Back in the lab, my lab mate used to call me "Suzie Chemistry' because he unfortunately heard me introducing myself to a group of high schoolers as Sue Chemist instead of my real name which has a similar sound. He made up a silly song:
Sooo-zy chem-a-stry, Sooo-zy chem-a-stry
She can make a drug or two.
But others called me Ms Pedantic as I was the official proofreader and editor of many of their papers. I had an eye for pointing out others mistakes but learned quickly: only if asked. My favorite target was an English boss who insisted in writing in British English while representing an American company so I merrily circled the esses where zees (or zeds for him) should have been. To keep me on my toes, he always misused the word 'principle' when he meant 'principal.' I know what all of you are thinking: Ms Pendantic, heal thyself!!
I do occasionally reread these posts and are deeply embarassed at all the mistakes I make. I do know better. Also I would like to pull out the cancer card here and remind that word substitution is a common chemobrain symptom. The chemobrain study I was in monitored how quickly I recognized things but there is no way to measure the 'word recall time' as I search for the correct word.
Yesterday was the anniversary of me beginning chemo. What a frightening day! I expected the worst as they slowly syringed the Red Devil into me but really, it was anticlimatic. I was able to run OK the next day carefully monitoring myself as it is known to be cardiotoxic. Over the weeks, chemo slowly sapped my energy.I am so glad that is over.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Poetry Night
NAME OF HORSES
All winter your brute shoulders strained against collars, padding
and steerhide over the ash hames, to haul
sledges of cordwood for drying through spring and summer,
for the Glenwood stove next winter, and for the simmering range.
In April you pulled cartloads of manure to spread on the fields,
dark manure of Holsteins, and knobs of your own clustered with oats.
All summer you mowed the grass in meadow and hayfield, the mowing machine
clacketing beside you, while the sun walked high in the morning;
and after noon's heat, you pulled a clawed rake through the same acres,
gathering stacks, and dragged the wagon from stack to stack,
and the built hayrack back, uphill to the chaffy barn,
three loads of hay a day from standing grass in the morning.
Sundays you trotted the two miles to church with the light load
a leather quartertop buggy, and grazed in the sound of hymns.
Generation on generation, your neck rubbed the windowsill
of the stall, smoothing the wood as the sea smooths glass.
When you were old and lame, when your shoulders hurt bending to graze,
one October the man, who fed you and kept you, and harnessed you every morning,
led you through corn stubble to sandy ground above Eagle Pond,
and dug a hole beside you where you stood shuddering in your skin,
and lay the shotgun's muzzle in the boneless hollow behind your ear,
and fired the slug into your brain, and felled you into your grave,
shoveling sand to cover you, setting goldenrod upright above you,
where by next summer a dent in the ground made your monument.
For a hundred and fifty years, in the Pasture of dead horses,
roots of pine trees pushed through the pale curves of your ribs,
yellow blossoms flourished above you in autumn, and in winter
frost heaved your bones in the ground - old toilers, soil makers:
O Roger, Mackerel, Riley, Ned, Nellie, Chester, Lady Ghost.
Donald Hall
When I was a freshman in college, I especially appreciated poetry. I met a man that wrote poetry. I was so thrilled to have a poet boyfriend, I was willing to overlook his numerous character flaws that later reared their presence, one by one, making the relationship not so much fun. One silly poem he wrote for me is as follows:
How, now brown cow.
She's dead now,
My poor little sow.
Never a corker,
My unfortunate porker.
TES
I was taking a poetry class at the time, 16th through 19th century English poets taught by a TA who thought we all (only 4 in the class) should become English majors. We met at the instructor's house and it was grueling. I ended up spending more time on that class than my science classes.
But my boyfriend was taking a much better class on modern poetry taught by Donald Hall. I would attend with him the lectures, which I really enjoyed. I even bought one of Hall's books of poetry out of my very meager funds. He was a gifted lecturer and of course, poet. He was the nation's poet laureate in 2006. He married another poet, Jane Kenyon, and left Ann Arbor to live in his mother's ancestoral home in New Hampshire and to be a full time poet. He had metastatic colon cancer with little chance of survival but he did recover. Unfortunately, the love of his life, Jane, soon had leukemia and died within 18 months. He went through an extended period of grief without writing but now he deals with his grief in poetry.
Donald Hall was giving a lecture last night at UM so I had to go. He is now 81 years old and no longer has a booming voice but still can command an audience, which was standing room only. He still has quite the sense of humor reading his poem enititled Tennis Ball about a visit to his wife's grave with his lab who becomes distracted by a couple having sex at the outskirts of the cemetary.
