The scent of hot pine trees met me as soon as I got out of the car. A warm breeze stirred up clouds of green pollen from the mighty ponderosas that stood sentry above the house. Pinecones the size of large grapefruit littered the ground. I closed my eyes, lifted my face to the sky, and took a deep breath. After a bumpy landing in Reno, and a shuttle bus over the pass, I was finally in Lake Tahoe. It felt good to be warm.
When I opened my eyes, I saw on the porch the reason for my journey: Aunt Josie and Uncle Ed leaning on the railing of the deck surrounding their a-frame home. I was a little surprised to see Uncle Ed looking quite normal in spite of recent surgery. Ed and Josie's daughter Linda, who is like a sister to us, called last week to say she was afraid to leave her parents alone after the surgery. She lives and works about 60 miles from her parents, and had already taken lots of time off. Lenny suggested to her that I might be up for a trip to Tahoe, especially since the beginning of Juneuary in Seattle. Linda was glad for the help, so I booked a flight.
I first met Josie, the sister of my late father-in-law, 32 years ago when she was secretary to the Chief of Police of Daly City, California, and I was about to marry her "favorite" nephew. On our trips to Lenny's hometown, San Francisco, I always looked forward to spending time with Aunt Jo and Uncle Ed. Until they moved to Tahoe in 1987, they lived only a few blocks from Lenny's parents. He was very close to them. Lenny's parents passed away when our children were very little, so Josie and Ed have filled the role of grandparents as long as our boys can remember. She helped Lenny sort out his parents' estate, calling for necessary documents, closing accounts, and whittling down the mountains of paperwork.
Over the last two years, Aunt Josie has been experiencing increasing dementia. I first noticed it on Thanksgiving when she stood in her kitchen with a bewildered look, and said, "I can't remember what to do with the turkey." I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. She still knows who everyone is, and carries on adequately with loved-ones and neighbors. Her memory just shut off at a certain point, and would not hold any new information. Nothing she hears, does, or says takes up residence inside; everything just slides out of her mind, and evaporates. And she could tell it was happening. Uncle Ed is showing early signs of confusion as well, but it could be that he is merely changing his mind to accommodate her constant, repetitive questions.
Ever since I was a very little girl, I've been had close relatives with dementia. My grandmother was afflicted at a very early age, and my dad never hesitated to take us to visit her. My parents made sure that their kids understood dementia. They taught us how to be gentle and kind. I learned that if my grandmother thought I was her daughter Margaret, I just had to be Margaret for the duration of our visit. They taught us that memory is not a virtue, and that someone who forgets in not weak, evil, or ignorant. And most of all, they taught us to count our blessings while we still remembered them.
So I'm writing to you from Lake Tahoe. I know that the idea is to take some of the burden from Linda by caring for her parents, but I'm finding that it is a blessing to me. So far the love has not faded from their memories, and they just happen to live in a beautiful place with the scent of hot pines.

