C. came over to visit toward the end of my cooking operation last Sunday. He thought he was coming down with something and brought along the elderberry and umcka I gave him so I could dose him. After he was home again, he left me a very sweet message.
On Monday, Lesley and I took a very nice and long walk at Crissy Field, followed by lunch at Pluto’s off Chestnut Street. In the late afternoon, Tom and I had dinner at We Be Sushi. Lovely day.
Tuesday at work, I wrote a VBA module that pops open a box in Excel that asks, “Is your name Bozo?” and if you click yes, it says, “I must be psychic!” This is basically the first exercise in John Walkenbach’s Excel VBA Programming for Dummies and it was very satisfying. Igby liked it, too.
I went to Howie’s in the evening and stood at the doorway to greet people, as I often do. When C. arrived, he called excitedly, “Linda!” I gave him a hug and a kiss or two on the cheek and he said warmly, “You’re an excellent greeter.” We walked home together afterward.
I was starting to get steamed, literally and figuratively, about the new hormonal landscape. Is there no end to estrogen’s sheer hatefulness? First decades of horrendously painful cramps and the occasional embarrassing accident: “Is that really a huge glob of bright red blood on my host’s white shag bathroom rug?” (Though, in my own defense, is it really a good idea to put a white shag rug in a bathroom?)
Then ten years of dysfunctional bleeding, four surgeries, estrogen-positive breast cancer, and now approximately one hot flash per hour all day long. I went online to find out how long this is going to last, and the Internet said five or ten years, or forever, or, then again, just two years and of course some people don’t have this symptom at all, either naturally or due to treatment choices. Even two years sounds terrible. It’s only been a month or so and I’m already completely sick of the whole thing.
And it’s not just hot flashes. Everyone’s heard of those, but I hadn’t had an inkling of the deep freeze that often comes after. As with human-caused climate change, it’s not so much global warming as extremes of weather.
Online I immediately found people talking about both hot flashes and cold flashes. Of course, you can go on estrogen to relieve this symptom, but not if you’ve had estrogen-positive breast cancer, and I also don’t want to eat or swallow anything that mimics the effects of estrogen. I found myself irritable with C. on the phone last night. It seemed unreasonable that I have to go through this and he doesn’t, and in fact, as an actual shortcoming on his part, but this morning I decided I will rise to the occasion.
This is feeling extremely warm. Then very cold. Then extremely warm. Then very cold. It’s not having my throat slit in broad daylight on a public thoroughfare in some other country. Sometimes when I’m having a hard time, I wish myself ease with whatever it is: May I find ease in this period of difficulty. May I find ease in my irritation. May I find ease in my unease. So: may I find ease in this jolly warmth. May I find ease in this refreshing cool.
It will be important to relax my mind and body, and I also added a new practice to my downtown metta practice, which has been to silently send good wishes to those I see as I walk: “May you be happy. I love you.” It sounds artificial, but give it a try. If nothing else, consciously noticing other pedestrians calms the mind, as consciously noticing anything does. To combat the ill will arising in this period, no pun intended, of vanishing estrogen, my new and additional practice is to say good morning to fellow cyclists. Yesterday morning I said good morning to two and, weirdly, they both turned out to be super-friendly people with charming smiles! (I suppose all the others were jerks.)
I met with Takworth in the afternoon to go over a task he’d given me. He’d sent a screen shot to use as a reference, but it didn’t seem to match anything I was seeing. We went through it in detail and he realized what the problem was: “Oh, I see—a step is missing here. No wonder you were confused.”
I replied, “Well, my confusion goes beyond that, but thank you for saying that,” and he chuckled. He is turning out to be the agreeable, relaxed yet engaged boss Igby said he was. He might end up being the best manager I’ve ever had. Takworth knows every detail of what we’re doing and regularly does a lot of it himself. This means he can help us with any technical question or procedural question, and it also is motivating.
He showed what he does to generate a report for a single application. It involves a tremendous amount of manual effort, and we have a total of 65 applications. “Holy moly,” I thought, “I’d better do everything I can to make Takworth’s life easier.”
I also am feeling extremely inspired by the thought of our customers, those people for whom I spared no more than two thoughts per year in the past. I didn’t have anything against them, I just didn’t think about them one way or the other. But now that I’m poring over every corporate communication carefully, watching the company videos, reading the press releases and poking around our website, I think about our customers all the time and can now say they are the reason I am doing my best to do an excellent job. To be clear, I’m doing the job at all to get a paycheck, but I’m doing it excellently for them. I actually almost got weepy yesterday thinking about our customers as I watched a video about our company's values.
These extravagant emotions are a menopause-related benefit! I actually then sent a co-worker an email suggesting that she go online and watch the values thing. Who is this person I now see in the mirror? “Hey, guys—did you hear what the boss said?! Isn’t he so right?!”
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Prosperity Hens All Around
After finding the bike rack full in the subterranean dungeon across the street from work, I’ve moved on to a place a block away which is working out great, and I don’t think it takes any longer to get to and from, since I don’t have to tunnel down into the earth’s depths to get to it.
Per my new professional fervor, I did on Tuesday attend a meeting given by a boss several levels above me, and stayed on the line for the entire hour, and listened to approximately 50 percent of what was said. I also took notes on the meeting as it progressed, checked my email, wished I could go to the bathroom, and looked at the company’s IM system to see what my co-workers were up to. I noticed that Igby was in a meeting, ditto our boss, Takworth. And so were our four other team members. They were all in a meeting without me! Hmm, talking about me, saying what a huge mistake it was to hire me? Nah, that’s paranoid. Probably some meeting that happens every month with some manager or other, the contents of which would be meaningless to me and to which I could contribute nothing. Still, it felt a little strange to be excluded.
Can you guess what meeting they all were in? You are correct. I guess people do actually go to these things.
Menopause-related symptoms are picking up, making everything seem harder. Besides six or eight hot flashes a day, I feel markedly dizzy once or twice a day, as if the room is spinning, and I feel nauseous at times, and am parched. I normally drink quite a bit of water, and now even more, but my mouth always seems dry. At first the hot flashes weren’t bothersome—it’s nice to be cozy and warm, right? But now they’re starting to seem unpleasant, not to mention the lingering deep chill they often leave in their wake.
I saw Deborah, my mental health professional, on Thursday about some childhood stuff I can see is getting triggered by C., or by the way C. and I interact, as evidenced by disproportionately strong reactions. Plus I think there must be hormones, or lack thereof, in the mix.
Fortunately, being aware of these factors means the actual experience is not compounded by believing each thought that arises. Plus this seems to be a fruitful opportunity to grieve some old pains, so it’s probably all to the good. My practice this week was to ask myself frequently, “What is this emotion? How does it feel?” The answer was almost always that I felt sad. After a few days of this, it dawned on me that sadness, as physically experienced, makes a not unagreeable companion—it’s peaceful, even relaxing. I made a point of not thinking about the future or making a lot of decisions, and it ended up being kind of a nice experience, yet another bolstering reminder that I can be with feelings.
On Friday I arrived at work feeling just superb—Monday! The thrilling start of a fabulous new week! A clean slate to inscribe as I wish! When I saw Olga, one of the lobby security guards, she wished me a happy Friday. “Thank you,” I said. “It’s Monday, but I appreciate the good wishes.” But of course it was Friday, which was still OK—only a few days to go until the workweek starts again! (I guess it seemed like Monday because I had worked from home the day before.)
