Cancer Candid Camera

Sometimes I get a big kick out of the difference between my vision of what I expect, and the reality of how it turns out. I could give you countless examples, and I’m sure you could contribute just as many. I remember how exciting I thought it would be to buy my first car when I graduated from college. With a professional looking outfit and a (forced) confident strut, I walked into the Honda dealership to make my first big purchase as a real-life adult. I envisioned smiling with pride as I signed papers with a big heavy pen. I envisioned playing “Free Falling” as I drove off of the lot with that new car smell fresh in my nose. My new car, my new career, my whole life ahead of me. That was the vision. The reality? About four hours after sitting around the dealership being tossed from one untrustworthy guy to the next, I left in my Dad's car, looking like I had just weathered a boxing match – disheveled, tired, confused, and hungry. I wasn’t even sure when I was going to get my new 2002 Honda Civic. When did the plates come in again? Where they going to call me? How much will I owe them every month? Can I even afford that? I was free falling alright – straight into the reality that buying a car isn’t any fun.

Add kids, and the examples are endless. One of my favorites involved me trying to recreate a tradition we had in my family as I was growing up. Around the last day of school every year, my Mom would take Rachel, Sean, and me to the bookstore to buy a whole bunch of books that we would read that summer. I loved that trip not only because I love bookstores, but also because it meant the start of camp, trips to Grandma and Grandpa's house, time with cousins, ice cream, all those awesome summer joys.

This year I decided to recreate the tradition in our house on one of the few nights in the June that Brian had a late event for school or hockey, I can’t remember. So Teddy and Annabel and I marched off to Barnes and Noble. When we got there, I realized I forgot the diaper bag. No big deal, we’ll be quick, I thought.

“Come on guys, let’s find some great books for the summer,” I said as we held hands in the parking lot, me as naive as my former self ten years ago walking into the car dealership. “I want to play with the trains,” Teddy responded. Oh yes, those friggin’ trains. They were a welcome distraction when Teddy was too young enough to care about books, but now the bookstore had become “the store with the trains.” Me being the militant mother that I am, we stopped to play with the trains. Then Teddy told me he had to poop. “Great job, buddy, thanks for telling me! Let’s find the bathroom.” We found it, and he went, as I tried to corral Annabel from crawling into the next stall. Now, back to the family tradition, I thought. Teddy faked a minute or two of caring about which books we chose until he headed back to the trains. What the hell, that's fine, I thought, and I took a seat to watch Teddy, Annabel, and a few other little ones perfect their boxing out techniques in order to protect “their trains.”

Then I smelled something. Please don’t be coming from my child, I thought. But it was. A large gift from Annabel, who always seems to know when I forget the diaper bag. Back to the bathroom (Teddy, trains in hand). I don’t consider myself a dumb person, but sometimes, I really wonder what was going through my head. Partly, I know what I was thinking at that moment that I lifted Annabel onto the changing table that I always blindly hope is nailed in tight to the wall – if I put her in her car seat with that enormous gift, it would end up out of all ends and that won't be easy to clean up. So instead I decided I would take off her diaper, dump the package out into the toilet, use toilet paper since I didn’t have wipes, and put the somewhat clean diaper back on her. That was the vision. 

The reality, however, involved Annabel screaming on the changing table as I tried to fling clinging poop from her diaper into the toilet. When I missed, we had a mess on our hands. Literally. It wasn’t really poop you could fling. Poor Teddy tried to help. But there was no salvaging this diaper. Not a problem, I thought, she’s empty now, she’ll just go without a diaper. We cleaned up the bathroom so that aside from the smell, there was no evidence of the desperate parenting that had taken place there. We washed our hands, and we proceeded to the register to buy our stupid books. Annabel peed on the way home, but whatever, those car seat covers are actually pretty easy to wash, and in retrospect, I should have just gone that route from the start. That night, we read one of our new books. And the summer began, family tradition restored. Kind of.

You know that appointment I had with the psychiatrist at Dana Farber yesterday? Let’s just say the disparity between the vision and reality of that appointment was about as big as the disparity I experienced at Barnes and Noble last June.

