post-whine post
I should have gotten back to the blog yesterday after writing that wretched whiny post but I am happy to report that I got myself out of my funk and was too busy. Most of those things I whined about yesterday have been resolved anyway which is usually what happens to irritations and annoyances.
I made the favorite Fritsch/Saum family cookies yesterday. Peanut butter cookies in a small muffin tin with a Reese's Peanut Butter cup tucked in the center. Some families fight about stock portfolios and real estate, we fight about these cookies. Not really fight, of course, but when they hit the table you'd better stand back with your arms close to your sides.
I had a wonderful nap in the afternoon. Regis brought me the cards that came in the mail and I drifted off to sleep with Christmas cards, sweet notes and pictures spread across the blankets.
I got up and made a small ham and au gratin potatoes for dinner. One of my favorite meals.
If you read the comments at the end of some posts, you know that mom is a frequent contributor. Yesterday she said she didn't want me to look like James Carville but then she made a sweet comment about how I am not defined by my hair. Thanks, Mom! I thought I looked like Paul Schaeffer on the Letterman Show.
She also said instead of worrying about the port, I should drink some port. Good advice. I'm not fond of port but I did partake of some pinot noir. And it did make that port feel better! Medical miracle!
My mom says she is one tough old bird and she's right. I've learned a lot from her about dealing with the shit that comes down the pike at you. You meet it head on, both arms swinging or you step aside...but you don't let it bowl you over.
I've been having an interesting conversation with my friend, Yvette, in New York City about baldness. She lost most of her hair some years ago and decided to make the move to bald and proud. She's helped me think a lot about hair and how to approach the lack of it. She is gorgeous and elegant.
In the first pictures taken after my head was shaved, I looked a little tentative and nervous. I wore hats almost constantly for the first weeks, first because it's colder than hell here and I didn't want my brain to freeze. I also liked the look of dramatic hats and scarves.
In the last picture, Yvette says I look fierce. Ready to be bald and proud.
Did the presence of the scarf or hat or turban always signal to people that I am "sick"? Could I happily and proudly go out and about in this town (it ain't New York City) with a bald head? How would people react...and would I care?
My old friend and neighbor, Deb, who has embraced the very short hair look for a long time believes it's liberating to not have to worry about hair. It is. Yesterday it occurred to me that giving up hair is a little bit like giving up girdles (1969), brush hair rollers (1970), and panty hose (2005). Who needs that shit? Devices of torture.
The sick part. Because I have cancer, does that mean I'm sick? I don't usually feel sick. Most days I feel fine. Maybe cancer doesn't mean the same as being sick. When the nurse told me she thought I was in denial about cancer being a part of my life, did she mean that I haven't accepted that I'm sick?
I'm not going to think of myself as sick. I'm going to keep on dancing in the streets, thank you very much. If that's denial, in the words of my father-in-law Howard Fritsch, so be it.
I made the favorite Fritsch/Saum family cookies yesterday. Peanut butter cookies in a small muffin tin with a Reese's Peanut Butter cup tucked in the center. Some families fight about stock portfolios and real estate, we fight about these cookies. Not really fight, of course, but when they hit the table you'd better stand back with your arms close to your sides.
I had a wonderful nap in the afternoon. Regis brought me the cards that came in the mail and I drifted off to sleep with Christmas cards, sweet notes and pictures spread across the blankets.
I got up and made a small ham and au gratin potatoes for dinner. One of my favorite meals.
If you read the comments at the end of some posts, you know that mom is a frequent contributor. Yesterday she said she didn't want me to look like James Carville but then she made a sweet comment about how I am not defined by my hair. Thanks, Mom! I thought I looked like Paul Schaeffer on the Letterman Show.
She also said instead of worrying about the port, I should drink some port. Good advice. I'm not fond of port but I did partake of some pinot noir. And it did make that port feel better! Medical miracle!
My mom says she is one tough old bird and she's right. I've learned a lot from her about dealing with the shit that comes down the pike at you. You meet it head on, both arms swinging or you step aside...but you don't let it bowl you over.
I've been having an interesting conversation with my friend, Yvette, in New York City about baldness. She lost most of her hair some years ago and decided to make the move to bald and proud. She's helped me think a lot about hair and how to approach the lack of it. She is gorgeous and elegant.
In the first pictures taken after my head was shaved, I looked a little tentative and nervous. I wore hats almost constantly for the first weeks, first because it's colder than hell here and I didn't want my brain to freeze. I also liked the look of dramatic hats and scarves.
In the last picture, Yvette says I look fierce. Ready to be bald and proud.
Did the presence of the scarf or hat or turban always signal to people that I am "sick"? Could I happily and proudly go out and about in this town (it ain't New York City) with a bald head? How would people react...and would I care?
My old friend and neighbor, Deb, who has embraced the very short hair look for a long time believes it's liberating to not have to worry about hair. It is. Yesterday it occurred to me that giving up hair is a little bit like giving up girdles (1969), brush hair rollers (1970), and panty hose (2005). Who needs that shit? Devices of torture.
The sick part. Because I have cancer, does that mean I'm sick? I don't usually feel sick. Most days I feel fine. Maybe cancer doesn't mean the same as being sick. When the nurse told me she thought I was in denial about cancer being a part of my life, did she mean that I haven't accepted that I'm sick?
I'm not going to think of myself as sick. I'm going to keep on dancing in the streets, thank you very much. If that's denial, in the words of my father-in-law Howard Fritsch, so be it.
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