Last Tuesday a.m. (chemotherapy day) I awoke with an intense pain in the bottom of my left foot that required me to use a cane to get dressed. About ten minutes before my cousin Phil (blessed be he) arrived to drive me to the hospital, it eased enough for me to lose the cane and get to the hospital just leaning on Phil. It got better as the day went on, we did the chemo, and then went out to dinner. After dinner, I stood up and the excruciating pain was back.
Long story short, today I was diagnosed with plantar fasciitis, an inflammation of a strip of tissue at the bottom of the foot. Some chemotherapy drugs cause the plantar fascia to tighten up during the night, and then when you take your first step in the morning, you injure it. So that's probably what happened to me. Treatment is to stay off it as much as possible, ice it, ibuprofen it, and do some exercises at home. If those don't work, PT. The handout from the foot doc says symptoms should stop "after several weeks." We'll see.
I never was fond of fasciists.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Boxes within Boxes
What started my current train of thought was a little round box of tiny pebbles of ocean-smoothed bottle glass from Hawaii given to me for my last birthday by friends Ken and Linda. This box was contained in another box of beechwood and inlaid mother of pearl, a reproduction of a IV-Vth century Egyptian piece, from the period when Egyptian life moved from Pharaonic to Arabesque. Marked by geometric, sometimes curved patterns, the new style made its way into art forms from building decorations to jewelry--and onto my bathroom windowsill, where it now holds the pedestrian little proxibrushes used to prevent bacteria from doing too much damage to my receding gums.
Right around my birthday, Francine presented me with a small box of rocks, this handmade of paper, with a handpainted lid and beaded handle. It was made and given to Francine to give to me by a woman named Barbara, whom I've never met, but to whom Francine told the story of my cancer, and who was moved. Francine and our friend Lynn were asked to pick some stones for me from Barbara's extensive collection. The largest is a Chinese flourite, a defending stone. Three smaller ones are garnets, to be given to people who have touched one's life. There's a blue topaz, all about calming and healing, and a moonstone, representing the Divine Feminine (Kanzeon again: see January 17).
I started thinking about how old these stones are, and how long it took the ocean to wash that bottle glass smooth on the Hawaii beach, and how interconnected we all are, and everything is throughout space and time, and the beauty of it all. Then I looked around my place and noticed all the other decorative boxes in my possession, some of which came into my family before I was born.
There's a wooden, wood-burned, hand-painted box that holds two decks of pinochle cards. On the bottom it's signed "Sofia Lanius, October 1944." There's a gorgeous silver cigarette box, intricately carved with Mayan decorations, complete with matching (and monogrammed) lighter and ashtray, from my parents' 1945-1947 stay in El Salvador, where I was conceived. There's a black laquered cigarette box brought by my father from Okinawa, where he was doing something mysterious for the U.S. government in the early 50s, sinking deeper into alcoholism, but always thoughtful, with a good eye for craftsmanship and beauty. Cigarettes and playing cards -- the McLenighans were a fun couple, until they weren't.
In my bedroom, two more wooden boxes from the El Salvador days or earlier, both beautifully covered with paper in Art Nouveau style, one holding a couple of decks of cards for bridge, another holding some silver jewelry. A handpainted oval papier mache box from Nepal, given to my mother by one of the attorneys in her office, which now contains seeds from a plant that my upstairs neighbor Michael, may he rest in peace, called "Snow on the Mountain." A handmade box from Kate holds my most frequently used jewelry; finally, two ceramic boxes from Mexico, one inherited from my beloved friend Dorothy Tollifson, who died at the age of 95 holding my hand.
In my living room there's a rectangular wooden game box with a wooden handle, presented to me by my Zimbabwe family on the trip when I first met little Gladys Valjean, then a delightful 4 years old. The box closes with a little strip of leather that slips over a tiny nail. Inside the bottom and the lid are 32 egg-carton like depressions, where 62 seeds are dispersed according to rules I never understood. The object is for one player to move all his seeds to the other side by capturing oppponent seeds--again, according to rules I never mastered but having something to do with leaving three seeds in a cup at any given time. It's a game of strategy, not unlike Go, and Martha (Gladys Valjean's mother) is very good at it.
