Getting the Lead Out: How Led Zeppelin Helped Me Fight Breast Cancer

I didn’t understand why I kept doing it. Nearly every night in the latter weeks of undergoing chemotherapy for an aggressive form of breast cancer, I stayed up late, sometimes into the dark hours of early morning, watching Led Zeppelin concerts from the late 1960s and early 1970s on You Tube. And okay, I admit it. It wasn’t just during the last days of chemo that I was dialing up Page, Plant and Co. It was on through the mastectomy of my right breast and the first of my reconstructive surgeries.

What was the deal? It wasn’t like I had just discovered the band. I grew up with them.

I felt a bit unmoored.

After weeks of this, I confessed my nighttime rendezvouses to my friend, Sharlene, over lunchtime salads.

“Do you think this is abnormal? Is there something wrong with me?”

Sharlene assured me she thought my mental state was intact. Thank you, friend! So, sure enough, that night I returned to Zepp’s 2007 reunion concert at London’s 02 Arena (somehow, I was comforted by the older age of the band as it was in keeping with mine). I had seen this performance how many times now? But watching Page’s fingers running up and down the frets of his guitar during “Ramble On” never grew old. The power of the sound reverberated right through me.

Still a creeping sense of guilt tugged at the back of my mind.

A few days later, I called a good buddy who also happens to be a practicing psychiatrist.

“There is something clearly wrong with me.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because I’m obsessed with a band from the 1970s. It’s like I’m a teenager or something.”

“Well,” Joanie asked, “Do you enjoy the music?”

GOD, YES!

“Good. Then don’t worry about it.”

I had a shrink’s blessing. I resumed my fandom.

Today, sitting in a hospital chair, fluids and magnesium dripping into my veins, it has dawned on me that I’ve been in a type of mourning. Not so much for the loss of my breast, though that hasn’t been easy, but for the young woman (still a girl, really) I was as the 70s era faded. It wasn’t really the beauty of a young Robert Plant that I longed for when I watched those early concerts; it’s the beauty that I was.

I miss her.

I’ve missed her shiny, sleek hair, how lithe she was on those first few steps of her near daily run, her wide, wondering eyes in the mirror, her slim frame, often eager mind, and her ability to experience life fresh of too many disappointments. And oh, that magical thinking, when young was something you would always be and one year stretched on forever.

One year races by now. And everything is measured in time, appointments and deadlines. “Today, tomorrow, yesterday.” I don’t think about time when I watch those old Led Zeppelin concerts. It doesn’t exist.

After a year off from running, I received the “all clear” to resume the sport again. So this evening, I’ll lace up my shoes and take this aging, cancer-recovering body out for the first of what I hope will be many more runs. And I’ll reconnect with that young woman whom I’ve realized remains inside, but just in case it’s hard to find her, I’ll turn on my iPod Shuffle and press play to “Ramble On.”

Mashed potatoes and dumplings

Do you remember your most embarrassing moment? For years I thought nothing beat the time in sixth grade when I tripped over a fan, falling into a cubby hole cabinet and sending all of its contents flying. And over the years, I’ve logged in a few other “moments.” But as I’ve aged, I’ve experienced far less of those times when I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. Aging has taught me there are worse things than tripping on proverbial banana peels. But all that changed on the day of the test.

I was back at Dr. Phartz’s office. Feeling miserable from a new yet chronic stomach ailment, I needed relief.  I was lucky. Dr. Phartz was not only in a good mood that day, but downright compassionate, even showing his sensitive side. Of course, later on, I understood why.

“Pat, you need to have this test.” Dr. Phartz wrote down the name of the procedure on a sheet of paper and slid it across his desk in my direction.

“I’ve never heard of this. Does it hurt?”

“No, it doesn’t hurt but…it’s very embarrassing.”

