Author Archives: shrinkrapped

Hard Freeze

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Half shriveled, half thriving plantDecember’s cold snap has wreaked havoc in my garden. The salvia’s especially hard-hit, except for one bush. Half is shriveled and lifeless; the other half, nestled next to the house and under the eaves, is thriving.

As I survey the damage, my thoughts turn to the current debate on poverty. Are we as a nation doing too much–creating a culture of dependency? Or too little–abandoning those who need help? Are the poor lazy and deficient, or held back by circumstances beyond their control?

My salvia provides some answers. The difference between its withered and thriving halves has nothing to do with hard work or character, simply that one part benefitted from a little extra shelter and warmth while another was literally left out in the cold.

Just as it’s clear that protection from extreme hardship helped the plant, evidence is compelling that, by and large, anti-poverty programs work. Food stamps save millions of Americans from hunger. Unemployment benefits keep families afloat. Medicaid improves health. Not only do such programs provide an immediate lifeline, they also improve long-term outcomes, especially for children, who can suffer life-long effects from the toxic stress of poverty.

Yet unemployment benefits have run out for 1.6 million Americans. Further cuts to food stamps loom. Nearly half the states have refused to expand Medicaid. In some quarters, the war on poverty has turned into a war on the poor.

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” goes the saying. There’s some truth that adversity fosters resilience: My salvia will regenerate, and most people will somehow muddle through our brutal recession. But too much adversity permanently stunts growth, even kills.

Just a little shelter and a little warmth during hard freezes, hard times—what a difference it makes when we bring everyone in under the eaves.

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“Hard Freeze” also just aired on KQED.

 

Chinese Medicine?

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Chinese medicine capsules

Chemo or no chemo? That had been the question when I was diagnosed with a rare and aggressive form of uterine cancer in September 2012. I was fortunate to have caught it very early, but there was very little research about whether or not post-hysterectomy chemo was advisable for my stage and type. One study with a sample size of 12 women who did not get chemo found no recurrences. N=12=nothing to go by. My doctors were of mixed opinion, as was I, until a dream about a docile lion waking up and going on the prowl for red meat tipped the decision in favor of chemo. But there were other decisions to make. Here’s something I wrote way back when, right before the Presidential election. (By the way, I’m fine now.)

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I’ve had my doubts about chemo, but my deepest ambivalence has been about whether or not to incorporate Chinese herbs into my treatment. I just don’t lean alternative, to put it mildly. I really, really wish I could be like Judi Dench’s character in The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, embracing the allure of the new, but sad to say, that’s just not me. I’m more like Madge—the uptight Brit who sulks in her hotel room and escapes back to dank England as soon as possible.

But so many people I trust swear by Chinese medicine as an adjunct to chemo. When I told my beloved yoga teacher, Robin, I had cancer, the first thing she said was, “You must go see the oncology specialists at Pine Street Clinic.” Robin does not have a woo-woo bone in her body. As she puts it, “I’m from Indiana, and I don’t do anything that isn’t practical.” She works extensively with medical issues, and knows more about physiology and body mechanics than anyone I know.

So even though Robin uses a Neti pot, I trust her. I called Pine Street Clinic and set up a consultation, gathering along the way everyone’s opinions about integrative medicine. One friend told me she’d begged her partner to try herbs during chemo; they triggered a terrible allergic reaction and a lot of guilt. Everyone else had good experiences, many with the encouragement of their Western-medicine health teams. Even the Kaiser nutritionist was all for it.

“But does it work if you don’t really believe in it?” I asked her.

“Well, the placebo effect matters,” she conceded. “But I’ve seen it do real good no matter what you believe.”

Only my husband and I remained dubious. And, of course, my oncologist, who said, “Show me an article in The New England Journal of Medicine.” He really is kind of a numbers guy.

Michael from Pine Street asked me to send him my test results and some background information before we met. Wanting to make the right impression, I wrote a 5-page manifesto detailing not only my diagnosis and medical history, but also my staunch agnosticism, misgivings about positive thinking, and unwillingness to give up chocolate and lattes.

