Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Not Your Ordinary Teapot

Not Your Ordinary Teapot
This little teapot was bought for pennies at the local thrift store. 
This painting did not photograph as well as I would have liked but
for now This is it. 
Oil on 6x6 gallery wrapped canvas
$50
For sale at my DPW gallery just follow wht link to purchase via PayPal

Happy Happy Happy

You know how it is when you are doing exactly what you want to be doing, in the moment....like you're a complete fit in the universe, for the moment...completely in tune with your own particular being......that's how I feel right now.  I love love love hunting for old things that have a story....the hunt, the anticipation, the focus...the find!  But then....then....the moment comes after the unpacking and studying and cleaning....the moment of placing.  Of display.  Oh joy!  :)  Silly joy!

I just cleaned and placed a few of my treasures from my trip to France.......happy happy happy!   Look at this tin bird piece!  It is new....created by an artist that makes my heart sing!  Even her website is to completely lose yourself in....check it out:   http://www.ibride.fr/#/introduction/       On one side is a dove, dressed in fashion of yesteryear and when you turn it over, wha la....she is naked in all her glory.  Her little secret and mine. :)

Also by the same artist is this fantastic silk butterfly image.  I just had to have it!  Our ceiling fan is on now and the breeze created softly has her dancing.


Here are the two pieces hanging on the wall of our cottage.  The bird is by the ladder and the silk butterfly fae is hanging on the loft wall.

Then on to place antique finds and treasure that...for some reason.....I just had to bring home with me from France.  There was an open space in the bathroom on top of a cabinet....perfect level to view these pieces of preciousness.

I don't know why I am so drawn to images of the madonna.  I'm not religious.....spiritual, yes...but formed religions don't do it for me....but images of the madonna touch my heart.  I suppose I have to admit to myself that I collect them....since I have so many now.  There is something so precious about them, in all sizes and shapes.  A higher vibration, I think...perhaps......I dunno.....I just know that they make me happy.

I found this wonderful little wooden box...probably held a piece of jewelry, so long ago.  A gift....a love token.....now frayed and very worn.   What a perfect spot for a tiny metal Madonna....

This carved....perhaps soapstone....Madonna has lost her nose.   I love that.  :)  Worn off, perhaps, by kisses and prayers.

Yes!   It is  baby duck!!!   Be still my heart!!   I found this little one on a table at a fleamarket in a tiny French village.  20 euros, I think it was.  I fell in love!   And later, while in a beautiful store in Paris, I saw the same little duckling for sale for 500 euros!!!  But I wouldn't sell this for all the tea in China!   I can't wait to make her a little crown.

Isn't this cool?!   It's a carved wooden frame, with a old piece of faded brocade fabric with an image of a cross....what happened to the cross?   I love the mystery of it.

It makes a perfect backdrop to my duckling and her friend, a small pheasant.  Two crowns are in order, for sure!

......and for the icing on the cake.....look at this tiny piece of tafetta, all hand embroidered with the most beautiful of stitches with the initial M for Marilyn!   And......it was a gift from a really wonderful and odd antique shop keeper.  I asked..."how much for this?" and he said...."a gift for you.."  !   I will always treasure it.

SGN-35 Treatment 4


I was back in the chemo chair at Sloan-Kettering yesterday for infusion four of the targeted drug SGN-35 (Brentuximab Vedotin/Adcetris). My mom accompanied me for support, company, and as post-train car driver as I’m a wuss when it comes to handling the Benadryl that I am pre-treated with.

It was a smooth, but slow process. Clinic was running late. It’s just the nature of the beast as the needs of those coming in for treatment and doctor visits are just so variable. Though the infusion is only 30 minutes, the entire process of waiting to see my doctor, seeing my doctor, waiting for the drug to come from the pharmacy, and actually getting my port accessed and the drug infused totals about four hours. Add in the 3-hour travel time each way and there goes the day. Three years of it has taught us how to prepare with good books to read, phone charger at the ready, and loads of snacks.

My blood counts look fantastic. Everything is in the normal range and I don’t even show a trace of anemia, which is very rare for me. The only thing that remains out of whack is my sed rate, which isn’t unexpected due to the lung inflammation and steroid course that I am on. It’s not even registering at greater than 100.

Dr. Moskowitz did notice that I’m developing some thrush in my mouth, which happens with a high-dose steroid course. It’s white and dry and bumpy in there – yuck. I’ll be doing a prescription mouth rinse to combat that. My lungs sounded pretty good and there were no palpable lymph nodes or really any serious concerns to mull over. It was a painless and event-free visit.

