cancer

Skin Like Talcum And Lemon-juice Cuts

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

I’m knocking on the door of *that* age. AARP offers are arriving weekly, along with the announcements about senior living open houses and classes on preparing for retirement. I never imagined being this age. Mentally, I’m still a teenager, at best. It is a regular challenge to reconcile my internal view with the person I see in the mirror, the hands I see in my periphery as I type. 

My N-Aunt’s hands were an older version of mine–wrinkled, the skin appearing more and more like tissue paper, age spots darker and more copious. Before she died last week, at 94, she was mostly non-verbal, dementia having stolen her voice, along with most of her memories. I’ve been expecting, for months now, that one of my visits would be the last, a final handholding, a last kiss on her forehead and smoothing back of her baby-fine white hair.

When my husband was dying of cancer, I left for his hospital room every morning knowing that one day I would return home a widow. That’s just a fact, simply knowledge, not preparation. It’s not actually possible to “prepare yourself.” I’d describe it more as awareness, an acknowledgement that my role has changed from participant to spectator, witness to an ending, to a closing of that door on which my own knuckles rest.

Having spent a lot of time in N-Aunt’s memory care facility, I’ve adjusted to the sounds of people whose cognitive reality is different. A woman there chants the Hail Mary in fraying strands of sound, voice rising on the Hail Mary and fading to a whisper, before she starts again. The words blur together, barely recognizable. Over and over she chants the words, like she’s saying the rosary and is stuck on one bead. While N-Aunt Ginny dozed last week, holding my hands, I became immersed in the repetition of that prayer. I’m not religious but I hope the Blessed Mother heard her.

In a very Life of Pi experience, on my final visit, a resident called out for help removing a tiger from her room. You wouldn’t be alone finding it funny. I got a lot of mileage out of texting my eldest son about the tiger loose in the facility. It’s okay to laugh. In fact, I think laughing about the situations life throws our way is important to coping. 

Today, the day after my 60th birthday, I went to the hospital for my early morning CT, MRI, and bloodwork. There was some sort of confusion. I sat in the waiting room for 30 minutes, deep breathing while I tried to concentrate on a book, the scan-xiety eating away at my confidence. Finally, I went up to the counter. 

They’d forgotten to check me in when I arrived 15 minutes before my appt time. I was annoyed but kept it friendly. There was nothing malicious or intentional. It was just Monday morning. But I had to WORK at friendly. I was anxious, hungry because I have to fast before my scans (birthday dinner was just a milkshake from Page’s Dairy). Of course, according to the system, I’d missed my appointment time. I had to wait. Deep breathing can only get you so far in addressing scan-xiety. 

After that awkward start, everything went awry. I had to be stuck twice to find a vein for the contrast. And that $#@% HURT today. It always stings but today it burned like lemon juice in a paper cut for like 15 minutes. Really; it was a little unnecessary and I silently cursed the IV gods for doling out a secondary punishment. The CT was not noteworthy. The MRI was odd; I think I had a trainee behind the controls (which admittedly might be a perception caused entirely by my grumpy mood a solid two hours into the experience). 

Finally, I was able to head down to the lab for bloodwork. The staff there was lovely, prepared for a high volume of patients on a Monday. The phlebotomist teased me about being used as a sprinkler to water the plants, thanks to all the holes in my arms. It made me laugh, pushed aside the gray mood I’d sunk into as my hands fell asleep in the MRI (see?! A very odd MRI experience today). 

Now, the waiting begins as my brain fights with my emotions. My daughter always encourages me to ignore the “my chart” app until my doctor appointment. She has experience with my scan-xiety and tends to get annoyed with me because of the torture I put her through while I worry. I don’t mean to, of course. In fact, I talk big about how I won’t let cancer control my actions. My mama would say, “The path to hell is paved with good intentions.” It’s a good thing, I guess, that I don’t believe hell is a place. 