At the appointed time, I entered Pine Street Clinic as wary as someone loathe to accept a free dinner from the Moonies. The sun-filled, white-raftered room was crammed with fat Buddhas, oriental rugs, potted plants right out of the 70s, and two large, peach-colored poodles. Now that I’ve confessed my secret identification with Madge, I may as well finish off my reputation by adding that I’m not really a dog person. My stomach clenches when I encounter dogs in the workplace, even though some of my favorite people bring their dogs to work. And yes, I do mean those of you who are right now scrolling down to unsubscribe and canceling plans to bring over a casserole. Sorry. In chemo veritas.

The giant poodles didn’t lunge for my throat or crotch as I made my way to the restroom. Two sardonic flyers graced the bathroom wall, and there was a bumper sticker with a picture of a poodle that read “I Ride Inside: DogsAgainstRomney.com.” Despite my agnosticism, I was beginning to think I might be able to keep the faith with these people.

I sank into the plush couch and waited. And waited some more. I tried to quell my rising irritation by telling myself that I was merely imposing my wrong-headed Western notions of punctuality on an ancient and wise Eastern philosophy of time. This made me more irritated. So I switched to remembering that I wouldn’t think twice about being kept waiting at Kaiser, and checked my iPhone for the latest polling data.

About 20 minutes after the appointed time, Michael appeared, gray-haired and ordinary, with a firm handshake. After ushering me into his office, he remarked on my professed agnosticism by citing Martin Buber. Then he referenced research debunking the universal efficacy of positive psychology. Michael may have been late, but clearly he had done his homework. He then gave me two hours of careful attention, devising a protocol he thought would pass muster with my skeptical oncologist. Michael talked a lot about exercise and food (with no move to deprive me of baked goods); acupuncture and L-Glutamine to minimize anxiety and neuropathy; reading fiction to thwart chemo brain; and paying less attention to tracking polls to thwart brooding. He also suggested herbs, vitamins, and supplements to promote circulation, metabolize the toxic effects of chemo, and build immunity.

I wasn’t exactly hooked, but I definitely felt better about going the integrative route. What could happen, besides dropping a bundle of money, or possibly sprouting a third eye (not the Taoist kind)? While comparison shopping online for the best deals for all my magic potions, I encountered one testimonial after another about enhanced performance, superhuman energy, and muscle repair. Had I stumbled into the antechamber of Lance Armstrong’s doping ring?

Finally, my cache assembled, I sat down to a nasty mix of powdered beverages and capsules. The mysterious Ten Flavor Tea Pills looked like chocolate-covered dragees, so they were easy to swallow, but everything else made me gag. Would I shrink or expand like Alice, going down the Chinese medicine rabbit hole? I choked it all down and waited: for my stomach to settle, my third eye to sprout, and my treatment against cancer to go as smoothly as possible.

 

 

 

Dismantling Christmas

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Christmas ornaments in boxes

The holidays are over. How do you feel about that?

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When the doorbell rings for our tree-trimming party every year, we turn up the volume on Handel’s Messiah, ladle out hot mulled cider, and put our guests to work hanging the ornaments.

I’m the only one invited to the untrimming party. Soon Joni Mitchell’s Blue is blasting from the speakers as I bring up boxes from the garage and get to work dismantling Christmas.

But I’m not blue at all. I love taking apart the wooden train set and stowing away the brightly painted nutcrackers. I scrape melted wax from the mantel and toss withered cedar boughs into the fireplace. Scummy vases once overflowing with holly and white orchids get a good scrubbing.

Then I untrim the tree, from hand-blown glass balls to hand-crafted macaroni angels. It’s like unearthing a time capsule. Here is the rocking horse era, followed by the rise of the snowmen. Family pets are honored by an abundance of dog and cat angels. Crazily misshapen Santas record the preschool years, while “Baby’s First Christmas” ornaments round out the collection.

My favorite part is tossing the denuded tree off the balcony. Such a satisfying crash! Pine needles blanket the asphalt below, but I don’t sweep them up; the wind and rain will take care of the mess. Discarded Christmas TreeThis act of purposeful sloth thrills me as much as tearing out spent petunias from the garden at the end of the summer. Annuals and Christmas trees are supposed to wither and die, then get tossed. Unlike the perpetual nurturing demanded by children, pets,and perennials, limited care for ephemeral glory is the only requirement.

After all, it’s the dismantling that brings about the restored order and hope of the new year.

 

Fallen Arch

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Tennessee Valley 9.22.12

When the arch in the great rock wall at Tennessee Valley collapsed a year ago today, I was surprisingly upset. I counted on that high-up window into the skies. It seemed like the Eye of God, some portal connecting us mundane earthlings who frolicked at the water’s edge with the vast embrace of the unending universe. Who would watch out for us now?

I first learned about Tennessee Valley from my friend Peggie soon after I moved to California in 1977. “You must go,” she urged, giving detailed directions for an easy day’s outing, just as she had opened up other California treasures to this East Coast transplant. Peggie, 30 years my senior, was a surrogate mother until slow erosion by Alzheimer’s led to her death a few years ago. Another rock who collapsed.

Because Peggie wasn’t my real mother, I took her advice, and went to Tennessee Valley time and again. Back then my friends and I were hardy enough to clamber from the beach up the nearly vertical slope for a closer look at the arch. It seemed, like our youth, that it would last forever.

Youth faded, but Tennessee Valley and its arch and my visits persisted. My future husband first introduced me to his parents there. The miles of hilly trails above the valley afforded good workouts with great views. Later, we’d coax our children down the valley floor’s wide, flat path through banks of lupine and sticky monkey flower to the beach with minimal whining. It was always a great outing no matter the weather and time of year, no matter the age and hiking ability of our companions. I could always count on Tennessee Valley.

So that’s where I returned when the bottom fell out. In September 2012, I was diagnosed with a rare and aggressive form of uterine cancer. Just days before surgery for a complete hysterectomy, I walked alone down to the beach, touching the salty water with my fingertips for good luck. Wave tag at Tennessee ValleyA father and his two young children played tag with the incoming waves, screeching with delight just as Jonathan and our girls had done twenty years earlier. I looked up at the arch; sunlight streamed through the hole in the rock in what I imagined as a focused beam of healing energy. Tiny, mutable humans on the beach juxtaposed against the impervious and timeless majesty of nature calmed my rising tide of anxiety.

A friend had sent me a CD of Marty Rossman’s guided imagery for undergoing surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation—the holy trinity of my cancer treatment. With each phase, Rossman’s soothing voice intoned, “Imagine that you go inside to a very special place, a very beautiful place where you feel comfortable, relaxed, yet very aware . . . A place that feels safe and healing.”

Tennessee Valley was the place I chose. Every night as worry bloomed, I would put on my headphones and travel through the velvety green valley to the beach, where families frolicked under the watchful Eye of God in the solid rock. At Rossman’s invitation, I noted the sounds, the fragrances, the quality of the air, the time of day and year, the temperature. Always, I found peace, the ground firm beneath me again in my upended world.

My safe place was not supposed to come crashing down with a great rumble, tumbling into the sea at the end of 2012. But it had, just as my dependable life fell away when I was diagnosed. What could I get back now that it was forever changed?

I visited the scene of the devastation soon after the arch fell, bracing myself as I passed the lagoon at the end of the valley before descending to Tennessee Beach. The remote pinhole high up in the rock had transformed into a vast saddle of sky. It was more intimate, more inviting than before, almost a place of respite. The rock face, so recently altered, looked like it had been this way and would continue forever.

Tennessee Valley 1.25.13

Changed but enduring. Like me.

 

 

Santa-less

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Santa

We had a lovely Christmas, but it’s just not the same without little kids. How about you? Here’s one from the archives.

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No separate wrapping paper and tags. Not having to disguise one’s penmanship or remember whether Santa’s cursive slants left or right every year. Not having to remember that the girls can’t yet read cursive.

I guess there are a few benefits to Christmas with nonbelievers. But mostly it makes me sad that we no longer need to dispose of scummed-over cocoa and apples for the reindeer after the kids have finally gone to bed on Christmas Eve. (My brother trained his kids to leave beer for Santa.)

It wasn’t so bad when our eldest daughter grew suspicious about Santa’s largesse. In fact, she seemed more impressed that her notoriously cheap parents were the ones springing for all that loot than by the idea of a fat guy squeezing down millions of chimneys in the space of a few hours.

Plus, she was a good sport about keeping the charade going for the sake of her little sister—and parents. I remember spending Christmas a long time ago with the same brother who so cleverly customized Santa’s repast. His kids tumbled into the living room where I was trying to sleep, unable to contain their excitement a minute past four a.m. They spied the riot of plastic tunnels and the squeaky rotating wheel under the tree.

“A hamster!! Oh, thank you, Santa, thank you!!” they gushed into the darkness. Nobody had to prompt them into politeness. Theirs was a spontaneous outpouring of reverence.

Now politeness is about all we can expect. The girls are teenagers with exacting and expensive taste. They write out detailed wish lists while making it clear that my judgment is not to be trusted, that I shouldn’t venture off-list.

Then they are disappointed to get everything they want except the element of surprise. But their manners are impeccable as they dutifully thank us.

I miss Santa.

Ornaments

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When my brothers and I were toddlers, at Christmastime my mother set out a fake table-top tree with unbreakable ornaments we could put on and take off to our hearts’ content. I’ve been imprinted on tree-trimming ever since, and have continued this tradition with my own children. Every year the day after Thanksgiving, we haul a little artificial tree and box of soft ornaments from the garage and set it up in the living room. My girls are in their 20s now, and can be trusted with fragile glass angels, but woven pandas and plush whales from Marine World still dangle from the table-top tree.

Even before our daughters were born, my husband and I started laying things away for them—not money for college or a home of their own, but Christmas tree ornaments. When I was pregnant with the baby we called Tadpole before she emerged as Emma, we hung a tiny red-and-green striped stocking on our spindly tree with enormous hope and excitement.

For Emma’s first Christmas extra utero, we chose a bristlecone-pine bear in a cradle. Ally’s arrival three years later brought a baby on a rocking horse to keep the bear company. Along with setting up the table-top tree every year right after Thanksgiving, our family goes ornament shopping. It’s our favorite tradition, and each girl is allowed to pick one special ornament. There have been some doozies along the way, like the pink-flocked hippopotamus, purple-glitter octopus, and plastic day-glo peace sign.

Since the girls have gone to college and beyond, some years they haven’t made it home, and I’ve substituted my better and more tasteful judgment. The year Emma was in St. Petersburg, and hard pressed to find her favorite food in Russia, we hung a glass-blown sushi roll in her honor. Ally’s junior year abroad was marked by a miniature French baguette dangling from the tree while she downed the real thing during Christmas travels to Paris.

This year Ally’s back in Europe, teaching English in Bilbao, where it rains 24/7. Since the rain in Spain falls mainly on my daughter, we found the perfect ornament for her in absentia—polka dot rain boots. And Emma, who moved to Brooklyn in February but is home for the holidays, picked out a pink-frosted glass doughnut to commemorate the first job she landed in New York at an upscale doughnut store.

As soon as Emma and Ally have Christmas trees of their own, I’ll present them with the numerous snowmen, Santas, dogs, cats, and pink-flocked hippopotami that have graced our trees through the years. It will be a good start as they set out to create their own homes, families, traditions. My husband’s and my tree will be a little sparser, but that’s OK. I’m going to keep Tadpole’s tiny red and green striped stocking for remembrance of Christmases past.

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What’s your favorite ornament or holiday tradition and the story behind it?

 

Goldfish

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goldfish

 A client once remarked, in response to another of my misguided attempts to get her to change, “I’m like the goldfish in a bowl of dirty water. Why should I change when it’s the water itself that needs to be cleaned?”

I pondered her words during two excellent recent events: CIP’s “The Neuroscience and Psychology of Resilience,” and TPI’s Fall Symposium, “The Trauma of Everyday Life: Perspectives from Buddhism and Psychoanalysis.” Both helped me appreciate the paradox of the goldfish in the bowl. Can either ever be free of the influence of the other? A pure holding environment is an illusion whose perpetual pursuit leads to misery. Besides, the excreting goldfish always pollutes the water in which it swims. Where, if at all, should we direct our clean-up efforts? My mind leapt from sanitation to sanity to the hyper-sanitization that comes from too much Purell and its psychological equivalent, too much positive thinking. A little murk, like a little dirt, is not only unavoidable; it’s good for us. We suffer less when we relinquish our quest for a world without suffering.

During the Symposium’s lunch break, someone at my table said, “I like this so much better than positive psychology–embracing rather than de-emphasizing darkness in our work.”

A second woman added, “But people shouldn’t brood too long, they need to move forward.”

She went on to tell us about two friends, both highly educated and well-established in their careers and lives until they were wiped out by the recession. Both had lost jobs, all their savings, their homes. One friend accepted what had happened with apparent equanimity, grateful for the $10/hour job he had just found. The other, unwilling (or unable?) to accept a drastically lower income, couldn’t find a job. Our tablemate spoke admiringly of her first friend, reprovingly of the second, whom she characterized as “angry and entitled.”

“Why shouldn’t she be angry?” I asked.

“Mindfulness training and jobs for all!” someone proposed.

We went on to discuss the increasingly toxic and polarized societal waters in which people seem more and more required to swim alone. Clearly the goldfish bowl needs a massive scouring. In light of that reality, better a resilient goldfish than a fish out of water, or out of a job! But how do we bring about enlightened social policy? When is equanimity an exploitable docility, anger the rioter’s rage that destroys one’s own community?

 

Health Care for the Holidays

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Covered California home page

A version of this piece recently aired on KQED’s Perspectives.

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With the holidays here, I know just what I’m going to ask my daughter for this year. Emma’s almost 26, and like a lot of young adults, she’s piecing together a couple of part-time jobs while figuring out what comes next. I don’t want her to spend her hard-earned cash on stuff I don’t need. Instead, I’m asking Emma to make sure she signs up for something she needs: health insurance under the Affordable Care Act.

It’s true that the rollout has been riddled with problems, but the Affordable Care Act’s tremendous benefits remain. Besides, Californians are lucky to have Covered California, the state’s fully functional and easy-to-navigate healthcare exchange. Those who enroll by December 23 will be covered when the law goes into effect January 1. What better way to start the New Year?

Our family has already benefited greatly from the Affordable Care Act–it’s allowed us to keep our daughters on our plan until they turn 26. Soon, though, Emma will need her own health insurance. Before, she never could have afforded it. It’s hard to find jobs these days that offer coverage. Emma, like millions of Americans, might have been forced to rely on costly ER visits or the “Cross my fingers and hope I don’t need it!” plan. Now, under the Affordable Care Act, she and the many Californians like her who’ve risked disaster due to unattainable insurance will be eligible for expanded Medicaid, federal subsidies, or tax credits.

As parents, we make sure our kids are safe: teaching them to buckle up, wear bike helmets, and drive defensively. Grown-up children may think of themselves as Young Invincibles who don’t need insurance, but accidents and serious illness happen, putting health and family finances at risk. Here’s our chance to further guide our kids into responsible and secure adulthood, continuing to protect them by making sure they’re covered.

That’s why I’m asking Emma for the best present of all: good and affordable healthcare for her, peace of mind for me.

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Covered California: www.coveredca.com or 800-300-1506

Other states: check your local resources or www.healthcare.gov or 800-318-2596

Open enrollment period ends March 31, 2014

 

Turkey Comfort

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Shrink-wrapped Turkey

Actually, although I love to eat turkey, when it comes to preparing the big bird, I am turkey-phobic, so I take little comfort in the roasting ordeal ahead of me. To brine or not to brine–that is the question. Most everyone says the answer is a resounding “YES!” but adding coolers and ice and the prospect of salty gravy to the mix has driven me back into the trusty arms of my mother-in-law. She counsels oil-soaked cheesecloth and two cups of wine, one to pour over the turkey, one to pour down my throat. I love my mother-in-law.

I also love Thanksgiving and cooking, except for roasts that everyone else claims are the easiest thing in the world. (Note: I am also gravy-phobic, and have a standby quart from the deli just in case.) I especially love to bake. So, apparently, do the cooks at my favorite cafe, Comforts, where I spied these adorable mocha buttercream turkeys while getting my daily latte this morning:

Mocha buttercream petit-fours turkeys from my favorite cafe, Comforts I almost bought up a dozen to add to our Thanksgiving table, but in the nick of time saved myself from further caloric catastrophe by snapping a photo instead. I sent it to my daughter Ally in Spain, who is at this very moment wondering how cornbread made with olive oil will taste, and how to track down green beans in a country enamored of tomatoes. The price of living abroad.

My oldest daughter, Emma, however, blew in from New York last night ahead of the storm now wreaking havoc on holiday plans throughout the northeast. Soon we’ll get to work making cornbread-and-wild-rice stuffing, whipped sweet potatoes, cranberry relish with horseradish. And the desserts! Blasphemous as usual, I don’t like pumpkin pie, so true believers are charged with bringing that. Emma and I will contribute Almond-Filled Cookie Cake

Almond filled cookie cake

and Chocolate Truffle Tart (sorry, no link!).

Chocolate Truffle Tart

Tarts are sort of like pies, aren’t they?

Emma and I will have our own mother-daughter deliciousness, something I wrote about in a different essay published this month in Skirt! Magazine. It’s about the food, but it’s also about the love transmitted from generation to generation.

Emma in the kitchen

So enjoy whoever and whatever is at your table, brined or not.

Happy Thanksgiving!

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What are your favorite memories of delicious food and Thanksgiving gatherings?

Extreme Makeover

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Make-up

In September 2012, I was diagnosed with a rare and aggressive form of uterine cancer. Treatment was successful, and I am happy to report that I am cancer-free and doing well. I wrote for a private circle of friends and family about my experiences at the time, and am now sharing some of my musings here.

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Last week I went to Look Good, Feel Better, the American Cancer Society’s class on hair and make-up tips. The first part was all right, because I learned you could buy fake hair fringes to Velcro into your hats when you don’t want to bother with putting on your wig. Since I had been contemplating rigging up something similar using duct tape with my own hair after I start to molt, this seemed like it could save me a lot of trouble.

But then the real trouble started when we moved onto make-up. It’s not that I’m opposed to artifice, but most of the time I can’t be bothered. I made an exception for my wedding day, entrusting my face as well as my locks to my hairdresser. When I emerged, Jonathan looked at me in horror. I looked like a prostitute who’d seen better days. After scrubbing my face, I beseeched my 16-year-old niece Debbie to work some magic with her compact, and all was well.

Since then, I’ve stayed away from the professionals. Except when my daughters shame me into buying them tubes of mascara that cost more than a nice dinner out, I stick to the stuff from drugstores, and I make it last. I even have some of my mother’s drugstore eye shadow, and she’s been dead for 18 years.

So when the Cancer Society cosmetologist started talking, my heart sank even before she got to the cancer part. Who knew that even basic moisturizer needed to be applied using only an upward-sweeping motion? All these years I’ve been giving gravity an unnecessary assist.

Everyone at the class got little tote bags filled with donated product. It was just like leaving the counter at Nordstrom, if Nordstrom rebranded itself using cheap red nylon and a new “Look Good, Feel Better” logo. By this point I was hoping for maybe some donated pharmaceuticals, but alas, there was no Xanax in the bag. Only a million little pots and tubes. My tote didn’t seem to have any of the stuff the cosmetologist was talking about, but maybe that’s because even basic identification is beyond me.

Before we got to watch her apply make-up to a real, live cancer patient, however, we learned about proper sanitation techniques. Like sterilizing all your manicure equipment in a 350-degree oven for 15 minutes. This was easy, since I spend even less time on my nails than on my hair and make-up (although manicuring through nail biting is especially frowned upon for those with compromised immune systems). The cosmetologist then described washing down your countertops with hydrogen peroxide and laying in a supply of tiny disposable spatulas so that your fingers don’t spread bacteria as you dip into your various lotions and anti-age potions. Finally, she concluded the Germphobia FunFest with a surefire way to tell if your powdered make-up is contaminated. It involves a fine mist of witch hazel oil and blotting. But cancer or not, you’re apparently supposed to discard all make-up after 3-12 months. So I didn’t need any witch hazel oil to tell me I’d better find something besides that soft shade of green to sustain my sentimental attachment to my mother.

And I thought I’d been doing well to keep a separate Chapstick from my husband’s!

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Postscript: I decided to ignore the cosmetologist’s advice on make-up hygiene. Nothing bad happened, and I still have my mother’s heirloom eye shadow:

Mom's eye shadow