All this jovial good cheer reminded me that, once again, something good had followed something bad. A period of gloom and difficulty giving way to one where everything seems wonderful, light and easy.
That evening, C. and I had a cozy and companionable dinner at Santaneca. Later I went home and took a shower, emerging to find Hammett dashing back and forth clawing the air. I gathered from his frenzied progress through the apartment that some manner of insect had breached the perimeter.
Yesterday I reorganized my closet to make room for work clothes, and meditated for an hour. I got a couple of nice calls from C. early on, and I talked to Mom. C. called again later when I was on the phone with N. I asked if he wanted to come with me to Noe Valley to do some errands, but he was thinking of doing some shopping. I said I’d call him when I was off the phone, but it was quite a long chat, and he was out by then.
It was a gorgeous day and I really enjoyed walking around doing my tasks. After I left the final place, I checked my messages and there was one from C., having trouble signing up for an email list. I called him back and went over there with a gift of some prosperity hens from the Global Exchange store for him—he’d admired the ones he saw at my place—which he was delighted by.
Our time together was splendid. C. and I hung out at his place in the afternoon and in the evening, we went to La Santaneca. Afterward, we sat on his couch and read poetry to each other. I called him when I got home to let him know I’d arrived safely, and he responded with such lovely, affectionate words. A magical day.
Per my new professional fervor, I did on Tuesday attend a meeting given by a boss several levels above me, and stayed on the line for the entire hour, and listened to approximately 50 percent of what was said. I also took notes on the meeting as it progressed, checked my email, wished I could go to the bathroom, and looked at the company’s IM system to see what my co-workers were up to. I noticed that Igby was in a meeting, ditto our boss, Takworth. And so were our four other team members. They were all in a meeting without me! Hmm, talking about me, saying what a huge mistake it was to hire me? Nah, that’s paranoid. Probably some meeting that happens every month with some manager or other, the contents of which would be meaningless to me and to which I could contribute nothing. Still, it felt a little strange to be excluded.
Can you guess what meeting they all were in? You are correct. I guess people do actually go to these things.
Menopause-related symptoms are picking up, making everything seem harder. Besides six or eight hot flashes a day, I feel markedly dizzy once or twice a day, as if the room is spinning, and I feel nauseous at times, and am parched. I normally drink quite a bit of water, and now even more, but my mouth always seems dry. At first the hot flashes weren’t bothersome—it’s nice to be cozy and warm, right? But now they’re starting to seem unpleasant, not to mention the lingering deep chill they often leave in their wake.
I saw Deborah, my mental health professional, on Thursday about some childhood stuff I can see is getting triggered by C., or by the way C. and I interact, as evidenced by disproportionately strong reactions. Plus I think there must be hormones, or lack thereof, in the mix.
Fortunately, being aware of these factors means the actual experience is not compounded by believing each thought that arises. Plus this seems to be a fruitful opportunity to grieve some old pains, so it’s probably all to the good. My practice this week was to ask myself frequently, “What is this emotion? How does it feel?” The answer was almost always that I felt sad. After a few days of this, it dawned on me that sadness, as physically experienced, makes a not unagreeable companion—it’s peaceful, even relaxing. I made a point of not thinking about the future or making a lot of decisions, and it ended up being kind of a nice experience, yet another bolstering reminder that I can be with feelings.
On Friday I arrived at work feeling just superb—Monday! The thrilling start of a fabulous new week! A clean slate to inscribe as I wish! When I saw Olga, one of the lobby security guards, she wished me a happy Friday. “Thank you,” I said. “It’s Monday, but I appreciate the good wishes.” But of course it was Friday, which was still OK—only a few days to go until the workweek starts again! (I guess it seemed like Monday because I had worked from home the day before.)
All this jovial good cheer reminded me that, once again, something good had followed something bad. A period of gloom and difficulty giving way to one where everything seems wonderful, light and easy.
That evening, C. and I had a cozy and companionable dinner at Santaneca. Later I went home and took a shower, emerging to find Hammett dashing back and forth clawing the air. I gathered from his frenzied progress through the apartment that some manner of insect had breached the perimeter.
Yesterday I reorganized my closet to make room for work clothes, and meditated for an hour. I got a couple of nice calls from C. early on, and I talked to Mom. C. called again later when I was on the phone with N. I asked if he wanted to come with me to Noe Valley to do some errands, but he was thinking of doing some shopping. I said I’d call him when I was off the phone, but it was quite a long chat, and he was out by then.
It was a gorgeous day and I really enjoyed walking around doing my tasks. After I left the final place, I checked my messages and there was one from C., having trouble signing up for an email list. I called him back and went over there with a gift of some prosperity hens from the Global Exchange store for him—he’d admired the ones he saw at my place—which he was delighted by.
Our time together was splendid. C. and I hung out at his place in the afternoon and in the evening, we went to La Santaneca. Afterward, we sat on his couch and read poetry to each other. I called him when I got home to let him know I’d arrived safely, and he responded with such lovely, affectionate words. A magical day.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Particularly Loud Executive
At work, I wear a pair of Naot ankle boots, each of which has two zippers, so there is quite a jingling sound, which has started to make me feel self-conscious in that supremely silent place. I went online to find out what to do and saw that one clever fellow had applied heat shrink tubing to his loud zippers (that is, to the tabs, not the entire zippers) to good effect.
I gave Tom a call. “Don’t lie to me, T. Do you or don’t you have a heat gun?” He claimed not to, so I went to the hardware store and described my problem. The guy there said his first suggestion would be that I simply walk with an increased swagger at work and consider the jingling sound to be a sign of my own elevated status, but if I didn’t want to do that, he liked the heat shrink tubing idea, but said a hair dryer would suffice and that a heat gun might damage my shoes.
I gave Tom another call. “Don’t lie to me, T. Do you or don’t you have a blow dryer?”
He didn’t, so I borrowed one from the couple that has the baby, but it actually didn’t do the trick. I think I’ll just buy another pair of shoes for work. Then I’ll have a nice pair of shoes for both home and work, which doesn’t seem excessive.
I moved on to thinking about bikes. Sometimes lately when I swing my leg over the saddle to mount my bike, my leg barely clears it, leading to worrisome visions of falling down with the bike on top of me: embarrassing! This morning, I called Tom, who is Mr. Buy and Sell Bicycles, to see what he thinks of Public Image bikes. I think they’re beautiful, but are they any good?
“Don’t lie to me, T.,” I began in my new standard greeting, which seems to be an effective deterrent against blatant mendacity, at least in Tom. He said he’s also had that near-inability to swing his leg over his bike a time or two lately, which made me feel better.
“Maybe it’s time to get a girl’s bike,” I said.
“Step-through,” he corrected, and said he has heard the Public Image bikes are good, solid city transportation. There’s a big store full of them a few blocks from here. I might go there.
I’ve gotten a better sense of what my job is lately: helping applications with business continuity planning (BCP—how operations are restored after a disaster) and quality assurance testing. When this sank in, I felt a little gloomy: will I learn anything in this job? Maybe my more purely technical job was a lot more fun; maybe I’ve made a mistake here.
But then I remembered how much I love to nitpick over the accuracy of information of no interest to virtually anyone on earth. Besides my QA background, I think my version control skills will come in handy, plus liking to do documentation and training. Plus there’s what my boss, Takworth, said about learning Visual Basic. The job will be technical to some extent, and in general, I plan to learn absolutely anything I have a chance to.
