Irene Peterson's Blog

She never could hide humiliation well, so Silver took a short walk to the loch, launched that pile of rocks as far as she could into the grey depths and, on a whim, scratched three lines into the last rock with another stone.  If this came back, she'd know there was something weird going on. 
In her pocket rested that white stone that had been on top of the pile.  Maybe later, she'd go to the Loch Ness information centre and see if anyone there could identify it.  That had been her plan for the day. Her cheeks still stung, though. And the urge to get him back, somehow, legitimately, for something she could catch him at, burned even stronger within her. 
"Oh, Gram, now I know why Scots are known for their tempers!  I sure have one, and it's bad."
The waters rippled but said nothing back to her.  Just as well.  If they had, she'd know she was nuts.
Her cameras were in her room, so she entered Thorne Cottage quietly and took the stairs two at a time.
"Get in there, ye wee pest!  Come, be a nice doggie.  Ye love the loch, this is better.  See? Ye swim in the loch for hours and ye won't swim in this nice tub?"
Sounds of a struggle came from the bathroom nearly drowning out the deep male voice of her nemesis. Splashing, cursing, an occasional growl from man and beast forced Silver to peer into the bathroom doorway.  Seeing Ross Cameron struggling to get his dog into the bathtub merited a chuckle on her part. 
Seeing Ross Cameron struggling to keep his temper was almost reward enough for this morning's embarrassment. Taking a photo of him with his dog half in and half out of the tub made up for everything. The flash made him turn around and look at her. 
He scowled, naturally. "Rather than stand there, ye might give a man a hand here."
Silver tamped down the urge to clap her hands. "Having some trouble are you?"
His eyes mere slits, he growled out,  "Zara complained about Rolly, said he had a pong about him and if I didn't bath him, he'd have to sleep outside, and me with him."
Silver smiled, just enough to appear sympathetic. "And Rolly doesn't want to be bathed?"
Ross grabbed onto the dog's fur and stared into the big dog's unblinking eyes.  "As you can see, he's reluctant to get clean.  Can't say why...except that he loves to roll in any little stink he can find outdoors."  Then, to the dog, he said,  "Right, old boy?"
Silver thought she heard a distinct, "right", but knew she just imagined it.

Cameron wrestled the front half of the dog into the tub. The second Rolly's paws hit the water and suds, the dog howled, spun around and landed on the bathroom floor, all four paws splayed, digging into the lino, holding on for dear life.
Silver slipped her camera from her neck and placed it outside the doorway before strolling into the small room, made suddenly smaller by her presence. "Nice doggie.  What a good boy!  Here, sweetie, you really need a bath.  Don't you want to smell pretty?"  Her voice, low, liquid honey, seductive, reached the fussing animal and immediately calmed it. 
Cameron sat back on his haunches, his face expressionless but calm. Silver patted Rolly's head and pointed to the tub.  "There you go, sweetie.  In the nice warm water.  Good boy!" Again, her voice came out like silvered honey.  And the dog hopped over the edge of the claw-foot tub and sat.
"He's grinning.  Good God, the beast is grinning at me."  Cameron quirked a one sided smile first at the dog, then at Silver. "Will you help me wash the beast, then?"
Silver shook her head.  "I don't do dogs...or windows." 
With that, she turned and left the room. It was hard to swallow down her satisfaction, though.  Real hard.
 
There comes a time when this bickering ceased being fun and moved on to nastiness.  Silver detested that stage and decided, in her heart of hearts and with the reasoning part of her brain, that it had to stop.  She'd gotten back at Cameron and while it had satisfied that part of her that needed it, the nice part of her realized that she'd had enough.

Perhaps if she were nicer to him, he'd reciprocate.
If he wasn't a true dyed in the wool bastard, he'd smile a little and either ease up on his barbs or stop talking altogether.

Damn, he was good-looking!
And there was no denying that electric feeling she'd gotten when they touched down by the loch, even if he'd ruined it all by being nasty.
Humph.  The odd thing is, she usually got along rather well with men.
The exception recently being that moron from the newspaper syndicate, true, but he'd been out to get something from her.  Something she didn't feel like giving.
Take the men at the pub.  They were constantly chatting her up, but not one had made an inappropriate move.  They talked sports, even tried to teach her how to throw darts.  Their jokes often went beyond her because of the slang, but she laughed with them, and the jokes had never been risque.
Perhaps being surrounded by their dogs had helped keep their hands where they belonged. 
Nah.  They were rough, but they were gentle men.

Ross Cameron was something else.

Eh.  Enough thinking about him.  She had work to do.  Jamming her hands into the pocket of her hoodie, she felt the stone she'd put in there earlier...the whitish stone that had topped the pyramid of skipping rocks.  It warmed in her hand as she touched it. 
A flash of shimmering air zipped through her brain.  Sugary walls, studded with diamonds.  Then cold, dark water reeled through her mind in an instant dream.
What?
Silver swayed on her feet and grabbed the side of the Mini.
The world swam for a few seconds until she regained her equilibrium.

Once steadied, Silver took a good look at that little rock, turning it over, looking for anything out of the ordinary about it.
Hell.  It just looked like a pretty white crystal sort of rock.  But it didn't act like one.
Well, there was only one thing to do.
This called for a geologist.
 
copyright 2009, Irene Peterson

Wait a minute. There was no way Cameron could have picked up those stones. They lay at the bottom of the loch and, as she had been warned repeatedly, the loch was very deep. The stones just looked like the ones she had skipped. Flat rocks looked like flat rocks, she reasoned. Perhaps all the dark stones had streaks of white in them around here, just as all the flat rocks near her home in New Jersey were red shale (and good for skipping.)
Maybe he had made a little pile of stones to tempt her into going down on the shore. Maybe he hadn't done it. Maybe somebody else had been watching her.
She stooped to pick up the white rock that had been placed on top of the pyramid. It felt warm to the touch and as she turned it over to examine it, some trick of the mind made her think of a roaring fire and her body relished the sensation of warmth in the mist of this Scottish morning. Odd, that. But the image vanished and the stone went cold. She stowed it in her pocket anyway as a souvenir. Was it illegal to remove rocks from the UK? Oh, boy.

