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.”


“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, 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

One Toke Over the Line

Way back in 1970, Mike Brewer and Tom Shipley recorded “One Toke Over the Line”. Spiro Agnew called the two subversives because of the song’s drug references, but it was a really good song. Come on, Spiro, a little perspective. They were only singing about pot. Alcohol and refined sugar do a lot more damage, and they’re both legal, as is selling guns to deranged people. But I digress.

Brewer and Shipley 1970

“One Toke” is still a good song, and they’re still singing it. They look a little different, although I think Tom looks pretty hot.

Brewer and Shipley 2016

It was such a good song that Gail and Dale covered it on the Lawrence Welk Show.

One Toke Cream Cheese

Those two are so wholesome I could sprinkle them on my morning oatmeal. Where can I get myself a butterfly apron like that?

Maestro Welk referred to the song as “a modern spiritual.” He and the producers must have heard “sweet Jesus” and “sweet Mary” and assumed it was a gospel song. Too bad they were too lazy to ask someone what “toke” means. I’ll bet any of the musicians in the band could have told them. Maybe Gail and Dale knew, too, and that’s why they’re smiling. But those smiles strike me more as “Honk if you love Jesus” than “Pass me the bong.”

Wholesome, healthy family entertainment. Remember “Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom”? Or “The Wonderful World of Disney”? Those programs made Sunday evenings the holy Mecca of the week. I remember being young enough that I was allowed to watch Disney but had to go straight to bed after it ended. I don’t remember watching Lawrence Welk, but I doubt champagne music would have appealed to me as a kid. As an adult, I can’t stand it and have always hated accordions, Welk’s chosen instrument of torture. Honestly, I’d rather listen to off-key bagpipes.

These days, the clock ticks past 8:30 and I am ready for bed. The word “weary” has taken on new meaning. From tomorrow, I have to push myself through three more weeks of radiation and then my poor body will finally be allowed to rest. I’ve been pumping it full of drugs and poison and nuclear fallout for ten months. Enough, already. It feels like I’m several dozen tokes over the line.


Little known fact: Lawrence Welk talked funny because English was his second language. He grew up in the German speaking community of Strasburg, North Dakota. I had always assumed he was Italian, “A-one and a-two…”

Ode to the Hot Fudge Sundae

I had a dream that my mother got all done up in a Victorian costume complete with granny glasses, a bonnet and petticoats. She was spinning alpaca hair. When she tired of that, she went to work on an heirloom quilt with a futuristic theme of celestial orbs and other heavenly objects. Toto was looking on, barking encouragement.

Oh, wait. That wasn’t a dream.

space ma with Layla

I had a dream that a bunch of strangers in white coats and masks came at me with needles and knives and bits of thread and hacked away at my torso until it looked like a dart board after a frat party. Then they pumped me full of poison for months on end and put me on a strict regimen of daily exposure to photon torpedoes until my matter and antimatter were scrambled eggs. To get revenge, I made a voodoo doll to represent all foolish mortals who dare to wear white. I grew feverish as I jabbed pins into its vulnerable body. My eyes rolled back into my head and I laughed the laugh of the possessed. Bwahahaha!

Oh, wait. That wasn’t a dream either.

Voodoo doll

I had a dream that I sat with a spoon poised over a hot fudge sundae. The quickly melting ice cream was just starting to drip over the edges of the fluted glass. The succulent cherry poised on top glinted in the afternoon sun. My spoon hovered. I hesitated, savoring the moment, the whipped cream taunting me with its sensual froth. My taste buds quivered in anticipation, while minuscule droplets of drool percolated at the corners of my parted lips. My ego calmly rationalized, “There’s a cherry on top. That’s a fruit. It’s healthy and nutritious.” At the same time, my id ran around in hysterical circles, waving its arms and screaming, “Cream! Sugar! Calories! Fat! Gimme! Gimme NOW!”

Now THAT was a dream. There’s no hot fudge in Japan, silly.

Peko chan


Tokyo Iriyo Center

My radiation treatments are done at Tokyo Medical Center, every Monday to Friday, for five weeks. Each morning, I get up, do some yoga to center myself, eat breakfast, then walk to the hospital. It takes less than half an hour. The weather is crisp; there are piles of dry leaves to shuffle through. I could not have done this during chemo, not that distance, not in summer heat.

When I get to the hospital, I put my ID card into a machine which prints out a piece of paper showing my patient number and a bar code. The paper is pink. Everyone gets a piece of pink paper. The Tokyo Medical Center is a large complex, with what feels like hundreds of hamsters scurrying around, grasping our pieces of pink paper, trying not to look worried, but sadness hangs thick in the air.

radiation sign

I head downstairs to radiation, into the rabbit hole, once again into the surreal zone. I scan my bar code into a computer and a monitor tells me how many people are ahead of me. I settle into one of the vinyl chairs in the hallway to wait. When my turn comes, a technician comes to collect me.

The first time I saw the radiation machine, I did a double take because the set-up looks much like the stirrups at the gynecologist’s office. But before I could object, the technician explained, much to my relief, that my head goes there, in the middle, and my elbows and wrists go in what I had thought were stirrups.

I lie down on the table and they put a triangular cushion under my knees, which is very nice, even more comfortable than a yoga bolster. The female technician takes out her marker and repairs the potholes in the road map of Arizona (see November 7 post). Then she jiggles me into exactly the right position, and zap then zap again and I’m done. The whole process takes less than ten minutes. I put my shirt back on and return to the land of the living where I wait in line to return my pink paper, then wait for my number to be called so I can pay my bill. I wait much longer for that than for treatment, but the waiting lobby is large and airy, a sunlit atrium, the inevitable TV sets on but turned low. It’s not so bad.

When I went in for orientation, they told me several times that hospital services are first-come-first-served, but I’ve already noticed that they let me skip ahead in the line at radiation and have wondered why. Because I’m younger and quicker than most of the other people waiting in the vinyl chairs? They’ve twice let me go ahead of an old lady in a wheelchair. Once I went ahead of an old man who shuffled in after me, slowly, leaning on a cane. I assume I hop onto the table more quickly than either of them can.

So today’s list of gratitude: a pleasant walk to the hospital, crunchy leaves in cool breezes, not having to wait long, being young enough to hop, being able to hop at all. And unicorns. I’m grateful for unicorns, especially pink ones. I don’t care about pink pieces of paper. But I will be grateful when I’ve seen the last of those.  bookshelf unicorn

The Bald Ambassador

We had some business at the American embassy a couple of weeks ago. Because of the pissing match going on between the spoiled brats in Washington and Pyongyang, security at the embassy is tight. It’s a good thing we were early for our appointment because it took twenty minutes to get inside.

army knife with quarter

They didn’t go so far as a cavity search, but they did confiscate Rochi’s 1.5 inch Swiss army knife. It would have taken some pretty serious Shawshank Redemption style effort to do any damage with that. I was starting to lose my patience when, at the final checkpoint before entering the hallowed ground, a guard asked me to take off my head scarf. I stared at him, raised my hand as if to touch it and started to shake my head, “No.”

I’m usually a fairly cooperative and obedient citizen when it comes to things like that, where arguing usually causes more trouble than it’s worth, although it does piss me off when they make old ladies take off their shoes and get out of their wheelchairs to hobble through airport metal detectors. This wasn’t so very different from that. I understand security and one rule for everyone, but I will not be balded at the entrance to the embassy.

The guard stared back at me. I could see him mentally clicking through his training manual, then his eyes flew open and he said, “Gan desu ka? (Is it cancer?)” Too annoyed to be surprised at such a direct and personal question from someone it is safe to assume is a normally reticent Japanese, I raised one of what was left of an eyebrow and slowly nodded once. He let us pass.

As annoying as the experience was, the story gets better with time. I told a gay friend about it and he burst out laughing. “Did you just use ‘bald’ as a verb? I guess if you can ‘out’ someone, there’s no reason you can’t ‘bald’ them.” Indeed.

me in pink


yoga calendars

I finished chemotherapy almost five weeks ago. As of Monday, it was time to start radiation therapy. To do that, I first had to have another CT scan to make sure my organs are where they’re supposed to be, I guess. At this point, I don’t ask. I just do what I’m told with a soft “baa” under my breath. (“Baa” is the sound a unicorn makes when it’s pretending to be a sheep.)

Next, I had to have my chest marked so the technicians would know exactly where to aim their ray gun. That seemed like a sensible plan. From the extensive knowledge I had gleaned from TV hospital dramas, I thought they would put a couple of inconspicuous dots on my chest. They used to tattoo them, but now they use indelible marker, the kind you use to write your name in your underpants when you go to summer camp.

After they had finished with a bunch of poking and prodding and measuring and picture taking of various sorts, three technicians came at me armed with markers. I couldn’t see what they were doing since my arms were above my head in banzai pose and I wasn’t supposed to move anyway, but they went at it for quite a while. When they were done and I looked in a mirror, I did not discover a tasteful dot or two that could be mistaken for Mae West style beauty marks. Instead, I found what looked like a map of Arizona. My surgery scar pretty much follows the Grand Canyon and the the Hopi and Navajo nations are nestled in my armpit, where they are welcome. Despite daily stretching and yoga, I still can’t feel anything there anyway.

I have followed a very unfocused but dedicated yoga practice for about a year and a half, even more dedicatedly since I started chemo, partly to structure my days and partly because there wasn’t much else I could do. But instead of Vinyasa or Ashtanga, both of which I love but take a fair amount of power, I’ve had to keep to Hatha, Yin and restorative, which are slow and gentle and keep me centered and sane even if they don’t help much with muscle strength.lacquer box


I have a lovely lacquered box filled with colored pens and pencils and a variety of stickers and a pair of granny glasses which I use when I write my activities on my yoga calendars. If anybody were to ask me, “Where were you on October 4th?” I could honestly say, “I did a 38 minute Hatha yoga class followed by a ten minute anxiety relief meditation and then went to my final chemo session.” And if asked, “Do you remember any of that?” I could honestly say, “No, not really.” Chemo brain fog has its benefits.

Despite what my regular doctor said about metastasis and pneumonia, and I have since nicknamed him Death Star, the radiologist said that my lungs are now clear and any shortness of breath I’ve still got is because I haven’t been able to exercise properly for so long. He was very supportive of yoga. I had told dozens of doctors and nurses that I do yoga and really believe in its benefits, but I mostly got blank stares, sometimes even condescending sneers. Death Star scoffed at me, saying, “Yoga is easy.” I just raised an eyebrow and said, gently, “There are lots of different kinds of yoga.”

For the first time in a long time, I’m starting to feel better. The evil chemo monster, kicking and screaming, is finally being dragged off center stage. Fears of some sort of horrid mutiny inside my lungs appear to have been unfounded. Radiation, so far at least, is quick and easy and unlikely to make me grow horns or start speaking in tongues. And I have permission to get back, gently at least, to doing some real muscle work. And that pretty much brings us full circle. I first noticed the lump about a year ago, just when I had started working on doing a yoga headstand. And now I’m back to working on the headstand. If you don’t believe me, proof is in the peacock.peacock butt


Do I feel vindicated? You betcha. Does it matter? Not a whit. The fact that I am starting to feel better matters more than anything else.

What’s that smell?


Somewhere around the time I hit puberty, as my body began to develop, so did my personal musk. I graduated from little girl sugar and spice to something more mature and, like most people with any sense of propriety, started wearing deodorant. I continued to do so for the following forty or so years until I had surgery last January. Since then, my body has continually been pumped full of drugs and poison and stuff I don’t even want to know about. I have not needed deodorant, even during the long, hot summer. Instead of my own familiar musk, I smell vaguely of something between a chemistry lab and a gas station bathroom. My nearest and dearest, or at least near enough to notice, claim not to have noticed, and they get brownie points for politeness if that’s all it is. It’s not a bad smell, really, it just isn’t me. It sometimes feels like I’m wearing someone else’s skin, and that’s way too Silence of the Lambs for my liking.

The medical world doesn’t bother to tell you about things like this, partly because the journey is different for everyone and the possibilities of treatment side effects are endless. Chemo effects are also cumulative; even now, four weeks after finishing, I am still getting new ones, mostly mild but annoying and taken together, awfully depressing. I am waiting impatiently for the day that I start feeling better.

Still, I am always looking for those shining silver linings, and yesterday, as I was taking off my shirt, I noticed a whiff of BO emanating from my right armpit. I sniffed. I sniffed again. Indeed, my right armpit was definitely giving off a human scent, a familiar scent, the scent of me. I welcomed it, nearly moved to tears. I know it’s only a baby step, but it’s a step in the right direction and I’ve been wandering around in circles for far too long.

Who knew a smelly armpit could bring such joy?


I was walking along a narrow path deep within a forest. The path was carpeted with pine needles that padded my footsteps and smelled of Christmas. I could hear birds chirping above me in the branches of the trees, their rich green leaves filtering the soft sunlight, making dappled patterns on the delicate plants and tiny flowers that covered the ground. Overhead were soft, cumulus clouds forming shapes that defied imagination: an eagle feather, a jack-in-the-box, a marshmallow bunny, a sesame seed bagel. There was a light scent of jasmine dancing on the warmth of a breeze.  Coming from what seemed a great distance, I could just barely hear the kind of music that makes you want to close your eyes and feel the life force flowing through your skin and into your bones and muscle and out again, back into the endless energy of the universe.


As I followed a curve in the path that skirted a large gray rock flecked with gold that glinted in the sunlight, I emerged into a small clearing. At its center stood a shining pink unicorn nibbling on some yellow buttercups. At the sound of my step, she looked up, tossed her long white mane and tilted her silver horn in greeting. I reached out and gently stroked her delicate muzzle, felt the curve of bone in her powerful jaw, gave her a light scratch between her twitching ears and drew the tips of my fingers along her magnificent brow. She winked at me, as if to say, “Yes. This is real. I am real. You have found nirvana.”

And then I woke up. There was no unicorn, no gentle sunlight, no breeze, no birds, no buttercups. It was cold in the room and still raining as it has been, off and on, for the past three months. The only sound I could hear was the shriek of a motorcycle tearing apart the neighborhood’s peaceful Sunday evening silence. And I still felt just as awful as I had when I fell asleep.

Then I looked down at my hand and saw, resting on my fingertip, one sparkling pink eyelash. I smiled and then I sneezed. When I opened my eyes, it was gone. But I choose to believe it was there, just as I choose to believe in nirvana and I choose to believe that it will someday stop raining and I choose to believe a lot of things I can’t really put into words but carry around with me, some version of hope, a tendril of faith in the power of elves and fairies, a knowing in my soul that there are some universal truths and I just have to find the strength to see them.

The sun will rise again tomorrow and I will open my eyes to see it. For now, that’s enough.

How to Name a Typhoon

Screenshot-2017-10-25 Typhoon Committee Typhoon Committee is an intergovernmental body organized under the joint auspices o[...]

When I went to bed on Sunday night, the media were calling #21 a massive typhoon (technically a tropical cyclone). It turned out to be a proverbial tempest in a chapot. I couldn’t sleep that night but that’s OK since I’ve always been a fan of violent weather. Well, almost always. When I was a little girl, there was a huge tree right outside my bedroom window and every time there was a storm, I was convinced the tree would fall onto the house and crush me to smithereens. I would cry and cry until one of my parents came up to comfort me. And, boy oh boy, the lies they made up to get me to shut up! One of them once said the roof was made of rubber so if the tree fell, it would just bounce back off again. I believed it. Kids are dumb.


So I lay awake and listened as the rain pelted the windows and the wind whined a bit, but that was the extent of it. There were no broken flowerpots or tree branches, no upturned old ladies, no banshees wailed, no witches sailed past on broomsticks. Although it’s been raining for what feels like months, the typhoon passed by within an hour. Despite all the dire warnings, typhoon #21 inspired yet another media circus about a non-event.

The next morning I got a message from a friend in the States implying that the Western hemisphere is more civilized than this one because they use names instead of numbers for what they incorrectly call “hurricanes”. The US uses people’s names, alternately male and female. They were all female until 1979 when a lot of women burned our bras in protest and they changed the rules.

So I thought I should look into this matter.

It turns out that Asian typhoons do have names but we don’t use them here in Japan. There’s a super secret group called the ESCAP/WMO (Economic and Social Commission for Asia and the Pacific/World Meteorological Organization) Typhoon Committee who are responsible for naming typhoons in the Western Pacific. The Committee has 14 member countries, all in Asia except, for reasons that escape me, the United States, who got together and made a list of names. Each country contributed five names and the names are used in sequential order according to the alphabetical ordering of the English names of the member countries, starting with Cambodia and ending with Vietnam. Our #21 was called Lan, a name contributed by the US. Last week’s typhoon, #20, was called Khanun, named by Thailand. Currently, #22, Saola (Vietnam), is kicking up her heels somewhere around Guam.

Japan’s contributions to the list include Kujira (whale) and Usagi (rabbit). I wonder who was responsible for that one? “Quick! Latch all the windows and hide the cabbages and carrots! Typhoon Bunny is coming!”

Long story short, it turns out that the reason we use numbers instead of names is that many of the names on the list are too hard to pronounce in Japanese, which has a very limited syllabulary, and our newscasters are very lazy indeed.


Mystery solved.


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