writing – catheroominations

Oh yeah. I have a blog.

catheroo — Sun, 24 May 2009 03:08:52 +0000

Dang, look at all the cobwebs around here. It’s been awhile since I’ve posted anything. Is anyone still here? Hello? Echo…echo…echoooo…

Lately I just haven’t been feelin’ it dawg. It being really anything. I haven’t felt like taking photos, blogging, writing, reading, exercising, or really anything that requires any initiative on my part. I’m not sure what’s going on, but it seems I have lost my mojo. It would have been helpful if I’d taken a photo of my mojo while it was still here so I could send it to the milk people to put on their cartons.

How I’m feeling is usually reserved for winter, not when it’s sunny and warm and happy outside, so I’m not sure why I have such a case of the blahs. I am suffering from a tremendous lack of motivation and have become a rather large bump on a log. I’m even a bump on a bump on a log. I don’t think it’s depression because I have been depressed before and it wasn’t like this. I think what I have here is a serious case of laziness.

The way I do projects is this: I get really excited and go all crazy about one thing, say, writing. I sign up for a class, I join a writers group, I go to places that help me remember things for my memoir, I read books about writing, on Twitter I follow authors and people who are in “the biz” so I can stay motivated, and I write, and write, and write. And then, for no apparent reason I stop. Done. I just don’t wanna. It’s no longer exciting. I get bored. Bah.

Without giving too much away about this writing project, if it comes together and we finish it (I’m writing it with a friend) it will be awesomely awesome. I’m not just saying that. Everyone I tell about it says “Whoa. That sounds like a great idea. I can’t wait to read your book.” Even people who write and publish books.

But books don’t write themselves. I know this because I have no book so far.

I haven’t written anything since the day I sat in the cafeteria at Stanford Hospital and did an assignment for class. I wrote for one hour about the chaotic sounds (dozens of conversations at once, none of which I could understand), the cacophony of smells (cafeterias are to the nose what nails on a chalkboard are to the ears), and the sights (a bunch of people who look like doctors because they wear scrubs and/or lab coats and clogs but in reality could be housekeeping).

Maybe going back to that place wasn’t such a good idea.

Maybe it momentarily sucked the life out of me again, like it did in 2002.

Maybe it was really freaky to get my records from my therapist at that time and reading them. She used words like anxious, rage, fear, and sadness to describe me. Wait. What? That was me? That’s not who I am now so it’s strange to know I ever was that girl.

Maybe running in to his favorite nurse when I visited oncology wasn’t the best thing. She adored him and now adores his memory. I don’t. She misses him. I don’t. I should probably feel bad about that. But I don’t feel bad. Going back to the oncology floor didn’t make me sad. I remembered it, but I didn’t remember it. It was like I was on the set of a TV show I watch a lot. It looked familiar, but I didn’t feel like I’d been there myself. Nice Nurse hugged me because she thought it was hard for me to go back there. It wasn’t.

Maybe I’m tired of remembering about all the crap he pulled, and how he was not really Mr. Nice Guy everyone thought he was.

Maybe I’m having trouble remembering what it was about him that kept me around. Surely there must have been some Nice Guy moments. I was his doormat for a long time, but I wasn’t a complete moron the whole time. Was I? I can’t remember the good, except that he spent a lot of money on me to try and hide his emotional bankruptcy.

Maybe I’m just scared to do it.

Maybe I’ll fail.

Maybe I suck.

Maybe if I had a better desk where I could write.

Maybe if my work offered a sabbatical to allow me to devote the time to writing. Now that’s no excuse because Faulkner wrote As I Lay Dying during his lunch hours while working in a coal mine or some old-timey job like that, and Alice Hoffman woke up at 5 am everyday to write her first novel before working two jobs transcribing sex clinic sessions and working at a department store (I learned that from her Twitter feed.)

Maybe I should stop making excuses and take the Nike approach.

What I’ve been (and will be) up to

catheroo — Sun, 05 Apr 2009 22:01:24 +0000

Maybe this can masquerade as a Grace in Small Things post. Let’s see if I can squeak out five things here. It is my 50th Grace in Small Things, so I should make it a good one, huh?

