Island Intermission...

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

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

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...

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...

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


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

Supercilium Sketch

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.