It seems that recent studies of baboons and humans have shown that the higher you are in the hierarchy, the less sick you are, the assumption being that you experience less stress. Stress hormones contribute to or produce life-threatening diseases. They even cause us to develop the dreaded metabolic syndrome with its telltale belly fat.
I'm very low on the totem pole when it comes to my occupations, music and college teaching. I have very little control over these jobs, but at least I have a good boss at the college I teach at. The occupations themselves are not high-stress, except for the self-imposed stress of performance anxiety and the stress of being the leader of your own group. Being a leader means "the buck stops here" and you are responsible for publicity/promotion, program, and behavior of group members. I have relatively few gigs as a leader anymore compared to the halcyon days of the 80s, 90s, and mid-2000s. From 1985 to 2004 I led my own group at the Four Seasons Hotel in Boston. The almost 20 years of stress (combined with second-hand cigarette and cigar smoke for most of the time) is undoubtedly causing some kind of bad illness which is now dormant but will soon leap up to bite me in the ass. I can only hope that my breast cancer was the worst of it.
Problem is, stress becomes a habit. Even when nothing is expected of me and I don't have to produce on a deadline (as I have been doing for a year now in preparing my book for publication) I still feel free-floating anxiety. All summer I was sidelined by a detached retina. I had nothing to do. Nothing that had to be done. This did not prevent me from compulsively doing things as soon as I was allowed to get up from my prone position. I began a practice schedule. I walked almost every day because it was the only form of exercise allowed. As soon as I could drive, I began doing chores and errands which could have been delegated to my boyfriend. When it comes to stress, I am my own worst enemy. If it doesn't come looking for me, I create it.
I stressed for over a week over the following:
a) my brother's upcoming prostate surgery for cancer (good news: lymph nodes are clear)
b) my own post-menopausal "spotting" and bloating which the Internet sternly informs me is never normal and needs to be seen to immediately
c) the ongoing stress of living with an invalid who is your boyfriend whom you love and have to see in pain and on disability
d) my gig at the Acton Jazz Cafe last Friday (good news: was a rousing success. Would it still have been so if I had stressed less?)
Now I am low-level stressing about the spotting and bloating, because as usual I trot out my logic in an effort to show my cortisol that it can relax. The gynecologist who examined me last Thursday did not appear to be unduly alarmed and could not find anything abnormal in the pelvic exam. Since I have a history of polyps, she set me up for an ultrasound in the next few days, after which presumably we can rule out several things and have a discussion. It's not the end of the problem, because there will still be a biopsy, the results of which I must wait for. (Waiting for lab test results is quite possibly the most stress-inducing thing in existence.) I could not stop myself from trolling the Internet health sites in search of reassuring statistics. Unfortunately, all female conditions involving uterus/ovaries have the same symptoms, whether the condition is benign or malignant. It appears, however, that ovarian or endometrial cancer are the least likely culprits statistically. This only lowers my stress a little because when my breast was biopsied I was told reluctantly by both internist and radiologist that 85% of biopsies are normal. I was in the unlucky 15% who had ductal carcinoma in situ which is as close to curable as cancer gets (95%) with surgery followed by radiation followed by 5 years of tamoxifen. You could argue that because I beat the odds and won the cancer lottery 6 years ago that the odds of beating them again when they are already similarly low are not good. But better than winning the Massachusetts state lottery.
Tamoxifen is an anti-breast cancer drug which has been studied for many years--it has been around since the 80s. My oncologist correctly decided that the (albeit low) risk of my cancer returning at about 10% outweighed the risks of taking the drug itself. Blood clots are a risk but really only in sedentary women older than me. The risk of endometrial cancer is about 4%, meaning that 96% of women on the drug do not develop the disease. Dr. Tabesh, whom I love, didn't prescribe a newer and less tested drug because it was newer and less tested. She always patiently answered my anxious queries. It impresses me no end that with her busy practice (she is now chief of oncology where she practices) and as the mother of 3 she has the time to keep up with the latest research papers. She also doesn't seem to be stressed out. But then she is high-ranking in the job hierarchy.
During my bout with breast cancer I also took the genetic test for BRCA1 and 2, which are sneaky cancer genes that show up in a small percentage of women who are mostly of Ashkenazic Jewish descent, as I am. Thank an inbred gene pool for that! These genes make women prone to ovarian cancer AND breast cancer. Well, I don't have the genes. But I do have 2 risk factors for the reproductive organ cancers: I am getting older and I took tamoxifen.
I have succeeded in convincing myself that my spotting/bloating (which has mysteriously disappeared over the past week) is either a) more polyps, which are usually benign but need to be removed or b) nothing (technically, the aging uterus sheds cells from its lining which is thinning out, which is a normal process.)
If it is more polyps, another surgical procedure is in order--thankfully, an in-office one--the last thing I want to see is the inside of another hospital. As I recall, it was not a pleasant procedure: the gyn refers to it as "crampy," but I would characterize the pain to be well over 5 on a scale of 1-10, 10 being labor pain.
To quote from Fight Club: Even the Mona Lisa is falling apart.
Though not the Mona Lisa by a long shot, the mirror and my boyfriend both tell me that I am a youthful, more attractive than average 58 year old. BF uses words like "beautiful," of course. I strive stressfully to exercise a lot even though I hate it (except for biking, hiking, and horseback riding) to stay on the Weight Watchers plan which enabled me to lose 30 lbs. I am not one of the 95% of Americans who do not eat enough fruits and vegetables; I easily get more than 5 a day. But cancer treacherously
laughs at fitness and healthy diet and gives Lance Armstrong a run for his money. Being at the top of his game and the sports hierarchy, he beats it, at least for now.
Cancer took the life of my clean-living, outdoors-loving mother at age 59. It cost my 48 year old boyfriend his stomach and his health. And it cost me about 1/3 of my right breast after 4 surgeries. It is a malevolent, sneaky, treacherous disease. Each time BF gets a CT scan--every few months--it has thus far shown no return of the cancer. But it has been known to return years later. So I share in his stress every time the test comes around. And using logic or reading about odds does very little to alleviate the stress.