Call me crazy (I am), but I thought I would sit down with this man and he would comfort me, at least a little bit. I figured I’d cry a little, he’d repeat lines that he’s delivered a million times to people like me who have been shocked by a cancer diagnosis. I’d feel relief when the hour was up, I’d have thoughts I could come back to in the coming weeks that would help me cope, and he’d give me a hug and tell me everything would be OK. It was a lovely vision. So many visions are.    

I have vowed to never use this space as a place to blast anyone, especially people in clinical positions, not only because I don’t want to burn any bridges in a relatively small world of health care, but mostly because I honestly believe that some part of every clinician means well. However, since my review of this doctor is less than stellar, we’ll use a pseudonym. "Dr. Shrinky Dink" was my first choice, but that feels disrespectful, so let’s just stick with Dr. Funt.

It didn’t start off well when Dr. Funt couldn’t find me despite that I had checked in at the front desk and was waiting in the waiting room. When he finally called me in, he lead by asking me if a "palliative care fellow" could sit in on our session. “Sure,” I said calmly, as the Ph.D., M.D., who was probably about my age, took a seat in the room. But inside, my blood pressure rose (and it had already been high according to the vitals I had just had taken) as I thought to myself, Isn’t palliative care for people who are about to die? I sat down.

I honestly can’t remember the exact words we used in this conversation, but the pieces I have summarized below are close enough. Dr. Funt began by asking me something along the lines of, “What brings you here today?” I almost laughed and cried at the same time. Seriously? “Um, cancer. I was just diagnosed with cancer and I’m scared out of my mind.”

Pause.  Blank stare in my direction.

“What are you scared of?”

Another moment where I couldn’t decide to laugh or cry. “Hum, maybe what everyone’s scared of when they hear they have cancer – that I’m going to die,” I replied, somehow crying and smiling at the same time. Crying because it’s still hard to admit that I am afraid I’m going to die and laughing because my own internal voice was joking with me, asking, This is therapy?

“I see.” Pause. (Internal voice – Was I supposed to talk more? In the movies, he’d ask me the questions.)

“Do you have family in the area?”

“Yes.”

“How’s your husband dealing with this?”

“He’s upset.”

“Do you have brothers or sisters?”

“Yes. A sister and a brother.”

“Where did you go to school?”

“Bowdoin College.”

I was stumped. Was I in the wrong appointment? We continued this superficial back and forth for a while longer. Finally he asked me what was helping me cope. I told him that what helped me most was hearing the stories of people who have had serious battles with cancer and won. He nodded. Silence.

At one point, I asked Dr. Funt what his job was. Maybe I really was in the wrong appointment. He told me that he meets with people and helps them find what will work for them (or something like that). OK, so maybe this was a big miscommunication. I thought he was actually going to provide me some counseling. So I take some responsibility for how badly this all went, and that’s the only reason I didn’t get up and leave.

But it was bad. Really bad. This man was so disconnected that in that entire hour, I didn’t feel a single ounce of empathy or understanding from him. I swear to you, I think most of Brian’s psychology students could have done a better job.

At the end of the appointment, the palliative care fellow who was shadowing this doctor spoke up. He asked me if anyone has told me what an amazing job I’m doing. I started to cry. “There are many people who are told what you’ve been told and can’t get out of bed, can’t take care of their kids. But you’re doing all that and you’re doing a great job. And you’re the type of person who will continue to do a great job through your treatment.” I can’t remember if he said that I’ll be cured, but it didn’t matter. What the seasoned expert couldn’t achieve in an hour, this novice achieved in a minute – turning a bit of my fear into a feeling of pride and accomplishment; turning a bit of my doubt into confidence. Acknowledging my pain, and looking at me as if he wanted to make it better.

I was glad my Mom was in the room for the appointment because no matter how much I write about it, I couldn’t do justice to the reality of that hour. When we walked out of the appointment, I told her that I thought we had just been taped for an episode of “Cancer Candid Camera.” Dr. Funt was a perfect character for such a skit. But the big reveal never came, so I think it was the reality, where my vision had been something totally different.  Nevertheless, we've enjoyed some good laughs about this appointment, and laughter is always a great medicine.