We talked some about how we’re looking at my disease as a chronic illness now – something that I can live for a long time with as long as we can maintain control without detrimental toxicity. I asked her to try and qualify me somehow against other HL patients to get an idea of where I stand against this disease. I realize it’s an arbitrary question, but she so thoughtfully talked me through where I’m at, where I’m going, treatments in development for me down the pike and provided me encouragement that I am doing extremely well given how heavily treated I’ve been. She actually said I was a “rock star.” This was a very welcome compliment as I often don’t give myself enough credit and can get very frustrated and impatient with my progress and capabilities. Sometimes it helps to put things in context. I could have it a whole lot worse.


I do need that reassurance sometimes and it helps most to hear it from the medical professional that deals so intimately with this disease and those of us battling it. What I love about my doctor is that she is positive but realistic with me. She doesn’t blow smoke up my ass. She knows I am educated about my disease and she understands my goals for quality of life. This mutual understanding is invaluable.

While I started up with treatment my mom went to grab us food and we noshed on wimpy wraps that made us laugh at their ingredient sparseness and ridiculously moist and satisfying scones from one of our favorite little NYC joints: Alice’s Tea Cup.

As soon as the Benadryl pre-med finished dripping in I was out cold, coming in and out of sleep all confused about where I was. My mom watched over me and some Olympics coverage on the little overhead TV until my treatment finished and I was unhooked. I had no coughing spasms or bronchial tightness as I have in the past. Hopefully this is a sign that the course of steroid treatment worked and that the drug is not exacerbating my lungs. Time will tell.

Our train ride home was equivalent to a wooden roller coaster ride it was so bumpy and erratic. Whoever was conducting that MetroNorth train felt the need for speed or else our car wasn’t quite attached right because we were shaking and rocking the whole time – not the most comfortable of treks home.

We arrived after the final hour-long stretch of road from New Haven to Tariffville to our deck table set for three complete with flowers and candles and Ray LaMontagne playing in the background. Craig had prepared a meal of coconut and panko-encrusted chicken and Parmesan baked green beans from my parent’s garden. My mom and I were more than happy to indulge after our paltry lunch and unnerving train ride. It was quite the treat to arrive home to after a long, long day. The three of us enjoyed good conversation in the fresh summer air with Sammy underfoot nuzzling around for one of us to give her head a pat.

I slept hard last night and made it through until 8 a.m. – the latest I’ve slept in a very long time while combating these hyper steroid effects. Today has been foggy and achey. My body is very, very tired and swollen. My eyes are burning and my brain slow and irritable. It’s a typical post-chemo day. I know it will pass, but I do mourn every time I feel like this again as it triggers difficult memories and realities. So today I’ll let myself mourn and tomorrow I’ll start picking myself back up again as I look forward to a weekend on Cape Cod where the real healing will begin.


Monday, July 30, 2012

Always There

Always There
Standing...In the sun...in the rain. On good days and bad. Standing...
Just waiting day after day to help that wayward straggler. Kinda like us. I do
believe I am here to help someone. Someone less fortunate than myself. My
hope is that sometime before my life is over I would have made the life of someone
else better. What will I do today? I will let you know.
7x5 oil on canvas panel
Sold

Sunday, July 29, 2012

Into The Sunset

Into The Sunset
Not paying attention to what is behind but looking ahead. What does
he have to lose he knows what is behind but ahead lies many exciting possibilities. I 
think I will just ride off into the sunset.
7x5 oil on canvas panel
$50
For sale at my DPW gallery just follow the link to pay via PayPal

Saturday, July 28, 2012

In His Shoes

In His Shoes
One of the most important people in the whole world is Dad.
I would like to think that this title carries with it the responsibility of knowing
that those who follow will surely mimic who you are and what you do. Be careful
Dad someone very important is watching you.
7x5 oil on canvas panel
$50
For sale at my DPW gallery just follow the link to purchase via PayPal.

France Fleamarket Finds...

One of the most fun parts of a trip to France is laying out all the treasures found from the Brocantes.....