We had a small group around the big table on the evening of June 4. My son Joe had called to ask if we wanted to have dinner together, and I decided to make his favorite meal, a pasty (rhymes with nasty, but it's not!). A pasty is a meat turnover from Cornwall that was a favorite of miners in my hometown of Butte, Montana. Hard-working men carried them in their lunch buckets as they descended into the deep levels of the mines. They were a hearty meal: a fatty pastry crust filled with meat, potatoes, onions, and any combination of root vegetables, depending on availability and the nationality of the one baking the pasties.
My son John refuses to eat pasties, but Joe loves them. It is always his request for a birthday meal. As often happens with 20 somethings, we won't be together on the night of his upcoming 23rd birthday, so I was glad that we could share the special meal, and I was pretty happy that I felt up to preparing the labor intensive meal. It was also his request that I should invite Aunt J, also known as my sister Jeanette.
When we sat down to eat, Jeanette told us a story. June 4th happens to be the anniversary of her graduation from high school. It had been a very rough year for this class and the country. A strike at the mines had lasted for more than 8 months. Many of the large, Catholic families had been plunged into poverty as they fought for safer work conditions and better wages. Martin Luther King was assassinated in April. A war raged in Viet Nam, and the young men wondered if they would be among those sent to Southeast Asia to fight. Bobby Kennedy was running for president five years after his brother had been assassinated. The year was 1968.
After commencement, a supper club in Butte closed to the public so that the kids could safely enjoy their last night together as a class. Jeanette said that in the middle of the party, one of their classmates came into the room and screamed, "They shot Bobby!" On the night of their graduation, when they should have been able to celebrate, the unthinkable happened.
My sister said that people started crying. The party immediately turned to mourning. Some ended up spending the rest of the night at a church, pleading for his survival, and asking for grace for his young family as well as all the Kennedys.
Joe and his girlfriend Katie asked thoughtful questions about that night, and the implications for our country. I told them that when I was a freshman in 1966, on an October day with unusually clear blue skies, I had walked from school to the courthouse where Bobby Kennedy talked to the people of Butte. Bobby was our hero, and embodied hope for our future. We didn't understand very much about the differences between Republicans and Democrats. Our young hearts had hope because he was the champion of the poor.
Less than two years later, he was gone. Jeanette said that the main reason she brought up the 40 year-old incident was that she wanted them to understand why it's such a big deal that so many people are participating in the primary process this year. The Party had not recovered after the youthful exuberance of the Kennedys was snuffed out. Until now, that is. Jeanette said that every Democrat should be proud of the new life that's been breathed into the process lately.
Our conversation sparked many memories about those years: a time when Butte played an important part national politics. I remembered when President Kennedy came to town, and we made welcome signs to hold as we lined the motorcade route just a few blocks from our house. And I'll never forget the sight of Bobby, his sandy-colored shock of thick hair sillouetted against the sky.
I consider myself more of an independent these days. But I am pretty excited about the possibilities of the impending election. More than anything, I'm hoping that the candidates remain healthy and safe so that the winner can try to keep his, yes his, promises in January.

Dear readers,
I began this blog two weeks ago just as the weather was turning nice. I opted not to post it and relax. You'll see that I had a pretty good excuse.

This morning I woke up to a weather report that promised it would be hot. Like every veteran of Springtime in Seattle, I echoed my husband's skepticism: "I'll believe it when I see it." After spending Mother's Day and the following Monday in the hospital (more on that later), I thought of the phrase that adorned many posters and cards in the early 70s: "Today is the first day of the rest of your life." I wanted to shout Amen and Hallelujah! I wanted to bound out of bed and plant myself in the backyard with a glass of iced tea, and spend some time absorbing all the vitamins I have lacked because of my confinement. After all, I was under doctor's orders to take it easy.
I hate, seriously, I hate talking about the details of my health. I know I have written a few blog entries about my go-round with colon cancer, but I felt that it served a purpose in explaining my absence, as well as promoting screening for early detection. With that said, I had a little complication over the weekend. On Saturday I sneezed, and on Sunday, there was blood. The short version is that the problem was fixed, and I am home. Hence my joy when I realized the weather would finally be nice. I had lost about 10% of my body weight with surgery and all, and I was afraid that I was never going to feel warm again. When I arrived at the emergency room on Mother's Day, the wonder-nurses at Group Health Eastside (and I really mean that!), had to pack my arms with moist heat in order to find veins for an IV line or two. I ended up back at Virginia Mason downtown. I had a "procedure," at which time they cauterized the spot that was bleeding. Once again, I was amazed at the professional level of the nursing staff. I could not have had better care.
Before I was discharged from the hospital, I turned on the television and found news reports about the terrible earthquake in China. I saw the images of so many who were injured, displaced, and grief-stricken. I immediately thought about all the parents who had lost their "one glorious child." My own closely-monitored pain of the last few months seemed insignificant.
For the most part, The Big Table meals have moved to the covered patio. Our boys and their respective girlfriends have been dropping by to check on me. Other friends and relatives have kept me company. Lenny's cousin Linda flew in from California just to make sure I was really ok. We've played a few rousing games of our new favorite game, "Catch Phrase." I have cooked a bit, and learned that I don't have to do it all myself. My floors haven't been swept or vacuumed in a few weeks. I don't really care. When I'm back to normal, maybe there will be a new normal. There seems to be a lot of that going on in the world.

