Musings From a Cluttered Life: Call Me Cassandra

Musings From a Cluttered Life: Call Me Cassandra: Cassandra was an interesting character from Greek mythology. The daughter of King Priam and Queen Hecuba, she was a real looker, though rate...

Call Me Cassandra

Cassandra was an interesting character from Greek mythology. The daughter of King Priam and Queen Hecuba, she was a real looker, though rated in her day as second in beauty to the spellbinding Helen of Troy. Perhaps perceptions of her beauty were tempered by the fact that she was considered...well, insane.

Apollo - the Greek god of all sorts of important things like light, truth, music and other stuff - recognized Cassandra as really pretty and bestowed upon her the gift of prophecy. However, in typical ancient Greek fashion, Apollo's gift became a curse. Cassandra eventually did something to aggravate the powerful god and he tweaked her gift of prophecy to ensure that no one on the planet would ever believe her predictions. 


Her predictions were, of course, not trivial things like guessing what the king would eat for breakfast or which goat would be slaughtered for the next bacchanal. Oh no; she foresaw the fall of Troy and other important events of the time. Nevertheless, everyone rolled their eyes at crazy Cassandra. 


This sums up nicely how I feel about my own life these days. No, I'm not the daughter of royalty and I no longer turn heads. But I have an uncanny sense of foreboding. And no one ever believes me.

Let's face it. For some of us, the glass is half empty for a reason. We know that doom and gloom is just around the corner and we wisely choose to prepare ourselves for the worst. And after years of being criticized and ignored for our powerful prognostication skills, we start to roll our own eyes, mumble a lot, and behave oddly in mixed company. Thus, we are considered more than a little peculiar by others.

My 15-year old mutt, who looks like a cross between a rat terrier and a turtle, took a tumble this weekend during an out-of-town trip and immediately began hobbling on three legs. Everyone said "Oh, he'll be okay." But this Cassandra knew better. Ignoring the chorus of protests, I carried my faithful pal to a nearby vet and immediately learned that he has the equivalent of a college athlete's ACL knee injury, but without the health insurance. We are back home now, and tomorrow I'll hock my jewelry to pay for the surgery. But I already know that the coffer will be more than half empty.

Before leaving town this weekend, I gave my 19-year old son - who is home from college for the summer - strict instructions to have no parties at the house. I emailed my friends and urged them to cruise by the house and call me immediately if they observed more than one car in our driveway. My pals responded with the email equivalent of multiple eye rolls. "Don't worry; everything will be fine."

Upon returning home, I spied predictable and ample evidence of at least a small gathering of messy teenagers. Do these goobers not know how to cover their tracks? The telltale sign was a dishwasher full of dirty kitchen items, placed in a dish-washing machine that has been broken and unused by me for six weeks. Plus, melted cheese trails lay atop my kitchen counters, snaking like the Chattahoochee River throughout the State of Georgia and beyond. And the final insult was a can of solid white albacore tuna in the refrigerator, partially contained in a sandwich baggie, the lid punctured and raggedly torn back with one of my professional chef knives.

Before we left for the weekend, I asked my husband-who-happens-to-have-cancer if he felt up to the weekend trip. And I believed him when he said yes, though this Cassandra had a foreboding sense of trouble. By Saturday afternoon, the Trojan Horse of chemo side effects invaded and he fell hard. He spent the rest of the weekend in a carport in 98 degree weather, bundled in a winter coat and two wool blankets.

What did Cassandra dream? I'm not sure, but in my dreams, the glass is always half full. My husband is cancer-free. My dog is young and healthy. My son is a monk.

And then I wake up.

Here's the thing. I see the glass as half empty because I'm a realist who knows that God never promised me a perfect life. I have learned that when I turn to Him in faith, He gives me strength to deal with anything that life brings my way. He does not take away the doom and gloom, but He gives me the wherewith-all to recognize that it's looming.

Now if I could just get someone to listen to me.

(Note regarding the photo: I took this photo in May 2009 while touring the Louvre. The sculpture is Venus, not Cassandra. I can't find a photo of a Cassandra sculpture that is not copyrighted, and I am adamant about honoring copyrights. So use your imagination and pretend this is Cassandra. If no one believed you and you were standing around naked, you'd probably hide your privates too.)