Whereas I immediately deleted all corporate communications received in the past and attended no conference call held by anyone above my own boss—I mean, like, never—I now am poring over every email carefully and looking up people and groups on the company website. People here are obsessed with hierarchy. As soon as you meet someone, he or she says, “I work for so-and-so, in so-and-so’s organization.” What does that even mean? I never had any idea, including not having any idea what organization I myself was in. Now, for the first time in 14 years, I actually understand where my group fits into the larger scheme of things, and have some sense of how the various pieces go together. These names I’ve heard invoked with reverence or respect (or fear or irritation) all these years now mean something to me.
Since I haven’t been given any particular assignment, it’s been easy for me to keep my mouth shut at team meetings, which is just as well. There is nothing more annoying than a new person who tries to take over immediately or leaps in with a lot of uninformed suggestions. I’ve just been biding my time, taking classes, getting a sense of things.
I asked C. this morning if he went to Sacred Grounds last night for an evening of poetry, but no—he’d had quite an adventure. He changed pants before leaving for an appointment, and forgot he’d already put his keys in the pocket of the first pants. When he arrived home to find he didn’t have his keys, having forgotten about the change of pants, he retraced his entire route looking for the keys, and even visited some places he hadn’t gone to, ending up at his roommate’s parents’ place, where he certainly hadn’t been. The roommate’s father gave him a ride home and there he lay down outside his apartment door and waited until 10:30 p.m. for his roommate to come home. I felt bad for him.
I gave Tom a call. “Don’t lie to me, T. Do you or don’t you have a heat gun?” He claimed not to, so I went to the hardware store and described my problem. The guy there said his first suggestion would be that I simply walk with an increased swagger at work and consider the jingling sound to be a sign of my own elevated status, but if I didn’t want to do that, he liked the heat shrink tubing idea, but said a hair dryer would suffice and that a heat gun might damage my shoes.
I gave Tom another call. “Don’t lie to me, T. Do you or don’t you have a blow dryer?”
He didn’t, so I borrowed one from the couple that has the baby, but it actually didn’t do the trick. I think I’ll just buy another pair of shoes for work. Then I’ll have a nice pair of shoes for both home and work, which doesn’t seem excessive.
I moved on to thinking about bikes. Sometimes lately when I swing my leg over the saddle to mount my bike, my leg barely clears it, leading to worrisome visions of falling down with the bike on top of me: embarrassing! This morning, I called Tom, who is Mr. Buy and Sell Bicycles, to see what he thinks of Public Image bikes. I think they’re beautiful, but are they any good?
“Don’t lie to me, T.,” I began in my new standard greeting, which seems to be an effective deterrent against blatant mendacity, at least in Tom. He said he’s also had that near-inability to swing his leg over his bike a time or two lately, which made me feel better.
“Maybe it’s time to get a girl’s bike,” I said.
“Step-through,” he corrected, and said he has heard the Public Image bikes are good, solid city transportation. There’s a big store full of them a few blocks from here. I might go there.
I’ve gotten a better sense of what my job is lately: helping applications with business continuity planning (BCP—how operations are restored after a disaster) and quality assurance testing. When this sank in, I felt a little gloomy: will I learn anything in this job? Maybe my more purely technical job was a lot more fun; maybe I’ve made a mistake here.
But then I remembered how much I love to nitpick over the accuracy of information of no interest to virtually anyone on earth. Besides my QA background, I think my version control skills will come in handy, plus liking to do documentation and training. Plus there’s what my boss, Takworth, said about learning Visual Basic. The job will be technical to some extent, and in general, I plan to learn absolutely anything I have a chance to.
Whereas I immediately deleted all corporate communications received in the past and attended no conference call held by anyone above my own boss—I mean, like, never—I now am poring over every email carefully and looking up people and groups on the company website. People here are obsessed with hierarchy. As soon as you meet someone, he or she says, “I work for so-and-so, in so-and-so’s organization.” What does that even mean? I never had any idea, including not having any idea what organization I myself was in. Now, for the first time in 14 years, I actually understand where my group fits into the larger scheme of things, and have some sense of how the various pieces go together. These names I’ve heard invoked with reverence or respect (or fear or irritation) all these years now mean something to me.
Since I haven’t been given any particular assignment, it’s been easy for me to keep my mouth shut at team meetings, which is just as well. There is nothing more annoying than a new person who tries to take over immediately or leaps in with a lot of uninformed suggestions. I’ve just been biding my time, taking classes, getting a sense of things.
I asked C. this morning if he went to Sacred Grounds last night for an evening of poetry, but no—he’d had quite an adventure. He changed pants before leaving for an appointment, and forgot he’d already put his keys in the pocket of the first pants. When he arrived home to find he didn’t have his keys, having forgotten about the change of pants, he retraced his entire route looking for the keys, and even visited some places he hadn’t gone to, ending up at his roommate’s parents’ place, where he certainly hadn’t been. The roommate’s father gave him a ride home and there he lay down outside his apartment door and waited until 10:30 p.m. for his roommate to come home. I felt bad for him.
Tuesday, January 08, 2013
Strangely Diminutive Career Coach
Last Thursday I went to Chipotle to pick up lunch with my erstwhile career consultant, Dwightly, whose office is only a couple of blocks from mine. I hadn’t realized how microscopic she is. When I was looking for a job, she seemed to tower over me, but she’s really very tiny. We took our lunch back to her office and had an agreeable chat. I’m looking forward to the next time.
On Sunday I went to Rainbow and my favorite checkout person was on duty, but she told me she’s leaving that position and shift! I will miss her. What a grand connection it has been.
Back at home, I did my cooking and then C. and I had dinner at Esperpento. I quite overate, given that I wasn’t hungry at all when we got there. Of course, I almost always overeat when I eat out, but this time I was more conscious of the discomfort of it. My metabolism may be changing, and I think that menopause may actually be upon me. I’m not sure at what point in the process one has hot flashes—as periods are stopping, after they’ve stopped, a year after they’ve stopped?—but I’ve definitely started to have them.
From Wikipedia:
There is empirical knowledge that hints at reduced levels of estrogen as the primary cause of hot flashes. There are indications that hot flashes may be due to a change in the hypothalamus’s control of temperature regulation. This would mean that the sensation of heat isn’t merely imaginary, but due to actual changes in body core temperature.
And:
Hot flashes may begin to appear several years before menopause starts and last for years afterwards.
OK, that answers that.
After dinner at Esperpento, C. and I went to Borderlands Café and sat on a couch across from the magazine rack and we held hands and he read me part of an essay from a magazine and it was very nice.
I’ve been taking classes online at work while I wait for a specific assignment and have particularly been enjoying learning about HP ALM (Application Lifecycle Management), AKA Quality Center. For one thing, it provides tools for managing software requirements, which makes me think fondly of Wiegers. My boss mentioned that he wants to use Quality Center in a different way in the future, and that we’ll probably need someone to manage it. I was tempted to volunteer, but restrained myself—what if managing Quality Center means doing something every weekend?
There is some evening and weekend work in this group, but apparently entirely of the scheduled variety, not of the type where you’re paged at 3 a.m. to sit on a conference call for four hours. I’ve been on many such calls and have often found them frustrating: if I weren’t on the phone, maybe I could be actually fixing the problem, but whereas I complained incessantly about being on call in the past, I plan to be an extremely good sport about whatever I’m asked to do in this job.
