Tag Archives: Breast Cancer

So Sad, It’s Funny

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More guest blogging! (Sad) Stevie is back again to shed light on the nature of depression, and how his funny (abusive) friends work in parallel with his prescription meds. But Mr. Safran hardly personifies his Disease any more than I mope around as Mrs. Cancer. In fact, this whole essay makes me want to hug and hang out with him. There are plans for that, which will include lots of razzing about hogging my CANCER blog to chat up my expanding audience (five countries today!) with blather about his big boo hoo disease.*

 

So Sad It’s Funny, by Steve Safran

Being a guest writer on someone’s cancer blog is tricky. It’s especially tricky when you’re an attention hog. It’s exponentially tricky when you’re up against Britt. When faced with such an admirable foe, the only question one can reasonably ask is “How do I make this about me?”

I’ll go with my depression.

Depression is an odd illness. It’s the only one I know of where people tell you that there’s no reason you should have it. “You have a great life – what do you have to be depressed about?” But that’s like asking Britt, “You have awesome hair – what do you have to be cancerous about?”

So yes, I have depression, as I have since I was 14. And I have come to accept that there is no real cure. But I did keep it quiet for a very long time – the whole stigma thing. It’s not cancer after all. It’s not fatal – although there are plenty of sufferers who decided it was better to make it terminal, so to speak.

Many people believe that this is an illness of weakness, laziness, and choice rather than of chemical imbalance. (I include myself in this occasionally.) While Britt fought her illness, I continued to fight my own. And I wondered – how can I feel so bad about myself while Britt fights a “real” illness?

Britt’s cancer can be shown on tests; what I have is less tangible. It’s a diagnosis without a visual. The course of treatment is debatable in the sense that five doctors will guess ten different ways of going about it. There is no one way. And, as far as I have experienced, there is no cure. I’m a 25-year chemistry experiment. And nobody will ever pronounce me depression-free.

Add to this epilepsy that I developed in my 30s and a lifelong fight with migraines and panic attacks, and it’s enough to make you plotz, as My People would say in the shtetl. (Jewy Writing Tip: When you can’t come up with a punchline, use as much Yiddish as possible. Italicize for extra comedy effect.)

Yet this is not a cry for help. Illness actually makes for pretty good comedy.

You may have noticed that I tend toward the humorous, even the dark humorous side of things. This is not a coincidence. People have long noted the “laughing on the outside, crying on the inside” kinds of humorists. That’s me. Funny helps fight The Sad.

So I get why Britt can be so funny in the midst of such horror. When met with a mortal enemy, you can run or you can laugh in its face. We who choose the latter do so not so much out of bravery (for I will never be associated with such a term) but out of defense. Although not by any stretch the best medicine, humor is a salve. Laughing releases some sort of chemical-thing that makes your brain-thing happier or something like that. I will leave the actual science in this space to Britt or, really, anyone who can make it through freshman Bio.

“Comedy Is Not Pretty” wrote Steve Martin. It’s the ironic title of his third album, and damn right he is. Great humor needs a foe. Britt, Debby, Ran, Jason and I needle each other endlessly on Facebook – and that’s what friends do. At least, that’s what we do. Normal friends may actually be polite to each other. Who’s to say? I’ll take the needling. I’ll take outright abuse, so long as it’s witty. Because there’s a weird kind of love in that. It’s not pretty, but it’s pretty funny.

Being “Depressed” isn’t who I am. Britt’s not “Cancered,” after all. Although I do enjoy making up words, and may save that for future use.

Depression, cancer, illness… it’s not pretty. But it can be pretty funny.

 

Funny, dapper Stevie looking… happy?

*Just a small sample of friendly needling. Of course Cancer doesn’t trump Depression. But describing me as an “admirable foe” has me searching for my Made Up Word Gauntlet.