I’m at the coffee shop now. While I was in line, one of the baristas gave me my order before I placed it. I laughed and told him that he’d read my mind. That got us talking. The man in front of me in line said to me, “You don’t want to read minds because you’d know that, when you walked in the room, several people said, ‘Ick.’” Now, I know the point he was trying to make. A less open-hearted person might have taken that as offensive. Because, honestly, who suggests that a person’s arrival will make people say, “Ick”?! 

He walked away with his cherry danish and I paid for my iced tea. Before I left the counter, I said to the baristas, “Just saying: No one says or thinks ‘Ick’ when I walk in a room. I refuse to believe that.” They laughed. I laughed. Seriously. That was just rude, sir. My day started rather poorly. I won’t give you, stranger, permission to make it worse. 

Much love.

Skin Like Talcum And Lemon-juice Cuts

Making Up Stories

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Today’s music from the diner sound system is, as they say, “the soundtrack of my youth.” The server and I sing along and laugh. We’re both off key but we know the words, anticipating them in some cases, as one does.

There are four sets of older men sitting at tables, gossiping. In the old days, one would have said “gossiping like old women,” but I have been investigating the misogyny of my youth, discovering that, in fact, old women are no more or less inclined to gossip than old men.

Next to me, a young woman sits alone, reading a book whose name I’ve never been able to discover, regardless of the times I’ve snuck a peek at it. She’s picking at the remains of a Morning After Breakfast Special, so called because it includes a happy amount of eggs, bacon, and crepe-like pancakes with crispy edges. Before digesting food became such a challenge, the diner’s syrup-y pancakes were my favorite. 

The new server tries to hand me a menu. I smile and reach out to take it from her. One of the other servers takes it before I can and laughs. “Deb does not need a menu,” she says. I laugh and shrug. She tells the new employee what I usually order and explains that Malik is already making it. The new server delivers it and says, “Do we need anything else?” I hope she’s not deliberately using the royal we but I’m nice and tell her that I’m all set. 

A woman I know joins me, unexpectedly, at my table. She says, “I’m going down to see my mom next week. Did I tell you she has cancer?” Her eyes are full of tears. She gestures to them and says, “I’m getting pretty used to it. Now, I only cry two or three times a day.” She’s laughing through her tears, sure that I’ll understand. Of course I do. We talk for a bit about her mom, their plans, and her fear, her relentless web searching for answers and hope. Before she leaves, I say, “Can I give you a piece of advice?” Her eyes fill again and we take a minute for a tight hug. “We don’t know what will happen,” I whisper to her. She gulps back her tears and nods against my cheek. “We don’t know,” she whispers back. “We don’t know.” 

I move on to the coffee shop for a brief visit. I have a doctor appointment today so I’m mostly settling myself, my nerves, before I head to her office. There’s a young person in my usual seat. She’s working with delicate granny squares. There are nine laid out in a pattern on the table as she begins the process of sewing them together. As women walk through the door, they look down at her table and compliment her work. She looks up and smiles each time, thanking them.

It’s a gray Friday, too April-chilly for the big garage door to be open. A young man, colt-ish, as writers might describe him, lopes along beside a parental figure across the street. His stride is a little awkward, as though he had a growth spurt and hasn’t quite adjusted yet. He has the long, thick hair of a teenager who is rebelling against his parents, who also rebelled against theirs. 

A graying redheaded woman walks by the coffee shop next to a young man. She says something and he laughs, turning his head toward her, the smile still on his lips. I suspect that she’s Mom but that’s just me making up stories as I watch humanity pass by on an early Friday. 

Much love.

Making Up Stories

Repetition and/of Grief

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

The repetition is reassuring. “Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in and hold your breath.” After the first experience of having my liver scanned–I had confessed my nerves to the technician–he asked me how I felt. I told him the first breath is the hardest. You don’t know how long you’ll be holding it. Lying in a shallow cylinder filled with very loud noise and muffled, tinny music, seconds feel like minutes. Once the rhythm of the process is clear, it’s not difficult. The repetition feels like a test that you’re smashing. Yes! I held my breath. I kept still as a statue. Now, I can breathe again (for a moment, before the “breathe in” recording recycles). 