Stress has been shown to actually kill brain cells, the only cells in the body which do not regenerate. This results in memory loss of the following type: I go into a room and forget what I went in there for. Or, as happened just now, I ask BF: What was the name of the bicyclist who won the Tour de France and got cancer? This after fruitlessly searching the recesses of my brain for a name that was just out of reach. My generation dreads Alzheimer's as people once dreaded the plague, and my friends are all convinced that they have the early-onset form of the disease. But maybe it's just stress. No--"just" is not a word that can be used with "stress" anymore. It's a killer.
I could write a lot more on this subject, but I am too stressed.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
In search of lost time
My oldest friend's father (a close friend of my father's) died last week after being ill for some time and suffering from dementia. Over the past several years, most of my father's close friends have died. It has been an achingly sad experience for my father, of course, but also for me, because with each death, a childhood experience of mine seemed to die. Sometimes I wonder if my memories are even real. Unless the memory is a shared one (as with my brother) I have no way of knowing if things actually happened as I recall them, or if indeed they happened at all. With each death, I also cling hopelessly to those who are still living, like my aunt Joan and Uncle Buddy who are my role models for how a life ought to be lived. Or Irv and Phyllis, my father's oldest surviving friends, who at 90 and 91 are still hanging on to life, and not tenuously: they are active in a senior citizens" choir, and most importantly, they still have each other. I know that the day will come, sooner rather than later, when I will have to bid goodbye to my father and my relatives in their 80's and beyond. Nothing prepares us for death, it sneaks up on us unawares, leaving us full of regrets for not having seen the person just once more to say goodbye, because last time you saw them, you didn't know it WAS goodbye.
A year ago last winter, my beloved piano teacher, Charlie Banacos, became ill with a fast-moving and deadly cancer; he was dead in a matter of weeks. Even now after the passing of time, I am still inconsolable. He was the first musician/teacher to take me seriously, without sexism, and lead me down the path of playing jazz. Without him, I might not have become a musician at all. I was young when I studied with him, and like all of his young students at the time, I regarded him as a spiritual as well as a musical leader, even though he did not espouse any religion (at least not in lessons.)
He was a remarkable man by any standard, a prodigy who gave up performing to teach, who slept only 4 hours a night and practiced 14 hours a day. He made you work harder than you thought possible. He dispensed wisdom modestly. He always greeted you with a smile and a joke, and would end the lesson by shaking his fist and saying "Burn!" I can still see him in my mind's eye. I feel that his presence is still with me, inspiring me, to this day. Of course it's completely unscientific, and I could not explain how I know this, but I often speak to him, and I believe that he hears. I recently downloaded two photos of him from the internet, printed them and put them up in my piano room to inspire me to get back to practicing and to take advantage of the extra time I have now not teaching.
The times and places I remember have changed, just as in the Beatles song "In My Life."
The landscape of the college town I grew up near, where my father taught, is unrecognizable when I refer to the mental picture of what it looked like in say, 1969.
The Pizza House and Campus Restaurant are long gone, as are Waring's, the Hoot, the Disc, Phil's Record and Radio, Singer's bookstore, and the College Theater where I saw The Sound of Music, The Graduate, Dirty Harry, and Easy Rider. My high school had a facelift many years ago, and is now larger and more expansive than it was when I attended it. More often than not, when I am driving through Storrs on the main drag, it seems like a dreamscape to me. Did I really grow up here? Is there an accurate picture in my mind of what it used to be? Did I really cut class to read tarot cards in the basement Campus Restaurant, where the pizza was terrible and the air redolent of marijuana? Did I really write bad poetry for the high school literary mag pretentiously entitled VIRTU (with an accent over the "u")? I submitted some nice drawings, I think. Did I really roam the halls of school in a black hat and cape from the Portobello Road flea market in London? I seem to recall a crew-cutted gym teacher
snarling at me that this wasn't Halloween. Did we girls really have sadistic female gym teachers? And what is it about gym teachers anyway? I have nightmares to this day that I was not allowed to graduate from high school because I had not satisfied the gym requirement. In the dream, I failed to show up for gym all year long even though I knew what would happen to me. In reality, I dragged myself to the hated gymnasium, put on the awful bright red one-piece uniform with the bloomers that didn't look good on anyone, even the thin girls, and made a pretense of playing whatever game we had to play that week. I sprained my precious piano-playing fingers playing volleyball and basketball. I was always in the outfield in softball, so clumsy was I with my lack of eye-hand coordination. No one wanted me on their team. I came in almost last in the cross-country (1/4 mile run which seemed endless) Ah, the humiliation! That memory must be accurate. We never forget our humiliations--they appear to be larger than our triumphs.
I also suffered humiliation in math class and in Modern European History (which I alone of all my friends had to drop) but let us not dwell on this pain. I did not have anywhere near perfect grades, so it's a mystery that I got into Wellesley and Vassar and was waitlisted at Brown (the women's college was then called "Pembroke")
It wasn't good enough for me because Yale and Wesleyan turned me down but accepted two of my female classmates. Disappointment. And the resultant self-flagellation because of course it was ALL MY FAULT for not working harder, cutting class, doing drugs, etc.
I fancied myself a rebel but in reality my attempts at rebellion were feeble. My brother, two years younger, was much more daring, and rebelled to the extent that he almost flunked out of high school, something I would never have dared to attempt.
I was just a little too young to be part of the hippie and yippie movements, and I missed out on Woodstock because--are you ready for this? I was too cowardly to run away with my friends who were going, because my parents forbade me. A good little girl to the last. If I had known that Woodstock was going to be the biggest pop culture phenomenon in history, I might have gone at 15. When my friends all came home with bronchitis and pneumonia, my mother said triumphantly: "You see?" But I would have risked sickness if I had known. I had to be satisfied with the movie.