My weight loss journey is at a dead end. I cannot get out of the range I have been in since Christmas. Last week I ate way too much crap food, but I did work out FIVE TIMES during the week. This is unheard of lately. The result on the scale was a gain of .2 pounds. While I’m not upset with the gain, had I been eating thoughtfully and healthfully(?) I could have had a nice loss. BAH! So, I’m going to start a challenge hosted by The Sisterhood of the Shrinking Jeans. Starting tomorrow I will pop my nearly never-used DVD of Jillian Michaels’ 30-Day Shred into my DVD player and let her torture me every single day for 30 days. I thought about not mentioning this here, but by doing so, I’m hoping to be more motivated to commit it. See, I am a people pleaser and if I tell you I’m going to do something, I do not want to disappoint you by not doing it. What I’m really saying is that when I am sore from the strenuous workouts, I’m blaming you guys. OK?
Also, because of my serious need for extra motivation in the weight loss journey that never ends, I am enlisting your help. This story showed up in my Google Reader last week. This guy lost more than 50 lbs in 10 weeks, and one thing that helped him was soliciting comments from his readers. For every comment he received, he worked out for one minute. This is where you come in. I am going to exercise one minute for every person who comments on this post (and subsequent posts). Before I work out, I will check how many comments I have to my latest post and do one minute of crunches, pushups, walking, weights, whatever per comment. This does NOT mean that you can leave multiple comments to one post. You can comment as much as you want, but the way it works is one minute of exercise per commenter. No fair turning your 10-word sentence into 10 comments of one word each. Remember that I am doing the 30-Day Shred, so I will probably be able to kick your ass if you pull some crap like that. Also, having shredded, you might not recognize me sneaking up behind you and might mistake me for some hot chick with great highlights. (Lately I have been getting lots of comments on the color of my hair.) For this to work, and for me to get a proper amount of exercise, you need to comment. Don’t worry about being witty, or funny, or anything. If you usually delurk, say so. (Hi, delurkers! Thanks for coming!) Just please help me get my ass in gear. Please. I don’t ask for much, but right now I could really use some help.
Along with the exercise, I am also joining The Sisterhood of the Shrinking Jeans in their current challenge Shrink Into Summer and will be telling you every week how much I weigh at my weekly weigh-ins. My weigh in day at Weight Watchers is Saturday, so come back and see how I am doing. I can’t believe I am going to tell you all how much I weigh every week, but if that isn’t motivation to get my act together again, I don’t know what is! But if I tell you my weight, you’d better leave a comment. You can’t just be all voyeuristic and not say something to add to my exercise minutes. Deal? Deal.
A co-worker and I are starting a weight loss challenge in our office. I am a very competitive person and I fully expect to win this challenge. This is a sneaky way of motivating myself, under the guise of helping my colleagues and friends shed some unwanted pounds. I’m sneaky like that! We’re setting up an internal website where folks can get recipes, menu ideas and tips on exercise and healthy lifestyles. I’ll be sure to post some of the tidbits here, and if any of you have something to share, please do. Your helpful hint will also count for one more minute of exercise for me.
On a completely different topic, I signed up for a writing class so I can get some help on how best to tell the story I have to tell. I’m looking forward to learning some new skills, and am even excited about letting perfect strangers read my work and tear it to shreds. If I ever do write a book, perfect strangers (and probably several imperfect ones) will be reading what I wrote and I won’t get to hear if they think it sucks. So I’d rather hear it before I go through the trouble and sweat of writing the thing. And I’m going to have to grow a thick skin and get used to rejection if I ever plan to farm a book out to publishers or editors. Not that any of my classmates will think my work sucks. Because it so doesn’t. It’s completely awesome and fantastic. Of course it is.

Hey, don’t forget to comment. <\whoring for comments>

Updated to clarify one commenter = one minute of exercise. Thanks for your help!

Skeletons

catheroo — Wed, 11 Mar 2009 03:24:28 +0000

Do you ever hide something so well that you cannot find it, no matter where you look? Whether you’ve blocked it from memory, or hidden it away in a cardboard box in the attic, you just can’t remember where you put it. And right now you really want to find it, because it’s part of a story you have to tell, and are now ready to share. But you can’t remember. The memories are nowhere to be found in the cobwebbed nooks and crannies of your mind. You hid them too well from yourself. I am still looking, but I did find this, written by someone that I once was.

Waiting

The waiting is the hardest part. It seems that every time you go to Stanford you wait. Patients should be called waiters. Thatâ€s what they do. Wait. Sit. Wait. Maybe they should be called patience instead. You watch the clock. They put the clock on the wall next to the television thatâ€s attached to the wall with a bracket. Why is the clock so near the television? Itâ€s torture. Watching the slow moving hands make their way around. Oneâ€¦twoâ€¦threeâ€¦ Some clocks have a sweeping second hand. Others have the tick, tick, tick of small movements. Either is equally slow. Monotonous to watch. Time passes so slowly. Sigh.