Keys from centuries ago...clock pieces.....tarnished metal flowers from some church's decoration......

wax flower buds from wedding veils.....handwritten letters to loved ones.....



glass beads.....black silk netting.....handwritten music sheets....



iridescent sea shells....metal embellishments....

glass mushrooms.....hand carved wooden rosary beads......



memories.....bits and pieces of energetic vibration......pieces loved and held.....honored and left.....pieces that I claim and I feel their inspiration and I will take these bits and pieces and place them in artwork of honor, to be recognized and appreciated and allowed to say..."yes...I was...I am...still..."

Radiation Discothèque

On the table ready for blast-off
I never wrote in-depth about what this crazy thing called radiation was like. Now that those 10 days of targeted shots are haunting with long-term side effects, it seems appropriate to revisit this past spring.

March 8-21 was spent in New York City getting daily radiation treatments at Sloan-Kettering. The treatment was necessary to free my T-7 and T-10 vertebrae and my lower sacrum of some cancerous clusters that had grown and were causing me significant pain. If we didn’t eradicate them immediately, the risk was there that the cancer cells would break down my bones and collapse my vertebrae – a scary scenario. So radiation it was. The potential damage from it (like the lung inflammation I’m now experiencing) was far outweighed by the immediate danger I was in.

So to NYC it was. I was able to again secure a spot at American Cancer Society’s Hope Lodge so that I could easily commute uptown versus across states to make it to my sessions. I’d traverse there by subway, absolutely loving the energy of the morning commuters around me. The subway cars would be packed and I’d sludge up long lines of stairs and escalators to get to street level then join more morning New Yorkers pouring into the streets and traversing the blocks of the Upper East Side.

I’d pretend I was going somewhere much more enticing and cool than radiation treatment, traveling with my ear buds in listening to whatever artist in particular would get me pumped that morning. Most often it was the Into the Wild soundtrack with Eddie Vedder as I loved the juxtaposition to the gritty city. I molded into the habits of the others around me, often standing with one hand around a pole and another holding open a book as I read through the stops from Herald Square to 64th and Lex. I learned the system and the maps and the shortcuts well. Despite being there for treatment, I adored my time in New York, especially being alone in New York for most of it, though the weekend company was welcome. It sated that long-ago desire to be a young career woman living in the bustling city. Two weeks was just enough.

Each day I’d arrive for an 8:30am session. Most every day I was out by 9 a.m. and had the rest of my time to explore as I pleased. Compared to the drawn-out, long days of chemotherapy sessions, the brevity and simplicity of it all was a breeze. The toughest part was the initial set-up and dry-run-through day when teeny tattoos were emblazoned on my body and a body mold was melted around me to ensure that I would be cradled and positioned in the same precise way for every single treatment. This would maximize effectiveness against the cancer cells and minimize harm against my good cells.

The daily regimen went like this:

“Hi, Miss Diamond. You’re all checked in,” the sweet girl would say as I stepped up to the counter.

I’d take a seat just long enough to catch my breath from the 15-minute walk from subway station to hospital and my name would be called. Up I’d get to grab a locker key and change out of my clothes. Everything from the waist up had to come off – boobies free. I’d tie a navy blue robe around me and would scoot out to the next holding pen where I’d flip through a magazine until my escort came to get me. I was always on the same machine with the same team working with me – a purposeful set-up for consistency.

Most of the radiation techs on my team were young – my age if not younger. They were mostly guys in their twenties save for one middle aged British woman. In all my medical institution experience, I haven’t had many male caregivers so this was a first and I admit it was a little odd as it’s such an intimate encounter.

I’d lay flat on the stiff balance board of the radiation machine where the team would place my body mold each morning. I’d scooch until my bum fit in just the right curves and lay my fingers in the slots at my sides. Each day I’d have to look at the monitor and see my awkward photo to confirm my image and name.

If the music wasn’t already on, I always asked them to crank it. Some days it was reggae. Some days it was classic rock. Most days it was Top 40/hip-hop, which brought the whole experience to a discothèque level – laser lights and all. Nicki Minaj and Ludacris would be signing about flying starships and “hittin’ with the best flow, freestylin’ in the restroom.” An early morning club scene as they’d shut the lights off and send in the radiation beams and triangulation lasers.

Then the adjustments would begin. The guys would open up my robe and cover up my nipples with a paper towel rolled into a bow – a makeshift bikini top. The coarse, thin material covered me just enough to make the attempt at modesty laughable. But to them I was just another body they were aligning. They’d shift my body by pulling the sheet below to the left and right, moving my love handles up and down, pushing my shoulders this way and that, rotating my hips in and out and shirking my pant line down precariously low to my lady parts.