I also found myself doing our annual compliance courses in almost a spirit of reverence: These are the things I have an opportunity to learn so that I can be excellent at every aspect of my job, so that our customers will be in good hands. You can attempt to test out of these courses, which I’ve probably done every year for more than a decade, but there is one course where I’m always guessing at the answers, and just keep re-guessing until I pass the thing, so this year, I elected not even to try to test out of it, and I did the whole course and took copious notes, and now I actually do understand the subject matter.
Yesterday, five weeks after starting this job, I got an IM from my boss asking if was busy. In fact, not! He asked me to call him, and when we spoke, he asked if I’d be willing to be the number-two person on a redesign of how we use Quality Center. Of course I said I’d be delighted to, and told him I’d just finished a couple of classes on Quality Center, which he was pleased to hear.
Then he asked if I have any experience with Visual Basic programming. I said I’ve been starting to work on VB for Excel, and so now I can learn about VB at work and have it be an actual part of my job.
I was thinking a lot about C. while downtown yesterday and left him a message when I went out for my walk. I walked up California St. a ways and back down Sacramento St. and was shocked by how grim the latter is. I’d assumed maybe it would be similar to California St., which is wide and gracious and has lots of nice buildings on it, but Sacramento St. is where the blank back sides of some of those buildings are. It’s barren and somewhat like a trench and almost desolate seeming, though I also noticed some wonderful old buildings.
I got a call from C. about 6 p.m. yesterday, who really wanted to come over. I told him I would have to get into the shower at 7, so it would be a short visit, and he said another possibility was for him to go to Glide, but he ended up calling back to say he wanted to come over. He arrived about 6:30 and we sat in the living room together and he told me a bit about his day and I told him about mine.
On Sunday I went to Rainbow and my favorite checkout person was on duty, but she told me she’s leaving that position and shift! I will miss her. What a grand connection it has been.
Back at home, I did my cooking and then C. and I had dinner at Esperpento. I quite overate, given that I wasn’t hungry at all when we got there. Of course, I almost always overeat when I eat out, but this time I was more conscious of the discomfort of it. My metabolism may be changing, and I think that menopause may actually be upon me. I’m not sure at what point in the process one has hot flashes—as periods are stopping, after they’ve stopped, a year after they’ve stopped?—but I’ve definitely started to have them.
From Wikipedia:
There is empirical knowledge that hints at reduced levels of estrogen as the primary cause of hot flashes. There are indications that hot flashes may be due to a change in the hypothalamus’s control of temperature regulation. This would mean that the sensation of heat isn’t merely imaginary, but due to actual changes in body core temperature.
And:
Hot flashes may begin to appear several years before menopause starts and last for years afterwards.
OK, that answers that.
After dinner at Esperpento, C. and I went to Borderlands Café and sat on a couch across from the magazine rack and we held hands and he read me part of an essay from a magazine and it was very nice.
I’ve been taking classes online at work while I wait for a specific assignment and have particularly been enjoying learning about HP ALM (Application Lifecycle Management), AKA Quality Center. For one thing, it provides tools for managing software requirements, which makes me think fondly of Wiegers. My boss mentioned that he wants to use Quality Center in a different way in the future, and that we’ll probably need someone to manage it. I was tempted to volunteer, but restrained myself—what if managing Quality Center means doing something every weekend?
There is some evening and weekend work in this group, but apparently entirely of the scheduled variety, not of the type where you’re paged at 3 a.m. to sit on a conference call for four hours. I’ve been on many such calls and have often found them frustrating: if I weren’t on the phone, maybe I could be actually fixing the problem, but whereas I complained incessantly about being on call in the past, I plan to be an extremely good sport about whatever I’m asked to do in this job.
I also found myself doing our annual compliance courses in almost a spirit of reverence: These are the things I have an opportunity to learn so that I can be excellent at every aspect of my job, so that our customers will be in good hands. You can attempt to test out of these courses, which I’ve probably done every year for more than a decade, but there is one course where I’m always guessing at the answers, and just keep re-guessing until I pass the thing, so this year, I elected not even to try to test out of it, and I did the whole course and took copious notes, and now I actually do understand the subject matter.
Yesterday, five weeks after starting this job, I got an IM from my boss asking if was busy. In fact, not! He asked me to call him, and when we spoke, he asked if I’d be willing to be the number-two person on a redesign of how we use Quality Center. Of course I said I’d be delighted to, and told him I’d just finished a couple of classes on Quality Center, which he was pleased to hear.
Then he asked if I have any experience with Visual Basic programming. I said I’ve been starting to work on VB for Excel, and so now I can learn about VB at work and have it be an actual part of my job.
I was thinking a lot about C. while downtown yesterday and left him a message when I went out for my walk. I walked up California St. a ways and back down Sacramento St. and was shocked by how grim the latter is. I’d assumed maybe it would be similar to California St., which is wide and gracious and has lots of nice buildings on it, but Sacramento St. is where the blank back sides of some of those buildings are. It’s barren and somewhat like a trench and almost desolate seeming, though I also noticed some wonderful old buildings.
I got a call from C. about 6 p.m. yesterday, who really wanted to come over. I told him I would have to get into the shower at 7, so it would be a short visit, and he said another possibility was for him to go to Glide, but he ended up calling back to say he wanted to come over. He arrived about 6:30 and we sat in the living room together and he told me a bit about his day and I told him about mine.
Tuesday, January 01, 2013
First-Rate Findings
The Saturday before Christmas, I took a really splendid walk with Elea near her place in the avenues. We strolled and talked for two and a half hours, passing by Ocean Beach, and then later above the beach, where the expansive view was inspiring. C. and I had a nice visit in the evening, Sunday I did my cooking, and Monday Tom and I went to Sacramento.
Paul, Eva, Chris and Sarah went to Sweden for Christmas this year, so we went instead to Ann’s (Tom’s mother), and had dinner, opened gifts, admired the tree, and generally enjoyed each others’ company. It was lovely and cozy. Here’s who was there: Ann, Steve, Julie, Dan, Jim, Melinda, Abbie, Tom and me.
Tom and I slept over, and Steve and Julie returned the next morning for stockings, I think done entirely and generously by Santa Julie and Santa Steve. In the afternoon, Tom and I drove home in a tremendous downpour.
Normally biopsy results come in a couple of days, but because of the holiday, I knew I wouldn’t hear anything until the day after Christmas or even later, which was sort of a long time to wait.
I had the day after Christmas off work and spent it doing chores at home, and didn’t get a call with the biopsy results. I also worked from home on Thursday, because I was going to work from home until I got the results because I didn’t want to have that conversation while sitting in my cube with others within earshot, and on Thursday morning—finally!—I got a call from Sarah G. with good news: what was seen in the biopsy was benign changes. What a relief! I'm glad I wasn't so sure I was going to die that I stopped brushing my teeth and showering.
While the radiologist said the calcifications appear to be new, as they are just a bit outside the lumpectomy site, they are not malignant. I was sorry to hear they are new because I’d just as soon that part of my body wouldn’t be creative in any way, but of course delighted it appears I will live on.
I told Sarah that last year’s biopsy was painless, but there was a lot of bruising and swelling afterward, whereas this biopsy was painful throughout, but resulted in almost no bruising. Weird. It would have been a year until my next mammogram if this hadn’t happened, but now I will have one in six months.
That evening, C. and I had dinner with his roommate, Juan, at El Majahual. Juan insisted on treating us, which was nice of him.
