All of you helped us fill the room to capacity, and then some with your appreciation and love for Diane. Thank you. And if we didn't get a chance to talk it was only because there were so many of you--we are grateful for all of your support.


Dear All,

We finally have put up photos of the memorial service and some of the happy times we (and you) spent with Diane in April and March. As we work through photos we'll put more up, so check back every now and then.

-nate


Here are the photos of Diane and her various crews 'round April:

And of all of you who kindly made the trek to Vancouver to join us in celebrating Diane:

(Thanks to Uncle Dave for manning the camera.)

Pie!
You were all so good and left your shoes on the porch as Di requested.

Celebration photos coming soon

Thanks to all of you for joining us on Saturday to honor mom's life and her cherry pie. Your presence and words were warm and strong. Please check back here in a bit if you'd like to see photos from the celebration.

- Valarie

In Memorium

Dear to Diane's heart was Pimpollo, a children’s home in Juchitan, Mexico. The photo above shows Diane on one of our trips there working her face painting magic on the kiids.

Also you probably do not know that Diane's grandmother, Jesse Trueworthy, ran an orphanage, the Paul Clark Home, in Butte, Montana for many years in the 1940s' and 50s'. Diane often recounted vivid memories of spending time there as a child, right down to the squeak of the bed springs in the frigid upstairs girls dormitory.

As one of her final wishes, Diane asked that I make a donation to Pimpollo in her name. As some have asked, if you would like to join me you may do so by going online to FriendsofPimpollo.org making a donation and noting in the "Comments" field Diane Hamm Memorial. You may also send a check care of Friends of Pimpollo to:

Friends of Pimpollo
P.O. Box 1107
Salem, OR 97308

Thanks!

Jeff

Join Our Celebration of Mom

Help us celebrate who mom was and what she's left behind--from her art and life philosophy to her family and famous cherry pie.

We hope to see you there.

- The Hamm Family

Celebration - Saturday, May 9th, 3:00 pm
Red Cross Building (E.B. Hamilton Hall)
Fort Vancouver
605 Barnes Road
Vancouver, WA 98661

Cherry Pie Chowdown - Post-Celebration to 7:30 pm
You bring yourself; we'll provide mom's pie.
Mom and Dad's house
2223 D Street
Vancouver, WA 98663

-0-

Our beloved Diane. Died 4 am, April 29, 2009.

These snapdragons are treasured in our family and they have been the view from Mom's bed for the past few days. Dad and Lorie wrote down these words from Mom about the dragons early Sunday morning:

"...For me that picture has always been a picture of joy-[a] picture of our family. I have loved that picture; it contains our family lightness. Darkness helps contrast the lightness so you appreciate it. Unless it’s there, you don’t see the joy. And it’s noisy, and there is chatter and activity, just like a barnyard. I would have to paint you a picture but given my present state…."

Bless all of you for your kindnesses, large and small.

-nate


We will post details of the memorial service in a little while

Picture of the evening

I'm sitting in the red chair in the living room, at mom's feet. This is the chair the family has snuggled in, read in, cried in, dozed in since my childhood. (Mom and dad once said they'll be giving each of us kids a "red chair" when we marry; for now, we all share this one.)

Mom is in the hospital bed. We moved her there yesterday in order to more easily adjust her resting position. I'd hoped she would die sitting on the couch--more homey, less medical--but the bed makes sense given how difficult it's become to move her.

She's asleep. A slight grunt comes with nearly every exhale. A washcloth on her head. The knobby blue shawl covers her skinny shoulders and deflated breasts. On the bookcase, a mug of flat gingerale, untouched since this morning. Beautiful flowers to my right. A card from Sarah, with a picture of Port Townsend's Chetzemoka Park (mom's favorite), displayed to my left.

Jesse and Nathan are on the couch. Nathan: researching the stages of death...what to do afterwords...trying to prepare for something you can't really prepare for. Jesse: reflective and quiet...so gentle.

An unframed painting of mom's is propped along the windowsill..it's of pears...four versions in a row like stop action photography. Mom rediscovered the painting when we sorted through her sketches three weeks back; dad liked it so much he snagged it for his office but hasn't had a chance to take it there yet.

Aunt Lorie kisses mom's forehead and heads to bed. Dad settles in on the green couch.

We sit. Watch. Wait.

