Monday, April 30, 2012

I Do Like Palm Trees

I Do Like Palm Trees
In southern California there are palm trees everywhere. Those white stucco houses with those
beautiful rich burnt sienna colored roofs forever stand out against the blue blue sky.
Gotta love it.
I really do like palm trees.
8x10 oil on gallery wrapped canvas.
(location/studio display)
$100

Sunday, April 29, 2012

Bullet Proof

Bullet Proof
Don't know why I painted these I guess the shape made me just yearn
to paint them. Loved the challenge
4x4 oil on canvas panel

Saturday, April 28, 2012

Beneath Her Wings

Beneath Her Wings
Any good mother always keeps her babies close by. This mother is
no different. She is tall above it all she can see inherent danger but it is all ok
because she does keep her little ones Beneath her Wings.
4x4 oil on canvas panel
$40

A Day of Creating Faerie Thrones!




















Friday, April 27, 2012

Good To the Last Drop

Good To The Last Drop
A cup of coffee topped off our lunch as we just sat a while and
enjoyed our time together. The savory rich taste of the warm
delicious brew made me to know that I will be back for more.
4x4 oil on canvas panel.
$40

Treatment Update: CEP


The weather was ridiculously gorgeous last week and helped
off-set the painful times. A nap in a hammock is tops for healing.
I did not end up going on the PUH71 drug trial, nor even undergoing the Phase 0 PET Scan imaging part of it. My timeline did not sync with that of the investigating doctors. It would have delayed my treatment for too long. It may work out in the future, but not now.

Instead, I’ve started a chemotherapy regimen of three oral drugs: Cyclophosphamide, Etoposide, and Procarbazine. They are each traditional chemotherapy drugs with a proven track record for going after Hodgkin Lymphoma cells. I’ve taken these drugs in the past as part of other regimens but at much higher doses, mostly as part of my brutal autologous stem cell transplant prep. I’ve taken just about every proven anti-Hodgkin drug so now we have to revisit what works and new ways to administer it – as well as continue to explore new, novel therapies being developed that give a better quality of life while enduring treatment.

What’s special about this regimen is how it’s administered. A mentor of my doctor who works at another city hospital conceived the premise. The research and results have shown a lot of promise as a long-term maintenance chemo. For seven days I took each drug once a day at different times a day. They are all taken as a low-dose 50mg pill with a glass of water. I took the Cyclophosphamide after lunch, the Etoposide after dinner, then the Procarbazine right before bed (as it causes a lot of nausea, hence why I’d bring a loaf of bread up to bed with me for middle-of-the-night stomach aches).

The theory behind this drug administration schedule is that we’ll keep surprising the Hodgkin cells. Like, “Oh, you think you’ve got cyclophos figured out? We’ll bam! We’re going to hit you with Etoposide. Then, uh-oh, here comes Procarbazine.” We’re continually coming at the disease in different ways throughout the day so as to not give the cancer cells a chance to morph around any one of them and continue to grow. We’re working on eliminating the diseased areas with timed stealth attacks.


We are going with this more aggressive plan because though my scan from a few weeks ago wasn’t alarming, as of my doctor visit last week, I was starting to feel telltale Hodge symptoms and my blood work wasn’t looking stellar. My platelets have been dropping and my sed rate (or erythrocyte sedimentation rate (ESR)) is climbing. The sed rate measures the amount of inflammation in the body and can be used as a non-definitive indicator of when the lymphoma is flaring. We must nip it in the bud.

But then there’s me in the middle of that battle and it hurts to be the carrier. I’ve been hurting very badly in fact. I’m not just surprising the disease, I’m also sneaking up on my body with these toxic chemicals and it hasn’t been very happy with me. I can’t blame it all on the chemotherapy. It’s also the side effects caused by tapering off of the 50mg steroid course I started February 27. On April 9, I began the 3-week drop: down 10mg at a time for five days at a time. It’s felt like an amusement park ride where the seats of screaming riders are raised way high into the air and you’re strapped in with your feet dangling down then dropped real fast and stopped harshly, then dropped fast to a lurching stop again. 