Relish

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Thursday was Teddy’s birthday, and like every year, he jumped out of bed before sunrise to announce, quite loudly, IT’S MY BIRTHDAY, and to find a stack of presents alongside of his Halloween haul. Legos, Kit Kats, and later… ninja-embellished cake: a dreamy day for any 8-year-old boy. I let him open all of the toys, even though there wouldn’t be enough time to assemble the entire Ultrasonic Raider before school. And because it was his birthday, only giggled at his teary admonishments when it was time to head to the bus stop: “Why did you have to have me on a school day? It’s NO FAIR!” (Also not fair: two consecutive pregnant summers). After tooth brushing and backpack locating and that-jacket-isn’t-warm-enough, I put my littlest boy– my teeny breech baby– on the bus, holding back the floodgate of emotions that accompany all of my milestone-y moments of late. Teddy is 8, I’m all healthy and haired and here, and Legos will keep me from any real, active parenting responsibilities for a few days. We are lucky lucky lucky Lees with a dry basement and nary a felled tree to boot.

At the moment, the Lee household is brimming with relatives. Bernie’s sister, her two adorable children, and A-Ma fled powerless, damp NJ to shack up with us for at least another week. Alice (Bernie’s niece who lives with us) and my mom, who is probably stranded until Amtrak develops some sort of submarine capabilities, are here, too. It’s quite cozy and fun in spite of meal planning math, mom’s dishwasher obsession, A-Ma’s new cancer theories, and adorable children with a stubborn aversion to sleep. But we have power and Prosecco, so no complaints here.

Bernie and I were nearly stranded, ourselves. We went to New Orleans for a conference last weekend, but escaped just ahead of Sandy… and just in time to stare nervously at the probable trajectory of our trees. It was the first time I have left the boys since The Big Bummer News, so another milestone-y moment I enjoyed… with Cajon-spiced abandon. Unfortunately, my post chemo stomach wasn’t ready for a hey-that’s-probably-even-better-fried! trip to the bayou. Turns out NOLA isn’t the best spot for Cancer Girl Trying to Be Healthy. Nope, that town is the naughty friend who drags you, cackling, into her web of bad decisions. She also smells like urine and has really slutty outfits.

I could trash that city for another two paragraphs, but instead, will tell you about the fabulous people I saw there. You might have seen The Greenspuns on these pages before. They’re the ones with the awesomely supportive messages, the funny and sweet sentiments of people who just… get it. David, a sworn atheist, sent up super Jewish prayers on my behalf. Rachel, his pretty, chatty wife is someone who obliterates formality in honor of obviously-we’re-going-to-be-friends. As we get older, and adult attachments are formed around schools, clubs, kids, and work, I appreciate that kind of authentic buddy-ness… especially when it’s coming from someone whip smart and married to one of my favorite plastic surgeons (and I know quite a few).

I also got to see the Mathes’s. David and I were residents together for two years and developed a kinship that involved a lot of giggling of the overworked and sleep-deprived. Probably the most charming attribute of someone all published and impressive and famous-among-the-transplant-crowd is an irrepressible tendency to make fun of himself, to embrace silliness, and to be willing pop the cork on the gift wine even though it’s already 2am. He and his beautiful wife have been faithful readers of this drivel… Amanda sometimes messaging me within minutes of a post. That my two favorite Davids from residency should become plastic surgeons in the same field as my husband is probably not odd coincidence. Obviously, I’m drawn to these goofy-smart perfectionist types… and so happy to bump into them at finer hotels everywhere at least twice a year.