Lost time, lost time--one day, today will have spun as far into the past as 1969.
In 40 years, I will be 98 if I am still living. Then I will be trying to remember what is happening now, and wondering if it really happened. And there may be no one else left to ask.
A year ago last winter, my beloved piano teacher, Charlie Banacos, became ill with a fast-moving and deadly cancer; he was dead in a matter of weeks. Even now after the passing of time, I am still inconsolable. He was the first musician/teacher to take me seriously, without sexism, and lead me down the path of playing jazz. Without him, I might not have become a musician at all. I was young when I studied with him, and like all of his young students at the time, I regarded him as a spiritual as well as a musical leader, even though he did not espouse any religion (at least not in lessons.)
He was a remarkable man by any standard, a prodigy who gave up performing to teach, who slept only 4 hours a night and practiced 14 hours a day. He made you work harder than you thought possible. He dispensed wisdom modestly. He always greeted you with a smile and a joke, and would end the lesson by shaking his fist and saying "Burn!" I can still see him in my mind's eye. I feel that his presence is still with me, inspiring me, to this day. Of course it's completely unscientific, and I could not explain how I know this, but I often speak to him, and I believe that he hears. I recently downloaded two photos of him from the internet, printed them and put them up in my piano room to inspire me to get back to practicing and to take advantage of the extra time I have now not teaching.
The times and places I remember have changed, just as in the Beatles song "In My Life."
The landscape of the college town I grew up near, where my father taught, is unrecognizable when I refer to the mental picture of what it looked like in say, 1969.
The Pizza House and Campus Restaurant are long gone, as are Waring's, the Hoot, the Disc, Phil's Record and Radio, Singer's bookstore, and the College Theater where I saw The Sound of Music, The Graduate, Dirty Harry, and Easy Rider. My high school had a facelift many years ago, and is now larger and more expansive than it was when I attended it. More often than not, when I am driving through Storrs on the main drag, it seems like a dreamscape to me. Did I really grow up here? Is there an accurate picture in my mind of what it used to be? Did I really cut class to read tarot cards in the basement Campus Restaurant, where the pizza was terrible and the air redolent of marijuana? Did I really write bad poetry for the high school literary mag pretentiously entitled VIRTU (with an accent over the "u")? I submitted some nice drawings, I think. Did I really roam the halls of school in a black hat and cape from the Portobello Road flea market in London? I seem to recall a crew-cutted gym teacher
snarling at me that this wasn't Halloween. Did we girls really have sadistic female gym teachers? And what is it about gym teachers anyway? I have nightmares to this day that I was not allowed to graduate from high school because I had not satisfied the gym requirement. In the dream, I failed to show up for gym all year long even though I knew what would happen to me. In reality, I dragged myself to the hated gymnasium, put on the awful bright red one-piece uniform with the bloomers that didn't look good on anyone, even the thin girls, and made a pretense of playing whatever game we had to play that week. I sprained my precious piano-playing fingers playing volleyball and basketball. I was always in the outfield in softball, so clumsy was I with my lack of eye-hand coordination. No one wanted me on their team. I came in almost last in the cross-country (1/4 mile run which seemed endless) Ah, the humiliation! That memory must be accurate. We never forget our humiliations--they appear to be larger than our triumphs.
I also suffered humiliation in math class and in Modern European History (which I alone of all my friends had to drop) but let us not dwell on this pain. I did not have anywhere near perfect grades, so it's a mystery that I got into Wellesley and Vassar and was waitlisted at Brown (the women's college was then called "Pembroke")
It wasn't good enough for me because Yale and Wesleyan turned me down but accepted two of my female classmates. Disappointment. And the resultant self-flagellation because of course it was ALL MY FAULT for not working harder, cutting class, doing drugs, etc.
I fancied myself a rebel but in reality my attempts at rebellion were feeble. My brother, two years younger, was much more daring, and rebelled to the extent that he almost flunked out of high school, something I would never have dared to attempt.
I was just a little too young to be part of the hippie and yippie movements, and I missed out on Woodstock because--are you ready for this? I was too cowardly to run away with my friends who were going, because my parents forbade me. A good little girl to the last. If I had known that Woodstock was going to be the biggest pop culture phenomenon in history, I might have gone at 15. When my friends all came home with bronchitis and pneumonia, my mother said triumphantly: "You see?" But I would have risked sickness if I had known. I had to be satisfied with the movie.
Lost time, lost time--one day, today will have spun as far into the past as 1969.
In 40 years, I will be 98 if I am still living. Then I will be trying to remember what is happening now, and wondering if it really happened. And there may be no one else left to ask.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Psychopaths are running the country
I've been reading "Without Conscience," a book written in 1993 by psychologist Robert Hare, who created the Psychopathy Checklist to identify the 20% of prison inmates who are psychopaths. It's a well-written, intelligent book. The Checklist itself is not in the book; presumably that would make it too easy for psychopaths to manipulate whoever gave them the test.
It appears that many characteristics of psychopaths are desirable if one is to succeed in climbing the corporate ladder: egocentricity, grandiosity, ruthlessness, lack of empathy, good manipulative skills, lying and deceitfulness, and a generally predatory nature. Relatively few pp commit violent crimes; most of them are con men and petty criminals of various kinds. Some (like Bernie Madoff) successfully bilk hundreds of people out of their life savings, causing catastrophic suffering. From what I observe, a good number of American politicians and Wall Street banksters are definitely psychopaths.
More later, since I have to listen to Randi Rhodes' take on the current group of Republican psychopaths in Congress who are holding the debt ceiling legislation hostage.
Another characteristic: When you are caught commiting a crime, blame everyone else!