Keeping still is essential or they have to stop and restart the scan. One time, I cried but stayed completely still. The tears were silent as they rolled down the sides of my face into my ears and onto my neck. The technician asked if I was okay, if I wanted to stop. I said, “No. I’m okay.” And we kept at it. He didn’t say anything about it at the end, didn’t comment as I carefully wiped the tear stains with the edge of my hospital gown. We all have to wear two, one as a gown and one as a jacket, with a pair of ugly, ill-fitting, hospital pants. Today, they offered me a heated blanket, which I took happily. They blow cold air into that narrow tube. It’s hard to stay still when you start to shiver. 

The contrast burns just a little. It’s cold, running through the tube on my arm and wrapped around my thumb (to keep the tube from catching in the machinery and getting yanked out of my arm). This is my favorite part, not the mildly uncomfortable sensation but the chilly, stinging knowledge that we’re five minutes from the end of the scan. I don’t hate that narrow tube but I do hate what it represents. Now, the wait begins. This is the worst part, the worry, the anticipation, the sour-tasting hope. What will the scans reveal? 

I arrived home oddly tired, from the stress, and determined, as usual, not to think about the wait, not to watch for the notification that I have test results in my medical chart. Two of the contractors repairing the leak in my bathroom came into the kitchen as I emptied the dishwasher. They use the microwave every day to warm up lunch–a homemade taco bowl for one, meatballs in red sauce for the other. We always spend a few moments talking: one has a baby due next month and momma-to-be is at that stage of pregnancy where nothing is comfortable. The other is a foodie. We compared experiences eating Indian food and he told me about a Nigerian place he’s going to try soon. It’s far south of me, closer to Washington, PA so I probably won’t get there.  

They’re silent about the scans, of course. But one of the other contractors fusses, offering to move his vehicle so I can park closer to the house. He’s mournful, pitying, which always feels incredibly uncomfortable. They all know about the cancer because I joked with the GC one day that I’m going to have a nice tub before I die. I’m not dying but awareness matters. The life insurance company won’t insure me until I hit the five year mark–they know the score and so do I.

One of my nieces and I are planning a hiking trip to the Isle of Man, 100 miles around the whole of the island. The hike is called the Raad ny Foillan–pronounced rad na foil yan–the Way of the Gull. I’m hoping we’ll convince the family to go with us, at least for part of the trip. I think my dad would appreciate the idea of all of us visiting the homeland together, though I’ll acknowledge that I rarely act in ways that would please my father. Still, this is a trip I’d love to make. Something about it calls, like I’m a salmon rushing to get upstream. 

Construction work is nearly complete on my unexpected bathroom renovation. I was planning only to repair the shower. Then, when the GC pointed out the obvious, that I’d have to replace the shower tile, I realized that I’d also have to do something about the matching tile with which the previous owner lined the entire bathroom, including the built-in jet tub that I hate with the fire of a thousand suns. I’m not re-tiling the outside of that bathtub, I’m replacing it. You see what happened, right? From there, it was only a short jump to replacing the useless jack-and-jill sinks with a smaller vanity and STORAGE. This is how one starts with a minor repair and ends up with a renovation. 

I’ll admit to a moment or two of panic as the workers carried bag after bag of my former bathroom out of the house. The only reno I’ve ever done is DIY. This has been an adventure in learning new strategies and new coping mechanisms. They have taught me much about efficiency and tidiness while working. And laughter. There’s been something delightful about listening to the plumbers giggle together. Not so much the noises four men made as they carried my new freestanding, and very heavy, tub up two flights of stairs…those sounds feature in my nightmares. 

Early in the project, one of the young men, not quite an apprentice but definitely not a grizzled icon of construction work, slipped and fell through the newly floor-less bathroom, leaving a foot-shaped hole in the second floor bedroom ceiling. He wasn’t hurt. That’s the most important thing. He was CHAGRINED and has very gracefully endured my teasing ever since. He’s also done a great job on the repair, including repainting the entire ceiling because the sheen on the new gallon of paint didn’t match the original (even though we had the empty can to take to Sherwin Williams). File that under unsolved mysteries! 