To Doctors Deserving Some Thanks

My husband's oncologist was born in 1974, the year my divorced parents conspired to pawn me off to a rich aunt and uncle living in Minnesota because I was a bit of a 16-year old challenge. I do not know the background leading to Dr. G's birth, but I can say that my own Midwestern adventure turned out fairly well, and my parents were freed to pursue their own interests. 

My surely skewed teenage memory recalls my aunt and uncle as similar to the Dursleys of Harry Potter fame. Oh, they were well-intended. But they were as committed as the most fervent evangelists to taming a teen girl raised in Miami. They were convinced I brought to their heartland all the evils of a tropical and contemporary Sodom and Gomorrah. 

Our oncologist  is from Louisiana. He received his medical degree from Louisiana State University in NOLA. My Yankee friends can just hush now, because we really do have some swell medical schools in the South. Besides; he earned himself a fellowship at Harvard, which adds to his cred. And we knew from our first appointment that he is bona fide. Dr. G actually makes eye contact with us during office visits. He calls to check on Lewis after hours. And he recently chased me down in a hospital parking lot to deliver some good news about Lewis' cardiac functions. 

My Minnesota uncle was a physician. One of those small town general practitioners who may or may not exist anymore. He was a husband, father, uncle, and friend. But he was first and foremost a doctor to all who knew him. Indeed, his identity was inseparable from his vocation. I learned this during The-Year-of-Minnesota and it made a great impression on me at age 16. I learned that there are ministers and doctors and others who have been called to help and heal others. There are those who strive to make a difference. They strive to ease pain in their communities. They have a calling and are recognized and respected for their journey. 

My uncle was noted by author William A. Nolen, M.D. in his 1970 novel The Making of a Surgeon. Uncle Greg Olson and Dr. Nolen were long-time colleagues in the small Minnesota town of Litchfield. Nolen's book, admittedly dated, is an excellent chronicle of small town medicine. He praises the dedication and commitment of my uncle and his sacrifices to make a difference. 

I'm not sure if our oncologist will ever be chronicled for his really awesome skills. Lord knows, he knows his stuff and his bedside manner is wicked cool. He is truly the best of small town medicine and cutting edge expertise. Who knew these skills could co-exist? 

My husband's oncologist will deliver to us some very important news in the morning. After several weeks of aggressive chemotherapy, we will learn if my husband's five inoperable tumors have responded. I spent today praying and crying and pleading to God and all ancient deities for a positive report. I prayed to all my dead aunts, uncles, and the many others who went before me, begging for mercy and grace. 

Here's the thing. I know our oncologist will deliver the news, regardless of its severity, with grace and sensitivity. He will continue to guide my husband and I along this difficult journey. He will do this in an effort to ease pain. He is, first and foremost, a doctor, called to help others. 

Innocence Lost

On April 30 I predicted in my weekly Patch article that something amazing would happen. 

I predicted that some teen would leave my upcoming yard sale sporting a sequined disco pimp hat that I purchased in 1975. My mind pictured a happy high schooler, delighted with a yard sale treasure, his or her future bright and full of joy.

Little did I know how wrong I would be. 

On May 1, my 16-year old subdivision neighbor Andrew Messina was shot and killed in the doorway of his home by a SWAT sniper. He died following a single bullet to the torso, after a series of events that are still being sorted out. Andy's funeral took place this afternoon, just around the corner at the church where I worship.

I did not know Andy or his parents. I do not know all the details of what happened on May 1, though I have read volumes of public conjecture and less than articulate rants on Facebook and local news websites. The controversy is high, to say the least. Click here for a sample of the emotionally-laden dialogue in our community following the death of the teen. 

First characterized as a hostage situation, that no longer appears to be the case based on a listen to the 911 tape. It is also unclear whether the teen was threatening to harm others, kill himself, or both. Most disturbing, it is unclear whether Andy pointed a gun at SWAT negotiators or not. But the police stand firm in their position that standard procedures were followed and that public safety was at risk.

I refuse to conjecture. I wasn't there. But my alarm bells sounded loudly when I learned that Andy used Zoloft. 