These days probably the most important box in the house is my box of 28 pill boxes. This, too, is the Buddha, another manifestation of Kanzeon. It is industrial plastic, with seven columns, one for each day of the week, and four rows, two yellow (for morning and noon pills) and two blue (for evening and bedtime). This is hands down the least attractive box in the house, but it's functional and durable, and what can you do. It holds the chemicals that are trying to save my life, and I am grateful, if not aesthetically satisfied.
Right around my birthday, Francine presented me with a small box of rocks, this handmade of paper, with a handpainted lid and beaded handle. It was made and given to Francine to give to me by a woman named Barbara, whom I've never met, but to whom Francine told the story of my cancer, and who was moved. Francine and our friend Lynn were asked to pick some stones for me from Barbara's extensive collection. The largest is a Chinese flourite, a defending stone. Three smaller ones are garnets, to be given to people who have touched one's life. There's a blue topaz, all about calming and healing, and a moonstone, representing the Divine Feminine (Kanzeon again: see January 17).
I started thinking about how old these stones are, and how long it took the ocean to wash that bottle glass smooth on the Hawaii beach, and how interconnected we all are, and everything is throughout space and time, and the beauty of it all. Then I looked around my place and noticed all the other decorative boxes in my possession, some of which came into my family before I was born.
There's a wooden, wood-burned, hand-painted box that holds two decks of pinochle cards. On the bottom it's signed "Sofia Lanius, October 1944." There's a gorgeous silver cigarette box, intricately carved with Mayan decorations, complete with matching (and monogrammed) lighter and ashtray, from my parents' 1945-1947 stay in El Salvador, where I was conceived. There's a black laquered cigarette box brought by my father from Okinawa, where he was doing something mysterious for the U.S. government in the early 50s, sinking deeper into alcoholism, but always thoughtful, with a good eye for craftsmanship and beauty. Cigarettes and playing cards -- the McLenighans were a fun couple, until they weren't.
In my bedroom, two more wooden boxes from the El Salvador days or earlier, both beautifully covered with paper in Art Nouveau style, one holding a couple of decks of cards for bridge, another holding some silver jewelry. A handpainted oval papier mache box from Nepal, given to my mother by one of the attorneys in her office, which now contains seeds from a plant that my upstairs neighbor Michael, may he rest in peace, called "Snow on the Mountain." A handmade box from Kate holds my most frequently used jewelry; finally, two ceramic boxes from Mexico, one inherited from my beloved friend Dorothy Tollifson, who died at the age of 95 holding my hand.
In my living room there's a rectangular wooden game box with a wooden handle, presented to me by my Zimbabwe family on the trip when I first met little Gladys Valjean, then a delightful 4 years old. The box closes with a little strip of leather that slips over a tiny nail. Inside the bottom and the lid are 32 egg-carton like depressions, where 62 seeds are dispersed according to rules I never understood. The object is for one player to move all his seeds to the other side by capturing oppponent seeds--again, according to rules I never mastered but having something to do with leaving three seeds in a cup at any given time. It's a game of strategy, not unlike Go, and Martha (Gladys Valjean's mother) is very good at it.
These days probably the most important box in the house is my box of 28 pill boxes. This, too, is the Buddha, another manifestation of Kanzeon. It is industrial plastic, with seven columns, one for each day of the week, and four rows, two yellow (for morning and noon pills) and two blue (for evening and bedtime). This is hands down the least attractive box in the house, but it's functional and durable, and what can you do. It holds the chemicals that are trying to save my life, and I am grateful, if not aesthetically satisfied.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Be Not Afraid
I've had two conversations today with friends who said they had been afraid to phone me, essentially because they're afraid of my cancer. They did phone nonetheless, thank goodness. I told them both that I'm not afraid, at least not right now. My practice is to stay in this moment, and as I have been doing that, I have noticed that there is no fear in this moment. Sometimes there is grief and sadness. Much of the time there is contentment; sometimes, joy. But there has not been any fear for two or three weeks, I think since about halfway through my first chemotherapy, when I noticed I wasn't throwing up or having any of the other dire consequences I read about in "Chemotherapy and You" and "Radiation and You."