It’s theoretically possible that I’ll be showering in my new bathroom this weekend. I sure hope I don’t hate the experience because I’m never doing it again. Maybe to the other bathrooms? If I do any more renovations, the kitchen is probably next. Some maniac former owner decided that the cupboards should be painted with floor stain, probably because they knew they were leaving a mess for a future owner. The floor stain is a misery–a curse on their gardens for the struggle they left with us. They also added cheap storage at the ceiling level that I was initially excited about. All the love to that naive younger version of myself, the one who thought she wouldn’t hate having to get out the step ladder every single time she needs something from those cupboards, which has proven to be way more frequently than the younger version of myself anticipated. 

After nearly a month with this group of contractors, I have affection for some, tolerance for one, and appreciation for another. I’ve gotten to know the individual sounds of their voices, their footsteps. I have inside jokes with the GC and talk to the apprentice like he’s my son (he doesn’t seem to mind having been “adopted” by me). They’ll leave at the end of the day today and it’s possible I’ll never see any of them again. I won’t hear about the birth of the baby next month, won’t know about the foodie’s latest obsession, won’t get the update of life after the move into a new apartment in two weeks, won’t hear the incredibly loud belching (which I’m not sorry to leave behind). Life is filled with these little bereavements. Ships passing in the night, the cliche calls it. 

But it’s more than that. Just as I’ve made room in my life for them, they too have created a world around this job. I suspect they do it with every project, moving their things in: a hoodie draped over the banister, house shoes by the front door for bad weather days, a ladder left in the second floor room after the ceiling repair. I found a construction pencil by the basement deep sink and a roll of blue tape at the top of the stairs. They’re incredibly tidy but also comfortable in the space, which feels very warm. I love to hear their feet pounding down the steps as they run outside to get something from the truck and their voices as they call to each other–a joke, a request, a question. 

The house will be quiet when they’re gone. Even the dogs will stop their barking.

Much love.

Repetition and/of Grief

It’s About The Oil

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , 4 Comments

Happy New Year, I guess. I’m not going to ponder here the implications of starting wars in other countries to avoid discussing pedophilia in the US. It’s certainly, nonetheless, worth highlighting that military action is inherently dangerous. Everyone, regardless of political party, should be horrified by the suggestion that our troops would be placed in harm’s way for any reason without significant oversight. If it’s a valid action, there’s no reason to hide it from the members of Congress whose role it is to protect the children, siblings, parents who serve in our names.  

Moving on as I, literally, in that first paragraph, promised that I would.

Because the cognitively declining person in my community can’t drive anymore, I often shuttle them to the grocery store. Today, we went to Costco where they insist on having their own cart, which they sometimes lose and we don’t always find. We usually shop separately because they prefer to go their own way. I suspect it’s an independence thing, which is good, though their grocery selections are often impulsive and not particularly healthy. 

Today, I stopped them from buying two bottles of gummy vitamins because they already take a vitamin supplement ordered by their doctor. Next, I discouraged the purchase of three pounds of very expensive angus beef. My persuasion was not successful. The angus beef has entered their refrigerator, hopefully to be packed into smaller amounts and quickly frozen. (I’ll check in a couple days.) I did distract them from purchasing a lifetime supply of Oreos which was both sad, because who doesn’t love a sandwich cookies, and also necessary, because a single older individual should absolutely not bring three pounds of Oreos into their house. 

I always try to make sure I’m with them at checkout because they find that process challenging, often unable to find their membership or credit card in their admittedly overstuffed wallet. The staff is patient but the process is still overwhelming. We got through it today with minimal bumps and pushed our carts to the exit. This is where things became hilarious. 

