One of my gigs next week got cancelled. This is the second time they have fucked us over (The Fireplace in Brookline, a mediocre restaurant whose manager acts like he is doing your band a big favor to book them, and then screws it up) I have the email from him in December offering me March 4, which I accepted. So the other band they booked for that date was obviously booked after us, but rather than do the right thing by bumping them off the schedule, they are bumping us.
I hate the music biz.
Sometimes I even hate being a musician.
Berklee just promoted me to Associate Professor, with all of the glory that entails, and none of the money. The letter informs me that my hourly rate will go up $2.50 (!!!!!!!) in addition to any other increase that the union might get out of these bastards. $2.50 more an hour for all that work I did for a year, writing a book and putting their stupid dossier together.
All they care about at Berklee is if you are famous. That's IT. I will most likely never be famous. I'm 56, and if I ever had a moment, it's past.
I suppose I should be happy for the promotion, but I'm not.
My boyfriend has cancer.
I'm broke, and my bills seem to be increasing all the time.
I'm fat and tired all the time.
I had to increase my meds...
It sucks to be me.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
Birthday come and gone
Well, it's over. I don't have to obsess about being old for another year (though I will)
Saw the dentist today, got a new set of 20 X rays, and a pronouncement from the dentist that "everything is perfect." At my age, it's considered great if you still have all your teeth. The brushing and flossing are paying off, though they are tedious.
Curtiss is doing well--wiped out for a while by the chemo, but bounces back. He has had about 10 radiation sessions and 2 chemo sessions. I think next week he doesn't get chemo. He is in good spirits and jokes frequently, though it breaks his heart (as he puts it) that I have bad dreams every night. I have had nightmares ever since I was a kid, many of them of the apocalyptic type, or else the type of anxiety dream in which trains are speeding toward me from every direction and I cannot escape. I don't have the train nightmares anymore, though I had them for years. Since 9/11, I have had many nightmares with the theme of immanent death in the form of a plane crashing into a building I am in, or I am in a plane about to crash, or I am scanning the sky and spot a plane about to drop a bomb with the knowledge that we will all be dead in minutes. The garden-variety nightmares are frequent also: gigs gone horribly awry, being caught naked in public, not having finished high school with the gym requirement still to be completed (or a math class)Such is the subconscious life of a person who would otherwise be paralyzed by waking anxiety. I guess I'm grateful for the nightmares. Therapeutic.
I had a depressed day today. Some days, I am relatively cheerful. I'm not sure it has too much to do with objective facts or experience. Today I was beset by resentment for other faculty who appear to be teaching courses they actually like, as opposed to the terminally boring Basic Keyboard 1 and 2, Music Ed 1, and Reading and Comping Labs. Or I would wish that my job involved helping to rehabilitate people or otherwise improve their lives, so I could really be helping humanity, instead of teaching college students to play rudimentary piano. But then I realized that I would probably still be unhappy with whatever job I had because my real desire is to be a woman of leisure. I'm tired of going to work day in, day out. It's killing my desire to play music, too. I can't focus on practicing, though I have to because I have gigs coming up. I wish KeysFest were over already. I feel this way every year before my annual concert. I'm afraid I might burst into tears at the BPC All Faculty Concert when I play my tribute tunes for Dave McKenna. I've been very emotional lately. But with any luck, I will have some equanimity by March 1 (week after next) If not, I'll just have to get through it.
Saw the dentist today, got a new set of 20 X rays, and a pronouncement from the dentist that "everything is perfect." At my age, it's considered great if you still have all your teeth. The brushing and flossing are paying off, though they are tedious.