I didn’t intend to embarrass them with these snapshotty descriptions, but The Davids, and their wives who have become dear friends, have been on my mind for more reasons than the joy of reconnecting with them in my post-hair era. Recently, I’ve been… well maybe barraged is too big a word, but there are just too many woman receiving this Big Bummer News. Because Bernie’s job puts him right into the middle of the tragedy of so many women (how does he do this?), of course I’m going to hear some stories. But lately it’s so many friend-of-friends, acquaintances, that woman-you-met-at-that-party… and everyone is too young, and with small children, and as Teddy said, IT’S NOT FAIR! Just today, a wonderful woman asked me how to help her newly diagnosed sister. Immediately I thought of my recently reunited friends in New Orleans. I told her how vital it was for me to have these people in my life– to know someone was praying, caring, just keeping me in mind. That the Greenspuns would re-visit a park and toast to my health, that Amanda would shorten a bedtime story to read a comparison of my dad to a watermelon… and that they would share those stories with me? My inner romantic believes Cancer’s got nothing on the power of that.

Love trumps fear. It won’t cure Cancer or keep your hair from falling out or make it all a bad dream (things I wished for). But it does put a cap on the terror of it all. Last night as I was putting ninja-cake stuffed boys to bed, I told them to ignore the chattering and never-want-to-go-to-bed wailings of their adorable cousins. Brodie pulled his covers to his chin and said, “Why don’t they want to go to bed? I relish it!” After complimenting him on the vocabulary, I asked him why he thought it was easier for him to get to sleep. “Because I have a little brother right next to me to talk to!” It is actually always that simple. And it’s exactly how I feel about all of you: all pulling up the covers and relishing it.

Ninja cake! It was here, then gone, without a sound…

Miracles

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Many years ago, A-Gong drove Bernie and me to Staten Island to check on one of their rental properties under renovation. It was a sweltering night, their car’s air conditioning was on the fritz, I was uncomfortably pregnant, exhausted from a prior night on call in the ICU, and really annoyed that I was being shuttled in the opposite direction of home, where there would be ice cream, The Amazing Race, and an adjustable thermostat. Along the way, A-Gong listed all of the things that needed repairing after the (squatting) tenants had finally moved out of the building. When we arrived (eek, a rat?), he continued the story of a family that had fallen on hard times, who couldn’t always pay the rent, whose emotionally labile child had destroyed the place. Everything smelled like pee and something burning. Finally, the grand tour of the ripped-back-to-studs apartment was over and I stuffed myself back into the car and began a bitchy tirade:

“Why didn’t you sell it?”
“Why did you let it go on for so long?”
“How did you get mixed up with these people?”

I wasn’t a particularly glow-y pregnant gal. A-Gong looked at me with a bit of sadness,

“Britt, God puts ‘these people’ in our path so we can help them.”

Oh… that. Duly chastened, right there in the front seat, next to a cup holder full of wasabi peas, I vowed to be a better person, to be more like my in-laws. A-Ma and A-Gong were probably a little troubled that night, wondering if maybe their son had married a sweaty, wasabi-pea-shunning, selfish heathen of a white girl. And maybe he did. But God was right there in a hot sedan full of believers, and finally I… noticed.

How does someone who doesn’t believe, who mocked blind faith wearing a sandwich board championing scientific fact, who needed to insert “love” or “light” into any sermon in place of “Jesus” (deification is so weird!), who dated Jewish boys and fell in love with their mothers… how does that girl become an advocate of prayer, a regular at the communion rail, the co-chair of the Christmas Market? I’m still not entirely sure, but I think it began in the Maxima.

After that hot ride home, my ICU rotation continued and I spent four brutally pregnant weeks caring for the critically ill and dying. I loved it (the doctoring stuff, not the being pregnant bit). Dr. Barie was the scary, brilliant director of the unit and all of us struggled to please and impress him, or failing that, just tried not piss him off or kill his patients. The shifts were long, the work was unrelenting, the call room smelled like tuna fish, and God Was There. It was the oddest thing at the time, to feel so strongly that We Are Not Alone—well, maybe not given Dr. Barie’s obsession with the X-Files. But amid all of the beeping proof that science was keeping the patients alive, what went undocumented in the chart was that prayer, love, and connectedness helps, too. And I don’t think for a minute that it helps in a can-cure-cancer or get-grandpa-off-the-ventilator way. Rather, it strengthens, comforts, and summons beauty.