Our carts are side-by-side because they want to be able to see me. They worry if I’m behind them. I worry if I’m ahead of them because sometimes they get distracted and stop. I’ve lost them before simply by turning my back for a moment. One time, they bought a second lunch at the Costco cafe, having forgotten that we ate before shopping. They were mid-pizza-slice when I found them. Too late, of course. Another time, they completely left the building and sat in the parking lot–on one of the diamond-shaped barriers. I was in SUCH A PANIC, looking for them. In hindsight, it’s a memory I can laugh about but at the time I was sick to my stomach wondering if they’d wandered away or gotten into someone else’s car (a thing they’ve tried to do). 

Anyway, as I was saying, our carts are side-by-side as we walk through the sliding doors, unfortunately blocking a couple trying to enter. I apologize and make a joke. The man says, “You’re funny. You should be on stage at the Comedy Club. It’s right over there.” That makes me snort laugh. He and his wife laugh too and we all continue on our way. The person I’m with says, “Oh, that was so nice. What a compliment.” I look at them and consider whether to explain that the comment was NOT a compliment. It was what the kids in the 20 teens would call a “sick burn.” And it was really well done. 

I received copies of the European periodical that published my article. If you want one, hit me up. They’re €8.50/$10. I wish I could give them out for free but I had to pay to ship them from Europe, which, with tariffs, cost me $200. I’m trying to make a living here, lol. 

It seems I owe my pancreas an apology. Tests suggest that it is working as expected which, while good news, does lead to more questions. In addition, although I was supposed to transition to twice yearly scans from quarterly, my oncologist has concerns regarding all the weird new blips and blobs in my organs that showed up in the December scans. That, combined with the whole “can’t digest food” thing, has resulted in continuing with quarterly scans. Whatever. I woke up this morning still alive and that’s pretty awesome.

So, again, I say: Happy New Year. Protect your peace; there are more rough days ahead. 

Much love.

It’s About The Oil

Pancreas Goes On Performance Improvement

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Me: So, Pancreas, do you know why I brought you into my office today?

Pancreas: Is it about those vacation days I asked for? Because I’ve already bought the plane tickets. 

Me: Sigh. 

Me: First, as a pancreas, you don’t get vacation days. Because you are a PANCREAS. If you were the Skeletal System, we could talk about days off.

Pancreas: I work very hard.

Me: (sotto voce) And now we come to the crux of this discussion. 

Me: Are you entirely sure about that? 

Pancreas: That I work hard? Yes, I’m sure. Damn sure. There’s no harder working organ in this body.

Me: Okay. Okay. I think I should stop you right there, before Heart hears you. Or Lungs. Or Central Nervous System. Or Liver. Liver is working at full capacity even though it’s about half the size it was two years ago. Can you say the same?

Pancreas: Unfair. I cannot be cut in half. 

Me: (sotto voce) Well, you’re working like you were.

Pancreas: (suspicious) What was that? I didn’t quite hear you.

Me: I said, “I’m so cold. Brrr.”

Pancreas: (confused) You’re exactly 97.9 F. Perfectly normal.

Me: Right. Let’s get back to your performance. Can you explain your reduced enzyme output?

Pancreas: Resources are limited. I’m getting up there, almost 60 years old, you know. You had that surgery last year. It threw everything off. I’m tired. I need a vacation.

Me: Sigh.

Me: I assume you know that the heart is older than you are, by like 2 weeks. ANYWAY….

Pancreas: (makes raspberry sounds) Heart. Blah Blah Blah. All I ever hear is that Heart is better than me. Hmph.

Me: Look. Your enzyme production is down. Stomach and Intestines are requiring external enzyme support. I’m going to have to put you on a performance improvement plan. 

Pancreas: Oh yeah. How about I just quit? 

Me: Stomach and Intestines both think you already have. That’s why they’re demanding external enzyme support. Pancreas, this performance improvement plan is for your own good. If you don’t start making enzymes, you’ll be replaced entirely by enzyme pills. You don’t want that. You’d miss working. We’d miss your cheerleading at the daily stand up discussions. And your jokes! I’m still laughing about the hippo-zippo one you told last week. 