The link between Zoloft and teen suicide has been debated for years, with strong arguments on both side of the fence. Yes, depressed teens are already at a higher risk of suicide, so the fact that some teens on Zoloft commit suicide seems logical. But the unique patterns surrounding teen suicidal behavior and Zoloft seem too prevalent to ignore. 

Yes, the FDA has issued a special warning about Zoloft use by children and teens. Prescriptions come with warning information and physicians routinely advise parents regarding risks. But teens on Zoloft are still dying. Andy is the second in my community of whom I am aware. 

Readers can find a range of information about the Zoloft controversy online. Here is a sample, though I am in no way endorsing the sponsors or vouching for the credibility of any of the sites. 

ABC

Citizens Commission on Human Rights International

Agonist.org

Zoloft Suicide Lawsuits

EMedTV

By the way, I have only mentioned Zoloft in this blog post, but I understand the controversy extends to other SSRI (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor) drugs prescribed for depression. 

I'm in no position to judge the police and their handling of the incident. And all 

the perfect parenting in the world cannot fully control the teen with depression or behavioral issues. Frankly, parents of these teens don't have many places to which to turn for help. Our families feel forced to hide the issues (listen to Andrew's mother on the 911 tape pleading for silent police support in order to avoid embarrassment). Our communities shun behavioral and emotional matters. They are simply not socially acceptable. And, given events in Woodstock, GA on May 1, our police's standard procedures may lack contingencies for teens experiencing an episode of severe emotional distress. I'm no law enforcement expert, but the use of rubber bullets to end a standoff is not unheard of. 

Dear reader, I confess that I'm not sure what compelled me to write this post. 

I do know Andy Messina's parents must be experiencing an unbearable level of pain. And a 16-year old no longer faces the possibility of a future in this world that is bright and full of joy. Thus, I suppose I write to express condolences to the Messina family. I write with sadness in my heart knowing a mom and dad sit nearby, mourning the loss of their son and wondering w

hat else they could have done to save him.

An Extraordinary Yard Sale Adventure

Shame on me for disappearing from my own blog. It's just that stuff seems to happen to eat up one's time, even if one is a retiree.

Take this weekend.

My husband-who-happens-to-have-cancer and I decided to offer our treasured junk during this weekend's two-day neighborhood yard sale. The event occurs each spring and fall, and involves families in our subdivision toting all their dust collectors, broken stuff, and faded clothing out to their garage or driveway. Then other neighbors drive around for two days rummaging through all the stuff and haggling over the difference between 25 or 50 cents for a 1960's picture frame that's missing the glass.

The sale began today, but we've been preparing for what seems like, well, the torturous eternity that constitutes a presidential campaign. Slowly wading our way through our three-story home, one room and closet at a time, we transferred forklifts full of discards to the garage over the past months. Then we spent this week blowing the spider webs and dog hair off everything that had sat in the garage. Oh we had covered and carefully bagged everything when we took it out. But garages have their own unique atmospheric conditions. Sort of like the dusty conditions of Mars, exacerbated by solar tides.


Anyway, we spent last night setting up as well as we could displays of our treasured junk. Hard to do without long tables and colorful tablecloths, but we did our best. We spread raggedy sheets on the garage floor and set out our wares, leaving ample room for hoards of buyers to walk throughout the displays. It wasn't Macy's, but it worked.

As we set up last night, the early birds arrived. Mostly men in pickup trucks looking for tools and electronics. They were greatly disappointed with my offerings, so started checking out the lawn equipment and other items in our garage that were not for sale. And they did their best to make us feel guilty for not selling stuff like our very own, very needed lawnmower for two dollars. Or finding fault with our not-for-sale tools and telling us how foolish we were for not letting us take items like the dented and dusty yard blower off our hands.

Today brought similar bargaining techniques:

"How much you want for that rug?"

"You mean the handmade oriental wool rug I bought for $300?  It's priced at $10.

"I'm not sure about the color. I'll give you $5."

"Go to Macy's, and good luck."

Here is my favorite exchange of the day:

"What's the price on this shirt"

"You mean the brand new Ralph Lauren polo shirt that still has the $98 price tag on it and has never been worn? $3."

"Will you take $2?"

"No."

And the fool actually walked away.