Today was my long run out on the 'scenic beauty road' which in Michigan means no cutting the trees on the shoulder. I am slowly making progress against the mess of clothes my closet and drawers have become filled with things that would be nice if only I repaired the zipper or were a few sizes smaller. Despite all the running, I am still too big but at least I've firmed up considerably.
All winter your brute shoulders strained against collars, padding
and steerhide over the ash hames, to haul
sledges of cordwood for drying through spring and summer,
for the Glenwood stove next winter, and for the simmering range.
In April you pulled cartloads of manure to spread on the fields,
dark manure of Holsteins, and knobs of your own clustered with oats.
All summer you mowed the grass in meadow and hayfield, the mowing machine
clacketing beside you, while the sun walked high in the morning;
and after noon's heat, you pulled a clawed rake through the same acres,
gathering stacks, and dragged the wagon from stack to stack,
and the built hayrack back, uphill to the chaffy barn,
three loads of hay a day from standing grass in the morning.
Sundays you trotted the two miles to church with the light load
a leather quartertop buggy, and grazed in the sound of hymns.
Generation on generation, your neck rubbed the windowsill
of the stall, smoothing the wood as the sea smooths glass.
When you were old and lame, when your shoulders hurt bending to graze,
one October the man, who fed you and kept you, and harnessed you every morning,
led you through corn stubble to sandy ground above Eagle Pond,
and dug a hole beside you where you stood shuddering in your skin,
and lay the shotgun's muzzle in the boneless hollow behind your ear,
and fired the slug into your brain, and felled you into your grave,
shoveling sand to cover you, setting goldenrod upright above you,
where by next summer a dent in the ground made your monument.
For a hundred and fifty years, in the Pasture of dead horses,
roots of pine trees pushed through the pale curves of your ribs,
yellow blossoms flourished above you in autumn, and in winter
frost heaved your bones in the ground - old toilers, soil makers:
O Roger, Mackerel, Riley, Ned, Nellie, Chester, Lady Ghost.
Donald Hall
When I was a freshman in college, I especially appreciated poetry. I met a man that wrote poetry. I was so thrilled to have a poet boyfriend, I was willing to overlook his numerous character flaws that later reared their presence, one by one, making the relationship not so much fun. One silly poem he wrote for me is as follows:
How, now brown cow.
She's dead now,
My poor little sow.
Never a corker,
My unfortunate porker.
TES
I was taking a poetry class at the time, 16th through 19th century English poets taught by a TA who thought we all (only 4 in the class) should become English majors. We met at the instructor's house and it was grueling. I ended up spending more time on that class than my science classes.
But my boyfriend was taking a much better class on modern poetry taught by Donald Hall. I would attend with him the lectures, which I really enjoyed. I even bought one of Hall's books of poetry out of my very meager funds. He was a gifted lecturer and of course, poet. He was the nation's poet laureate in 2006. He married another poet, Jane Kenyon, and left Ann Arbor to live in his mother's ancestoral home in New Hampshire and to be a full time poet. He had metastatic colon cancer with little chance of survival but he did recover. Unfortunately, the love of his life, Jane, soon had leukemia and died within 18 months. He went through an extended period of grief without writing but now he deals with his grief in poetry.
Donald Hall was giving a lecture last night at UM so I had to go. He is now 81 years old and no longer has a booming voice but still can command an audience, which was standing room only. He still has quite the sense of humor reading his poem enititled Tennis Ball about a visit to his wife's grave with his lab who becomes distracted by a couple having sex at the outskirts of the cemetary.
Today was my long run out on the 'scenic beauty road' which in Michigan means no cutting the trees on the shoulder. I am slowly making progress against the mess of clothes my closet and drawers have become filled with things that would be nice if only I repaired the zipper or were a few sizes smaller. Despite all the running, I am still too big but at least I've firmed up considerably.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Nerd Heaven
I love maps especially when I am planning a trip. But what I love more is looking at Google Earth. I can place a cursor on any point along my route and I get the elevation. My house is at 926 ft. If I run the 3.5 miles down to the river, the elevation drops to 744 ft or a loss of 182 ft. It is tough for me to go up the hill, which I won't do if there is a north wind. My country route peaks out at 968 ft, only 44 ft just a little over a mile from my house. Seems steeper than that but maybe I'm a wuss. The steepest hill I used to tackle, was the 'arb hill' which is about .75 miles long but climbs 170 ft.
When I was in Gagliano,Italy (in the Appennines) I'd try to run to Secinaro and back-only a 5 mile round trip but too hard for this one. It involved a 391 foot climb for 2.5 miles. I had to take several breaks going there but coming back was easy.
Looking at the Cinque Terre region, our path between Vernazza and Corniglia had us climbing 700 feet or so. Google Earth has a neat feature in which you can tilt the map. Instead of just looking overhead, you can look at it from the side as if you were in a boat. Those hills look especially impressive from that angle.