On Friday, C. and I had dinner at Esperpento. On Saturday, Carol Joy came to town and we had lunch at La Santaneca and then saw The Impossible, about the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami, which was my choice and which I bitterly regretted. I felt almost nauseous sitting through all the scenes of punctures and other injuries. The sound design was remarkable, making it that much harder to endure. I don’t know if that is actually how it sounds when a tree branch goes into someone’s flesh, but it was revolting. Saturday evening, C. came over to visit and on Sunday morning, he visited again. We had lunch at La Santaneca and then I went to Rainbow and did my cooking. C. came over to visit yet again in the evening and, while I did my chopping and stirring, he read me some uplifting stories from a publication for teachers.
Last night—New Year’s Eve—C. and I dined at We Be Sushi, but got into a mild conflict, so I spent a bit of time with him at his place afterward, but we parted company by 9 p.m. or so. Today we went downtown and saw Life of Pi and then we went to Sunflower and split an order of vegetable fried rice and an order of garlic noodles with tofu and they were both extremely delicious. This evening we went to Howie’s and walked home together.
Paul, Eva, Chris and Sarah went to Sweden for Christmas this year, so we went instead to Ann’s (Tom’s mother), and had dinner, opened gifts, admired the tree, and generally enjoyed each others’ company. It was lovely and cozy. Here’s who was there: Ann, Steve, Julie, Dan, Jim, Melinda, Abbie, Tom and me.
Tom and I slept over, and Steve and Julie returned the next morning for stockings, I think done entirely and generously by Santa Julie and Santa Steve. In the afternoon, Tom and I drove home in a tremendous downpour.
Normally biopsy results come in a couple of days, but because of the holiday, I knew I wouldn’t hear anything until the day after Christmas or even later, which was sort of a long time to wait.
I had the day after Christmas off work and spent it doing chores at home, and didn’t get a call with the biopsy results. I also worked from home on Thursday, because I was going to work from home until I got the results because I didn’t want to have that conversation while sitting in my cube with others within earshot, and on Thursday morning—finally!—I got a call from Sarah G. with good news: what was seen in the biopsy was benign changes. What a relief! I'm glad I wasn't so sure I was going to die that I stopped brushing my teeth and showering.
While the radiologist said the calcifications appear to be new, as they are just a bit outside the lumpectomy site, they are not malignant. I was sorry to hear they are new because I’d just as soon that part of my body wouldn’t be creative in any way, but of course delighted it appears I will live on.
I told Sarah that last year’s biopsy was painless, but there was a lot of bruising and swelling afterward, whereas this biopsy was painful throughout, but resulted in almost no bruising. Weird. It would have been a year until my next mammogram if this hadn’t happened, but now I will have one in six months.
That evening, C. and I had dinner with his roommate, Juan, at El Majahual. Juan insisted on treating us, which was nice of him.
On Friday, C. and I had dinner at Esperpento. On Saturday, Carol Joy came to town and we had lunch at La Santaneca and then saw The Impossible, about the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami, which was my choice and which I bitterly regretted. I felt almost nauseous sitting through all the scenes of punctures and other injuries. The sound design was remarkable, making it that much harder to endure. I don’t know if that is actually how it sounds when a tree branch goes into someone’s flesh, but it was revolting. Saturday evening, C. came over to visit and on Sunday morning, he visited again. We had lunch at La Santaneca and then I went to Rainbow and did my cooking. C. came over to visit yet again in the evening and, while I did my chopping and stirring, he read me some uplifting stories from a publication for teachers.
Last night—New Year’s Eve—C. and I dined at We Be Sushi, but got into a mild conflict, so I spent a bit of time with him at his place afterward, but we parted company by 9 p.m. or so. Today we went downtown and saw Life of Pi and then we went to Sunflower and split an order of vegetable fried rice and an order of garlic noodles with tofu and they were both extremely delicious. This evening we went to Howie’s and walked home together.
Friday, December 21, 2012
Shoo, Flu Goo
Yesterday early afternoon, I had a stereotactic core needle biopsy, my second and I hope last. Beforehand, the radiologist showed me a picture of the line of calcifications, which was perpendicular to my lumpectomy scar, and said they think the calcifications got pulled into that configuration by the lumpectomy, so they don’t expect to find any problems, but need to check. Unlike Dr. P.’s thoughts, that actually was reassuring.
When he started, he said he would give me a small shot of Novocaine, and when that took effect, give me more Novocaine, and then start a Novocaine drip. I was to tell him if I felt any sharp pain, as opposed to pressure. I did feel sharp pain a number of times, and told him, and he turned up the drip every time, but it continued to be painful throughout. I don’t remember any pain last year, only the discomfort of lying on my stomach with my head turned to the side, which was uncomfortable this time, too, though eased by the attending nurse massaging my upper back. The final thing the doctor did was to implant a titanium chip in the biopsy area so they know where exactly to check in the future, if necessary. (A titanium chip was implanted at the end of last year’s biopsy, too, but got carved out along with the tumor.)
The nurse, by the way, was wearing a mask and when I asked about it, she said it was because she’d refused to have a flu shot, so she has to wear the mask until March. At first, I thought it was kind of strange and that she should just have the shot already, but then I remembered a close associate of mine who this year had a dreadful reaction to a high-dose flu shot (which is really a quadruple dose, evidently, not double). My friend felt lousy for a month and even coughed up some blood, so that nurse probably knows what she’s doing.
Toward the end of the procedure, the doctor said he wasn’t getting as many calcifications as he’d hoped and that he would take one more sample, but then he was going to leave it because he didn’t want to put me through any more discomfort. After he’d left the room, the nurse didn’t sound too certain that they had a good number of calcifications, but said the people who analyze the samples would take appropriate action. Presumably, if they don’t have a good sample, they’ll say so. It would have been better, I think, if the doctor had just stuck with it until he was sure of having enough calcifications, because what if there really aren’t enough and I have to have a whole new biopsy?
Afterward, I took a cab to see Deborah and then went home. The biopsy incision bled a little in the evening and eventually became very, very painful. I got up and took some Tylenol. The nearby nightclub was quite loud until past midnight, and some neighbor went in and out of his screen door about 10 times past 10 p.m., letting the door slam loudly every time, and I think I was pretty much awake until past midnight, hours past bedtime.
Then I woke up in the middle of the night, per usual, and lay awake for some time, and was also entirely awake before the alarm went off. I’ve suddenly become an insomniac. Why doesn’t the body naturally go to sleep when it’s tired? I feel terrible this morning.
When he started, he said he would give me a small shot of Novocaine, and when that took effect, give me more Novocaine, and then start a Novocaine drip. I was to tell him if I felt any sharp pain, as opposed to pressure. I did feel sharp pain a number of times, and told him, and he turned up the drip every time, but it continued to be painful throughout. I don’t remember any pain last year, only the discomfort of lying on my stomach with my head turned to the side, which was uncomfortable this time, too, though eased by the attending nurse massaging my upper back. The final thing the doctor did was to implant a titanium chip in the biopsy area so they know where exactly to check in the future, if necessary. (A titanium chip was implanted at the end of last year’s biopsy, too, but got carved out along with the tumor.)
The nurse, by the way, was wearing a mask and when I asked about it, she said it was because she’d refused to have a flu shot, so she has to wear the mask until March. At first, I thought it was kind of strange and that she should just have the shot already, but then I remembered a close associate of mine who this year had a dreadful reaction to a high-dose flu shot (which is really a quadruple dose, evidently, not double). My friend felt lousy for a month and even coughed up some blood, so that nurse probably knows what she’s doing.