Back at Thorne Cottage, Silver found a hearty if not heart-healthy breakfast waiting for her. Zara, looking neat and perfect in her part as usual, had the teapot in her hand, ready to pour as if she knew Silver needed it. It occured to Silver that, yes, she did need the tea, and oddly enough, Zara always seemed to know when to turn around and find Silver standing in the doorway. No, it was just coincidence. All these oddities were coincidence. She was out of her comfort zone in a strange yet wonderful country and things just happened out of her ordinary experience. There really wasn't anything weird going on.

"Zara, thank you," she said as she accepted the teacup. "I was wondering, have the papers come in yet?"
"Papers?" Zara wiped her hands on her immaculate apron, giving Silver a tilt of her head and quizzical smile.
"The newspapers," Silver explained.
"Oh, yes. The newspapers. Yes, they were delivered, but I'm afraid they aren't available just yet. Ross came down and got them earlier. I'm afraid you'll have to wait until he's through with them."

Silver fought the urge to grumble out loud. Dammit, Cameron had this really annoying habit of getting in her way all the time.
"Was there something you were looking for? There's the Internet...."

"No, I suppose I can wait. There's nothing all that important. I'm here to get away from news, not look for it."
Now, that was a lie. She'd come to Scotland to run away from so many things, but not necessarily the news. And no matter where she went, the news seemed to find her. Had the paper in Inverness published her story? She burned to find out, but kept the fire under control.
She could wait for Mr. BBC to bring the paper to her.
She'd enjoy her breakfast, chat with Zara and make plans for her day...plans that did not include harpoon guns and old gentlemen, no matter how intriguing they might be.

Halfway through her second bite of toast, Cameron appeared in the doorway, folded newspapers in his hand and a smirk on his face.
Zara wished him "Good morning, Ross," then escaped into the kitchen, leaving Silver and Ross alone together in the small dining room.

He seated himself across the table from Silver. The smile remained in place as he wished her a good morning that made her grit her teeth. Something about his tone of voice, something about the edge of attitude in it got her defenses prepared for battle.
But when he spoke again, his voice was pleasant, just a hint of a burr to it, more like Sean Connery than ever and Silver dropped her guard.
"I believe you may be interested in seeing this." He slowly placed a newspaper, folded deliberately to one page, in front of her, then drew back his hands and rested his chin on them.

Her story. He'd found her story. Pictures, luridly showing the harpoon cannon and the crowd of protesters, topped the page and the story hung down at least eight inches. Eight inches of space!
She read it through. They hadn't changed a word. Lovely! Just lovely. It was enough to give her a thrill of satisfaction--take that, Mr. Syndicate Evans--she had made an international debut. This one story, with such complete coverage...wow. Oh, wow.
The smile burst through her entire body.
Yet she said nothing.

Cameron leaned closer, chin still in his hands. "Good reporting, even for an American."
A compliment? Silver looked up from the newspaper to see that smirk back in the man's eyes.
"Why, thank you."

Zara entered with the man's breakfast and set it carefully in front of him. He looked to her, muttered a quiet thank you and set to eating. Once Zara left them alone again, he paused mid-bite, his fork still on the way to his mouth with egg yolk dripping onto his plate. Silver watched it drip with slight fascination.
He waved his fork slightly. Silver followed the motion, not willing to look at the man's face.
"Next time, however, I'd be a bit more careful to get the byline right."
"Huh?" The fascination broke.
"The byline. Is that really your name, Ms. McLaren?"

Silver picked up the paper and scanned the story.
"Oh, no!"
The byline, her byline! They'd screwed it up! Everything else was so perfect, but they'd screwed up her name.
Contributed by Sliver McLaren.
Sliver!
Oh, crap!

copyright 2009, Irene Peterson

It is after 6 pm. Outside the wind is blustering and the temperature is dropping precipitously, though not nearly as low as Buffalo, NY. Nothing is that low, except maybe Antarctica.
Anyway, I'm writing this here because I ought to be doing an episode of Silver, but I find I can't think at night as well as I can in the morning.
Yes.
It is not the cancer speaking this time, it is me.
I don't write at night.
Oh, I might be so moved to grab a legal pad and go downstairs and write something out, but I can't sit here at the computer and write when it is dark. Also, since it is in our bedroom and Herb would probably wake up if I turned it on though he can sleep through his incessant snoring, I don't do it.
Maybe I should.

He made this delicous bread pudding out of pannetone, served with some sort of Amaretto sauce. We had some for dessert. It is really good. Almost makes up for my complete lack of sleep.

Whilst looking through my pictures, I found this one of my long hair. I'm going to try to get it on here. Patience. Got it!!! Oh, the cleverness of me!!!!!

Okay, this is yet another view of the same foot/ankle right leg destruction and repair.
In this you can see more clearly the amount of screws holding my bones together. I took the photo with my phone and Karyn helped me figure out how to get it into this journal. It was easy, once I got the hang of it. So, that photo promised months earlier of the swirl in the back of my head MAY be possible to bring up somehow.
It's in the archives, though, and I am not sure I can get back to it. We shall see.

Please note that the foot still feels weird. I was given some meds to stop the electric shock feeling I get every now and then in my ankle. Neurontin, that's the stuff. Of course, I got a generic, but still. I hope to high heavens that it won't counteract anything else I have to take.

This is so boring. Sorry, but I thought somebody might enjoy seeing inside me.

For those who missed it, here is a picture of the back of my head from '
early August.

You have to listen carefully to the words...Irene dies in this song...she jumps off a riverboat and drowns. I never liked it when I was a kid and the only reason it is here now is because of who is singing it.
Thanks to Midnight Bones for the direction.

I'm pissed off.
I just wrote this magnus opus about being alone in the house, for the first time, for many hours, and I lost it.
I even did it in pink.

I wrote about how Herb left with his mother for the airport at 10:30, the girls left for university at 11:00, Herb came back at 12:30 or so and told me he was leaving to pay the garage guys for their third try at fixing the A/C in the van, then going to the Legion.
He made me a peanutbutter and jelly sandwich for supper and put it in my He-Man lunchbox and brought it up here, set it on the potty chair.  There had better be a Thermos of milk in there, too, and maybe some cookies or grapes or something, because I will be alone here until at the earliest 7:00, the latest, 10:00 pm.

