I have not written a post in some time, but there has been a tragedy. Lou Colombo was killed in a car accident. As I write these words, I still can't wrap my brain around it. I have been thinking about it all day and I keep waiting to wake up from the nightmare.
I can't say that I knew him well, but I knew him well enough to love him. Everyone did. He was in his eighties, still playing trumpet like a master. I only played one gig with him, a memorable one because I had broken my shoulder right before driving to the Cape for the gig, and trouper that I am, I played a three hour gig with him at a private function--just the two of us--playing bass lines on the keyboard with my uninjured left arm while Lou worked the room, intermittently playing and chatting.
Lou never hired me again, but not because I didn't do a great job. It's just that I was not on his radar screen: after all, he was friends with Tony Bennett and a host of other jazz celebrities. And there are several good local Cape pianists who were in his band at the Road House, his son David's restaurant on Main St. in Hyannis. Lou was king of the stage at the Road House, a larger-than-life personality, expansive, controlling (not to say bossy)but above all charming, funny, gregarious.
Lou's daughter Lori and I are close friends. I met her at the Oyster Company, a restaurant in Dennis where I played with Bart Weisman for a few years during the season. I had been told about her ahead of time, but had never seen a photo of her and thus had no idea what she looked like. When a strikingly beautiful dark-haired woman wearing a broad-brimmed hat came through the door, I had a strange psychic feeling that I had to meet her. On my break, Bart introduced me to Lori Colombo, who had just moved back to her hometown to try to make it as a jazz vocalist after spending many years in Ohai, California working as a Reiki and massage therapist.
Well, Lori turned out to be a kindred spirit. We soon found out that besides being fellow Aquarians (I have an uncanny ability to detect them) we shared a lot of common interests and viewpoints. We ended up playing many gigs together. She and Fay Whittaker are the two best singers I have ever worked with. Lori has great time, pitch, feeling, and creativity in choosing repertoire. In addition to music, we spent many hours talking about Reiki (because of her, I took Reiki 1 and will take Reiki 2 this year) and other natural healing methods. She gave Curtiss and me a Reiki treatment on the table she kept at her parents' house.
Through Lori, I came to know about Lou Colombo--his amazing career, the musicians he played with, how her mother devoted her life to him. Sometimes Lori and Lou locked horns--both were passionate and strong-willed. Lori began by performing with her father's band, but soon made the artistic decision to go on her own.
I spent some happy hours around the kitchen table talking to Noel Colombo, Lou's wife, and occasionally Lou would come in to joke and chat after mowing the lawn or doing some heavy yard work. He had the vitality and physical strength of a much younger man. The trumpet is a very difficult instrument to play--I can barely blow a note on it using all my strength--so it was extraordinary to see this man in his eighties playing as vigorously as ever.
Lou insisted on driving despite the protests of his children. At this point, I don't know the details of the accident--all I know is what Lori told me today, that the police came to her door in the middle of the night to inform her that her father had been killed in an accident. He was pulling out of a parking lot after a gig and a car hit his car. I can't help but think that it must have been a speeding car--how else could a fatal accident be caused? Lou Colombo might have lived for another 10 years--he was in excellent health, which makes this tragedy doubly cruel.
Unfortunately, I learned of Lou's death when I looked at my Facebook page this morning. Bart Weisman had thoughtlessly posted a photo of Lou saying he would be missed. (I wonder how he knew so quickly? Lori was the first to be told, in the middle of the night.) Thoughtless and presumptuous because, as Lori said, she has family members who are on Facebook all the time, and what a terrible way to learn of Lou's death. I wept along with Lori on the phone, and I wanted to drop my plans for the day and drive straightaway to the Cape to be with her, but she convinced me not to because her family was gathering to get a flight to Florida as soon as possible.
I considered calling her again this evening, but decided not to intrude on her grief when she was with her family. I was unable to stop thinking about Lou and Lori all day. I lost my appetite and finally had to drink a glass of wine in an attempt to stop the pain. The shock is terrible, and I can only imagine the grief and shock that Noel is going through--she is not in good health and it will be very hard for her to endure. I am praying to the protective spirits who watch over us to sustain the Colombo family in the wake of this tragedy.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Occupy Boston and the police state
The folks at Fox "News" were pleased as can be, gloating their faces off at the news that Occupy Boston was forced to evacuate their tents from Dewey Square. The restraining order against the city was lifted after their lawyers got to work on it. The protesters, unfazed, are talking about setting up camp elsewhere in Boston. I attended a rally last weekend in Copley Square--there was a march beginning at Dewey and ending at Copley which unfortunately drew only about 50 people. The whole crowd was probably under 200 people. The speakers were using mike check and some ineffectual bullhorns, and I couldn't help noticing that the anti-Assad demonstration at the far corner of the square had a very loud P.A. system and no police presence to speak of. I counted seven police motorcycles parked alongside the Copley Plaza Hotel. There were at least two dozen cops surrounding the Occupy demonstration. (I spoke to someone who told me that these police are all getting overtime pay--our tax dollars! And meanwhile, crime is rampant in other parts of the city.) No one at this demonstration so much as pushed or shoved.