Today was a Y day even though the weather turned out much nicer than predicted. I might go to a poetry reading tonight.
When I was in Gagliano,Italy (in the Appennines) I'd try to run to Secinaro and back-only a 5 mile round trip but too hard for this one. It involved a 391 foot climb for 2.5 miles. I had to take several breaks going there but coming back was easy.
Looking at the Cinque Terre region, our path between Vernazza and Corniglia had us climbing 700 feet or so. Google Earth has a neat feature in which you can tilt the map. Instead of just looking overhead, you can look at it from the side as if you were in a boat. Those hills look especially impressive from that angle.
Today was a Y day even though the weather turned out much nicer than predicted. I might go to a poetry reading tonight.
Monday, November 30, 2009
LittleLifePreservers.com
Another beautiful hand-made card from Lesa, a breast cancer survivor from Massachusetts. This one has pearls glued on and fishing line. She makes these beautiful, creative cards for other cancer survivors. Thank-you again, Lesa!!!!
So our unusually warm November is gone but as long as there is no ice on the ground, I'm out there pounding the pavement. I made turkey matzoh ball soup from all the leftovers yesterday. Naomi came over for that. Today I had a return visit as she noticed artichokes in my refrigerator and they are her favorite. The other kids love them too. I used to serve them to their friends, many who never saw an artichoke before. They always looked puzzled to see us all happily dipping them in the lemon-garlic butter sauce. She had plenty of drama in her apartment last night as the other apartment mates had a fight that involved the police coming. The other woman was escorted out by them. She is quite violent and was breaking everything she could get a hold of.Hopefully they won't kiss and make-up. She will have a baby in a few months. All I can think is Oh My Gawd!
Just as my lower eyelashes are almost grown in, the uppers are beginning to fall out. It is so puzzling what havoc chemo still plays with my hair follicles so long after I had it. I would love to have a scientific explanation for how my genetically determined straight hair is now curly.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Sunday funny
These following alternative definitions are from the Washington Post:
1. Coffee (n.), a person who is coughed upon.
2. Flabbergasted (adj.), appalled over how much weight you have gained.
3. Abdicate (v.), to give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.
4. Esplanade (v.), to attempt an explanation while drunk.
5. Willy-nilly (adj.), impotent.
6. Negligent (adj.), describes a condition in which you absent-mindedly
answer the door in your nightgown.
7. Lymph (v.), to walk with a lisp.
8. Gargoyle (n.), an olive-flavored mouthwash
9. Flatulence (n.) the emergency vehicle that picks you up after you are
run over by a steamroller.
10. Balderdash (n.), a rapidly receding hairline.
11. Testicle (n.), a humorous question on an exam.
12. Rectitude (n.), the formal, dignified demeanor assumed by a
proctologist immediately before he examines you.
13. Oyster (n.), a person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddish
expressions.
14. Pokemon (n), A Jamaican proctologist.
15. Frisbeetarianism (n.), the belief that; when you die your Soul goes
up on the roof and gets stuck there.
16. Circumvent (n.), the opening in the front of boxer shorts.
Every few weeks or so, I try to see what is new in cancer world. Not much. I think all the news will be presented at this month's San Antonio Conference. I did find an article that for BRAC1 ladies whose moms had cancer from the gene, get cancer 6 years earlier than their moms suggesting that here must be some environmental factor. It would be useful to know what this factor is. But it also suggests that women should be more viligant earlier.
Susan Love has publicly supported the new recommendations delaying screening mammograms until ones 50s. People are outraged at that and now are withholding contributions. Not all people are aware of their BRAC1 status (if you received it from your father, it isn't as obvious). 10% of breast cancer is due to BRAC1/2 gene variants. If these ladies are now getting their cancers earlier, these new recommendations will contribute to delayed diagnoses and increased deaths.
I went out with a friend to the local Vietnamese restaurant last night. Very tasty.
I'm still sore from my Pilate's misadventure. But the muscle fibers are sore for a reason and don't hurt unless I move. The minor aches would go away if I'd just take an ibuprofen. When on Taxol, my muscle fibers ached for no reason even if I didn't move. Furthermore ibuprofen did not help one bit. There was no escaping the pain due to inflamed nerves (neuropathic pain). One of the new useless articles I found today said that Taxol causes neuropathic pain and thus this side effect should be weighed against its benefits. Unstated is the benefit of possibly saving one's life.
1. Coffee (n.), a person who is coughed upon.
2. Flabbergasted (adj.), appalled over how much weight you have gained.
3. Abdicate (v.), to give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.
4. Esplanade (v.), to attempt an explanation while drunk.
5. Willy-nilly (adj.), impotent.
6. Negligent (adj.), describes a condition in which you absent-mindedly
answer the door in your nightgown.