It appears that many characteristics of psychopaths are desirable if one is to succeed in climbing the corporate ladder: egocentricity, grandiosity, ruthlessness, lack of empathy, good manipulative skills, lying and deceitfulness, and a generally predatory nature. Relatively few pp commit violent crimes; most of them are con men and petty criminals of various kinds. Some (like Bernie Madoff) successfully bilk hundreds of people out of their life savings, causing catastrophic suffering. From what I observe, a good number of American politicians and Wall Street banksters are definitely psychopaths.
More later, since I have to listen to Randi Rhodes' take on the current group of Republican psychopaths in Congress who are holding the debt ceiling legislation hostage.
Another characteristic: When you are caught commiting a crime, blame everyone else!
Friday, July 8, 2011
Habitual patterns and adventure
The doctor said that my progress continues to be excellent. I still can't drive, lift heavy weights (which rules out gigs) lie on my back (which rules out comfort) or wash my hair in the shower (which rules out that clean-hair feeling--yesterday I tried a no-rinse shampoo said to be used by NASA on the space shuttle, but it left a greasy residue.) I can, however, be up and around all day with no head positioning (hallelujah!)
I do have to sleep prone for 8 hours.
Being up and around has been a strange experience. Having a bandage over your eye prompts sympathetic passers-by to say things like "Oh, that must really hurt!" and offer to do things for you. I have the staggering walk of an alcoholic because I am not yet accustomed to my lack of depth perception. I have defied medical advice and carried home 10 lbs. of groceries from the supermarket because if I didn't, no one else would.
And, not to sound trite but walking around in the July sunshine feels fantastic after weeks of lying prone indoors. Yesterday late afternoon was perfect weather--not hot, but warm and dry with a light breeze. I soaked it up, knowing that the unbearably humid July New England weather would be here all too soon. And sure enough, today was sullenly humid with clouds that refused to produce the predicted thunderstorms. I stayed indoors in my air-conditioned bedroom all day because I didn't want my bangs to frizz. Yes, that's the truth, ladies and gentlemen, and I am not proud of it. It occurred to me today that my hair was a frizzy nightmare the entire 4 days I spent in the rain forest. Yet I still long to return. Once I got there, though, I would be trying in vain to make myself look presentable as I did every morning. Habitual patterns have a way of asserting themselves even in the jungle. I ended up slicking my bangs down with straightening gel which was of no use whatsoever in straightening. Then I pinned it all to the side of my head and braided my hair into pigtails. With my glasses and safari hat on, I looked like an extra on Freaks and Geeks. But it was worth it. I'd gladly go through hair hell again to be back there with the squirrel monkeys, the parrots, and the orapendulas. Even the tarantulas, boas, and piranhas. In The Catcher in the Rye Holden Caulfield says near the end that sooner or later you end up missing everybody. And it's true. I even miss my compulsions when I can't give full vent to them.
My eyes welled up with tears a week or so ago when I was about to board the T and overheard two women speaking French. I still have a terrible, lonely nostalgia for France, especially Paris. France and Ecuador. If only I had serious money I could divide my time between them. But I can only dream about it.
I can't say that I miss driving, although I have the constant nagging feeling that I need to run errands in places only accessible by car. I also don't miss teaching, which is so often an exercise in frustration and even futility. I do miss gardening and yard work, even mowing the lawn. I miss my yoga class a lot and long to ride my bike again. I really miss my Weight Watchers meetings: without them I am floundering in a sea of mental cravings for hot fudge sundaes and guilt from overeating. The predictable but comforting routine of my pre-retinal detachment life is something I yearn for even though I detested its predictability and lack of adventure. France and Ecuador have been my only forays into adventure in the past two years. I need more adventure in my life. I realize this even more now that I have been sidelined. I wish Curtiss could be my companion in future adventures--we had many in New York City and in Paris together. But I am afraid that he will never be strong enough again for the kinds of adventures I crave.
Who will accompany me? Adventures are lonely when you are alone: I am convinced that being with my son in the jungle added a richness to the experience which it would otherwise have lacked. And in writing these lines I have suddenly realized that my son was born with a sense of adventure and he communicated it to me on this recent trip. He urged me to jump into the murky river and follow the jungle trail without fear. And I felt that I was truly living for the first time in a long time. Since my last trip to France, in fact, which, although it did not require risking physical danger, did require traveling through a big foreign city alone much of the time, armed with only minimal French.
Here's to more adventures and laughing at habitual patterns.
I do have to sleep prone for 8 hours.
Being up and around has been a strange experience. Having a bandage over your eye prompts sympathetic passers-by to say things like "Oh, that must really hurt!" and offer to do things for you. I have the staggering walk of an alcoholic because I am not yet accustomed to my lack of depth perception. I have defied medical advice and carried home 10 lbs. of groceries from the supermarket because if I didn't, no one else would.
And, not to sound trite but walking around in the July sunshine feels fantastic after weeks of lying prone indoors. Yesterday late afternoon was perfect weather--not hot, but warm and dry with a light breeze. I soaked it up, knowing that the unbearably humid July New England weather would be here all too soon. And sure enough, today was sullenly humid with clouds that refused to produce the predicted thunderstorms. I stayed indoors in my air-conditioned bedroom all day because I didn't want my bangs to frizz. Yes, that's the truth, ladies and gentlemen, and I am not proud of it. It occurred to me today that my hair was a frizzy nightmare the entire 4 days I spent in the rain forest. Yet I still long to return. Once I got there, though, I would be trying in vain to make myself look presentable as I did every morning. Habitual patterns have a way of asserting themselves even in the jungle. I ended up slicking my bangs down with straightening gel which was of no use whatsoever in straightening. Then I pinned it all to the side of my head and braided my hair into pigtails. With my glasses and safari hat on, I looked like an extra on Freaks and Geeks. But it was worth it. I'd gladly go through hair hell again to be back there with the squirrel monkeys, the parrots, and the orapendulas. Even the tarantulas, boas, and piranhas. In The Catcher in the Rye Holden Caulfield says near the end that sooner or later you end up missing everybody. And it's true. I even miss my compulsions when I can't give full vent to them.
