Down on the Farm

Dear Bloggees,

I am delighted to report that spring has sprung in our yard, in spite of cancer.

The top photo shows off a couple of our apple trees in full bloom. They are absolutely ostentatious this year. We are lucky to have a lot of fragrant and lush spring blossoms in our yard at this time of year including, apple, cherry, lilac, viburnum, and lily of the valley. You walk outside and nearly swoon with the intoxicating mix of fragrances in the air. Unfortunately, it has been so cold and wet, I have not been much inclined to go outside.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hGi55XgJ0xA&feature=related

The second photo is of our newest family members, the chicks. We (my husband mostly) are getting into the chick-raising, egg-laying business. These little birds are pretty cute. My husband had the idea to name them after flowers like petunia, marigold, rose, lily, etc,. but they are not easily distinguishable from one another, so what's the point. I just call them all Chickee. Frustratingly, I am not supposed to handle them too much as one of those people with compromised immune systems.

At the moment the chicks are living in an old grocery storage box that we keep in the barn. Each day I dare to stick my hand in the box and pet them a little. They are funny little creatures. They like to peck at spots of any kind whether the spots are bits of feed, insects or freckles on a hand. They also like to slide around on the thermometer. The funniest thing about them is that their little, bitty cheeps do not seem to come from their mouths. You hear the tiny noises get louder as you enter their world, but they seem to be coming from elsewhere in the barn. Teensy chicken ventriloquists.

In a few weeks after their chick fuzz has turned to feathers, we will move them to our chicken coop. We have been using this sturdy little building as a garden shed until now. For years the little shed has been tempting us to convert it to its original use, so here we go.

All continues to go well with me. I am pretty much on medical autopilot and don't have much news to report. Weekly chemo, weekly physical therapy, continued flow of family and friends wishing me well. My medical appointments provide the only structure to my weeks. In between, I do errands, house chores, gardening, a little bit of work, and research on how to enhance my blog. I feel good.

Both kids are home from school at the moment. That adds to the chores, mostly those associated with  cleaning. I can't figure out the parenting trick that will result in their cleaning up after themselves. I often try to remember how it was that my own parents were so successful in getting me to make my bed every morning, clean the kitchen, do the laundry... I can't remember. The sad truth is that I am pretty much done parenting and it is probably too late to make my kids better people than they are. I suppose I could always pull the BC card..."Listen kids, I am very tired and weak and feeble. You must clean up after yourselves because I need to preserve my energy to survive another day." But that seems a bit thick.

Happy spring, everyone.

Not Being Busy

Have you ever heard the expression, "You want to get something done, give it to a busy person"? My father used to say that. It pissed me off when he did because in it was the jab that he hadn't given the thing to me...I was not busy enough. Not that I wanted to do it, whatever it was. I just wanted him to think I could. I remember him describing a person he admired..."That boy can juggle more balls than anyone I know."  (Jab, jab, you can't juggle at all...) So once again I have revealed another unattractive scar left by the chip whittled off my shoulder by a hypercritical and occasionally mean father. He died in 1997, and oddly enough I frequently miss him.

The point of this is that I have never been more unproductive in my life. Now that I am not working I fill my day doing all of the things I used to do before and after work: laundry, grocery shopping, tidying, bills, making doctors' appointments, parenting, exercising, personal email, facebook stalking...I feel like a slug. I wonder if my father would cut me any slack when he considered how much time and energy chemo and physical therapy consumed. Probably not. He would notice that the 55 hours I used to spend working and commuting in a week were not entirely filled by those things, and he would ask why I was wasting away the little bit of life I had left. (Well, maybe he wouldn't have been that mean.)

So I have had two treatments of the new chemotherapy regime (Taxol and Herceptin). As promised, it is easier. No queasiness. I have a few other minor symptoms including a constantly runny (and by runny, I don't mean drippy, I mean marathon runny) nose, continued baldness and achy fingers that are losing strength and dexterity, serving as an excellent, additional excuse for less juggling.

Mothers' Day

My first mothers' day without bosoms. I guess that's not much of a milestone. Mothers' day without a mom would be sadder. I still have one of those. She is a freak of nature. I won't talk about her age because that would be rude. (She was very diligent about teaching her children good manners. It took better with some of us than others.) So, I am 53 years old, she had children on the late side, had four of them scattered over 13 years. I am the third. You do the math.

My mother hasn't spent a night in a hospital since her last daughter was born. (I won't tell you how old she is either because she feels as strongly about good manners as my mother does - but she was born a couple of years after I was so you know what to do...a long freakin' time ago.)

My mom is not interested in illness. She doesn't want to talk to doctors or anyone else about it. Maybe that is what she's doing right. Instead of spending time in doctors' offices, she writes books. She is eager to put on a pair of skis, get on a chair lift and slide down a hill. She swims or walks every day. She plays a mean game of bridge. She socializes with her buddies 2 or 3 times a week. She travels at least monthly to visit daughters. She drinks a Manhattan every night. She lives alone in the house I grew up in. I like to think my mom's good life bodes well for my sisters and me.

Thanks to my mom. my husband's mom, and to all your moms for the good lives they gave us.