Autumn

It's been a challenging time. I've had car trouble that's going to cost me dearly. For now, I'm driving it very gently. 

I've also had foot pain where I've got a big callus. I don't understand it, but have been going to the doctor and podiatrist. I missed an appointment with the podiatrist due to the pandemic. That gave the callus a chance to get worse. So now we're playing catch-up with maintenance. Then I got a flu shot, which always gives me a big welt. I told the nurse, and she said that that was a sign of a good immune response. Whew. And I am just getting over a sty in my right eye. Lots of gooey antibiotic ointment. 

Things are just challenging, and I'm as nervous as anyone about the upcoming election. I've already voted. I filled out my mail-in ballot, then walked it over to the town hall. There was no line at all, just two nice poll workers (younger than the ones I'm used to seeing) with plenty of hand sanitizer. I feel privileged to live in a town where this is possible. I wish everyone's experience were this simple.

The above photo is of the cosmos on my deck, on a foggy morning. They're now as tall as I am. Flowers in the fall are so refreshing.

 

Bring in the Flowers

 I've brought my hibiscus plants indoors for the season, and though they're dropping yellow leaves at the shock, they're also blooming like crazy. These are plants my old tenant and friend, Bill bought when he stayed here a couple of years ago. I'm shocked that I've kept them alive this long and that they're thriving.

I took my car in for a look at the tires, which had become squishy. The mechanic was selling his business, but said he could do the tire repair in a couple of days. So I brought it back in a couple of days, and he acted surprised at the job that needed to be done, told me he'd sold all his tools. So I called another shop, and they took me four days later. The slow leak, they could have repaired, but there was cracking on the side walls, and they told me I needed new tires. Four of them. The good news was that Lacey, the office worker told me they'd charge $600+ for the tires, then a hundred for the installation. But she suggested I go online for the tires. I did, and saved $200. Nice of her. Now they're off for a week, and will put the tires on on the 6th of October. Two more weeks. Sigh. So I'm going to keep topping off the air as I carefully drive to the store and back. No long trips for me.

Smoke

 The other day, my brother, Andy called just to say hello. He lives in Seattle, and says they're staying indoors due to the wildfire smoke. Somehow I'd thought the fires were in California, not Oregon and Washington, too. I was wrong. Seattle, for heaven's sake!

Now the skies here are covered in a fine haze, and the sun burns pink even when it's well above the horizon. We're thousands of miles from the fires.

More Loss

 I found out recently that one of our tenors from the little group, the Outer Cape Chorale Chamber Singers has resigned. He's a very good singer, and has a tremendous memory, nearly always having the pieces memorized before anyone else in the group. But his health concerns are valid, as he and his wife are in high-risk categories. I'm going to miss his gentle presence, and the whole group is going to miss his singing. We're down to one or two tenors now, with another one going through chemo and radiation. We'll have to recruit, and last year, the same search was grueling. This group is so beautiful and tightly knit that when one member goes, it leaves a jagged hole. I can't imagine what Allison, our fearless leader is going through. How can we maintain momentum with an unbalanced group sound?

Glass Half Full?

I look at a weather site, Wunderground, where they post pretty accurate information, even for Provincetown. 75 miles out into the Atlantic, our weather is anything but predictable. Anyway, one of the more recent little charts they've been showing is of coronavirus cases and deaths in Barnstable County. That's Cape Cod. So far there have been 1579 confirmed cases, and 158 fatalities. That's one for every ten. And yet, I've been looking at those numbers, and for a few days now, the deaths have stayed the same. I can't believe I felt satisfied or pleased that there were only 158 people dead since March. I am appalled.

Misc.

 After more dry weather, we're getting the smallest bit of rain, enough to make the bugs happy, I'd guess. The birds are frolicking, too.

The rain started just as the mail came. I had to run out and get it, as Halle's heart medicine was due to arrive. Well, it was due yesterday, but someone in the White House wants to destroy the post office, and everything is late. No more about that, I promise. The medicine was there, warm as could be in its so-called cold pack. I'm hoping the day and a half at room temperature won't ruin it.

The sun is out again.

I'm lying on my new mattress. I'd been saving for it for about a year. The old one was kind of bowl-shaped. I won't miss rolling into the center trough.

Sunny

 

Here's the sunflower I've been pampering for a couple of months. It's about 2" in diameter, not your usual gigantic sunflower. But it fits the container on the deck, so all is well. I'm hoping for rain. We're in a drought, and there haven't been two days in the past month when I haven't needed to water it.

Summer progresses. Actually, this is the time of the season when the weather finally breaks and we get cool nights. Fine by me.

A few hours later...it's raining! It's just sprinkling, but oh, it's lovely to see the leaves glisten. Who knows? Maybe it'll make a dent in the drought.

As If

They say you should dance as if no one is watching. Well, maybe I should write as if no one is reading. Which in this case is pretty much a given. I've looked at my statistics for this blog, and very few people have visited. Does this make me sad? Yes, a little. But I can't complain that much, as I haven't publicized the thing.

Cosmos 2

Here's my first, emerging cosmos.

Butterfly Bushes

My Amazon account has been hacked, and though I've spent quite a lot of time on the phone with the tech folks, I've received over 35 emails from them about the hacker trying to order things, then their response that they can't fill the orders. They say I have to start from scratch and set up a new account once this is resolved. But when will it be resolved? It's a good thing I don't need to order anything in the immediate future.

The above painting is one of last summer's efforts, 12"x16", oil on board, entitled Butterfly Bushes. I was experimenting with Liquin, a paint drying medium. In addition to helping the painting  dry more quickly, it's useful in making a glaze of color over a previously painted patch.

Opening

It's a beautiful day, cool for July. I'll take it.

I'm still slogging through depression, but putting one foot in front of the other. 

Pause

I emailed a friend, Carl about how I was feeling, asking how he was doing. He answered in a similar vein. Then he sent me a photo of his chickens. Then he invited me over for tea on the very breezy deck. I went, we talked and watched birds. I met the chickens. It was a lovely afternoon. I felt that he and his wife, Sally understood what I was saying and mirrored it back to me. Leaving, I felt less alone than I have in some time.

I came home, spent some time with the parrot, then went for pizza and beer in Jeannette's front yard. We chatted and commiserated, had pizza and beer. Keith, my plumber drove by, and I waved him over. He joined us for beer and more chat. (All this is socially distanced, of course) Halfway through this conversation, they both realized that he's going to do some work for her. He'd been in her cottage scoping out the job, but she'd been so involved with a project that she barely noticed him. They connected at first through a mutual friend, and Jeannette figured he was just some random guy, not necessarily a professional plumber. So now she'll be happier about his credentials, and now he may bump her closer to the front of the line and get to her job sooner. It could happen.

It was a lovely afternoon and evening. I'd been so bound up in my isolation, and this day just opened something in me. I love my friends.