My eyes welled up with tears a week or so ago when I was about to board the T and overheard two women speaking French. I still have a terrible, lonely nostalgia for France, especially Paris. France and Ecuador. If only I had serious money I could divide my time between them. But I can only dream about it.
I can't say that I miss driving, although I have the constant nagging feeling that I need to run errands in places only accessible by car. I also don't miss teaching, which is so often an exercise in frustration and even futility. I do miss gardening and yard work, even mowing the lawn. I miss my yoga class a lot and long to ride my bike again. I really miss my Weight Watchers meetings: without them I am floundering in a sea of mental cravings for hot fudge sundaes and guilt from overeating. The predictable but comforting routine of my pre-retinal detachment life is something I yearn for even though I detested its predictability and lack of adventure. France and Ecuador have been my only forays into adventure in the past two years. I need more adventure in my life. I realize this even more now that I have been sidelined. I wish Curtiss could be my companion in future adventures--we had many in New York City and in Paris together. But I am afraid that he will never be strong enough again for the kinds of adventures I crave.
Who will accompany me? Adventures are lonely when you are alone: I am convinced that being with my son in the jungle added a richness to the experience which it would otherwise have lacked. And in writing these lines I have suddenly realized that my son was born with a sense of adventure and he communicated it to me on this recent trip. He urged me to jump into the murky river and follow the jungle trail without fear. And I felt that I was truly living for the first time in a long time. Since my last trip to France, in fact, which, although it did not require risking physical danger, did require traveling through a big foreign city alone much of the time, armed with only minimal French.
Here's to more adventures and laughing at habitual patterns.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Could I still be hot?
My personal assistant is 21 years old and about to graduate from a famous music college which shall remain nameless--it's the one I teach at, and I don't need any trouble from them. She is a brilliant Renaissance woman who can play jazz piano like Oscar Peterson (and I am not exaggerating) She can sing in a unique, quirky jazz voice. She writes great songs. She takes photographs like a professional fashion photographer. She paints and makes films. She does everything well. She has been helping me to give my flagging performing career a shot in the ass. She got me in touch with a web designer who redesigned my website, she designed and printed business cards for me, she took hundreds of photos, and she got a special phone number that people can call to book me--they will get her on the phone. In theory this should all work like a charm, but I have not gotten any gigs as a result of this yet and it's almost a year. It is so exquisitely difficult to put yourself on the map as a musician at any age, and if you have not succeeded in doing so by the age I am now, you are at a distinct disadvantage.
The economic downturn isn't helping things. Being a jazz musician is 3 strikes against you right there. I have heard of bands that developed a following when they got a million hits on their YouTube video. They don't play very many shows. Apparently their young fans are content to download mP3s of their music. The question is: How do you come up with the next big thing song-wise?
There is also the issue of getting tired of playing jazz, which I have been doing for 30 years. While I love free jazz, almost no one else does. Playing standards no longer excites me after 30 years. And even when I was young I didn't want to be Diana Krall. I am now over 50 and I hope it is not too late to re-invent myself. I told myself I would never sing again, but it's a fact that singers are wildly more popular than the most accomplished instrumentalist. Lady Gaga knows this instinctively. Although she can play jazz standards, she sings (and extremely well) and uses the piano as a prop. When she does play, she plays minimally. It's all about the performance with her even though she has a lot of musical talent. She has created a persona in much the same way Madonna created Madonna, the difference being that Madonna has little musical talent. Even if I were to start writing catchy soulful R&B dance tunes right now, I would still be faced with the problem that even Madonna at age 50 doesn't look that great in her underwear on stage. Photos can be morphed with Photoshop (I look like a better version of my 21 year old self) but when you are onstage, you are...well, onstage in all your glory or lack thereof. I wouldn't have to go the dance route--I could do the Nora Jones thing, or the Sarah McLachlan thing, and be the pensive singer-songwriter. I am not sure if I am ready for this yet.
Although my assistant and my BF say I look hot, I don't quite believe them. I have never thought of myself as a beautiful, sexy woman. Thinking of yourself that way is 99% of it.
Last night I was on Facebook and one of my former students, now in his mid to late 20s, suddenly popped up on chat. He was flirting with me and apologized for being "inappropriate" when he said I should wear hot outfits when I perform and I would have a huge male following. He knows that I am old enough to be his mother, and in any case I am not contemplating cheating on my BF with him. But maybe he has a point and I could still give the illusion of being hot (as I see it--that isn't what he said.)
I need to experiment with some hot outfits. I also need to compose some hot songs and maybe start singing them. Or am I abandoning my free jazz dreams? is it possible to play free jazz, be popular with millions of young people, and be hot all at the same time? And do I have the courage to go that route?
The economic downturn isn't helping things. Being a jazz musician is 3 strikes against you right there. I have heard of bands that developed a following when they got a million hits on their YouTube video. They don't play very many shows. Apparently their young fans are content to download mP3s of their music. The question is: How do you come up with the next big thing song-wise?
There is also the issue of getting tired of playing jazz, which I have been doing for 30 years. While I love free jazz, almost no one else does. Playing standards no longer excites me after 30 years. And even when I was young I didn't want to be Diana Krall. I am now over 50 and I hope it is not too late to re-invent myself. I told myself I would never sing again, but it's a fact that singers are wildly more popular than the most accomplished instrumentalist. Lady Gaga knows this instinctively. Although she can play jazz standards, she sings (and extremely well) and uses the piano as a prop. When she does play, she plays minimally. It's all about the performance with her even though she has a lot of musical talent. She has created a persona in much the same way Madonna created Madonna, the difference being that Madonna has little musical talent. Even if I were to start writing catchy soulful R&B dance tunes right now, I would still be faced with the problem that even Madonna at age 50 doesn't look that great in her underwear on stage. Photos can be morphed with Photoshop (I look like a better version of my 21 year old self) but when you are onstage, you are...well, onstage in all your glory or lack thereof. I wouldn't have to go the dance route--I could do the Nora Jones thing, or the Sarah McLachlan thing, and be the pensive singer-songwriter. I am not sure if I am ready for this yet.