Pancreas: (a little teary) You liked that one? 

Me: I sure did. Do you want a tissue?

Pancreas: (nodding) I’m sorry. I’ll do what I can to step up productivity. I’ve just been feeling a little down. It’s the season, you know? You eat so much food during the holidays. 

Me: (angry face)…

Pancreas: Not that I’m blaming you. 

Me: Uh huh. Suddenly I’m excited to start taking those enzymes. (glares menacingly at Pancreas)

Much love.

Pancreas Goes On Performance Improvement

A Million Years Ago….

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

A million years ago, I had the very great pleasure to spend time with a team of 25 Indians who traveled to the US to work on a project. Today, I was ordering pastries (at a Paris Baguette) from a young Indian man and he did something that made me feel such melancholy for that team from so very long ago. The work? I don’t give two hooey’s about that anymore, though at the time we were making history. Today, I miss the people on that team. 

So, what did that young Indian man do? Well, it’s a little hard to describe but basically it’s a head motion common in India, a sort of head nod/shake. The first time you work with a large group of Indian men, you’ll wonder why they appear to be shaking their heads in a sort of “no” gesture when you’re talking to them. They aren’t, in fact, saying “no.” They’re telling you to continue, that they’re with you, grasping what you’ve said. 

When that young barista did his nod/shake, I had to hold in the outpouring of *something* that tried to spew forth in a glory of half-sentences and laughter. Yes, I did, in fact, keep it to myself. As memories go, it’s a little inexplicable, a memory that one holds close because no one else will really understand. I doubt that I’ve thought of that head shake movement in ten years but today, in a second, I was transported right back to a huge room at the top of Highmark’s Pittsburgh building, leaning over a table as I tried to convince one of the men that I was right about the enrollment process. I did not win that argument.

Have you read Project Hail Mary? I’ve been having difficulty finding time to sit down with a book but I was on a longer drive recently listening to it. And I’m speechless. It’s that good. I’ve only cried twice but there’s still three hours left in the book so, you know, plenty of time for more tears.

 I spent a good part of two days in the company of a person with cognitive decline. They were having some work done in the house but sometimes can’t remember the work that’s being done and can’t answer questions about the work. So, I’m there, keeping them company, and providing support when there’s a question. It’s exhausting. Part of it is answering repeatedly the same question without getting annoyed. When I was in training at Disney World, our trainers would remind us that we could never be frustrated over the number of times we answered a question–about the time for the next show, the location of the bathrooms, why they couldn’t bring their ice cream into the theater, why they couldn’t take their beer from the building–because, as the trainers said, that was the FIRST time that person had asked ME that question. 

What, however, does one do when the same person asks the same question or a variation thereof about 16 times in an hour? Well, one still cannot get frustrated because the cognitively declining person thinks they’ve never asked that particular question before. Mostly, frustration isn’t the issue for me, to be honest. Coming up with interesting distractions IS. My daughter gave me a big container of buttons–yep, buttons–and suggested that, as a project, this person might enjoy sorting the buttons by color and putting them into another container (with compartments) that Haley also thoughtfully provided. It was great. Worked like a damn charm. They found it soothing. I had a solid 30 minutes of peace to just take a breath. I owe my girl BIG TIME for the idea. 

On the flip side of cognitive decline symptoms, I was visiting my not-my-aunt Ginny and she decided AGAIN that we needed to make a break for it. She concocted several very elaborate plans to get us out of the facility and into my car. The woman can’t walk anymore but she’s somehow maneuvering herself FASTER THAN I AM toward the exit. I keep trying to turn the wheelchair but she’s digging in her heels. How is she this strong?! 

Feeling rather melancholy recently in the run up to the quarterly scans, I decided it would be a good idea to think about all the strong women in my family who have left this earthly existence. There are so many. I don’t know if that means I got more than my share or if, more likely, we all have had strong women in our lives that we just, maybe, didn’t realize were so amazing because we were children at the time. I was calling on them, I guess, to give me strength, lift me out of the doldrums, who knows…. The mental exercise accomplished none of those things but did make me miss them more than ever. 