In the end, I give Dr. Funt credit. He called me last night and helped me set up an appointment with a psychiatrist out of the breast center at Dana Farber. I meet with her Monday morning. Ever the optimist, I have a vision that this appointment will be the one I was hoping for yesterday – one where I feel a human connection to someone with whom I can talk about things that I don’t want to dump on my family or my friends.

(Oh, and in an upcoming post, I will tell you about my appointment with the nutritionist, Stephanie Meyers. She was beyond fabulous and she deserves everyone to know it. I learned so much from her, and despite my life rule of never talking about diets, I’ll share some of what she told me because it was really interesting.)

Ultimately, if there’s one thing I can take from yesterday's debacle, it’s the realization that vulnerable people, including myself, often need to turn to strangers for help. Every day men, women, and children walk through the doors of a hospital, a school, a nursing home, a gym, a lawyer or a therapist’s office, or countless other places, desperate for compassion and guidance from people they've never met or even heard of. The professionals that receive us have a huge, very challenging, and indescribably important responsibility. They have to choose their words wisely, because each and every one matters. They need to be careful of their facial expressions and their tone, because we read into every one, consciously or subconsciously. Somehow, amidst the volume of their clientele, the busyness of their days, and their own personal priorities, those professionals need to treat each of us as unique, yet connected by a similar hope – that even though we’re afraid or weak or downright ornery, we’ve come to them to try to make us better. And when they do that, they have a special place in our hearts forever.  

Off to Work

Every time that Annabel hears a train in the distance or sees one up close, she looks at me as if she has some exciting breaking news. Her eyebrows raise and she declares, so proud (of herself) and so excited, “Mama’s choo choo!” I haven’t ridden the train to work since the day before my mammogram, but I love that she still associates that noise with my normal schedule. I hope to be back on that schedule before she stops making the connection.

Today, I won’t ride the train into work, even though part of me desperately wishes that I could. I won’t catch up with my colleagues about their Labor Day weekends or remark that the dreary weather is perfect for the back-to-work mood. I won’t even get to use my Viga card for my favorite lunch salad, (I’m just one click away from $5 off my order!). But today, in my mind, I’ll start my new job. It's a temporary job, for sure, with a single goal -- to beat cancer.

At 7:30AM (when I usually leave for work), my Mom will pick me up and we will head into Dana Farber for two (possibly three) appointments. First, I’ll see the nutritionist. I am really curious what she has to say. For a week, I have been following this diet that a fabulous colleague of mine sent to me. (Actually, Alan sent me a whole book about nutrition for cancer patients but I am still too scared to read much about cancer so I flipped through and found the one page color chart in the middle and ripped it out. I have been religiously following that chart, which categorizes several foods from “Best” to “Worst.”) My new effort basically means I’ve been snacking on cauliflower where I used to eat the left over munchkins that typically linger around our house during the summer. (Donuts, one of my most beloved treats, happen to be in the “Worst” category. Darn it, I'll miss you, Boston Cremes.) It means that Brian has had his cooking creativity limited largely to brown rice and things that are green (although, no surprise, he’s still aced every meal). And it means that last night, I achieved the impossible – Brian and I took the kids to Crescent Ridge (or as Teddy says, “Question Ridge”) and I didn’t get an ice cream. (OK, I did sneak a few scoops of Annabel’s vanilla with rainbow sprinkles once it got all soupy and extra delicious, but I didn’t order my own Moose Tracks.) Anyways, I hate when people tell me about their diets (sorry!), so I’ll spare you any more details about this one, but if today’s appointment with the nutritionist proves interesting, I’ll write more about it later.

Next, I meet with the psychiatrist at Dana Farber, that poor guy whose job today includes trying to dial my brain down a few crazy notches. That will be interesting, because I don’t even know where he’ll begin.

After that, I may meet with Dr. Bunnell. I emailed him a message over the weekend because I have been having pain in my breast that, no surprise, has me terrified (and I wrote him just that). It was a big step for me to even send him an email because I’m so scared to talk to anyone who could tell me any bad news. But I know I need to be able to talk about these things, even if it means more tests and possibly, something I don’t want to hear.  So I hit send, and am back to dreading the sound of my phone's ring tone.