My stomach, head, emotions, muscles and bones have ripped and twisted taking a while to catch up to each reduction in the medication. I was wired for speed for several weeks there walking miles a day around Manhattan, accomplishing great goals, exploring, eating and loving life despite the fact that my eyes were bulging out of my head and my heart would race every time I tried to lay down to sleep. The steroids served me well when I needed it; I had a real good run there traipsing through the rocks and trails of the desert. Now it is time for the 'roids to go and for my body to find its natural state again. This is why Roger Clemens should be stripped of his accolades if proven guilty: that stuff gives people super human advantages.

The more the steroid is pulled, the more I feel what was being masked underneath its good effects. Prednisone really is both a wonder and a devil drug. I’m very achy, like arthritic joint achy. My primary complaint is an emanating dull ache right at my sacrum, where I was radiated for 10 days. At times, it is nothing short of seething. This is likely a long-term effect from the radiation itself and the muscle damage it can cause.

As the steroids are no longer stopping the inflammation in my body, out have come the chronic GVHD symptoms in my mouth. Again, it’s a dry desert in there, my tongue is tingly and scrapey and my thirst can’t be quenched. It’s strange to get back these familiar feelings, which are actually now my “normal” post-transplant. There’s some assurance in that. Loosening the counter-effects of the steroids is letting my sister’s immune system back out of the gate. We can only hope that with those bulky areas of disease gone from the radiation, that my new immune system is again able to assist in seeking and destroying cancer cells right along with this current chemo treatment. It very likely wasn’t doing so while I was on the Prednisone course.

Because the drugs I’m on are not novel, targeted therapies, they are going after all fast-growing cells in my body. I don’t like this idea and therefore don’t want to remain on this any longer than I have to; I must keep my body strong. I will be absolutely devastated if my hair falls out again; it is a true possibility. But I’m giving this drug combo a chance because I’m told that it’s the best shot to wipe out the apparent lymphoma in my chest, abdomen and femur. My PET Scan report says that the areas of disease involvement are not really significant at all, and I worry that we’re cooking a simple piece of toast with a blowtorch, but have to keep reluctantly reminding myself of the fact that this disease has shown itself to be fast moving in the past. We have to stay ahead of it. So right now, blowtorch is the weapon of choice. And I’m on FIRRRRREEE.

I have been a hot mess of emotions as both chemo and steroids play with hormone levels, never mind facing the very difficult task of taking yet more chemo after close to three years of constant treatment and a traumatic donor stem cell transplant. I thought I was done. I had a very hard time swallowing that first chemo pill last Wednesday. Craig had to give me a pep talk. He also had to give me a pep talk Wednesday afternoon when I thought my hips were going to give up and give out on me and I couldn’t speak any words without crying.

The start of the chemo regimen was complicated by the fact that my prescribed Etoposide 50mg pills were nowhere to be found in the entire state of Connecticut. It was on backorder at every pharmacy. Even Hartford Hospital couldn’t find it for me, though they made a valiant effort collecting the few that they did have. It was nerve racking and scary that I could not find the medication I needed. After a major fight with Arrow Pharmacy and the dimwits that work there, I completely lost it. For the first time in three years Miss Independent actually asked Craig to take over. I totally lost my shit. I knew that I couldn’t even speak to my team at Sloan-Kettering without starting to sob I was so shaken by the whole thing and embarrassed by how much it shook me. This was why I couldn’t do the reading at La Paloma that night.

Arrow Pharmacy had not only told me the day before that they ordered the drug; they told me three hours earlier that it was there and to come pick it up. When I got all the way into downtown Hartford thinking it would be a quick grab, it was not there. The labels were printed but there was no drug attached to them and some idiot didn’t see the difference when they confirmed with me that afternoon. Not only was it not ordered, but they couldn’t even order it as it was on backorder from the manufacturer. Somehow they forgot to tell me that so that I could find another route to get it in my hands – completely incompetent.

“Maybe your doctor could just call in a different prescription?” The clueless pharmacy tech suggested.

“This is a CHEMOTHERAPY drug. I am a CANCER patient. I need to take this TODAY. There’s no replacement drug; it’s not like Claritin vs. Zyrtek, Dumbass (I didn’t say dumbass, but I wanted to).”