Scan-wise, I have no updates to share. Scans were December 1st because nothing says “Happy Freakin’ Holidays” like starting the month by checking one’s body for bips and bops that don’t belong. I follow an author, breast cancer remission, who, this week, talked about the cruelty of the wait. She has a mass that might be nothing or might be something. She has a biopsy in two weeks. When she said that, in her Insta reel, I felt that same stomach drop that I get every single time I have scans. Disease takes normalcy as well as health. It steals peace and quiet moments of joy, if it can. 

I know the strategies of distraction and mindfulness but I am also deeply familiar with the anxiety of the wait–for news, for treatment, for results, for appointments. Even when the news is good, there is regular checking for the possibility of new bad news. GAH. It’s a relentless battle. And then well-meaning scientists conduct a study to see if cancer patients are more likely to be depressed than healthy people…. I’m sorry. Was that a question? What could their hypothesis have been other than–OBVIOUSLY? What are they going to do with those incredibly obvious results in a grotesquely under-funded mental health industry? 

Anyway, happy December to all who celebrate the last month of the year. I’ve always thought that the end of the year should come with a sticker, like a checkmark or a big smiley face, and then we should get recess. Instead, we start the year with taxes due, a new deductible on our health insurance ($9,100 for me), and debt from holiday extravagance. I’d much rather have the recess, thank you.

A Frank Nowalk original is up for auction this week. I desperately want it to be purchased by someone who will love it as much as he loved making it. It’s an incredible homage to Pittsburgh and currently has NO BIDS on it.

Also, if you look at the rest of the catalog, you’ll find some Ed Eberle art. If you don’t know who he is, check him out!! The Eberle Gallery is still in Homestead and very active in supporting growing artists. 

Musical interlude–”Christmas Time Is Here” by Bela Fleck and the Flecktones. The whole Jingle All The Way album is delightful. New takes on familiar music. Lots of banjo, some didgeridoo, and more. You won’t be sorry. And if you buy now, you’ll get this set of steak knives, sharp enough to cut through this can of cranberry sauce. 

Much love…and maybe some good luck?

A Million Years Ago….

The (Early) Winter of Our Discontent

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , , , , 4 Comments

Francis Nowalk’s here in Pittsburgh is closing its doors after more than 75 years. Frank, as he was called, worked in the store he built until Covid brought him literally to his knees in 2023. After he passed away last year, his children and grandchildren began the process of closing up the famous business, finally reaching the stage of selling off the lighting solutions and the brick-and-mortar multi-story showroom and warehouse. https://pittsburghquarterly.com/articles/a-pittsburgh-treasure/  

Since we’ve been looking for period-appropriate sconces to replace the modern lighting in our very Victorian house, we raced to their sale and what a delight it was. We were even lucky enough to get one of his handmade pieces (not even realizing he’d made it until one of the sons told us its provenance). I can’t begin to tell you how dirty we got, digging through boxes of bips and bops. I haven’t had so much fun spending money in a long time. 

There was something very bittersweet about having his children, all around my age, reminiscing about various pieces as they were sold. “Wasn’t this in the house at one point?” one sister would ask and another would agree, while one of the brothers answered, “No” in a very confident voice. Occasionally, while we were there, we’d see one of them grab something from the showroom. They’d call out, “I’m taking this to the car.” A brother or sister would sigh and call out, “Okay.” The siblings all laughed about it, though, and told us that everyone in the family has pieces from their dad’s business. “He lives in all our houses,” one of the daughters said, which is a lovely legacy. I think most of us would like to know that we’re remembered with such sweetness.

I went to a screening of A Princess Bride that included a Cary Elwes Q&A. As a single ticket, I was able to swoop in at the last minute to get a cheap seat in the third row, perfect placement for a good view of the movie and the Q&A after. There was an interesting prohibition; absolutely no pictures of Cary were permitted. We were warned that violators would be politely escorted out. 