When my workday is done at Dana Farber, I’ll commute home with my Mom. We’ll chat like we usually do when we commute home together (since she works in Winchester, at least once a week, she drives through the city to pick me up and we drive home together -- two wild ladies in the HOV lane). Brian will make dinner, like he does every night, we’ll give our kids their baths, and as the night winds down, Teddy will set up his Baseball or Soccer Guys while Annabel tries to destroy his line-ups. Then I’ll sneak out to my kids’ school for the beginning of the year “community meeting.” It all sounds pretty normal when I think of it that way.

Yep, I’m just going to work, like I do every Monday (or every Tuesday that feels like a Monday). I’ll try my best while I’m there, enjoy the good people around me, and head home when I’m done. And I’ll treat this job like the most important one I’ve ever had. Because it is, and I’m ready for it.  So I better go take a shower before the kids wake up.

Page by Page

When I was 18 months old, my sister Rachel was born. (This is a photo of me admiring my new sister.)

Just this past July, Rachel married a man about whom I cannot say enough good things. Matt and Rachel are quite the pair – two of the smartest people I’ve ever met, but more importantly, two of the kindest, funniest, and most humble. Their wedding will always be one of my most cherished memories. I have never seen a man so overwhelmed by love than was Matt when Rachel walked down the aisle. My Dad officiated the ceremony, Matt’s sister, Lauren, read a beautiful poem, Brian made us all laugh and cry with his reflection on love and marriage, and the bride and groom recited vows that they had written themselves. There was not a dry eye in the place by the time the ceremony was over. I kid you not, even the sound guy was crying! Then, we all danced until the lights went out.

Rachel is also a lawyer and her job is in Virginia, even though Matt is at Boston College for two more years finishing his Ph.D. in economics (or something way more complicated that I can’t even pretend to understand). Rachel is arranging with her firm to take a short leave of absence for my surgery and my recovery. There’s no doubt it’ll take a village to make the next month or so work, and Rachel’s a key leader in my village. So let me tell you one story about Rachel that sums up what she means to me.

The end of 2009 through the end of 2010 had been a rough time for our family, and for families about whom we cared very much. Almost one after another, Brian and I attended wakes and funerals of incredible women and young men, each of whose story is worthy of a book in and of themselves – my grandmother, Scotty, Brendan Burke, my aunt Mary, Brian Leonard. It was a dark time for us, and much more so, for many others.

In the fall of 2010, when our basement flooded (as did many people’s basements that fall), I didn’t sweat the small stuff. We had damage, lost a bunch of stuff, and had the usual headaches had by anyone with a flooded basement. Our home insurance didn’t cover flooding, so it was all on our dime, but after what we had seen people struggle through that year, money was the least of our worries.

But there was one box destroyed by the flood that was different for me. I tried to find perspective, tried to think of all of the reasons why I shouldn’t be crushed by the loss of these materials things, but I couldn’t.

When I left my classroom at Canton High in May 2007, I left almost everything behind (mostly electronically) for the new teacher, or anyone, to use with his or her students. All I took with me was one cardboard box full of ten binders. I taught World History and Economics and the binders contained a collection of my five years of learning and teaching those subjects. The binders were full, cover-to-cover, of quotes, teaching ideas, lesson plans, personal reflections, worksheets, song lyrics, PowerPoint print outs, newspaper articles, cartoons, magazines, exceptional student essays, and more. For example, in my Middle East binder, I had this great New York Times article I found about how Sesame Street in Israel deals with issues particular to the Palestinian-Israeli conflict, and a National Geographic article with photos and graphs that skillfully explained issues surrounding the world’s oil consumption. To me, these binders were the tangible reminder of all I had learned during my time as a teacher, and more importantly, of my first contributions to the world around me.

As we waded through our basement shin-deep in water, I didn’t immediately notice the box. When I did, I tried to pretend it wasn’t a big deal. I had spent months fighting back tears, and I had become pretty good at it. But later that day, I took a seat on my basement stairs and bawled my eyes out, trying to explain to my tired, confused, drenched husband, about the box and the binders. I’m not sure it was just the binders I was crying about that day. I think it was a culmination of all of that sadness, all of those wakes and funerals, and serious lack of sleep due to a demanding work schedule. Somehow all of those emotions got wrapped into these binders, and I was crushed.