City street reflection
I dealt with the immodesty of it all by laughing to myself imagining that I were laying across a bar top with these guys hovered over me poised to take a lick of salt off my stomach and a shot of tequila from my navel. It was as intimate as a body shot at times, but the instruments involved were black sharpie markers that they drew bull’s eyes on me with each morning.

During an evening walk in Chelsea with my friend Meredith we passed a sex toy store and she pointed out the frilly burlesque titty tassles displayed in the window jokingly suggesting that I should paste those bad boys on before my last treatment. What an 8:30 a.m. surprise that would be for the techs. I still laugh thinking about that. Sure was tempting.

The adjustments would take about 15 minutes of aligning and realigning as they switched from area to area to be radiated and recalibrated my body and the machine around me. Once all was settled they’d cover me in a white blanket for the treatment itself – a return to modesty.
 
As I’d hear the machine kick in, I’d envision an extremely powerful stream of water going right at the areas of cancer cell bulk – kind of like a power washer. I’d visualize the tremendous strength of that water stream blowing apart those cells until my bones were freed of the invaders.

Apparently it worked as the spots disappeared and have remained gone for near five months now. But in a cruel twist of fate during what seemed to be one of the smoothest phases of my cancer treatment yet, on the second-to-last day I became that “one-in-a-million” chance patient whose vital body mold went missing.

The poor schlep sent to tell me the news looked like he was going to vomit right there on the floor. I had a feeling something was up as many more people had been called into their sessions before I had.

He just blurted it out: “You’re not going to believe this, but we can’t find your body mold.”

I had that day’s treatment and the next day’s, which would be my last. I was not going to be messing up this plan or extending this New York stay any longer than I had to. At that point I was very tired and I wanted to go home – home home.

I just nodded back at him quizzically waiting for elaboration.

He was professional and apologetic, but sweating bad. Not sure if it was him, but someone screwed up real bad. Going off the handle in anger wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I just needed the problem fixed and he assured me that that is what they were working on.

My radiation oncologist had been contacted and they were waiting to see how he wanted to proceed. Evidently, the whole building had been scoured but nowhere was my mold: a Karin Diamond sized hard, thick piece of plastic with a deep body imprint had miraculously disappeared. It was deduced that likely someone read the treatment dates on my chart wrong and it got trashed prematurely. Or, a very creepy person took it home with them and cuddles with it every night … . I’ll never know.

Customarily patients are radiated from front to back, but because the spots my doctors were aiming for were in such delicate areas as my vertebrae and sacrum, the beams had to be angled using lots of geometry – which I do not understand – in order to avoid damaging any of my vital organs. Therefore I had a radiation “plan” that could not be taken lightly.

Loved this Union Square sculpture
They couldn’t trust the accuracy of my alignment without the mold even though it was only for two measly treatments. It wasn’t enough to just tell me to hold morbidly still. Without my body mold, I could not be safely treated. I’d have to go through the whole alignment and mold forming process again. The day was a huge exhaustion of resources, money and time for the hospital. I’m not doubtful that some heads rolled over the scrambling that my situation caused.  

When he spotted me sitting in the little waiting vestibule in my blue robe sneering and pouting near tears, the doctor came over. I had worked most closely with this very empathetic and thoughtful radiation resident during the entire radiation process. He told me that if I was going to be mad at anyone to be mad at him because he was insisting not to take any chances and to fix this problem right.

I wasn’t mad. I was tired and frustrated, worried and stressed. There was no one person or no one thing to be mad at. The situation was what it was and I had to go through the process needed to rectify it. I was impressed by the way they professionally remedied the situation, but it didn’t make it any less exhausting. Like a limp doll I was shuffled around all day from building to building, machine to machine, pants yanked down, forced to lay flat and still for hours under x-ray machines, drawn on with marker, my naked body precariously close to a lot of people’s faces as they tugged at my flesh shifting me to perfectly align until I again melted into a hot mold of plastic.

At one point I found myself sitting on the toilet in the ladies dressing room asking the universe how such a stupid mistake couple possibly happen. What kind of idiot could lose a human-size mold? I mindlessly looked down at the pants around my ankles and realized that my tag-less yoga pants were on backward. They’d been on backward all morning long meaning I’d been walking around with insignias and logos in all the wrong places. I had to laugh. I guess we’re all human.

Some oopsies are bigger than others though.