Is this the last night?

Valarie

Where we are

Sorry, all, but no cheery pictures at this time. Doesn't quite fit where we're at right now. Fortunately, Lily, Isaac, Elissa and Nigel dropped off this magnificient box of colorful doughnuts that we determined picture-worthy (and taste bud worthy, too).

Mom had a significant pain increase over the past 24 hours. Went from 3 mg of morphine an hour to 8 mg. Took us a while to get her evened out; she refused to take the oral pain meds yesterday afternoon. Can't blame her--last thing she really had any control over. Today, she's sleeping, somewhat fitfully, but doesn't appear to be in as much pain as yesterday. Her lucid days have likely come to an end. No urnination...very little fluid intake.

Even though we knew this was coming, it's still terribly painful.

One bright spot: we think we've found the right place for her memorial service. Tentatively scheduled for May 9th. Odd to be planning this already, when she's alive; even odder to be planning something so meaningful without her.

Valarie

On Sunday, Mom had some ice-cold watermelon--one of the few things that won't plug her up. She devoured it in about 30 seconds. Ginger ale finally has competition.

We are in a bit of a holding pattern here. Mom has told us repeatedly that she is ready to go--that she wants to go. And her vitals and mental clarity have led us more than once to think she would go very soon. But come each morning-time she has lasted the night, her tough body plugging away; her spirit weaker but still there. Yesterday she kept Dad and Lorie busy from 3 am until 5 am recording her thoughts on dying...a philosopher to the end.

The hospice nurses are of course circumspect--the I-have-no-crystal-ball metaphor is frequently used and continually unsatisfying. Their estimates range from a week to weeks, though in the next sentence they caution that her condition could change rapidly.

I can't speak for the others, but I feel very much in a time bubble, where the days pass quickly or slowly with much activity or none at all. There are so many parts of her history and her approach to la vida that I know I will wish I'd asked her about. But there is scarce perspective from her bedside in the living room, leaving me few triggers for those questions. And it would be impossible and exhausting and selfish on my part to try in any case. Instead I am attempting to content myself with the little gems of herself that she shares every now and then.

"Carry on my sweets," she says.

-nate

Mom was never a heavy drinker, but has more than made up for it in the past few days. This little smile will show up and she'll say "get me some of the special stuff," and we'll run to the kitchen and fill up a little glass with ice and ginger ale. We are rewarded with a happy look on her face and the satisfied little "ahhh" when she finishes and lets the straw fall from her lips.

-n

Jesse's home! (The bundle of brown hair, lower right.)

With all of our energies focused toward mom these last few days, the hours pass in a rush or not at all. Even though we haven't responded to all your love and thoughts please please know that they're getting through. Every card and email elicits a laugh or a cry or a smile or a good thought in all of us here. (Fyi, we're working on getting the Zumba video from Meg.)
-n

While you might imagine things are mostly serious around here, every now and then some humor happens. Like this afternoon, when Mike, Lorie, Dad, Mom and Mary were thoroughly enjoying a video of Val and Mom doing Zoomba in the kitchen. (Meg recorded it on the sly weeks ago.) Will let all of you imagine Mom and Val sashaying around in the kitchen as they do.
-n

Most of us have spent a little time next to Mom, enjoying her company, soaking up a bit of her warmth and passing along some of ours.

And crying. But right now, that can happen anytime, anywhere around here.

The light comes in through the windows and fills Mom's room. She and Dad had it painted yellow, with a white ceiling. It feels big and warm and comforting.

Val and mom this morning, with the ginger ale.

-n

Yesterday, Dad and Mom went outside. It really was lovely, warm and smelled like spring and we sat out on the porch swing and chatted. Today too, but we had her bundled up and wrapped head-to-toe. She's so beautiful and calm in the quilt Sarah made for her.

Early morning musings

Laundry whirs in the dryer. Mom rests. The house is quiet after a full day of family visits, of mom's gentle requests for gingerale, of getting her up and down from the bed, and finally--on her request--out for a stroll in the wheelchair in the sunshine around the block.

Hospice also made their first call--a gentleman named Jim. Here's my snapshot: a discussion about milligram vs millilitres of pain meds, the incessant beeping of the automatic med dispensing machine, Jim talking loudly on his cell phone beside my mom's bed because he couldn't figure out the med dispenser--I gave her ear plugs--insurance, funeral homes, mom wanting to sign her signature on the forms: small, long, slow, impossible to read except for her classy "D" for "Diane".