My body posture could not have been any more aggressive as I leaned half-way over the pharmacy counter and listened to the “manager” stumble over her shapey self telling me that, “They could get the injectible form of Etoposide from Connecticut Children’s and he could probably drink that … . It might not taste good, but they could maybe flavor it and your son could get it that way.”

There were so many things wrong with that "solution". My defense was to use big vocabulary words and a firm, loud, but calm voice to tell her that it was for me not my “son” (which is a stab to a very sore wound as it is for someone rendered infertile by cancer treatment). I am the patient. CCMC has nothing to do with this. The prescription is from Sloan-Kettering in New York City, fatass dumbass (said in head). And no, I’m not going to F’in (I may have said F’in out loud) drink the toxic chemotherapy that is supposed to be injected into the vein. I was supposed to start the drug tonight. I had thought everything was all set.

They said they would make some calls around (I had already done that for the past two days). I said I needed to get some air, went outside gathered my composure, went back in and said: “Just give me my prescription. I am much more capable of getting a hold of this medication than you are. It is now 4:30pm. I need to track down my doctor in New York and get this figured out. Thanks for nothing.” and left making a big scene ripping the prescription paper out of the pharmacist’s hand. This is true-life cancer patient stuff. Unbelievable. If you don’t stay on your toes and pay attention it’s very easy to literally get killed by others deadly incompetence.

For every incompetent person in the world there are a dozen caring, capable and efficient ones. I put a call out on Facebook asking if anyone could get the drug for me from the pharmacy at Sloan-Kettering and save me a six-hour trek. Within minutes I had offers. My former supervisor at the Greater Hartford Arts Council, Rie Poirier-Campbell, just happened to be going to the city for meetings, went out of her way to pick it up for me, and brought it back to Connecticut with her so that I could take the pill that night, simply saying she was happy to help and sometimes you’re just in the right place. There were several others who jumped right in and offered to overnight it to me, or that also happened to be going into Manhattan for the day and said they could swing through and pick it up for me. It restored my faith in human kind after my dreadful pharmacy experience and made me so grateful for the kind of people that I have surrounding me in my life.

It’s been a rough week to say the least. I finished this first 7-day round of CEP on Wednesday. I now have a week off for recovery and I go into the city to see Dr. M on Monday to check in as to how I’m doing with it and see if we need to make any adjustments before picking up with the next cycle. I have two more days of 10mg of Prednisone then I am off completely. I’ve already noticed that I can sleep through the night again and that I don’t have that shaky angst inside me that was fighting so hard against my fatigue. 

The steroids have also caused muscle weakness, particularly in my quads. For me, this is devastating and I am working to be sure that it builds back. It hurt so bad just two days ago that I felt unsafe driving or walking on my own as I thought my legs would just give out. Squatting down to the toilet seat was difficult as was going up stairs. However, their strength seems to be coming back a little more each day. The biggest thing that I can do is to remain active and not lose the strength I worked so hard to build after the immobility of transplant.

Otherwise, I’m doing my best to live with normalcy and remain focused on all of the other aspects of my life: family, friends, house projects, writing pursuits, learning, work projects. I refuse to let treatment take over my life and am instead working to incorporate it well with a lot of stretching, napping when I need to, a big focus on a good night’s sleep, eating often and well, following an anti-inflammatory diet, and walking even a little bit every day. I must listen to my body, avoid unnecessary stressors in my life, and be kind and gentle with myself. Easy to say, not as easy to do, but it is how I have and will continue to survive.

I attended a fantastic writers weekend full of panels and lectures at the Mark Twain House & Museum in Hartford last weekend. It was wonderful. Sure, it was difficult to sit for long periods on my aching sacrum and wicked tight hips, but I sat cross-legged or with stacked knees, conscious of continually stretching and popping out my bones. I was enthralled by everything I learned and at the chance to hear from some of my favorite playwrights and learn of their creative process. At lunchtime I went out to my car and popped my chemo drug and came back in mingling in with everyone else. No one would even know.

My mom spent the day with me at my house on Wednesday as I was just far too tired and in pain to be able to do anything on my own. She said to me that life’s all about peaks and valleys and that I’ve been through a lot worse shit than this. It’s true. I’m in a valley right now, but I can see the peak real close ahead. I need to regain my patience with the process and stop being so hard on myself. We’re doing this to get me better, forever. I need to stop trying to figure it all out because there is no answer and no lifetime guarantees.