I knew the binders couldn’t be saved – there were thousands of pieces of paper, many of them in sheet protectors that were now literally full of water. The ink had dripped and smudged and the newspaper articles couldn’t even be unfolded without ripping them. Worst of all, I hated myself that I even cared so much. Especially when I knew what other families around me were dealing with. These were just some stupid binders. 

With the help of my father-in-law, Paul, who always comes to the rescue at those types of moments, we dried up the basement and moved on. But I couldn’t part with the sagging soggy box of binders in my basement, and every time I saw them, curling up as they tried to dry, I choked up.

At the time of our basement flood, Rachel was living in Boston and working a temporary job until her law firm job began in January (most firms had delayed the start times of their new associates because of the lagging economy). She would spend that Christmas with us, then head back down to Virginia. That holiday season was bittersweet knowing that she’d move away again afterwards.

Christmas is a big deal in my family. We are religious in our own way – not in the going to church way, but in the stopping-to-appreciate-how-lucky-we-are-to-have-each-other way. We’re all giddy around this time, even as we keep getting older. We try to find just the right gifts for each other, and we can’t wait to watch each other open them.

Anyone who knows my sister knows she loves jewelry and even though I can’t really remember what she gave me for jewelry that Christmas morning in 2010, I’m sure it was beautiful and far too generous. But clearly that gift paled in comparision to what else Rachel had in store for me. When all of the craziness of gift-opening was done, Rachel and Matt emerged with a big waterproof plastic box. Full of ten binders. Aside from my shock when the doctor told me I had a baby girl, I have never in my life been so surprised, so happy, so grateful, so speechless. Rachel handed me binder after binder and I touched each page as if it were gold. Then my whole family, who too were bursting to explain Rachel’s secret project, started to tell me what Rachel had done. Over the few months prior, she had taken one binder at a time out of my basement. And wet page by wet page, she photocopied each one into a dry version. Through eBay, she found and replaced each damaged magazine and she retyped pages of my own notes that were smudged and barely legible. She found archived newspaper articles and printed them onto crisp clean paper.  She bought durable new binders, made tab dividers just like I had had them, and created covers with a map of each region or topic. Over what must have taken hundreds of hours, Rachel recreated something that I never in my wildest dreams thought could be fixed.

I don’t know if I will ever use those binders again, and I’m sure Rachel knew that as she stood at the copy machine for hours. But that box in my basement is something so much more to me. It’s proof that my sister will do anything to make me feel better, even if she doesn’t fully understand it. It’s proof that page by page, day by day, and month by month, some things that were once destroyed can be put back together again. If you have people around you who love you enough to help.

Selfish Me

I’m warning you up front – this entry is just plain selfish. I don’t have any analogies, any photos, any songs, anything funny or creative to document. I hope that most of you never get around to reading this one; that you’re with your family and friends enjoying this holiday weekend. But if ever there’s someone out there that feels the way I do, I want him or her to know, you’re not alone. So this morning, I have a reality check – an honest account of how gut-wrenchingly awful this waiting period has become for me.

I usually sit down on these early mornings, still sick to my stomach, thinking about something interesting or something empowering that I want to share. This morning, I’m empty of all of that. This morning, I want to open my front door and scream at the top of my lungs, How am I ever going to do this?!!!!? Because I honestly just don’t know.

As I have written to you, last Sunday was a turning point for me. Something happened and I stopped thinking about death and re-focused on my life. I had a few very normal days, so normal that I think I only cried out of appreciation when I received cards or hugs or messages from the countless good people around me. I still believe that I will beat this. But the last few days have been tough. And if there is one thing I know I need to deliver with this writing – for myself and for you – it’s honesty.