Recently asked how I morphed into this churchy Jesus girl, I kept returning to the night I found God outside that ransacked rental, and then later in the ICU, at the bedside of a 26-year-old woman whose new husband and family had decided to let go. “We know this is hard for you, too” her aunt told me after I explained that further treatments were futile, “and we’re so grateful.” As I excused myself from rounds to sob unprofessionally (and uncharacteristically) in the fishy call room, A-Gong’s words came back,

“God puts these people in our path so we can help them.”

Was I helping? Ugh, it didn’t feel like it: I couldn’t do anything. So I prayed. I prayed for her sweet, handsome young husband, for her close-knit Catholic family, for all of us in the ICU who (uncharacteristically) were heartbroken, too. In the absence of any possible medical coups, at least there was this. And as Dorsey taught me last year, praying for miracles is allowed. The miracle then wasn’t to cure, but somehow to strengthen, comfort, and summon beauty: to miraculously find these things though a young woman was dying.

This was nearly a decade ago, and though I’ll never forget this patient, she was in my thoughts a bit more the last year. (Taking poisons and reviewing survival statistics couldn’t be separated from morbid rumination about my own end-of-life.) I thought about how she and her family taught me what it means to pray for others, to pray for miracles, to pray for the people God puts in my path.

But, then, the nagging question: does prayer “work?”

No, not in the literal sense, or in any way that my inner skeptic could embrace without feeling ridiculous. I believe in God and His Plan, but not that any amount of focused meditation on miracles could influence either one. However, I do know this: last year I was the one God put in your path, to help, and to remember in your prayers in all of their beautiful and varied forms. This is how Nicole (my old science pal) put it,

“…I have been thinking of you all the time, and if thinking of you and literally begging God to help you means praying, well I’ve been doing that too.”

And here I am all fabulous-looking-and-feeling and writing up a storm about faith, and thankfulness, ancient neighbors, moon cakes, and yoga… still very much here and very much me. I’m not sure I’d be so fabulous-feeling in the absence of this connectedness, the shared notion of “prayer” that took the form of a thousand messages of love and countless acts of kindness. Atheist Brother Patrick swearing at God to stop fucking with me was as dear as Zealot Sister’s continued insistence that He never was. Both of these sentiments communicate the same thing: God exists and I am loved. These are the reasons I feel fabulous. And they are miracles, indeed.

The Tall and Short of It

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It’s darling of you to entertain me while I wait for the Norwegians. After a long week of do-gooding, fancy dinners, and committee meetings, I’m spent. I don’t have the stamina that accompanied my original parts, so I’m hoping there’s one more bottle of celebratory Veuve Cliquot in the ‘fridge, (ooh, Sharffenberger!) and that the children continue to be entranced by creating dragon villages on the computer. Accompany me now as I dip into the gift bubbles and tell you every little thing.

I saw Debby Gammons Thursday night. She was at her post at Zegna, all super-smart looking in her I-buy-for-Tom-Brady outfit. April and I were passing through the expensive stores on our way to a swanky shoe event because April knows people who collect swanky shoes and believe 5 inch platforms are equally suited for hora dancing and Whole Food shopping. (They lie.) Seeing Debby was a feel-good moment for oodles of reasons. First of all, Debby is adorable. As Grandma Karen would say, “…she’s no bigger than a minute,” and her Monica Geller-ness imbues her teeny tininess with a commanding competence. (Debby probably has eleven categories of towels.) Debby also has been my champion for the past year: reading, messaging, and praying. Having someone who is so hospital-corners in my corner felt good… feels good. We will always tease her for her pin straight ways, for running 26.2 miles more often than I floss, and for involving Ralph Lauren cable knits, Hunter wellies, and a toggled coat in one outfit. But Debby is as constant and loyal as she is preppy. Seeing Debby reminded me that many more of these sweet moments are coming: when I get to lay eyes on you good people who have kept in touch with thoughts, words, and deeds. The short quips via social networking were my lifeline last year, but face-to-face is better… especially when that face is Debby Gammons.