I observed the police state in action as I stood near the Socialist Workers' table of literature. I had just given a woman some money as a donation in exchange for their very well written, intelligent newspaper. Suddenly not one but three cops were in her face, asking if they had a permit to display their literature. They said no. One cop replied, "You can't distribute literature here without a permit." The woman I was speaking to said (politely) "It's a public sidewalk. It is legal." She cited a court ruling. The cop sneered back at her: "I'm not going to discuss constitutional law with you. If you don't pack it up, you are all going in the wagon." Translation: The only law that matters is the law that I make right here and now because I carry a gun. They had no choice but to pack up their stuff. I saw a young man carrying a sign that read "The Boston police are protecting and serving the shit out of us." Later, the woman at the Socialist Workers' table gave a speech in which she described the incident I had witnessed. There were reporters from local news stations all over the place filming trivia. Not one of them filmed either the incident itself or the woman's speech.
America, the land of free speech (NOT!)
America, the land of freedom of assembly in a public place (NOT!)
Still think it can't happen here? It has.
I observed the police state in action as I stood near the Socialist Workers' table of literature. I had just given a woman some money as a donation in exchange for their very well written, intelligent newspaper. Suddenly not one but three cops were in her face, asking if they had a permit to display their literature. They said no. One cop replied, "You can't distribute literature here without a permit." The woman I was speaking to said (politely) "It's a public sidewalk. It is legal." She cited a court ruling. The cop sneered back at her: "I'm not going to discuss constitutional law with you. If you don't pack it up, you are all going in the wagon." Translation: The only law that matters is the law that I make right here and now because I carry a gun. They had no choice but to pack up their stuff. I saw a young man carrying a sign that read "The Boston police are protecting and serving the shit out of us." Later, the woman at the Socialist Workers' table gave a speech in which she described the incident I had witnessed. There were reporters from local news stations all over the place filming trivia. Not one of them filmed either the incident itself or the woman's speech.
America, the land of free speech (NOT!)
America, the land of freedom of assembly in a public place (NOT!)
Still think it can't happen here? It has.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Occupy!
The occupation of U.S. cities must continue until we break the backs of the banks.
It's amusing that FOX news and their ilk are saying that the protesters don't have a clear message, when to anyone but an idiot it's clear as day: wealth needs to be redistributed from the 1% haves to the 99% have nots. The mass unemployment of the 99% is a direct result of the 1% sitting on its ill-gotten gains. The banks are even adding insult to injury by adding fees for use of a debit card. That's right, folks: pay for the privilege of withdrawing your own money from the bank! What took them so long to think of this? It wasn't enough, apparently, to steal people's money obtained with sub-prime mortgages and invest it in guaranteed-to-lose operations. No, they have to pick our pockets at every opportunity.
They have no shame. They have no decency, no human kindness, no morals, and no soul.
Hell exists: it is here on earth and the banks and corporations are the devil.
It's amusing that FOX news and their ilk are saying that the protesters don't have a clear message, when to anyone but an idiot it's clear as day: wealth needs to be redistributed from the 1% haves to the 99% have nots. The mass unemployment of the 99% is a direct result of the 1% sitting on its ill-gotten gains. The banks are even adding insult to injury by adding fees for use of a debit card. That's right, folks: pay for the privilege of withdrawing your own money from the bank! What took them so long to think of this? It wasn't enough, apparently, to steal people's money obtained with sub-prime mortgages and invest it in guaranteed-to-lose operations. No, they have to pick our pockets at every opportunity.
They have no shame. They have no decency, no human kindness, no morals, and no soul.
Hell exists: it is here on earth and the banks and corporations are the devil.