Last time I was left alone for any length of time, I fell on my way to the bathroom and sprained my ankle.  I had to drag my sorry butt into the bathroom, do what I had to do, then drag myself, crawling on my knees like a baby, back to the bed where I waited for somebody to come and help me with my rapidly swelling ankle.  (This is the same ankle I recently broke in three places.)

I'm lonely.  I'm stuck here, useless as a broken roller skate.
I'm sulking, because there is nothing I can do but roll to the bathroom, roll to the computer, roll back to bed.  I can't go anywhere.  Even if I put the boot on, there isn't anywhere I can go.
So I'm sulking.
All by myself.

Before he left, Herb said he was going to lock the side door. I asked him not to, in case I had to call 911, they wouldn't have to break down the door to get to me.  Hint, hint.

This morning, my mother said how surprised she was that I have managed to  maintain my sense of humor for so long, and not crack.
Oh, but I have cracked.  I've been on the verge of a nervous breakdown for months and months.
I'm useless.
There's nothing I really can do, nothing that matters, except write email and my stupid serialogs and talk on the phone if and when somebody calls.  They called when I had cancer, but this latest setback, well, nobody seems to mind.  I must have used up all their sympathy.  Oh, I don't blame anybody.  Who wants to listen to me rant?
Or feel sorry for myself.

I've already written this once.  It got lost in Livejournal land, probably for the best as that was much more pathetic than this one is.  I just don't want to have to write it again.

I'm sulking.
I'm miserable.
I'm pissed.
I'm pathetic.

Shit.

The coolest thing about the new camera was that she could show the photos to her grandmother immediately without having to print them.  There were some great shots of the interior of the Arts Center.  Maybe her grandmother would add some comments she could use in the article.  After all, she'd been inside the theater back in the 30s.  There weren't many people still alive in the area who could boast that fact.
And Gram was still sharp.
Silver sighed again.  She found herself sighing more and more lately.

"Galena!  How are you today?"
The Russian lady who took care of her grandmother laughed.  "Osheen chorosho!"
She enveloped Silver in a bear hug.  "She's coming out of the chemo.  Had some breakfast this morning already."

Silver reagarded this information carefully.  "Good, that's always good."
Galena gestured broadly.  "Go in, go in.  She misses you."

Gram looked up from the bed, surrounded by stacks of papers and copies of the Chronicle.  She smiled, dipping her head to see above her glasses.  "Well, don't you look beautiful today."
"I could say the same to you, Gram.  What's up?  What have you been doing?"

"Not puking.  That new stuff is great.  I highly recommend it."
"Atta girl.  So this stuff works?  No worshipping the porcelain goddess?"
Gram ran her hand over her head, a gesture that would have been far more effective had she still had her hair.  She sighed.
Silver wanted to hug the old lady but held back.  "What's with all the papers?"

"Just some bills.  Another letter from that syndicate about buying the Chronicle.  Doctor stuff I have to read through, supposedly.  The insurance company hasn't paid anybody yet and some of those doctors are getting touchy."
"I'll handle it."
Gram grimaced.  "You've go so much on your shoulders, dear.  I think I can wade through this stuff, but maybe you could check it over to make sure...."
"Consider it done, Gram.  Now, put that stuff down and let me show you the photos I got inside the new Arts Center.  I need some comments, some observations, if you can come up with anything."

"What's this?"
Gram held out the long shot of the aquarium, waggling it under Silver's nose.
Silver shifted, uneasy in her skin and hesitant to bring up the subject that had been burning in her brain all morning now.
"They installed these fish tanks with the lights and all, in the lobby.  When you come up the ramp, I guess that's what you call it, from the doors, it really lights up the lobby without being glaring.  It's subtle, and somebody with lots of cash donated the tanks.  The fish are really pretty."
Gram raised one eyebrow, cocked her head to the left.  "And?"
Silver stepped away from the bed, shoved her hands into her jeans' pockets and debated how to tell the odd part of the story.  She told her grandmother nearly everything, but this was weird, weirder than most of her usual stories.  What the heck?  It didn't mean anything, right?  It was just something weird.
"Gram, something odd happened when I stood in front of the fishtank."
The old lady's eyebrows shot over the rim of her glasses but she said nothing.
"All the fish sort of...I dunno...sort of grouped together behind me."
"All of them?"
Silver shrugged.  "Yep.  There wasn't a fish anywhere else in the tank.  They clustered directly behind me.  And when I stepped out of the way, they actually moved with me."
"Really."  Not a question, just an observation.  Gram didn't flinch at the revelation.  There was something peculiar in that, too. 
Just another peculiarity in a strange day so far.  And it was only noon.

After a few minutes' contemplation, Gram finally spoke.
"Remember back when you were seven and won the fishing derby?"
How could she ever forget that day?  The newspaper story had been laminated and still hung over her desk at the Chronicle.
"Yes, I remember."
Gram struggled to push herself up in the bed.
"Remember how you told me that trout jumped into your arms?  That you didn't use the fishing pole?"
The memories came flooding back. Crossing over the temporary bridge the park guy had made to cross the stream past the dam.  The excitement of all the kids in town lining the stream, fishing poles in hand, trying desperately to land one of the trout stocked in the water for the yearly derby.  The noise, the smell of worms and dirty water and sweat, and then that huge fish leaping into her arms.
God!  She could still feel it wiggling against her chest.
She'd won the prize for the biggest fish, despite the protests of some of the parents who said she hadn't used her fishing pole.  Her father had written up the story, careful to print the derby rules that just said the fish had to be caught by the child, failing to mention how that could be done.
She'd never gone to the derby again.
She'd felt too guilty.
And it had been her grandmother who had chosen to ease her guilt by telling her a story.  A story of Scotland and times long ago and fantastical creatures.  Of course, she'd felt a bit better, but that guilt stung her again, after nearly twenty years.
"You told me not to worry, not to let it bother me.  Then you told me a story about the selkies."