On Friday, Brian took the kids out so I could take a quick nap. As I was dozing, I was replaying my last conversation with Dr. Bunnell in my head as I have thousands of times before. I remembered his first call telling me that the HER2 test was not exactly positive or negative and that they would need additional “gold standard” testing to sort this out. I remembered his call back a few days later telling that yes, this will be treated as a HER2+ cancer. And then, in the most evil of ways, my mind concocted a thought that sent me into a tailspin. What if my cancer is different? Some weird hybrid of HER2+ and HER2-, and what if, just what if all those drugs they have just won’t work for me? Lying there on the sofa in the middle of the day, I was suddenly as alert as I’d ever been before. And I lost control. I started to cry, hysterically. I even think I may have wailed, which really must have been a pathetic sight to behold (luckily, no one did). But there I was, in the darkest of dark places that I had so successfully avoided for days. All because I tried to take a fucking nap. It sucked. Sucked so bad. That night, I thought to myself, maybe I just needed to get that out. Tomorrow will be better.

Then yesterday, it happened again. After Annabel went down for her nap, my parents and I drove into Sean and Lauren’s new apartment in Boston to help them unpack (it was September 1st in Boston, after all). It was so great to see their new place, help set up the kitchen (nothing more therapeutic than organizing!), and have a nice lunch outside with my family. But on the way home, I crumbled again. Hysterical. Couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t even hear any logic that was being presented to me. Could only feel comfort by my Mom’s hand that was holding onto my leg as I sat in the backseat.

In these last few days, there have been several remarkable, or at least mildly interesting things I could have written about today. But I’d just be forcing it. It wouldn’t be me, at this moment, as the sun begins to rise on September 2, ten days away from when the doctors can really tell me what is going on inside of me.

Because the me at this moment is just so…I don’t even know. Scared at what that complete diagnosis will bring. Sad that I’ve put my family through these last few weeks. Frustrated with myself that with all of the strength around me, I still end up in these ruts. Overwhelmed at the thought of ten more days of this waiting (and even more waiting after that).

Yep, I’ve put on quite the performance writing this one, and I feel better, if only because I feel drained. My kids will wake up soon, and my Oscar effort will continue. Since I need to leave myself with something a bit more positive than the preceding paragraph, I’ll say this. (Pause.) (Thinking.) (Have nothing.) (Open window for fresh air.) (See the fluffy pink clouds against blue sky.) (Breathe in cool, morning air.) (Still have nothing.) (Thinking.)

When I broke down on the sofa two days ago, my aunt Helen happened to call. We talked. Somehow, she calmed me. Then I called my Mom. She calmed me (I really just need to her her voice for that to happen). Then the doorbell rang. Seamus was going for a walk with Maverick, his dog, and wanted to see if Teddy wanted to join him. I told Seamus that Teddy would be back soon, and that I had fallen apart. He hugged me and told me everything would be OK.  He's a big guy, a really good and honest big guy. So I believed him. A minute later, Brian came home with the kids, and he and I escaped to the playroom where he held me tight until my tears were all dried up (for the time being). He too knows everything will be fine. But it means more and more to me every time he says it.

When I broke down in the car yesterday, my parents let me cry, said I was allowed that, and tried to figure out how they could help me. When they dropped me off, Teddy was waiting to play baseball, so we did. He hit almost every ball I threw to him. For part of our game, Annabel sat in her new Little Tykes red and yellow car drinking her bottle. When I told her to cheer, “Yey Mommy!” she smiled and cheered, “Yey Teddy!” mostly because she hopes to get a funny reaction out of me for it. She always does, and it felt good to give her what she knows to expect.

As I said in the beginning, I don’t have any quotes or wise words today. Selfishly, and on a holiday weekend when you deserve more, I offer you only ugly reality.  The ugly reality that this period of waiting for someone to tell me how much my body has hidden from me, how much it has betrayed me, and how able I will be to fight back, often seems like nothing short of torture. But I’ll start this day knowing that every time I crumble, someone has always been there to pick me up. For that, I am eternally grateful. And that feeling of being grateful, which fills me now, is a much better feeling than the ones that filled me when I sat down to write. I guess that's another therapy session, complete.

Langa

For a few years now, I have had an idea for a novel dancing in my head. Believe it or not, I was more scared to reveal this fact about myself than I am to talk about my own boobs. Weird. But there it is – something I have talked about with only a few select people in my life until today when I hit “Publish” on this entry. Yikes…I kind of feel like I just said I love you on a first date. 

