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Thanks

True calendar

I finished Adriene’s 30 day True series this morning. It was good, just the right speed for where I am in the recovery process, and the final sun salutation brought with it a sense of closure. As I breathed deeply into my rapidly recovering lungs, I glanced out the window at the men pouring concrete into the foundation of the new house going up next door and I gave thanks that I wasn’t them. My little space heater barely makes a dent in the frigid air so my breath fogged the window as my toes turned blue, but I gave thanks all the same. One does not wear socks when one does downward dog. Yoga must be approached with respect and I give it with gratitude and humility.

Last week I lost my Pasmo train pass, the day after I’d charged it with 5000yen. An hour later I got a call from a station employee saying they’d found it and I could come pick it up. Ah, Japan. I gave thanks.

On Monday I had a wicked scare at the hospital but the doctors went into overdrive and fixed the problem. Their bedside manners might leave something to be desired, but they know their stuff when it comes to medicine. I gave thanks, more than once.

Tokyu shoppers

Yesterday at the supermarket, an old lady was having a hard time with her shopping cart so I helped her with it. Not only did she not give thanks, she didn’t even look at me, just walked away with a “harumph”. Meh. Her problem, not mine, but I watched my brownie points swarm with confusion, not knowing quite what to do with themselves.

Tomorrow I board a plane for a long overdue vacation in Hawaii where I will be able to salute the sun properly, and she will cook some of the stiffness out of my joints and muscles. Then I will stuff myself with mangoes and listen to the sound of the surf and congratulate myself for surviving last year, all the while giving thanks.

I will continue to give thanks, for the sun in the sky and the air in my lungs and the blood in my veins and being able to walk and talk and see and sleep and eat and think and feel and love. Thanks.

Yutenji Buddha

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Jingle

stocking

As snowflakes gently surrender to gravity and make their way toward the earth, a little girl opens her eyes. It is early Christmas morning. She extends her arm in front of her face and can just make out the shape of her hand in the murky light.

“Oh, goody!”

She leaps out of bed, knowing she has permission to go downstairs and explore the contents of her stocking, as long as she does it quietly. The big people will need a couple more hours and a cup or two of coffee before they’ll be ready for Christmas, a terrible lapse in judgement as far as the little girl is concerned. But she is already old enough, and still young enough, to know the world is full of magic and mysteries.

She sails down the stairs and grasps the stocking to her chest, feeling the crinkly, crunchy promise of the collection of shapes bumping and jostling against each other inside. Pulling out the goodies one by one, she finds underwear, personalized pencils, chocolate footballs, an orange, three walnuts and a sliver dollar. Every year, those items appear and she never asks why; without them it would not be Christmas.

At the very bottom of the stocking, tucked into the toe, there is a small scroll, a piece of paper rolled tightly and fastened with a red ribbon. She slips off the ribbon and discovers that the paper is a blood test report, indicating that her tumor markers have fallen below normal levels.

The little girl, now a middle aged woman, looks up, barely daring to mouth the words, “Does this mean I don’t have cancer?”

From his perch on the roof, Santa peers down the chimney. Laying a finger beside his sooty nose, he winks and says, “Yes. It means you don’t have cancer.”

The girl/woman feels her insides curl into a ball, like a cat on a sunny windowsill, its nose tucked under its tail, its purr and twitching whiskers proof of contentment.

clarence

Just then, her phone jingles. She thinks of Clarence in “It’s a Wonderful Life” saying that every time a bell rings, an angel gets their wings. But this time it is an app that gives a jingle every time Tokyo Tales gets a new follower.

The girl/woman thanks you.

MC and snowman

2017 Sucked

Allderdice

My junior year in high school, I had World History with Miss Wilt, who was long and lean and always wore go-go boots. She would stand in front of the class with her elegant hands folded in a way that I’ve never seen since. She was always calm, always poised. I am grateful for Miss Wilt.

Miss Wilt taught me to write. She said we must always write five paragraphs: 1) an introduction of the social, political, and economic factors behind whatever we were writing about, 2) the social factors, 3) the political factors, 4) the economic factors and 5) a conclusion drawn from the above. The factors did not have to be in that order, but that’s how she taught them and I will always remember them that way.

