Alice Runs Marathons

 

 

 

Alice was a runner. She had the easy gait of someone with long, beautiful legs. She ran up and down Irish Mountain. She ran on beaches all over the world. She ran many New York City Marathons. When she ran, her skin glowed with sweat. Her body became fully alive with exertion. Her big heart pumped blood and oxygen--and love. Love for the race. Love for us all. Love for life. In fact, after pounding 26 1/2 miles of  NYC pavement, when everyone else would have collapsed on their couch, Alice threw a party. 

Eventually she had to run a different kind of marathon. Trying to stay ahead of the mutants multiplying inside her and chemotherapy's unpleasant side effects. She did her best. Better than her best. But two years ago, Alice crossed the final finish line. And yes, there was a party to celebrate everything she had done in her amazing life. 

We have to keep on running without her. Whether it's an actual marathon like her son Lucas will do in November. Or somehow just putting one foot in front of the other for whatever challenge we face. Step by step. Block by block. Mile by mile. 

Sometimes, you turn a corner and find a hill you hadn't expected to climb. Sometimes the sidewalk is cracked. Sometimes your shoes give you blisters. And sometimes you discover that a few of your own cells are mutants. 

I never ran with Alice. I didn't have that power. She kindly walked along with me. She still does. As I go on this particular marathon, I carry her love of life.

THERE ARE WORDS!

 

Contrary to what some sympathy cards say, there are over 600,000 words in the OED. 

But which ones should we say to someone who is struggling?

A friend just told me he has cancer.  Several of my friends have recent diagnoses. Other friends have other illness, aches, pains, and profound losses. I spend a lot of time arranging words on a page (aka writing). I still don't know how to say--or even what I want to say to these people. 

Now that I'm back in the cateogry where people express sympathy to me, you might think I'd know what helps, what hurts, and what's just pure Hallmark.

For a while I thought, 'I'm sorry you have to go through this' worked well. Expressing sympathy is good. Also 'going through' implied that this was a bumpy, but temporary, part of life's journey. The road ahead would be better. After I said that--and heard it from people--the phrase lost its power. Overuse had diluted its meaning. 

So what do I recommend? What do I want people to say to me? What to I want to say to others? What ARE the words?

Alas, there is no magic sentence. No acronym, meme, or emoji. But I do have a little advice.

Be specific to the person and their circumstances. That's true for any good communication, whether you're telling jokes or making a persuasive argument.

Pay attention to the individual you are talking to. Do they want to be helped? Heard? Hugged? And don't ask them that exact question which, I fear, has already become a cliché since I read it in the New York Times a few months ago. 

Have a conversation. Don't just hand someone words on a platter. Listen to them. Empathize with them.

And please do reach out. I have sometimes been silent for fear of saying the wrong thing.

Yes, communicating is hard. But it isn't harder than whatever your friend is going through.

FORGIVENESS

 FORGIVENESS? That’s an unusual topic. I didn’t expect to be thinking about that!

An old log, battered by the waves, comes to rest upon the shore, and somehow sprouts new growth.

 

Forgiveness, however, is a huge step on my journey to . . . what exactly? Recovery? Health? Accepting this altered life. So okay then. Here goes.

I forgive the Universe. Whoa – pretty grandiose, there, Jane! But I do. I forgive the flaw in its design that means battling for life isn’t always straightforward. We must be on guard against these sneaky little mutant cells. I suppose I must forgive those mutations too, because humans wouldn’t even be here if cells didn’t change over time.

I forgive my ancestors. Actually I don’t need to forgive them because it turns out I didn’t inherit my mutants. Even if I had the notorious BRCA gene, I still forgive whoever gave it to me. They also gave me the parts of myself I like.

I forgive the poisoners. I don’t want to, but I do. The ones who didn’t care about the environment in which we live. The ones who didn’t know the consequences of pollution. The ones who did know but preferred to ignore it. The ones who are still spewing poison.

I forgive the people who helped me and the people who are still helping me and the people who sincerely believe they are helping me. There are limits to what anyone can do.

I’m trying to forgive myself. This is the hardest of all. I can forgive my sins against healthy living. Others indulged in riskier behavior and aren’t battling cancer. It’s harder to forgive myself for squandering this gift of life. Why haven’t I done more? Why didn’t I make more of a contribution? Even having a few hobbies would be money in the sense-of-self bank. Sadly I had let my account dwindle.

But hey, who knows, this may in fact be the perfect time to reinvent myself!

As Machiavelli said, “Never waste the opportunity offered by a good crisis.”

Rahm Emanuel interpreted that to mean, “Take this opportunity to do things that you think you could not do before.”

So I will! Because I can! So far, the health report is pretty good. My body is coping with the drug. Blood counts are normal. My physical therapist and my oncologist are happy. So am I—sometimes.

And on the days when I’m not, I forgive myself for that too.

OUT OF MY COMFORT ZONE

On the last day of 2023, I made a resolution. I would step out of my comfort zone! 

On the first day of 2024, I plunged into the cold waters of Lake Michigan.

In February, I shared the musical my team is writing with way more talented and experienced writers.

In March, I traveled to Colombia--8,500 feet higher than where I live.

And in May, I learned that my cancer has come back. 

Yes. In 2001, I had a mastectomy, six months of chemotherapy, one month of radiation, and started ten years of hormonal therapy. Because of all that, I had 23 great years. I published over 30 fiction and non-fiction books. I traveled to many countries with my husband. I saw our daughter channel her creative skills into the practice of law. In other words, I lived. And I intend to keep living.

I just took three pills. They're so powerful that I was cautioned to wear gloves when handling them. And yet they seem pretty small considering the job they must do.

I must fight an equally important battle. I have many memories of 2001--some of which I'll share in future blogs. But one is very clear to me now. Just after the drama of the surgery, when people had moved on to their own problems, I was left alone with my darker thoughts. I lay in bed feeling sorry that my life could be cut short. I was jolted by this realization. If indeed that were true, then why would I waste one single precious second of the time I have here on Earth in a cloud of misery? Why wouldn't I do whatever I could to make the most of what I have while I have it? None of us will live forever. 

Now it's June. I will continue to leave my comfort zone. I will not abandon comforts! I need sunny days, walks in the woods, bird song, and time with friends more than ever. I must strive, however, to avoid sinking into the lazy-boy-recliner of self-pity, resentment, and railing against the mutants who live in my body now. 

I have decided to use this blog as a place to explore my thoughts about illness, identity, but most of all my quest for life.

Writing it will help me. Thank you for reading. 

 

I LOVE MY PEN

What does it mean to write? I’m not talking about the implications of crafting stories to inspire or inform or amuse. I mean to make words show up on what was originally a blank space. In order to WRITE, an idea somewhere in my brain acquires language. Then a different part of my brain sends a signal along my nerves to my fingers. They tap the keys of this laptop. And then – by an even more mysterious process – those keys signal the word-processing program and letters appear on the screen. These words seem professional. They are tidy. They are uniformly shaped. My bad spelling has been magically corrected. My lines are straight. I appreciate all this help in making my ideas look good, no matter how incomplete. 

Writing is different when I use my cartridge pen. The line from my brain down my arm to the ink feels continuous – almost as if my blood were being spilled on the paper. All my first drafts are written in that way. So are my notes on my projects, my comments, my  maps of fictional places, and my emotings.

This method has drawbacks. Penmanship is a problem. There are times when I cannot read my writing. I'm not exaggerating. I cannot. So I think of something better.

The pen will run out of ink at the worst of all possible moments. Sometimes when my brain is struggling with a thought, I watch the words grow fainter and fainter – a literal manifestation of what’s happening in my brain. I insert a new cartridge. I return to the page – the sentence broken – and I can’t remember what I was trying to write. So I think of something better.

Or the smears – the blots, the blobs, the times when I pressed too hard on the poor nib and something illegible gushed onto the page. Or when I have neglected my pen. Been busy. Been typing not writing. If I pick it up after a long absence, nothing flows. Dried up inside. So I take it apart. I flush it with water. I put in a new cartridge. I start to write. At first, the words are pale. Watery. Eventually the ink is flowing as it should. Because I have thought of something better.

I love my pen. It forces me to think. To take my time. It enables my words to be more than a string of discrete letters. I would never for a moment think of writing with anything else. Except maybe this?

Miraculous Writing Machine made by Friedrich von Knaus 1760

 

FAREWELL TO THE MEWS

The connection between writers and cats is almost a cliche. I wouldn't be surprised if MFA programs offer courses about sharing your desk with a cat. There is a reason for this. I had been putting words on paper for years, but I didn't become a real writer until after we brought Blackberry into our home. I will always be grateful for what she taught me.

BE CURIOUS



Cats are  interested in everything––except what is shown on a screen. And they never look in the mirror. Blackberry and I spent a lot of time watching the pigeons across the street.

KNOW WHAT'S IMPORTANT



Blackberry had an uncanny sense of which particular piece of paper was the one I needed the most. Here she is taking a bath on it, as if to say, "Clean this part up."

CONCENTRATE



Her stare was so powerful that it was unsettling.

BE HUNGRY



Her appetite was tremendous. Once she got a whiff of something she wanted, she pursued it relentlessly. She obeyed no rules. No shelf was too high. She even opened cupboard doors to get food we tried to hide from her. She took what she wanted, even if it was a sip from my husband's cocktail.

BE FEARLESS



Yes, she is sitting on the peak of a pitched roof.

BE WILD

 

Blackberry never ever forgot that she was a hunter. Even toward the end of her life, whenever dusk lengthened the shadows in the woods, and other animals crept from their hiding places, she wanted to leave my lap and run off to be part of that other world.

Blackberry was my inspiration and my companion for many years. We will be telling stories about her life for many more years to come.

Getting excellent advice from some readers

I'm fortunate to be a writer. I never take it for granted. I enjoy every bit of the process. I've worked hard, but I also know that I owe a lot to sheer luck.

I would never even have written my first novel. But I attended a reunion for a theater company where I had been an apprentice. I happened to sit near a children's book agent, Linda Pratt, who happened to  mention that she was always looking for humorous adventure stories. So I wrote one, and she sold it to Random House.

A few years after that, I had a second bit of amazing luck. I joined the Brooklyn Community Chorus. One night at rehearsal, I sat next to Susan Westover. When she found out I wrote kids books, she invited me to Brooklyn New School and Brooklyn School for Collaborative Studies, where she is the librarian.

That was eight years ago. Since then I have visited BNS and BCS many times to talk about my books and writing. I've gotten to know the schools' other wonderful librarians, Karen Klein and Amanda Clarke. (Yes, the schools are so committed to reading that they share three librarians!) They're always grateful for my school visits. But I get back far more than I give. Each visit restores me. It's so inspiring to be in schools where teachers care about kids. Kids care about kids. And everybody cares about books.

My current novel is still very much a work-in-progress. But that's when a writer most needs to get a dose of tough love. I asked Susan if she might have some readers who were willing to give me feedback. Susan and Amanda kindly gathered a group of fifth graders and a group of sixth graders. They read the first twenty pages of CITY KID.

The Fifth grade group gives me advice.

One student drew my main character and a logo.

Their comments and their ideas were so helpful to me!

The sixth grade group meets regularly in the library to share their own creative procects.

Of course their enthusiasm for the character made me happy. But I was even happier to get their questions. What kind of person is Peri? How does she feel about her step-dad? Why did she say "no hugging"? Can't she just take a taxi to the theater? What are "cut-offs"?

Lots of helpful comments IN RED

"Does she get to the theater? How? We'll help you write the next page!"

Yes, my friends at BNS and BCS. You certainly will.