I’d undergone a variety of GI tests through the years and gotten past the indignities. I just wanted to feel better. However, after listening to Dr. Phartz and doing some online research, I admit I was nervous. But the procedure was conducted in a hospital setting, and I was assured, with the utmost privacy. How bad could it be?

***

Examination day. My husband and I travel an hour out of town because apparently only one hospital in our fair city performs the test. After the usual checking in, I bid my hubby farewell as Maria, a lovely, dark haired young lab assistant, leads me to a dressing room.

“Now, honey, just take everything off and put your belongings in this locker.” She hands me a gown. “I don’t need to tell you to leave the belt untied,” she winks. I like her. Maybe this won’t be too uncomfortable.

After my wardrobe change, Maria ushers me into a dimly lit yet high tech x-ray room. But the lighting isn’t the first thing I notice.

“It smells like mashed potatoes in here,” I say.

“It does,” Maria agrees. “I cook up a batch of instant every morning.”       

In the x-ray lab? That’s a new one on me.

Maria emerges from a tiny office adjoining the lab. She’s holding what appears to be a turkey baster.

“What’s that?” I ask but I have a feeling I know the answer.

“These are the mashed potatoes I made but I’ve mixed barium into them. Gotta light you  up!”

Dear God. So much for comfort food.

Maria instructs me to climb up onto the x-ray table and assume the fetal position. And then, yes, she really does “insert” the mashed potatoes where the sun don’t shine.

“Okay,” Maria shouts. “Climb down, now! Let’s go!”

I’m so startled out of my carb-induced shock that I practically break my neck getting down from the table.

“We must run over and take a seat so you can eliminate quickly!”        

I’d read about this part. Maria is about to take me into a private room with a toilet and a doctor in another lab will watch the, uh, process on a monitor. But that doesn’t happen. Oh, no, it does not.

Maria stands at the end of the x-ray table, flips some sort of lever and a funny looking chair, one that looks a lot like a rigged-up commode, descends. Once it’s in place, Maria wraps a large, black plastic bag over the, uh, bucket and commands me to sit.

“Now, hold it! The doctor will be in in a minute.”

Huh? The doctor is coming in here? Where’s my private room? Oh, God.

“Don’t worry. The doctor will be watching from over there.” Maria points to a television monitor that’s attached to a zip-line on the opposite end of the lab. “Now just try to relax, but not too much!”

Relax? She’s got to be kidding!

“Ah, here comes the doctor,” Maria nearly shouts.

And just when I think things can’t get much worse, in walks not the brisk, efficient woman nor the kindly, elderly gentleman I’d imagined, but Orlando Bloom. Or Jonathan Rhys Meyers. Take your pick of hot young actors. The doctor is not only male but friggin’ gorgeous and I am absolutely mortified.

Nodding in my direction, Dr. Bloom Meyers, aka, Dr. B.M., strides across the room, switches on the monitor, makes some adjustments, then drags the pulley until he and the monitor are right next to me.

“Okay,” B.M. says. “Go ahead.”

This can’t be happening. My worst nightmares were never this bad. Colin Firth or whatever this doctor’s name is wants me to defecate right in front of him.

“Go on, honey,” Maria assures. “We won’t look.”

Oh, gee. That makes me feel so much better. Doc B.M. is only standing five feet from me but he and Maria won’t look. What a relief.

Somehow (disassociation?), I got through it. However, let me tell you, I’ve had to do a lot of unpleasant things in my life but taking a dump in front of a handsome doctor has got to be right up there at the top of the list. Number Two equals Number One, if you get my drift.

***

It took a while before I recovered from the mortification of what is now my “most embarrassing experience of all time.” I don’t think about it often but one thing’s for sure: when my husband and I go out to dinner, I pass on the mashed potatoes.

*For the curious, the exam I underwent is called a Defecography. The results were normal but I’ve never been the same.

Song for a friend

 

I thought you were someone                                                                                      

I guess that you’re not.       

I got a lot less

than I thought

than I thought.

Should have known next time

meant never.

 

Those things that you said

which ones did you mean?

Seems me we don’t speak the same language.

Did we ever?

Should have known next time

meant never.

 

Found myself looking for a letter

One that will never arrive.

It’ really doesn’t matter, anyway,

I deleted your address from my hard drive.

I should have known next time

meant never.

Should have known it meant

not ever.

 

I’ve wrapped up my love

and put it away

So if I say stay

I mean never.

Should have known your heart

much better

that next time means

not ever.

Yes, I am a heavy runner

I’ve heard them all. All of the insinuations that I either don’t exercise enough or am not capable of running very far or fast because of my weight. These “insightful comments,” are much too good to keep to myself so let’s take a look at a few of them, shall we?

~I’m trying out a new podiatrist who can hopefully figure out why my right foot is plagued with chronic pain. After spending approximately 1.3 minutes with me, Dr. Heel informs me that, “let’s face it. When we live in a great country like ours, we grow up hearing we can do anything we want. That’s our wonderful American dream! But the reality is you’re just not built like a runner. There’s a reason runners are tall and thin. But you just don’t have the body type to run. I’m sorry.” Gee. I was sorry, too. Sorry I was going to have to keep looking for a decent podiatrist.*

     *Which by the way I found not only after Dr. Heel’s remarkable conclusions but his misdiagnosis of the problems plaguing my foot. My current competent doc put me in a proper pair of orthotics and my foot ailments are now kept to a minimum.

~A friend and I are appraising my front yard, trying to figure out why my recently planted magnolia tree looks shrunken and miserable. The possible solution? Tilling the soil because, after all, the work “will be good for your arms. It will tone them up and make them strong.” Hmmm. Guess the weight training at the gym must not be doing the job.

~”Patti, are you still running” asks Kathleen, the traffic coordinator at one of the multitude of radio stations where I worked over the years. “Yep, every other day.” “Doesn’t look like it,” snarks Ken Cruz, the afternoon DJ, passing us on his way to the on-air studio. Funny guy.

~”Oh, it’s so good to see you,” says Terri as she arrives at my house for dinner. “I brought the perfect appetizer for you. It’s very low calorie.”

Then there are the looks of  shock and surprise I’ve gotten through the years when I’ve shared with various people that I’m a runner. “I never would have guessed that,” is also common response. Okay, so I’m not thin nor, at this point in my life, even on the slender side. I’m not thrilled about this. I try to count calories, watch what I eat, etc. But it’s harder to lose weight as I’ve gotten older (fact not excuse) and my body will take whatever opportunity it can to hang onto the “f” word.

So, yeah, I’m a heavy runner. But I run. I’ve run one marathon, a handful of half marathons, and I’ve lost count of the 5ks. I train with a fabulous  group of runners several times a week. They’re like family to me and not one of them would ever think to make a crack about the extra weight I’m carrying. As runners, they know their bodies and they would never presume that I don’t know mine. We’re out there, running the streets together. All body types, shapes and sizes. Are most of them thinner than I? Yes. And maybe someday my weight will match theirs again. But even if it never does, I’ll see them on the road.

And they’ll see me.

Lift off

“The night-time shadows disappear 
and with them go all your tears…”

~Marsden – Marsden – Chadwick – Maguire

Another drop

 

Headache

Sky gray

A swathe of wool

covers this day.

Yet each hour

is for keeping

and for listening

to the rain.

Time will seek

its certain passage

when memory

unravels,

relaxes,

and like the wool,

slips away.

  P.B.

Morning Poem

 

Untie the package of this day

with gentle hands

for what’s inside may bite

or sting,

refuse to bend.

But if you find its contents sweet,

savor what you can

and take its fragrant memory

as you travel into night.

List it!

Pay your bills

On time

Write in your journal

Don’t read mine.

 

Make friends

Treat them well

If they’re worth it

time will tell.

 

Read books

every night

If you won’t

you’re not very bright.

 

Drive carefully

not too fast

People who don’t

are a pain in the ass.

 

Get up

stay strong

when age takes over

don’t wear a thong.

 

Goodbye, now

smile away

this list is done

have a good day.

Crying in the rain

President Obama was scheduled to speak at my alma mater today. But as Hurricane Sandy made it increasingly clear she was up to some very nasty business, Obama canceled his plans and flew back to Washington. I found out about his departure from a young student as I turned into one of the university’s many parking garages. “The president had to go” she told me. “Romney’s campaign would’ve bad mouthed him if he didn’t.”

Now I have no way of knowing if this would have been Mitt Romney’s response had the president gone ahead with his speech before flying back to the capital. But it wouldn’t have surprised me because for the past four years, I’ve heard again and again how Mr. Obama does nothing but play golf, go on the Letterman Show, vacation in Hawaii, take his dog for a walk, ad nauseum.  Of course,  those keeping score need only look at the record to find that George W. Bush took 1,020 vacation days during his eight years in office, more than any U.S. President since Herbert Hoover. But I don’t really give a damn whether it was Mr. Bush or JFK who took all that “time off.” First of all, when you’re president, you’re never really on vacation; the briefings don’t stop and the Secret Service is ever present. In addition, presidents need their days off. Relaxation is key to handling stress. The better rested a president, the better his/her decision making skills. That being said, I don’t recall anyone in the Republican party bemoaning the fact that Mr. Bush spent so many days at his Texas ranch. Yet the moment President Obama steps onto a putting green, vast platoons of Chicken Littles start screaming that the sky is falling.

I was reminded of this today when a friend pointed out that the president spent too much money flying to Florida last night, especially if it was just to make a stop at the local campaign headquarters. Instead, the argument went, Mr. Obama shouldn’t have left D.C. at all because the forecast for Hurricane Sandy was already dire, so why wait to cancel his stump speech until this morning? The truth is I really don’t know. I am not privy to Mr. Obama’s itinerary.  He could have had private business in Florida that made it necessary for him to be here. Another thing—I really don’t care. So what if Obama waited until today? A president can issue orders from wherever he or she is. He doesn’t need to be in Washington to declare a city or state a disaster area or to send out the National Guard. But that’s not really the issue, is it? No. Because even if President Obama had the magical power to dissipate the storm, there would still be people in the GOP complaining.

I’m sick of this. I’m sick of the Right finding nothing positive to say about our president. No matter what he does, it’s wrong. He could give Republicans  everything they ever wanted and it still wouldn’t matter. We would still hear cries of “commie,” “socialist,” “he’s not an American,” and on and on. The facts mean nothing. Why even bother to look them up when FOX News tells you every single report from any other source is a lie. That’s right. Every media outlet sans FOX is in on the conspiracy. I’m not exactly sure what the conspiracy is but they’re in on it.

Notice I haven’t “played the race card” yet. Well, allow me to shuffle my deck. Not every caucasian who votes for Mitt Romney is a racist. Not every white person who dislikes Obama is a racist. But make no mistake—racism has reared its ugly head in the four years of Mr. Obama’s presidency. People who aren’t racist don’t turn up at political rallies in white face. They don’t carry around signs that read “put the white back in the White House.” They don’t accuse honorable statesmen and decorated military officers like Colin Powell of endorsing the president  because both men are black as John Sununu did the other day.

The ugliness is astounding. And it’s gotten damn scary. Two weeks ago a stranger actually followed me home and confronted me in front of my house because I had an Obama 2012 bumper sticker on my car. He shouted and cursed at me from his truck before revving his engine multiple times and driving away. Would this guy have done that had the president been white? I seriously doubt it. And yes, I know there are Democrats who are stealing Romney signs from front yards and that’s rotten. But just once when I share my story with a member of the opposite party, I’d like to hear “I’m really sorry,” without the added, “but your side does it, too.” That kind of “back and forth” helps no one.

I’ll be glad when this election is over. Glad when I no longer see folks bragging about how many people they “unfriended” on Facebook over political differences. Glad when the name calling will at least settle down (I’m not naïve enough to think it will go away). But I’m worried. So worried about the United States. Because our states are anything but united and I don’t see that changing any time soon, no matter who wins the presidency. Over the weekend columnist Andrew Sullivan observed that we are in the midst of a cold Civil War. I agree. Except there’s nothing civil about it.

A sad game of chicken

How proud former Arkansas governor Mike Huckabee must feel. His “Chick-Fil-A Appreciation Day,” turned into record sales for the fast food company. Supporters of the chain and its president, Dan Cathy, have also been flocking to Facebook to tout their love of all things chick-filleted. The thrust of their comments usually goes something like this: “I just ate at Chick-Fil-A and stood up for Christian values and freedom of speech.”

Well, bully for you.  But you just don’t get it.

The outcry over Cathy’s stance against gay marriage isn’t about freedom of speech. Cathy can say whatever he likes about the issue. That’s his constitutional right. If he finds gay marriage abhorrent due to his religious beliefs, he has the freedom to express that opinion.  And while I find his take on homosexuality troubling, it’s not nearly as troubling as the hoards of people who felt driven to rush out and buy a sandwich to show their support for a homophobe. Because let’s face it—that’s what this was all about. It wasn’t, as Mike Huckabee said, an effort to defend a business from Americans who “don’t like [Christian] voices.” Absurd. Travel a mile in any direction in this country and you’ll find a Christian church. America is predominately made up of Christians, so don’t give me this bullshit about how poor Christians are being oppressed.

However, Huckabee’s words bring up an interesting point. Just what is the Christian voice? The long held view, that same sex marriage is a sin, is changing. The Episcopal Church has approved blessings for same sex couples. The Presbyterian Church U.S.A. has allowed openly gay men and women in same sex relationships to become ordained ministers. I am not suggesting that these decisions have been easy to make–the differences of theological interpretation on homosexuality have split apart the Episcopal and Presbyterian Churches.  Fundamentalist congregants believe that homosexuality is a sin in the same way the Vatican does, in the same way Dan Cathy does. But these differences of biblical interpretation reflect that there is no Christian “party line.” There are many Christian viewpoints, depending on the denomination, the church, or the individual you ask.

Listening to Cathy say that he hopes God will have mercy on those who “have the audacity to define what marriage is all about,” you would think his is the only true Christianity despite a variety of Christian attitudes on the subject. Seems to me Cathy’s pretty audacious in making that claim. Just who does he think he is, anyway? God?

When someone places himself (or herself) upon a pedestal of piety, looking down on all of those who don’t believe the same way, he’s asking for criticism. And that’s what Cathy got. Gay rights groups spoke out about his judgmental views and they had every right to do so. Just as they have every right to boycott Chick Fil-A because they don’t want to support a company who is anti-gay and donates money to hate groups like the Family Research Council.

Hate. That’s the crux of this issue. Ask yourself: do you really think that all those people who stood in line at Chick-Fil-A to show their “appreciation” would have done so had the tables been turned? If it was the gay community showing its support because Cathy endorsed gay marriage? No way.  What we have are sections of America so repelled by homosexuality that they will band together in greasy fast food franchises for some sort of perverse communion to make themselves feel better about their prejudices.

A friend of mine wondered how all the gay children, whose parents attended the chicken party, might feel. Good question. Not a great message of compassion, is it?  In fact, Chick-Fil-A Appreciation Day was a downright cruel and unfeeling demonstration, showing not a whit of caring for anyone who might face the challenge of being gay in such an unwelcoming environment.

And what about that guy these so-called Christians all claim to follow? Who told us to love one another? Had he been around, I have a hunch he would have bypassed Chick-Fil-A and gone for sushi.