Curtiss is doing well--wiped out for a while by the chemo, but bounces back. He has had about 10 radiation sessions and 2 chemo sessions. I think next week he doesn't get chemo. He is in good spirits and jokes frequently, though it breaks his heart (as he puts it) that I have bad dreams every night. I have had nightmares ever since I was a kid, many of them of the apocalyptic type, or else the type of anxiety dream in which trains are speeding toward me from every direction and I cannot escape. I don't have the train nightmares anymore, though I had them for years. Since 9/11, I have had many nightmares with the theme of immanent death in the form of a plane crashing into a building I am in, or I am in a plane about to crash, or I am scanning the sky and spot a plane about to drop a bomb with the knowledge that we will all be dead in minutes. The garden-variety nightmares are frequent also: gigs gone horribly awry, being caught naked in public, not having finished high school with the gym requirement still to be completed (or a math class)Such is the subconscious life of a person who would otherwise be paralyzed by waking anxiety. I guess I'm grateful for the nightmares. Therapeutic.
I had a depressed day today. Some days, I am relatively cheerful. I'm not sure it has too much to do with objective facts or experience. Today I was beset by resentment for other faculty who appear to be teaching courses they actually like, as opposed to the terminally boring Basic Keyboard 1 and 2, Music Ed 1, and Reading and Comping Labs. Or I would wish that my job involved helping to rehabilitate people or otherwise improve their lives, so I could really be helping humanity, instead of teaching college students to play rudimentary piano. But then I realized that I would probably still be unhappy with whatever job I had because my real desire is to be a woman of leisure. I'm tired of going to work day in, day out. It's killing my desire to play music, too. I can't focus on practicing, though I have to because I have gigs coming up. I wish KeysFest were over already. I feel this way every year before my annual concert. I'm afraid I might burst into tears at the BPC All Faculty Concert when I play my tribute tunes for Dave McKenna. I've been very emotional lately. But with any luck, I will have some equanimity by March 1 (week after next) If not, I'll just have to get through it.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
My birthday is coming
In a few days I will be 56 years old.
My mother's birthday, Feb. 14, was not only Valentine's Day but also a day before mine.
She lived to be only a few years older than I am now.
She died from a glioma, a still-deadly brain tumor, in 1985, not yet 60 years old.
After living a healthy life of moderate habits, organic food and gardening, she developed cancer: a woman who should have seen old age. Not a perfect mother, but she did the best she knew how. She wanted me to be happy, and my constant depression must have been heartbreaking for her. She wanted me to be thin, well-dressed in a preppy way, with my hair in a "style." I despaired of achieving thinness, wore fishnet stockings, granny gowns and glasses, miniskirts and ripped bell bottom jeans, and rejected style in favor of long 60s hair. She was beloved by a dozen friends who vied for the honor of being her best friend (she never had a best friend, to my knowledge.) I was not social and had 3 friends. She desperately tried to get me to date, join clubs, and go to summer camp. I did not date in high school, joined only the clubs I
liked (drama, literary mag, folk music) and hated summer camp, though I obediently went to camp because I thought I had no choice in the matter.
She was good at everything and envied for this: her sense of style in decorating and collecting antiques; her genius at herb, flower and vegetable gardening; her skill in cooking, drawing, painting, calligraphy, ceramics, and jewelry making; her intellectual and left wing political credentials (she loved Colette, Proust, Trollope, and Dickens, classical music and jazz, and hated Nixon with the fire of a thousand suns.) I resemble her in more ways than I am willing to admit. She taught me to love antiques, roses, peonies, water color and pen and ink drawings, Chinese painting, Japanese gardens, calligraphy, Little Women, Anne of Green Gables, Beatrix Potter, Barbara Pym, Italy and Italian food, and a million other things I will love for the rest of my life. She was very much like Martha Stewart more than 20 years before Martha rose to fame. She had wonderful taste and was incredibly competent. I resented her for it and rebelled against her, but now I embrace it. I will never be as beloved and envied as she was, but I can live with that.
I was angry with her for giving up on fighting her cancer. She submitted to it calmly and peacefully. She meditated and focused on the positive rather than the negative. She was never angry at her cancer as I was. I tried to fight for her, but that never works. The difference between her and me is that I was born a fighter and will never give up. I fought my cancer (admittedly not terminal) every moment. Although, like her, I am an Aquarian, with largeness of vision and spirit, futuristic wisdom, and the desire to be free, unlike her, I also have Scorpio rising (tenacity in the face of adversity) and Mars in my fourth house (stubbornness and aggression--not always a good thing, but good for fighting cancer. Some people sneer at astrology, but it is true. All true.
Mom had two brain surgeries (the tumor grew back, as these tumors always do) and more than one course of chemo and radiation during the 9 months she lived following her diagnosis. She was bloated from the steroids she had to take for brain swelling. She was bald from chemo and wore a bad wig. She had trouble walking because of balance problems and back trouble (the tumor was in the cerebellum) But I remember her smiling broadly and saying she was so happy it was a beautiful day. We sat together in her sunny garden and she was content to be dying. I believe that she really believed the Buddhist adage that as soon as we are born, we begin to die. And that some of us are merely called to die before others. She would say,"There's nothing wrong with me. It's just a part of me that is sick." But she was dying. I was angry at God for letting her die.
24 years have passed since she died. She'd be 83 now if she'd lived. My father still lives at 84 after an unhealthy life: little exercise, a lot of drinking (daily martinis, still) smoking (a pack of Pall Malls a day for years) and cholesterol consumption (he had an angioplasty but unlike my 53 year old brother, he didn't need a stent.) He has two forms of cancer, neither of which has threatened his health this far. Early-stage bladder cancer which merely requires a yearly check (has not grown) and a form of leukemia (CLL) which was discovered by accident in a blood test 20 years ago and which may well remain inactive the rest of his life. His doctors say he will most likely succumb to another disease. He sees a hematologist yearly. His only other complaints are a sore neck (disk problem?) and a runny, watery eye caused by a faulty tear duct. I can't figure it all out. Maybe someday all this will be understood.
I do miss my mother. She was an outstanding person. She didn't love me for who I was, but for who she hoped I would become. I know I fell short of her expectations, and I internalized her criticisms. Years of therapy with a shrewd analyst have shown me the truths about her and about me. I finally allowed myself to express anger and hatred for her. I was finally able to love her once I had forgiven her.
This post has been more about her than about me. I'm not sure what to say about growing old. It's not for sissies, as Bette Davis said, but it is better than the alternative (not sure who said that) No one knows how much time is left. Curtiss joked about being hit by a bus today after commenting on the discouraging 5 yr. survival stats for stomach cancer. I believe that he is not typical (younger, without other serious diseases weakening his immune system)that his youth and strength will help him fight the disease and win. I have to believe this, but at this point, it is not so hard to believe. He had his first chemo treatment yesterday and has thus far suffered no side effects. He feels positive about the treatment. I am relieved that it has begun, because even though I was not spoiling for a fight, now that the gauntlet has been flung, I am rising to the challenge. It is only my fight insofar as I love him and I am his life partner, but it still means I have to fight the battle with him. Life has a way of thrusting you into battle when you are least prepared.
Before the diagnosis, I was planning to go into the recording studio with a different band; I was going to look for more gigs despite the bad economy; I was going to find more ways of making money if I am not promoted. It was all about me. Now it's not.
The future is uncertain, even scary.
My self-image is suffering. I'm still 30 lbs. overweight, out of shape (because I stopped working out) I'm looking more and more matronly--certainly not "hot" anymore, though Curtiss and Jim think so. I know I am invisible to most men and that I am not turning any heads when I walk by. It's hard to get used to this. I used to take some pride in my appearance, although I always thought I was too fat even when I wasn't, and always wished I had better hair and a better nose and teeth. It's always something. I was raised to be hypercritical of my appearance. Also of my achievements. I never had the music education I wanted. I never developed a killer piano technique. I can't afford to have the action on my piano made lighter (it needs to be) I can't focus enough to compose music. All of my gigs involve playing music I am no longer interested in. And I am not sure if I still want to play free music all the time. Maybe I want to play in a rock band. Um, hello, I'm 56 years old come Sunday. A little old to be making a fool out of myself. I can just hear Dr. Wagner, my therapist, saying, "Why are you so mean to yourself?"
A brilliant woman. Maybe I should listen to her.
My mother's birthday, Feb. 14, was not only Valentine's Day but also a day before mine.
She lived to be only a few years older than I am now.
She died from a glioma, a still-deadly brain tumor, in 1985, not yet 60 years old.
After living a healthy life of moderate habits, organic food and gardening, she developed cancer: a woman who should have seen old age. Not a perfect mother, but she did the best she knew how. She wanted me to be happy, and my constant depression must have been heartbreaking for her. She wanted me to be thin, well-dressed in a preppy way, with my hair in a "style." I despaired of achieving thinness, wore fishnet stockings, granny gowns and glasses, miniskirts and ripped bell bottom jeans, and rejected style in favor of long 60s hair. She was beloved by a dozen friends who vied for the honor of being her best friend (she never had a best friend, to my knowledge.) I was not social and had 3 friends. She desperately tried to get me to date, join clubs, and go to summer camp. I did not date in high school, joined only the clubs I
liked (drama, literary mag, folk music) and hated summer camp, though I obediently went to camp because I thought I had no choice in the matter.
She was good at everything and envied for this: her sense of style in decorating and collecting antiques; her genius at herb, flower and vegetable gardening; her skill in cooking, drawing, painting, calligraphy, ceramics, and jewelry making; her intellectual and left wing political credentials (she loved Colette, Proust, Trollope, and Dickens, classical music and jazz, and hated Nixon with the fire of a thousand suns.) I resemble her in more ways than I am willing to admit. She taught me to love antiques, roses, peonies, water color and pen and ink drawings, Chinese painting, Japanese gardens, calligraphy, Little Women, Anne of Green Gables, Beatrix Potter, Barbara Pym, Italy and Italian food, and a million other things I will love for the rest of my life. She was very much like Martha Stewart more than 20 years before Martha rose to fame. She had wonderful taste and was incredibly competent. I resented her for it and rebelled against her, but now I embrace it. I will never be as beloved and envied as she was, but I can live with that.
I was angry with her for giving up on fighting her cancer. She submitted to it calmly and peacefully. She meditated and focused on the positive rather than the negative. She was never angry at her cancer as I was. I tried to fight for her, but that never works. The difference between her and me is that I was born a fighter and will never give up. I fought my cancer (admittedly not terminal) every moment. Although, like her, I am an Aquarian, with largeness of vision and spirit, futuristic wisdom, and the desire to be free, unlike her, I also have Scorpio rising (tenacity in the face of adversity) and Mars in my fourth house (stubbornness and aggression--not always a good thing, but good for fighting cancer. Some people sneer at astrology, but it is true. All true.
Mom had two brain surgeries (the tumor grew back, as these tumors always do) and more than one course of chemo and radiation during the 9 months she lived following her diagnosis. She was bloated from the steroids she had to take for brain swelling. She was bald from chemo and wore a bad wig. She had trouble walking because of balance problems and back trouble (the tumor was in the cerebellum) But I remember her smiling broadly and saying she was so happy it was a beautiful day. We sat together in her sunny garden and she was content to be dying. I believe that she really believed the Buddhist adage that as soon as we are born, we begin to die. And that some of us are merely called to die before others. She would say,"There's nothing wrong with me. It's just a part of me that is sick." But she was dying. I was angry at God for letting her die.
24 years have passed since she died. She'd be 83 now if she'd lived. My father still lives at 84 after an unhealthy life: little exercise, a lot of drinking (daily martinis, still) smoking (a pack of Pall Malls a day for years) and cholesterol consumption (he had an angioplasty but unlike my 53 year old brother, he didn't need a stent.) He has two forms of cancer, neither of which has threatened his health this far. Early-stage bladder cancer which merely requires a yearly check (has not grown) and a form of leukemia (CLL) which was discovered by accident in a blood test 20 years ago and which may well remain inactive the rest of his life. His doctors say he will most likely succumb to another disease. He sees a hematologist yearly. His only other complaints are a sore neck (disk problem?) and a runny, watery eye caused by a faulty tear duct. I can't figure it all out. Maybe someday all this will be understood.