The screening was a delight. It seemed like everyone there knew the movie. Some attendees were dressed up as Buttercup, Wesley, or the dread pirate Roberts. I even saw a six-fingered man (without his sword, of course). With the first use of “As You Wish,” there were ooohs and aaahs. When Andre the Giant appeared, the room erupted in cheers. It was wonderful. 

I’m slightly less enthusiastic about the Q&A. Cary Elwes was very funny, very polished, very emotionally removed from the event. I felt like he’d memorized his responses and enunciated them with a minimum of engagement. I may be alone in that impression, as there was a lot of laughter during his stories. They were good stories, for sure. I just felt like he’d told the same ones a thousand times. Because he has. You know?

In 2012, I think it was, my husband got us tickets to see William Shatner’s one-man show, Shatner’s World: We Just Live In It. It was my birthday present, as I am a huuuuuuuge OG Star Trek fan and might, if needed, be called upon to recite dialog from most of the 80+ episodes. So far, surprisingly, I haven’t needed to do that. But I’m ready. You know. Just in case. 

Anyway, it’s likely no surprise that I’m comparing Cary Elwes’ Q&A with Shatner’s one-man show. The difference for me is stark. Every word of Shatner’s show felt like a conversation, like he was sitting in an easy chair across the room, reminiscing about his life, even though that show ran for, maybe, three weeks on Broadway before he took it on a national tour for another eight months. It was magical, slightly deranged, and riveting to watch. 

Speaking of Shatner, if you haven’t listened to his album Has Been, you have missed something spectacular and should rectify that as soon as possible. Unlike his earlier work, this masterpiece produced by Ben Folds is often wrenching and intimate. He reflects on his life, his many mistakes, his public image. One of the interesting things about it is that listening will not make you like Shatner the man anymore than he deserves but somehow it allows you to empathize with him. I like to listen to it on longer drives, when I can really focus on the lyrics. In my humble opinion, it is not the album that you play in the background while doing dishes. 

In other music news, if you’re in the area and you’re not going to see The English Beat, are you even actually in the area? I’ve been following them for a looooong time but this will be my first time seeing them live. The venue is table seating near the stage and then some sort of balcony seating in the back. My seats are at a table. In fact, I purchased the entire table and then invited some people to join me. I just can’t bring myself to sit at a 4-top with three strangers. It is too awkward. Well…okay…the truth is that I’m too awkward. 

Winter has arrived earlier than expected. The trees, overnight, made a yellow carpet of leaves on Negley Avenue, covering the sidewalks and road. Truly, Dorothy could have found her way easily on that not-brick road, despite the blustery wind. Although the temperature rises slightly during the day, the cold Canadian air continues to rustle empty branches, whip hair into eyes, and wrestle unbuttoned coats wide. 

An elderly woman enters the coffee shop, wool coat buttoned to her neck. She has on a fanny pack, the strap at her waist around the back, the pack in front snuggled lower, below her curves. She waits patiently for her drink, which the barista announces loudly, a large peppermint hot cocoa with whipped cream and a chocolate drizzle. As she walks by me, her gold dangle earrings glint in the afternoon light. She inhales the warm peppermint scent wafting from her cup and takes a delicate lick of whipped cream before stepping into winter’s windy embrace, her gray hair tousled by the breeze. 

Another woman enters the coffee shop; a few errant leaves join her, swirling in a circle around the brick floor. Her silver hair hangs to her chin in a bob that curls under, something I could never reliably achieve. She’s wearing a puffy coat the color of lilac. How is it that some people look effortlessly stylish and some people (me. I mean me) look effortfully like we close our eyes before we pick out our outfits?

Online guidance suggested creating playlists of music familiar to my cognitively declining acquaintance. Reluctantly, because I have to listen to it too–haha, I’ve done it: Leon Russell, The Beatles, Peter, Paul & Mary, Simon & Garfunkel, and a few early 70s bands, like Moody Blues, