, and he was the Boss. And now - retired and needed no longer - he had to still be the Boss of this imaginary meeting. And he knew I was watching him, so he performed his role as the involved busy man - listening to each proposal of his make-belive staff and discussing it earnestly with each employee - he did it all with care and precision and flair. When he caught me looking, his performance got even more pronounced and detailed and real for himself. I was utterly transfixed by this little drama. He could not stop to be where he actually was. He had to invent a world around him that mattered more than the simple one of being in a cafe, eating lunch. He could not be alone, so he invented a table full of people who needed him. He looked like all those people talking on Blue Tooth.......but this dear man was truly by himself. He WAS the crazy that so many people today only look like.
When I am sitting in traffic - on my way to the gym or somewhere else - and a driver feels like he or she absolutely must speed by me, crush right in front of me to get into my lane without signaling, honk at others in order to get where they want to be, all for the sake of a few feet of progress on their journey, I feel so bad for them, and want to ask them: " Will this get you to where you need to go any faster, really? Don't we all have to stop at the same stoplights?" And I love pulling up right next to them at a light, after all their drama to get ahead, making them realize that I was going much slower but ended up at the same place at the same time they did anyway!
I also try to remember that they may have a baby to deliver, or a heart to keep beating, or some other necessary emergency to get to, and that's why they are behaving as rudely and stupidly as they do ....maybe they have a good reason.
But usually, I would wager, they don't have any good reason at all, and that starts me wondering: why do they feel this horrible urgency to get ahead faster than all the others around them? Why did I FEEL IT all those years? What is HURRY? WHY IS THE HURRY?
Do we feel we can outrun Death? That if we run fast enough, Death will never be able to catch us and make us slow down for a final time? Why are we all in such a damned hurry all the time? Do we fear being alone for even the brief time we are alone in our car ,driving from one place to another? Do we bore ourselves that much? Are better things waiting at the hurried-to destination?
Hurry perplexes me now. Even though I used to be in one all the time. It feels familiar, like a tune I once feverishly danced to. But now, it's more and more a strange song I no longer wish to hear. I most certainly do not wish to dance to it.
If I'm going to exhaust myself, I'd rather do it keeping my body in good shape by rigorously working it out at my gym, so that my particular vehicle - my aging yet happy body - can continue to get me further and further down the road of life, at a luxuriously useful, pleasant pace. I may sweat a bit, but no horns will be blown....no horns will blast....I promise.
Along with that has come a lot of crowding : crowding of activities so that there are more of them within the same 24-hour period, necessitating more speeding in order to get them all accomplished.
Now, I have always done the same. My life tempo has been rapid for as long as I can remember: i've spoken far too fast, my eating goes quickly, everything has been on speed-dial for as long as I can remember in my life. I have crowded more into one hour of time than most, and have striven to accomplish it all within even shorter times. My datebook pages have been black with appointments, and that used to make me feel good. A hurry is what I was always in. And now....well....now it's not.
And I have to say I like it better when it's not. Much much better.
Because now I can actually hear, see, smell, feel and touch the world around me as it goes by, and the discoveries I am making are endlessly entertaining. I try not to dwell on how much I've missed as I have sped through the years. Instead, I focus on what is in front of me right now, and pretend that my very skin is soaking in what is around me. I am trying to float on wings - slowly flapping wings - of discovery.
My observations of others' speeding can get - I must tell you - very judgmental, harsh and rigorous.
And as they speed by me, in their cars, pushing their grocery carts, plugged into their blue teeth and chatting to the air with a sense of great urgency like they are at a meeting that demands all they've got rather than buying baby food and yogurt, I feel sad that they are missing being where they are....and that I spent so much of my life doing the same: missing it all. Finally, missing the very process of living itself.
Sad, really.
I sat writing in a restaurant recently, and a striking older man, dressed all in black, with a dashing red scarf at his throat, and a spiffy black fedora angled rakishly on his grey head. A snappy white shirt accented where his black jacket met his chin. He was a Toulouse L'autrec walking. Only, he was quite insane. He sat alone at a table, and was talking feverishly to......air. No person was there, even though he was talking to one or two of them as if they most definitely were not only there but were deeply involved in a very important business meeting with him. I envisioned him at the head of some corporate Board meeting table, or at a weekly staff meeting, and he was the Boss. And now - retired and needed no longer - he had to still be the Boss of this imaginary meeting. And he knew I was watching him, so he performed his role as the involved busy man - listening to each proposal of his make-belive staff and discussing it earnestly with each employee - he did it all with care and precision and flair. When he caught me looking, his performance got even more pronounced and detailed and real for himself. I was utterly transfixed by this little drama. He could not stop to be where he actually was. He had to invent a world around him that mattered more than the simple one of being in a cafe, eating lunch. He could not be alone, so he invented a table full of people who needed him. He looked like all those people talking on Blue Tooth.......but this dear man was truly by himself. He WAS the crazy that so many people today only look like.
When I am sitting in traffic - on my way to the gym or somewhere else - and a driver feels like he or she absolutely must speed by me, crush right in front of me to get into my lane without signaling, honk at others in order to get where they want to be, all for the sake of a few feet of progress on their journey, I feel so bad for them, and want to ask them: " Will this get you to where you need to go any faster, really? Don't we all have to stop at the same stoplights?" And I love pulling up right next to them at a light, after all their drama to get ahead, making them realize that I was going much slower but ended up at the same place at the same time they did anyway!
I also try to remember that they may have a baby to deliver, or a heart to keep beating, or some other necessary emergency to get to, and that's why they are behaving as rudely and stupidly as they do ....maybe they have a good reason.
But usually, I would wager, they don't have any good reason at all, and that starts me wondering: why do they feel this horrible urgency to get ahead faster than all the others around them? Why did I FEEL IT all those years? What is HURRY? WHY IS THE HURRY?
Do we feel we can outrun Death? That if we run fast enough, Death will never be able to catch us and make us slow down for a final time? Why are we all in such a damned hurry all the time? Do we fear being alone for even the brief time we are alone in our car ,driving from one place to another? Do we bore ourselves that much? Are better things waiting at the hurried-to destination?
Hurry perplexes me now. Even though I used to be in one all the time. It feels familiar, like a tune I once feverishly danced to. But now, it's more and more a strange song I no longer wish to hear. I most certainly do not wish to dance to it.
If I'm going to exhaust myself, I'd rather do it keeping my body in good shape by rigorously working it out at my gym, so that my particular vehicle - my aging yet happy body - can continue to get me further and further down the road of life, at a luxuriously useful, pleasant pace. I may sweat a bit, but no horns will be blown....no horns will blast....I promise.
Labels: SF life
Monday, March 28, 2011
Good Cooking, Home, Family and Love
I've been cooking more in the past few months than I was ever able to have the time or energy to do all during the past three years. And it feels so good to cook for people I love. Also - now do NOT laugh - it actually feels good to do laundry for the man I love too! Can't explain exactly why. But I'll try to, in this blog entry.
I've never been much of a housewife, and it's true that I am not very good at most of the things that experienced housewives do well, but the truth is I've always concentrated more on what I needed for me and for my career than I ever thought about doing things for others. At home or anywhere else for that matter.
But things seem different now, and with my staying home to write - and this is a dream come true, being able to stay home and write, rather than running out to auditions and radio bookings and rehearsals - with Peter going off every day to his office job so we can have some money coming into the family coffers- I not only see the value of doing our laundry, and of planning and cooking some healthy, wholesome meals made from good California vegetables and grains, but I actually feel pride in accomplishing it for us....it makes me feel good to contribute in this way. I've never had the time or energy to do this with such comfort and with such ease. Seems I was always running out the door to rehearse something or other, or audition for that next thing. Running, always frantically running.
But this new way of life? I must say: I like it. I feel as though so many people in my life have done so much for me - my two husbands especially have done so much to make my life a generous, comfortable life, filled with graciousness and caring - it's about time I did something for them, and these little household chores (including cooking for Paul - and Stephen, who is a far better wife to Paul that I ever was) - make me happy because I see how happy it makes them. It makes Peter's life a little bit easier if I get certain chores done, and...well...I like that. I never thought I'd live to see the day when I'd say it: but I like doing housework! I'm not in LOVE with it, but I like how it feels when I accomplish it! I like the results.
I feel like I've discovered an entire new way to be: actually doing stuff I've never enjoyed doing, realizing the difference it makes for others , and ending up liking and enjoying it more than I ever thought I could.
I'm not coming down on myself for the way I have been - totally self-centered in pushing my way toward a real career in theater, and making a success of it - no, I know I've done good for others in my way. I also know my theater work has made many people happy, and that my performing has lightened many a person's life at strategic times. I am proud of what I've done. But oddly, I am even prouder now of the life we are making for ourselves here, and of how I am able to help make it work. I like the almost meditative , service-oriented way I feel when I am schlepping a heavy load of laundry down to the laundry room, knowing it'll be a good part of my workout for the day, and getting those clothes clean. ...for US. I am enjoying that if I do it, Peter does not have to. And I am glad for that.
Actually - to sum it up - people who have love me - and who still do - have done so much for me, throughout our entire lives together, I feel it is time I did something for them in return.
Laundry...cooking meals they enjoy....this is the least I can do...but for now: it's my best and most.
And I do it all with as much conscious love as I possibly can. Conscious love.
Schlepp that dirty laundry: conscious love. Heave it through the doors of the elevator: conscious love. Separate it: conscious love. Make that damned card work so the machines run right (why is that always so damned hard for me?): conscious love. Peel those cucumbers: conscious love. Sauteé that tofu and roast those veggies: conscious love. Cook that rice and simmer those lentils: conscious love. Rinse the dishes for the dishwasher: conscious.....you get the idea. It's a new practice I am getting used to. It makes me breathe easier. It makes me oddly happy.
Labels: SF life