"Do you remember the story?"
"Of course.  It was a good story and I loved listening to you tell it."
"There was a reason I told you that particular story, Silver-child."
Silver sat on the edge of the bed once more.  Her grandmother, nearly bald from the chemotherapy, looking loose in her skin, her grey eyes faded into her head, leaned back into the mountain of pillows.  Silver reached for the old dear's hand and held it.

"Silver, your great-great-great grandmother was a selkie."

copyright 2009, Irene Peterson

So, now that I have decided to really try to write a book about my cancer experiences, I will need to go through all the blogs about lymphoma and print them out, along with the comments and pictures that Karyn drew of the hitler-cancer.  From there, I will have to somehow get it all back into the computer and decide how to put the ideas into chapters.
From the chapters, I can add the emails to the deb group (my loving writing friends) and then stick in the stuff I dared not write to the public.

Might make for some funny stuff.
But then, selling it.
I've never encountered anyone who was interested in non-fiction.
I will certainly need an agent to try to get this sold.

Okay, so this is the plan.
I think it might work.
Problem is, I have to figure out how to get all the stuff back into the computer.  Here's a thought:  I'll do what I'm doing with the serialog!  When I copy it into the computer, I do it right after printing it out.   I'll have to remember to print it to make hard copy, then put it into a file.
That's the ticket!  Not as hard as I thought!
**********************************************************************************************************************************

Now, I have a word of caution for writers out there.
Recently I went to visit the blog of someone who had friended me.  She's a good writer.  I went to her website, too, and was dismayed to find that she had written down potential stories with little blurbs about what she intended to do with them.
Call me paranoid, but that was an open invitation to someone else to steal the idea.

Back when the Lusty Ladies critique group was in full swing, one of our members had this dread fear of someone stealing her story idea.  The one she was working on was pretty lame, truth be told, a romance with a happily married couple isn't what I'd call a romance, but she wouldn't let us keep any of her chapters for fear someone would get hold of it and use it as their own.
Trust me, we all had plenty of ideas of our own, and wouldn't have needed hers, but still, it did get me paranoid about story idea stealing.

Think of all those editors who pass on book mss. they have read.  Then they come up with these ideas to give to their trusted posse of writers...I'm willing to bet those editors don't have those ideas all on their own. Something somebody else has written, possibly poorly, sparks an idea and they run with it to somebody else, someone they know can write a better story.
There are thousands of mss. sent to these editors yearly.
I'm not saying they actually do this, but a little spark, just a part of an idea, might stick in their brains.
I do know for a fact that they will ask an author to write about "such and such" which is "hot" now.

And then there are authors who listen to people who say "I have this idea for a story" and the author shrugs and says, "they why don't you write it?" and something about that discussion sticks in their brains.  You cannot copyright an idea.  You cannot say,  "I have an Arthurian story" and then when somebody else comes up with a story about King Arthur with the same elements (let's face it, Tintagel, swords, knights, Guinevere, Lancelot, Grail...there must be thousands of stories published about those things already) YOU STOLE MY IDEA!
But to list the ideas you have planned to write about, um, well, that may not be such a hot idea, really.

We as writers really do have thousands of ideas running through our heads all the time.  The other day I came up with a totally preposterous idea..The Lone Ranger and Ramesh.  Instead of a native American side-kick, the do-gooder has a sub-continental Indian side-kick.  I voiced it to Herb who thought I was insane.
Okay, consider the possibilities.
A cop takes on the first Indian partner.  Maybe he has to investigate murder in an Indian conclave and has no clue how to behave.  Much like a story in which a Christian cop has to investigate some foul deed in an Hassidic community, he or she would need someone who actually understood the culture to solve the crime.
And that person, usually a loner type cop, a Serpico shall we say, is the Lone Ranger in need of a Tonto, but this Tonto (I feel bad that in Spanish that word means 'stupid') is named Ramesh.
That is the only Indian name I know for sure, no offense meant anywhere.  I just pulled it out of my head.  Oh, wait, there's that golfer, Vijay Singh.  I guess that's another male Indian name.
Anyway, get where this story could go?

And since I have absolutely no intention of writing this story, I just set out a terrific idea for someone else.
Only, well, only those who are reading this blog will ever see it.

On a website, it might be another story, especially if one has a slew of regular readers and no way of telling who or where they are.

Caution.  Always write with caution in public places.
And if you write anything you wouldn't want to see on the front page of the NY Times, don't.
copyright 2009, Irene Peterson

Several times I have mentioned that some people have written to me that I am some kind of hero to them.
That's mindboggling, to be sure.
I'm the least heroic person I know.
When it comes to this cancer thing, all I did was what I figured every other person in the world would do...fight it with the help of God and the doctors. 
I mean, what choice did I have?

Far be it from me to roll over and play dead, or wait to die.  Not when there was a pretty good chance of beating this type of lymphoma.  Of the 43 types of this particular disease, I guess I must have had one of the easier types to lick with chemotherapy.  I dunno.  But I'm thankful that whatever one I had was one that the poisons could wipe out.
No matter what they did to the rest of me.

I am certainly no hero.  I cried, mostly right when the doctor told me I had pancreatic cancer.  I know for a fact that unless caught extremely early, there's little chance of a cure.  Those PSAs that Jimmy Carter and Matthew Modine have put out, and now William Hurt, well, they are pretty much doom and gloom.  And obviously, they let the world know that more money is needed to pay the doctors and scientists who are looking for a cure. 
When I heard that that was what I had, man, my whole world collapsed.  I might have died right there.  It would have been a whole lot easier than slowly dying from the cancer.  But, somehow, I just didn't think that was right.  I knew in my heart and my mind that something just didn't jive, that I couldn't die from that.  Nope, not me.
Even when that gruesomely smiling pain doctor visited and told me he'd keep me comfortable to the end (in months, cheer up, kiddo, you won't feel much) I just couldn't accept the thought of dying.  My kids.  My Mom.  The rest of my family and my friends.  Nope, I couldn't picture me telling them I was going to die.
Thankfully, I didn't have too much time to think about it.
After that awful news, why, Herb and I clutched each other and cried and worried, but I don't remember how the rest of the hours went.  I remember the pain guy coming in, and how I really disliked him but figured I'd better be nice so that when the end did come, he'd make sure it didn't hurt too much.
GOD.  Having to think of stuff like that.