Thursday, April 26, 2012

Cornbread and Spread

Cornbread and Spread
Again I painted these delicacies but decided to add a
fork just for good measure.
4x4 oil on canvas panel.
$40

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Victoria's Bounty

Victoria's Bounty
My husband and I went out to eat at a nice restaurant
the other day and he just looked at me a little funny as I started taking pictures
with my iphone. I need these pictures I told him. Today as I was
getting ready to paint I could not help but remember the sweet
wonderful taste of the fresh bread and this delicious spread.
The Victoria Restaurant
Anniston, Alabama
A must visit kind of place.
4x4 oil on canvas panel
$40

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Red Door

Red Door
I painted this for myself. I could not quite get an
accurate photo of it. It is really a nice painting and I am very satisfied
with the outcome.
30x24 
Not for sale.

New Online class: Create a Maryhoonie!

The Legend of the Maryhoonie

On a small island in the middle of the ocean live a unique and curious clan, called The Maryhoonie . Far distant cousins of the Hawaiian legendary little people known as Menehunes, these curious creatures began adorning their feet with the most magical of foot ware known to every little girl as the "MaryJane shoe".....and thus they were forever called Maryhoonies!

They kept tapping me on my shoulder saying " I want to see the world!" Yikes! They are demanding! 

Help me answer their call to bring their cousins, brothers, sisters, aunts and uncles into form.  This is a very fun sculpt and very addictive!  Very soon you will have a large clan of your own!
In this class, aided by many photos and word instructions, you will, step by step, sculpt a Maryhoonie from polyform clay, paint it, and add the final embellishments. You can follow the lesson plan exactly, or make up your own shell creature, using the lessons and photos as a guide. You will find this a very fun class with over 100 photos of step-by-step instructions!


Lesson Plan

Lesson 1 Part 1: Sculpting the body      
                Part 2: Sculpting the head, hands and feet

Lesson 2  Part 1: Sculpting "Mary Jane Shoes"
                 Part 2: How to embellish, paint and finish your Maryhoonie












A new online class offered through A for Artistic:  http://www.aforartistic.com/maryhoonie.html

Bright Spot

Bright Spot
Not long ago my daughter and I were out riding in the car and she ask if 
I knew what the blue reflectors were in the road. Well I didn't. How would I know that it meant a 
fire hydrant is near by. Some things you can't just know.....Well now I do know because
she tries her best to keep me informed. She has a tough job. 
4x4 oil on canvas panel
$40

Monday, April 23, 2012

Three Wheeled Racer

Three Wheeled Racer
I was watching this weekend as some children played on one of these.
In their minds they had the fastest machine on earth. They raced and pushed and 
laughed and cried all because of this red beauty. No one could convince them that
this is not the best ride on planet earth. No sir rhee this is really a Three Wheeled Racer.
4x4 oil on canvas panel

Sunday, April 22, 2012

Peppe's Eyes

I wrote this piece for Syllable: A Reading Series' April call for submissions. The theme was "Light." The direction writers could take was completely open – creativity encouraged. When I read the theme, my grandfather, Peppe, immediately came to mind and this piece sprung from there. For me, he is synonymous with light. I live to carry some of his within me every day since he passed in 2008. 

I was scheduled to stand at the mic and share this as part of the reading series at La Paloma Sabanera coffee house in Hartford this past Wednesday, but I took a big nosedive physically after some changes with my steroid and chemotherapy meds and just couldn't make it. I don't think my legs would have held up, never mind my exhausted head. I was disappointed to have missed hearing how other writers interpreted the "Light" theme, but am glad that I can share it here to give a little glimpse into the magic of my very special Peppe. 
-------------------------
Peppe and 3-year-old Karin no doubt
planning some winter's night indoor adventure
My Peppe’s eyes were the lightest of blue, so faint and lucid that the thought of the harsh sun shining into them made me squint my own.

The color lives on in the faint, cool blue light of my brother and sister’s eyes – striking and piercing in their dramatic subtlety. My eyes are a deep hazel, a stark contrast to the translucent eyes of my siblings. 

Light was always glinting off the pale blue eyes of my grandfather, bouncing off the collection of moist tears that permanently swam in the crinkles around his eyes. Light also caught the white crust that would collect in the corners of his mouth ­– the constant spittle that old folks tend to carry in their lip folds.


Much about my Peppe’s presence was light. His laugh danced as if along a music stanza bar – full and unassuming. It could be heavy and hearty and guttural, but it never lost that buoyancy, a lightness that put everyone at ease. His head would toss back and his thin white hair would dance while his shoulders heaved with laughter.

His hair was stark Elmer’s glue white. Its weight was wispy and feather-light. My professional hairdresser Nonna would incessantly follow him around trying to mat it down with a dampened plastic comb, but that colic could not be tamed. His hair was too thin and free to be weighed down.

Surely a day of nature exploration was ahead
Years of work in the woods with the CCCs stepping and climbing over rocks and roots and fallen trees had left him with legs too tired to lift his feet. Heavy feet. Heavy legs. As a grandfather he was never light in his walk. It was more of a shuffle. When he sat into his worn blue recliner, he sunk into it in a violent manner. Sometimes the footrest would kick out on its own accord as his back fell into the seat, startling the glass of room-temperature water he always kept beside him.

He drank his generic brand black tea light, heavy with milk until its color held only a hint of a faint khaki hue. He liked his white bread toasted light with pooling butter pats at their centers. These breakfast smells awoke my siblings and me on sleepover mornings at my grandparents.

He awoke in the early hours of the day as the light of the sun was rising. He’d tune in the Brad Davis show on his little kitchen radio and we’d come find him there at his designated morning perch. Or, shuffling gently behind the motor-less push broom that he coveted. No loud, heavy power vacuum for him. If a drop of dirt fell to the ground, the quiet white noise of the spinning brush rollers was not far behind to quietly sweep it into its holding bin.

Sister story time with Peppe 
Growing up with him, everything was light and fun. Days with Peppe were the best. We wouldn’t just listen to the soundtracks of classic Broadway musicals, we’d play “Name that tune” with his crafted score sheets. On Sunday afternoons, we’d have a “pet parade” set to John Philip Sousa marches, dragging our stuffed animals around on their leashes in circles throughout the house. He played announcer as we passed by on each loop.

I took dance classes from the age of five and Peppe was my biggest fan. He’d arrange for me to perform at their house even bringing stage lights into play. He’d have my younger sister and me dance in the extended living room. The cedar closet became our dressing room and the hanging blinds of the backslider, our curtain backdrop.

On performance nights, Peppe would unscrew the everyday fluorescent track lighting bulbs and replace them with ones that were rose or blue tinted, allowing us to dance under their soft light and create the illusion that the elaborate lights of a grand stage were shining just for us.

During performances all other lamps in the home would be switched off and he would sit in his designated chair –  and direct my parents and Nonna to do the same  giving us our very own audience as we twirled and spun, leapt and arabesqued to the “Best of Barbra Streisand” or the score of Jesus Christ Superstar.

My little sister and me (in the fab purple number)
posing for photographs during one performance night
We’d do quick changes in the cedar closet and come out adorned in my Nonna’s furs and scarves or long skirts. My sister preferred the fast songs that she could tumble to like Barbras’ rendition of “Something’s Coming” from West Side Story, where as I preferred the more lyrical “New York State of Mind” by Barb or Jesus’ melodramatic plea to his father before crucifixion –  common requests.

I had only three or so basic dance moves I’d repetitively cycle through – a lot of 90s hand placement and arm waving and spinning, but Peppe would gasp, clap, encourage and “Brava!” from his “box seat” like it was the curtain call for Bolshoi’s prima ballerina. We basked in those spotlights and dreamed under the light.

Requisite table shot at our annual Red Lion Inn dinner
A Depression era child, he was careful and calculated with his money, an incredibly thoughtful giver and deliberate purchaser. He very much appreciated the fine things in life and would only allow us to order quality items from the L.L. Bean catalog for Christmas. Every year he would take us to the historic Red Lion Inn for a special holiday feast and every summer was filled with world-renowned dance performances at Jacob’s Pillow, plays and musicals at rustic open-air stages to The Bushnell and Broadway. But when it came to the every day choices, his favorite lunch spot was the Kmart cafeteria where he and my Nonna would often dine –  best deal on a hot dog around.

Peppe and his grandkids (L-R) me, Michael and Kristen
His voice, especially in his later years, was soft, though labored, with a comforting whisper quality to it. It never rose in anger, but at times we had to strain to hear it, the faintness became so prominent. He spoke slowly and purposefully, quietly, softly. There were no wasted words or gossip. He listened intently and couldn’t wait to tell a good story – in deep detail –  when he had one. But he was shy, too. Not one to love entertaining and idle chit-chat. My Nonna was the social butterfly, owning her own beauty salon and hosting guests with hoards of elaborate Italian meals. Peppe would quietly do the dishes every night, filling the sink with layers of soapy bubbles, lost in contemplation. He’d often sign off when he was tired, saying: “Stay as long as you like …” as he shuffled off to bed.

The light tap of his typewriter keys constantly filled his home. He never learned to type with more than one finger and wasn’t interested when my parents tried to purchase him a word processor, then later a computer. He preferred the index finger find-and-poke method. The sound of the padded inked tabs hitting the thin typewriter paper and hard rubber roll behind it evokes so many memories.

As does the light scraping of White Out brush bristles on paper. He always had several crusted-top bottles of the classic corrective formula lined up on his desk. He’d lightly brush across the words, pull back the typewriter roller for alignment and rewrite. Raised and bumpy, the white of the paint never matched the color of the paper. His writings were blotchy and marked up with his chicken scratch corrections, but he always forged forward, writing his memoirs, recounting his world travels, typing the full ancestral history of both his and my Nonna’s families.

He was the unofficial tour guide of the hidden natural, historic and cultural gems of the Northeast Corner of Connecticut. His champagne beige Buick Sedan matched the preferred color of his coffee. Even the way he drove was light. Very light on the pedal. So slow that we’d get nauseous in the back seat as we rolled through the bumpy hills of Cornwall, Goshen, and New Canaan in search of every trickling waterfall, stone wall, outdoor sculpture, or historic home.
Baby Karin in Nonna's arms 
- and those fantastic plaid pants Peppe's sporting. 
His shirts were always gently crisped with starch, never a wrinkle, always fashionable. I have fond memories of him in light pastel patched pattern pants: baby blue, soft pink, pale yellow with a straw derby hat and a white linen blazer. Light, airy, easy, breezy.

He knew the woods and trails of Connecticut intimately. If there was a hidden waterfall that trickled down to a fresh spring and led to a babbling brook, he knew its location and he brought my siblings and me there. He’d encourage us to take off our shoes and socks and put our “tootsies” in the water so that we could feel its coolness.

We were always wading around playfully in water, mud, leaves and dirt. The three of us and our Peppe with our pants rolled to our knees and our naked tootsies gripping the river stones beneath them while water rippled in rings around our ankles. We’d swat mosquitoes and listen for birdcalls or jiggarump splashes, all of which he could identify.

What wasn’t light were his handshake, his hug and the life lessons he worked tirelessly to instill in us. He hated the dead fish handshake and would teach my brother, sister and me how important it is to be confident in our grips, to make eye contact, and to greet with purpose. He wanted us to be independent, self-assured, successful, polite, kind and always curious.

Because of him I always keep my eyes peeled and never, ever walk with my hands in my pockets. When I find myself in a sticky situation, I tell them: “I’ve got to go see a man about a horse,” and high tail it out of there. 

Feed My Sheep

                                                                 Feed My Sheep
My church is having a transition and my present pastor will become our
senior pastor on May first. Brother Jeremy Dunnam will become our new pastor. I painted
this for his office and fittingly named it Feed My Sheep.
30x24 oil on gallery wrapped canvas. Quite the challenge for me since I usually paint small
very small compared to this one.
Not for Sale

Saturday, April 21, 2012

Garden Seat

Garden Seat
In the garden right next to the old shed wall sets a weathered blue chair. Unnoticed it may
seem to be abandoned but not so....It is grandmas chair just waiting for her to return and sit among the 
tulips. It may be nothing to the bystander but to grandma it is her own special Garden Seat.
4x4 oil on canvas panel
Unavailable