Friday, July 27, 2012

Close To The Beach

Close To The Beach
Boats are so interesting as they float gingerly upon the calm summer water.
They leave reflections of all kinds which make them much more appealing. 
I just love them don't you?
5x7 oil on canvas panel
$50
For sale at my DPW gallery just follow the link to purchase via PayPal.

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Happy Birthday

Happy Birthday
Happy birthday,happy wedding day, happy new job, happy happy joy joy,
To all of you who have a special happening in your day today. This one for you...
5x7 oil on canvas panel
$50
For sale via PayPal at my DPW gallery

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

In The Light Of Things

In The Light Of Things
Sometimes when the sun lights up something it is as if
the hand of God is touching it. As though it is meant to be. You just stand there
looking in awe as the sun shifts and you realize that you have just seen something 
spectacular. In The Light Of Things
7x5 oil on canvas panel
For sale via PayPal at my DPW gallery

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

The Perfect Day

The Perfect Day
What is more perfect than water and sky especially the place
where water meets sky. It just doesn't get any better than this.
5x7 oil on canvas panel
$50
For sale at my DPW gallery just follow the link to purchase via PayPal.

Q: Will I Live or Die? A: Yes.

I am going to die. You are going to die. Every single one of us is. No one is invincible. Death is the only real guarantee in life. It’s what we do with that reality that matters. It’s when tragedies like that in Aurora, Colorado happen that these existential questions come to light. It’s a time to contemplate and evaluate and appreciate the reality of life and death. As many were, I was deeply affected when I heard the news of this unthinkable act. What human cannot pause and think about what something like that means for their own lives and the world at large? It’s something far too important to turn our heads at.

For me, it brought up a lot of questions: Why them and not me? What’s it like to be gone in a shocking instant versus someone else that has a long-term terminal illness? Is one ever preferable over the other? What is worse for the victim? How about for those they leave behind?

Why am I, with a body that was full of lymphoma from nearly every lymph gland right through to my spleen, now not just surviving, but I believe thriving, while a six-year-old out for family night at the movies had her life cut short at the hands of an erratic and disturbed gunman. These questions are unanswerable.


Would you want to know when your day will come? What would you do with that knowledge? It’s a nagging that fellow longtime cancer patients and I carry with us daily – for better or worse. Most of us long to live. But this can't be said for everyone. I’ll never forget the time in the Emergency Room when after finding out I was a cancer patient, a man told me I “am lucky because most of us are trying to die.” I am not trying, and I’d venture to guess that those there for the midnight Batman screening were not either.

When the Dalai Lama was asked what surprised him the most he replied: "Man, because he sacrifices his health in order to make money. Then he sacrifices money to recuperate his health. And then he is so anxious about the future that he does not enjoy the present; the result being that he does not live in the present or the future; he lives as if he is never going to die, and then he dies having never really lived."

Surprise: we are all going to die. Like those in Colorado, some seemingly too soon and too tragically, but it does not change that reality. When I really look at it, am I more likely to die than anyone who drinks away their weekends and smokes a carton of cigarettes a day? Would I have been any more likely to fall victim than the positive and driven sports blogger who had already narrowly escaped another random shooting? No, I don’t believe that I am.

Okay, maybe my red flags are a little brighter than others, but we’re all waving them: whether it’s the massive amounts of stress we’re under, underlying disease, environmental factors, risky lifestyle choices. There are arteries clogged, communicable diseases acquired and fluke accidents happening every minute of every day. My risk factor just happens to be cancer, which is why I have to be so much more conscious of keeping the other risks low.  

To be able to wrap my head around that has allowed me to feel better integrated with the world around me. I am not unique in facing death. It can and will happen to any one of us at any time. I just know my enemy in advance unlike the nightmare that these 12 innocent victims had no opportunity to process amid shear chaos. By no means do I have contentment about it all the time; it is certainly a practice. Yes, I have a disease that will potentially be the thing that kills me. But something will kill all of us. That doesn’t mean to live in fear of it, but rather the exact opposite.

I wrestle a lot with the immediate question: Am I going to live or am I going to die from this? As my therapist once so perfectly responded: “The answer is ‘yes’”.

Because of the state of my disease I have to live in the present, unable to plan too far for the future. I have what can be seen as an opportunity that others don’t get to because they are too afraid to think about it or be conscious of death. I don’t have a choice in the matter really, but I can only hope that others will see stories like mine, and those of the beautiful lives lost in this massacre, and also be able to come to that realization that we get just one chance – in this lifetime anyway.