More about Facebook
Since my last posts, I have been frustrated by certain people I know who don't have a FB page (and should--one is a musician and presumably could get gigs. Wait! Have I ever gotten a gig via FB?) Also, I was wrong about my former BF--he has now deemed it safe to have a FB page, with friends and all. Yes! I even friended him, after I swore i was not stalking him but was merely in search of "information" about him. (As were the sinister beings on The Prisoner("You won't get it!" snarls Patrick McGoohan, a.k.a, Number Six.) Actually, I didn't use the word "information." I just said I was curious about what he was doing after all these years. He responded that he was self-employed and broke. Maybe there are some things you just don't want to know from FB.
Scientific research will soon reveal that FB makes depressed people more depressed. I am firmly convinced of it. People on the Unclutterer Forum are in favor of a weekly information blackout or unplugging. You know, no cell phone, TV, internet (which includes FB, Twitter, and other forms of social networking.) Some people even ban DVDs, magazines, and newspapers. Is this going a bit too far? I don't know. The surfeit of information to which we are daily being exposed is not healthy.
TO BE CONTINUED
Scientific research will soon reveal that FB makes depressed people more depressed. I am firmly convinced of it. People on the Unclutterer Forum are in favor of a weekly information blackout or unplugging. You know, no cell phone, TV, internet (which includes FB, Twitter, and other forms of social networking.) Some people even ban DVDs, magazines, and newspapers. Is this going a bit too far? I don't know. The surfeit of information to which we are daily being exposed is not healthy.
TO BE CONTINUED
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Are you standing naked in front of a window?
In a cost/benefit analysis, my social networks have engendered very little return for the surrendering of my privacy. If my web presence were to suddenly disappear, my life would not be affected one iota. Even the fancy new website I paid $250 for last year isn't visited by anyone who could get me any gigs. Though for some reason hope springs eternal and I am not considering taking it down any time soon.
I am quite sure that my entire life is an open book online, if you know where to look.
I used to go around airily declaring that I have nothing to hide, and as far as I was concerned, my life was an open book and I didn't care who looked at it. Now that my life is irretrievably an open book, I don't want people examining it. But it's too late. And as a non-celebrity, I don't get the advantage of tons of money in exchange for relinquishing my right to privacy.
It seems that my former boyfriend, the antisocial and defiantly geeky Ken, is the smartest kid in the class: he has never had any detectable web presence because he knows how to cover his tracks. He can't be googled. You can't even find a random post on a message board for people who like to fix old Volvos. I always suspected he was a hacker, though I had no proof. If that's what it takes to hide your cyberfootprint, then we're all in trouble (except for geeky teenage boys and adult males who act like geeky teenage boys.) Ken broke up with me via email (the last refuge of a coward) in 1998. Since this resulted in my having a nervous breakdown of sorts during which I was not in my right mind for some time, I attempted to stay in touch with him and force him to apologize for his shoddy treatment of me. These were the heady days of flaming as a sport, and to my surprise he allowed himself to get drawn into an email debate with me in which he wrote absurd self-justifying screeds before finally declaring me a stalker and closing up shop. By this time it was 2000, the year I met Curtiss, my enduring SO of 11 years. Even Curtiss, a programmer with a lot of web savvy and a healthy dose of paranoia, has not managed to erase his footprint. He is more than half convinced that "they" are out to get him and will one day show up at our door to drag him to prison for his left political views. But he has a FB page!
That's just asking for trouble!
I'm not saying it couldn't happen here. After all, we live in a corporatocracy, and 90% of the U.S. citizenry is unaware of it and the implications of it. Corporate rule is just one short step away from fascism and the revoking of all civil and constitutional rights, including freedom of speech. The electoral system is a joke.
Our President has to answer to Wall Street, just as if he were an old-style Republican.
And the new-style Republicans are nutbags. Every single one of them. Scary, fascist nutbags with a lot of corporate money behind them. We the people have already allowed telecommunications companies to give up the records of our phone calls to the government. There wasn't even any outcry. And the final absurdity, the final nail in the coffin of American democracy is this: the online security default is no security protection; you have to create security controls yourself if you want any personal info protected. The default is lack of privacy. And we are all putting up with this as though it were the "new normal," a hateful phrase created by right-wing propagandists to describe the current unacceptable unemployment rate. Why are we accepting their "new normal?" It's the opposite of normal. It's a metastasizing cancer
threatening to kill off any vestiges of democracy we have left. Just look at how they are gleefully going about dismantling the New Deal after 75 years of success.
Do we have any place to run and hide?
I am quite sure that my entire life is an open book online, if you know where to look.