Two bottles of wine later, the Norwegians have arrived with Advent Aquavit, milk chocolate, and their sweet Scandinavian faces. Tormod is another friend I’m happy to see in person. Though he hasn’t shown up on these Pages yet, Tormod will be a part of The Family Lee forever. When it was time to assemble a team of surgeons for my care (mutilation), I was mostly concerned about “the help.” Because surgery is best performed assisted, Adam needed to find someone with deft hands and unruffled professionalism. The whole people-I-know-seeing-me-naked aspect of last year ranked high on the List of Things That Unfairly Suck. Tormod was the obvious choice. He’s an excellent surgeon. He’s a husband and dad. He’s Norwegian. It must have been (possibly still is) weird for him to straddle all the imaginary lines drawn between resident and attending, friend and colleague, boss’s wife and patient. But somehow it’s not weird to share duty-free chocolates with him now. That’s a good friend, indeed.

As we close in on the one-year anniversary of my life-changing journey (the dreaded call, December 16th, April’s living room), Maria recently described what it was like for all of those people on the other side of the operating room door. In those moments, I was drugged, terrified, and shielded from their forced involvement in my scary tragedy. I hadn’t thought about how necessary, but how difficult, it must have been for them to wheel me around the hospital without cursing, crying, or calling in sick. But they didn’t. I see Tormod now as my friend, my surgeon, a little bit my hero. He’s so tall and stoic and Norwegian and that made all of the difference.

This week I had the opportunity to pay forward the kindness of the Debbys and Tormods in my life. Dr. Miller was admitted to the hospital and so I spent a few days shuttling Maida around and then, thankfully, driving them both home after he was discharged. It was a privilege to watch these ancient people charming the pants off of everyone and making it home in time to take out the recyclables. They now feel beholden and terribly, terribly guilty about troubling me… even though the only trouble at all is that they won’t stop calling to thank me. But I think it’s wonderful that Maida called for help when she really needed it. In fact, we’re not entirely certain how Maida was able to transmit an “urgent” message into Bernie’s operating room to request a ride home. The ER staff is probably still wondering about the VIP status of this 90-year-old woman who can page the chief of the division for taxi service (and probably shocked that that is exactly how Maida got home). So now I’m feeling a bit like Maida: beholden to the sweet people in my life. Now I have enough distance (and hair!) away from the horror to reflect on the many people who helped make it less awful. And while Maida is likely to thank me with some truly awful trinket from the china cabinet, I’ll use this forum, to tell 300 people about two people at polar opposite ends of the height chart and globe, who I’m so happy to see, who made all the difference.

A picture of Debby and Tormod would illustrate the same effect…(except the effect of seeing a picture of Tom Brady)

Laughter

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Guest blogging: a brilliant idea! Here’s something fantastic I didn’t write at all. Most of you know (or are familiar with the hilarious rantings of) Steve Safran. Though a self-proclaimed curmudgeon, he’s really more of a teddy bear… a grumpy, Jewish teddy bear. Must learn lyrics to “A Little Bit of Soul” as only a small payment for the giggly diversion Steve provided me (and all of us). Enjoy this dose of Stevie Medicine: read, laugh, repeat.

Laughter is the Best Way to Get Sick People Mad at You… by Steve Safran
When Britt first told us out she had cancer, like everyone I was stunned, angry, shocked and sad. Also: thirsty and a little cranky. The trouble is I’m a bit of a wiseass. And I work in news, so I deal with horrid situations through gallows humor. There’s a lot of stress when you report on sad stories every day. But I can’t blame my career entirely. I am, after all, me. Lots of people will vouch for that.