7. Lymph (v.), to walk with a lisp.
8. Gargoyle (n.), an olive-flavored mouthwash
9. Flatulence (n.) the emergency vehicle that picks you up after you are
run over by a steamroller.
10. Balderdash (n.), a rapidly receding hairline.
11. Testicle (n.), a humorous question on an exam.
12. Rectitude (n.), the formal, dignified demeanor assumed by a
proctologist immediately before he examines you.
13. Oyster (n.), a person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddish
expressions.
14. Pokemon (n), A Jamaican proctologist.
15. Frisbeetarianism (n.), the belief that; when you die your Soul goes
up on the roof and gets stuck there.
16. Circumvent (n.), the opening in the front of boxer shorts.
Every few weeks or so, I try to see what is new in cancer world. Not much. I think all the news will be presented at this month's San Antonio Conference. I did find an article that for BRAC1 ladies whose moms had cancer from the gene, get cancer 6 years earlier than their moms suggesting that here must be some environmental factor. It would be useful to know what this factor is. But it also suggests that women should be more viligant earlier.
Susan Love has publicly supported the new recommendations delaying screening mammograms until ones 50s. People are outraged at that and now are withholding contributions. Not all people are aware of their BRAC1 status (if you received it from your father, it isn't as obvious). 10% of breast cancer is due to BRAC1/2 gene variants. If these ladies are now getting their cancers earlier, these new recommendations will contribute to delayed diagnoses and increased deaths.
I went out with a friend to the local Vietnamese restaurant last night. Very tasty.
I'm still sore from my Pilate's misadventure. But the muscle fibers are sore for a reason and don't hurt unless I move. The minor aches would go away if I'd just take an ibuprofen. When on Taxol, my muscle fibers ached for no reason even if I didn't move. Furthermore ibuprofen did not help one bit. There was no escaping the pain due to inflamed nerves (neuropathic pain). One of the new useless articles I found today said that Taxol causes neuropathic pain and thus this side effect should be weighed against its benefits. Unstated is the benefit of possibly saving one's life.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Agita
When I enrolled in my 5 week Italian experience in the summer of 2008, I was one of the few non Italian-Americans students(though one of my dear readers is married to an Italian American). Most of the little Italian vocabulary I had was based on watching The Sopranos. 'Agita' was one of the words constantly used on the show meaning aggravation as in Naomi gives me such agita! Ever since I broke my arm, I had been taking ibuprofen to deal with the pain which resulted in a shredded stomach lining. Even though I stopped the ibuprofen, I still had the stomach issue (now renewed thanks to the Red Devil though I am weaning myself off of the Prilosec)I was controlling the heartburn with Rolaids but somehow being in Italy aggravated it and I was out of my 5 week supply of Rolaids in 2 days. I needed drugs. Fortunately Italian pharmacists have great powers to give you what you need without a prescription but unfortunately the one in Castelvecchio did not speak English. Two days of Italian didn't make me fluent so I brought my roommate Nancy along to help as she grew up listening to Italian. My plan was to list possible proton pump inhibitors and see if the pharmacist had any. I didn't know the generic names (do now!) and sadly the drugs all have different names there. Nancy described me as having 'agita'. No I don't! thinking they would give me Valium. But he did figure out what I wanted and all was right with the world.
Yesterday I was doing a crossword puzzle almost finishing it (if I don't finish it, I worry that chemobrain is kicking in). One clue I didn't get was 'Tum target'A_I_A.
The answer: Agita. So agita is their word for heartburn too. You were right Nancy!
It is sunny here today and I went for a nice, long run even though my body is sore from my Pilate's experience. Then Josh came over to eat our leftovers. Now all I have left is the carcass which is being converted to soup as I type.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Pilates
Over the Thanksgiving Holiday, the Y was having some free classes. My friend and I took the beginning Pilate's class. Now another thing I suck at. I couldn't even breathe correctly (they want you to breathe in while pushing your belly out and exhale bringing your belly in- I do just the opposite). I especially wasn't good at that exercise where one lies on one's side and lifts the whole body by one arm-seems more difficult than an one-armed push-up and I can't even do a 2 handed one. Even though I have been working on my lack of flexibility, I did way worst than anyone on maneuvers emphasising that. My friend was lost too but at least she got points for being flexible although they told her maybe she was too flexible. So Pilate's is supposed to work on 'core muscles' and I guess I just use my peripheral ones. Afterwards, I lifted weights. No coordination needed for that.
The class made me sad or maybe I was just sad already. Got the blues.
The class made me sad or maybe I was just sad already. Got the blues.
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