Then my angel.  My angel came and took away all that fear.

And it was an angel, to be sure, because she turned out to be right.

And I was brave when they put the needles in me and through me.  I was brave when they carved out a bit of my pelvis for the marrow sample.  I was brave when I had my heart tested in some machine and I was brave (but pissed off) as I waited in the basement hallway while some other less fortunate person had a CT scan in my time.  Brave?
No.  Tolerant.
Brave is fighting off hordes of people with guns and swords or bombs or grenades.  Brave is hoisting the flag on Suribachi.  Brave is slogging through jungles.  Brave is watching someone you love die a horrible death but not letting on that you know they are dying.  Brave is helping the elderly with their daily chores.  Brave is donating body parts you can spare, but only just, to strangers.  Brave is so much more than tolerating something.

That is, I guess, what brave is to me.
But to someone else, maybe what I did or how I handled this latest crud really was brave.  Maybe it was something they thought they couldn't do themselves.
However, if they have not been in the same position as I was, they just wouldn't know.
Had they found themselves faced with the pain and ugliness and fear of cancer, maybe they would have responded in the exact same way.

After all, what choice is there?

Roll over and allow the disease to win without a fight?
Or fight with every last bit of strength one has within until the bitter end.
Bitter end.  Or sweet end.
You can't know what kind of end it will be unless you get there kicking and screaming and fighting with every ounce of anger and love and hate and fear inside you.

It should be there inside everyone.  I think it is.  I'm not special.  Yet it was in me, so I figure it is in everyone of us.

And I have news for everyone.  These last few days while I was waiting to hear how the PET scan went?  I was plenty scared.  I cried on Saturday while discussing the future with my husband.  I cried in my sleep.  I cried when I was alone and after each phone call I got from anybody asking if I knew how the test had come out.
I cried when I thought about dying and how everyone else would go on living without me and I wouldn't be there to see what was going on in their lives.  I felt hollow and alone and on the very edge of the end.
But that little Irene voice in my head wouldn't let me give up, no matter how low I felt.  Hah!

The character played by Alan Rickman in Galaxy Quest said it best.
"Never give up, never surrender."

Grrr!
Anybody reading this who doubts they have hero in them, I suggest you look a little harder.  A little deeper.
It's there.

I truly wish there were pets involved.
If somebody had given me a hamster to hold on to, or a guinea pig or a puppy, I'd have been a lot happier than I was.  I do suppose that I've voiced that opinion before, but this time, it would really have been nice because I was stuck in the machine a tad longer than I thought I was supposed to be, and I was stuck in the middle.
Claustrophobic people do not do well in that situation.

My right hand vein collapsed, so the guy, James, had to use the left hand.  Luckily, it worked.
I got the isotope or whatever radioactive stuff it is called then had to wait 45 minutes for it to travel through my body.  Then when in the machine (sans bra, which is pretty scary in itself) they had to stop something and start again when I was asked "where is your Hodgkins, Irene?"

I don't have Hodgkins.  I have NON-Hodgkins lymphoma...totally different.  Or supposedly.  So I told James that there was something located above the diaphragm but most of it was below the diaphragm, what I had been told by the oncologist.  That the mass was near the spleen and pancreas.

So he said he had to readjust the machine to cover more.

Somewhere in there I mentioned that this was sort of life or death for me...I don't think he got it, but well, to me, IT IS LIFE OR DEATH.
If there is something worse, or something more, and they can't treat it, well, let's face it, I'm dogfood.
Now, I don't like to think this way, but still and all, that glass is half empty all the time for Irene.
And I haven't seen any angels other than Dr. Khalid, and I'm not sure Muslims count as angels, not live, in the flesh ones, even if they are doctors bearing good news. 
As I told my brother on the phone this afternoon, I worry and it is what I happen to do best.

Remember the other day when I said to the primary doctor that I wanted somebody to tell me the cancer was all gone and that I was going to be all right?

 

I haven't changed my mind.

Yesterday I ended up at the Long Island Romance Writers' luncheon.
My friends got me there, propped me up and got me home safely.

Wow.
If I had been a bit more human, I would have been on top of the world.
Know how I managed?

I faked it.
I put on the persona of a human and acted my way through it all.
Actually, I didn't do too much talking, but I listened and eventually found the agent representatives I thought might possibly be interested in a book about cancer and pursued them.   Well, I dunno whether pursued it quite the right word, but I managed to wobble to where they were and waited to catch their attention and tried to speak coherently about what I'd been through lately.

Yeah, there are hundreds of memoirs of people who have fought cancer and either beat it or died and their relatives got their books published.
Yeah, I know how tough it is going to be to find someone who wants another book about cancer.
Yeah, I'm relying on my unique style and voice (if I still have it) and yeah, I haven't written anything worthwhile since I got sick and even my kid says I've lost it.
But, yeah, I have to do something about this cancer thing...kick it in the teeth as it were by writing a sharp, nasty, ballsy review of all the crud I have had to endure for the past six months.

That's my goal.  Kick the Hitler-cancer in the nuts and bring it down.
Hey, I can't find a cure, I can't lay my  hands on other people and heal them, but I can make them laugh and let them know what they  might be in for should they be stricken by lymphoma.
Damn.
I want to do SOMETHING positive.

I don't want to have lost all my beautiful hair for nothing.

"Let's get out of here, Clopidogera!"  If it were possible, Acdurian waxed paler than his normal faintly blue look.  He actually reached out and grabbed my arm.
Which resulted in the largest trogu bounding over to us and puffing up, I forget what you call the stance, but the one where the animal enlarges itself to frighten off enemies.
So, my guide unhands me and takes quite a few steps back, leaving me face to face with this huge ape-like creature, which, I may add, was breathing hot breath on me which smelled just like bananas.  I ducked my head slightly and smiled, not showing my teeth.
I don't know why I did that, I think you're supposed to do that to dogs to show them you're not afraid or something.
But, I was afraid.
This guy could crush me as easily as it crushed rocks and dug out crystals with its gigantic hands.
Hands that were twitching in front of its chest.
Hands that were--signing.
Holy Crap!

Lemme remember!  Lemme remember it all!  Thank you Miss Clancy for teaching us signing in sixth grade, but please, wherever you are, let me remember!!!

Fingers crossed.  R
Two fingers straight up.  U
Little finger up then swooped down.  J

R U J.
Are you...J?

Oh, shit.  J.  Jennifer.
Good old "mother" strikes again.
But, in a way, at least she did something good.  I think.

I shook my head.  And signed...what do you sign to a gigantic gorilla-like creature?  I took a deep breath and shook my head again.  NO.  J.
Lemme see what could I say?
No.  J.  Baby.  Like an idiot, I cradled my arms and swung them. 
Got a grunt from the trogu and a display of yellow teeth.

But he didn't eat me.
So, I pointed to myself (my signing is really, really limited to the alphabet and primitive signs, I swear) and made the sign for "C".

He copied it, then turned back to his mates and signed it again, with more signing too quick for me to pick up.

These trogu weren't the dumb creatures Acdurian said they were, that's for sure.

I was about to try to get into some sort of conversation, as limited as it might be (I'm not sure what one would converse with a twenty foot tall gorilla apeman about, but I was willing to give it a go) but one of the natives appeared, shouting and when he got no response from the trogu, he pulled this gigantic bullwhip from his belt and started snapping it.  The trogu cringed and stepped back.
My gut wrenched at the sight.  Here these gigantic creatures who could rip this guy's head completely off his neck with a tweak of their foot long fingers, cowered at the crack of a whip.
Once again, I get a bad feeling, but what can I do right now?

I join Acdurian who is suddenly in a big hurry to get me out of the mine.
I walked slowly, though, past heaps of small yellow crystals and discarded clear crystals and assorted gemstones, taking in as much as I can.  There's too much to be missed.  Too much to take in, as usual, but I have a feeling I need to remember everything I see and hear.
The crack of the whip stopped, and there were some shuffling and grunting, but the native never came back out.  He did stop shouting, though, and I guess everything went back to the way it had been before we got there.

We were presented with our horses and Acdurian wasted no time mounting up and moving me right along.
Once we were away from the mine, I caught up with my guide and casually asked where we ought to go next.

"You've seen the mines.  You've seen the village and our home.  Don't you think that's enough for one day?"  He managed a very small, tight smile.
"Actually," I ventured, "what's on the other side of the island?  Is there a beach?"
"Yes."
"Let's go there, and let the horses run in the waves."
"Whyever would they do that?"
The guy is so bloody thick.  "Oh, I've seen it on television back home.  It looks like fun.  Real California."
Okay, I can be incredibly lame myself.  I wanted to get him away from people, from the sight of the palace, the mine, the native population, so perhaps I could get some honest answers from him.
Acdurian gave me his weirded out uncomprehending look but turned Larry west, heading probably where I asked to go.  It wasn't long before I could hear surf and smell salt air.  My heart lifted a little, just like it always does when I'm near the beach.

And the first sight of the Atlantic was breathtaking.  We came upon it from a bluff.  All the right stuff was there, dune grass, sand, breakers and sea foam and the glorious green blue of the ocean.  I pulled Hot Stuff up and rose in the stirrups, inhaling long and deep.  Ahh.  This was all right.
Both Hot Stuff and even old Larry seemed to enjoy the run in the waves.  Even Acdurian, the most glum guy I'd ever run in to , cracked a smile or two. 
But back on the sand, walking the horses slowly, he got all serious again and started talking. How was I to explain California and TV?  Ulp.  Then he hit me with an even bigger question.
"Clopidogera, back in the mine...with the trogu...you seemed to be rather sympathetic to them."
Hmm?
"I don't know what you mean."
He cleared his throat.  "What I mean is, that I observed that you seemed to...try to communicate with them.  What was that business with your fingers?"

He didn't know.  He thought they were simply dumb beasts, incapable of thought or communication other than their grunts and basic animal stuff.
Should I tell him?

I think not.
Maybe I'll keep this to myself for a bit.  Dunno why.

"I get along well with all kinds of animals.  Smiling, speaking softly, reading their body language, it helps.  No big deal.  They're rather sweet, though, to work so hard and not complain."
He made some sort of weird sound in his throat, but said nothing more.

The sun was high overhead.  I was getting hungry but there wasn't any surprise picnic basket tucked anywhere I could see.    Acdurian got the horses to circle the beach which actually circled the volcano, and brought us up to the other side of the island.  Palm trees and thickly leaved tropical foliage rimmed the dunes which soon gave way to more stable ground and when we rounded a bend, I stopped Hot Stuff and gasped.

Acres of burnt trees, blackened stumps ranged before me.  A forest fire in the jungle? 
Acdurian pulled back and turned Larry to come back for me.
"What's this?  Fire?  You allow fire to run through the jungle?  Aren't you afraid for your town?"
He shrugged, something he's very good at.  "This is how the Master makes charcoal.  It is all quite organized and contained.  No need for anyone to fear."
"Boy, you guys must do a lot of grilling."
"What?"
Thinking out loud, I always seem to do that lately.
"You must like to cook your food over the charcoal, right?"
Acdurian laughed.  "Cook over charcoal?  The master uses the charcoal for his experiements, as he calls them.  The one where he blends the charcoal with the yellow crystal and that awful powder the natives scrape from the caves that harbor the bats."
"Bats?" What could the old jerk need guano for?  Fertilizer?  Made no sense.
"Yes.  There are many caves where the bats rest.  Nasty places.  We Atlanteans never go near them.  Such an unpleasant odor.  And we dislike unpleasantness of any kind."
"I'm sure."  Yeah, they don't really like much of anything, now, do they?  Animals, guano, noise, cruelty, natives, trogu.  Which reminded me...
"How did your people find the trogu, Acdurian?"  We rode on, past the burnt stands, into a lovely green meadow with a stream running through it.