Fortunately, that visit came to a close. And after a long nap, mom perked up late in the afternoon. Her speech was a little clearer, and her eyes are bright--she's soaking up the love around her.

This is what she wanted, this is how she wanted to go. At home. With family. She told me numerous times how much she'd appreciated the way her father had passed just a few years back...he'd fought against the paralysis of his stroke, then accepted where he was and absorbed the life around him to help ease his way out of his own.

I don't know where mom is in the timeline. Don't really know how to do this whole preparing for death thing. Feels like such a gift in some ways...as though mom is breaking the trail and testing the waters for us as she always has. Guess someone has to go first. You just don't want them to go quite this way or quite this soon. Had lots of things I wanted her to be here for. Know she's come to terms with not having them; it's more my deal now than hers.

And I don't know how to watch a man, my father, grieve for the fading of his wife, my mother, who's been his partner since they were college students. You just can't fix it.

He is doing right by her every step of the way.

Valarie

On Sunday afternoon, we spent a nice hour with Mom, Dad and Val outside next to the water. Apple and cherry blossom trees were blooming all around...it's spring and it was lovely. Couldn't have asked for a better day.

-n

Home, again, Finally.

Mom is sleeping now in the Dining room (as she should be, it's 4:30 AM), easily and every now and then drowsily asking for some ginger ale. Yesterday was a big day. (Minor medical details follow.) A small procedure removed the most irritating nose tube and put in a more comfy (and easier for us to handle) direct stomach pic line. Her bowels are constricted in a few key places and the doctor says the severity and number of these intestinal speed-bumps will only increase. So traffic in her small intestines is at a standstill and appears as though it will stay that way despite a last ditch medical effort on Saturday and some good work by Mom in the past two days. So she's home now, and Ralph and Lorie and Dave are here too.

The folks at the hospital were real good to mom, and her brand of sass and smiles charmed the lot of them, those that could be charmed at least. While they were sorry to lose her company, it was with a lot of relief (and perhaps a little trepidation for me at least--at the hospital there is at least the illusion of getting better) that she and Dad and Uncle Dave cruised home in her favorite zippy little car yesterday about 9pm. I followed shortly thereafter in the subey after a brief loss of composure. She's wanted to come home ever since she got there and we wanted her back home, away from all the beeps and thumps and loud talk and that damn hospital bed that always interrupted our conversations with a loud and insistent wheezing at particularly important moments.

Val's housemate Emily brought by some fine chicken enchiladas for us last night and after testing some of the gear left for her by the hospice folks we called it an evening and ate and rested. Having the crew here is so good--catching up on everyone, talking about mom, planning out just how this is all going to work. There are laughs too, and smiles, and the sort of generally upbeat nature that defines our families. Grandpa Harold would approve--other than sporadic sobs 'n tears no one appears to be feeling sorry for themselves overmuch. We all know where this leads and all we can do is keep her comfortable and calm and aware of our love.

I haven't been much of a writer on this blog--more of a reader, along with most of you. Living so far away in NH kept me out of the day-to-day here. But we do what we can. So whenever I have been home I've taken as many photos as the family could bear, and then some. And in the last few days I've done the same, snapping away somewhat selfishly when maybe it wasn't the best manners or propriety. But we only have one take and Mom ain't coming back, so.... Photos will be up over the next days and weeks as this endgame plays out. An ongoing electronic wake or something.

It's getting towards the end of this third watch of the night, and the sky to the east is lightening up with that pale yellow that fades upwards to violet. Dave and Ralph are on next and I'll see if I can get back to sleep.

love to you all

nate

Glide Path

Although last Tuesday's surgery to insert stents got Diane's kidneys percolating again and lowered her blood pressure, pain and nausea became increasingly difficult to control. This culminated Thursday night when on returning home from work I found her listless and confused. Valarie arrived to help and we decided to book Diane first class by ambulance to ER. We were met at the hospital by her oncologist Dr. Rushing and, with the help of a great ER doc, through the course of the night determined that she has some sort of a bowel obstruction. She was admitted as an inpatient with a plan to try and get her cleaned out.

The plan got more complicated however when she began to throw up early Friday morning. That removed the option of treating this from above with medications and fluids. So this is where we are: They have not given up trying to resolve the frozen bowels. A procedure will take place this morning to try and "restart her engines". We wait 24 hours to see if it works. If it does not they will insert a tube into her stomach so that acid and fluids can drain and not nauseate her. At the same time they will insert a tube into her right lung so that fluid will not build up and cause her more pain and breathlessness. We are told these are both very portable, painless devices.

The bigger picture is that the chemotherapy agent Doxil is not doing the trick. The cancer is advancing. Dr. Rushing will not administer another chemotherapy drug unless her bowels are working. However even if they do start functioning the next drugs have a 12% to 15% chance of having some effect. Even then the effect would be largely marginal. Remission is no longer in the picture with mainstream ovarian cancer treatment.

As a family we have done some research on alternative therapies and we just do not want to go there. You all know Diane. She has a clear, strong sense of how life is to be lived. This is not it. So while we are still holding out hope that she can turn all this around (and would not put it past her to do so) we are preparing to bring her home and for hospice care. She is so brave.

For those of you who wish to see her, you are all welcome. Please stay in touch so that can coordinate with and make the most of each visit.

Jeff

Here's to happy kidneys

Breaking news, just in from dad:

"Dr. Arroyo just came in to say they have finished and Mom is in recovery. He was successful in getting both stents in although the right side was much tougher than the left. So much so that he almost didn't get it through.

She's in recovery now and expect to be able to bring her home today. The stents are good for three months or so."

Go kidneys, go!

- Valarie

On the Not Quite so Light Side

Diane heads into the hospital tomorrow morning for, hopefully, an outpatient procedure to insert stents into both of her ureters. Apparently tumor mass is constricting these ducts (they connect the kidneys to the bladder) to the point where urine is backing up into her kidneys and hindering their function. As a result a toxin in the blood, creatine, is building up. The fluid retention is also elevating her blood pressure quite high. We'll update you all tomorrow evening.

Jeff

and to keep us from getting too serious....

So the nurse faxes me back the Family Medical Leave authorization form I need for work. The doctor has filled out all the fields....date of diagnosis...side effects patient is coping with...there are also some specific yes/no questions:

Does the patient need ongoing care? Dr. Rushing has marked "yes" with an "X".

Is the patient experiencing ongoing symptoms? "X" for "yes".

Is the patient pregnant? A big fat "X" on the "yes" line.

No ovaries, but apparently still pregnant. You are a miracle, mom.

Valarie

On the couch

Mom and I sit on the couch after a long week.

On Tuesday, we met with the doctor. No change on the Doxil. Still hasn't kicked in. Dr. Rushing says to give it another four weeks to see if her CA125 goes down.

Throughout the week, her creatine levels went up and down. Indicates how well her kidneys are filtering out toxins. She and dad go in tomorrow to see if it's time to see a urologist.

On Friday, she headed in for some fluids at the clinic. Blood pressure high...and then a headache so splitting they gave her morphine. It's taken her until this afternoon to get her legs beneath her again. She was pretty wobbly. And yesterday she was sick.

And yet, today, while Dad drops Jesse off at the train station, mom and I curl up beneath the quilt Sarah made, and we talk. I watch her eyes--her pupils are dilated from all of her medication--but she's breaking through the fuzziness to be there for me.

"Honey," she says. "Even though I'm loopy, I wouldn't want you not to tell me about how you're doing. There isn't drowsiness I wouldn't push through to talk."

I cry. And she holds my cheeks in her hands. She's still my momma--and so brave.

Valarie

The great juggler

So lately (though it's better this week), it's been going something like this:

pain.
take pain med.
get nauseaus.
take anti-nauseau pill.
throw up anyway.
get weak.
take different anti-nausea pill.
get loopy from anti-nauseua pill.
get backed up.
get dehydrated.
more pain.
more pain med.
pain med bad on kidneys.
stop that pain med.
take more of first pain med...

You get the picture. I would call it perhaps the most difficult and painful of juggling acts, and it's been beating mom up lately. Talked to the nurse on Friday and she mentioned how much everyone loves mom at the clinic...and how they're all amazed at how little pain medication she's taken...Think mom finally realized that the pain has reached a point where it's more preoccupying and disorienting than the loopiness the meds cause.

One of the most difficult parts of this whole deal is how consuming the disease is. It seems bad enough to be going through it; at least you want to be able to enjoy some of the things that make you feel normal. But so much of mom's time is in management now. On Friday, she spent from 1:00 until 9:00 in the hospital getting a CAT-scan and her weekly lung drain.

BUT all is not despair. Like I said at the beginning of this post, she was well enough for me to mosy on over with Alex on Saturday night to parade off my dress and haircut for an awards ceremony that night. She and dad were cuddled on the couch watching a movie together. Love seeing that--and dad's gentle kisses to her forehead.

We're off to see the doctor tomorrow. COME ON DOXIL!

Valarie

Could it be--hair?

The good news: I woke up one day last week to discover the sudden reappearance of my eyebrows! A peek under my night cap showed a downy covering of black fuzz there, too--imagine. Now if I can just ask one more small favor of the Great Provider: could my hair not return as the kind that sticks straight out--the electrified model--but instead, something cute and curly?

Joyful news: as you may know, the kids were all home this past week on a work/play retreat that stood in for a trip to Europe, or even one to New York. We saw a play--the farce "A Flea in her Ear." Went out for a great dinner with a guest appearance by brother Alex and sister-in-law Mary from Eastern Oregon. Had professional massages and a night of music provided by Nathan on fiddle, Jesse on my old guitar from student days in Mexico. We made cherry pie--the passing on of a family tradition and lots of tasty, colorful feasts which I enjoyed with my eyes, mostly.

Then came the work part. As my dad would say, there were too many chiefs and not enough Indians. Talk about take-charge kids. Boxes were dragged from the basement, contents hurled into piles according to each person's separate value system, while I frantically tried to save whatever treasures might be cowering among the junk. Now that everyone's gone home, we still have, uhumm, several minor mountain ranges traversing the plains of our major living areas.

Most importantly, though, we sorted through our thoughts and hopes on end-of-life issues--not in a morbid way--to be sure we were in agreement and can move on to enjoy the months or years ahead. We laughed, we cried, we appreciated each other as never before. Two months from now we'll know if the current drug has successfully stormed the fort and can maintain me for a decent stretch. In the meantime things are likely to continue rocky. That is, more time spent on the fighting rail of the track than on the scenic one.

As for Magda, the Divine, she impatiently awaits her writer's hand, having been left in the middle of announcing to her daughter Silvia that she was marrying the gringo, Sr. Karl, whom she has known six days:

"You're not going to be a Mexican anymore?" Silvia looked horrified.
"I suppose not," said Magda. "But in my heart, I will always be."
"You don't even speak English! How are you going to communicate with that man?"
Magda wanted to explain how Sr. Karl had used sign language to encourage her to go parasailing and how she had felt when he put his speechless arm across her shoulders. She was just the right height to fit under it. She wanted to say that words were of less importance when you were matching spirits—you understood each other instinctively, while if you were mismatched, no quantity of words could bridge the gap.

Have loved hearing from you. May spring be sunny and greening wherever you are.

Diane

BLAH time

Despite a wonderful visit from her sister, Lorie, this past week has been a bit uncomfortable for mom. As she mentioned previously, she's on the pain killers now, which means it's quite a dance between various types of drugs...and it's a dance where it seems as though your partner is constantly stepping, no stomping, on your feet.

She began taking vicadin...which made her nauseous, so then she took anti-nausea which made her super drowsy...then she was sort of okay but the pain wasn't under control...so then she went on the fetanyl patch, which made her sleep away most of the weekend (sans a movie or two and stroll around the block with dad and me yesterday)...and then, joy of joys, made her nauseous and sick again later last night. BLAH!

As I write, she's getting poked by Laura, her acupuncturist. Am hoping that'll help keep everything down. I continue to be amazed at how well she takes most everything in stride, at least on the outside, even if she struggles privately. Aunt Lorie has helped us put the next couple of months in perspective, i.e. looking at them as a temporary state until the doxil kicks in and begins kicking the cancer cells' butts. (Sorry mom, had to use "butt".)

Fortunately, there are good things to look forward to--Nathan and Jesse head down and over on Friday for four days of family bonding and basement "stuff" sorting.

And before I forget...have been meaning to tell you all again how heart warming it is to know you're all out there. The cards, the blog comments...means a ton to us.

