Daniela's Updates (By Ken)

Last Post...

2008-06-09T21:39:00.005-04:00

The oncology causeway has run its course. I still have pixels and graph paper, and feel like a detour. If you want to take a drive with me...click here.

penultimate post...acknowledgements

2008-06-03T21:42:00.005-04:00

A host of creatures was responsible for this oncology fairy tale ending. Their calescence and companionship helped us navigate the metastatic labyrinth...and all of its twists and turns: the diagnosis, the prognosis, the abscission decision, the chemo infusions, and the silicone impressions.

I want to acknowledge the following fencibles, fungibles, tangibles, indelibles, and responsibles...

...her Praetorian Guard, for sweeping into action, and planning a campaign of emails, meals, neighborhood walks and more;
...the shoal of chefs, for sustenance during periods of withering appetite;
...the TRS support group sisters, for the serape and its metonymic embrace, a reassuring survivor's caress;
...her parents and her siblings, and my parents and my siblings;
...her zii, tante, and onkels and my tías and tíos;
...her cousins, and my cousins;
...our children;
...our neighbors;
...those who sent care packages and letters;
...a flutter of friends, close-by;
...a flutter of friends, afar;
...our soccer buddies;
...the Bryn Mawr bunch;
...the Princeton anthropology pod;
...the other former Army spouses;
...the surgeons;
...the oncology nurses;
...the oncologist;
...her nausea antagonist-Anzemet;
...the chemo cocktails;
...the blog posters and the lurkers;
...the hats that kept her warm through the hairless winter....
(You can skip the video promenade and enjoy the poses at your own pace by clicking here.)

We walked...

2008-05-31T22:08:00.004-04:00

We walked this afternoon, in the local Relay for Life. Daniela shed her bandana and held her head up high, as she along with other survivors walked the first lap. We joined her for the second lap around the track, as others cheered. Click here to keep pace with the images.

...chirurgical cleavage...

2008-05-28T22:36:00.010-04:00

Yesterday, she snuck back into Georgetown for a post-op double decker. The plastic surgeon was tickled by the statuesque silicone. (He asked Daniela to schedule a follow-up in three fortnights time, in order to discuss the option of garnishing each scoop with a simulated berry.) The surgical oncologist also sought sight of the spheres. She surveyed satisfactorily, and smiled.

Last week's surgical sequel was actually a double-feature, the surgical oncologist had stepped in to shave a bit of lipid frosting located underneath the dermis (the upper-right quadrant, right scoop), as an added precaution...searching for any stray breast cancer stem-cells...missed by the bilateral mastectomy.

Operating room gossip hinted of a sweet spat between the surgeons. The plastic surgeon second-guessed the largesse...of the shaving sample. The surgical oncologist, perhaps surmised he should stick to the silicone. In the end, these are just rumors, and the surgeons are still friends...their camaraderie a complicated complex of the convex.

Oh...back to the sample, that fatty post-op hors d' oeuvre served up from the pathology parlor. It was cancer-free. So I drew her with delight...a damsel in escapist dress.

Memorial Day Melee and more...

2008-05-26T23:46:00.013-04:00

Her freshly-brewed mug of Irish Breakfast tea, half-full, toppled over this morning. The tablecloth soaked up most of the teaine. While flipping homemade pancakes on the griddle, I heard the lament. Ohhh...sheise! Keeeeennnn, can you pass me a sponge? Along with the sponge, I offered up a serving of "don't worry...so you knocked over your tea mug...." Then came her qualifier, part surrealism, part comedy stand-up routine: I didn't knock it over with my hand; I was just getting up from the table...and I can't feel them; I...I knocked it over with my new boob. After I assisted in sweeping up the tea tide, I couldn't help but imagine the warning label captions for this one. (I will spare you those rants.)

In the end, the silicone was unscathed and un-scalded. However, I did notice that the tea mug was bumped a good ten inches. Her new silicone took the last sushi outing a bit too seriously, perhaps, and shape shifted into...Sumo silicone?

Bosom brawl and all, we had a fun holiday weekend. Here are a few images of family gatherings, friendly cookouts and motorcycles roaring into town along Interstate 66, on Sunday for the annual Rolling Thunder rally. (Click here for the curbside view.)

Halogen (Blue) Headlights

2008-05-23T22:12:00.012-04:00

She unveiled at approximately 1730 hrs shedding the complimentary surgical brazier and pillow-sized gauze pads. Her review was delicately deferred...accented by aping glances in the mirror. She wasn't sure.... (I was impressed by the symmetry and shape.) She complained, about lift and slope. I told her she just needed to make their acquaintance, perhaps even take them out for a spin, sushi perhaps. She smiled, so we did.

Hours later, she is asleep and I'm typing...still in awe at the prowess of those plastic surgeons. And, I am still processing Daniela's reluctance to celebrate her silicone. She seems indignant, unwilling to compartmentalize the silicone end game from its genealogy.

Here are seven images, life with the silicone seedlings.... (As usual, you can click here and walk through the synthetic garden at your own pace.)

Back Home... (Sounds of Silicone II)

2008-05-21T19:05:00.004-04:00

19:14 hrs, we're back home. Daniela has faded away, resting in a deep operatic sleep...induced by a Percocet aria. She is JP drain-free, and will probably be walking around the house tomorrow, unfettered.

A few feet away, I'm staring at the second part of the surgical team's playlist, which was hand delivered to me in the post-operative recovery lounge...a few hours ago. The surgical team closed to an eclectic serenade...Metallica's Hero of the Day, Depeche Mode's Dream On, and Stratovarius' Papillon.

The surgical aperture was immersed in a melody both literal and agricultural. The opening tune was Róisín Murphy's Sow into You. Indeed, silicone seeds sown into her. An enchanting and metaphoric melody by Stratovarius (a 90's Metal band from Finland) ended the show. Papillon, a 1973 movie about an escape from an island prison. Papillon, Gallic utterance for butterfly...the final and most ornamental stage in the Lepidopteran lifecycle.

I glance over at her, a final inspection before taking a nap. Her eyelids flutter. Her oncology migration is almost complete.

In Surgery... (The Sounds of Silicone)

2008-05-21T14:05:00.020-04:00

After a two-hour delay, which included multiple pre-briefings with elements of the surgical team, Daniela was escorted into the operating room. The surgeons began to labor at 13:55 hrs. Before her scheduled dance with the anesthesia, she told me she was bored. She made funny faces. Here is my favorite funny face from earlier today.

While I blog, the surgical team boogies. During the pre-op pre-briefings, I overheard the residents talking about the anticipated soundtrack. So, I asked a nurse to document the tracks. Dr. Cocilovo came by the waiting area to let me know that her part of the procedure went well. She also handed me part of the playlist. The first four tracks are by Róisín Murphy, an Irish voice calibrated to pop-jazz-electronica. The title of the first song speaks volumes about the surgical team's sense of duty. Tracks 1,2,3,4 are...Sow into You, Ruby Blue, Checkin' on me, Overpowered. Track five shifted to a different artist...the group Red Hot Chili Peppers...and their track My Friends.

It is a few minutes past 15:00 hrs. They should be done soon. If you are in the mood for a surgical melody...click on the video: Róisín Murphy's Sow into You. Those plastic surgeons are so hip.

anticoagulant author-ity...

2008-05-17T15:41:00.011-04:00

Yesterday morning, she ventured alone back into the phlebotomy labyrinth...the requisite pre-surgery bloodletting. I called her during the day, at noon, and asked about the labyrinth. I interrupted her lunch at The Italian Store, an Arlington eatery. "Everything was fine," she exhaled between bites of antipasto.

Hours after the excursion she punctuated her pillow talk. "Wrote something...while I was waiting at Georgetown." I expected her to reach for a journal. Instead, Daniela skipped a few steps to her office and returned with a scrap of paper...a receipt for purchases made at Heidelberg Pastry Shoppe. 3"x 7" is an unusual size for stationery. I rotated the receipt and read.

The oncology tax is anything but regressive. Each transaction within the metastasis experience is also a tariff. Yesterday's currency was hemoglobin-based. She paid, as she has before. However, this time she did not dissolve herself in the collection spectacle. Her anthropological sensibilities surfaced and she stepped outside of the labyrinth...drawing emotions and ink atop an ounce of cellulose...basking in a re-emergent and authorial confidence. Her penmanship managed to trace, among other emotions and ideas, an outline of her old self.

(Click on the picture to peer at her prose.)

R2SiO TV

2008-05-15T23:05:00.014-04:00

My afferent affines have dispersed...reversing their flow and radiating outward from our residential epicenter. They molted into efferent coordinates. Daniela's father and brother are back in the Big Easy enjoying a bignet or two. Her mother is nestled in Nederland. And Steffi is weighing in at a Buddhist writing seminar in California...drafting Dharmas amidst scribbling Sanghas.

Our home theater emits more routine signals, but only for a few more days. The much anticipated surgical sequel debuts Wednesday morning at 11:00, a four-hour mini-series of sorts...a sixty to ninety-minute broadcast at its core, if you edit out the commercial breaks. So I am told.

Consanguinity Comics presents...

2008-05-09T16:32:00.008-04:00

in association with Monocle Man Productions and Crowded House Entertainment, a graphic layout of recent experiences.... (You can click on each page to zoom in and amplify the captions.)

Island Intermission...

2008-04-30T22:23:00.004-04:00

April 19th, my grandmother...Carmen Rovira Calimano (Z"L) died. She was 93 when she closed her eyes for the last time...a remarkable life, a matriarch mourned. She lived in Richmond, Virginia these past few years, an uncomfortable expatriate. The funeral was scheduled for April 25th in her hometown of Guayama, Puerto Rico.

I asked Daniela if she wanted to come with me in order to celebrate my grandmother's life...to revisit my childhood landscapes...to escape from the oncology matrix for a few days.

She agreed. So we packed up.