My mother passed away in 1986. She was 69 years old. I miss her every day.
Mom had smoking-related asthma. She never really tried to quit, until the last two years when her lungs were too weak to continue. She bravely kept up her normal pace of life, occasionally landing in the hospital for intensive inhalation therapy. I know she detested what she had done to herself. Everything else in her life was approached with deliberate moderation. She ate carefully, stayed out of the sun, napped every day, and was a terrific role model. Except for that one thing. Damn cigarettes.
She and my dad came to visit us in March of that year. My son John was barely three, and Joe was a baby. She loved those little guys. Now that I have the luxury of hindsight, I never should have allowed her to come to Seattle in the worst month for molds and pollen. But she couldn't stay away from those babies. Within two days, she was admitted to Evergreen Hospital, where she stayed for a few weeks. Finally, unable to make progress, they flew her back to Butte, where the climate was dry and familiar. As they loaded her into the jet, I kissed her good-bye, and she spoke her last words to me, "Happy days, Honey."
Once she was in Butte, they put her on a ventilator. My sister and I loaded John and Joe into my parents' car to drive to Butte. We arrived two days before she died.
Now, I'm not trying to get all mooshy for Mother's Day, and my purpose is not even to keep beating the drum against cigarettes. I want you to know what happened after Mother died. She had been part of a women's group they called "Bridge Club." Mom hated to play bridge, so when it was her turn to host the group, she tried to divert the ladies from card playing if at all possible. One time she even had all the husbands crash the party, and that night went down as one of the all time great get-togethers Bridge Club ever had.
Two of my siblings still lived in the Butte area, and three of us lived near Puget Sound. As we all arrived home, our childhood chums, college friends, neighbors, and co-workers began to show up at the house. My friend Karen wielded a vacuum, others brought trays of food. Many came by just to visit. No one, not her children, not Dad, not her friends, expected Mom to die. But as soon as people heard, they came to lend help and emotional support. The Bridge Club put on the reception at the house after the funeral. The house was so crowded that we could barely move from one room to another. So many people loved and appreciated my mom. I just hope she knew it.
I'm now four weeks out from surgery for colon cancer. I can tell that I am getting better because my garden is calling me, and I feel like answering. During my recovery, I was deluged with food for the family, gifts, and flowers. My friends (especially my version of the Bridge Club that we call the Birthday Club) were there to take care of any need that arose. My house was cleaned, and people were ready to run errands. Lenny's friends and co-workers were generous in so many ways. Many cousins called to check on me, or sent e-mails to say hi. Even my readers (from the King County Journal days, as well as friends of the blog) checked in for updates.
But I was a little surprised at something else. So many people took the time to send handwritten notes to tell me what I meant to them. I was humbled by the kind words of long-time friends. People told me specific things where my life had mattered to them, and their encouragement and kind words were a healing balm. It was like a living funeral- people were talking about me, but I got to be there! When the time comes for me to die, these friends (siblings and cousins included) will be without regret. It's a good way to live.

Sorry it's taken me so long to blog, but I think you can agree that I had a pretty good excuse. Since I was diagnosed with colon cancer on March 7, I have been expecting that life would suddenly come into clearer focus. I thought that perhaps I would be flooded with overwhelming sentiment, and the desire to accomplish great things with the time that remains of my life. But that is not what happened. Oh, yes, I did think about things I wanted to accomplish, and I designed some hospital pajamas that all my nurses thought were cute and clever. But maybe it's because as a writer I am constantly examining my life and conscience in order to write from a place of truth. Cancer didn't cause any inordinate amount of introspection.
So how did I react to cancer? At first I was a little angry. I eat well and carefully. I try to avoid carcinogens. Then I progressed to a state of fear that became manifest as I shopped for groceries. As I reached for each item, I wondered if it could be the culprit, the wicked invader, the agent that caused normal cells to fritz out inside my insides.
It took some stern self-talk to pull out of those unproductive emotions, and I began to react like a Murphy: I laughed. I told my friends that if they came to visit I wanted them to bring a joke. In retrospect, that was not smart, since I had a 7 inch incision. Apparently, while under the influence of painkillers, I was pretty funny myself. My son John even laughed at what I was saying, and that made me feel better.
After two rough days, I woke up enough to decide that I wanted out. I knew that walking the halls was necessary to my healing, so I walked by myself, or with anyone who was visiting. Most of ten I walked with Lenny or with my sister who is almost exactly two years older than I am. My goal was to be home by my 56th birthday, and to celebrate with Jeanette a few days after that.
I was still a bit hunched over as I walked, pushing the IV pole ahead of me, trying not to kick the 5 point base. We must have been quite a sight. In contrast, there were some very young and very cute young nurses on the floor. My impression was that they all had dimples, freshly straightened teeth, and hair pulled back in bouncy pony tails. They looked the opposite of how I felt. As Jeanette and I walked by two of these youngsters, I heard one say, "I hope I'm that spry at their age!" It's a good thing that my right hand was tethered to that IV pole, because my instinct was to make a few of those straight, white teeth a little crooked. But instead, we laughed. Spry indeed.
I came home the night before my birthday. My doctor says that I am "cured." The colon cancer is gone. I don't have to follow up with any other treatments. He said that he had been looking over my records again, and that I didn't have any risk factors or indicators for colon cancer. If I didn't have a colonoscopy when I did, they could have lost me. The excitement in his voice was palpable. It's the kind of good news that keeps him going, and that will keep me going back for check-ups.
Next: The living funeral