It doesn’t mean that we need to think about dying all the time, but I do believe that we should think about living all the time. Living has different meanings for everyone, but it’s about finding whatever that authentic path is and running with it.

Of course it doesn’t – and shouldn’t – take a life-threatening disease to come to acceptance of this. I think it comes with age as well as we all move past the blissful unawareness and invincibility of youth. Diagnosed at age 26 I haven’t been able to stay unaware as long as most, but I feel that that has been a gift to me. It has given me the opportunity to feel the full gratitude of what I have and to look at the brevity of it all in the face and decide what to do with it. That carries both an immense weight and freedom with it.

Craig told me that he remembers me saying a few months before I got sick that if I died on any given day I would die happy with the way I lived my life. I agree even more whole-heartedly today. I am happy with the adventures, the challenges, the love, the beauty I’ve experienced. I want more of it and I lust for it, but it’s not that I’m trying to avoid death now because that is inevitable. It’s that I’m trying to make the most of this life, this body, my relationships and the mark I am making here.

I want to be clear not to give my cancer credit. I do not believe that having cancer transformed me. I do believe that it enhanced what was already there – the good and the bad. I didn’t need cancer, but I believe that we have learned and continue to learn from each other. Maybe this comes as a surprise to people who look at the cards I’ve been dealt and thank the universe every day that my life is not theirs. I’m fully aware that the thought likely often crosses people’s minds: “At least I’m not Karin” when comparing my situation to their own circumstances. However, I consider myself extremely fortunate.

If those 12 people that were tragically shot had the choice to take a life of cancer treatment and living with lymphoma to get another 5, 10, or 20 years then maybe they’d take it. We’ll never know. Or maybe that’s too much to bear for those who would rather not have the time to think about the finality of death and impending doom. Death can be sudden and tragic. It is always sad, mournful, and painful for those left behind. But it shouldn’t be a surprise to any of us. We never know what each day will bring. Every morning I thank my body and the world for giving me another sunrise, and I make a promise to myself that I will continue to honor this gift that is life.

We can’t not do things or plan for things because we mightdie. In fact, we should do things because we will die. I’m not talking traversing the globe on a raft or solving the U.S. healthcare debate. I’m talking the every day things, like calling that friend and scheduling that coffee date or actually stopping into that animal shelter that you drive by every day and think about volunteering for.

This is something positive that can come out of such a horror that was that shooting – that it will get people to realize that it can all be gone in an instant, to shift priorities and focuses where necessary and to take the time to savor and be present, to get rid of that guilt and worry and shame and the squelching and the swallowing, and instead let ourselves shine brightly as we are meant to.

I am grateful that this reality of death is smack in my face and this recent tragedy again brings it right to the front of mind. I’ve had a chance to consider it and come to terms with what that means. I’ve learned over the past three years to be able to control that fear of death’s inevitability. When I was first diagnosed, and through much of the initial barrage of treatment, it was much about avoiding death, but now it’s much more about living life. There’s a big distinction there, and it’s taken a lot of work to create that mind shift.

At points I was so hell-bent on ridding my body of this disease and frustrated with the difficult process that I’d forgot to be enjoying my life. It doesn’t come easy, but it’s very vital to survivorship to not think of the time with cancer as something to “get over”, a “blip” in life, because it was and is my life.

Dangling in limbo between death and life, health and disease is not an easy place to be. I don’t have the capacity to live in the future, only in the present and this is a gift.

No one can avoid death, but we can maximize the strength of our bodies, our minds and our hearts and we have the ability to affect others and the Earth during our time here. This can happen in both a positive and a negative way.

Be ready every day. Don’t live with regret. Do what you want to do, what you love. Tell the people that you care about that you care about them and take the time to invest in those relationships. Above all invest in the relationship with your self and the things that matter to you. In the end, all of the other junk just dissipates. You can’t take it with you and it’s about the experiences that you create.

I hope that those that were lost in this shooting did live their lives that way. I like to think so as they were out enjoying the excitement of a midnight showing of a movie they had obviously been highly anticipating – out to have a good time. They had no idea that this would be their last night on Earth but it helps to imagine that before that terror they were out doing something they loved to do – childlike and carefree, eager with anticipation.

Who would ever fathom that this would be where those that survived would bear witness to such an unspeakable tragedy and those that died would never see their loved ones again? No one would. And that’s the beauty of the human race: our resilience. If these people all stayed in their homes, letting death stare over them for fear of entering crowds or being out in the world then they’d miss all that life has to offer and they would still die.