Although my assistant and my BF say I look hot, I don't quite believe them. I have never thought of myself as a beautiful, sexy woman. Thinking of yourself that way is 99% of it.
Last night I was on Facebook and one of my former students, now in his mid to late 20s, suddenly popped up on chat. He was flirting with me and apologized for being "inappropriate" when he said I should wear hot outfits when I perform and I would have a huge male following. He knows that I am old enough to be his mother, and in any case I am not contemplating cheating on my BF with him. But maybe he has a point and I could still give the illusion of being hot (as I see it--that isn't what he said.)
I need to experiment with some hot outfits. I also need to compose some hot songs and maybe start singing them. Or am I abandoning my free jazz dreams? is it possible to play free jazz, be popular with millions of young people, and be hot all at the same time? And do I have the courage to go that route?
Monday, July 4, 2011
Through the Looking Glass (Bubble)
I’ve been watching the gas bubble in my eye shrink gradually since it was put there by Dr. Sang, retinal surgeon, about a month ago. It used to cover the entire field of vision in my left eye, and looking through it was very much like looking through the bottom of a drinking glass: you can tell what things are, but they are very blurry and distorted. I imagine that this was the way James Thurber (who eventually became almost totally blind) saw the world.
The gas bubble eventually gets absorbed by the body. At the moment, my left eye appears to hold a clear grayish orb which shivers like Jello whenever I move my head.
The upper arc of the orb is like the dark horizon of the ocean at night as seen from a boat.
Above the arc is a clear area through which I can see objects across the room, although they are blurry without my glasses. With glasses, my vision above the arc of the bubble is only a little less clear than it was before the operation. This gives me hope that my vision will return, although I’m told that the process takes several months.
I am now allowed to walk around all day. I am still not allowed to lie on my back, bend with my head below my waist, exercise, drive, or play the piano with “large body movements.” My piano, in any event, is miserably out of tune and cannot be tuned until July 14. I have been watching a frightening amount of TV. This can’t be good for my brain cells and maybe isn’t even good for my vision. If I attempt to read, I get eyestrain and headaches. So that leaves watching TV marathons of the Twilight Zone and Drop Dead Diva. Also the modern day Sherlock Holmes series on PBS which I have summoned onto my computer screen. Curtiss and I watched several Coen brothers movies together. And other guilty pleasures—though I hesitate to describe them thus—like Hoarders and Say Yes to the Dress (These TV reality shows are like watching a car wreck: you know you shouldn’t but you just can’t look away.) Distractions are good for warding off depression. And TV will do nicely if you can’t read a book.
Everyone tells me to get audio books, but they are as expensive as regular books and I have no income for the foreseeable future. Most of the podcasts I download end up putting me to sleep (if you suffer from insomnia, listen to the Journal of Neurology podcasts—works like a charm.) And I have had to stop listening to radio because world events depress me even more. Listening to music is OK, but makes me feel unproductive. I have certain musician friends who, if sidelined this way, would be tapping and recording polyrhythms, singing melodies, practicing their ear training, transcribing, etc. There is always something you can do if you are determined enough. But I can’t motivate myself to do anything that requires more activity than just passively sitting in a chair or on my bed. This is the first time I have defied eyestrain to type on my laptop for more than a minute or so at a time. I suppose it will get better if after I see the doc tomorrow she says I can drive and/or exercise. I need to get back to my habitual patterns.
The gas bubble eventually gets absorbed by the body. At the moment, my left eye appears to hold a clear grayish orb which shivers like Jello whenever I move my head.
The upper arc of the orb is like the dark horizon of the ocean at night as seen from a boat.
Above the arc is a clear area through which I can see objects across the room, although they are blurry without my glasses. With glasses, my vision above the arc of the bubble is only a little less clear than it was before the operation. This gives me hope that my vision will return, although I’m told that the process takes several months.
I am now allowed to walk around all day. I am still not allowed to lie on my back, bend with my head below my waist, exercise, drive, or play the piano with “large body movements.” My piano, in any event, is miserably out of tune and cannot be tuned until July 14. I have been watching a frightening amount of TV. This can’t be good for my brain cells and maybe isn’t even good for my vision. If I attempt to read, I get eyestrain and headaches. So that leaves watching TV marathons of the Twilight Zone and Drop Dead Diva. Also the modern day Sherlock Holmes series on PBS which I have summoned onto my computer screen. Curtiss and I watched several Coen brothers movies together. And other guilty pleasures—though I hesitate to describe them thus—like Hoarders and Say Yes to the Dress (These TV reality shows are like watching a car wreck: you know you shouldn’t but you just can’t look away.) Distractions are good for warding off depression. And TV will do nicely if you can’t read a book.
