Star Trek

Last week I was so focused on death and dying (and I've come close so many times that I am practically an expert), I forgot to mention that Polling Day was on the Thursday. Polling Day: the day when Europe went to vote on who would take over as European MPs-or, rather, MEPs (Members of European Parliament, I think-like I could care less).

What made it interesting for me wasn't just that the French voted in the right wingers (trust the French to do just that), but Brits did the same thing. That's a little scary. Come the revolution, I will be among the first to be shot...

All the parties had their representatives knocking on doors to make absolutely certain that anyone who was eligible to vote went to the polls. I think if dogs could vote, they would have been sent to the polls, too. So-I was walking back from the supermarket and noticed that someone was talking to my neighbor, Tom. Tom was standing there, can of beer in his hand (at 11am-can't say I blame him. Who wants to be jumped on by a politician's gofer at 11:00 in the morning?). And before I could turn around, the woman pounced. I do mean-pounced.

There she was, right in my face, wearing one of those really naff badges that said she was representing the Conservative Party. That is David Cameron's party-and everyone hates David Cameron. So I just looked at her as she said she was Emma, and just wanted to know that everyone was going to vote.

It wasn't just that she was right in my face-but she had a clipboard in her hand, and on the clipboard was a list of everyone in the area-including me. I found that an affront. I'm very private-and she really wasn't entitled to know who lived where. So she asked me if I live there, and I said I was just visiting (in my very best American drawl). Tom started to snicker in his beer, and she asked which apartment I was visiting. It was none of her business, but I'm polite, and I decided to have a little fun.

So I told her, and she asked whether the residents were voting. I said they were at the polling station even as I was speaking to her. Then she asked if I had voted. Oh, the silly woman!!

 No, I said, I don't vote. I'm an alien. That was it-Tom was snorting into his beer. Then she asked for my name. I could barely keep a straight face, and Tom was sipping his beer and waiting for me to say-

Spock, I said, glancing at Tom (who is an avid-some would say obsessive-Star Trek fan), and he tried to choke back his laughter, and looked away. Spock? she asked. How do you spell that? S-p-o-c-k, I replied. Oh, she said, that is unusual. Where is that from?

It's Brazilian, I said. By now Tom was snorting-and I was trying very hard to keep a straight face. But, I added, my father is Armenian. And that did it: Tom was in hysterics-because this Emma didn't get it at all. She looked at him, and I said, don't take any notice. He's got-a "condition", in a loud whisper (which made him laugh harder). And, I added conspiratorially, he's on-tablets.

Well-she said, oh, poor man, and he sprinted for his door, laughing so hard he sounded like a cross between gargling and two animals rutting.

And Emma's colleague was coming toward us-so I figured, a speedy exit was needed. I wished her luck in the elections, and it occurred to me that she had a very familiar accent. Emma, where in Essex are you from? I asked. I knew. I just knew.

Braintree, she replied, how did you know I'm from Essex? (oh, Hell, how obvious can it be? SPOCK??? Really!). So I replied that I have friends who grew up in Chelmsford, so I know the accent (I was priding myself on being so full of crap-people will believe anything if you say it sincerely. And if they're from Essex).

We both said goodbye -and I said have a nice day, because I'm just such a prat sometimes. And I was glad the front door to the building locks, because Emma said goodbye, Mrs. Spock-I wish you could have seen her colleague's face. What a Kodak moment that was!!

That was the best day I've had in awhile. And now, when I see Tom outside, he looks at me and laughs. I so remember that day. Tom laughed so hard, I'm surprised he didn't rupture something.

RIP: a little perspective-and a lot of Jack Daniel's

I said that mortality bites-and it does, at the strangest times. I've been feeling very vulnerable lately, and have been thinking about death and dying for a few weeks. The first "anniversary" of my cancer surgery was yesterday. One year on, I keep thinking I haven't accomplished anything. And-I'm still alive, so that is quite an accomplishment.

My friend Dani texted me on Wednesday morning-very early. She wrote that Arthur died late Tuesday night. So I called her at about 8am, figuring she would be awake. She was destroyed, really destroyed. They had been together for more than 25 years, and he was her entire life. She said that without him she is nothing. She didn't want to talk-couldn't-and asked me to leave communication until she felt well enough to ring me. She was grateful when I asked if she wants me to attend his funeral. And that was it-I couldn't keep calling when she asked me to leave her for awhile.

So I thought about death even more this week-my college roommate didn't call me the High Priestess of Angst and Rumination for nothing! Really-that nickname stuck for years. I really need to do something about changing that. Going through life wringing your hands isn't a good prescription for a happy life!

I was thinking about the terms we use for someone dying. I told someone yesterday that my friend's husband died-and she looked at me like I had just kicked her dog. We aren't supposed to say that, she said. She said that we should say they "passed".