Britt notified us, the Trinity Friends, via Facebook, on December 17, 2011. This meant that my usual afternoon of Photoshopping dirty pictures was suddenly and rudely interrupted. There’s something incongruous about getting bad news via Facebook. It’s like getting a singing Peanuts Hallmark card offering deepest condolences. (“Good Grief” would, in fact, be somewhat appropriate.) Some conversation ensued, with me confusingly offering to run something in pink or do something to raise something or other. Fortunately, good friend and actual runner Deb Gammons stepped up to the plate to get my 10K and half-marathon facts straight. This was a relief, and was the last time I was required to do math in the name of science. I have since learned a 10K is not a retirement fund for those on a budget.

The absurdity of Britt’s Facebook notice is that it came about an hour before I was to inform the same crowd that I had moved out of the family home en route to divorcing my wife of 18 years. Alas, my lead was buried, confined to the back pages of the “News & Notes” section of the crappy Metro section. I was incensed:

Well, shit. I was planning on telling you all how my wife and I separated this week, how I moved out and how I’m living alone in Wayland now. I was going to get all sorts of womanly sympathy and, quite possibly, cash and gifts. But forget it now. Way to put things in perspective.

Still, I had to dig down deep, as friends do:

Brittle, I will do whatever you need. I will sit with you while you get that horrid chemo shit, smoke cigars and tell you dirty jokes. They say, “laughter is the best medicine.” That’s bullshit. Get the medicine. I’m witty, but I’m not a cure for anything other than excess happiness.

Confession: I was hurt nobody was offering me a Hermes scarf.

Moving from Facebook, Britt wisely opened her world to her caring friends and family through the use of the inspiring and moving CarePages. This is a wonderful and, well, caring way patients can connect. The problem, of course, is that I have a mentality that hears “Care Pages” and automatically reacts inappropriately. I absolutely believe Britt would have had the same reaction to a CarePage set up for me. As Britt has quoted me on my reply, I have no problem stealing from her stealing from me:

Here are several problems I have with this:

1. It being “Care Pages” makes me feel I need to be sincere. As you know, this is a character defect of mine.
2. There will be caring, loving statements on this page.
3. While I care and love, I express those emotions in somewhat different ways. As in a total lack of caring and loving.
4, Those who care and love are bound to see my statements and feel I am wishing terrible things upon you.
5. I am not. I am wishing terrible things upon most non-Jews, but not you, a TOTAL Shiksa Goddess.

This, I am told, was received in both the spirit it was intended (“great love and sympathy”) and the spirit in which it is written (“heartless bastard”). As a journalist, I have come to accept both, preferring the latter as I am part of the great left-wing-conservative-liberal-tea-party-lamestream media conspiracy. (Hint: We just want free beer.)

After a few of Britt’s remarkable, charming and deeply touching CarePages, I was hooked. Still, as a newsman and consultant, I thought it might help to offer some advice so she could grow her base:

March 10, 2012:

Dear Britt:

I am enjoying your regular Care Pages updates. As a longtime newsman, I recommend you add horoscopes, Soduku and, perhaps, “Ziggy.” This would expand your appeal and open you to a wider, more sophisticated audience.

Sincerely,
Steve Safran
Natick, MA

I am a creature of social media. Ostensibly, it is my job to teach journalists how to use it. It’s a crime, of course, to be paid to stand in front of a room of people and say “Tweet!” But this is America, and people have made far more money off far worse advice. Britt and I stayed in touch via Facebook.

Our Girl has made a comeback. While this is something of a slowdown for my borderline-offensive patter, it is nonetheless a tremendous relief. You see, I come back to that first Facebook note I wrote Britt on The December Night, where I showed the briefest glimpse of the man I might be:

Stay witty and upbeat. You don’t really have a choice but to heal; I have you on the list of people who will be singing at my funeral. The selection has to be “A Little Bit of Soul” by Music Explosion. This is not optional, and neither is your attendance.

Can’t wait to have you there.

Britt and Steve: wearing black… and sharing gallows humor.

Awareness

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“These things aren’t tied with a pink ribbon”

This is a raw, sad, and honest poem written by Lisa Bonchek Adams. She published it nearly two years ago… when her treatments were over, but their effects were not (and would never be). This is the part that tugs at me:

Beneath the pretty lies ugly,
the ugly truth of cancer
and what it has taken from me.
While some may be able to go on,
move on,
forget,
I cannot.
My body will not let me.
These things are not tied with a pink ribbon.
These things last longer than a month.
This is part of awareness.
This is part of what breast cancer can do.
This is what it has done to me.

Unless you are blind, shopping-averse, or trapped beneath something heavy, you’ve noticed that October has become shrouded in pink. Billboards are plastered with beautiful celebrity survivors, sporting Cancer-didn’t-beat-me! smiles and cascading hair atop their plunging necklines. And all of us are hen pecked with requests to donate, walk, buy, carry, wear, and otherwise marinate in the rosy mindfulness that Breast Cancer Exists. I’d been warned that I might have an unusually strong reaction to all of this Awareness, but it was the brutal honesty of this poem that informed my urge to yell at the telemarketers.

“Did you know that there currently is NO cure for breast cancer?”

Awesome reminder. Could you leave it on the answering machine again to frighten the children? And 5pm is a super time to call moms with short hair, implants, and smallish, hungry boys with homework.

You might think I’d want to transfer our entire 401K to the scientists in charge of my unknown future. But, you know, I think I’ve given quite enough… and sometimes, I’m still angry. That 7mm aggregate of evil cells robbed me of my body, and my Peace. Chemo has made list-making necessary, and finding the car a challenge. Of course, every day gets a teensy bit easier. At least, as Kelli said, “… until I take off my shirt… then the PTSD kicks in and a few days of Xanax is called for…” I do think these pink promotions are a good and great thing, but for millions of us (and many millions more who experienced the fallout while baking us muffins, driving our kids around, and reading our blogs) we’re Aware, thank you very much. The Frying Pan of Breast Cancer has collectively conked us over the head, and the birdies are still circling. Can you see them? They’re fucking pink.

Of course, there are oodles of other ways that Pink-tober is heart-warming. Seeing a picture of my ninth grade cousin and her girlfriends devote every Wednesday this month to Awareness makes me smile. And I went on a survivor-entitled Bloomies shopping spree under the guise of supporting Pink causes. But because everything is a little cuter, a little prettier in ruddy hues, practically any household item can be found as a Pepto Bismol-dipped nod to the not-so-cute or pretty struggle it supports. The scars, fear, cold, nightmares, loss… these Halloween-y sentiments match up more closely to any Awareness I’m feeling. And these things… these things aren’t tied with a pink ribbon.

Lisa, the brave writer, mom, survivor… Lisa just went public with the news that her Cancer is back, in the treatable-not-curable way (www.lisabadams.com). I’ve never met Lisa, but her news leaves me sad and scared. I found a website entitled “F**K AWARENESS, Find a Cure” with nary a pink ribbon embellishment. I’d like to throw a few back with those guys. Buying the pink crap isn’t going to help Lisa, although our “awareness” of her devastating diagnosis just might. I have great faith in the medicines that will keep Lisa living to tell, and even more in the Peace that comes from our prayers. Mine are headed her way, tied up with love and hope that transcend all sense or science (or color).

 

Freshman in Oviedo, FL for The Cure:  adorable awareness

Leisure Boy

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A-Ma is an artist. She picked up some pastels and began dabbling about seven years ago, but now has moved on to winning awards for her oil paintings. That A-Ma would be so gifted is no surprise to me. If Emily Lee is passionate about something, that shit gets done. And for my in-laws, this could never be a doodle-y amateurish pastime. Nope, they establish interest groups, create invitational exhibitions, solicit prizes, and make it all official sounding with names like International Taiwanese Artists Teacher’s Society. (Which totally exists.) Around the same time A-Ma started churning out fruit-on-table and beach scenes, A-Gong developed a love of photography. This aligned temporally with his love of Ebay and acquisition of many, many, many cameras. Again, my in-laws are not content to tool around collecting snapshots for the family albums. Nope, they arrange expensive tours to take sunrise and sunset pictures all over the planet, and then host elaborate photo exhibitions like a 21st century version of vacation slideshows our parent’s generation used to bore their neighbors with in the 70s. Only theirs has an awards ceremony. But no cheese cubes.

Both of my in-laws are really quite talented. Not that I have an artistic eye at all, but the portraits undoubtedly resemble the family members A-Ma is rendering, and A-Gong has captured some incredible rice paddy panoramas, birds-in-flight, fireworks, flowers, icicles, leaves, rocks, sky (as his hoarding tendencies spill over into photo editing). Occasionally I think we live in the Lee & Lee auxiliary gallery, but I love having these framed, beautiful paintings and photos on the walls. Sometimes I’ll find the art show tag on the corner, with teeny tiny Chinese figures I assume is a description or price. But if I’m really lucky, someone has translated the title into English.

I don’t know they are attempting some sort of poetry, but the titles are just fantastic. A picture of my toy-sharing toddlers is entitled, “Friendlines, Respectfulness.” And the latest addition to our walls is a really rather large painting of Teddy squatting atop a jungle gym. It’s A-Ma’s latest oil masterpiece and its submission to a Cape Cod art exhibition required her to choose a name and price for an almost-life-size rendering of my little boy. I still wonder if the judges giggled as much as Bernie and I have about “Leisure Boy, $5000.”

I figure displaying their artwork all over my houses gives me leave to poke all sorts of fun at them. But after three paragraphs of doing just that I realize there is a lesson to learn from the wacky and wonderful industry of my in-laws. They’d never wait for a faraway editor to find something worth publishing from a CarePage. Nope, they’d form their own International Society of Taiwanese Web Writers, invite guest authors, solicit prizes, and organize more cheese cube-less forums. The confidence, bravery, and commitment A-Ma and A-Gong bring to their artwork elevates it far beyond “hobby.” I kind of love that. Alternatively, it’s just another Asian thing:  why bother slapping paint on canvas unless there are prizes and someone wins?

Although writing these silly essays continues to be fun and therapeutic, the attempt at chronicling my life into a book feels vain (even for me) and forced and blah blah blah boring. But as I watched A-Gong design his own Chinese blog about Energy Work last weekend, I wondered if it’s time for me to get this show on the road. I still giggle over what Steve Safran wrote when I first announced the existence of these CarePages:

“Here are several problems I have with this.
1. It being “Care Pages” makes me feel I need to be sincere. As you know, this is a character defect of mine.
2. There will be caring, loving statements on this page.
3. While I care and love, I express those emotions in somewhat different ways. As in through a total lack of caring and loving.
4. Those who care and love are bound to see my statements and feel I am wishing terrible things upon you.
5. I am not. I am wishing terrible things upon most non-Jews, but not you, a TOTAL shiksa goddess.”

And now that I’m feeling so great, maybe my little ditties are ready for an audience that isn’t expressly asked and required to Care, at a site that doesn’t sensor my use-for-emphasis potty mouth, and isn’t so buggy with the logging in. As I toyed with blog design late last night I got stuck at the very first step: I need a title. Shiksagoddessbritt.com? (Which totally exists. And it’s me. Thanks, Steve.) Leisure Boy 5000? East Meets Breast? That every title embodying the scariest, faith-testing time in my life is somehow silly and funny says oodles about how much having an audience has helped me through it. Wherever these musings land, I hope you’ll find me there.

Leisure Boy, $5000

Leisure Boy, $5000