I used to go around airily declaring that I have nothing to hide, and as far as I was concerned, my life was an open book and I didn't care who looked at it. Now that my life is irretrievably an open book, I don't want people examining it. But it's too late. And as a non-celebrity, I don't get the advantage of tons of money in exchange for relinquishing my right to privacy.
It seems that my former boyfriend, the antisocial and defiantly geeky Ken, is the smartest kid in the class: he has never had any detectable web presence because he knows how to cover his tracks. He can't be googled. You can't even find a random post on a message board for people who like to fix old Volvos. I always suspected he was a hacker, though I had no proof. If that's what it takes to hide your cyberfootprint, then we're all in trouble (except for geeky teenage boys and adult males who act like geeky teenage boys.) Ken broke up with me via email (the last refuge of a coward) in 1998. Since this resulted in my having a nervous breakdown of sorts during which I was not in my right mind for some time, I attempted to stay in touch with him and force him to apologize for his shoddy treatment of me. These were the heady days of flaming as a sport, and to my surprise he allowed himself to get drawn into an email debate with me in which he wrote absurd self-justifying screeds before finally declaring me a stalker and closing up shop. By this time it was 2000, the year I met Curtiss, my enduring SO of 11 years. Even Curtiss, a programmer with a lot of web savvy and a healthy dose of paranoia, has not managed to erase his footprint. He is more than half convinced that "they" are out to get him and will one day show up at our door to drag him to prison for his left political views. But he has a FB page!
That's just asking for trouble!
I'm not saying it couldn't happen here. After all, we live in a corporatocracy, and 90% of the U.S. citizenry is unaware of it and the implications of it. Corporate rule is just one short step away from fascism and the revoking of all civil and constitutional rights, including freedom of speech. The electoral system is a joke.
Our President has to answer to Wall Street, just as if he were an old-style Republican.
And the new-style Republicans are nutbags. Every single one of them. Scary, fascist nutbags with a lot of corporate money behind them. We the people have already allowed telecommunications companies to give up the records of our phone calls to the government. There wasn't even any outcry. And the final absurdity, the final nail in the coffin of American democracy is this: the online security default is no security protection; you have to create security controls yourself if you want any personal info protected. The default is lack of privacy. And we are all putting up with this as though it were the "new normal," a hateful phrase created by right-wing propagandists to describe the current unacceptable unemployment rate. Why are we accepting their "new normal?" It's the opposite of normal. It's a metastasizing cancer
threatening to kill off any vestiges of democracy we have left. Just look at how they are gleefully going about dismantling the New Deal after 75 years of success.
Do we have any place to run and hide?
10 reasons to quit Facebook
1) Privacy issues. You really can't trust them.
2) It's a HUGE time waster.
3) I am not interested in 95% of the content.
4) Most of my friends are not really my friends.
5) Unlike MySpace, FB has not led to any gigs or CD sales.
6) I get annoyed by constant invites to other people's gigs. These people never come to my shows.
7) The constant bragging is repugnant.
8) Certain "friends" have me confused with someone who is actually interested in their pics with SO, cats, dogs, drumsets, peculiar tastes in music and literature.
9) At least an iPhone/iPad can be useful and TV entertaining (if you're going to waste time, you might as well be entertained.)
10) I have thus far resisted the urge to participate in Twitter or buy an iPhone or iPad. I CAN DO THIS.
However, it isn't clear whether it is even possible to quit FB. Some hard drive somewhere has an electronic dossier on you that can never be erased, or if it is, can easily be hacked into. And Google has even more on you than FB. Be afraid. Be very afraid.
I
2) It's a HUGE time waster.
3) I am not interested in 95% of the content.
4) Most of my friends are not really my friends.
5) Unlike MySpace, FB has not led to any gigs or CD sales.
6) I get annoyed by constant invites to other people's gigs. These people never come to my shows.
7) The constant bragging is repugnant.
8) Certain "friends" have me confused with someone who is actually interested in their pics with SO, cats, dogs, drumsets, peculiar tastes in music and literature.
9) At least an iPhone/iPad can be useful and TV entertaining (if you're going to waste time, you might as well be entertained.)
10) I have thus far resisted the urge to participate in Twitter or buy an iPhone or iPad. I CAN DO THIS.
However, it isn't clear whether it is even possible to quit FB. Some hard drive somewhere has an electronic dossier on you that can never be erased, or if it is, can easily be hacked into. And Google has even more on you than FB. Be afraid. Be very afraid.
I
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Stress
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.
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.
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