Maybe I’m going to outlive everyone I love and die alone well into my nineties in a little cottage by the sea wrinkly and smiling. Or, maybe I’ll develop a whopping infection in my mediport or my organs will suddenly give out from all the toxins they’ve been dealt and I will die tomorrow. Or, maybe I’ll get hit by a bus. No one knows when and how, but death will happen – to all of us – and it’s something we have the potential to be ready for.

Now is as good a time as any to take pause and reflect. We can’t live in that constant state of stress and fear as it will only exacerbate the process and destroy the chance we have at joy. We do have the means to choose how we journey along our way to death, no matter how long or how short our journey may be.

Monday, July 23, 2012

Love You A Bunch

Love You A Bunch
A bunch....More than just a little.In other words more than one or two. So
then how much is a bunch.... Enough... A bunch is enough so......I love you enough.
I love you a bunch a whole bunch.
Oil on 6x6 gallery wrapped canvas panel
$50

Fresh Picked

Fresh Picked
Yes Yes! You could go to the supermarket and buy those
firm un-natural tomatoes but you will surely regret it as soon as you get home.
They might feel all firm and plump but just one bite will tell you that you made the
wrong decision. Now take us for example...We are fresh picked. Fresh picked
from your neighbors garden with permission of course. Fresh picked the only way to go...
5x7 oil on canvas panel.
$50
For sale at my DPW gallery follow the link to purchase via PayPal.

Sunday, July 22, 2012

Fruit Basket Turnover

Fruit Basket Turnover
Some of the funniest things come to mind when I name a painting.
Anyone remember that old childhood game?
6x6 oil on gallery wrapped canvas
$50
For sale via PayPal at my DPW gallery


Friday, July 20, 2012

Yellow Heads

Yellow Heads
Flowers galore. Gold and red and yellow heads. 
landscape on gallery wrapped canvas, Oil
6x6
$50

I'll Settle for a "C"

This is what the test looks like. Obviously that's not me in the
picture, but that woman's got a sweet 'do.
For every difficult moment dealing with at-times harsh and frustrating medical world, there are dozens of tender ones that put me back in confidence and at ease. I’m extremely fortunate that many more times than not, I’ve had very good experiences despite the often difficult circumstances.


Since the inpatient debacle of last week I was connected with a pulmonologist at Hartford Hospital who did a full work-up of my inflaming lung situation. My local oncologist, Dr. Dailey, got me in with him, highly recommending his expertise. He never steers me wrong. I was extremely impressed with how thorough this doctor was with me, how much homework he had done on my case, and how much time he spent with me even though I was squeezed in as a last-minute patient. (Housekeeping note: Full disclosure that I work for Hartford Hospital, but this is written with my patient, not my marketing hat on. As it has always been, my opinions and experiences expressed on my blog are solely my own and no reflection of the hospital’s.)

The pulmonolgy team hooked me up right. I worked with a wonderful nurse who walked me through a full Pulmonary Function Test. This involves a series of breathing tests done into a mouthpiece and tube that measure how much air my lungs can take in, how much they blow out, and how well it circulates the oxygen through my body. I’ve had many of these workups done since beginning chemotherapy treatment, and I admit they are one of my very least favorite types of tests because it is so defeating. I already have reduced capacity from the Bleomycin of my frontline ABVD chemotherapy treatment. Bleo is known to cause lung toxicity. Now we know that the radiation – and possibly the SGN-35 – have also sucked a bit of the healthy function away. The old irony of cancer treatment: toxic medicine.


Our session was conducted in a teeny tiny room without air conditioning. The entire office suite’s AC had blown and it was a cool 98 degrees that day. Holding my breath for extended periods and blowing hard into a tube until I was out of air then sucking in on an inhaler were certainly not my activities of choice, but it was important to get a read of where I’m at. The nurse was a super coach. Supersuper. Every time I’ve been through one of these tests at any institution the pulmonology nurses are always extremely outgoing and energetic as they demonstrate what I am supposed to be doing for each part of the test then yell in an encouraging way at me throughout it:

“BLOW! BLOW! BLOW! Let it all out! You can do it! Push! Push! Push! You’re almost there. You’re almost there!” She’d chant it me. She was so petite for such a loud voice in such a small room. Good God, girl.