Everyone tells me to get audio books, but they are as expensive as regular books and I have no income for the foreseeable future. Most of the podcasts I download end up putting me to sleep (if you suffer from insomnia, listen to the Journal of Neurology podcasts—works like a charm.) And I have had to stop listening to radio because world events depress me even more. Listening to music is OK, but makes me feel unproductive. I have certain musician friends who, if sidelined this way, would be tapping and recording polyrhythms, singing melodies, practicing their ear training, transcribing, etc. There is always something you can do if you are determined enough. But I can’t motivate myself to do anything that requires more activity than just passively sitting in a chair or on my bed. This is the first time I have defied eyestrain to type on my laptop for more than a minute or so at a time. I suppose it will get better if after I see the doc tomorrow she says I can drive and/or exercise. I need to get back to my habitual patterns.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Some real angst
Wednesday (June 1) I went to my eye doctor because of a shadow in my field of vision in my left eye. It turns out that I have a retinal detachment, a condition that can result in blindness if I don't have an operation immediately. In the course of being examined by 4 doctors (!) it was determined that I need a vitrectomy (removal of the vitreous fluid inside the eye and surgically re-attaching the retina.) I was referred to one of the best retina surgeons in the country, who spoke to me for an hour about the operation and the followup (aftercare) The op isn't a big deal--I had cataract surgery and this is similar. But post-op, I have to stay lying in bed on my stomach with my right cheek on the mattress for 23 out of 24 hours a day for two weeks! Actually, she said that I should only get up to go to the bathroom, but I'm hoping I'm allowed to brush my teeth too! Then, for the next two weeks, I still have to do this but I am allowed three 2 hour periods a day on my feet. Then, for the 5th week, I only have to do it at night. This is done so that the retina heals in exactly the right way with no scar tissue (which I am susceptible to since I have recurring eye inflammation which contributed to this problem.) So, the surgery is this Friday, and tomorrow (Thurs.) I have to go to a pre-op appointment at Mass Eye and Ear.
I will not be able to work for 5 weeks. I have had to cancel literally everything on my calendar for 5 weeks. My father and brother have offered to send me money, so my main worry has been alleviated somewhat. I broke down in the doctor's office and apologized profusely--I usually can't cry in front of people and rarely cry in general, but the stress of not being able to work with Curtiss on disability gave rise to fears that I would not be able to pay my mortgage and bills. The prestigious and very impressive Dr. Sang thought that perhaps my students could come to me once I was able to get up for a few hours a day. I didn't have the heart to tell her that things just don't work that way at Berklee. She was very kind, but she was also very insistent that I have the surgery and that I follow her instructions to the letter afterwards. It seems that I am at risk for the formation of excessive scar tissue (because of my uveitis) which threatens to detach the retina again once it is healed.
The idea is to have it heal just enough (not enough means it won't stick to the back of the eye, and too much means scar tissue formation) so it is a tricky, delicate process. Whereas most people have a 90% chance of success with no future detachments, my chances are only 80-85%. Still pretty good odds, though.
Dr. Sang amazed me by rattling off a rapid-fire list of descriptions to her nurse, who typed them into a computer. This was while she was shining the slit lamp into my eyes (checking both eyes to make sure that nothing was wrong with the right eye) and gazing through a complicated lens to get an even better view. These descriptions occasionally had the word "normal" in them, which made me feel a little better, and lots of opthamological shorthand such as OS (left eye, or os sinister) and OD ( right eye, or os dexter) I felt better until she told me that there were about 20 million pigment cells floating around in my vitreous which had no business being there--they were supposed to be in fluid safely confined behind the retina, but they had now broken loose to cause trouble, namely by increasing inflammation in the eye which will slow the healing process. So Dr. Sang brought out the big prednisone pill guns--I took one tonight and I'm supposed to take another tomorrow--plus the eyedrops that fight inflammation (4X a day tomorrow)
Dr. Sang succeeded where three docs before her (including Dr. Foster) had failed: she found the holes in my retina, which were very small and elusive. By the time I reached her at about 4:30 pm, my eye had been poked, prodded, and abused by bright light from about 8 a.m. until 11 a.m. My eye muscles were sore from moving up, down, right, and left as I was instructed. I wasn't looking forward to another bout with the slit lamp. And the final round with Dr. Sang was more painful and uncomfortable than the previous bouts: she had to hold my lid open with an instrument that pinched. While this was nothing compared to labor pains, it was still no day at the beach. It seemed like forever but in fact it probably only took about 5 minutes. She was speedier than the other doctors and she knew exactly what she was looking for. She proceeded to explain the operation to me using several excellent analogies--the structure of the eye is hard for the lay person to understand, but she was well-practiced at explaining. I was referred to her by Dr. Foster, who for about 6 years now has been assiduously trying to cure my persistent uveitis. Dr. Foster is a world-famous expert in inflammatory eye disease, so I would expect him to refer me to someone similar for this surgery. Dr. Foster's mottoes (which are inscribed on two pieces of crystal in a glass case in the lobby of his office) are "Whatever it takes" and "Never, never give up." Now, this may sound corny, but I have tried to adopt these as my own mottoes. I am normally persistent in most things and not prone to giving up, but this eye condition has been extremely discouraging and demoralizing, especially since it has contributed to an even more serious condition. I of course will do whatever it takes to save the sight in my left eye, and certainly the post-op instructions are heroic if not fanatical, but at this moment I don't know how the hell I can stay in that prone position day and night without getting bedsores, strained muscles and tendons, and temporary insanity from forced inactivity.
I won't be able to read (eye patch on left eye and right eye sunk into the mattress, as the surgeon described it) or type on a computer. Thank God that a) Curtiss will be here to take care of me and b)this didn't happen in Ecuador. It would have been bad enough in Quito, but at least there are doctors there--what if it had occurred in the rain forest? Flying in a plane is absolutely forbidden and I would have risked further damage flying home. Although Dr. S. believes that these tears have been forming slowly over time and doesn't think that the elevations in Ecuador or the flights had anything to do with the problem as it is now.
My best hope is that I will find something funny in the experience of immobility that I am about to have. Funny or instructive, perhaps in a spiritual way. It will force me to abandon my habitual patterns, as the Buddhists call them: being online, watching TV, listening to progressive political polemics on talk radio, practicing, exercising, tracking my food intake a la Weight Watchers, tidying up the house, yard work, driving, shopping, even reading. Actually, everything you do on a daily basis is a habitual pattern, even meditation. But the ones that are particularly insidious tend to be the addictive ones and ones that usually involve multitasking. I think I could use a vacation from multitasking. Who knows, my mind and mood might emerge stronger from this. But I could also take to drinking. I had a large brandy tonight which was the only thing that took my mind off this for a while. And I am willing myself not to cry because my left eye hurts and it's red, and I don't want to make matters worse.
