a story in three pictures (2)

S1

The clinical laboratory

Regularly I have blood drawn to monitor the coagulation of my blood. The lab, next to the elevator on the ground floor of the hospital, is overseen by Natascha, a Russian woman and Jamal, a big black man who, when it is quiet, is often hunched over his desk whispering and laughing into his cell phone, his hand cupped around his mouth, much to the annoyance of Natascha.
When it is very busy, early morning on Mondays for example, David will be there to help them, a pygmy with a friendly scrunched up face and spiky hair, his white coat looking more like a cloak. We share our date of birth, he has told me happily.

Natascha has a tough job, going by the loud sighs she lets out and the way she brusquely brushes back her long blond hair, outgrown at the roots, as she looks through the files trying to find my standing order. She wears a white plastic apron, which fits ill and is tied tight around her round belly. On her feet she wears sensible shoes.

“Zee last one”; she triumphantly holds up my form, shaking it at me, and laying it under the photocopier. “Room won” she says in her thick Russian accent. I sit in the chair and wait for Natascha, taking her time to print out labels with my name on it and prepare the test tubes, laying them out on the counter. I stare at Natascha’s name badge, which shows a picture of Natascha looking younger and fresher, smiling at me, her hair blown dry and lips painted crimson, perhaps on her way to the xmas office party.

“Please give me your name and date of birth” she orders. I comply and she rubs my arm clean, ticking the veins in my arm, with the tips of her fingers. “You relax now”.

I have had so many needles stuck in my arm it should no longer bother me, but more out of habit than fear, I never look as the needle goes in. Conveniently, a picture of a green valley in Yosemite national park, torn from a magazine, is stuck to the wall with tape, directly opposite the chair.

Natascha does not like doing my arm. The one good vein in my right arm (left is out), is by now so covered by scar tissue, that she sometimes does not get through and has to withdraw the needle, mumbling and sighing. In that case she may try lower down my arm, where it is more painful and more skill is required, or call Jamal to take over, muttering under her breath that she is too tired, having been on her feet since seven am.

Jamal will shuffle over and calmly, with his big broad fingers, push the needle a little deeper, through the scar tissue, until the blood slowly comes dripping through the tube.

“Keep pressure on for two minutes”: he says as I get up with my fingers pressed on the bandage. “Yes”, I say, but never do.

Meranda

Every week I go to Meranda’s dry cleaning. It is not too far, but not within walking distance, a remnant from when we lived on the other side of the neighborhood. I park the car right in front, five minute parking for customers, sometimes with a pile of washing so big (I let it develop again), I cannot see where I am going. Awkwardly, I will push the doorbell from behind the pile and Meranda rushes out from the back room to take over. At this point I usually need to run back to pick up the stray garments that are lying in a trail on the pavement. I take the dry cleaning, the shirts to be ironed (no starch) and the king size duvet covers (with starch), all at a fraction of European prices, a luxury I will surely miss one day. When we have had a lot of guests or after vacation, I will also bring her bags of washing to catch up. I get it back all clean and folded and wrapped tightly in blue paper, nearly too good to use again. Meranda also does little repairs when necessary, taking up Jip’s school pants, patching his jeans and fixing loose buttons.

I am a loyal customer and as a reward Meranda has softened up a bit since I started going. Meranda is Vietnamese and talks in mono-syllables; “yes”, “no” and “when you pick up?” She nods her head profusely when she has understood my request, but never a smile. Just business. That hasn’t changed, but now I get a “how are you today?”, with feeling I believe, especially when I have skipped a week. And I no longer have to tell her what I want, because she already knows, including my name. Lately, she will already have brought my dry cleaning from the back room to the front, ready for pick up, as she sees me arriving through her window, struggling with a new load, which I see as an indication our relationship is deepening.


S1

Happy Halloween

Today Cleopatra helped me at the check out desk and banana man was taking out the trash at Starbucks. People close to me were wearing furry hats with ears.

Scary stuff.

S1

A message from John about peace (s1)

kids cut

S1

The wig man

This was his home.