Valarie

No Extra Points for Stoics

This week has shown me how lucky I've been till now to be relatively pain free. While we're waiting for the new drug to take effect, which could be up to three months, the cancer cells appear to be having a heyday in the vicinity of my right lung. The irritation refers pain to my shoulders and lower ribs and does a good job of distracting me from other things. My doctor gives no extra points for stoics and said today I better get used to the fact I'm going to be needing the heavier stuff, i.e., narcotics.

Monday night found me weeping in Jeff's arms in the dark, not because of the pain, but because of a presentiment that I may have a lot fewer days ahead of me than I had counted on. As Magda's daughter tells her when Magda cannot be dissuaded from marrying the gringo and following him north to Montana: Don't be dramatic, Mama. This is not a telenovela!

On that score, Magda's story is up to page forty (lost a little time trying to get that distracting pain under control), which completes part one. Here's Magda just prior to the marriage proposal she's helped orchestrate:

The three of them sat on benches at a long table covered with red and white oilcloth and speared rosy shrimp from huge cocktails. Sr. Karl shook his head appreciatively and said,"Buen-o, buen-o."
"Lo mejor--the best!" agreed Roberto.
Magda dabbed at her lips with a paper napkin, as pleased with their praise as if she, herself, were the shrimp.

Jeff is in Washington, D.C. at his annual transportation conference this week. Had to be nudged to go with promises I'll be all right. Sweet Pea Valarie insists I'm to call her if I have the slightest twinge in the night. She'll rush right over. Jesse's here this weekend and my darling sister Lorie comes on Monday from Missoula to keep me company and help organize my head for the things I really do need to tend to. She also does Zumba. Grab the hook--we'll be clattering across the stage together!

As always,
Diane

Quickie update

Hey there folks,

Quick little update on mom.

While we're waiting for the Doxil to kick in (could be a while), those knarly little tumors are kicking out some fluid into mom's lungs, which causes her a lot of pain. Mom hasn't been sleeping very well because of it, so yesterday they went in and drew some fluid out of her lungs. We're hoping that helps her breath deeper and feel better.

To balance the blech part of all this, we thought we'd share a sweet tidbit too: we've found a french bakery with super tasty caramel rolls. Mom loves caramel roles.

And, for the heck of it, a bit of dialogue I heard about last night:

Dad: Di, how about some broccoli with mayo?
Mom: No.
Dad: How about some broccoli with lemon juice?
Mom: Blah. I want ice cream!

Dad, bless his heart, hurried out to get some.

Valarie

A New Week

Hey guys, a week with no additional troubling news from the doctor's office. Am not on the experimental drug, but have started the next standard one that's not so tough on the bone marrow. Most folks tolerate it well. As the doctor says, if I want to boogie, now's the time to do it.

Yesterday I superseded myself by putting in six hours of writing. Am now up to page 29 of Magda, the Divine. Here's a line from Magda's becoming aware of her destiny matching up with that of the parasailing gringo who came to woo the young woman next door:

Magda felt a tug at her chest as though she, too, were airborne, tethered to the speed boat by the same great rope that kept Sr. Karl from floating off into the universe like a lost balloon.

As I mentioned last week, Mama Linda, who inspired the character of Magda, was here to visit us from Mexico. She's almost eighty, speaks no English, and is a dynamo. As always, she cooked for us as part of her love made visible, insisting we buy eleven pounds of corn tortillas from the tortilleria to get things rolling. She also prayed unceasingly for me, asking God to "take that illness and cast it into the depths of the ocean."

I'm looking forward to having the kids home at spring break the end of March for a work party to tackle the basement where my accumulated "stuff" hulks. We'll be sorting, saving, reminiscing, letting go, with evenings reserved for eating out, going to plays and generally cozying up as a family.

May the birds be chirping out your window as they are out mine--reminds me of a line I made the kids learn in order to get a popsickle when the popsickle truck came round: For lo, the winter is past. The time of the singing of birds is come.

Diane

One of Those Weeks

Hello, crew. Since none of the rest of you is even going to dream of getting cancer, I want you to imagine a magnificent Valentine's Day where you receive a hundred red hearts from people who care about you. Think how that will make you feel. Sort of like me. Floating on a layer of love from valentines that have been coming in ever since last September.