“Big breath in! Big, big, big breath! Hold it! Hold it! Holllllldddddd it! Beautiful! You’re doing great!” would follow. She didn’t quit and so I didn’t either, though I ached to have the set of lungs she had on her and wondered how she kept it at that high of a level from patient to patient all day long. It made me exhausted just thinking about it.

I complemented her coaching skills as I pulled away from the mouthpiece with a big line of spit connecting it to my bottom lip. She told me it was all the cheerleading she did in high school and then it made sense.

The report was run and the doctor reviewed it seeing me immediately afterward. Tests results in the 80s are hovering at the below average mark. Most of mine were in the mid-70s, so I am functioning, though not at the best for my age and size. All of my other factors (i.e. 3 years of chemotherapy) aren’t in the equation; this is me against the “normals.” I’ve still got a lot of power, but I am very competitive. I don’t do well with less than perfection. I was a straight A’s kind of girl. But I must let that go. If I’m average and still breathing, so be it. I’m happy as shit to be a C student. My weakest area, which hovered in readings down to the mid-60s, is how efficiently my lungs push the oxygen out and through my body. I seem to be trapping some air in there. Hopefully this will improve as the inflammation reduces.

After a long conversation with me about my lymphoma treatment history, lifestyle, symptoms, and all concerns, the doctor conducted a thorough exam and listened to my lungs noting that they sounded pretty good. We’re on the up-and-up. He then took me into his office to pull up my PET Scan pictures he had received from Sloan and carefully went through the lung lesions with me pointing out what every vessel was and explaining to me how certain areas are certain colors and shapes for certain reasons and assuring me that much of the type of inflammation I have in there is correctable with the steroid course.

After this full analysis, his opinion was consistent with the lymphoma and radiation doctors at Sloan-Kettering: This looks to be a case of radiation pneumonitis or recall. There is no real way to tell if the SGN-35 is exacerbating it or not, but his advice is to stay on this standard 60mg Prednisone course for three weeks then continue on the SGN-35. We know the drug is working against the lymphoma so let’s not jump the gun and take me off it. It is very common for the lung tissue to be damaged by radiation near the area and for these acute signs to show up months later. The areas of concern are in exact proximity to my zapped T7 and T10 vertebrae so an educated assumption can be made.

I’ve now had three lymphoma specialists, a radiation oncologist, a transplant doctor, and a pulmonologist look at my scans, my history, and my symptoms and make the same determination. My level of comfort is very high that this will clear up and that I’ll be able to stay the course on the SGN-35. I’m appreciative of all the time and effort these docs have taken to thoughtfully look at my situation and feel that Keep My Ass Alive Enterprises is once again running smoothly. There’s bound to be a cog out of place once in a while. My fluky cog just happened to be a rounding doctor.

This CEO is on a serious steroid high, so there ain’t going to be nothing getting past me. My brain is at ultimate processing speed and my body feels invincible. I can’t stop eating or moving or planning or organizing or cleaning. Productivity is through the roof as is the size of my cheeks which are once again bloating with steroid moon face.

Most importantly however, the coughing fits are gone. I haven’t had any dizzy spells. I can take a full breath again. Between yesterday and today I’ve paddle boarded with my sister, took an hour-long yoga class, and walked two miles with Samalama Dog. Something must be working and someone knows what he or she is doing despite (or because of) all of my questioning last week. The next chemo infusion is on tap for July 30. Until then, I’ll be riding high enjoying another solid lineup of weddings, showers, birthday parties, brunches and barbecues in the weekends to come.




Thursday, July 19, 2012

A Blue Hair Affair

A Blue Hair Affair
Guess what I saw today? A little old lady with blue hair...
That's right blue hair... I thought she looked so sofiscated and smart. I wanted
to be like her because I like it when people notice me... in a good way of course...
I went home and passed by a mirror and to my surprise I noticed it I have blue hair too...
I feel like a million bucks.
Oil on 6x6 gallery wrapped canvas
$50

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Black Sheep


Black Sheep
What does this mean I ask myself. My daughter Julie who is a Marine just
got back from deployment. On some adventure in a land far away she bought
me this cup. Black Sheep. Does it mean she thinks I am a black sheep or is it
her? Surely a question to ponder....It must be her and her rebel self not sweet little
ole me. Yes yes I know she must be seeing her inner self....Don't you agree.

Oil on 6x6 gallery wrapped canvas
$50
For sale at my DPW gallery just follow the link to pay via PayPal