So, friends, be not afraid. I need you in my life, and I want you in my life, and I don't want fear to keep you out, or on my side, to shut you out. In fact, I don't want any negative energy around this illness at all. I'm looking for positive, healing energy, and love, love, love. I'm very much alive. I'm just as much me as ever. And I need my loved ones, worry-free.
So, friends, be not afraid. I need you in my life, and I want you in my life, and I don't want fear to keep you out, or on my side, to shut you out. In fact, I don't want any negative energy around this illness at all. I'm looking for positive, healing energy, and love, love, love. I'm very much alive. I'm just as much me as ever. And I need my loved ones, worry-free.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Lodat
Had a moment of panic tonight--the apartment seemed awfully cold as my meditation group was meeting (a group of 2 only tonight, the other regulars being occupied with out of town guests). I checked my digital thermostat, and there was a strange reading: lodat. Nothing happened when I hit the button that changes "program" to "manual." Nothing happened when I hit any button, in fact. Gulp. Given my recent infrastructure hobgoblins, and the temperature outdoors, I thought my furnace was going out. I have an out of town guest myself, from Dallas yet, so she is not acclimated to this weather. Turns out, when I adjusted my glasses and looked at the instructions on the back of the thermostat door, it was telling me "lo bat," for low batteries. I had the requisite double-A's in the house, and the instrux on how to change batteries were crystal clear, so we arrested the dropping temperature at the 67-degree mark, and there was no need to start looking for a hotel that takes cats. The incident showed me, once again, how easy it is for the mind to create problems where none exists. It is now a toasty 71 degrees in here, my cat Sasha is curled up in a comma in her favorite chair, and my friend from Dallas called to say she is heading home with ice cream. All's well that ends well.
My own batteries are beginning to be affected by radiation therapy (today was treatment #13 of 30). I find I get more tired than usual, and that I get tired in a different way. One minute I'm fine, and the next I'm bereft of energy, as though someone had yanked my batteries. It's taking a little longer to recharge, too. A week or two ago a one-hour nap kept me up til after midnight, and sleeping only lightly after that. Today I slept for about 1:20, and I'm pretty sure I'll sleep like a baby the whole night through. That's the only real side effect, other than the rash on my chest and back, for which I saw a dermatologist Tuesday and now have prescription cream and lotion, so it doesn't itch. I'm truly blessed, and I wish you all a warm good night.
My own batteries are beginning to be affected by radiation therapy (today was treatment #13 of 30). I find I get more tired than usual, and that I get tired in a different way. One minute I'm fine, and the next I'm bereft of energy, as though someone had yanked my batteries. It's taking a little longer to recharge, too. A week or two ago a one-hour nap kept me up til after midnight, and sleeping only lightly after that. Today I slept for about 1:20, and I'm pretty sure I'll sleep like a baby the whole night through. That's the only real side effect, other than the rash on my chest and back, for which I saw a dermatologist Tuesday and now have prescription cream and lotion, so it doesn't itch. I'm truly blessed, and I wish you all a warm good night.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Tuesday's Tempo
Long day today, so just a quickie: Tuesday's Tempo includes a feature story on our "Share the Care" system and photo of yours truly on the first day of chemo, in the company of Francine. The story is by Julie Deardorff, health and fitness reporter, whose blog is now linked to this one.
After radiation therapy, my radiation oncologist sent me to a dermatologist to get the rash on my chest and back checked out. The dermatologist took a precautionary biopsy; he suspects the rash is a reaction to chemo and/or radiation, despite the fact that it started before treatment began. He prescribed two creams, which I will try tonight. In the grand scheme of things, the rash is not a big deal, in my view, but I guess they want to take care of it now, before the effects of treatment start to accumulate.
The upshot was that I spent from 8:30 a.m. to approximately 3 at the hospital today, so I was beat when I got home. After a nap I perked up, and I am now going to veg out in front of the tube for an hour or so (resting up for a strawberry sundae). Good night all.
After radiation therapy, my radiation oncologist sent me to a dermatologist to get the rash on my chest and back checked out. The dermatologist took a precautionary biopsy; he suspects the rash is a reaction to chemo and/or radiation, despite the fact that it started before treatment began. He prescribed two creams, which I will try tonight. In the grand scheme of things, the rash is not a big deal, in my view, but I guess they want to take care of it now, before the effects of treatment start to accumulate.