I didn’t want to do it that way. I thought I should use my impressive and overflowing creativity to flaunt convention and write in my own style, which I did. Miss Wilt would graciously say that I had some good ideas but my writing was all over the place. To illustrate, had Mozart done that, his first concerto would have featured a lot of flat notes and jarring chords and audience members fleeing for the safety of a Salieri opera. In other words, if you don’t get organized, you’ll never find what you’re looking for, much less get your brilliant ideas across to your readers.

So one day I decided to swallow my pride and do it the way Miss Wilt suggested. I don’t remember what I was writing about, probably some aspect of World War II. (We spent a lot of time on that. Miss Wilt’s class once had a visitor, an old man with a number tattooed on his wrist. It was a little weird growing up non-Jewish in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood, but good for me overall. I knew next to nothing about the Pacific war before I lived here.)

The essay I wrote was clear, precise and to the point. I got my first A. Today, in that grand tradition, I would like to share a brief essay with you. It’s titled “2017 Sucked”.

2017 Sucked

The year 2017 can be characterized by total suckage. It would be hard to pinpoint any year in recent decades that sucked as much. Well, 1995 sucked. Actually, 2011 sucked even more. It sucked so much, I can’t even touch it. So let’s keep this on a personal level. For me, in 2017, politics, economics and society all sucked. Allow me to explain.

In 2017, a tangerine colored buffoon moved into the White House and has proceeded to undermine most of the social, political and economic progress that had been made in the past several centuries. If he has his way, the universe will be controlled by white male Christians and all other people will be illiterate, barefoot and pregnant, including black Muslim men. I don’t suppose he can see the impracticality of that. Despite it’s political stodginess, I find myself more and more grateful that I live in Japan. The suckage here is of a whole different genre, and much less embarrassing on a global scale. Still, overall, politics suck.

In the year 2017, I experienced medical challenges I barely managed to cope with, both physically and financially. The medical crisis culminated in having a tooth pulled on Christmas Day. That sucked, but in a way, it was funny. Imagine finding a dentist in the office on Christmas Day in the States. Here, I got a last minute appointment and zip-zap out it came. Quick and painless and only cost about $25; socialized insurance is a good thing. Overall suckage: 50%.

The social aspects of this year are harder to quantify. Pleasant for me is that I have developed some new friendships that I know will be with me forever; unpleasant is making plans with them and having to cancel, again and again, because I’m too beaten down to leave the house. That sucks, but at the same time, those friends have been warm and understanding and infinitely patient. To be fair, social suckage is only around 10%.

In conclusion, politics suck, medical problems and expenses suck, but on the social plane, people love me and I love them back. That pretty much doesn’t suck at all. Sadly, I think Miss Wilt would give me a C for this essay because I’ve contradicted myself so many times but I will always be grateful for what she taught me. And 2017 sucked.

me behind tree

The Unimoose

BuhlMiniRR1961-1962 boys
I’m the one closest to the camera. At least that’s about how my hair looks now.

When I was a kid growing up in Pittsburgh, each Christmas we went downtown to Buhl Planetarium to see the miniature railroad exhibition. It was pretty great. The exhibit included several trains running along tracks and making lovely clickety-clack sounds, houses, cars, people–everything on a teeny scale. It was always a delight.

MiniatureRailroad lady
They continued holding the exhibition faithfully until the year Mrs. Godzilla Humbug Spoilsport busted in and stomped on everything. She got coal in her stocking that year, fer shur.

 

So imagine my surprise when I arrived at the hospital in early December for one of my daily zaps and discovered a whole Christmas village set up on a table in the lobby. It only had one train, but it was merrily clickety-clacking along an oval track.

TIC Christmas train townFrom a distance, it was absolutely charming but upon looking closer, I discovered an odd assortment of elements. There were a couple of Hallmark looking houses, a Lincoln Log church, a fort made of blocks with a chimpanzee on its roof, a train station (nowhere near the train) with a bride and broom in front of it, a chicken coop, a polar bear, some pandas and, of course, Santa and a moose having a cookout. I could smell the hot dogs and ‘smores.

 

TIC Christmas moose

All I could think was, “Why not?”

I grew up with certain cultural prejudices, certain beliefs that things were a certain way and set in stone. But even now I am discovering how wrong I was about some things. For example, the Virgin Mary, not her son, was herself the Immaculate Conception with her immaculacy having been brought about at her conception by virtue of the birth of her son. (Huh?) Somehow that made it possible for her to get pregnant without exposing herself to a) a doorknob, b) a toilet seat, or c) sperm. I’m no scientist but I have a hard time swallowing that. I contend that either Mary was a liar or doorknob and toilet seat sanitation left a lot to be desired in those days. At any rate, despite what my high school sex ed instructor said, that was entirely possible, a good thing, and much to be admired. (Uh…all right. If you say so.)