"Science.  Ungodly Atlantean science, according to the master.  He is always talking about god, his god.  The god he has made the natives worship.   And science, his science?  It is not nearly as good as Atlantean science...used to be."
"Is there no more Atlantean science, then?"
"Only what the master has been able to realize.  Most of it was long lost until he appeared in Opar.  And he has a great mind, don't get me wrong.  But he doesn't know half of what he needs to know to make all the devices work."
I touched the time travel device tucked in my belt.  He sure figured out how to use that, though, didn't he, smart guy.  And if the Atlanteans were so smart, how come the whole continent blew up and left you few to survive? 
The horses had steadily been climbing up the steep slope of the mountain.  I'd been so involved in my thoughts and trying to figure out how to ask my questions of my guide and not get his casual shrug that I hadn't been paying much attention.  Hot Stuff and I had actually passed Acdurian on the path.  When I looked back, he had stopped and was checking his stirrup or something, so I just let Hot Stuff do her thing.
And then, I don't know what happened, but old Hot Stuff had stopped short and I went flying over her head into...nothing.

copyright 2009, Irene Peterson

Okay, so I went to the primary physician to get my thrush checked out. It's okay, he still wants me to continue some of the meds just to make sure it's all gone.  He's a good guy and even though the meds are tedious, okay, I want to get this crap over with.

So, he says to me...all in all, what do you say your health is right now?
I thought about it and said, I think I'm about at 65%.

Then I said...you know, all I want is for somebody to tell me--Irene, you're gonna be all right.  You are cured.  Yay!  Let's celebrate.  We'll have a party.

He scrunched his face up and said, in typical doctor manner, well, no one can tell you that, because often times you get rid of one thing and something else happens, like you get done with a full cardio test and walk out the door and die of a heart attack.

Gee, Ron, that was encouraging.
But, you know, that is truly what I want.  I want somebody to say, "Irene, the cancer is gone.  The cancer is all gone and the chemotherapy did its job and you're gonna live."

Yes, oh, yes.  Live! 
There's all this stuff I have to do.
I have these books, these stories I have to get down and out to the public, not just to my Mom, who is my biggest fan.  I have these kids to see settled and happy.  I have Herb...I can't leave him alone.  He'd be so bored.  (Unless he buys a Camaro with my insurance policy and goes ramblin'.)  He'd be lonely. 

I HOPE.

Yes.  The cancer is gone.  You are in remission.  You are cancer free.  You ain't gonna die this time.
Most important.  You ain't gonna die this time.

My older brother and I were talking about cheating death the other week.  He survived Vietnam and untold horrors and I remember all the little marks he had on his person when he came home, home to our house first before going South.  It was a day or so in the real world.  He had all these marks all over his arms and legs. 
He said they were the marks left by bullet grazes.
Jesus.

He does have a warped sense of humor, and he was pretty weirded out right when he came home (It was like hours, or a day or so, not much more out of the battlefield.)  But, ya know, I do know he survived hell.  So, add those things to his heart attack/subseqent bypass surgery and I am willing to bet there are things he has survived I know nothing about, I guess he's cheated death pretty much.

Me too.

The car crash.
The first cancer.
Now this crap.

That's enough, thank you very much.
Yep, God, that's enough.

Oh, yeah, btw, thanks for all the help!

Today started off poorly.  I didn't get much sleep last night and so woke up feeling kinda bad.
Nothing really happened to make things better except for Pauline (the doll!!!) showing up with her lovely chicken tetrazine and salad and bread and dressing for us to eat.  Considering I know I will be able to taste this, I am a happy camper.

My mouth is not cooperating as it should, however, because of this junk.  The meds I am supposed to take five times a day and let dissolve line my mouth with a plastic-like film and while the tongue does not look like a rock that hasn't been moved in eons, it has this covering on it and no taste buds except for sweet.

For example.
Herb made sausage patties for breakfast, asked me if I'd like to try.  So I ate one.  Took a bite and felt the rough texture on my tongue but no taste.  So I chewed it and as I swallowed, I could taste it, sort of.  Not whilst in my mouth, though, whilst on the way down the hatch.  Sadly disappointed, I settled for yogurt and fruit cocktail for breakfast, which tasted real
Tea didn't taste good, but I had to take my regular pills with something wet.

For lunch, I thought, stupidly, that I would be able to taste some of the left over pizza Elyse brought home from the famous Chimney Rock Inn where she went last night.  It was pepperoni and mushroom. I couldn't even detect any cheese on it, but the crust was horrible (to me) as it was cracker thin and whole wheat.  Bleah. Whoever thought up THAT idiocy???

No good.  My stomach is roiling.  I'm freakin' hungry.  But the mouth is not cooperating fully.

Herb had planned on making a seafood supper for us tonight.  I know I can taste shrimp now, don't know what else he was going to make, but I think he mentioned some of these giant scallops, which I also know I should be able to taste.

Yes!
Please!  I deliberately haven't taken any of those dissolving pills since noon. I would like to try to eat something with taste today. It's been eons!
I'll do them later, sort of.

And, Pauline's masterpiece will serve as dinner tomorrow because Elyse's college roommate is coming for a visit and it will save Herb from having to come up with something large to eat.

Thank you, Pauline.  I hope seeing me in the hats and laughing was a partial repayment for your kindness.  The scale is certainly not balanced.

See?  All it takes is a trip to the doctor's and some meds and I feel so much better than I did when I thought I was going to die.
Evidently, now this is again Irene's version of what was wrong with me, there is this stuff in your mouth, necessary to keep it going right and all, that the doctor referred to as "flora".  Like the stuff in your guts and all that you definitely need to keep digesting and all that healthy stuff.
Well, the chemo, in one last wicked shot at me, decided to totally wipe out this flora stuff and it went as far as all the way back in my throat.
My tongue looked like--no, I don't want to use that visual.  Just figure out that it looked corroded and covered with yellowish gook that would not go away no matter how much I spit.

So, the doc, who is a sweetie, btw, a major in the Air Reserve or National Guard or something, listens to me patiently.  He is a very patient guy.  He listened to me go on and on about how lousy I felt, talking with my Helen Keller tongue, and he writes two prescriptions for me.
One I have to dissolve a tablet in my mouth five times a day then swallow the liquid (thank heaven it has no bad taste) and the other is the exact same pill one gets for vaginal yeast infections.