We returned yesterday, refreshed...the sounds of the waves still ringing in our ears. Caribbean breezes and canvas hammocks...a combination of refreshing curative sensations, made her smile these past few days. Tropical fruits, island cuisine, and seascapes all flavored her truancy experience. We all enjoyed our time away....

You are welcome to vicariously vacation. (Click here to soak your feet up close...in larger-sized waves of pictures.)

...fidentia ex machina

2008-04-22T21:52:00.003-04:00

Today, we motored back into Georgetown for a quick pit stop, a necessary tune-up in the lengthy oncology Grand Prix. The crew chief and lead mechanic today was Dr. Cocilovo, Daniela's surgical oncologist. Dr. Cocilovo cleared Daniela, and pronounced her fit to resume the rally. The date for the reconstructive surgery will be sometime in mid or late May. This race is lengthy. The terrain is uncharted. In order to ensure optimal performance over time, her mechanics have laid out a course of diagnostic letters...MRIs, CAT scans, CBCs, among others.

Daniela enjoyed today's ride. Dr. Cocilovo's bedside manner and candor infused Daniela with a renewed sense of adventure. She smiled and soaked up the sun on the way home. Shedding her customary cover, she became a cranial convertible. Sunglasses domesticated the springtime sunshine as she shifted gears....

Hypochondriasis Hesitation

2008-04-20T23:45:00.006-04:00

Have you had any bone pain? Seven syllables strung together, seemingly innocuous incipiency. During our last visit to the oncologist, this was the resident physician's opening line. Suddenly, she is suspicious. Sometimes, she is silent.

I'm tired, she confesses.... A few minutes later, I think I have bone pain, she authoritatively serves up. Seconds later, How do I know if it's bone pain? Maybe I just need a new pair of shoes? This interplay of assertiveness and self-doubt...of diagnosis and indecision is a curious art form of hers...sculpted abstractions. When she dresses her exhaustion in language, she also veils other distresses...affright at the prospect of metastasis in the marrow.

A few minutes ago she chiseled again, I have bone pain...or maybe I don't. My attempt to contain the smirk was amateurish...an awkward silence. So I interrupted, A paranoid hypochondriac...well, you always were an overachiever. She laughed. Her anxiety temporarily derailed.

As I type these last few sentences...she sleeps restfully. Now it is my turn to worry.

The Oracle at Georgetown...

2008-04-10T22:13:00.005-04:00

Today we were granted an audience with the oncology priestess presiding over the Oracle at Georgetown. Daniela came in search of prophecy. She wanted assurances.... What can I do to prevent a recurrence? Statistically, what is the recurrence rate for someone with my profile? There were more questions, but they were variations on the same theme. Our oncology priestess spoke intelligibly. Numbers, statistics, percentages, procedures and other vapors swirled around us. A few minutes later, Daniela realized the Oracle was blind to her anxieties. The Oracle could not guarantee that her future would be cancer-free. With a box of tissues and a warm embrace, the oncology priestess tried to restore her faith. We will return to the Oracle three months from today. Maybe, Daniela will ask again...

Here your will find the day's divinations, parcelled out in pixelated visions...

Hair Haiku III & IV...

2008-04-08T23:56:00.007-04:00

Velvet sheaths sparkle...
Lanugo fiber optics;
Chinese Gooseberry.

Wooden shaman chants...
Harvesting supplications.
Does Ceres hear her?

Supercilium Sketch

2008-04-04T23:37:00.005-04:00

She draws herself each day. I have watched the morning routine for the past week. Eyebrow pencil in hand, she diagrams and details, completing the illusion. The outer arches of her eyebrows, culled by the cumulative effects of chemotherapy, have faded. "Does it look like a smudge?" she frowns, while spreading the pigmented plaster. "Not at all," I palter...smiling...moving towards her reflection in the mirror.

Earlier this evening, I tried to draw her. A #2 pencil pawed at the graph paper completing another illusion. My rustic rendition bore some resemblance. The eyebrows--ah, those I drafted last...slow deliberate etchings, each line a graphite incantation shrieking across the page...hoping to awaken her hibernating follicles.

Dispensing Dispositions...

2008-03-30T19:11:00.008-04:00

Her new mood machine vends the latest vagaries. These outlooks have been organically crafted...replacements for the spent chemo caprices. (As you can appreciate, this appliance does not accept cytotoxic coinage. And, I'm glad...because we ran out.) Today, I pushed all her buttons at once, and she laughed.

Rites de Passage...

2008-03-28T00:04:00.014-04:00

The daily drift of junk mail rested on the coffee table. Near the pesky paper pyramid, stood a smaller stack of two library books, two monographs memorializing particular experiences of life after chemo...for breast cancer cancer survivors. I glanced at the covers, and read the commentaries on the back cover. I opened the red softcover volume and peeked inside...a list stared back at me, a list of how to celebrate the end of your treatments. Walk on a beach, and contemplate the eternal by staring at the oceanic horizon. Place all of your empty pill vials on your driveway and run them over with your car. Host a gathering, ask your friends to bring tulip bulbs, and plant them as symbol of a hopeful future. The suggestions ranged from exalting the endless, to indulging the whimsical, to a botanic domestication of uncertainty. A few sentences down the page cautioned...it may take several weeks after your last chemo treatment to feel rejuvenated. The caveat is accurate.

Her circadian rhythms are still calibrated by the cytotoxic cocktail delivered almost a week ago. The usual side effects, sensing their imminent eviction, impose themselves upon the biological theater...a festive and most unwelcome curtain call. Nausea...takes a few too many bows and lingers on the stage for the past few days. Irritability and exhaustion...duel each other in an attempt to seize a few rays of the remaining limelight. Her follow-up appointment in a week or two will complete this performance...chemo closure to the tune of an oncologist's applause. No refunds allowed.

While she devoured her new library acquisitions, I dined on a different genre of recitation. Eduardo Galeano's Walking Words (1995) served up a satisfying safe harbor of fiction. Thumbing through the dog-eared pages, I reacquainted myself with traces I had left behind. One of my favorites recounts how a man "...searches in vain for the word that slipped away as he was about to say it. It was right on the tip of his tongue. Where did it go?" Galeano sews up the playful prose with a few questions. "Is there a place for all the words that don't want to stay? A kingdom of lost words? These words that escape, were do they lie in wait?"

I dissolve myself in different riddles and dwell on the currency of chemotherapy-induced irritability...a coinage minted from toxins and stamped with abrading phrases. Fortunately, this legal (un)tender speech lost much of its value with repetition...a devaluation of meaning...hyperinflation of a different sort. What will I do with all this worthless wordage? Is there a space for all the words that shouldn't have been said? What will be my ceremony to mark the transition into this post-chemo era? Walk on the beach and bury my journal in the sand? Place it on the driveway and run it over with the car? Plant it in the garden, and imagine a tree bearing rant-flavored fruit? I abhor the randomness of chemo-induced irritability...its artificiality...its poisonous prose born from the body's reflex to erupt, eradicate and expel the toxic elixir. Irritability infused by cytotoxins is indecipherable. Is there a ritual space for all the events that needn't be exalted? An ethnography of lost rituals? These rituals that abate, where do they lie inchoate?

The Great Chemo Escape...infusion number iv

2008-03-21T19:46:00.005-04:00

A few years ago, Daniela introduced me to a new comic book superhero. She handed me a copy of Michael Chabon's novel The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay (2000). "You'll like it," she endorsed. I liked the novel. And, I liked the comic books and comic book anthologies, The Amazing Adventures of the Escapist that followed the novel. The Escapist, in summary, is a master of locks, chains, ropes, knots, ties, fastenings, and fetters of all kinds. He champions the League of the Golden Key--a secret and ancient society dedicated to the principles of liberation and freedom, from oppression and slavery, physical or psychological. Following the Manichean motifs of many comic book story lines, the Escapist is constantly battling the agents of the Iron Chain, a mysterious criminal network machinating and plotting to limit freedom and curtail liberty throughout the globe. But I warn you, don't dismiss the Escapist's escapades. The comic books are replete with nuance, and self-effacingly blur the boundaries between the idealized constructions of both freedom and bondage.

Since the Escapist managed to extricate himself from Chabon's novel, and resides in a new series of comic book anthologies, I thought he may just be able to decamp once more and redeploy his skills in the Chemoscape. We were both astounded as he leapt from the page and became our accomplice in the great chemo escape.

In order to retreat into this recital of rescue and release, dissolve yourself in the slideshow. Or, if your disappearance requires a larger stage, click here, to slip into the super-sized spiel.

fiori di fuori...e gocce dell'acqua

2008-03-19T22:30:00.005-04:00

Today it rained for most of the afternoon, an even-tempered shower...the kind you can comfortably walk in, but not for too long. I returned home and noticed that the two cherry blossom trees in our front yard had started to flower. The rain was relenting a bit and had resigned itself to intermittent sprinkles. I decided to take a closer look at the droplets deposited on the cherry blossoms.

A day and a half away, another rain awaits...a more toxic and temperamental drip...IV number IV...mimetic finality. Today's water droplets also held an intoxicating quality. However, theirs was more poetic, less poisonous. Swarming around and upon the fragile flowers these rain drops had managed to hold other reflections hostage.

Here are the images in movie format. (If your glances need to be more absorbing...click here to view the images in an enlarged slideshow format with captions.)

Chemoddity Fetishism...

2008-03-18T20:09:00.012-04:00

Chemoddity Fetishism: 1) The state wherein social relations are transformed into apparently objective relationships between medical treatments and metastasis; 2) An illusion arising from the central role that privatized medicine plays in the convalescing social process; 3) an irrational idolization or visceral veneration...of chemotherapy treatments. (Sentence Usage: The remedial nature of medical treatments is complicated by the abstraction of chemoddities, or chemoddity fetishism.)

Before falling asleep last night, I was waxing enthusiasm over the final infusion only a few days away. In my conversation with Daniela, I anticipated an eagerness for closure, but instead was confounded by her comments. Her words tempered my eagerness. "After this last treatment, I'm going to have a crisis of faith," she disclosed. "...faith in what?" I pried. Her response amazed me: "Faith in chemotherapy... right now, I know that there is something working to stop cancer. After chemotherapy...what happens? We just wait." Her comments revealed a re-imagined chemotherapy. Her concerns transformed the treatment of toxic infusions into more abstract constructions, chemotherapy as...protector, insurance, safeguard, oasis, haven, refuge, sanctuary and shelter. (Pale shelter, literally.) Instead of an escape from chemotherapy, she wanted to escape into it. Avant-garde images began to drip from my imagination...the plastic bag of curative toxins syphoning her upwards through the translucent tubing, a corrupted version of the genie in a bottle...self-exiled into the toxic elixir...the comforts of amniotic fluid replaced by the praetorian potions of Taxotere and Cytoxan...a disturbing notion of insulating toxicity.

Daniela's anxiety about the future had crafted a reality part magical realism, part medical realism...an idealized remission nurtured by the intersection of infinity and chemotherapy. Some philosophers and social scientists have qualified reality as a social construction. Daniela had re-qualified it as a septic construction. As I meditated, I did not question her comments...the incarcerated characterization of herself within this constructed reality. I looked at her and smiled. I kissed her goodnight and asked myself a simple question.... How do I plan her escape?

Spiral Spells

2008-03-12T21:22:00.006-04:00

Chemotherapy is fertile terrain for mood spirals. And, spirals have an irresistible seductive savor. I need to believe that there is a symmetry, an equation of aesthetics, that shapes or sculpts what sometimes appear to be random logarithms of irritation, exhaustion, introspection, anxiety, and apprehension. Contemplating this intersection of geometry and emotion provides a refuge from the arbitrariness.
The past six days have been sprinkled with spiraling sequences. Spiraling upwards or downwards, these motions of particular mind-sets have choreographed many enchanting moments. For instance, I will think twice before assessing my ability to stack a dishwasher as anything other than inadequate. Or, I will never underestimate the effects of Gabriela's contact lens, which decided to run away one day while she played in the park, for such a mishap had the ability to summon a spectral Shakespearean sermon. Plotting such moments, in a grid lined with hindsight, sketches many a smile. I smile, even when the verbalized frustration spirals around me. One more infusion awaits. I smile knowing that the chemotherapy spell will soon be broken.

In the meantime, I capture other species of spiral...ones that frame empty spaces...bursting with absence...shrouded in silence. Here is one I found today while looking up, in a federal government building, of all places.

Awedly Penned vs. Oddly Pinned

2008-03-06T19:45:00.013-05:00

Admiration is both the title and the first word in an essay that Gabriela recently wrote in school. During a scheduled and routine conference today, Gabriela's teacher shared with us this unexpected expression of wonderment. Here is the essay:

Ari's preferred mode of narration is a bit more abstract. He often sits at the computer and crafts short poems, and once in a while he engages in mesmerizing displays of performance art. A few evenings ago, while tidying up the kitchen, I turned around and found myself face to face with a provocative portrayal...a curious chronicle of Ari's relationship with Daniela. He too was providing support, literally and in his own way. Upper incisors anchored in the retral portion of the styrofoam neck...lower incisors delicately balancing the bottom of the bust, he just stood there. I asked him to hold the pose, and quickly woke the camera napping on the dinning room table. Here is the exposition:

Cámara Lúcida...Haikus

2008-03-04T18:16:00.027-05:00

Aporetic glance.
Camera rolls and barters,
Auras Blue and Red.

At rest, fatigue fades.
Political fevers rise;
Illumination.

[punctum]

Hypearreality...(the 3rd infusion)

2008-02-29T16:44:00.015-05:00

Hy^pearreality (definition): 1. a reality entirely mediated by victual perceptions, especially obstical illusions; 2. an obst-ruse. (Sentence usage/Context:) Have you seen the new Hypearreality show on Chemo TV...the culinary contest where oncology chefs compete to poach the best tasting styrofoam pear? Mmmm...it's tasteless.
Last week, the wax museum pallor masked her face. In the mirror...reflections...echoed the fragmented selves, chemo split personalities of a sort. After she hosted the haunting complexion for a few days, I decided to recycle the artificiality. Today we escorted a pair of fake pears, and some other props, into the Chemoscape in the hopes of infusing the toxins, defanging the side-effects. These pulp-less pears, imitations designed to improve reality, were the most succulent of amulets. Our reliance on simulation was a necessary alchemy, a counter-alchemy to the oncological side-show. And it worked. We re-enchanted our experience...re-appropriating our time in the infusion coliseum. We laughed. Her smile returned.

You won't need a ticket to explore the carnival of authentic fakery, just click here and enjoy the real thing at your own pace....beware the styrofoam pears. They are tempting.

Sad Vibrations...

2008-02-26T19:59:00.011-05:00

Yesterday Daniela was steeped in a sorrowful mood. Despite holding a procession of steaming tea mugs throughout the day, her hands were cold. Her feet were cold, and she shivered...a parfait in alternating layers of silk, cotton, and fleece. The fever-less trembling was unsettling. Sometime during the night, the tremors subsided and she awoke in a more balanced state of equilibrium.

While checking her email, later in the morning, she stood transfixed...gazing at the screen of her laptop. This particular email landed in her inbox at 9:39 am today...mourning the passing of a recent friend (Z''L) yesterday, a survivor who had been re-diagnosed. Daniela's demeanor oscillated between stillness and sobbing for the rest of the morning.

Later in the day, Daniela ventured again into Georgetown, another bloodletting, and a few hours waiting for the results. Her white blood cell demographics were a healthy 11.7, so the quaking and quivering were unrelated to sepsis.

Daniela's recent initiation into this community of shared experience...a localized nexus of breast cancer survivors has introduced her to both particular souls and particular stories, as well as tethered her to a cooperative sentiment. She thrives as part of this group. Today, she also mourns as part of this group. And, like innumerable matrices and associations whose constituent elements and emotions are closely linked and identified with the experience of survivorship, the departure of a member...ripples with great intensity through their social fabric, and even rips through more tangible forms.

Vitruvian Vinifera...

2008-02-22T22:22:00.014-05:00

Today's agenda included a brief trip over the river, a scheduled visit with her plastic surgeon, and some weekly blood work at the lab.

The flow of fluids was supposed to follow a simple exchange: saline in...at the plastic surgeon's, to balance bosomy symmetries; claret out...at the phlebotomist's, to peruse platelet symmetries. Dr. Nahabedian told her that her expansion was complete...so no more need for saline. The final (outpatient) reconstructive surgery should be scheduled for the last week in April.

After enduring the surgical gaze, we meandered through the labyrinth and found our way to the lab for the required weekly blood work, necessary in order to monitor the white blood cell demographics. These donations to the phlebotomy vineyard avoid the vines running down her arm. Instead, the trained venipuncturist focused on the pulpy fruit at her fingertips. Once again, my camera intruded upon another set of symmetries, pixelated verities of a recent vintage.

Here is the series of images in slideshow presentation. If you would like a closer experience, a visual tasting if you will, de-cork and click here to view the images and read the captions at your own pace.

Salud, Amor, y Tiempo Para Disfrutarlo...[a common Spanish toast I often heard as a child]

Side Effects...

2008-02-20T23:43:00.013-05:00

Sketching Sanity...
Pair of Haikus...

Prickly pear clamor.
Chemotherapy mood reigns.
Her words soak me dry.

Pear as antidote,
Magritte as muse, I ink fruit.
Dulcet drips; moods sift.

Metaphor, Metastasis, and Memory

2008-02-19T00:26:00.019-05:00

Monday morning, I led the kids in an excursion to the fantasy world of Fluorides, amalgams and Panorex portraits. Shortly after our arrival in the waiting area, Gabriela's "tween" intrigue seized upon both copies of People magazine a few feet away. Their wrinkled cover pages were a stark contrast to the airbrushed youthfulness framing the facade of the pop star de jour. As Gabi turned the pages, I noticed two images within a particular array...Melissa Etheridge, the pop/rock star, and Robin Roberts, the Good Morning America news anchor. Both of the photographs captured their curvy crania in an unexpected state of undress, conspicuous connotations of their encounters with the chemotherapeutic. I smiled at the assertive display of these alopecic moments. (Gabi commented in a matter-of-fact manner, "Oh, they must have breast cancer too.")

I turned back to the graphic novel I had carted with me, and continued reading an alternative tale from Tangent Comics (1997), the Joker re-imagined as female anti-villain and chaotic do-gooder. The last page of this issue features her dark silhouette in black, staring at the ground. The silhouette is unmistakably hairless. The story's ending had revealed that this anti-villain was the daughter of survivors, survivors of a nuclear geo-political accident, her anti-villain persona a vehicle inextricably bound by multiple undercover identities...each with its own mask and wig. After the caries-detection amusement ride ended, I paid the bill and made appointments for the next dental fair in August.

Throughout the day, I kept dwelling upon the choices Daniela has made, from her patient tolerance of my C.B.D. (Compulsive Blogging Disorder) to her decision to forgo the faux filaments stranded atop the Styrofoam perch. I started to compile mental notes on the range and manner with which some women displayed, exhibited, exalted, sequestered, veiled, narrated, muted and even berated these metastatic moments in their lives, a vast expanse of experience.

Susan Sontag, one of my favorite writers, memorialized her first metastatic moments with Illness as Metaphor (1978). She qualifies her enchanting rant and tells the readers of her introductory page that she wants to describe, not what it is really like to "emigrate to the kingdom of the ill and live there, but rather the punitive and sentimental fantasies concocted about that situation." She begins her narrative with these two indelible phrases, among others.

Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and the kingdom of the sick [...] sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place.

My point is that illness is not a metaphor [...] and that the healthiest [...] way of being ill [...] is one purified of, most resistant to, metaphoric thinking.

I love (re)reading this book. And I enjoy it every time despite my issues with her pronouncement to inoculate against metaphor. My issue with her idea of metaphoric quarantine is that those afflicted are literally creatures of metaphor...beings that communicate in language (at its core a metaphoric system). We cannot escape the gravity of metaphoric thinking. We are drawn to metaphors, and sometimes are drawn by other metaphors. We are also capable of drawing our own...in reply, in retribution, and in reciprocity, sketching our way through utterances and inheritance, language and culture.

At the end of the day, I find myself summoning that dark silhouette in the graphic novel, a powerful outline of hidden narratives. I know of a few survivors that choose not to tell their story or instead choose to ration it’s telling. Perhaps, they fear the encounter with what Sontag so poetically labeled "punitive and sentimental fantasies." Perhaps, they fear being pitied.

I go back to Sontag's words and (re)read the introduction. I go back to the comic book and (re)read the ending. Today's interplay of text and image has left me intrigued...by how metastatic moments and their experiences are minted and the currency of that experience is exchanged, or not. I am enticed by this marketplace of memories, its rules, its boundaries, its ability to elicit extraordinary encounters, as well as its ability to conjure illicit fears of certain social transactions. I wonder how she (both the literary critic and the comic book character) would have reacted to my syncretism of artifice and admiration...curiosity and consumption.

Coeur-nucopia....

2008-02-14T14:29:00.014-05:00

This morning we stumbled upon (approximately) 2,050 cubic inches of affection nestled upon our doorstep...a Valentine bouillabaisse steaming with greeting cards, lollipops, chocolates, CD's, flower bulbs, and more. One of our friends had masterfully brewed this fusion of geography, geometery, and kinship. As we read a few of the cards, my mind meandered in an attempt to trace this greeting card spice route: Hawaii, Arizona, Michigan, Louisiana, North Carolina, New Jersey, Puerto Rico, Spain, Italy, Germany, Holland, California, Washington (State), Maryland, Virgina, and a few more.

I don't know how long this box, and its contents, sat still before they arrived this morning. Harnessing all of that sentiment was a feat indeed. When Daniela opened the box, the avalanche of kinetic energy had quiet an effect, on both of us. The layers of emotional tension gave way, breaching the surface with a mixture of brine and breath.

To all of you who flavored this experience and the ones that plated the dish...Thank You!

Hair Haiku II

2008-02-13T16:13:00.014-05:00

Follicle Harvest...

Ballet in Steel Symmetry,

Pas de Deux; Skin Glows.

Saloon Solid(ARI)ty...

2008-02-10T17:18:00.000-05:00

A few nights ago, during dinner, a scarf-less Daniela and I were planning for the next day. So, I offered to take the kids somewhere Saturday morning and give Daniela some free time. "You can get some work done, and we will all stay out of your hair," I tendered. My offering, framed by an involuntary metaphor reflex, caught Ari's attention. "But Mama doesn't have any hair," he deconstructed with a sheepish frown. We all laughed, and Ari relaxed. Presumably, Daniela's crew cut coiffure has made a deep impression. Ari's comment, an unexpected reification of the literal, gave me pause. I was curious, and wondered if his comment was just a fraction of more formidable fears.

Yesterday afternoon, we both purchased the finest blue bubble gum cigars we could find. In the evening, we pocketed our bubble gum cigars and headed for the local pub, The Lost Dog Cafe. We sat at the bar. Ari ordered a tall pint of Root Beer Soda, on tap of course. I ordered a pint of pale ale. We trafficked in tall tales, and delved into the drama of his seven-year-old world. During our talk, he mentioned that Daniela looks "pretty good" without her hair. We toasted to the day when it grows back. Cheers!

(Le Mon)de Graphique...Chemo Infusion No. 2

2008-02-08T20:59:00.002-05:00

The Chemotherapy cruise has a well-known side-effect, nausea. Like all good cruise lines, Taxotere and Cytoxan don't disappoint when it comes to programming. The nausea is tolerable with scheduled doses of powerful pharmaco-wizardry such as Anzemet.

Passengers must not relax...the next activity awaits....ahhh, the Midnight Metallic Buffet. Imagine a lozenge made of pure iron, or a milkshake of iron filings. Imagine your palate's reaction, epicurean dissonance manifest in pilomotor reflex...a goose bump paté dotting the dermis. She tells me that even water has an alloy aftertaste, an unenviable mineral bouquet. Her grimace is a gesture equal parts disbelief and disappointment. (Her taste buds do eventually regain their senses, a week or so after the infusion.)

Lemons, or more accurately lemon flavorings, are a powerful citric countermeasure. Lemon drops taste great. Lemon flavored water quenches her thirst. I'm not sure why these particular papillae are spared by the chemotherapeutic assault on taste. (I recall reading comic books decades ago and one of my favorites was Green Lantern, Hal Jordan. His ring, was the most powerful force a young boy could read about; however, it was unable to affect anything yellow. Yellow escaped then, and it seems to escape now.) In order to ward off the zesty zinc aftertaste, I brought a lemon to the infusion party, my citrus version of a voodoo amulet. The lemon won't restore her sense of taste, but it did make our time at the hospital more palatable. Daniela was a great sport, as was her friend Petra. They tolerated my camera, and even joined in the lemon-play.

Here are the pictures. As usual, if you would like to read the captions or view the images at your own pace, click here.

Lemon Coda: Our favorite nurse at the Infusion Coliseum is Julie, who lost a recent Super Bowl bet with her boyfriend. (She is a New England Patriots Fan, while Mike is a New York Giants fan.) She had to attire herself in this t-shirt toga, a made-to-order outfit courtesy of Mike. She sported it well, all in good taste. Here is her smile along with the Patriots' season record.

Hair Haiku...

2008-02-03T16:27:00.000-05:00

Capelli rain storm,
Clippers crop carefully; sigh.
Scarf and skin dance; breathe.

Cilium Delirium...

2008-02-02T22:06:00.000-05:00

While waking up this morning, Daniela's red pillow cover stared back at me, a flannel softness punctuated by cilial strands. I kept quiet. A few minutes later, she noticed too, composedly commenting, "I want to go get a wig today."

By midday, Daniela, Ari, Gabriela, my schwiegermutter, Charlotte, and I were on our way to Old Town Alexandria, our destination...Crown Wigs, an address on the 700 block of King St. I brought my camera along hoping to conceal both my dispassion for wigs and my perceptions of the synthetic garden of acrylic willows. I imagined the styrofoam catacombs that awaited as we coasted along the Potomac river on the George Washington Parkway towards Alexandria. I kept quiet and drove.

In the end, my apprehensions about the wig store were mostly misplaced. We enjoyed our visit, especially Gabriela. (Ari was bored most of the time, and sat in protest surrounded by solemn stares similar to his own.) Here is the edited pictorial narrative.

If you would like to read the captions at your own pace, click here.

After riding around the styrofoam carousel, we strolled down King St. darting in and out of the quaint storefronts. Tourists in our own backyard, for an afternoon--a refreshing virtual vacation. Tonight, the wig-acquisition sits atop the dresser, transplanted temporarily. A few hours ago, Daniela tried it on. I watched cautiously.... "I hate wigs," she lectured her reflection in the mirror.

41...XLI...101001

2008-01-30T16:23:00.000-05:00

41 is, among other things: the 13th smallest prime number; the number of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's last symphony; the international dialing direct code for Switzerland; the sum of two squares (4² + 5²), the sum of the first six prime numbers, and also the sum of three prime numbers (11+13+17); and the title of a song by the Dave Mathews Band.

Today is Daniela's Birthday. She is, among many other things, 41.

Post Scriptum:

2008-01-25T20:25:00.000-05:00

Driving home from work...expecting Sinéad O'Connor, I was greeted at the door by Pat Benatar. Xuxa, Daniela's hairdresser, had vetoed the close crop in favor of 80's nostalgia. (The interim coiffure was complimentary, as was the open invitation for a date with the clippers.) Tudo Bem! De qualquer maneira, olhará bonita.

Tired of Waiting...

2008-01-25T15:42:00.001-05:00

Earlier this week, Daniela sat on the stairs with a blue comb in her hand. "The texture is different, and I can feel it," she estimated hesitating before combing her freshly washed hair. The ficus tree sat a mere ten feet away foreshadowing the changes in follicular foliage.

Almost two decades ago, I had a conversation with a Lecturer in graduate school, Ranjini Obeyesekere. We were discussing a different foliage, and I still remember her comments as she envied the displays of chromatic intensity adorning the trees in the small central New Jersey town. She meditated on the dignified displays of dye and dying...a performance in hues...a farewell spoken in polychromic dialects. I recall how those leaves, each fall, were released in a mesmerizing display, dotting the townscape with impressionist brush strokes of ochre, auburn and saffron. There is no such pageantry in chemotherapy-induced hair loss.

Earlier this afternoon, Daniela called me at work. She had scheduled her own adieu, an appointment with her hairdresser. "I'm going to cut it very short," she warned me. I heard her chuckle. "That's OK," I smirked back. The setting is not as rustic, but the surroundings will still provide a pageantry, albeit more subdued. The salon will become a surrogate landscape with its own version of colors and dyes...and dialects such as Portuguese and Vietnamese swaying in the breeze, a dignified farewell nonetheless.

Peruke Yuke....

2008-01-21T21:40:00.000-05:00

[The list to the left is courtesy of Georgetown University Hospital's Oncology Department. The image of the bust with the solitary stare is a fragment of a photograph courtesy of www.stefpix.com.]

"I can feel my hair...dying," Daniela grimaced earlier today as she ran her hands, in slow motion, up along the sides of her face. Eight fingers parked atop the parietal lobe as she massaged her scalp. Thumbs, manicured mud flaps, caressed her ears as her face contorted in a hybrid gesture...part hesitant scowl, part confident grin...a caricature of a frantic phrenologist in self-diagnosis mode. "I wanted to go to the wig shop today" she confessed, "I called them, but they are closed Sunday, Monday, Tuesday."

Thirteen years ago, she had a wig. I can't remember if she bought it or if it was a gift from a friend, or her parents. To the best of my recollection, she never wore it. So her interest in the wig caught me off guard. I know it is her decision. And trust me, if she wanted to wear a turban made of tea bags, or sport a sombrero made of sea kelp, I would encourage her (...while holding my breath). I just can't separate the image of a wig from its styrofoam perch...faceless, frozen, lightweight, listless. Even the more realistic mannequin-style perches have a soulless gaze that saddens me.

I can still recall the last chemotherapy malaise and how her fringes molted away. Those turquoise eyes still managed to overshadow the pallor...emitting a scintillating sense of self-assurance. Unlike the first wave a decade or so ago, this second iteration of chemotherapy imports a nauseating duality, the immediate assault (the vertigo and its effect on her senses, taste and smell) and the recall (resurrected emotions...indexical symbols intensifying the experience). Most of her favorite foods frighten her, but today she cheerfully consumed a serving of french fries. She allowed me this digital glimpse...

Maybe all the waffling about the wig has a tactical purpose. The presence of options--a wig, a scarf, a hat, a crew cut, a shave--seems to crochet a cloak of comfort, a comforting delay. These days her body and its biochemical machinations are the gears of a new temporal grammar. She listens. She anticipates. This new clock...when its hands strike the floor, or the pillow, or the shower drain...will compel her to make a choice.

In the meantime, she combs other emotions while lounging in bed...the addictions of a political junkie riveted by this evenings political debates streaming live from South Carolina onto her computer...presidential candidates pulling at each others hair...split personalities, split infinitives, and split ends, of another sort.

The Infusion Coliseum...(Chemo Session #1)

2008-01-18T23:01:00.000-05:00

We arrived at N5, the infusion center, a few minutes before 9:30 this morning. This chemo session was an experience both adorned by the unexpected and punctuated by the peculiar. Daniela signed in at the main desk as I noticed the giant jellyfish down the hallway. As Daniela and I sat down in the main waiting alcove, we were welcomed by five faces...two chemo neophytes and their supporting casts. There were no awkward silences. There were no curious glances. The room resonated with a radiating rapport...each guest aware of their fluency in the language of shared experience. Two of the three main characters in the chemotherapy multiplex, the other patients, introduced themselves, not with names, but rather by reciting their positions in a chemotherapy timeline. This is my first cycle. Mine too. I'll be here for six cycles... I have eight cycles...three weeks apart. How about you?...they asked Daniela. She obliged and joined the exchange. Not one individual spoke of a diagnosis...nor mentioned the ingredients prescribed to them. I sat in awe as a web of affinity spun itself around the room in mere minutes, gently ensnaring these three strangers. Later on, the group slowly disbanded as nurses ushered the patients to their numbered niches. We spoke with our friends again throughout the morning, gradually infusing each other with greater details from other non-medical experiences...as the other infusions progressed.

Here is the chemotherapy session in a series of images:

To view the images and captions at your own pace, click here.

Almost eleven hours ago, Daniela's vein stopped slurping the toxic nectars. She has been asleep for about two hours. Before going to bed, she reached for one of the vials of anti-nausea medication...the Compazine. After the pill and plenty of water, she groused, "I feel pukey." Dyspeptic dreams... nauseating nightmares... I wonder how her new chemo acquaintances are faring.

The Night Before Chemo...Pilule Play

2008-01-17T23:28:00.000-05:00

Earlier today, most of the Washington DC metro area was draped in a moist layer of rich white frosting...a few inches of snowflakes...a cleansing ivory intensity. After school, the kids donned their snow pants and headed for the park while I was left to untangle a cipher of side-effects.

Chemotherapy is the main medical entree, but I forgot about the canapé. My introduction to the prophylactic aperitifs was visceral. As I read the lists of instructions, side-effects, precautions, and drug interactions, gentle waves of nausea lapped at my concentration. Ironically, two of the three medications prescribed purport to soothe the feeling of sea sickness.

Anzemet®, the pharmaceutical stage name for Dolasetron - anti-nausea medication, rolls of my tongue...Anzemet. The incantation seems to conjure philological cadences of long ago, Ottoman utterances perhaps. Yet, there is nothing imperial about this errant eponym. I wonder about the pharmaceutical hand that delivered this moniker. Anzemet...a linguistic C-section of sorts...a deliberate incision made into a dictionary, a vocabulary, a travel experience, or perhaps a memory. Anzemet, a sterile sound scarred by a routine (outpatient) phonetic operation. 100 mg. Take one tablet daily for four (4) days, start the day after chemotherapy.

Prochlorperazine, another anti-nausea pill, is the generic version of Compazine®. Two anti-nausea pills...apparently these two pellets prescribed to Daniela share an affinity with teenage girls and like to go to the bathroom in pairs. 10 mg. Take one tablet every six (6) hours as needed.

Dexamethasone is a corticosteroid, a.k.a. Decadron® and Hexadrol®, prescribed to counter some of the effects of Docetaxel, half of Daniela's chemo cocktail. 4 mg. Take two (2) tablets daily for three (3) days, start one (1) day prior to Docetaxel.

Mensch ägere dich nicht....a tranquilizing board game.

All Clear...three days'til chemo

2008-01-15T16:26:00.000-05:00

Earlier today, Daniela met with her oncologist, and they reviewed the results of her CAT Scan. All clear.... Her cancer is officially assessed as Stage One.

CAT Scan...four days 'til chemo

2008-01-14T22:53:00.000-05:00

Early this morning we rushed over to Georgetown again, after depositing the kids into two separate neighborhood bank accounts. The appointment this time was for a CAT Scan (also known as a CT Scan). This scan will serve as a necessary baseline for future monitoring. Here is a sequence of images from our trip.

In order to view the slideshow, or read the captions at your own pace...click here.

(I did edit out a few images from this morning's sequence. Here they are after placing them in their proper context.) After the scanning was done, Daniela and I wanted to glance ahead in time by surveying the shores of the infusion archipelago. We were impressed. The first nurse we encountered offered to give us a brief tour. The atmosphere was serene, only a few patients. There were rooms with beds. There were many windows successfully seducing the sunlight. The walls were painted a hue of sea blue. In a few days, Daniela will return...marooned...in her chemo chaise...to watch the giant jellyfish float towards her and deliver their mild sting.

Eight Days 'til Chemo...

2008-01-10T22:49:00.000-05:00

Today, Gabriela's Girl Scout Troop gave Daniela 616 square inches of moral support. Here is the 22" x 28" card:
Earlier in the day, Daniela spent hours hunting and gathering in the great Swedish labyrinth of IKEA. The purpose of her trip was to search for a small computer desk for the kids...sorry, out of stock...it will be in next week. So, she called me while I was at work to inform me about the absent desk. She also told me that she was bringing home a Ficus, which she introduced with much fanfare when I arrived home this evening. The formal introduction to the Ficus included an unexpected waltz...thirty minutes of 3/4 time...Daniela and the Ficus gliding around the living room in search of the perfect arboreal abode. Daniela eventually discontinued her orchestral queries, (Does it look better in this corner? Should I rearrange the living room? Do I need to move the painting?) and the tree quietly settled into its new space in our living room.

Hours later, the kids have gone to bed, and so has Daniela. I stare at the tree, her new dance partner. I recall a Ficus tree we had years ago in graduate school, and how it shed leaves shortly after arriving at our apartment. I thought the tree was dying, but someone told me that Ficus trees shed leaves as a means of adjusting to new surroundings. It makes sense, now. This new Ficus is also a chlorophyll ally. Soon it too will shed its leaves in synchrony...a soothing ecological empathy as Daniela sheds her leaves while wrestling with chemotherapy.

...ficus et amicus...

A Healthy Appetite...Ten days 'til Chemo

2008-01-08T23:33:00.000-05:00

This past week, we have enjoyed both a disorienting and a sobering sense of calm. Daniela is well-rested, and has been sleeping soundly. She is more at ease with the expanders, which have absorbed a bit more saline during a recent visit to the plastic surgeon. This addition of sterile brine has literally and figuratively infused her with a welcome buoyancy. At ease in her role as custodian of her interim bosom (It was only a few weeks ago that Daniela taunted her torso with the self-effacing appellation--Frankenbusen.) her recent spells of cheerfulness have managed to (re)enchant our routines. The culinary considerations that diligently arrive at our door have been a precious gift from many friends. These palatable presents have allowed us to spend less time in the kitchen and more time at the dining room table...cooking up stories, dishing glances, and sauteing a bit of silliness...a wonderful family recipe. For this opportunity, we are very grateful. Thank You!

Since so many of you, our local friends, have shared their recipes, I will share one I recently found:

Ingredients:
1 Daniela
1 bathroom with shower
1 towel
1 Ari (seven-year old boy)
1 Gabriela (ten-year old girl)

Ensure your household standards of modesty are comfortably preheated to European Mode. (If they are not...stop reading immediately!) Steam Daniela in the shower, but not for too long, during your average weekday morning rush. Place towel out of Daniela's reach. Stand Gabriela in front of sink to brush her teeth. Throw in Ari, who needed to go to the bathroom in a pinch. Time the conclusion of Ari's streaming with Daniela's exit from the shower. Imagine as the inquisitively candid seven-year old looks at his mother and asks, "Mama...were have your pimples gone?!" Sprinkle generously with bubbling laughter from both mother and daughter as they correct Ari's anatomical misnomer. Add more laughter (from Ari).

Servings: One portion, but it will feed a lifetime of retellings.

A Preface to the Chemotherapy Chapter...

2008-01-03T22:54:00.000-05:00

Today, Steffi (Daniela's Sister) and I accompanied Daniela to her first appointment with Dr. Minetta Liu, the oncologist at Georgetown University Hospital responsible for the chemotherapy portion of Daniela's treatment.

The appointment was scheduled for 1:30 pm. We were given instructions to arrive early, so we did. We also did quite a bit of waiting...and waiting. There was so much waiting that it wouldn't all fit in one waiting area. So as our bodies flowed from waiting area to waiting area, our impatience almost overflowed along with us... I was able to contain mine. Daniela's was contained by the required, routine, and repetitive paperwork. Once again, she had to retell her medical history, a retelling without an audience, an infuriating banality. Fill in the blank. Check the appropriate category. I sensed the volcanic voices...her Sicilian totem, Mount Etna...a chorus of arias steaming below the surface. No eruptions today, thankfully.

As Daniela and the other patients scribbled away, reproducing themselves again and again in fragments of medical significance, I noticed the irony.... Here we sat in an oncology department's waiting area. I glanced around at the many other patients, the purpose of their visit to seek treatment for metastasis unchecked, as they diligently spread check marks from page to page, an efficient and encouraged reproduction, not of cancerous cells, but rather of cursive signs. This space for cancer patients, their bodies colonized by replicating malignancy...willing recipients of life-saving chemotherapy, was transformed into a space for replicating medical bureaucracies...willing recipients of life-numbing monographs. Who will invent a chemotherapy for metastatic bureaucracy?

I will ground the poetic flights for a moment. Here is another flight schedule...Chemotherapy information:

Georgetown University Hospital

Chemo Session 1: January 18, 2007; *TC Regimen

Chemo Session 2: February 8, 2007; *TC Regimen

Chemo Session 3: February 29, 2007; *TC Regimen

Chemo Session 4: March 21, 2007; *TC Regimen
(*Taxotere/Cyclophosphamide)

Notes:
1. Daniela will have a full CT scan before her chemo session on the 18th of January. This will provide a baseline for future monitoring and also confirm the lack of metastatic activity elsewhere (B"H), from neck to pelvis.
2. The chemo infusion treatments will be at Georgetown U. Hospital, a total of four (4) infusions, three (3) weeks apart. Daniela will have to visit Georgetown the day after each chemo session for a dose of Neulasta, a white blood cell booster.
3. Once the chemo sessions end, Daniela will schedule the second major surgery to finalize the reconstruction process. Concurrent appointments with the plastic surgeon will dot our calendar during the course of chemo sessions.

During the final few minutes of the appointment today, Dr. Liu, another physician with an uncannily soothing bedside manner, tried to ease Daniela's concerns about the upcoming CT Scan. After Dr. Liu left the room, I repeated..."The scan is a baseline, a photographic control they can compare to variables" [e.g. cancer activity]. Daniela just looked at me, her resurgent anxiety framed by the tension in her torso. "The good news is that you just have four cycles of chemo...," I gestured. She took a deep breath while biting her lower lip, then settled, "I'm still going to lose my hair...."

Here is the day in images (cum captions)...

To view the web album, and read the captions at your own pace...click here:

(More) Recent Glimpses of...

2007-12-31T16:36:00.000-05:00

...another walk on a rainy day. This time Daniela has outflanked her trusty security detail, and is on the left.

...silly reindeer games. Somehow Gabriela has managed to convince her younger brother that it is not a drag to dress up as a reindeer queen.

JP Drain Obituary...

2007-12-28T22:12:00.002-05:00

Jackson-Pratt Drains. 14 Days, 23 hours, 10 minutes...my best estimation of the lengthy silicone embrace, medically necessary, albeit emotionally suffocating.

Daniela is now, as she exclaimed earlier this evening-drain free! Her last remaining leech deprived of it's hemoglobin nourishment was cast into a plastic wastebasket. Vampiric silicone sealed in a synthetic polymer coffin. I only wish that I could have been a witness to this unceremonious funeral. (One of Daniela's Superfriends accompanied her to the medical appointment today.)

During the past few weeks, I spent many moments ignoring, cleaning, cursing, emptying, and repositioning these drains. Aided by exhaustion, and uninhibited by sleep deprivation, I kept a list of acerbic aliases for these four horsemen of medical artifice. This list could still elicit a wince or two from a drunken sailor, I'm embarrassed to say.

So, the instant this last drain died, I should have sat at my office computer and triumphantly typed its obituary. But I didn't. I waited almost 12 hours...to say farewell. When I arrived home from work, Daniela was basking in her silicone-free status. Since Ari and Gabriela were spending the night with their paternal grandparents, we decided to go out and celebrate at a wonderful Ethiopian restaurant nearby. Hours gone by and with the Amharic aromas lingering in my mind, I finally began to write.

But after saying my peace, I confess that I feel ambivalent about my disdain for the drains. My supercilious schadenfreude seems excessive when I realize their role as conduits, not only of ire and frustration, but of more delicate emotions coaxed from me. These emotions, like the vital fluids syphoned from Daniela, contained a remediating reciprocity, a nurturing and nourishing quality that fortified our friendship. I'm glad the drains are gone, but the memory of those translucent bulbs like the Amharic aromas will linger a bit longer, and that's OK.

Recent Glimpses of...

2007-12-27T23:06:00.000-05:00

...Daniela flanked by her security detail during a neighborhood walk.

...fait accompli, the gifted workbench assembled at last.

Betwixt and Between...Ontology and Oncology

2007-12-26T18:09:00.002-05:00

The day after Daniela's surgery, her second and final day at the hospital, I managed to find a wi-fi oasis at the Georgetown University student center. While I checked my email and replied to many well-wishers, I overheard a conversation a few couches away. The main theme of the exchange between the two students was philosophy. The particular context was a debate on free will vs. determinism. If a man is in a room...and the door is locked...but he is not aware that it is locked....does he have free will? I scanned my email. Inbox, 22 new messages. Spam folder, 14 messages. The hypothesis of the causation of actions states that..... After thirty minutes or so, I had replied to most of the emails. The serenade of philosophical postulates continued, and I recall rolling my eyes thinking about the pleasures of the particular, the concrete, and the immediate: negative lymph nodes, validating my parking ticket, Daniela will be home tonight. The argument of abstractions between the apprentices felt so distant, until last night.

Last night, Daniela was scanning her own email's inbox. One message stood out, an email from Dr. Paul Carbone, an oncologist and friend of the family, and the son of her former oncologist who treated her Hodgkin's Lymphoma. This email message had its own menacing ganglial spurs...four attachments...articles from medical journals discussing breast cancer risk for Hodgkin's patients treated with radiation. (At that moment, I had not yet read the articles.) Daniela glanced up from her laptop, and calmly offered, "I may not live much longer...." She went on to quote statistics from the one article she was reading, frustrated that no one had told her, or no one knew about the risks inherent in her previous radiation treatment.

Statistics. Dr. Cocilovo mentioned a few days ago that Daniela's cancer, classified as Stage I, had a 95-96% survival rate at 10 years. A good friend mentioned in an email that Stage I breast cancer has a 100% survival rate at 5 years. The articles attached to Daniela's email offered other analyses...a risk factor of developing breast cancer as high as 29%, depending on age, for Hodgkin's survivors...a radiation dose of 4 Gy or more delivered to the breast has a 3.2 fold greater risk of developing breast cancer, for Hodgkin's survivors...hormonal stimulation (pregnancy) is a significant risk factor for developing breast cancer among Hodgkin's survivors treated with ABVD Chemotherapy (a chemo cocktail that does not appear to cause ovarian damage).

I recall a quote by Mark Twain (quoting Benjamin Disraeli): Figures often beguile me, particularly when I have the arranging of them myself; in which case the remark attributed to Disraeli would often apply with justice and force: "There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies and statistics." - Autobiography of Mark Twain

Daniela and I both mulled over the sour forecasts...her Hodgkin's treatment plus pregnancies probably gave her a 1 in 3, or greater chance of developing breast cancer.... She is now a survivor's survivor, and she wonders about the consequences of her upcoming treatments...about mortality, about the unknown and unforeseen side-effects of her upcoming chemotherapy. She reluctantly surrenders to the idea of another oncological alchemy. She sighs. I sense her attempts at divination, her faith in the words of the medical journals' actuarial augury visibly shaken. Twelve years ago, her physician also mentioned that leukemia was a possible side-effect of her Hodgkin's treatment. Leukemia, another possibility, another set of worries distracting her. What do the oncology odds makers forecast for this risk?

I remind her that statistics and probability are just that. She is an individual. She shouldn't dissolve herself in the data pools and acquiesce to the communal fate of chi-square tests, P values, and regression models. Adrift in the sense of the abstract, I try to bring her ashore with images of the concrete by listing some of her attributes: athleticism, a healthy diet, a resilient Mediterranean physiology....

I think back to the student center days ago and wonder if those two Georgetown students, emerging philosophical sufists, have considered other logic puzzles in their study sessions, examples drawn from an interplay of the metabolic and the molecular, an ontology informed by oncology, molecular determinism vs. cancer-free will. I (re)imagine their conversation. If a young woman has Hodgkin's disease...and is treated with high dose mantle radiation...but is unaware of her severely increased risk of developing breast cancer and leukemia....is she free to consider herself a survivor? I scan my email. Inbox, 14 new messages. Spam folder, 3 messages. The hypothesis of causation of actions states that.... My impatient curiosity wonders how they would have answered. How would you answer?

Translating Pathology Prose

2007-12-24T15:07:00.001-05:00

This morning we played a medical appointment double-header.

10:30 am, Surgical Oncologist. Dr. Cocilovo gave us a copy of the full pathology report. In summary, she stated that everything looks great. For those of you fluent in pathologese, here is the unmediated summary:
Tumor Type: Infiltrating Ductal Carcinoma, NOS, associated with a component of Ductal Carcinoma in Situ, High Grade
Tumor Size: 1 cm
Elston's Grade: Poor (Score 8)
% of DCIS: Less than 30%
Margins: Negative
Lymph Nodes: 0/2
ER/PR, HER-2/NEU: Ordered on paraffin block "A11"
pTTNM Classification: T1b N0 Mx
For those of us who are not fluent in the medical sub-dialect of pathology prose, I can offer, after speaking with Dr. Cocilovo, a tenuous translation of the pathology report summary. The Elston's grade score of "8" means that this is one ugly bad-ass type of cancer...it is aggressive. The good news is that they got it all. (There may be a cell or two of metastatic breast tissue left behind, but the chemotherapy will take care of them.) Now, back to the Elston's grade score...the most efficient visual interpretation I can offer is a portrait, in triplicate for emphasis, of the Pale Man.
The Pale Man is one of the characters in the Academy-award winning film Pan's Labyrinth, his fingers an apt metaphor for the ganglial spurs radiating from Daniela's former tumor. If you've had the experience of immersing yourself in this cinematic fairy tale, you will recall that the movie's main character, a young girl named Ofelia, does escape from the clutches of the Pale Man, albeit after a tension-filmed pursuit.

11:00 am, Plastic Surgeon.
After shrouding herself in hospital hijab couture, Daniela decides to look in the mirror. I capture the image of Daniela...looking in the mirror...looking back at me.
Daniela was hoping that today, they would remove the two remaining drains. They removed one drain, the one on the right side. This was the drain that caused the most discomfort. The appointment to remove the solitary silicone leech is this Friday...11:00 am.

Countdowns...

2007-12-23T21:18:00.000-05:00

December 13, 2007 (Day of Surgery)
0450 hrs: Radio alarm clock wakes us up.
0453 hrs: I roll out of bed, Daniela tells me she wants to sleep 10 more minutes.
0510 hrs: Done with my shower, I head back to the bedroom. Daniela is staring at her wardrobe deciding what to wear.
0515 hrs: Daniela is still deciding what to wear.
0520 hrs: I am dressed, take vitamins with glass of water. Daniela is asking me what she should wear.
0521 hrs: I check, re-check and check again...the items I've packed in my backpack.
0525 hrs: Daniela is dressed, I tell her I'll meet her in the car.
0530 hrs: Departure Time. Daniela is still in the house. I worry.
0531 hrs: I jog back into the house...Daniela is in the kitchen. She is wearing clogs, prAna pants, her ski jacket, a scarf and a hat, and holding gloves in her hand. The only light in the kitchen is the fan light above the stove. She is carefully cradling a white bowl above the countertop, diligently herding a batch of homemade applesauce into its Ziploc corral.
0532 hrs: I raise my palms. "Take your time sweetie," I tell her.
0533 hrs: I am back in the car.
0535 hrs: Daniela joins me and we are on our way to the hospital.

December 23, 2007 (Ten Days Later)
2115 hrs: The homemade applesauce is still in our freezer, enjoying its cryogenic siesta.

Even Superheroes Have a Bad Day...

2007-12-22T19:54:00.001-05:00

Maybe it is was the frustration, swelling steadily for the past week, unnoticed until today, the awareness of limits on everyday tasks.

Tea in a to-go mug...because her favorite mug is too heavy to lift.
Wearing a nylon belt when showering...because the two remaining drains cannot hold themselves up.
Another night sleeping in a mummified pose...because sleeping on her side is too painful.

Daniela manqué...this unwelcome fabrication colonizing her sense of space (silicone hosiery leeches) and time (calendars mottled with medical appointments), she cried this morning for no particular reason, and for every other reason imaginable.

I may (over)dress Daniela in Supergirl metaphors, but her crying, that form of emotional dispensation made intelligible to the onlooker by a script of facial contortions as unique as fingerprints, is my kryptonite. When she cries, her lips tremble with the intensity of a newborn yowl. The reflex is innocent. The effect is paralyzing.

I sat down to finish my breakfast listening to my own breathing hoping, wondering.... Within the hour, a triumvirate of close friends, Supergirls in their own right, came in succession to visit. Their presence was the simple antidote to the tearful tremors. The rest of the morning went well, so did mid-day.

By late evening, the discomfort has crept back into her mood. The drains need to be emptied. The ritual itself has become a variant couvade...instead of mimetic labor pains for the husband, I ape her sense of exhaustion...emotional and physical. Surreal...I have become mid-wife to my own wife's nightly natality of grumpiness. The drains will expire sometime before noon on Monday. I can weather the tempest. Daniela has overcome much, much more.

A few minutes before I go to sleep recalling what happened this morning, not the crying but the visitors, I smile. Imagining her as a Superhero may be cool, but knowing that she has Super friends is better.

A week-old vignette: An Everly Brothers Farewell

2007-12-20T21:05:00.001-05:00

The evening before her surgery Daniela opted to take a long shower, a bit unusual since her preferred method of aquatic repose is a warm bath. (The pre-op instruction sheet ruled out bathing and showering the morning of surgery. The taboo was not related to the water, but pertained to fragrances and unguents veiled by soaps, body-washes, shampoos and conditioners.) While she showered, I busied myself inspecting my packing list...p. 136-137, The Breast Cancer Husband, by Marc Silver. I read silently..."What to bring. Stuff to pass the time: a laptop, a book".... The sirenic tune, vaguely familiar, drew my attention away from my list. I placed the book on my lap. I mused to decipher the lyrics. Journal in hand, I reached for my pen, found a blank page and wrote what I heard: Bye Bye Breasts | Bye Bye Sweet Caress | I Think I'm Gonna Miss You || Bye Bye Breasts | Bye Bye Sweet Caress | Hello Emptiness || I Think I'm Gonna Cry.

This refrain played a few more times before the water stopped running. A few minutes later, I still had not heard the bathroom door open and hesitated wondering if my new field guide, The Breast Cancer Husband, covered this particular scenario. Doubtful. No time. A deep breath, a small step into the hallway and a few more to the bathroom. I didn't even think of knocking as I both quailed and turned the knob.

No tears...only water drops rappelling from her hair onto the terra cotta tile. No frown...only a sensible smirk punctuated by that cerulean stare, her gawkish terry cloth figure resembling an oversized albino she-bat (with a pedicure) in self-embrace. If there was a hint of sadness, mourning or grief emanating from this comical chimera, it was clouded by an aura of acceptance, an ethereal sense of peace.

"Are you OK," I offered.
"Yeah. I'm fine," the response.
"I like your song. Cute, but morbid...," I parried with a wink.
"I know," she ended with another wink.

I closed the door behind me and walked back to my packing list...a music headset, snacks.... The sirenic tune returned for an encore, the lyrics joy-riding atop the steam that swaggered down the hallway: Bye Bye Breasts | Bye Bye Sweet Caress | I Think I'm Gonna Miss You || Bye Bye Breasts | Bye Bye Sweet Caress | Hello Emptiness || I Think I'm Gonna Craa-ay, Craa-ay.

__________

After drafting this post, I thought it would be appropriate to share a photograph taken almost six months ago in Sicily by Daniela's cousin Marcella... ...Sirens in the Sea, mother and daughter.

Yeya's Yoga a-go-go...Six days after Surgery

2007-12-19T22:05:00.000-05:00

Daniela's friend Liz arrived at noon, eager for a play-date with her convalescing comrade. Liz brought the lavender yoga mat, and a bag of pistachios. They traded stories with an enthusiasm reserved for young boys bartering baseball cards in the playground. They laughed and giggled like adolescent maidens scouring a Judy Blume novel for details of teenage sexuality. They also turned a fragment of our bedroom into a provisional yoga studio. I made eye contact with Daniela and paused. She smiled, and then added "Yes, you can take pictures for your blog." Here is the slideshow:

Seamless...

2007-12-18T22:30:00.000-05:00

Earlier this evening, Daniela asked me, "What is the female Frankentstein called? It took me a few seconds....

She had quite a bit on her mind after we returned in the early afternoon from today's doctor's office visit. Dr. Nahabedian, her plastic surgeon, removed two of the four drains, and removed the gauze bandages atop the fledgling scars. The plastic surgeon, with his predilection for symmetry and his attentiveness to aesthetics, noticed her muted frown. His reflex...to reassure her that everything would look great in the end...did little to ease her impression of the sutures. After many afternoon glances in the mirror...after many hours eyeing this new surgical font inscribed upon her, an impersonal cuneiform lament...she probably began to translate what she saw and how she felt. And I began to translate what I saw and how I felt at that moment. So, I created my own clumsy photo-mutation. The picture above is an alternative construction...my version of more manageable Frankenstein worries.

Gabriela's Bricolage

2007-12-17T10:09:00.000-05:00

Both Gabriela and Ari are back at home with us having enjoyed a few days at neighbors' homes. Daniela's sister, Steffi, arrived from Holland to help out. The kids were delighted to see their aunt this morning as we all enjoyed a frenzied breakfast punctuated by laughter, giggles, and smiles. After breakfast, the kids went off to school and Daniela took a shower. But before sliding out of bed she showed me something Gabriela had sketched a few days ago:

(double click on the picture to enlarge)

Sleep deprivation. My first reaction was to scrutinize her artwork, and wonder why she had drawn breasts on our (male) cat. I tried to recall texts from long ago...grad school...Freud...projection. I blinked again, and realized they were paws. I need to sleep. Interpretation of Dreams.

Chez Brancaforte-Marty...

2007-12-15T10:30:00.004-05:00

Yesterday afternoon, we were able to settle back into our home with the aid of two amazing helpers. Our two friends transported Daniela in the comforts of a mini-van. Pillows, and blankets kept her company as she was lying in the back seat...this 21st Century sedan chair trotting back across the Potomac River into Arlington.

Before we could enjoy the familiar surroundings, I had flashbacks to my days in the military...decontamination exercises aimed at vanquishing biological agents. Our friends orchestrated a swift and well coordinated para-military assault on each and every item returning with us from the Hospital. Clorox disinfectant towelettes buzzed around me like a swarm of papier-mâché locusts. Our friends, co-Consuls in earnest, led the effort and declared a "cease wipe" after thirty minutes.

When the fog of Clorox lifted, I was able to focus more clearly on the myriad of flora, the cornucopia of books, magazines, letters, cards, and ribbons crowded around the house. Daniela and I were overwhelmed with emotion, yet traded the temptation to gaze at these gifts for a few hours of sleep. Before surrendering to narcotic-induced slumber, Daniela whispered, "You should only get this much attention if you have a quadruple mastectomy," always the self-conscious patient eager to deflect the attention focused on her.

We slept for a few hours, Daniela's biorhythms calibrated to Percocet Standard Time. So at 2:30 am last night, she awoke (not because of pain, but because she was) craving a pear. For Daniela, a pear is not just a fruit. It is a repository, a music box of memories. More specifically, memories shaped twelve years ago, memories of her father pealing her a pear as he nurtured her appetite after chemotherapy. The melody of her father's Italian phrase, audible in the empty kitchen, as I peeled the pear for her...Vuoi una pera? Ti la sbuccio, figlia bella. She gingerly consumed it all...the pear, and the memories released by the mending morsel.

Another Percocet...another period of rest. Five hours of sleep, a bounty of relaxation for both of us, and she was up and walking around this morning. She insists on challenging the limits of her own constitution in ways that would make the current Presidential administration jealous as they challenge the limits of another Constitution.

A bit past midday, she is sipping her tea. She continues to read Funny in Farsi: A Memoir of Growing Up Iranian in America by Firoozeh Dumas....the music of Squeeze playing in the background...the lyrics resonate with her recent experience...She goes for her medical | She's passed, it's a miracle | She's up over the moon | She whistles nonsense tunes | She wants drinks for everyone | She's found a chord that she can strum.... Our cat, delicately nestled beside her, purrs as she turns the page.

The Day After Surgery...

2007-12-14T11:30:00.000-05:00

We are both exhausted, and will go home in a few hours. Here is a compilation of images from our last 24 hours or so.... Thank you all for sending us your good vibrations, visualizations, and digital incantations. :)

[If you click on the lower right hand point/corner of the image below...you will see a new format. Click on the "album name," and you will open a new webpage were you can view the images in a larger format.]

Great News!

2007-12-13T13:37:00.000-05:00

Dr. Cocilovo, Daniela's surgical oncologist, informed me this morning (after she was done with her part of the surgery) that Daniela's lymph nodes were negative, i.e., cancer-free. Her double mastectomy was a success according to Dr. Cocilovo. A few hours later, Dr. Nahabedian, Daniela's plastic surgeon, informed me that his part of the surgery was also a success. The surgery was almost five hours long.

It is now, 1:40-something p.m., and Daniela is in the recovery room, still sleeping.

Gamma Camera Images

2007-12-12T21:08:00.000-05:00

Daniela had an appointment earlier today, the day before surgery, at Georgetown University Hospital. I accompanied her to the Nuclear Medicine section...nuclear medicine...two words in apparent errant juxtaposition. Here a very nice technician, thrice injected Daniela's right (it ryhmes with viola) with a radioactive imaging agent...no topical anesthesia. Now, I know this had to sting, because Daniela has an insanely high threshold for pain, and she was cursing under her breath--a patois of Italo-Germanic obscenities that would've made Asterix and Obelisk flee in a state of panic. A few minutes later, the technician slid Daniela in front of what appeared to be a faceless Apple Computer from the early 1980's. This box was in fact a Gamma Camera. Daniela closed her eyes and asked for her New Yorker magazine. She calmly turned the pages using only her left hand. I couldn't resist capturing the image:

The camera is the "box" to the right of Daniela. While I was taking my photo, the unstylish artifact was capturing its own image of Daniela. The Gamma Camera (Its name alone manages to conjure miscellanea from the realm of science fiction and comic book lore.) took the following image:
The dark spots on the lower left are the sites of the injections. The radioactive syrup will slowly make its way to the underarm. In a few hours, the lymph nodes, their jelly-bean forms satiated with imaging agent, will await the inspecting glance of the surgeon. Tomorrow during surgery, they will dissect the sentinel node(s) marked by radiation in order to better stage the level of metastatic activity. This Gamma Camera silhouette, more wispy apparition than photograph, has an eerie aesthetic. It also has an intriguing simplicity that betrays the reality of Daniela's physiology. I can not decide which of these two pictures is the greater distortion.

Tomorrow, we will be on the way to the hospital by 5:30 am. Surgery should begin on or about 8:00 am. To all of you who called and left voicemail messages, text messages, emails or simply thought of us today...your presence was felt, appreciated and welcome.... Thank you.

Ari's Antics

2007-12-10T21:41:00.000-05:00

In my family, not so long ago-a generation or two ago, children were aggressively shielded from discussions of illness. Children were kept at a distance from relatives who were ill, often literally sequestered. Other times, they were inoculated with heavy doses of silence on the topic. Illness and disease were analogous to "the birds and the bees." The kids will figure it out later...no need to tell them anything. Whether born of custom, or culture, this approach is not the one we have taken with Ari and Gabriela. Daniela and I have both discussed, in age-appropriate terms, the details of both processes and procedures that Daniela will face. We made a conscious choice to enlist our children's aid in the process of healing.

In conversation, one day, both Ari and Gabriela volunteered to make tea and pumpkin bread (from a box of Trader Joe's mix) when Daniela came back from the Hospital, their faces resonating with pride as they realized their new role as helpers. They are both aware and proud of themselves as part of the community contributing to ease the unpleasantness of days to come. In contrast to these conscious efforts, there are other moments, literal eruptions of childish exuberance that create unexpected junctures of rejuvenation. For instance, this past Saturday evening, we shared a festive meal at the home of wonderful neighbors. After the Latkes, the kids decided to engage in a bit of theatre, and put on a performance. During the show, Ari came running onto the "stage." He lifted up his shirt to reveal a hand-drawn face across his abdomen. (His level of detail included a unibrow above his belly button.) He then proceeded to pinch the sides of this belly face and move them back and forth. His staccato monologue, which lasted for minutes, or so it seemed, began.... Hi! I-am-Bob. I-live-in-a-log. We all laughed. Daniela laughed a deep therapeutic laughter, as we all did. And I smiled. For a moment, even though he did not known it, Ari and his seraphic silly-ness, managed to doctor our sense of anxiety about the days ahead. Ari is in great spirits these days, and so is Gabriela. Their resilience is remarkable. Their presence is indispensable.

One of our wonderful hosts, quick on his feet, had the presence of mind amidst the mirth and merriment to reach for his camera. He was able to capture the last few seconds of Ari's comedic eruption. Enjoy:

Daniela's Inner Strength

2007-12-09T21:07:00.000-05:00

Many friends and relatives have called in the past few days asking, "How is Daniela doing? How is she feeling?" I can elaborate an answer in a roundabout way.... I don't always dwell on coincidences. I am not one to extrapolate multiple meanings from ordinary events or objects. And then, some coincidences have to be seen as and probably are perfect metaphors. Here is the card I found attached to a gift I received this week from Daniela.Yes. She actually decided to gift me a workbench. I was speechless. I was confused, perhaps in the same way many women (and some men) react to receiving kitchen appliances, lumber, or the like as gifts during the holidays.

I know Daniela has watched hundreds of hours of Seinfeld episodes during the past decade. And if she didn't learn it from this TV comedy, she should've reached into her anthropological archives and anticipated my confusion. This gift...this Trojan Horse (The ideas for future home improvements dormant not within the workbench, but Daniela's imagination.)...this "honey-do list" monument...sits in our basement awaiting assembly.

After dwelling on when I could assemble the workbench and what I could do...once it was built, I realized the workbench had to be seen as an unintended metaphor. I haven't figure out whether it is a metaphor for the strength, the tenacity, and the sheer mettle Daniela has always displayed and will deploy once again. (This is the woman that cross-country skied to radiation treatments during winter... in Wisconsin...and then skied back home...during her bout with Hodgkin's Lymphoma more than 12 years ago.) Or, perhaps, the gift was Daniela's way of telling me that piece by piece, and plank by plank, I too can create a structure, a platform to build upon....and from which to draw strength.

Daniela is at her best marshalling ideas and dreaming of projects. This gift was not only an indication that she is "doing well," but also an indication that she is well enough to draft a list of things to do while she recovers from surgery. That is comforting and reassuring, and it also means that I should get off my blog and start assembling....Chazak, chazak, venitchazek. (Be strong, be strong, and let us strengthen each other.)

Pre-Surgery Visit

2007-12-06T15:05:00.000-05:00

A few minutes before 9:30 am this morning, Daniela and I walked into the Georgetown University Hospital Surgery Center. Her appointment mainly dealt with the banalities of insurance paperwork. A nurse also took a blood sample.

I have to say.... I was impressed with the warm and cozy, and small, waiting area. The intimacy was palpable, evoking the charm of some Vermont coffeehouses. The nurses and staff were personable, attentive and friendly. A glance around the room revealed many patients and family members, and they seemed at ease. Daniela reappeared in the waiting area a few minutes after 11:00 am. Time to head back home. Seven days until surgery....

Beginnings

2007-12-03T17:20:00.000-05:00

Daniela is scheduled for surgery on December 13, 2007 at Georgetown University Hospital. Her medical team informed us that she will have to stay overnight, but if all goes well she should be allowed to come home on December 14.

[If you'd like to know more about her medical team, here are links with information about Georgetown's Lombardi Cancer Center, her surgical oncologist, Dr. Costanza Cocilovo and her oncologist Dr. Minetta Liu.]

We have been extremely fortunate. Dr. Cocilovo has been an incredible source of information and support. She has an exceptional bed-side manner, and is a warm and down-to-earth physician. Dr. Cocilovo shared with us that her father is from Sicily. And with that bit of information, she and Daniela were trading family stories, in Italian. That initial office visit was a good omen. Daniela's smile projected a soothing elegance and a renewed energy. It is hard to describe, and even harder to imagine how this medical encounter...the first of many...instilled a much needed sense of optimism.

Ten days until the surgery.... Daniela and I have been planning, organizing and scheduling for the days ahead with the help of our friends. And here I have to single out two dear friends whose penchant for precision and skill for scheduling has orchestrated a remarkable symphony of support. These two muses and their musicians are diligently working with us to make this journey more bearable. To all of our friends and family, near and far...Thank you.