But lets move on.

Somehow, this son of hers came about and grew up to be a carpenter and really swell guy. When he wasn’t building oxcarts or cobbling tables or creating sperm-infested doorknobs, he spent his time telling people to be nice to each other, which so enraged the Romans that they nailed him to a cross. (Come on now.)

But wait. It gets better.

Even swell guys die, and he did, but three days later he got better. He arose from his pallet, single-handedly and in true Superman style moved a five ton stone blocking the entrance to his tomb, popped into an impromptu supper with a few of his mates, then sailed off to heaven a la ET, and now we commemorate that equally hard to swallow tale by worshiping a bunny wearing a bow tie and carrying a basket full of plastic grass, chocolate eggs and jelly beans. (Say what???)

So what have we learned? Miniature train exhibitions are often not what they seem, love and marriage might go together like a horse and carriage but sex and pregnancy are another story, and people do not like being told to be nice to each other. Oh, and as long as sugar and plastic are involved, people will swallow just about anything.

If you have issues with any of that, I offer an alternative. I give you the Unimoose.

moose on unicorn

The Unimoose is wise. He is strong. He has courage and a wicked sense of humor. He can make you smile and stop taking yourself so seriously. He can help you take a step back and see that so many things in your life are good, so many things in you are good. He can see into the future and assure you that this, too, will pass.

Since 2017 has sucked worse than wet socks on a cold day and stale potato chips in rancid onion dip, the Unimoose has donned his hat and scarf and straddled his glimmering pink unicorn to ride bravely into the future and bring you hope. Such a teeny word, just four little letters, but for me, at least, it makes all the difference.

Burn Baby Burn

I’ve been reading about a classmate of mine whose daughter has a rare and rather nasty form of cancer. My heart goes out to her, to him, to the rest of her family, their friends, and to everyone else whose lives they touch. I cannot begin to imagine how any of them are coping with that reality.

In the seemingly endless process of dealing with cancer, I have found one of the toughest struggles is making my peace with it. Half my intellect says, “This should not be; there is no logic to it.” The other half says, “It is what it is. Get on with it.” My heart contracts into fetal position in a dusty corner and weeps.

crying sumo

A sumo tournament of conflicting thoughts is thundering inside my head. A teenager with cancer is a tragedy; a middle-aged woman with cancer is not. But where is the tragedy? The middle-aged woman has already lived more than half of her life; she knows what she would have missed. The teenager has barely begun her journey; the future is a mystery no one can know. The middle-aged woman has probably seen tragedy, anguish, desperation in other people’s lives and in her own; with luck, the teenager has not. A teenager is more able to accept the unacceptable, to believe the unbelievable, to see the abnormal as normal. Acceptance may be harder for the middle-aged woman who has lived long enough to be aware of, and dread, some of the bumps and jolts that life will eventually offer. The teenager has the purity of belief that she is immune to the evils of the world, she is safe, indestructible, and all will be well.

You can’t compare the teenager and the middle-aged woman, the lamb and the ewe, the pristine silk stocking with the worn woolen sock. What value does experience have? What value innocence? When do we stop asking questions like that and just get on with it? How can we?

I was coming to the end of my endless radiation treatments when I had my final doctor visit. She said, “As you know, the effects are cumulative. The worst of it will be within the two weeks after treatment ends.”

THWAP! Out of nowhere, another boot hurled itself toward my head.

old boot

Ouch!

All along, every doctor I’d talked to said that most people don’t have any reaction at all. If anything, I was supposed to experience nothing more than a mild sunburn. Mild sunburn my Aunt Fanny! I am very pale and love to go to the beach; I know what a sunburn feels like. The day after the final treatment, my armpit looked like someone had left a hot iron on it. And it got worse over the next couple of days, eventually developing as severe burns do, then into a rash on the middle of my chest. The redness progressed sideways, downward and across my chest. I would have had to pull a Rip Van Winkle under a sunlamp to get this kind of burn. Perhaps the doctors meant the type of sunburn you might get on Venus. I’ve heard awful things about the beaches on Venus. Sunscreen SPF 462 is recommended, one factor for each degree Celsius of average surface temperature. Yeah, that must be what they meant.