The good news this week is I'm on page nine of Magda, the Divine. Am trying to work back into a disciplined writer's schedule. I've signed a contract with myself to at least get in touch with my novel every day and have started a writer's log to keep me on track.

The not so good news is that despite the rally of my red blood cells, last week my cancer marker numbers started backing up the scale instead of sliding down it. That means that all the cells that are going to respond to the particular drugs I was on have responded and the strains that have not are trying to gain an advantage. It was rather a bummer and I kept the news to myself for the weekend while I processed it and until more details were available. A little lonely, but I think I needed to be able to deal with just my own bumming. An occasional bumout is the price of getting on with my life. Sort of like getting your chain jerked when you've been off the leash. But that's far better than staying always on the leash by thinking daily of your mortality.

The doctor will soon be starting me on the next best drug and there is some possibility of joining a trial of the new biologics that target only the cancer cells. In the meantime, the doctor, when pressed, said barring Divine Intervention he does not see me as a candidate for 5-year survival, but anticipates he'll still see me in his office a year from now.

This week my father's widow from Mexico will be visiting us. Theirs was the marriage where he could speak no Spanish and she no English. Mama Linda is a real spark plug and is one of the inspirations for my novel.

Valentine kisses to ya'all,

Diane

Zoomba with momma

Picture this....

There I am, in the back of the dance studio at the Vancouver Community Center, and I'm sweating. A lot. For the past hour, I've been wiggling my hips, attempting to waggle my chest, and zip back and forth across the floor to the sounds of latin, egyptian, indian and african beats.

Frankly, I look pretty awkward, which is why I've positioned myself in the back of the class.

If you look up to the front, right next to the instructor, however, you'd see mom. She got her sassy black tank top on, a scarf around her head, and she's moving all over the place. She's amazing. And I'm so proud.

Shake it, momma.

Valarie

Moving Along

It must be the spring-like weather we've had for the past week that has me making progress. At long last on Friday I finished revising my children's novel and sent it out into the world. Which has freed me to return to my adult novel that I'd been busily gathering material for last summer. Just to make it official: Monday I started the narrative. So there she was, Magda Morales, widow of Madero, sweeping her front patio as though it mattered on a cold February day in Ensenada. I hope to have the first draft finished by October.

My red blood cell count dipped last week, as expected a week after chemo. Because that makes a person anemic and therefore breathless, I slipped out of my aerobics class last Friday when the instructor sent us jogging around the room for the 3rd time in half an hour. Valarie asked me if I was still communicating with my red blood cells, giving them a picture to work with. That sounded a little more intimate than racing through my marrow in a Mini Cooper. I asked them to consider the pomegranate: plump, juicy, healthy. When I reported this to my nurse as she drew blood for another hemoglobin check, she said I should tell them to be fruitful and multiply. :~) What would I do without her.

The lab report a few minutes later showed a 3 pt rise in my levels--50% more than two weeks ago when I surprised the doctor with a 2 pt gain. Amazing what liver pills, creative visualization, and the backing of the home fans can do. I love getting your comments, e-mails, cards and visits. Like the string of a kite, you keep me grounded and encourage me to fly.

Hope you're seeing a little Spring your way, too.

Diane

Good News

This week brought good news of my cancer marker numbers continuing to fall--at a faster clip than three weeks ago--and of my red blood cell count actually going up--to the doctor's surprise. I credit that to the 4 liver capsules I swallow every day on my naturopath's recommendation. Or maybe it's my daily visualizing a fleet of mini Mini Coopers racing through my bones, stirring up the marrow.

After six treatments, whose cumulative effects are often harsh, I'm still doing well, with more energy than I had back at the beginning. In fact, I have gotten off my duff and returned to exercising. I've added back in one aerobics class a week and one Zumba dance class. The dance class is an energetic blend of latin dances, belly dancing and African moves. I love it and feel proud I haven't had to be carried out on a stretcher yet. In my alternate life I've always been a dancer and an ice skater--something you would not want to witness in real life with a full bladder.

The days fly by. Only rarely do I consider that they may be part of a finite number predicted by cancer statistics. Most days are ordinary in their sweetness. I've started a gratitude notebook, one or two things I especially appreciate any given day. But we try not to make every day so precious that it reminds us continually of mortality. Yesterday Jeff and I were happy enough to be mundanely employed in mopping floors--me--and cleaning the wood ones on hands and knees--Jeff.