Toward the end of the procedure, the doctor said he wasn’t getting as many calcifications as he’d hoped and that he would take one more sample, but then he was going to leave it because he didn’t want to put me through any more discomfort. After he’d left the room, the nurse didn’t sound too certain that they had a good number of calcifications, but said the people who analyze the samples would take appropriate action. Presumably, if they don’t have a good sample, they’ll say so. It would have been better, I think, if the doctor had just stuck with it until he was sure of having enough calcifications, because what if there really aren’t enough and I have to have a whole new biopsy?
Afterward, I took a cab to see Deborah and then went home. The biopsy incision bled a little in the evening and eventually became very, very painful. I got up and took some Tylenol. The nearby nightclub was quite loud until past midnight, and some neighbor went in and out of his screen door about 10 times past 10 p.m., letting the door slam loudly every time, and I think I was pretty much awake until past midnight, hours past bedtime.
Then I woke up in the middle of the night, per usual, and lay awake for some time, and was also entirely awake before the alarm went off. I’ve suddenly become an insomniac. Why doesn’t the body naturally go to sleep when it’s tired? I feel terrible this morning.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
More or Less Dead as a Doornail
Yesterday I decided that, though I’m now feeling some bond of understanding with those who are unhappy with the look of their shirts, I will not be one of those Financial District a**holes. I will not. And the only way I can avoid that is somehow to generate friendly feelings on an ongoing basis, including toward those who strike me as not deserving it, though I do know better. I know there is no one who does not merit kind treatment.
Several days ago, I stopped by Joe’s corner store to pick up some packages that had been left there by UPS. I was in my work clothes, and I temporarily blocked the doorway with my bike. Another patron arrived and said coldly, “Excuse me,” and I knew for a fact she meant, “Get out of my #*%@!! way, yuppie,” because that’s precisely how I think about people in my neighborhood who are dressed as I now am, or how I used to think of them.
I also decided I can’t take another anxiety- and misery-drenched day like Tuesday was, and my friendships can’t take an unlimited amount of that, either. I’ve read how cancer patients aren’t supposed to be angry and unhappy. We are supposed to smile brightly and find meaning in our experience. For the record, I feel perfectly entitled to be angry and unhappy, and I don’t feel obligated to be cheery or to find meaning in my experience, but I would prefer to for my own sake. I will easily find meaning in this. I absolutely have a robust conceptual framework in which to hold this, and here it is, with thanks to the dharma: this is a matter of prior causes and conditions that cannot now be altered, and that’s all there is to it.
I can change my current actions and thus possibly affect future conditions, but I can’t change whatever past factors caused the current conditions and would do best to meet said conditions graciously.
So that’s the concept, and the rest is the practice. What is the practice? To be awake in as many moments as possible and to act ethically, kindly and generously as often as possible. I can take refuge in the "Three Jewels" of the Buddha, the dharma, and the sangha. What does this mean? It doesn’t mean to venerate the Buddha himself, though one may rightly be deeply thankful for the lessons he taught and find in him an inspiring example. However, as Howie lately pointed out, he’s kind of dead at this point, so taking refuge in the Buddha more properly means taking refuge in the qualities of awakeness and awareness he taught.
Likewise, the dharma is the teachings of the Buddha, and they are indeed of inestimable value, but the dharma is also the truth of how things are, so taking refuge in the dharma is taking refuge in what is so. As teachers sometimes say, the Buddha knows the dharma. When I am conscious of the feeling of my foot on the floor, I am the Buddha knowing the dharma.
The sangha is the community of meditators. We can take refuge in their friendship, in seeing more clearly in them than we can see in ourselves the good things that happen when we try to pay attention. We can also take refuge in simply knowing that someone on the other side of the globe is always sitting in meditation at the same time we are.
How does it help to know something consciously? Why is that so great? For one thing, it naturally interrupts the worrisome story. And being conscious in a given moment allows for the possibility of more constructive choices. So those, at the very least.
For some reason or other, during the day my mood became buoyant, for what seemed no particular reason. It felt like a return to a fairly customary state. I ran into a riotous and friendly new colleague in the break room and had an entertaining conversation with her, and thought, “Ah, this isn’t so bad.” I forgot for an hour or two at a time that I’m dying of cancer. I started to take some online classes in tools that I’ll be using and got to make some nice new documents, with tables of contents.
I called David and Lisa yesterday evening and told them about my biopsy (which will be this afternoon), and I told them the good news that while dying of cancer builds character, having a friend die of cancer really builds character.
Several days ago, I stopped by Joe’s corner store to pick up some packages that had been left there by UPS. I was in my work clothes, and I temporarily blocked the doorway with my bike. Another patron arrived and said coldly, “Excuse me,” and I knew for a fact she meant, “Get out of my #*%@!! way, yuppie,” because that’s precisely how I think about people in my neighborhood who are dressed as I now am, or how I used to think of them.
I also decided I can’t take another anxiety- and misery-drenched day like Tuesday was, and my friendships can’t take an unlimited amount of that, either. I’ve read how cancer patients aren’t supposed to be angry and unhappy. We are supposed to smile brightly and find meaning in our experience. For the record, I feel perfectly entitled to be angry and unhappy, and I don’t feel obligated to be cheery or to find meaning in my experience, but I would prefer to for my own sake. I will easily find meaning in this. I absolutely have a robust conceptual framework in which to hold this, and here it is, with thanks to the dharma: this is a matter of prior causes and conditions that cannot now be altered, and that’s all there is to it.
I can change my current actions and thus possibly affect future conditions, but I can’t change whatever past factors caused the current conditions and would do best to meet said conditions graciously.
So that’s the concept, and the rest is the practice. What is the practice? To be awake in as many moments as possible and to act ethically, kindly and generously as often as possible. I can take refuge in the "Three Jewels" of the Buddha, the dharma, and the sangha. What does this mean? It doesn’t mean to venerate the Buddha himself, though one may rightly be deeply thankful for the lessons he taught and find in him an inspiring example. However, as Howie lately pointed out, he’s kind of dead at this point, so taking refuge in the Buddha more properly means taking refuge in the qualities of awakeness and awareness he taught.
Likewise, the dharma is the teachings of the Buddha, and they are indeed of inestimable value, but the dharma is also the truth of how things are, so taking refuge in the dharma is taking refuge in what is so. As teachers sometimes say, the Buddha knows the dharma. When I am conscious of the feeling of my foot on the floor, I am the Buddha knowing the dharma.
The sangha is the community of meditators. We can take refuge in their friendship, in seeing more clearly in them than we can see in ourselves the good things that happen when we try to pay attention. We can also take refuge in simply knowing that someone on the other side of the globe is always sitting in meditation at the same time we are.
How does it help to know something consciously? Why is that so great? For one thing, it naturally interrupts the worrisome story. And being conscious in a given moment allows for the possibility of more constructive choices. So those, at the very least.
For some reason or other, during the day my mood became buoyant, for what seemed no particular reason. It felt like a return to a fairly customary state. I ran into a riotous and friendly new colleague in the break room and had an entertaining conversation with her, and thought, “Ah, this isn’t so bad.” I forgot for an hour or two at a time that I’m dying of cancer. I started to take some online classes in tools that I’ll be using and got to make some nice new documents, with tables of contents.
I called David and Lisa yesterday evening and told them about my biopsy (which will be this afternoon), and I told them the good news that while dying of cancer builds character, having a friend die of cancer really builds character.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
An Unrefreshing Trip to the Future
Yesterday morning I talked with Sarah G. and she said that the radiologist said that the calcifications may or may not be new—they might be the ones that were seen last December and in June. However, they look different. For one thing, they are in a cluster, which I recall is a bad sign
My mid-day errands took me to the neighborhood where I used to work, near MOMA and Yerba Buena Gardens—the latter has beautiful grounds and often features outdoor concerts—and I was struck by how lively the scene was, what varied costumes people were wearing, how not every face looked twisted with stress. It’s also literally brighter over there. My new work neighborhood, amid all the tall buildings, is dark and gloomy and 90 percent of pedestrians are wearing sober business clothes and definitely don’t look happy or engaged.
After work, I picked up a pile of clothes from Sunny Launderette and noticed that Sally looked unusually polished. “You look very nice today,” I said, but she corrected me: “Every day!”
Unfortunately, Sunny Launderette is affording inconsistent results. One shirt retrieved recently was coated inside with some kind of white synthetic fur, and the pants I picked up yesterday, one of my very few pairs of work pants, were splotched with pale drips. I called Sally when I got home and said I’d bring the pants back in for examination, but I’ve decided not to bother and just to walk the five extra blocks to Pete’s, on 24th St. Pete’s takes many days to process an item, but everything looks superb. Maybe Sunny Launderette is trying to do things faster than is really possible.
I made it to Howie’s, though he himself wasn’t there (Tom Moon was subbing), and I didn’t tell anyone about my impending biopsy. I feel kind of ashamed of it, like I’ve failed in some way, and I also fear that if I tell people, they’ll think, “Wow, this chick is going to die of breast cancer,” because that’s what I myself think. The only person there who knew was C., who was sort of at my side and sort of not. Reliable support is not going to come from that sector. Thanks go here to the kind-hearted Charlie, who even from many rows behind me divined that something was wrong and asked at the end of the evening, “Are you sure you’re all right?”
While we sat, I was in tears, partly Tom Moon’s fault, because in one guided meditation, he asked us to think of someone who loves us unconditionally, to think of some problem we have, and to think of that person sending support and kindness. I thought of my father and the news he heard Monday night. I pictured my parents, whom I can visualize so clearly in their customary places in their house in Ypsilanti, and I missed them so much and I felt so sad.
I thought of a black and white photo of my father at 24, holding aloft a baby and looking at her with delighted amazement, and how my father and mother will soon have to bury that same baby. How terribly sad! Uh, can I have departed from the present moment? That this may possibly be happening has been pointed out by both C. and Tom. Pretty lousy day, self-inflicted.
My mid-day errands took me to the neighborhood where I used to work, near MOMA and Yerba Buena Gardens—the latter has beautiful grounds and often features outdoor concerts—and I was struck by how lively the scene was, what varied costumes people were wearing, how not every face looked twisted with stress. It’s also literally brighter over there. My new work neighborhood, amid all the tall buildings, is dark and gloomy and 90 percent of pedestrians are wearing sober business clothes and definitely don’t look happy or engaged.
After work, I picked up a pile of clothes from Sunny Launderette and noticed that Sally looked unusually polished. “You look very nice today,” I said, but she corrected me: “Every day!”
Unfortunately, Sunny Launderette is affording inconsistent results. One shirt retrieved recently was coated inside with some kind of white synthetic fur, and the pants I picked up yesterday, one of my very few pairs of work pants, were splotched with pale drips. I called Sally when I got home and said I’d bring the pants back in for examination, but I’ve decided not to bother and just to walk the five extra blocks to Pete’s, on 24th St. Pete’s takes many days to process an item, but everything looks superb. Maybe Sunny Launderette is trying to do things faster than is really possible.
I made it to Howie’s, though he himself wasn’t there (Tom Moon was subbing), and I didn’t tell anyone about my impending biopsy. I feel kind of ashamed of it, like I’ve failed in some way, and I also fear that if I tell people, they’ll think, “Wow, this chick is going to die of breast cancer,” because that’s what I myself think. The only person there who knew was C., who was sort of at my side and sort of not. Reliable support is not going to come from that sector. Thanks go here to the kind-hearted Charlie, who even from many rows behind me divined that something was wrong and asked at the end of the evening, “Are you sure you’re all right?”
While we sat, I was in tears, partly Tom Moon’s fault, because in one guided meditation, he asked us to think of someone who loves us unconditionally, to think of some problem we have, and to think of that person sending support and kindness. I thought of my father and the news he heard Monday night. I pictured my parents, whom I can visualize so clearly in their customary places in their house in Ypsilanti, and I missed them so much and I felt so sad.
I thought of a black and white photo of my father at 24, holding aloft a baby and looking at her with delighted amazement, and how my father and mother will soon have to bury that same baby. How terribly sad! Uh, can I have departed from the present moment? That this may possibly be happening has been pointed out by both C. and Tom. Pretty lousy day, self-inflicted.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Calcification Tribulation
Yesterday morning I had my yearly mammogram, which was administered by a large woman whose sleeves were a dazzling brilliant violet. I sat in the waiting room afterward for a time and was called back for two more pictures. I asked if the first ones had not been clear, but the technician said they had been clear and that the radiologist just wanted more pictures, so this was in effect an immediate follow-up, with one of the pictures being quite painful, as with last year’s follow-up mammogram, which was one of the most disagreeable parts of the entire thing.
I sat in the waiting room again and after a bit was instructed to get dressed and wait to meet with a nurse. While I was sitting near the reception desk waiting to speak with the nurse, I saw the technician looking at me through a glass panel with what appeared to be naked pity.
I met with Sarah G., the same person who gave me the news last year that I had cancer, and she told me that there were calcifications seen in my six-month mammogram in June, but they were thought to be near the tumor site and not of it. However, the calcifications have changed since June and now a biopsy is needed, which is scheduled for Thursday, one year to the day from my lumpectomy.
I rode my bike downtown to have lunch at Ananda Fuara and sat over my dal and naan with tears dripping down my face, feeling wholeheartedly sorry for myself. I pictured C. walking around after I’m gone, which seemed very unfair: why does he get to live and I have to die? Of course, everyone will die. It’s not a special punishment reserved for the few. But 50 seemed way too young until I thought again of the children in Newtown. I guess if 20 six-year-olds can die, 50 is not too young at all. I consulted my Grandma Lee in heaven, who assured me everything would be all right. However, upon being pressed, she allowed that that didn’t necessarily mean I wasn’t going to die.
I’d scheduled my mammogram and one-year visits with my surgeon and radiation oncologist on the same day so I could just take the whole day off work and do all three appointments, so after lunch, I rode back to the medical campus and saw Dr. P., my surgeon. He already had my mammogram results and before he came into the examination room, I could hear him on the phone discussing my case with the radiologist. When Dr. P. joined me, he said that last year there were calcifications besides the cancerous ones, but of the kind they don’t worry about because they are always benign. But now there are calcifications that need to be checked as they couldn’t be made to “layer,” meaning they don’t appear to be in fluid. Evidently, if they are in fluid, they are not of concern. He said that what was seen today could be scar tissue, which can be not present at six months after surgery but present at 12 months, and it could also be that the calcifications were in fluid that has drained away. He said there are many possible explanations. I was not at all reassured.