The silver lining, if you care to see it that way, is that the worst of the burn is on the part of my armpit that is still numb from surgical nerve damage. I look at it, touch it, and know that it should hurt, but it doesn’t. That makes me wonder: where does pain go when you can’t feel it? And what is the purpose of pain that is not felt? If a tree falls in the forest and there is no one there to see it, does it hurt?

I have a hard time not getting angry at the medical people I’ve dealt with over the past year. The occasional sympathetic nod does not make up for the overall indifference. They either pat my knee and tell me I’m going to die (we’ll let that one go) or they understate the case so much that the reality is a shock. Their attitude makes me think of a quote from Buddhist scriptures: “Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned.” I’m certainly the one who got burned. But what’s the point in anger? It won’t make the doctors lose any sleep, won’t make my pain any less real.

I still have to believe, as they do, that the treatment will prolong my life. I’ve read that some of the effects of chemotherapy and radiation may never go away completely, but at least I will be alive to experience them. There’s no point in assigning blame, no point in calling any of this good or bad. It just is. I have to make my peace with all of that. If I am lucky and I am strong enough, I can find a way to learn from all of this and move on.

So, I slather myself with Aloe Vera and coconut oil and hope that they will work their magic. And I keep putting one foot in front of the other.

aloe

The Blue Lollipop

blue lolly

I have spent the past few years trying, with some success, to cultivate a sense of gratitude. I don’t mean Pollyanna gratitude: “Thank you so much for the one legged blind teddy bear that smells like old dog! It’s the best Christmas present ever!” No, what I mean is more a sense of finding what is unique or at least special about my life, my family and friends, the things I live my life among, and loving them for what they are, giving them the value they deserve. It’s also putting envy into perspective. I will always be envious of some things: people who are tall, people who can do math, people who can eat eggplant, people who can sing or juggle or Magic Eye. I know I will never have or be those things but I can envy those people without actually wanting to be them. I can see something beautiful in a store and enjoy its beauty, bask in it even, without wanting to own it, pleased that it exists but not needing it in my life, allowing my magic credit card to rest.

So now I am trying to find gratitude in the fact that I had my final radiation treatment today. There will be no more solitary morning walks to the hospital, no more taking off my shirt and lying on the table while people whose names I don’t know draw on me with magic markers. No more waiting in the pink paper line, no more pulling out my magic credit card and paying the bill, day after day after twenty-five days.  I can sleep in. I can take my time with morning yoga, finally start to work back toward where I was when this all began. I can finally start scrubbing the map of Arizona off my chest.

honey

(As a side note, one radiation treatment costs just about the same as a 1200 gram bottle of organic Acacia honey. Given a choice, I’d rather have the honey. Extra irony: my credit card is magical because it can somehow withdraw an unlimited amount of money from my bank account. The organic honey store only accepts cash.)

When I was dressed and opened the curtain, the radiation room was deserted. There was nobody to say good-bye to except the horrible machine but we had never really made friends. It felt strangely unfinished, like I should get a lollipop or a balloon, something to mark yet another passage through the surreal world that my life has entered.

So I walked back home, just another day, and got to work on the script for a program I will direct next week. In the program, three teams compete to make the springiest food they can come up with. One makes a gelatin-and-starch-based, multi-textured pudding (ugh), another makes a sticky rice ball seasoned with tomato and basil and topped with fish (blech) and the third, the crown jewel, is a blue, bacon-flavored lollipop made of mochi and swathed in mustard-flavored cotton candy. I kid you not.

monkey

Monkey Boy was minding his own business, having a nice nap in front of the kerosene heater, when I barfed on him. And then I realized I had something more to be grateful for. Nobody will ever force me to eat a blue bacon-flavored mochi lollipop swathed in mustard-flavored cotton candy. And as wild as my imagination may be at times, it will never go that far. For that, I am also grateful.

Naughty and Nice

Most of what you’ve heard about Japanese manners is true. There are prescribed behaviors for nearly every situation. This makes social interaction glitchless since everyone usually knows exactly what is expected of them.