I was a newspaper columnist for many years. When I started, my children were in junior high and high school. Those of you who followed our family during those years know some of the adventures we have had with our boys, Joe and John who are now 22 and 25 years old. Joe has a job detailing boats, and has been living on his own, for the most part, since high school. John is a professional musician who lives…with us! He owns a very hungry boa constrictor named Sugar, and he is paying his dues with a successful band. The band mates are often here at the house, showering and eating on their way to somewhere else.
My relationship with the boys has been strained over the last few years as they struggle to justify their lives within the parameters of our hopes and dreams for them. All of us have adjusted: raising and lowering expectations as we tested each other's love, loyalty, and fortune.
So now their mom is in for a battle. It's not like a heart ailment or generalized pain. Cancer is something concrete, something quantifiable. I think they were a bit shaken, since I'm normally quite healthy. I don't have any risk factors for cancer except being human. I don't smoke, don't chew, I don't go with boys that do. I drink in moderation, eat properly, wash my hands, and say my prayers. Cancer came out of left field right into my colon. And I'm beginning to appreciate it.
When I was hospitalized with inflammation after the colonoscopy, Joe came to visit. He hates hospitals, but he came and sat for about an hour, just the two of us. It was a sweet time. He hugged me carefully when he left. Lately he has been sending me random text messages asking how I'm doing. Although text messages are transient, they are stored in my heart.
Meanwhile, John called me a few days ago when he was writing a song. He asked, "What's another word for regret?" I was stunned. John had never asked me for a word before, even through his school years. This small question may seem insignificant, but to me, ever the English Major/Writer/Mom, his simple question meant the world to me. Not only was he giving a nod to my strength, but he cracked the door and let me peek into his world.
Someone told me that cancer could be a challenge to my faith. I replied that raising children was a challenge to my faith- this is just cancer. And for some reason, I couldn't come up with a single synonym for regret.