The three things I've had to get comfortable with in dealing with cancer are the idea of dying, the idea of living, and the fact I don't know which reality will prevail. My trusty oncology nurse, whose own husband is a colon cancer survivor, says you have to look at cancer like a chronic disease. Like high blood pressure it may always be with you, you have to manage it and you get on with your life.

Love to you all.

Diane, who's getting on with her life

From the beach!

Well, it's a tardy post but you should all know we had a lovely time at the beach after Christmas. Rain jackets were required full time but the weather lifted enough for a walk out to our favorite big sand dune at Cape Kiwanda. Mom made the big tramp up to the top where, as usual, we could barely pull Dad away from the booming surf and Jesse roamed onto the hazardous Cape itself, followed shortly by the rest of us. Alex and his crew but no Mary ;-( , joined us for some serious cards and eatin'. Hope the rest of you had good holidays and are jumping into this new year with gusto.

-nate

Vrooom, vrooom!

Hey y'all,

I'd like you to meet my sweetie-pie brother-in-law, D. E., who lives in an undisclosed town in Western Montana with my sister, Lorie. D. E. drives an 18-wheeler for a living and, like me, detests the sound of a vacuum cleaner. He is also one of the West's best storytellers. Well, as some of you may recall from a blog I wrote a ways back, I've chosen a Mini-Cooper as a symbol for taking control of my life in my current challenge. I once test drove one, and let me tell you, it gripped the road and laid rubber. Last night, in fact, I sent a red Mini through the marrow of every bone in my body to stir up the red blood cells which have been flagging lately. Daughter Valarie thought the visualization might be helpful. Maybe she's having second thoughts about her offer to donate me blood for a transfusion..........

At any rate, back to D. E. He was DISgusted that I would choose such an insignificant car for such an important job as transporting me through the big C. When pressed, he confessed he had never driven one. Furthermore, he said if he ever did, he'd have to wear a paper bag over his head to avoid being seen by fellow truckers, friends, family members. At which point I CHALLENGED him to test drive one.

So, here we have "evidence" of his test drive in his neighbor's Mini. When questioned how he liked the sporty little car, D. E., ever the honest man, admitted he hadn't actually taken the car out of his neighbor's garage! Now, how sporting is that?! When asked why not, he said there was snow in the driveway. Now we've heard everything. Still, I think the masked challenger makes a great pinup on my refrigerator--what do you think?

One thing has me worried--when he signed the picture he wrote Game's On, Sister across it. Do you suppose that means he's challenging me to take an 18-wheeler out for a spin?

Vrooom, vrooom,

Diane

Getting a Bead on Things

Hi y'all,

We're still here! Trying to right the house after the holiday jamboree. Finally got to the bottom of the laundry hamper this weekend. Laundry actually turns out to be a rather soothing thing these days. Besides being nice and toasty when I fold it, it gives me a feeling of accomplishment and without any fuss transports me from the past into the future.

We had our dining room painted a cheery yellow to match the living room while we were at the beach, which has necessitated reframing the 7 paintings hanging there from an art show I did in Salem some time back. And now that we have the "refresh" bug, Jeff and I are scouting upholstery material for the reading couch (last recovered when the kids were small) and for the bench cushion in the entry way. Making such long term investments seems somehow right at the moment.

On the other hand, in the chemo room at the cancer center where I was getting a dressing change this afternoon, the following conversation took place....

Me: I'm trying to decide whether or not to start the adult novel I've taken lots of notes on. I don't know if I'll live long enough to finish it.

Fellow cancer patient: With chemo brain you forget a lot, so it won't matter if you don't finish reading it.

Me: Actually I meant to write it.

My nurse: I certainly wouldn't decide on the basis of cancer. You're not going to die anytime soon, and besides, you could walk out the door and get run over in the parking lot, like Dr. Rushing (my oncologist) who found himself spread eagle on a lady's hood in the hospital parking lot last week in an attempt to avoid being run down.

Fellow cancer patient: I think you definitely should get started writing.

My nurse: Besides, if you die before you finish it, you'll be dead anyway and it won't matter.
............

:~) I love my cancer nurse. She used to be in the Army. She always sets me straight.

Hugs to all,

Diane