There are exceptions to accepted behavior, of course, although most rules follow the concepts of honne/inside and tatemae/outside. In a nutshell, it’s OK to fart in public but you wouldn’t do that at the dinner table. One of the most extreme examples I ever saw was a Japanese man standing under a “No Smoking” sign at an airport. He was smoking, and when he was done, he dropped the butt on the carpet and ground it out with his shoe. He probably doesn’t do that at home.

hospital elevator

Elevator etiquette is simple and clear. Whoever gets in first holds the “Door Open” button until everyone else gets in. When we arrive, that same person holds the button again until everyone gets off. I’m very careful about this, especially at the hospital, not just because it is expected, but also because many of the others in the elevator are worse off than me, with canes, walkers or wheelchairs. No one should be penalized for being broken or sick, and the good little girl inside me feels good about being good. Plus, nobody can have too many brownie points.

The other day, however, a woman held the “Door Open” button while I got on, but when we got to the dungeon, she dashed off first, leaving me to fend for myself. I just shrugged, figuring she was a) in a hurry, b) oblivious, c) hates foreigners or d) a bitch.

I followed her to the computer where we scan our bar codes and of course her name went up above mine on the monitor. Two minutes later, the tech called me.

I don’t know why that happened.  I’m quite sure it isn’t because I am a Badass Unicorn Juju-powered Hottie, although that certainly doesn’t hurt. Most likely, the machine was already set up for zapping torsos and she was there for some other body part. Whatever the reason, I thanked the Goddess and was careful not to look at her as I was leaving, although the bad little girl inside me was throwing mud pies and sticking out her tongue.

Giblet Gravy

When I was a kid, my grandpa (maternal) always came to our house for Thanksgiving and we went to my grandma’s (paternal) for Christmas. As I remember it, Ma would get up early to stuff and roast the turkey and then prepare all the other fixings and by the time everything was ready, she was exhausted and in a grumpy mood. But then Grandpa would wield the carving knife and sharpening wand (apparently this is called a ‘honing steel’) and everyone would smile. Also, for once in the year, we were not required to eat stuff we didn’t like, which for me meant turkey skin and mashed sweet potatoes. But regular mashed potatoes? Stuffing? Homemade cranberry orange relish? Bring it on, baby.

スクリーンショット 2017-11-26 16.30.20

Gourmet Night at Fawlty Towers

But then there was the giblet gravy.

Wikipedia defines giblets as edible fowl offal. (That ought to put you off your crackers right there.) Every year, Ma would ruin her silky smooth homemade turkey gravy, rich with bird drippings and roasting pan scrapings, by adding said offal to it. Nobody liked the giblets very much but nobody ever said anything either because, well, family. I would look at my magnificent mountain of mashed potatoes, dripping with melted butter and, with a sigh, pour on the giblet gravy.

During my freshman year in college, Grandpa passed away. The next time I was home for holidays, probably Christmas that year, I was in the kitchen with Ma when she was making gravy. She started chopping the offal and I said, “You don’t have to do that.”

“What?”

“The giblets. Nobody likes them, not even you.”

“Grandpa does.”

“Grandpa’s not coming.”

She gave me a blank look for a moment and then, just like that, we never had giblet gravy again. We got to revel in the smooth and silky and the cats ate the offal.

This all came to mind because my 54th Thanksgiving came and went and I celebrated with a head cold and a bowl of chicken soup. I had expected to start recovering by now, but that isn’t happening, won’t happen for some time to come.

I continue to be amazed at what they don’t tell you about cancer treatment. I made a point of doing diligent research because there were bound to be cultural and language barriers involved in how this is done, but even the English websites like breastcancer.org, the NIH and the American Cancer Society don’t give you much detail. I dug around and followed links and when I finally got close to what I was looking for, they invariably said, “Talk to your doctor.”  But my doctor is not very cooperative.

Before we got started on chemo, the doctor told me I have a very rare form of cancer and that we would follow the standard treatment.

“But how can there be a ‘standard’ treatment if the cancer is so rare?”

“The treatment is world standard, not just Japan standard.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

“I’ll show you the website.”

“You’re not answering my question.”

“Here, look at this American website.”

“Oh, never mind.”

I was told he behaves that way because he doesn’t like the way many doctors in Japan pussyfoot around illness, refusing to tell their patients just how sick they are. Instead, he goes way too far in the opposite direction. I have been baffled by this. Why tell someone they’re dying when they’re not? What possible benefit is there in scaring the pickles out of someone who is already scared? Am I meant to be grateful to him when the test results come back negative? But all he did was hand me the results. The nurse who managed to get blood out of my damaged veins and the lab technician who did the test deserve more recognition.