The television does not offer respite from the boredom of life in a hospital room. The remote control, attached to the bed is archaic. No inputting channels here. You must scan using the up and down arrows. Scan through seemingly hundreds of dull programs, looking for the least inane. God, something to entertain your brain while you wait. Wait. Wait.

You are sleeping. Sleepâ€¦finally. Throughout the night they come in to check vitals or clean urinals. How is a person supposed to get any rest with all these interruptions? Donâ€t people check into hospitals for recovery purposes? Is rest not a requirement for recovery? Ironic. They have a job to do. Everything it seems, is on their time. Awaking you from sleep to check your blood pressure, temperature, and urine output. â€œHow much water did you drink since 10 pm?â€ You canâ€t remember. A minute ago you were finally a sleep. Not a care in the world. Dreaming you were home sleeping in your own comfortable bed, one cat at your feet, the other on the pillow. â€œWhere am I?â€ you wonder. Oh yeah, Stanford getting chemo. Again. Cancer. Oh yeah. Sigh.

Why are nurses so available when youâ€re sleeping? When youâ€re awake and need something to help you sleep, you buzz the nurse button on your archaic â€œremote controlâ€ to the television. Itâ€s the large button on top. The one with the outline of a nurse, wearing a hat. The little cross signifying an ambulance or something decorates her hat. None of these nurses wear hats. â€œYes, may I help you?â€ says the receptionist. â€œHi, can you send the nurse in? My machine keeps beeping.â€ It seems like it beeps ALL The time. â€œIâ€ll let the nurse know.â€

Sometimes it seems as if you are calling Siberia. The nurse is just outside your room, yet it takes sometimes hours to get her to come in. Does she not know youâ€re asking for her? Did the receptionist relay your message? You press the â€œsilenceâ€ button on your infusion machine. It will stay silent for 2 minutes. Heavenly. You are so tired. You drift slowly back to where you were dreaming. You want to go back to that place, your warm bed, under the down comforter. Thatâ€s it. Youâ€re there. So comfortable. Sleeping. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! Fuck.

â€œKeep the machine beeping and call the nurse again,â€ She says. Maybe the actual sound will make it real to them. What an annoying beep. Why is it so loud? In todayâ€s high tech world, one might expect some sort of alarm to go off at the nurseâ€s desk. â€œMr. Godwinâ€s machine is beeping.â€ The nurse can see what bag is empty on the monitor and bring in another saline dose. Where is the suggestion box? â€œIâ€ll let the nurse know.â€

The nurse enters. She looks groggy. When does she sleep? Her hair is now in a ponytail and she is wearing an aqua sweatshirt over her scrubs. â€œHi,â€ she whispers. She presses the magic buttons on your â€œchemo machine.â€ Ah, silence at last. Damn. You wish you knew that code. â€œIâ€ll be right back,â€ she says. You wonâ€t know it though. Itâ€s 3:33 in the morning. Once again surrounded by silence save for the slow cycling sound of the chiclets pressing the tubes to allow more poison to flow into your veins. Youâ€re asleep again. Snoring even. Thatâ€s when She knows you are not worried, afraid, or in pain, when you snore. Music to Her ears.

Sleep comes in small spurts, so when it comes, you relish it. At 5:30, Colleen re-enters the room. She tries to be quiet. Depending on how much Ativan and Benadryl you have had, you may sleep through the routine blood draw. Sheâ€s considerate. If a noise rouses you while she uncaps the valves to collect your blood, she apologizes, whispering, â€œHi. Iâ€m sorry.â€ You mumble, incomprehensibly â€œsâ€OK.â€ Youâ€re out again. See, it didnâ€t hurt. You almost didnâ€t know it happened. Colleen always leaves the lights off if she can. You both like her.

Every day, breakfast comes around 7. Once again, youâ€re asleep when they open the door (loud latch, the light sneaks in, eventually drenching you). All you want to do is sleep. While asleep, you are unaware of what time it is, what day it is, how many hours youâ€ve been attached to these tubes containing rat poison, and how many more hours it will be until you can go home and feel like shit. Something to look forward to. Itâ€s bad enough that breakfast comes so early, but unless you eat the awful concoction now, itâ€ll only be worse later, after the eggs have become even more rubbery and the bacon is cold too. God. You donâ€t even want to make the effort to wake up enough to eat. They should know this. Maybe they need some input from a food stylist. If the breakfast was more appetizing, maybe youâ€d even wake up before the hair-netted man brought it in. Itâ€s so institutional. The hairnet pulled too far down his forehead, the apron, a uniform for a glorified janitor. They should wear nice white waist aprons, and bring a tray with a silver lid-covered plate of china. The silverware would be real silver and not in a hermetically sealed baggy atop a too-thin, too rough, one-ply napkin. No, the napkin should be linen. Maybe a small bud vase containing a single flower. Different bloom for each day of the week. Oh but what if you are neutropenic? No fresh flowers. Fine, silk will do. A pansy, or poppy, or daisy to cheer you up and welcome you to another day. Another day inside Stanford Hospital. What will you do today? Maybe there is a concert. No, thatâ€s Thursday. What day is it anyway? A newspaper would be good. This is supposed to be breakfast in bed, after all. Sigh.

After breakfast, brush your teeth. At least you have your Sonicare. Those sponges on sticks are useless; like brushing your teeth with a cotton swab, real effective. You look at yourself in the mirror as the Sonicare makes its gentle vibrations on your teeth and gums. Never far away is that chemo machine that you are tethered to. Sometimes the cord will reach and you donâ€t have to unplug it from its power source on the wall to get to the sink. Does it feel less confined when you are unplugged? There isnâ€t much room to roam around anyway. The room is so small. Barely space for the foldout â€œbedâ€ She sleeps in. She has a pink blanket on the bed. She is now folding it, demolishing her temporary housing for the day. She piles the bed linens wherever She can find room for them. She folds the bed back into chair mode, ready for your mom to sit in and read Newsweek or do crossword puzzles. She has to go to work. Youâ€ll be alone here. Sigh.

What if there was no TV? You would go insane. Daytime television is so bad, but you look forward to it. How sad existing in this room is that you must look forward to watching two people on a Blind Date, or sit through reruns of news stories by Sachi Koto on CNN. Sigh. Itâ€s only 8:30. What do you do after the Today Show is over? Matt and Katie are your company until 10 am. They do not realize how important a part of your life they have become. They are as much a part of your day here as the cold breakfast you get every morning (sitting on your tray table).

When Katie and Matt sign off at 10:00, you wake up and realize you slept through it. Bummer. Theyâ€re entertaining at least, and now theyâ€re gone. You still have 2 hours before Saturday Night Live starts on Comedy Central. Your mom will be here soon. Sheâ€ll be bored. Sheâ€ll sit here all day and help you to the bathroom if youâ€re too wobbly. You pretend to feel better than you really do when your mom is here. Sometimes you donâ€t want her to come. You want Her instead. You want Her to play hooky from work again. She says no because you wonâ€t even know Sheâ€s there if She stays. She may as well save hooky time for when you really need Her, She tells you. You really need Her NOW. This is so boring and frustrating. You have cabin fever.

You look at the chemo machine. One of your bags is almost empty. Good. Itâ€s the Cytoxan. Today is the last day for that, isnâ€t it? What day is it? The wall calendar says Wednesday the 22nd. The number on the calendar is huge. It mocks you, laughing, reminding you of the number of days you are stuck in this room. There will be no visits to Starbucks today. No Americano for you. No reading the papers in the sun, watching the people go. Where do they go? What do they do? Do they realize how lucky they are to not be trapped in this room? You wonâ€t go to the Practice Place and play your horn. Not today.

The day passes. Slowly. Why does a day seem so long sometimes and so short others? They are always 24 hours long. Maybe they play a trick on you here and time passes slower. Can they do that? It feels like you should be going home today, but you still have one more day to go. One more day. So boring. You just want to sleep. Is it time for more Ativan yet? When was the last Benadryl bag brought in here? You hope that the day nurse knows youâ€re on round-the-clock anti-nausea meds. You do not want to get sick. You hate that. Hate it. Maureen walks in. Whew. A good nurse. Your mom will be happy too. Maureen glances at your unzipped fanny pack attached to the bed control panel. You hope she doesnâ€t see your hidden stash of contraband tucked inside the black leather. No, she doesnâ€t see it, or if she does, she says nothing. She looks at your lines, checks the toxic fluids and tells you youâ€re due for some Ativan. Good. Sleep. Ativan is good for a couple of hours at least. Thatâ€ll pass the time until SNL. Your favorite way to pass the time here is sleeping. If you could just come in on Monday and sleep until Thursday, youâ€d be happy. But thereâ€s that peeing thing. No. You donâ€t want a catheter in THERE. Youâ€ll do the usual. Just keep the anti-nausea meds coming.

The phone rings. You HATE this phone. It has no volume control and the ring pierces your brain. Your mom answers it just as you motion to her â€œIâ€m asleep.â€ She understands the motion and knows it well. She tells Bruce youâ€re out like a light so he will call back later. You are too tired to try and muster the energy to talk, and much too tired to listenâ€¦toâ€¦Bruce.

You fall asleep again.