Don't bother going there.  It is too horrifying.

Yes.  This is a yeast infection, just like you might get after taking heavy duty antibiotics for something else, then your female parts revolt because you've managed to kill off those necessary good bugs down there with the antibiotics.

Okay, if I have to spell it out, it's the same stuff you get for crotchrot!!!!!

Whenever I try to be polite, it never works.  Got get get crude to be understood by the masses.

But, okay, it's one day later and I feel better.  Not 100%, to be sure, as the chemo is still wreaking havoc on my bod, but the mouth is better.  It hurts to swallow because the back of my throat is sore as hell, but that, too, will pass.

As for the cold and the junk in my lungs, that appears to be breaking up, also!  Hallelujah!
I have a prescription for an antibiotic for that, but I'm afraid that if I take THAT, I'll kill off all the good stuff in my mouth and BLAM~~~I'll be right back where I started from.
Now, the object of this exercise is to go forward, right??
We're getting out of this mess and getting healthy and back on our feet, right?????

Please, please, let's get better fast.
I have places to go, people to impress and books to write~~~~~!

I've felt better.
Still shaky, still scared to walk the ten steps to the bathroom in case I fall and hurt myself even more.
I feel pukey, too, even with all the Emend in me.

Today is supposed to be a gift from God.  The sun is shining, not a cloud in the sky, nice gentle breeze.  Oh, how I wish I were down the shore...even just to be THERE, not even at the beach.
I dunno what's wrong with me, but THE SHORE has become this little bit of Nirvana or something, some place to aspire to be.  I'm going mental.

My cheeks are aflame.
I have no eyelashes.
I look so strange.  That person in the mirror can't be me.  She's so ugly, and old, and bald, and dangling. 

Here's a secret.
Yes, my chemo is over.  I cannot get any  more chemo ever again.  I'm undergoing the same old bad stuff that follows the poisoning.  I know it won't happen to me again, that all I have to do is wait out these next pathetic days, undergo the tongue thing and the no taste thing or the bad taste thing and the rockiness in my step and everything else.
And I still don't know whether I'm going to live through this.
That bothers me.
The secret?
I'm afraid.
I'm afraid it is all for nothing.

This can't be all there is.
(I'm down so far, everything looks up to me.)

Okay, my  hair is growing back.
Just the teensiest bit, but I have this disturbance on my formerly naked head and it's prickly in parts and soft as down in others.

The other day I heard on some television program that your hair grows a half inch every month.
Wow.  That gives me something to shoot for.

I'm almost at the point where I can taste food.  Herb made me some scrambled eggs and cottage cheese for breakfast along with a piece of bacon and a nearly toasted English muffin, but that was soggy and the bacon was too rough for my tongue still.  At least I got the protein and carb bit.  What I need is fiber, sort of.  Not really, as the poison seems to take care of that situation readily enough.

Which, in no real segue whatsoever, brings me to the documentary on tv tonight in which Farrah Fawcett is going to show the world her cancer suffering.
At first, I was pretty pissed off about this.  She's famous and she's dying and she still has her hair and she's been fighting this cancer for a long time. Right now, they've got her "comfortable" and not exactly in remission because she's going to die from this, but she's holding it off from getting any worse.  Whatever that means.

Truly.  She's going to die from this.  No matter what.  I may have misunderstood, but I thought they said she had anal cancer.  Good Lord, no.  Maybe it was as Herb said, that it was pancreatic cancer. 
No matter what kind of cancer it is, she's going to die from it and it is painful and if her going on tv and showing the world what she's going through (I totally empathize with this) and if it gets one person to go to the doc to check out a lump or bump or pain or just feeling lousy, and the doc discovers a cancer and it is caught early and that person goes on to live a real productive life, Farrah's suffering will not have been in vain.

Go Farrah.

While we are the same age and I was never nearly as "hot" as you and I didn't have a poster and a tv show, well, I always thought you were neat and even when you went weird on Letterman, you had reasons.  I understand and feel for what you're going through and I wish it didn't have to happen to you and maybe something good will happen before you reach the inevitable end.

Anybody reading this, please if you don't watch the documentary tonight, at least, think about getting a check up and if you have a lump or bump or pain, don't hesitate to get it checked out.
It's not just boobs.  It's not even painful sometimes. 
But it is deadly.

Go get a check up.

If not for yourself, for the people who love you.

Today I have experienced some pain, like that shouldn't have happened. These patches suck. On my back, they stick to my clothing and roll. I don't want to use the Ultracet until bedtime. I hate being juiced up. I hate this feeling in my belly. I really hate this cancer.
If hatred could wipe it out, it would have been gone the day I learned I had it.

I know hatred is wrong. Against people, I guess. But I think it is okay to hate evil, and cancer is evil. It was okay to hate Hitler. I think it ought to be perfectly okay to hate cancer and to wish it dead, right?

Okay, okay, there were two highlights to today.

I had some cheesecake and it didn't kill me. It tasted good and gooey and creamy.

I also had one of those big pretzels. I could taste it, too.

My tongue has not gone kaput yet. We got this magic mouthwash to use for when it goes and it hasn't gone yet. Last time, it was day five and today is day five and still....
That gross hollowness in the stomach is here, and the bad water is here and the pain is here. But watch, I wake up tomorrow morning, God willing, and the tongue will be gross and everything else will be magnified.

The evil cancer demon getting back at me for comparing it to Hitler.

If cancer could be anthromorphized, it would look just like Hitler. I know this.

Also today, I have developed a longing to pet a dog.

I'm going to try blogging about what goes on in my life. The ultimate adventure?
Not hardly. I'd rather do something else or go somewhere wonderful, instead I am haunted by drugged dreams in black and blue and a real world that isn't right any more.

Not today. I have to get some meds and see another doctor today, but I'll see Jennifer the NP and she's always an up for me.

I also may chop off my hair. MY HAIR. Before it ends up on my pillow.

Guess I'll never have to wonder what my head looks like in a little while. I just don't want to look like some kind of male appendage. Ew.