Yellow is the saddest color

It finally feels like summer here in Chicago. After a cold and wet June and July, ninety-degree days remind us of why people used to abandon the city. There are few things more dispiriting than summer heat radiating off of scorched pavement.

And, in this heat, a door was left open too long. Our cat Yellowboy is gone. I've plastered the neighborhood with fliers, walked the alleys in the wee hours and called all the shelters. I even visited the city shelter, a very melancholy place--a dump for unwanted animals. Last night, a teenager came to the door. He said that a yellow cat was hit by a car nearby. His family called "the vet," which I presume was really Animal Control, who came and got the cat. There's no way to confirm the story, or to even if it was Yellowboy. The city is not forthcoming with information, and seeing the enormous volume of animals housed at the shelter, I can understand why.

I am somewhat resigned to never seeing him again. So, here is Yellowboy's eulogy. He was a good cat. (Well, most of the time. Two weeks ago, he snuck an entire bbq chicken breast off of the counter.) When I came home from work, he greeted me. Cynics might say it was a plea for food, but he did so even when he had already been fed. He jumped on a chair near the door, and stood on his hind legs, his paws on my chest. His purring was ecstatic. It was flattering to have someone be that excited about my arrival.

Yellowboy loved dried apricots, and could hear a bag of them being opened from across the house. He enjoyed sitting in laundry baskets and boxes. He was also a direct communicator. One technique for rousing my husband for breakfast: gently gnawing on his toes. When he wanted to go on the back porch, he would start out meowing loudly, gradually rounding his catlips until the cry resembled the howl of a coyote. It was very annoying. I wish I could hear it again.

UPDATE

We found him. He had become entangled in a neighbor's central air-conditioning wiring and electrocuted. From the look of the body, he had only been dead a few hours, which makes it especially hard. Cats will sometimes hunker down when frightened. We both were in the alley behind that house half a dozen times, day and night, calling him. He must have been too terrified to even answer us.

He was a good little soul, and I will miss him terribly.

Week from hella

Stop the world, I want to get off. Well, not really, but I'd like to pause the ride for a little while.

Early on Christmas eve, I had a festive visit with Dr. K, the radiologist. Before I consulted with her, a resident took a history and examined me. "Dr. B did your surgery? Oh, he's good. His patients usually don't have much scarring." Afterwards, Dr. K came in to complete the examination, and to describe the course of treatment. I'll be getting six weeks of radiation, five days a week. Each treatment will take about fifteen minutes.

The first step was to create a treatment plan, part of which would be to determine if it was safe to zap the lymph nodes lying along my sternum. If the lymph nodes overlap the lungs, it's a no-go, since radiation can cause damage to lung tissue. Dr. K checked the schedule that day. "There's been a couple of cancellations. Would you like to get your planning CAT scan right now?" Six months of cancer treatment has taught me a couple of things. First, if they give you a blanket, do not give it up until they allow you to get dressed again. Second, if they offer you an appointment for the same day, accept it immediately.

Off we went to the CAT scan thingy. After looking at the images, Dr. K came in to speak with me. Unfortunately, my lungs were partially under my sternal lymph nodes, so she recommended against targeting that area. Instead, they would hit my axillary, mammary and clavical nodes. A technician tattooed three blue dots at target points on my chest and armpit, and then photographed my naked torso. Tattoos and nude photos all in one hour! It was like mini spring break, only without beer bongs.

I drove home and started cleaning the house in preparation for my in-laws arrival that evening. Christmas is sort of a mixed blessing for those of us afflicted with seasonal affective disorder. I could feel my mood darkening along with the days, but the flurry of activity preceeding the holidays kept me too busy for a free-fall into the Abyss. One serious misstep was, while shopping for gifts, to purchase the book Cancer Made Me A Shallower Person, by Miriam Engleberg. I had read about Engleberg's collection of cartoons a couple months ago, and all of the reviews were right on: the book was an often very funny account of what its like to be a cancer patient. However, I secretly hoped that Engleberg was not like me. You see, she died last year, after cancer spread to her bones and brain. As I read the book, I couldn't avoid noting the eerie similarities. She had the same type of breast cancer as me. She had a lumpectomy, with chemotherapy and radiation. In 1979, we both had a boyfriend named Roger. OK, I had a boyfriend named Roger in 1980, but you get the idea. If she were alive, we would be the same age.