Next I rode across town yet again to see my radiation oncologist, who said that three times lately there has been an abnormal mammogram that a biopsy showed to be not a problem—what looks worrisome could simply be benign changes in the breast due to the surgery or the radiation treatment. Because I had intraoperative radiation with my lumpectomy, if the biopsy shows DCIS again, I could choose a lumpectomy and external radiation this time, whereas if I’d had external radiation last year, and then had a recurrence (which I might be having), I’d have to have a mastectomy. If I’m having a recurrence, I can still choose a mastectomy, and if it’s invasive cancer this time instead of DCIS, likely I’d have to have chemotherapy.
I suppose there is no age at which death is welcome. Even if I were 99, the age my Aunt Mary was when she died, I still wouldn’t be excited about it (though my Aunt Mary said she was pretty much ready to go). I thought about something Phillip Moffitt said when I was on retreat this year: “Something doesn’t have to last forever to have worked.” (He was referring to my relationship with C.)
Having learned from last year’s experience, this time I told many fewer people about the mammogram results. I very much appreciated all the support, but I ended up having to update 20 or so people every time something else happened.
Not long ago, I was telling Deborah that, when I think about it, I find it highly disconcerting that there is anything at all instead of nothing, and prefer to avoid pondering the matter—it makes me feel like I’m going crazy—though it is comforting that there are scientists who purport to be able to explain it. I think she said, “But isn’t it great that all this stuff is here?” I wasn’t in that mood at the time, but lately I have been: how miraculous that out of nothing should have come a purple marker! And this letter opener with a handle shaped like a giraffe’s head! And five trillion cars and paneer makhani and quite a bit of other stuff.
That feeling of marveling at creation was fitting nicely with my exuberance about having gotten a job. Life seemed wholly remarkable and enjoyable. Even when bad things occurred, I was thinking with a certain kind of delight, “Wow! I didn’t know this was going to happen. How amazing!” Howie sometimes uses the Sanskrit word “emaho” to express this joyful sense of wonder.
Since yesterday’s bad news, however, I have felt sad, scared and alone. I also am starting to not be so sure about my new job. It’s starting to look like once you learn it, that’s that, unlike my old job, which stretched my brain all the time. And I work in an atmosphere where the sole motivation for getting out of bed for most people can only be money, which was also true in my old job, but I think is even more the case in this department, and so, based on the evidence of one rather imperious phone call I received in error from another company employee, I decided that I’ve landed in a sea of jerks, though I will say that doesn’t seem to be true of my own team at all, thank goodness. My peers and manager seem entirely pleasant and relaxed, so further investigation is warranted.
In any event, I can hardly quit now, though I did tell myself that if it turns out I can actually buy my own health insurance one of these days, once the next round of medical attention is over, I have permission to quit this job and find something that brings more joy. I know finding a job while already working isn’t feasible, since it was pretty much impossible even while not working.
I sat in the waiting room again and after a bit was instructed to get dressed and wait to meet with a nurse. While I was sitting near the reception desk waiting to speak with the nurse, I saw the technician looking at me through a glass panel with what appeared to be naked pity.
I met with Sarah G., the same person who gave me the news last year that I had cancer, and she told me that there were calcifications seen in my six-month mammogram in June, but they were thought to be near the tumor site and not of it. However, the calcifications have changed since June and now a biopsy is needed, which is scheduled for Thursday, one year to the day from my lumpectomy.
I rode my bike downtown to have lunch at Ananda Fuara and sat over my dal and naan with tears dripping down my face, feeling wholeheartedly sorry for myself. I pictured C. walking around after I’m gone, which seemed very unfair: why does he get to live and I have to die? Of course, everyone will die. It’s not a special punishment reserved for the few. But 50 seemed way too young until I thought again of the children in Newtown. I guess if 20 six-year-olds can die, 50 is not too young at all. I consulted my Grandma Lee in heaven, who assured me everything would be all right. However, upon being pressed, she allowed that that didn’t necessarily mean I wasn’t going to die.
I’d scheduled my mammogram and one-year visits with my surgeon and radiation oncologist on the same day so I could just take the whole day off work and do all three appointments, so after lunch, I rode back to the medical campus and saw Dr. P., my surgeon. He already had my mammogram results and before he came into the examination room, I could hear him on the phone discussing my case with the radiologist. When Dr. P. joined me, he said that last year there were calcifications besides the cancerous ones, but of the kind they don’t worry about because they are always benign. But now there are calcifications that need to be checked as they couldn’t be made to “layer,” meaning they don’t appear to be in fluid. Evidently, if they are in fluid, they are not of concern. He said that what was seen today could be scar tissue, which can be not present at six months after surgery but present at 12 months, and it could also be that the calcifications were in fluid that has drained away. He said there are many possible explanations. I was not at all reassured.
Next I rode across town yet again to see my radiation oncologist, who said that three times lately there has been an abnormal mammogram that a biopsy showed to be not a problem—what looks worrisome could simply be benign changes in the breast due to the surgery or the radiation treatment. Because I had intraoperative radiation with my lumpectomy, if the biopsy shows DCIS again, I could choose a lumpectomy and external radiation this time, whereas if I’d had external radiation last year, and then had a recurrence (which I might be having), I’d have to have a mastectomy. If I’m having a recurrence, I can still choose a mastectomy, and if it’s invasive cancer this time instead of DCIS, likely I’d have to have chemotherapy.
I suppose there is no age at which death is welcome. Even if I were 99, the age my Aunt Mary was when she died, I still wouldn’t be excited about it (though my Aunt Mary said she was pretty much ready to go). I thought about something Phillip Moffitt said when I was on retreat this year: “Something doesn’t have to last forever to have worked.” (He was referring to my relationship with C.)
Having learned from last year’s experience, this time I told many fewer people about the mammogram results. I very much appreciated all the support, but I ended up having to update 20 or so people every time something else happened.
Not long ago, I was telling Deborah that, when I think about it, I find it highly disconcerting that there is anything at all instead of nothing, and prefer to avoid pondering the matter—it makes me feel like I’m going crazy—though it is comforting that there are scientists who purport to be able to explain it. I think she said, “But isn’t it great that all this stuff is here?” I wasn’t in that mood at the time, but lately I have been: how miraculous that out of nothing should have come a purple marker! And this letter opener with a handle shaped like a giraffe’s head! And five trillion cars and paneer makhani and quite a bit of other stuff.
That feeling of marveling at creation was fitting nicely with my exuberance about having gotten a job. Life seemed wholly remarkable and enjoyable. Even when bad things occurred, I was thinking with a certain kind of delight, “Wow! I didn’t know this was going to happen. How amazing!” Howie sometimes uses the Sanskrit word “emaho” to express this joyful sense of wonder.
Since yesterday’s bad news, however, I have felt sad, scared and alone. I also am starting to not be so sure about my new job. It’s starting to look like once you learn it, that’s that, unlike my old job, which stretched my brain all the time. And I work in an atmosphere where the sole motivation for getting out of bed for most people can only be money, which was also true in my old job, but I think is even more the case in this department, and so, based on the evidence of one rather imperious phone call I received in error from another company employee, I decided that I’ve landed in a sea of jerks, though I will say that doesn’t seem to be true of my own team at all, thank goodness. My peers and manager seem entirely pleasant and relaxed, so further investigation is warranted.
In any event, I can hardly quit now, though I did tell myself that if it turns out I can actually buy my own health insurance one of these days, once the next round of medical attention is over, I have permission to quit this job and find something that brings more joy. I know finding a job while already working isn’t feasible, since it was pretty much impossible even while not working.
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