Now really-passed? Passed where? Passed out? Passed her in the street? Passed go and didn't collect two hundred dollars (Google Monopoly if you don't get that!)? Then there is "passed over". Over what? A bridge? A pet? An obstacle of some sort? That's silly, at least to me. And-so and so "left". Where did they go? Did they leave town? The country? Did they go to Paris? New York? Cleveland?

People always say someone passed away (where is "away", exactly?), or some thing having to do with passing, and always in hushed tones, as if the earth will open up and swallow them if they seem disrespectful in any way. And my personal favorite is: "they shuffled off their mortal coil". Oh, please-what a load of Shakespearian pretentious crap is that? Give me a break, please!!

What is wrong with saying that someone died? They didn't pass away/pass/pass over/leave/snuff it/pop their clogs (unless they're Danish)/kick the bucket (is there a point to that? I ask myself). They died. Sorry. Boo hoo. One minute they were alive, the next minute they weren't. Very sad, but they're dead. Dani was weeping terribly, and I nearly started; I'm not heartless, just practical. All these euphemisms are really annoying. When I die, someone can say-she died. Oh, well...

Dani did text me yesterday to say that the autopsy showed that Arthur's heart just stopped. He had no clue, didn't suffer at all, went just the way she prayed he would. So I texted back and said that is good news (that he didn't suffer), and remember that I am here if she needs me.

Now, that is the way I want to go-but not for a very, very long time!! I'm not afraid of dying-it's pain and suffering beforehand that scares me. And what scares me even more is that I don't feel like I have really been living. My life for the past four years (and then some) has been more about survival (and surviving doctors!) than about thriving, and living, and enjoying myself.

I think that I would like some prior notice-say, a week-before I just keel over. That would be so great, if we all got to choose-make an appointment. Sorry, but a week next Thursday you are going to die, so do your laundry, tidy up, see your friends, etc. And finish the Jack Daniel's. Knock yourself out.

Every morning I wake at 5am-I've done that for years, always an early riser. And I move my head from side to side, roll my eyes, shake my arms, move my legs, move everything. I want to make sure I haven't had a stroke during the night. Hell, at my age, you can't be too careful.

Some things are highly overrated

Boobs. And boobs to you, too. Really-I've been freaking out for the last two weeks-because Friday will mark exactly one year since I had cancer surgery. It isn't exactly a wonderful anniversary, either. So I freaked out early; I start early, and I'm just being prepared. For what, I don't know-I'm just prepared.

I went to all the hospital stuff last week-and Mr. Tan, the oncologist, decided to take his vacation on the very day we were supposed to have a consultation. One of his colleagues examined me and pronounced me a) still alive, and b) no lumps, bumps or other suspicious growths in the lymph nodes. So I am okay for another six months, when I am due to be examined by Mr. Tan (if he doesn't go on vacation again). I was so relieved I practically skipped out of the clinic (wouldn't that be a sight to behold!).

I will still be referred to a specialist breast surgeon who will perform the reconstruction-if I choose to go that route. But honestly, it has been a year. And I would be just as happy to write off 2013-and the start of 2014, while I'm at it. I'm not going for reconstruction. It will be a long, drawn-out process, and there will be a lot of pain, according to people in my cancer survivors' group who have had it done. Ewww...I've had enough pain. So I will stay flat as a board. Really-I would rather have no boobs and no cancer than have boobs and cancer. Obviously. Like I wrote before, some things are highly overrated.

It has been a rough week. I've thought of last year at this time, and I feel like I've accomplished so little in the last twelve months. Then I work on putting a positive spin on everything - and I remember that I am still alive. I'm really lucky, when I remember CVID, and gentamicin, and - of course - cancer. Nobody can forget cancer. I still have to concentrate on the fact that I have survived, rather than the fact that cancer can return.

I went to see my friend Dani, the acupuncturist, last week. I haven't seen her in awhile-and she lives in Essex, so I try to avoid going when I can. Every time I cross the Essex border I can feel my IQ dropping 100 points-and I'm still ten times more intelligent that the Essex population (and that is cumulative, not individual!). Dani isn't British-so I can cheerfully slag off the Essex population- as long as she never comes across this blog!

It usually takes three hours each way to go visit Dani-and this time it took four hours to get back to North London. I approached my building, and what did I see? A large mouse (or a small rat) on top of one of the garbage bins, sitting and eating something that was noxious and unidentifiable. The mouse looked at me. I looked at him (or her). We looked at each other. So I punched him.

Yep-before you get all upset, thinking I beat the crap out of a mouse, I can confirm that he saw the fist coming his way and jumped off the bin-still eating. Unfortunately, my neighbor's back door was open-and where did the little rodent go? Straight into Hazel's flat. So I waited.