I drive past the bus stop on Laguna @ Hayes every day on my way to Rosie’s school, and for months he would be sitting there, relaxing on the corner bench, his arm resting on his thigh with a thinly rolled cigarette between his fingers, his black slits for eyes watching the cars go by. A shopping trolley would be standing close, parked under a tree, filled to the brim with plastic bags and colorful fabrics, a plastic flower garland draped around the side. Sometimes he made a provisionary table in the corner of the bus shelter, making the people waiting for the bus look uncomfortable, as if they were invading his space, Sometimes he would be hunched over his trolley, headless, as he rummaged deep into his grey rubbish bags.

He first caught my eye because he was sitting on the bench wearing a big red curly clown’s wig, with not a twitch of emotion in his face. Other times he wore a slightly less obvious Afro wig in black. Sometimes he would just be wearing what I think was his own, a head of limp plaits, finished with a few colored beads, framing his shriveled brown face. I would look and see the red and black wigs stuffed underneath his trolley, parked under the tree as usual.

I wondered if he would break into a big smile if spoken to. I had plans to stop and ask to take his portrait, hoping my then hairless head and purple turban would prove to be a common talking point. I planned to ask about his wigs, hoping it was a form of artistic self-expression. More likely however, I think it was a good way of keeping his head warm.

I never stopped of course, and now it's too late. Since the start of the new school year, and my daily commute down Laguna has resumed, I haven’t seen him once. I still look out for him every day, hoping the wig man will return. Or at least that he has found a better spot.


S1

Busy

Dear sisters,

I'm sorry girls. I was forced to suspend my blogging activities to watch the financial meltdown. Besides, Barack has been sending me e-mails everyday asking for my support and in between I have been filling out my points in the Weight Watchers daily point tracker.

With only 25 days to the US election things are heating up and getting nasty. And as a legal, but non permanent resident, I can do nothing but watch and keep my fingers crossed. And that I do. After more or less 30 months in this country, I thought I was slowly starting to get my head around it. Until McCain chose Sarah Palin as his running mate and half the country cheered.

In theory, great that a woman is ' a heartbeat' away from the highest elected office in the world, I just would have hoped it would not be someone who may believe that the planet is four thousand years old and global warming is mostly a natural cyclical thing. Or someone who winks at me. Or even someone who could answer questions by a reporter in a coherent manner, would be a nice thought, at least showing she has thought about the arguments.

This is the Saturday night live version for you across the ocean, who may not have seen it.

When I am not watching politics, my weight, or staring at an empty page, I am photographing windscreens for my latest series called "windscreens':






or listening to Elvis:




What is your excuse? Moths in the cupboard?


With love,


S1

green

Keep working sisters

Watch this video for a little encouragement.


S1

Lost and found

Los Angeles, 2006

holiday pics

Over the horizon the meaning of life dooms once more, and why I can quit chemotherapy.

So this second week, I have been feeling like the San Francisco weather; foggy with sunny patches. However, this week a simple painkiller and prune juice were generally sufficient to help relieve my symptoms, you will be glad to hear. The nausea has gone, which makes so much difference. The fatigue, on the other hand, keeps taking me by surprise.

If it wasn't raining I would go for a walk and have to rest on a bench every so often. I feel like an old woman. If I pretend everything is normal in the morning, I will sleep for hours in the afternoon.

(I sometimes took my camera on my walks.)






The parents- in- law were here and took over. No thinking about cooking, washing, or picking up kids. They played snakes and ladders with Jip a hundred times and ran races with Rosie around the room. Each night Bertus cooked a (cancer fighting) spicy meal, until other diners complained that not everything had to contain pepper. Now I get my own bottle of jalepeno sauce.

The grandparents have left for two nights away with the grandchildren, leaving me and A. kidfree, yet again, in our own house. I am intending on enjoying this last weekend before treatment #2. It will start with a take out from Eric's, our local Chinese, which, in our humble opinion, on its own merits a visit to this city.

Do you think I will get an opportunity to wear my black latex leggings I bought on a naseous whim? Yes, I will wear them to the cinema.




So, next treatment is on Tuesday. I might have to call the doctors to tell them it's not necessary. Because I received your parcel, S3, with the rainbow maker and the magnetic head relaxer, shown here. The rainbow maker spreads rainbows around the front room, when we have a sunny patch in the weather and Rosie tries to catch them, and I wear my head relaxer all the time, as you can see. Thank you.


Love,

S1

a teeny weeny world

Well, about five minutes after I published my last post, the frst wave of nausea set in, so I took my pills as advised and was basically knocked out for that night. Wednesday was okay for the first part. Got up to help get the kids get dressed in the morning. Managed to answer some emails. Had to get my neulasta injection at the hospital in the afternoon, which pimps the production of white blood cells. I got over-confident and persuaded Isabelle, who took me, to have a coffee and a sandwich, as we were out, but I then was caught by a very sudden and unsuspected wave of nauseau, including a few hot flashes, so we had to go home straight away. Back to bed. Thursday was just not very good at all. I bascially lay in bed all day, watched the film Factory Girl, which wasn't great, but it certainly got mixed up in my drug aided dreams, which also included massive objects being pushed through my window, me trying to pick Jip up from school, but not being able to see anything clearly, strangers walking in my house, Lizardy escaping: all very peaceful. The evening was better. And now it' s Friday. I am feeling nauseous again, and lying in bed - HEY, when is this going to stop?!! - my teeny world is being kept that way by the elements. It is raining. Tick Tick Ticking. My intended walk in the fresh air must wait. I think I will surrender now and watch Showtime.


S1

The elders have arrived and I waited some more this week.

Dear sisters,

Yes, the parents have arrived. They came in giggling about a little incident on the plane, in which a young man dared to refer to them as 'THE ELDERLY', as in: " I always like to help THE ELDERLY", after lending the parents his headphones. And it hasn't stopped since then. Each program is assessed to see if it is suitable for geriatrics. It is getting rather boring.

In reality, they have settled into their basement suite quite nicely, my fridge is now stocked up with organic foods and I have not been allowed in the kitchen much, which in the meantime has also been rearranged. And yes, dear sisters, mother brought her own pinny! We have been eating lots of dishes with beans, vegetables and a wonder spice called turmeric, which aside from their cancer fighting properties, have, I am sorry to say, less pleasurable side effects, resulting in involuntary movements within the body. You can't find a quiet corner in the house.

Jip has been introduced to the art of knitting and is in rugby training. Both grandparents have personally demonstrated the somersault, which I am not sure was wise, but Jip and Rosie are practising hard to get up to their level.

Grandparents and grandchildren left this morning for two nights away. This means TWO NIGHTs alone in our own home! The idea of this luxury confused us so much, that Allard and I resorted to the one thing we can fall back on when in doubt: retail therapy. And yes, they look pretty cool.



You could nearly forget there is that other litttle matter. That little matter is being surgically removed on Tuesday, I am glad to say. We are getting started.

I also volunteered to participate in a study program which involves three MRI scans over the course of my treatment. I had the first one last week. I had forgotten how claustrophobic I am. You glide into a very narrow tube, head and all. I kept my eyes tight shut, but my arms touched the side, so I was, at all times, fully aware I had nowhere to go. My breathing inmediately became faster; my chest was going up and down like mad. The whole idea is to lie absolutely still as the machine is so sensitive, so I hope my 45 minutes of torture were not for nothing and they managed to get some usable pictures. It did get better after a while. When you are inside you hear drumming sounds at different intervals. I tried to imagine I was in the desert at Burning Man, WHERE WE SHOULD HAVE BEEN THIS WEEKEND, and there was someone drumming in the background. I will have to practice. I kept being jolted back to the very narrow tube, being absloutely unable to move, with my boobs hanging down through two openings in the bed. I am probably dreading the next time more than my surgery on Tuesday.

All in the name of science.



Love S1

PAINTINGS HANGING IN LONDON

Dear sister 2,

I have never been a human tuning fork. Neither do I have paintings hanging in London. If you are not going to put it up, I must. I love this painting.


With love, S1