Tomorrow should bring more fun. My big ticket item is the tanning bed, that I will bring out in the morning. The first goober who tries to low ball me may be treated to a demo. I'll set the dial for the equivalent of Martian solar tides.

Musings From a Cluttered Life: Stockpiling Ravioli and Dreaming of the Black Sea

Musings From a Cluttered Life: Stockpiling Ravioli and Dreaming of the Black Sea: I decided to start all new blog posts at about six o'clock in the evening. That way, I can tell my family that I'm busy writing important st...

Stockpiling Ravioli and Dreaming of the Black Sea

I decided to start all new blog posts at about six o'clock in the evening. That way, I can tell my family that I'm busy writing important stuff and cannot possibly stop to cook dinner.

The strategy has advantages.

First, I get out of dinner duty, which recently became an impossible task. Think about it. How does one prepare a meal that appeals to both a husband-who-happens-to-have-cancer-and-no-appetite and a 19-year old who will eat about three foods, none of which offer any nutrition.

Thankfully, the pantry is well-stocked these days with cans of Chef Boyardee ravioli. Previously considered a repulsive option by this foodie, canned ravioli is now my salvation. My two guys love the stuff, and as long as I keep some lettuce in the fridge for salad, I have minimally fulfilled my obligation as the family nutritional fairy.

Another advantage to my six o'clock blogging strategy is that I might actually sit down and write. Drive-by blogging serves no one well. Sort of like fast food. Quick bites, no substance. Too many nights go by in which I find myself craving the keyboard but chained to the kitchen. Not just cooking, but putting up leftovers and washing piles of dishes. I did not train my boys right. Not at all.

Know that I began my six o'clock blogging schedule this evening. Thirty seconds into my keyboard pecking, here comes Big Man, insisting that I go out on the deck to look at the first yellow finch of the season. By the time I get out there, the bird has flown to Tennessee. Returning to the blog, I'm quickly pulled away because it is important to the Big Man that I hear his opinion on the current case before the Supreme Court. This urgent matter cannot possibly wait.

Finally back at the keyboard, Little Man texts me from afar and says he needs two turkey sandwiches assembled ASAP because he is doing a drive-by before heading to the mall to spend the rest of my bank funds on clothes. I inform Little Man that I'm busy writing important stuff and can't possibly stop to feed him. However, there is plenty of ravioli in the pantry that he can heat in the microwave. And clean lettuce for a salad, to boot.

This news was not well-received.

I will continue with my new strategy for a few more evenings. Like Pavlov's dogs, my two guys will surely respond to my behavior change techniques. Eons ago, I was well-versed in all aspects of behavior modification. A manipulative, denigrating practice? Well, yes, but who cares when writing important stuff is at stake.

The real question tonight is How are my Russian friends?  (Как мои русские друзья?)  I miss your visits. And, by the way, you visit my blog, but so far it is a one way conversation.  (Вы посетите мой блог, но до сих пор это один из способов разговор.). Talk to me, please! (Поговори со мной, пожалуйста!).  


Big Man and I have thought about taking a vacation. It's important to do so sooner than later, as the side effects of his chemotherapy become more severe over time. I've decided we should visit a birch forest or a barley field in Russia! Oh, to experience the Trans-Siberian Railway, a cruise along the Volga River, a seaside resort along the Black Sea. 


Geopolitics mean nothing to me, particularly since I became the wife of a good man with Stage IV cancer. But even before the cancer monster, I found renewal by experiencing different cultures, climates, and cuisine. And renewal is something I need right now.


The emergence of Spring in Atlanta has brought me hope. Indeed, I wrote about it in this week's Patch column:  http://woodstock.patch.com/articles/one-fine-spring-day. But given my level of stress and Big Man's increasingly dependent behavior, I'd say it is time for a change of scenery, if only for a few days.


Given time and budgets, our scenery change will most likely occur about 25 miles away for an overnight with a romantic meal at the local Cracker Barrel restaurant. But I can still dream of the Black Sea, no?


After all, dreams enable me to write about the important stuff. 




[Disclaimer: This is a photo from the south of Spain, but the scenery is similar to a picture I once saw of the Black Sea coast in summer. Send me a better photo if you have one.]