Hazel is very large-about the size of an airship- and she doesn't move very quickly. So I stood there, waiting for a scream, or a crash (in case she fainted). Nothing. I waited for ten minutes, but decided that I should go inside before someone called the police and said there is a woman lurking outside the building, leaning on an elbow crutch. And, oh yeah-she punched a mouse. Probably a felony in this country. You can commit murder, rape, assault-and get your wrist slapped-but hit a mouse? Oooohhh!

I did see Hazel yesterday, very much alive and well-and still eating. Every time I see her she is eating. I think she keeps the bakeries in business. But I was so upset the other day that I went in the house and hit the Kettle Chips. Punch a mouse (well, a near miss, anyway), stuff one's face with Kettle Chips. Seems like a fair deal to me!

If there is ever a shortage of Kettle Chips-I'm in trouble. There is always-Reese's Peanut Butter Cups!

I'm doing two cancer walks for charity: one is for the charity at the Royal Free Hospital, and the other is called Race for Life. I'll be walking both of them (obviously)-me and my trusty walking stick. I figure, the more I walk, the more Kettle Chips I can eat....

Mortality Bites

Nope-still not dead. Yet.

I've had a really bad couple of weeks. My arm suddenly became very swollen-and painful-and I couldn't even pick up a kettle, let alone write. I think it might have been a reaction to the 8 cannulas-most of them were in the same arm. Whatever. Did I go to the doctor? Or the hospital? Of course not. I'm developing a phobia of anyone who is medical. So I just waited, rubbed in Arnica, hoped it would all settle down. It's taken more than two weeks-but it seems to be much better. So far.

I was very, very depressed. Since the 20th or thereabouts, I started crying for no good reason. In fact, last weekend I kept bursting into tears - in the street, in the supermarket, just about everywhere-including church. How embarrassing-I'm a grown-up, after all!

Then I had one of those light bulb moments- you know, the one where you want to smack yourself in the head and kick yourself in the shins because it took so long to figure it out. And I had the "aha", but I didn't hit (or kick) myself. It was because I was thinking back to last year.

Last year-last April-I had the biopsy that changed my life-or should have done, anyway. I had to wait until May 1st to get the verdict-even as I was sitting in the waiting area outside Mr. Tan's office, I kept hoping he would say it was nothing. But-somehow I knew, and when he told me I had breast cancer I burst into tears (yeah, I do cry a lot. I even cry when I watch a sad movie. Duh. Cry-baby).

So that was what it was all about! I didn't even do my usual Brit-bashing. And I love Brit-bashing, as you know. I had two decades of Yankee-bashing from these inbreds, I figure it's time to give some of it back. Plus-it's fun. I know I'm taking pot shots at the brain-dead,obnoxious, rude, and all the things I said in my last post-but it is all so true. I remember after the mastectomy, lying in the room, feeling absolutely awful-and a nurse came in and said "I know exactly how you feel".

I said "you had breast cancer?". I think I was hoping for an ally. Instead, she replied "oh, no, but I had knee surgery. Torn cartilage". She pulled up her trouser leg and showed me a scar from keyhole surgery. And she compared that with breast cancer and a double mastectomy. I couldn't believe it. I asked her if she thought both conditions were the same. She said - well, it was surgery. And I just had to turn away in disbelief. And there you have it: proof positive of the resident brain-dead inbreds. She wasn't the first, and she won't be the last-but brain-dead? Absolutely.

Well, I must say I had to smile at that - so everything I say about the Brits is absolutely accurate, true and objective. You just have to laugh and really wonder how these guys ever made it past puberty. No wonder they're nearly a third world country. And no wonder they needed us to win the war. Eeek.

I'm feeling better now-finally. I'm not sure I did a very good job of grieving-grieving for my balance that was destroyed four years ago, grieving for my breasts - but I'm working on it. Anyway, breasts are highly overrated-unless I happen to be on a plane that decides to go down over the Atlantic. Then I want a seat mate who is at least the size of Katie Price. So I would probably not need the life jacket they give you, complete with whistle and flashlight.

You are in the middle of the Atlantic. Who is going to see a light from a flashlight? And who on earth is going to hear a bloody tiny whistle? Are they nuts? Just seat me next to the black box-those nearly always make it.

Some people get very down and they turn to alcohol, or drugs, or guns, or whatever. I turn to Kettle Chips-much better, in my view (but fattening as hell). I wonder if they count as one of your five-a-day. Sure, of course they do-just have a tomato at the same time. Then you can call it two of your five-a-day.

Speaking of Kettle Chips, mine are calling "eat me, eat me already". So you know I must be feeling better.