It took a lot of research and some tooth-pulling to finally determine that it doesn’t matter that the type is rare. And the term ‘standard’ is not quite accurate. It should be ‘strongest’. Because the tumor was large and starting to spread, they hit me with the strongest stuff they had because it has the greatest chance of being effective. If I couldn’t take it, they would try something milder, but by doing that I would lose effectiveness percentage points. I try not to dwell on the thought that the surgeon may have gotten all the cancer and there isn’t any need for any of this horrible treatment, while at the same time, there’s never any guarantee that it won’t recur or some new cancer will rear its ugly head and we start all over again. It happens.

The first part of my treatment was a three month course of Paclitaxel. The famed nausea that comes with chemo was well-controlled with steroids. My hair fell out, but that was also expected. Lung impairment was on the list; I expected it after being a smoker for so many years. Even bone-weary fatigue was explained and no surprise when it kicked in. What they didn’t mention was disorientation, memory loss, digestion issues, dry skin, broken nails, blurry vision, tinnitus and a level of grumpiness that makes Ma on Thanksgiving look like Mother Teresa on Valium at a day spa. Even now, four months after finishing Paclitaxel, I have new symptoms. This time it’s swollen feet and hands and pain in the joints and muscles of all four limbs. I was told that the pain comes from nerve damage caused by Paclitaxel and could last for years.

I’m angry and frustrated, but there isn’t any point in yelling at anyone. I’m enough of a grown-up to know that…most of the time. Still, I have to wonder; if they had told me in the beginning how hard this was going to be, would I have had the courage to do it? To be honest, I think I would have. Early on in this odyssey, one of my oldest friends, who is also a doctor, said, “It’s your boob or your life. Pick one.” Simple, direct, absolute truth. I picked. There is only one road that leads where I am going and I have to follow it.

As much as I hate the idea, percentage points is what it comes down to, and all the medical world has to offer. Cancer is unpredictable, and each person’s body reacts differently, so each cancer case is unique. In the social atmosphere of the ’60s, that might have been a cool thing, but in terms of human mortality, it means I will spend the rest of my life walking on a tightrope. There are no guarantees, no promises. Tall or short, beautiful or homely, wealthy or poor, dedicated athlete or couch potato, vegan or MacDonald’s addict, we’re all in the same boat. Nothing stands along the bus route to the terminal station except statistics and dumb luck.

hospital bus

I thought I was safe, but someone put the giblets back in my gravy.

‘Snot Good

For reasons that escape me, there is a statue of Florence Nightingale in the lobby of Tokyo Medical Center, where I get my daily dose of radiation.

Nightengale at the hospital

I asked her what she’s doing there, but she’s mute on the subject.
Nyar, nyar, nyar.

I still haven’t made my peace with having a disease that doesn’t make me nearly as sick as the treatment to get rid of it, but if I don’t do the treatment, the disease will kill me for sure. Cancer contradictions are varied and frustrating. Death Star tends to overstate his case, but after all he is focused solely on boobs, all day every day. The radiologist at the hospital shrugged and said, “It’s just breast cancer. It’s perfectly manageable.” I guess from his perspective, it is. He must have seen things I can not, don’t want to, imagine.

All the same, it’s still cancer, and the treatment is no picnic. After a year of  it, I’m pretty worn down. On top of that, or maybe because of it, I have a cold. It takes two weeks to get over a cold, says my mother, or with medication, it takes 14 days. (She is very wise.) I read somewhere that despite enormous progress in modern medicine, nothing can be done about viruses except control the symptoms and let Mother Nature steer the ship.

But now I am wondering how long it takes to get over a cold after two major surgeries, six months of chemotherapy, twelve rounds of radiation (with more to come), endless pain killers, steroids, radioactive isotopes, some really doubtful hospital cuisine and way too many doughnuts. I’ll let you know.

In the meantime, here’s a piece of wisdom I discovered this morning: Do not attempt a yoga headstand when you’ve got a cold. Gravity and phlegm do not get along. You will find yourself in the fast lane bound for Dizzytown.

On a lighter note, Mt. Fuji put in a rare appearance today. I find it very important to find something, at least one thing, to be grateful for each and every day. Yesterday it was the 1/16th of an inch of hair that has appeared on my head. Today is is Mt. Fuji, which is much more significant in the grander scope of things, but relatively insignificant from where I’m sitting. You can have the mountain; I’ll take the hair.

Carrot Tower Fuji