The upshot was that I spent from 8:30 a.m. to approximately 3 at the hospital today, so I was beat when I got home. After a nap I perked up, and I am now going to veg out in front of the tube for an hour or so (resting up for a strawberry sundae). Good night all.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Steady As She Goes
It occurred to me that I've been writing interior monologues lately and not providing many specifics on the state of my health. I feel pretty darn good. I have had 9 radiation treatments out of 30 and one round of chemotherapy out of four. My appetite is rapacious. Acupuncture and pills so far have spared me gastro intestinal side efffects like nausea, esophagitis, etc. My energy is pretty good considering that my body is full of toxins. I'm up at 6:30 and have been managing whatever I need to manage -- driving, shopping, socializing, cooking, cleaning -- as long as I get a short nap in the afternoon. I start to fade around 9 or 10, and am usually in bed by 10:30 -- early for the old me, but certainly a reasonable hour for the contemporary me. As a rule I'm sleeping well, with one exception last week that I think was due to an over-long afternoon nap.
So far the most annoying side effect has been a rash that began on my chest and has now spread to my back. Benadryl did nothing for it, hydrocortizone seemed to help, and last week the acupuncturist gave me calendula cream for it, which I have been using since Thursday. In the great scheme of things this is a very minor issue.
I'm taking magnesium supplements now, since my last blood work showed a deficiency. I remain on folic acid, which protects the good tissue from the effects of the chemo.
I've tried out a few yoga classes at Gilda's and found a couple I like. Today I plan to do some yoga at home, given the weather. I feel I'm not getting quite as much exercise as I should be getting, and I need it to build up stamina. The effects of this treatment are cumulative, and they tell me the radiation starts to take its toll somewhere around treatment#10-#15, so we shall see what the coming week brings. For the time being, steady as she goes.
So far the most annoying side effect has been a rash that began on my chest and has now spread to my back. Benadryl did nothing for it, hydrocortizone seemed to help, and last week the acupuncturist gave me calendula cream for it, which I have been using since Thursday. In the great scheme of things this is a very minor issue.
I'm taking magnesium supplements now, since my last blood work showed a deficiency. I remain on folic acid, which protects the good tissue from the effects of the chemo.
I've tried out a few yoga classes at Gilda's and found a couple I like. Today I plan to do some yoga at home, given the weather. I feel I'm not getting quite as much exercise as I should be getting, and I need it to build up stamina. The effects of this treatment are cumulative, and they tell me the radiation starts to take its toll somewhere around treatment#10-#15, so we shall see what the coming week brings. For the time being, steady as she goes.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Kanzeon
Yesterday the Prairie Zen Center in Champaign, IL, began a period of intensive meditation practice, or sesshin (in Japanese). This morning one of the members emailed me: "4:25 AM. Sipping some coffee before I head over for the first morning of sesshin and thinking of you.
Much love....... "
Much love....... "
In the Japanese zen tradition, Kanzeon is the Buddha of compassion. She takes the female form and is known in Chinese as Kwan Yin. I have also heard her called White Tara -- I am not sure if this is her Korean name or Tibetan. In the Catholic tradition she is the Blessed Mother. My friend's email was the day's first manifestation of Kanzeon.
To me, the linear accelerator that delivers my radiation therapy is another manifestation of Kanzeon. Years ago in Champaign I learned a Japanese chant to this Buddha of compassion that is very rhythmic and beautiful. I have made it a practice to chant this sutra silently while I'm lying on the accelerator table, as well as many other times during the day. I think of it as the zen Hail Mary. Last weekend when I was meditating over at the Cenacle Retreat House, Taigen Dan Leighton gave me a rough translation of this hymn of praise--in part: "Joyful, pure, eternal. Every morning, Kanzeon. Through the night, Kanzeon."
It took all of human history to create this machine that gathers electrons from the dawn of creation, herds them into shapes that match my tumors, accelerates and hurls them against this cancer that is trying to kill me. Joyful, pure, eternal. Every morning, Kanzeon. Through the night, Kanzeon. Amen.
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