OK, bright side: I don't have to worry about money (as my father said emphatically at least 3 times on the phone) I have Curtiss to help me and a brilliant surgeon will be operating on me. Something can and will be done to fix my eye and even maybe prevent future detachments. They probably couldn't do this 50 years ago. Lots of people have to do something similar to the regimen I'm getting. Also, lots of people have to lie on their backs for weeks after back surgery. People have their legs in casts and suspension for weeks and can't work. I'm not the only one. So I'm not going to ask, Why me? Why shouldn't it be me?
I will not be able to work for 5 weeks. I have had to cancel literally everything on my calendar for 5 weeks. My father and brother have offered to send me money, so my main worry has been alleviated somewhat. I broke down in the doctor's office and apologized profusely--I usually can't cry in front of people and rarely cry in general, but the stress of not being able to work with Curtiss on disability gave rise to fears that I would not be able to pay my mortgage and bills. The prestigious and very impressive Dr. Sang thought that perhaps my students could come to me once I was able to get up for a few hours a day. I didn't have the heart to tell her that things just don't work that way at Berklee. She was very kind, but she was also very insistent that I have the surgery and that I follow her instructions to the letter afterwards. It seems that I am at risk for the formation of excessive scar tissue (because of my uveitis) which threatens to detach the retina again once it is healed.
The idea is to have it heal just enough (not enough means it won't stick to the back of the eye, and too much means scar tissue formation) so it is a tricky, delicate process. Whereas most people have a 90% chance of success with no future detachments, my chances are only 80-85%. Still pretty good odds, though.
Dr. Sang amazed me by rattling off a rapid-fire list of descriptions to her nurse, who typed them into a computer. This was while she was shining the slit lamp into my eyes (checking both eyes to make sure that nothing was wrong with the right eye) and gazing through a complicated lens to get an even better view. These descriptions occasionally had the word "normal" in them, which made me feel a little better, and lots of opthamological shorthand such as OS (left eye, or os sinister) and OD ( right eye, or os dexter) I felt better until she told me that there were about 20 million pigment cells floating around in my vitreous which had no business being there--they were supposed to be in fluid safely confined behind the retina, but they had now broken loose to cause trouble, namely by increasing inflammation in the eye which will slow the healing process. So Dr. Sang brought out the big prednisone pill guns--I took one tonight and I'm supposed to take another tomorrow--plus the eyedrops that fight inflammation (4X a day tomorrow)
Dr. Sang succeeded where three docs before her (including Dr. Foster) had failed: she found the holes in my retina, which were very small and elusive. By the time I reached her at about 4:30 pm, my eye had been poked, prodded, and abused by bright light from about 8 a.m. until 11 a.m. My eye muscles were sore from moving up, down, right, and left as I was instructed. I wasn't looking forward to another bout with the slit lamp. And the final round with Dr. Sang was more painful and uncomfortable than the previous bouts: she had to hold my lid open with an instrument that pinched. While this was nothing compared to labor pains, it was still no day at the beach. It seemed like forever but in fact it probably only took about 5 minutes. She was speedier than the other doctors and she knew exactly what she was looking for. She proceeded to explain the operation to me using several excellent analogies--the structure of the eye is hard for the lay person to understand, but she was well-practiced at explaining. I was referred to her by Dr. Foster, who for about 6 years now has been assiduously trying to cure my persistent uveitis. Dr. Foster is a world-famous expert in inflammatory eye disease, so I would expect him to refer me to someone similar for this surgery. Dr. Foster's mottoes (which are inscribed on two pieces of crystal in a glass case in the lobby of his office) are "Whatever it takes" and "Never, never give up." Now, this may sound corny, but I have tried to adopt these as my own mottoes. I am normally persistent in most things and not prone to giving up, but this eye condition has been extremely discouraging and demoralizing, especially since it has contributed to an even more serious condition. I of course will do whatever it takes to save the sight in my left eye, and certainly the post-op instructions are heroic if not fanatical, but at this moment I don't know how the hell I can stay in that prone position day and night without getting bedsores, strained muscles and tendons, and temporary insanity from forced inactivity.
I won't be able to read (eye patch on left eye and right eye sunk into the mattress, as the surgeon described it) or type on a computer. Thank God that a) Curtiss will be here to take care of me and b)this didn't happen in Ecuador. It would have been bad enough in Quito, but at least there are doctors there--what if it had occurred in the rain forest? Flying in a plane is absolutely forbidden and I would have risked further damage flying home. Although Dr. S. believes that these tears have been forming slowly over time and doesn't think that the elevations in Ecuador or the flights had anything to do with the problem as it is now.
My best hope is that I will find something funny in the experience of immobility that I am about to have. Funny or instructive, perhaps in a spiritual way. It will force me to abandon my habitual patterns, as the Buddhists call them: being online, watching TV, listening to progressive political polemics on talk radio, practicing, exercising, tracking my food intake a la Weight Watchers, tidying up the house, yard work, driving, shopping, even reading. Actually, everything you do on a daily basis is a habitual pattern, even meditation. But the ones that are particularly insidious tend to be the addictive ones and ones that usually involve multitasking. I think I could use a vacation from multitasking. Who knows, my mind and mood might emerge stronger from this. But I could also take to drinking. I had a large brandy tonight which was the only thing that took my mind off this for a while. And I am willing myself not to cry because my left eye hurts and it's red, and I don't want to make matters worse.
OK, bright side: I don't have to worry about money (as my father said emphatically at least 3 times on the phone) I have Curtiss to help me and a brilliant surgeon will be operating on me. Something can and will be done to fix my eye and even maybe prevent future detachments. They probably couldn't do this 50 years ago. Lots of people have to do something similar to the regimen I'm getting. Also, lots of people have to lie on their backs for weeks after back surgery. People have their legs in casts and suspension for weeks and can't work. I'm not the only one. So I'm not going to ask, Why me? Why shouldn't it be me?
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