After I read the book, fear lay in my heart like lead. Between her first diagnosis and death, Miriam had only five years. I am already enduring the bittersweet realization of midlife. Much is behind me, and what is ahead will pass quickly. What if the cancer comes back? In Greek mythology, the three Moirai, or Fates, determine the length of life. Atropos,"the inexorable," cuts the life-thread spun and measured by the other two goddesses. I feel like I've glimpsed the shears, still without really knowing the measure.

Like my father before me, movement through space provides me some respite. If my dad was anxious, sad or angry, he would drive and drive and drive until he put some distance between himself and his troubles. Being a city-dweller, the train is my neurotransmitter of choice. Pink Line, take me away...to Pilsen, which is where I took the photo above. Pilsen is an old Bohemian (as in Czech and Slovak) neighborhood on the south side of the city. It's now Mexican, with a growing art gallery district in its eastern section. The main drag, 18th street, is heartbreakingly beautiful. Tall Mittel-european stone and brick buildings line the street, while little houses off of it reflect a more peasant vernacular, with charming, crude flowers carved in the window lintels. One is prevented from complete transport back to old Bohemia by some of the eye-popping exterior paint jobs, mostly in shades more common to Oaxaca. The colors could cheer even Kafka. And so it did me.

Chemo 3/8

I just had my third chemotherapy session of eight. Miracle of miracles: no one vomiting or dry heaving in our earshot, and this time we got a nice private room with a work table. Once again, I found the strength to play Snake on my phone. I then discovered that the default Steven Hawking-like voice commands could be customized to say, for example, "ELEESA EES GRAY-EAT," and "JOE EES THMAAN."

Nurse L was back from vacation. She noted that my birthday was coming up soon. Yes, I told her, and my birthday has shown me the upside of having cancer. Although I still have another year, I was beginning to dread my 50th birthday. Now, when I hit that milestone, especially if I'm cancer-free, I'll celebrate like hell. I'm thinking a bottle of Veuve Clicquot in Paris. That sounds about right.

A rag, a spleen and a hank of hair

I am troubled by a recent awareness of my spleen. For the last two or three days, I've awakened with a dull backache on the left-hand side, and a feeling that there isn't enough room in my thoracic cavity for all the things that want to fill it. It is probably a side-effect of the drug Neulasta, which I self-injected on Wednesday. The drug, which is intended to stimulate white blood cell production, also causes spleen enlargement.

In ancient humoural medicine, the spleen was regarded as the source of black bile, or "melancholia," an excess of which could lead to a dark and brooding disposition. This last month has given me much to brood about. The dark thoughts, mostly about the big dirt nap..those have been with me as well, although daylight and friendship can usually dispel the worse.

In light of such spleenic thoughts, it seems silly to dwell on that ephemeral crown of women, or at least for yours truly: hair. I was always good at growing hair. Even in my mid-30s, I had a thick cascade of the stuff that fell to my waist. It was a powerful feminine totem: in absence of a high cheekbones or hourglass figure, I was still the woman with the big braid. It may not have been the most flattering look, I'll admit. In my wedding album, there are a couple of photos of my husband in blissful pas de deux with what looks like Cousin Itt from the Addams Family. I tried short hair before, but was always dispirited by the number of times I was called "sir," and the feeling that I just wasn't really pretty enough to pull it off.

In anticipation of hair loss due to chemo, I had a little hair-cutting party at Big Hair, in Roscoe Village. My friends Celia and Kerri provided emotional support and also documented the shearing. It wasn't as traumatic as expected. Just remember to call me "sir" with a smile, and I promise not to hit...very hard.

Before






Floor






Cripes...




More from Celia's album

C & K: love and thanks