Slightly Better Day

The laundry is in the dryer. I count it as a major miracle that this morning, I loaded the washing machine evenly enough that it didn't begin banging like a timpani during the spin cycle. It wouldn't be so terrible, but I have a neighbor on the opposite side of that laundry wall. He's got a nice, newer front-loader that doesn't get unbalanced. I could waste my time with envy, but today, I'll try to remember that I have a laundry room, unlike my best friend. Unlike many people who have no homes.

The above painting is of the moon over North Truro, Encaustic on panel, 12"x16". It's a favorite of mine, and oddly enough, still available.

Cookie Compensation

I've been comparing my budding attempts at this blog to a couple of women's posts on facebook. They're really good. They combine details of their daily lives and somehow bring things around to a bigger picture, a more universal meaning. I don't think I'm there yet, or that I'll ever be. The wise part of me knows that I don't need to compare, and that we're all working at our own pace, with our own material. Then there's the other part. On a good day, I can tell that part to just shut up. I haven't been having a lot of good days lately, more like really stuck days. I have to trust that this, too, shall pass.

Meanwhile, I eat too many cookies.

Depression

They say depression is anger turned inward. If that's so, then I must be plenty mad. I've done very little to justify my existence lately. I suppose I can give myself a little credit for taking care of the parrot, but even she must be able to tell I'm not as enthusiastic as I could be about playing our usual games. I just want to go to sleep and wake up in a couple of years. I don't want to have to deal with this loss, loss of freedom, loss of control, loss of closeness with the people I care about. I'm tired of being afraid of a painful, lonely death for myself or others. This staying home, away from other people seems like a dress rehearsal for that kind of death, that disconnection. What loving memories can I store up against that day, should it come?

Looking at that paragraph, I can see the red flags, know

that I sound like I'm in trouble. Well, I am. But I'm not suicidal. I know that's no solution. So, no need to call 911. I'll wear the damn mask and wash my hands.

Resurfacing

I've been depressed, and had nothing to say. I'm still not sure what I have to offer. But the peonies are blooming. I'll post a photo tomorrow.

There we go.

Clay

While living at Vito and Suzanne's, Suzanne, a potter allowed me to use her studio and kiln. At first I just used it to entertain her kids while I was babysitting. Then someone saw the work I was doing and asked me to make her a mermaid. She'd seen one at a craft fair and wasn't impressed. She wanted one for her little fountain. So I made a little mermaid, and continued making them for several years. This is one of the later ones. It's stoneware, about 10" long. The challenge when making stoneware mermaids is keeping their butts from exploding in the kiln. Little air bubbles are dangerous.

Also while living there, one day I walked outside onto the deck with Scooby, the not-terribly-bright sun conure clinging to my shirt. Scooby took off into the high oak trees and would not come down. We tried everything. I felt like a complete heel, especially looking at the kids' faces. After a couple of hours, night fell, and we stopped calling for him. The next day, someone reported Scooby hanging out near their bird feeder three miles away. Vito went over and actually managed to capture the little orange bird. Things had gone slightly sour over another issue, probably child care techniques, and this just edged them further
south. The next summer, I found another place to stay. In a way, the situation was kind of like Mary Poppins' dilemma when the kids no longer needed her. When the kids no longer needed me, the parents found that they didn't either. It was good while it lasted.

Social Distancing

The wife of a congregant in my church has died of covid19. We are unable to go to her, comfort her in her grief. We can't simply hand her a casserole; it has to be put on the porch with a knock or a text.

Cosmos

Something old, something new. Look at that lichen on the bench! Then, see, my baby cosmos plants are coming up! The weather here has been cool and foggy, perfect for both. Of course, my wrists are sticking to my computer...

Eight, Now

A friend's step daughter and her fiance have tested positive for the virus. He's had a fever for two days, she's asymptomatic, and they're in quarantine. My friend is beside herself with anger that they acted as though nothing was out of the ordinary, going to barbeques and poker games with friends.

I'm angry, too. But more than that, I'm afraid. I'm afraid for all of my stupid, stupid friends who think this pandemic is just something that's going to blow over, that they're somehow invulnerable, that everything is going to be just fine.

Eight. That's the number of people I know personally who have tested positive. Eight. I don't have so many friends that I can afford to lose eight of them. Fortunately, most of these people will recover, as they've mostly led healthy lives. At least two have had a devastating reaction to it, and I don't know yet about my friend's foolish young step daughter.

Having to Speak Up

On Facebook today, an old friend made fun of Trump's obesity. I'm overweight, and take that sort of thing very personally. Sure, he's disgusting in many ways, but fat shaming is fat shaming, so I said so. There's no need to stoop to his level, name-calling. We don't need to go low. There's so much else that can be said about him, none of it good.

The Universe Contradicts Itself

Last night, Allison told us she's been studying what the experts are saying about choral singing. They say that it may be three years before it's safe to sing in groups again. Three years. It's only been three months now, and I'm lost without it. I can't wrap my head around this news. I emailed my friend, Jeannette about it, and she said it's better than death. I morbidly replied, 'Is it?' She wrote back that yes, not being able to sing for three years would be better than not being able to breathe, dying alone with a breathing tube down your throat and wondering who would care for Halle Macaw. I admitted she was right. But I didn't like to.

Then I went out on my deck to water the pot where I've planted some seeds, and I saw a couple of them poking their little heads up out of the dirt. Sigh.

The above painting is of some lilacs at 17 Shore Road in North Truro. Oil on board, In the collection of someone I can't remember. My mother's lilacs are blooming in New Hampshire, and chipmunks are climbing among the flowers.

Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child

I got brave and sang my song at the Chamber Singers Zoom meeting tonight. Beforehand, I'd been warming up and thought I couldn't get enough air to make it sound right, but during the first half of the meeting Allison had us warm up with some exercises that were just right. I began singing, and thought I had the wrong interval between the first two notes, but it didn't seem to faze anyone, and eventually I found my way to the more traditional melody. Thank God it's a spiritual or folk tune, with plenty of room for interpretation. People really responded well. A couple cried. Woohoo!

As I said before, I wanted to give people a gift in case they had to celebrate Mother's Day without their mothers. There are so many who had to this year.

Mulch

Today I opened two big bags of spruce mulch and spread them around the garden. These were really heavy bags of mulch, so I was dismayed to find they hardly covered a smidge of my little yard. Sigh. I expect to cover what I'd like, it'll take three times what I've already got on the ground.