How did this happen? It was a room with two beds. Each of us sat there gazes averted, taking in the bizarre surroundings as we contemplated the long night ahead of us. Her name was Edith, or perhaps Joyce. We didn't speak for hours, and yet we knew the most intimate details about each other. Now, my loved ones can tell you that even though I shoot off my mouth in public and in print, I tend to be a bit private. Also, I'm not one for camping. I don't mind a hotel with a good bed for a night or two. But I definitely don't care to spend the night with a stranger. Or two.
It began with a colonoscopy on Thursday, March 6th. My kind doctor said that he had removed two polyps, but they looked ok. In the middle of the night, I woke up to a good deal of pain. I figured it would go away, but by mid morning it had not. I asked my sister to drive me to the Emergency Room. The nurse called my name to start the process. " I'm one of your biggest fans!" she said, referring to my time as a newspaper columnist. I immediately wished I had combed my hair. In no time, I was on a gurney, rolling under fluorescent lights in long corridors on a the journey to the inpatient wing of the hospital.
I was assigned to the bed by the window. It was a very old bed, with a body-shaped trough down the middle. I didn't care. A nice narcotic was working magic on the pain. This is why God made poppies, I thought. There were four bags dangling from a pole above me carrying fluids and drugs to my system. Lenny and my sister were allowed into the room just as the kind doctor arrived.
After asking about my comfort level and doing an exam, he said that the area where they had removed one of the polyps was inflamed, and that he wanted me to stay for a few days.
"I would have been calling you tonight if you hadn't come in," he said with a brave smile. "You got the pathology report, huh?" I asked. Suddenly every eye in the room was on him. The narcotic haze evaporated from my brain.
He nodded. "Yes, I'm afraid they found cancer."
"Here we go!" I said. He told me that it was caught early, probably had not spread, and that there was surgery in my future when they were sure that the inflammation healed up. "Chemo?" I asked, and was relieved when he said, "I don't think so."
I could see Lenny's eyes welling up, but by the force of his will, they didn't spill over. We had been through this eleven years ago when he had bladder cancer. We knew that it was not a death sentence.
After a while, I sent the family home, and that was when Edith arrived, and I realized that I was about to spend the night with a total stranger. She was having chest pains, so they kept her overnight for observations. I didn't actually see her for a few hours, although she was only a few feet away from me. A thin curtain provided an illusion of privacy between us. I might have left it at that, but I introduced myself when I had to drag my IV pole past the foot of her bed to use the restroom. I doubt that either of us slept that night. She was discharged the next afternoon.
Late that night, I was told that I was about to get another roommate. Her name was Jane, or maybe Cathy. I had nothing else to do but to listen to what was happening. She was in a lot of pain, and I pieced together that she had some serious health challenges. I introduced myself as I wrestled the IV pole toward the bathroom, and I found her to be a very nice woman. But I'm quite sure neither of us slept much.
On the fourth day, I must have been getting better, because everything was beginning to really annoy me, especially the noise. For a writer who tends to spend days alone, it was a real shock. I decided to convince the good doctor that I was ready to go home. I ate everything in sight, and put on mascara, a little blush, and a big smile. I fluffed up my hair, put on a pair of jeans, and turned down pain meds. It worked. All my vitals were great, and the pain was at a manageable level, so the doctor sent me home.
Honestly, I'm not looking forward to the next hospital stay, but it's just something I need to do to get well. And if I need to sleep with a few more strangers, then so be it. At least I always have home.

March 5, 2008
Today is prep day for my first colonoscopy.
Ok, if this fits your idea of TMI (Too Much Information), feel free to find another blog for your reading enjoyment. But if you are like me, and have reached the age of season, you might find this interesting. Now, I'm not Katie Couric. You cannot take a little journey with me into my colon. However, as a writer who is constantly describing everything in my head as it is happening to me, I had to seize this opportunity to describe this unnatural thing that I am about to do. I'm sure that my late sainted mother would have rolled her eyes and said, "Good grief."
I asked my gastroenterologist why he chose this specialty. I was remembering an FBI agent who said he had been exiled from the Beltway to an outpost in my hometown of Butte, Montana because he had crossed political swords with a superior. I wondered if the good doctor had committed an unforgiveable sin against the Hippocratic Oath, or if he had not been good enough for the Dean's daughter, and therefore had been banished to the world of colons and polyps. But the doctor didn't even have to ponder an answer to my question. "Because it's so interesting!" he said with just the right twinge of enthusiasm.
With our healthcare coverage, it seems like a bit of a crapshoot (no pun intended?) when we see a specialist for the first time. We love our primary physician, but my husband had a very bad experience with his urologist when he was dealing with bladder cancer eleven years ago. I almost gave the guy a poke in the nose, but I kept the Irish in me in check, and our primary doc filed a complaint on our behalf. I often wondered if they ever had to stand around and make small talk at Holiday parties after that. Anyway, when the GI doc said that the field fascinated him, I decided that I liked him. That helps in this situation.
So for about 5 weeks I've been anticipating this day. I have followed all of the instructions to the letter, and am about to start taking the drink that will clean me out. I'm armed with a new novel, a package of cooling baby wipes, and a supply of soothing ointment.
But I've already learned a few things about myself. I have not been able to take any Ibuprophen for four days, and my back really hurts. Even worse is my shoulder. I tweaked it about a year ago, but I didn't realize that it could hurt this much. It's not a sharp Ouch kind of pain. It's a deep, abiding pain. Guess I'll have to find an orthopedic doc who finds it interesting to treat yet another aging woman who is falling apart.