I do miss my mother. She was an outstanding person. She didn't love me for who I was, but for who she hoped I would become. I know I fell short of her expectations, and I internalized her criticisms. Years of therapy with a shrewd analyst have shown me the truths about her and about me. I finally allowed myself to express anger and hatred for her. I was finally able to love her once I had forgiven her.
This post has been more about her than about me. I'm not sure what to say about growing old. It's not for sissies, as Bette Davis said, but it is better than the alternative (not sure who said that) No one knows how much time is left. Curtiss joked about being hit by a bus today after commenting on the discouraging 5 yr. survival stats for stomach cancer. I believe that he is not typical (younger, without other serious diseases weakening his immune system)that his youth and strength will help him fight the disease and win. I have to believe this, but at this point, it is not so hard to believe. He had his first chemo treatment yesterday and has thus far suffered no side effects. He feels positive about the treatment. I am relieved that it has begun, because even though I was not spoiling for a fight, now that the gauntlet has been flung, I am rising to the challenge. It is only my fight insofar as I love him and I am his life partner, but it still means I have to fight the battle with him. Life has a way of thrusting you into battle when you are least prepared.
Before the diagnosis, I was planning to go into the recording studio with a different band; I was going to look for more gigs despite the bad economy; I was going to find more ways of making money if I am not promoted. It was all about me. Now it's not.
The future is uncertain, even scary.
My self-image is suffering. I'm still 30 lbs. overweight, out of shape (because I stopped working out) I'm looking more and more matronly--certainly not "hot" anymore, though Curtiss and Jim think so. I know I am invisible to most men and that I am not turning any heads when I walk by. It's hard to get used to this. I used to take some pride in my appearance, although I always thought I was too fat even when I wasn't, and always wished I had better hair and a better nose and teeth. It's always something. I was raised to be hypercritical of my appearance. Also of my achievements. I never had the music education I wanted. I never developed a killer piano technique. I can't afford to have the action on my piano made lighter (it needs to be) I can't focus enough to compose music. All of my gigs involve playing music I am no longer interested in. And I am not sure if I still want to play free music all the time. Maybe I want to play in a rock band. Um, hello, I'm 56 years old come Sunday. A little old to be making a fool out of myself. I can just hear Dr. Wagner, my therapist, saying, "Why are you so mean to yourself?"
A brilliant woman. Maybe I should listen to her.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Update
The eye: Better thanks to a Clockwork Orange-like procedure in which my left eyelids were held open for 4 min. while an electrode delivered steroid to my eyeball. Not pleasant but at least they didn't make me watch any violent films. I am now in a new study for this procedure and must check in once a week for a month. Supposed to get paid for this, too.
BF: His cancer treatment (chemo and rads) is supposed to start this Wed. but due to the fact that the app't is late in the day (3:15) and they have to draw blood and do other workups, he may not actually get the treatment until NEXT week. I am so fed up with the glacial pace of all this. We're talking CANCER here, folks--couldn't you just hurry it up a bit?
At least we now know that it has not spread to the liver (not stage 4) but the oncologist says it's stage 3A (not sure how he knows this. Obviously not as good as 1 or 2.
BF: His cancer treatment (chemo and rads) is supposed to start this Wed. but due to the fact that the app't is late in the day (3:15) and they have to draw blood and do other workups, he may not actually get the treatment until NEXT week. I am so fed up with the glacial pace of all this. We're talking CANCER here, folks--couldn't you just hurry it up a bit?
At least we now know that it has not spread to the liver (not stage 4) but the oncologist says it's stage 3A (not sure how he knows this. Obviously not as good as 1 or 2.
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