The seeds I planted about ten days ago are starting to pop up in a feeble sort of way, and I wonder if they'll survive the weeds' bullying. I planted sunflower seeds, and none of them seem to be making a showing. Maybe it was just too cold for them. It was only 45 this morning, and it's May 17, for heaven's sake. So the above painting is not from my garden. It's of the big house at 17 Shore Road in North Truro where I used to rent a tiny cottage. Bruce de Ste. Croix and Robin Mason used to do the gardening there, and one year they literally dumped a load of sunflower seed, the kind usually used to feed birds onto a patch of ground in front of my cottage. The result was a whole lot of happy birds and a riot of beautiful flowers. Maybe that tiny envelope of seed I bought at the grocery store was the wrong approach.

What I'm Not Doing

Three Trees, Oil on Board, July 2019

I spent the day not gardening or painting. I have the materials all ready to go, but no momentum. The above painting is looking at the cottage I rented last summer, the one in the center. I really enjoyed that place; it has a screened-in porch in the back and is surprisingly well-appointed for a summer cottage. Hardwood floors, a bidet, Penzeys' spices in the kitchen. I'm not renting it this summer because I haven't got anyone to rent my condo for the season. So I get to stay home for the first time in years and years, but make no money. I had to take out a loan, with which I'm not comfortable. At any rate, I need to attend to my garden, as I've been neglecting it over these years. And I need to paint, as I'm supposed to be an artist.

I just attempted to record a video of a little hymn for church, but the choir director gave us a sound track to follow that, I'm sorry, I can't follow. I have trouble with the whole taking-a-video-of-myself thing anyway, but was willing to try until I realized I couldn't make my singing line up with hers. Technology is great until it isn't. I so miss singing with other people and an accompanist.

Tonight would be our second performance night with the Outer Cape Chorale, and it's awful not being able to do that. I feel lost.

Masks

Here are the masks I ordered a few days ago. The woman who makes them does them to order. I got to pick which fabrics I wanted. They're cotton, and adjustable. Hooray! They make my ears stick out a little. Who knew ears could be so soft? But I'll take funny-looking ears when it comes to survival.

I don't look forward to the extra warmth of wearing a mask during the summer. On the positive side, fewer people will be having trouble with basal cell carcinoma this season. 

Coping With It

Truro Winery by Moonlight, Encaustic on board

I'm luckier than some, with a roof over my head, and being relatively healthy right now. That said, I'm sad about so much to do with the virus. I know at least six people with covid19, and many who've lost their jobs or livelihood because of it. The town I live in is going to be devastated by it, as we're dependent on tourism for survival. It's not going away.

The worst part for me is the fact that the Outer Cape Chorale, Chamber Singers and my church choir are unable to meet and sing together. That might sound trivial to anyone not used to singing on a regular basis, but it's a big part of what keeps me sane and healthy. (See the entry on the singing monks.) 

In good times, I spend at least five hours a week singing with others, and more during a concert week. Tomorrow would have been the beginning of our spring concert weekend with the Chorale, three concerts in three days, then an extravaganza of a potluck on Sunday once all the staging and risers were broken down and put away. I'd have spent even more time than usual practicing on my own, getting warmed up beforehand, resting and drinking soup to prepare for the experience. Then there's making sure my all-black concert attire is clean and in good repair. If this sounds like a lot of work, well, it is. It's also joyful and exhilarating to sing something we've worked on for months with 150 other people, and entertain hundreds more. I miss it terribly.

I began writing this blog as a way to deal with this lack of creative outlet, and also to leave something behind in case I contract the virus and don't survive. I didn't think of it that way when I started, but that does seem to be some of what's behind it. So I'm coping. I've also just weed-whacked my dreadful garden, and will put compost and mulch on it to make it a little less dreadful. I bought some painting panels for my artwork in case I ever get the impulse to paint. So far that's not happened. I could beat myself up over it, but I'm trying to be gentle with myself instead. 

I call my mother every other day now instead of every three or four because I know this forced isolation is lonely for her as well as me. Sometimes the conversation lags a little, because nothing much is happening in our lives. I call her anyway. I'm grateful she's 82 and in great health, certainly not needing to be in assisted living or a nursing home. But I fear for her. I keep nudging her to wear her mask and remember to socially distance. It can't be easy to change the habits of a lifetime.

Chicken

Well, we got to the 'sharing' portion of our zoom meeting, and I balked, didn't sing my song. Maybe next week I'll be brave. Not that these people are anything but loving. The atmosphere just seemed kind of fun, and the song would be sort of somber. Excuses, excuses.

The above painting is of Jon Arterton and James Mack's house when they lived in North Truro. It's in the collection of the late Barbara Taylor. The boys didn't snap it up soon enough, as I recall. 

Jon was the director of the Outer Cape Chorale before Allison Beavan took over. He got people excited about singing, and grew the Chorale to about 120 or 150 members, I forget which. He's a hoot, always making jokes during rehearsal. Now he's in the Tampa-St. Pete area directing two different groups, I believe. James has a gorgeous baritone-to-tenor voice, great range. They're both missed around here, naturally.

Spiritual Songs

That's me with the stuffed frog.

Today I listened to Kermit the Frog singing Rainbow Connection, recommended by a member of the UU Meeting House. It was balm for my spirit, something I heard back in my childhood and only half understood. Well, that's the way of children, absorbing things they'll only know much later.

Then I studied several women singing Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child. Bessie Griffin, Mahalia Jackson and Odetta were my favorites. 

I don't know why this song speaks to me, since my mother and I have grown closer now than we ever were during my childhood. I believe we're becoming friends rather than merely playing roles in one another's lives. Mother. Daughter. 

So in a strictly literal way it makes little sense that this song touches me. Then I think of all the friends I have who no longer have their mothers in their lives, for whatever reason. Most of my friends are at least a few years older than I am. I was born after the Baby Boom, so to them, I'm always the baby. Maybe someday that'll change. Hard to say. But I think I'll sing this song tomorrow night at my Chamber Singers Zoom meeting, in case any of my friends there need to hear it.

Today's Update

It's May 9, and it's snowing. I just ordered some covid19 face masks. There are opera singers serenading us about the virus. I won't mention what's going on in politics. But on the positive side, I learned during one of Allison Beavan's Zoom choral workshops how to identify a key signature. (I'm still a little hazy on how to figure out when it's a minor key, but maybe that comes with experience.) Ah, and my laundry is dry. Clean pajamas!

Halle on a Box

So I called the vet, and told her Halle'd laid an egg. She told me that though she'd examined Halle two days prior, there was no way she could have known that there was an egg on the way. Bizarre. Anyway, she also told me that it would be better for Halle's health if she were to not lay any more eggs. Too much of a strain on her body for no good reason. The way to keep her from laying, said the vet, was to limit her hours of sunlight to 8 per day. Just 8! Then she suggested I remove any nesting materials or snuggly toys, and not let her play in a box. The daylight deprivation sounded like the worst, until the news about boxes. Boxes are Halle's favorite toys. Feeling like a cruel human, I did as the vet suggested, though I let her have 9 hours' sunlight. Fortunately it all worked, and there have been no new eggs. Nesting season must be over by now, so I've gradually increased Halle's sunlight, though she never really seemed to mind the limitation. It was all me.

O. M. G.

At Christmastime, I invited my mother, brother and sister-in-law to stay for a couple of days. When they arrived, I greeted them in my cramped foyer, and my sister-in-law, Maureen went upstairs so the rest could come in with their bags and whatnot. I'd left Halle on top of her cage, thinking she'd be fine there for a minute. Wrong. As soon as Maureen got into the living room, Halle darted over and bit her on the back of the neck. She's got that really sharp beak...Poor Maureen actually bled a tiny bit, but was a real sport about it. I felt terrible; Halle hadn't bitten anyone in quite some time. Anyway, the visit went on pleasantly enough, but later, Halle nipped Mom on the wrist. Mortified, I watched her more closely. But I was out of the room the next day when Maureen got a second chomp, this time when she was trying to give Halle a treat. Sigh. This whole biting thing made the visit really stressful, and I couldn't understand why it was happening. Halle likes my Mom, and Maureen hadn't done anything provocative, unless you count her getting too close with the treat. Still, it was as if she were reverting to her very early days with me and she was on a hair trigger. The visit came to an end, and though she didn't bite me, there were several close calls over the next couple of weeks.

Halle is on medicine for her heart (yeah, who knew parrots could have atherosclerosis?) so I had to take her to the vet one Thursday. She had to have bloodwork, get palpated and weighed. I was thrilled that they volunteered to clip her talons. I'm so not going there on my own. But the vet told me Halle was overweight, and what her body profile should look like. I promised to cut back on her pistachios. She got her prescription renewed, and we went home.

Saturday night, after putting her in her cage with her covers on, I left the room. Then I heard squawking and other sounds of distress, including her fluttering her wings and moving down to the bottom of the cage. She does not consider the bottom the cage to be an actual place for a true parrot to be, so I worried. I could hear her stepping onto the edge of her food bowl with those freshly trimmed talons clicking away. Naturally I took off her nighttime covers and looked in to see what was the matter. Did she need food? Had she gotten stuck on a part of the cage or a toy? No. But she was still agitated, flapping around, making upset noises. So I let her out of the cage and put her on my shoulder, not knowing what else to do for her. Still agitated. I was frantic, and knew I wouldn't be able to get a call through to the vet on a Saturday, and I was upset that she'd been checked out just a few days ago, just a little overweight. Then I felt a tiny thump on my shoulder, then heard a bump on the carpet. I looked down and there, rolling along the floor was a perfect little white egg. Halle Macaw, after having lived with me for nineteen years, had laid her first egg.

Overweight indeed.

High Fidelity

Halle Macaw listens to the classical station, something to keep her mind occupied and her mood quiet. Or maybe it's to keep my mind quiet. Hard to say. When I play louder, more upbeat music, she'll holler along. As I've said before, she loves the Hallelujah Chorus. Sometimes she'll hoot and whistle while I'm practicing singing along with my CDs, but she definitely has her favorite frequencies. We had a Magnificat concert, with four different works by that title, and though she seemed to enjoy the Bach Magnificat in D Major, the tessitura of the Rutter Magnificat is just that much higher and apparently much more appealing. And though I can play the CD and get something out of the experience, not so with this parrot. Live music is her thing. 

The same goes for visits. After screaming bloody murder when a guest arrives, she'll have a brief 'Hello' conversation with the new person, then settle in and put on her best manners. Sure, these aren't perfect, but she finds company stimulating, as long as nobody waves their hands around too much to make a point. But recently most of the 'visitors' to the house have been by Zoom, and though I've coached the guests to say Hello in a high animated voice, we get pretty much nil in terms of reaction. Screens just don't make an impression. So she'll sit on my shoulder and groom my face or try to remove my earrings, convincing my friends that either I've got a tame, even dull bird, or that my stories about her are mere fabrication. You'll just have to believe me. Or not.

Rough Transition

Halle and I got to know each other slowly, but we had to learn some things all at once. For instance, my condo is near a parking lot where guys pick up their trucks in the morning and drop them off at night. They're generally good neighbors. But the guys would often wear hoodie sweatshirts. As a fashion statement, I see this as a pretty normal thing. But Halle, upon seeing them going about their business would let out a huge scream, and I mean smoke detector-loud scream, and not stop until I'd shut the blinds or otherwise taken her away from the sight of them. This was very distressing until I figured out she was scared of guys in hoodies because she'd been tormented by guys in hoodies in her original home. Then it was heartbreaking and put me in a rage. But the problem remained. One day when she'd seen a hoodie-wearing, scary man outside, I parked myself in between them and told her very clearly that she was safe, and that these guys couldn't come in, that this was Halle's house. I may have said it a couple of times, since she was screaming. And then from her stretched-to-full-height, shrieking posture and volume, she fluffed out her feathers, hunkered down on my hand and stopped yelling. It was that simple. You are safe, they can't come in, and this is your house.

Another thing the tipped me off that Halle might have been abused was the fact that when I offered her a spoonful of applesauce or yogurt, she'd LUNGE at the spoon, pushing it away with all her tiny strength. She didn't have the same reaction to forks or knives. Spoons were for drugs. Again, heartbreaking and cause for rage. It took weeks if not months before she came to trust that a spoon was just a spoon, and that it might contain a treat, if she played her cards right.

One last sad thing. When she first came to live with me, Halle had nightmares. She'd squawk (not as loudly as at the hoodie guys, but enough to wake me up) and flap her wings, sometimes flapping down to the bottom of the cage during the night. This went on for quite a long time. It wasn't because she was in a strange place, since she was in the same big cage she'd arrived in, and I left the only toy she had right next to her swing perch. She'd clearly bonded with it, snuggling up to it like a friend. She chose the swing with its familiar toy even though she now had new toys and places to perch. No, she had night terrors. She remembered bad things, and they populated her dreams. 

I'm happy to report that guys in hoodies no longer scare her, yogurt and applesauce are tasty, unthreatening treats, and my little dear sleeps through the night.

On Music and the Heart

I sing with a couple of vocal music groups, and often feel remarkably better when I leave than when I arrive at either a practice or performance. I never really thought about it very much, just enjoyed the fact. If anything, I've attributed it to the group itself, or the director. Even when the choice of music isn't my favorite, I find I'm friendlier with the individuals involved after we sing. Apparently there's a reason for this.

Bjorn Vickhoff, a musicologist in Sweden conducted a study wherein the individual heart rates of a choir of 18 young people were measured as they sang. Within a very short time, breathing in at the same time, and singing the notes together, their heart rates synchronized.

I think he was studying their singing simple hymns, and wonder what the results would be if they sang complex rhythms or polyphony. At any rate, I think it's fascinating.

On My Mind

                                             

Halle's feet get stuck in my hair, thus the hat.

Good God, I could be Greta Thunberg's aunt!

Early Days

I can't say I was terribly clever or original when coming up with Halle's name. Cat Woman was a popular film right about then, and I liked Halle Berry. Also, I was working on singing Handel's Messiah, and the Hallelujah Chorus was playing at my house night and day. It's a nice, loud song, and Halle really liked to scream along to it. She's got more notes in her repertoire than say, Scooby, but not many. Halle's voice is not musical, but she can say a few words. 'Macaw pretty bird!' is a much loved phrase, as is 'Hello!' You'd be amazed at how many inflections the word Hello can have, how many meanings it can convey. While with Vito, Halle would stand on top of her cage and lean with her whole body toward him on the other side of the room, and Vito would say, 'Come on!' trying to encourage her to fly over to him. He'd say it loudly and with feeling, but she never felt comfortable flying that distance. Could be the limited number of wing feathers. This went on for the whole month or two that she lived there, and what she took from the experience was the ability to say, 'Come on!' Sadly, she's stopped adding much to her vocabulary, something that tends to happen to some birds after a certain age. I tried to get her to say,'I can talk; can you fly?' What she responds is,'Caw, caw, caw.' And that's it.

When she moved in, she and I had a difference of opinion about where droppings should go. She'd sit on my shoulder, and after awhile, I'd feel a warm spot on the back of my shirt. The couch was a favorite spot to perch, unfortunately. Also, if she were scared, she'd unload wherever she was. I was not amused. So whenever she'd go in the right place, on the newspaper surrounding her cage or in the cage itself, I'd say, 'You're a good bird!' She took notice, and within two months she was paper trained. Even better, when I'd give her her nightly treat of a few pistachios, she'd tell me that I was a good bird. The phrase is clearly a reward for good behavior. I make sure I always have a good supply of pistachios, unsalted of course.

Halle at Vito's

As I've said, this bird was half bald. This left very little to the imagination. When Vito brought her home, he called her Pete. A Hahn's Macaw, she's non-sexually dimorphic. That just means you can't tell which sex the bird is by looking at it. So Pete it was. The other birds at Vito's were named Scooby (a sun conure), and Joe (an Amazon of some sort). Scooby was friendly but really not very bright; he had a song that consisted of a couple of notes, and that was it. Joe was an older bird, adopted after his person, a woman passed away. Joe was inclined to bite pretty much anyone, even after having been there for a few years. They all lived in the living room, and Pete's cage, now scoured clean but still enormous, made the room quite crowded. Though Scooby really wanted a friend, Pete really wanted someone to attack, and Joe, well forget about Joe. So they all had to be kept separated. But that didn't stop Pete (you know, Halle) from being the ringleader. The shreikfests were legendary. This made Vito's wife very unhappy. 

Vito was kind of the go-to guy when it came to birds in the Mid-Cape area, having taught the younger, more official bird rescue fellow there everything he knew. So when there was a drug bust in the area, and two birds were part of the seized property, our official fellow got the fully feathered cockatoo, and Vito got Pete. Naturally, Pete did not come with full medical records or even an adequate set of bird toys. This may explain the feather picking. Parrots are smart birds, Scooby being an exception. So they need things to do, things to shred and destroy, things to keep their minds occupied. Pete had none of that, and was raised by drug dealers. Thus the plucking. Feathers are toys when you've got nothing else. And pulling out feathers is an act of defiance, anxiety, or distress. It's possible Pete was addicted to whatever was being sold at the drug house as well. More about that later.

Spending time at Vito's, still doing some child care, I got to know and love Pete. While sitting on my shoulder the bird would groom me and try to eat what I ate directly from my mouth. When Vito saw this, and his wife complained bitterly about the noise level, things began to shift. Vito loved Pete, too, but the writing was on the wall. When I allowed as how I would be willing to adopt, it was no time at all before Pete became Halle Macaw and moved to my house. At this point my friends quipped that Halle was a transgender bird.

Halle Macaw, 2001

Can opener for a beak ↑

I was doing child care for a rather hyperactive young boy when we heard a truck pull up in the driveway. Then we heard a loud squawking, and my charge perked up with excitement. He wondered aloud what this could possibly be. In a few moments, his dad, Vito came in, trundling an enormous cage on a dolly. The cage's occupant was the owner of the squawking voice, and used it freely. The cage itself was covered in droppings, feathers, seeds and spiderwebs. Yes, spiderwebs. It was disgusting. Vito located another, smaller but clean cage in his basement-of-all-amazing-things, and proceeded to reach into the big cage to transfer the bird to the small one. Immediately, the little parrot chomped the meaty part of his hand, drawing plenty of blood. Vito wisely withdrew the offending hand and went to deal with the blood. I stood by his very excited son and the understandably agitated bird. The boy waved his arms and had plenty to say. It was unfortunate that he was also wearing a bright orange sweatshirt. I tried to get him to back away from the cage and relax. Eventually, the two calmed down enough that I was able to reach in with both hands, cup the bird in them gently and move her to the littler cage. I looked at her, fierce, vulnerable, and half bald. It was love at first sight.

The Singing Monks

I sing in a 140-voice community chorus, The Outer Cape Chorale and a smaller group from within that, the Chamber Singers. I love the time we spend together, the music we produce, and the way my mind and body are engaged by it all.

My choral director, Allison Beavan sent me this healing story when I told her I'd been getting weepy over the loss of singing together due to covid19. I'm sorry if I'm jumping around time-wise, but it seems like the right thing to put out for now:

...Did I ever tell you the true story about the singing monks?  They sang for hours each day - chanting. Their leader died or left or something.  The new leader arrived and did not like to sing so he cut the singing way way down.  Next thing they knew, monks began to become sick. Experts were brought in.  Mold?  Food? What could be causing these illnesses - and so much illness?  Long story short, they finally tried to determine what had changed and of course it was the singing.  The consultant instructed them to sing and you guessed it; the illnesses started to abate.  This has been documented and researched by musicologists and psychiatrists, etc.

They still don't know if it's literally vibrations in the body, if it heals the soul or soothes the psyche. They haven't figured it out...still.  But they do know it worked and was healing...

I've just finished singing along to a Youtube performance of Vivaldi's Gloria, something Allison recommended as a substitute for the glorious experience of singing together. It helped, and will have to do, for now.

The Ordeal

Trigger warning: Graphic images of medical procedures

After cervical cancer, what of life and sex? To say I was filled with trepidation is no exaggeration. The reproductive system is at the most foundational chakra, the root, the source of survival, the furnace. Mine had been burned in order to heal, and as I recovered from the physical trauma, I wondered if I'd ever be brave enough to risk intimacy again. Had my relationship lasted through treatment, we might have used an existing connection to gradually explore my new limits. But I was on my own. The doctors couldn't tell me anything, couldn't predict how I'd move forward with this terribly private moment in my life. They could only do what they could do. 

What they did was irradiate my cervix both from the outside, and later, the inside of my body. The internal radiation was an ordeal hard to describe in words. They positioned a tiny pellet of radioactive material in my vagina, held in place by what seemed to me a combination speculum and locking wrench. That sounds horrible, I know. It was. It was packed in with layers of gauze while I was under sedation, and the plan was for it to remain there for 48 hours. But because the external radiation had changed the shape of things around the cervix, they couldn't place it in an ideal position, so that 48 turned into 55 hours of me lying nearly perfectly still and waiting. I was so afraid it would burn through the surrounding organs. The room I was in had a big radiation sign on the door, a terrible warning: danger. 

Most of the women who cared for me had to be over the age of childbearing, and none could stay in the room for more than a few moments. I remember being so grateful to the woman who genty rolled me on my side and rubbed lotion onto my back. She told me it would be OK to cry, but I told her it hurt too much to cry. I stared at the roses my (still) girlfriend had sent instead. One young nurse who did happen to tend me admired them wistfully, as though she'd never been given roses. I told her she'd have plenty someday. She told me it was unusual for flowers to survive in this room. I can only assume the vase was made of lead glass. Or it was one of my spirit guides watching over.

I listened to cassette tapes of guided meditations and visualizations, a lifeline, a hope. This was back when we listened to cassette tapes.

When the 55 hours was over, they gave me an even larger dose of the pain killers they'd had me on, and Dr. Bornstein brought in a heavy little metal canister, like a small garbage can on casters. She began removing the gauze packing the way clowns pull out endless bright scarves from their pockets. A minute, maybe only half a minute into this, I begged her to stop, but she continued, saying it was best to get it over with. Then she told me to say a few Hail Marys. I was too shocked by the whole thing, but remember thinking it was inappropriate to tell me to talk about Mary...Blessed be the fruit of thy womb, Jesus... Mine had been fried, thank you very much. But as I said, too overwhelmed, I didn't tell her so. Finally she took the whole thing out, and, in a truly frightening move practically threw it into this canister and slammed the lid shut. As if she were handling hot coals or a venomous snake.

Finally, I was allowed to get out of the bed, use the toilet, wash myself a little. Gingerly. I'd survived, and my bladder still worked.

One week later at our follow-up exam (ouch), I broached the subject of the Hail Marys with the doctor, saying I'd had some trouble with that. She looked at me quizzically and asked what a Hail Mary was. She told me she was Jewish and had never heard of such a prayer. I distinctly heard her, in her voice, but she couldn't have said it. I can only believe someone was speaking through her. On my way back to Provincetown that afternoon, I did say a few Hail Marys.


When the time came for me to take a lover again, I explained to her as much as I could, and somehow we managed. Though our time together was a summer romance, she'll always have a special place in my heart.

The Garden

I had just about zero energy, but as I said, I was falling in love with my condo. It has a bit of land that I can use for myself. It's not huge, but it's still something. Somewhere along the way, I got a membership in a gardening book club, and began studying organic gardening. I learned about compost, mulch, soil additives and what to plant where. I was like many a young Lesbian, thinking it would be great to grow my own food. I started with herbs like lavender and thyme. My basil didn't go very well at all, as I'm on the north side of the condo complex. But I kept at it. As I'd run low on money, I started with seeds. The seed catalogs were mesmerizing. I ordered a bunch that looked promising. I'd hover over the seed trays, spritz them with water, move them around in the empty room upstairs to catch the sun. I thought I could grow begonias from seed. Hah. Tiny little things that bore no resemblance to the lush illustrations in the seed catalogs. Ah well. Live and learn.

I learned that seaweed is a great soil additive, with natural growth hormones, great water retention properties (very important in my little Cape Cod patch of sand) and an all-around good mulch. The lilies I planted loved it. Like the Herring Cove pebbles, seaweed from the East End Flats is free, so I'd don my sturdiest boots and scramble over the rip rap with a plastic garbage bag and load it carefully into my new car to bring home. My neighbors got used to the sight of me lurking in the garden at all hours with the hose trained on my new babies. Babies? Hmm.

One investment I made was in a kwanzan cherry tree, maybe five or six feet tall and slender, with a few branches. I love their fluffy, pink blossoms in the spring. I planted it myself. It's one of the great successes in my garden, now three stories tall, glorious in May. One year, I heard a strange chattering sound out my window, so I went upstairs to look. I opened the blinds and was shocked to find a female raccoon swaying in the breeze at the top of the cherry tree, pursued by not one but four males. She looked concerned. I didn't now what to do about it, so I closed the blinds and left them to it.

Nesting

Once I moved into my new condo, I found I was falling in love with it. I'd only rented apartments or cottages until then, so this was an adventure. I began by shopping. I had some money left after buying the condo and car, and oddly, I wasn't going to be eligible for disability insurance if I had too much money in the bank. It was bizarre. So, though I was very easily exhausted by a drive to Hyannis where the stores were, I went, sometimes with friends, sometimes alone, and bought things I needed for the house. I began with an oriental rug for the living room. Then a mattress for the old brass bed I'd found somewhere, and wonderfully soft sheets and duvet. This was critical, as I was spending a lot of time in bed when I wasn't shopping. 

I brought Terry with me to tell me what to get for the kitchen. She'd been cooking for people with AIDS, making macrobiotic meals in someone's basement kitchen, and I knew she knew way more about what I'd need. It was an education. It also felt like I was shopping for a wedding, sans spouse. Yeah, that girlfriend and I were history by this time. China patterns. cookware, knives. I compromised on some things I didn't really need, like fancy silverware. My design sense said Japanese stainless with wooden handles, my budget said stainless made in America. I needed everything, down to the map-of-the-world shower curtain I just had to have.

When I went to the car dealership I brought Adrienne, who took a turn at test driving the one I eventually settled on. She drove it like a race car driver, scaring me a little, but I was pleased with how the thing handled. Again, not a Ferrari, but a perfectly good Honda. This was the first new car I'd ever owned, and it was a heady experience to buy it with a single check. The dealer fairly drooled. I only later regretted I was in such a hurry to have it that I told them I didn't need air conditioning, which would take a few days to install. Instead, Adrienne and I went to the mall for a couple of hours while they detailed it (again, shopping for more stuff) then drove the thing home. It was really stupid not to get air conditioning, as I was embarking on 23 years worth of hot flashes. They started three days into the radiation treatments. 

Right about that time, I began having baby dreams. I'd never thought about having children, but there they were, baby dreams. They made me sad. Loss is loss, no matter how you look at it.

It went on and on that summer until I had run the bank account down to the right level. What happened then was that I was in acquisition mode with no outlet. I needed to bring more things home. So I began going to Herring Cove Beach every day, picking up bags of smooth flat pebbles for the space under my outdoor faucet. It's amazing how many rocks one needs to cover a 4'X4' area. I chose soft gray lozenge shaped ones and pearly white round ones.

What Happened With the Cancer

Now I’ve got to figure out which people I want to start with. Maybe my mother’s battle with Guillain-Barre disease when she was seventeen. Her symptoms seemed a little like polio, and her doctor put her in an iron lung. She somehow communicated that she wondered if Dr. Salk could help her. They explained that it wasn’t polio. What they didn’t explain was that her chances were not good. But the doctor and my grandmother were friends, and he stayed with my mother and did everything he could, just couldn’t face Grandma with failure. Mom had an operation on the area around her throat, where they removed two cubic inches of scar tissue. She still has the tiny scar 60 years later. But she can breathe.

Before Mom, even, there was Grandma. She had such debilitating arthritis that she ruined her stomach taking aspirin. Then her neck vertebrae became brittle. The doctor did operations to use a piece of her hip bone to create another vertebra. Only after the operations did Grandma ask about the other patients who’d received the treatment and their rate of success. She was told that she was the first one. She lived to be 94.

All that to say I have a fundamental belief that doctors can do amazing things, and that the women in my family are strong.

When I was diagnosed with cervical cancer, my first gynecologist had treated me with half-measures, opting to freeze the abnormal cells rather than surgically remove them. That, in his mind, was a good thing, since it would save me money. He was betting that I was too young (29) to develop cancer. He was wrong. His name is/was McNutt. I’m not sure he’s still alive. Haven’t wanted to know. He gave me my diagnosis on Valentine’s Day (bastard) and set up an appointment with a female oncologist at NEMC. For that I was pleased. But when I went to the hospital, it turned out that she was on vacation, so I saw Dr. Harrison Ball, the head of the GYN ONC department. I accepted this upgrade happily enough, even if he was a man. His first exam told him I needed exploratory surgery right away. I got things together, and within a week, I was in the hospital. 

That week is a blur for me thirty years later. Oh, spoiler alert: I lived. My girlfriend and I must have done some juggling, figuring out how we were going to manage financially. We didn't have savings or a contingency plan. She delivered newspapers. I was working part time as a child care worker at a school/home for developmentally disabled, emotionally disturbed teenage girls. They loved me. I had worked there full time until I burned out and wanted to hurt a child who was in my face, kicking, spitting, swearing. They told me I'd lasted longer than expected in such a high stress job. But when I went back as a substitute six months later, the kids were little angels with me. I was like a visiting auntie, not the usual stern taskmistress. Since the kids were like little petri dishes, the staff was constantly getting sick, and I had nearly as many shifts as when I'd been full-time. But I had to tell them I was going into the hospital, and that the future was uncertain for me. It turned out that I couldn't continue on there because with my newly compromised immune system, and one student who was a biter and scratcher who carried Hepatitis C, we couldn't risk it. Losing the connection with these difficult but still lovable kids was terrible. I went from strong and capable to vulnerable and fragile.

As I came to the morning after the operation, I was surrounded by the doctor and several interns or residents. It’s a teaching hospital, NEMC. The faces around me were serious. Dr. Ball told me they’d found a fast-growing tumor and some microscopic cells in the lymph nodes around my aorta. I asked what my prognosis was, and he hemmed and hawed. After a couple of non-answers, I got it out of him that my chances were about 16% to survive after three years. With treatment, that is. Now, it bears mentioning that I was on pain killers at the time. But I told them that that was wonderful, since I live in Provincetown, where people with AIDS were living with virtually no chance offered them. So that 16% seemed like a piece of cake. Yeah, I know. Sounds delusional. But I think brute force and ignorance carried me.

Another thing that carried me was the work I’d done training to be a caregiver for the AIDS Support Group during the height of the epidemic. There were workshops being offered teaching meditation, visualization and general good practices for self-healing. I went to as many of these as I could, though the position I saw myself filling was as a driver to Boston medical appointments. Sadly, I never got to the point of hopping behind the wheel, since I got diagnosed with my own challenge and became immune compromised. This always makes me take a deep, sad breath. There was so much that needed to be done, and I wasn’t able to do it, short of buying the absolutely marvelous Swim For Life tee-shirts produced by local artists every year for the big September event. Yeah, and I regretted being unable to make that 1 1/4 mile swim across the harbor to raise money for the Support Group. Now I’m not considering it because of the sharks.

Oh, and how did I come to be diagnosed in the first place? I was having regular pap smears every year, but about the time I hit 27 or 28 my PMS was through the roof. I went to Dr. McNutt (what is it with names like McNutt and Ball for gynecologists?) for hormone adjustments and saw him every three or four months. I was taking care of business. This is good, since I’d been to the point of throwing crockery at the walls. Never at a person, I insist. So when the cancer emerged, we were aware of it right away. Whew.

I live in Provincetown, and New England Medical Center is in Boston, three hours’ drive away. Dr. Ball connected me with a radiologist at the hospital in Hyannis to make the commute to treatments more bearable. I went for an exam and interview where the doctor used a too-big speculum and was somewhat ham-handed. During the interview, he wouldn't meet my eye, and told me that the treatment might not be the best option for me. I asked him what would be better, a problematic treatment and low chances, or no treatment and pretty much certain death. I was ticked off. He had a brand new radiation machine, and I think he didn't want to mess up his statistics right out of the gate. I told him thanks, but no thanks. I went back to NEMC to a wonderful radiologist, Linda Hunt Bornstein, who had confidence that she could help me, and we began working together. I needed to stay in Boston for six weeks of radiation treatments, five days a week. 

Mom and Dad helped me afford a little apartment near the hospital. It was a perfectly fine apartment, but after just a couple of radiation treatments, I could barely stand the smell of the bug spray the property management company used. Then there were the pets. We had a dog and a couple of cats. For some reason my girlfriend wanted me to take care of them in Boston, though the dog was really hers. I was a wimp about it and took the pets. They and their food added more delightful smells to my list of things to hate. I don't honestly know what she was thinking, setting me up with the animals. Maybe she wanted me to have a connection to life. Or maybe she just had no empathy, and didn't think about how difficult it would be for me. She wasn't, in hindsight, a very pleasant person. I don't believe anybody deserves to have crockery thrown near them, but the combination of that particular woman and my raging PMS wasn't good. Later, a little after my treatments, she developed ovarian cysts and needed surgery herself. We were both stressed by the trauma to our reproductive systems. I think our emotions were dramatic and out of control. We split up twice during this time, despite the fact that neither of us could afford to do so financially. But there just wasn't enough love to go around. Most couples get to alternate being well and unwell. We couldn't.

The walk to the hospital was about a block and a half, and once inside the building, it was about as far again. The distance stretched out nightmare-long as I trudged to the basement radiology department. Everything exhausted me. Between the hospital and the apartment stood the Schubert Theater, with a huge billboard advertising Les Miserables. And we were so near Chinatown. I looked forward to going to the play and taking advantage of all that Chinese food. But the 45 seconds of radiation I got every day had other plans for me. I began by having violent runs, the radiation covering much of my abdomen. These never left me. Thirty years later, I still take medicine to deal with that. Also, after the third treatment I went into menopause, with hot flashes that lasted 23 years. I was very tired. I could not stay up late enough to see the play, and though I confined my diet to pretty much all white food, I couldn’t have made it through Les Mis without frequent bathroom breaks. The dietitian told me to stop eating any fat or fiber. I thought this was an exaggeration. It wasn’t. So, no Chinese food for me.

Every day, I'd tromp over to the radiation department, take off all of my clothes and put on a johnny. Then I'd hop up onto a high, narrow bench where a tech would drape my lower body and raise the johnny to uncover my abdomen with its four pinpoint tattoos that they'd use to register just where the x-rays would go. It was dim in the room, and into the acoustic tile of the ceiling there was cut a little cross-shaped hole through which a red light shone down on me. That was disturbing enough. Then the tech would slide a template made of a six inch thick slab of lead into the machine suspended over me. It was there to mask out the parts the x-rays shouldn't go. The templates for various patients were leaned up against the wall on the floor, and some were half an inch thick, two inches, one inch. It terrified me that the one they used for me was the thickest. They radiated my entire abdomen (minus the parts the template covered) to attack the cells that had metastasized. The x-ray machine was the size of a small bus, and it rotated around me very quietly, very menacingly.
While I was being nuked, I visualized tiny little mosquito-sized beings of golden light, each armed with a little sieve. They'd fly down to me and scoop out the cancer cells, then take them away to feed them to some creature who could benefit from them.

While I was pretty much on my own in Boston, my sister-in-law, Julie was studying veterinary medicine at Tufts nearby. She was so kind, volunteering to come sit with me at the apartment. She'd break out her books, and I'd loll around, running back and forth to the bathroom, to the couch, to the bed. She tried to get me to eat. I had no appetite, and lost 15 pounds in six weeks. Near the end of the treatment cycle, I remember being so weak I nearly collapsed in the apartment's foyer. The black and white checked floor tiles skewed sickeningly as I grabbed the door frame. I believe the doctors gave me a long weekend back home in Provincetown for a chance to recover after that. The smell of the good, fresh Cape Cod air was heavenly after the miasma in Boston.

The last full-time job I had before (or while) becoming sick was as a beach grass planter. No, it’s not like I was a piece of pottery with an artful arrangement of grass. I planted beach grass out in the dunes of the National Seashore. Twenty or so of us would go out every day at about 8:00, haul ourselves into the back of a pickup truck with the air let out of its tires for traction in the sand, and bump and shimmy our way out to the day’s location. There, we’d see a bare tract of sandy ground and a single port-o-potty. That was our office. The job was to put three shoots of beach grass into a hole eight inches deep and eighteen inches away from the last hole, set diagonally apart. Then we’d stomp the hole shut. There was no room for error, as the Seashore representative would sometimes come by and measure. If conditions were not perfect for setting up erosion control, out would come the grass, and we’d be assigned to fix it. That didn’t make the boss happy. But he was a good boss, and we didn’t have to re-do much at all.

The job was hard, all bending and straightening, all day long. I got stronger. The weather was mostly good, as it was autumn. But there were days when our rain gear was all we had for shelter, and unless it was a deluge, we worked through it. Wet sand actually had a better consistency to work with than dry. It held its shape better, and was easier to walk through. And when it wasn’t raining, oh, the beauty all around us! We got to see the sky go through all its changes every day for two, maybe three months. It was glorious.

The people I worked with there were a great assortment of Outer Cape folks. There was a fellow who was very hyperactive, possibly somewhere near mentally ill. He was well-adapted to the work, though. There were fishermen between lobstering and tuna runs. A couple of young men who seemed likely to be living better through chemistry would forget to make themselves lunch at times. The first day, we were told we’d have a break at 10:30, another at lunch and so on. We all ate every bit of our lunches at the first break. One woman showed up every day in perfect makeup and a gorgeous manicure. She favored bright red lips and nails. Another thing she did was bring thermoses full of pastas and salads to share, using us as guinea pigs. She later opened a restaurant, and her salad bar offerings were eerily familiar. But at the time, we were only grateful for her generosity, especially those young druggies.

During that time, I developed my first and only nut-brown tan. It went from my wrists to my fingertips, and from my neck up. Quite the look.

When I began taking care of business, filling out a power of attorney and making my will, I also decided that when I die, I’d like to be cremated, my ashes sprinkled over Oh My God Hill, or maybe in the Valley of the Dolls, two locations we’d drive through on our way to work in the dunes. The first, a really steep dune, the second, a spot where rest the ashes of many an AIDS victim. My survivors would have to take a trip with Art’s Dune Tours, the only company authorized to carry people there. At the time I wrote the will, I had virtually no assets, but I was told to write it anyway. You never knew. All I knew was that, at 29, the prospect of landing in the Valley was very real.

As I began my surgery and radiation treatments, I began seeing a therapist who soon retired and passed me on to another colleague. They were circumspect, but I got the strong impression from them both that my first doctor had been negligent, and that he’d done similarly unfortunate work on other women. I know now they were taking a professional risk, and am grateful that they did. I talked with a lawyer, who said I had a strong case. As I thought it over, I asked my good friend and psychic teacher what she thought. Quan Yin spoke through her, saying it was not good to sue. I thought about it some more, and the next week as I listened to Quan Yin again, she said that though it wasn’t good to sue, it was OK to settle. It was partly for myself that I considered these options, and partly that I couldn’t stand the thought that this doctor could wreck some other woman’s life. So I took the doctor to court. Also during this time, I spoke with my mother about it, and she said, 'We don't sue.' This was one of those times when I discovered that she and I have very different takes on the world. I told her that maybe she didn't sue, but I sure as hell would. It was bittersweet, my feeling some of my own strength, and her lack of moral support.

We got through the first phase of the trial, with me telling my story. The lawyer got me to cry, which is a minor miracle. I rarely do. After this, we took a break, and the doctor’s lawyer said the insurance company wanted to settle for a certain amount that was maybe half to a quarter of what we thought the case was worth. He advised me to take it. I was worked up after telling my story, and refused the offer, saying we could go back in and continue with the trial. We did. Then at another break, maybe for lunch, the offer came in for another amount, and my lawyer strongly advised me to take it. I did. It wasn’t the dramatic sum I’d hoped for, but I trusted her. Later, as things were winding up, she told me that the informal word she got from the jury was that they’d been more on the side of the doctor. Quan Yin was right. It was better to settle. I bought a house and a car.