I thought I would try to show some class, so I used a wine glass for each 8 ounce glass of GoLytely, Poly Ethylene Glycol, or PEG for short. I had been warned that it would work quickly and thoroughly. They were euphemistic in their description. By the time I finished the gallon, yes GALLON, of thickish liquid, I was pouring one for me and one for the sink. I wanted to throw that wine glass into the fireplace. Now, I know that I should not encourage this kind of rebellion, but I figured that if it cleaned out a 300 lb. man, it shouldn't take that much to clean out a 140 lb. old bird like me. And believe me, my colon was completely empty. I'll spare you the rest of the process, but I was ready. After a hot bath, I went to bed.
In the morning I put on my makeup and did my hair, hoping that the doctor might remember my FACE. Little did I know it would be the last time I would wash my hair for six days.

When Patty went out to play last night
She delighted to view the moon's odd light
And Cara was there, all sunny and bright
When Patty went out to play.

When Patty went out to play last night
Martha wrestled the scope, quite a fight
To get it set up to glimpse the moon's light
When Patty went out to play.

When Patty went out to play last night
Grandma Sue was there, all bundled tight
Spying on the moon, in shadow and light
When Patty went out to play.

When Patty went out to play last night
Casey and Ken arrived bathing all in light
Having flexed all their muscles tighter than tight
When Patty went out to play.

When Patty went out to play last night
Under the street lamp all too bright
Shari arrived in her slippers so slight
Distracted Jake barely peeked at the sight
When Patty went out to play.

When Patty went out to play last night
She wasn't prepared for the fright
Bob in his jammies, bound for night-night
Lenny in boots, a comical sight
When Patty went out to play.

When Patty went out to play last night
Saturn looked on: the moon surrendered its light
To the earth's bloody shadow in deepest twilight
A constellation of neighbors rivaled the sight
When Patty went out to play

Usually The Mom only lets me write the family Christmas letter, but today I'm so Happy I can't contain my joy. I snuck into the office to use her computer while she's eating her lunch, so I have to hurry if I'm going to get this blog posted before she finishes.

It all began Monday when The Mom was muttering something about a writer's strike (I wonder if that's why she's been so lazy lately?), and how there's nothing to watch on television. But she went channel surfing, which I totally don't understand, and suddenly on the screen was the most handsome Beagle I've ever seen. His owner was dressed in a black suit, and had a thin little guide leash around the neck of the Beagle. They were running around on a green carpet, and people were cheering. All of a sudden I heard him yell his name…and my name! He said "Unooooo Happpppyyyy!" That was when it dawned on me: we must be brothers! My whole life began to make more sense.

I had heard the family talk about him many times. From time to time, especially when Daniel and Caitlyn are visiting from Montana, the family sits around the table holding colorful cards in their hands, and eventually I hear someone softly say "UNO." The person who says it is always really happy, but everyone else groans. Pretty soon they all start yelling and laughing.

So, what else could I conclude? They must have known that Uno, the most handsome Beagle in all the land, is my very own brother! Or perhaps he is my nephew. Am I old enough to be an uncle? Somehow I have a vague memory of my own mother, and I think that I had brothers and sisters. I'm pretty darn sure I never had any children due to a trip to the doc when I was just a little guy. The Mom and Dad said they were being "responsible" pet owners, but all I remember was wearing this awful, cone-shaped collar. I couldn't even scratch my ears or lick my…paws! It was torture. Afterwards, I felt different. I could admire little girl dogs, but I didn't feel like chasing them. Yup, I'm pretty darn sure I don't have any puppies.

Maybe it's just wishful thinking that Uno is related to me. I hear the Mom telling her boys that people will always want to be close to you when you're famous, but that fame is fleeting. Well, maybe when Uno is off that thin little leash and people don't make a big deal about him anymore, he could come over and I could show him the neighborhood. I'd love to hear him howl, "Unoooo! Happyyyy!