Until a few weeks ago, I didn’t have any plans to actually put this thought into action. Here and there, I’d think about the setting and the plot, jot down some ideas, listen out for good character names, and piece together parts of my protagonist’s personality. Once when my commuter rail train was stuck for almost three hours due to a brush fire near Route 128 station, I wrote the draft of what could be the first chapter (mainly to distract myself from terrible smells and the long line of restless people that were waiting for the bathroom which happened to be right next to my seat). A few years ago, before the birth of my current idea, my Mom and I both got the itch to write, and we found a fabulous writing teacher to give us some lessons. I still remember and appreciate much of Sean’s advice. But sadly, soon after our first few lessons, our work schedules exploded and I was lucky to have time to sleep for a few hours, never mind have a hobby.

But all of the sudden, through this blog and those of you who read it, something has come alive in me, and I feel myself revved up to do something now, well, OK, soon, that I figured I’d only accomplish in my retirement. Cancer has a crazy way of kicking dreams into gear, and I’m starting to think it’s time to at least get some pen to paper, or for me, fingertips to keyboard. Strangely, however, I have come to cherish the time that I write here, with you, and I’m not ready for any other effort to take the place of that. So I thought I’d start to tell you a bit about the many disconnected pieces of this would-be-book that are dancing around (to a more and more lively beat) in my wacky, soon-to-be-bald head.

That brings us to Cape Town, South Africa. Cape Town is the birthplace of my main character and several other significant characters. It’s also where I spent a semester as a junior in college, on a study abroad program with other Bowdoin, Bates, and Colby students at the University of Cape Town. That was twelve years ago, which in many ways was a lifetime ago for me, and I’m sure, for many of you. This was before September 11th, before Iraq and Afghanistan, and before the economic downturn. It was before Katrina, the earthquake in Haiti, and the tsunamis in the Indian Ocean and Japan. Before Massachusetts and other states legalized gay marriage. Before iPhones and iPads. And among so many other worldly events and personal milestones, this was a time before a life-saving drug called herceptin made its way to the marketplace.

Yet at the same time, for me, there are some incredible constants from 2000 to now. I have a box in the basement full of letters that Brian sent me (he sent one every single day) and funny cards from Rachel and Brianne about the crazy things they were doing back home. And I remember as if it were yesterday, hugging my Mom and my Dad at Logan Airport when I returned from my trip almost five months after they had seen me off. Now I know a bit more about what those long, tearful, strong hugs were about; when I became a parent, I realized how much of that embrace was about relief.

But let’s return to South Africa. When our group visited there in 2000, South Africa was only six years past its first democratic elections; the historic time in April 1994 when men and women (including my host family) waited in lines miles long to cast their first vote. This is one of my favorite historic photos of those voting lines, and I think of it every time I feel like casting my vote at a nearby elementary school is too much of a hassle. (Obviously I did not take this photo.)

In 2000, apartheid laws were no more, but the legacy of one of the world’s most rigid systems of racial segregation was apparent almost every place you looked.  That legacy was most obvious to me in the townships, the areas in which that the apartheid government had forced black South Africans to live, and where, despite the fall of apartheid, most of South Africa’s black population still remained. 

Our group of American college students spent several days a week teaching high school students in an after-school program in Langa, a township just outside of Cape Town.  Langa, short for Langalibalele, which means, sun, was conveniently established by the apartheid government next to the city’s energy-producing coal stacks, lest the horrid smells and respiratory damage caused by burning coal drift to anyone else but the city’s laborers.  (I took this photo from an elementary school we visited.  You can see the coal stacks in the foreground of the famous Table Mountain.)     

I just heard Teddy scoot from his bedroom into ours, and Annabel is kicking the wall through her crib upstairs telling me to come get her out. While I've got so much more in me to write, I'll save it for another day. I feel like I've accomplished what I wanted with this entry, anyway -- I have introduced you to Langa, a place I love, a place that gives me perspective every day, and the birthplace of a protagonist to whom I cannot wait to introduce you.

I also thought I'd leave you with one more photo that I came across this morning as I dug through my old albums. I took this one in Langa, although the students pictured here are not the ones with whom we worked. But this photo sings to me now more than ever. The transformed dumpster that you see on the right was being used as a classroom, and I found then, and find now, such inspiration from that reality paired with the message on the wall next to it.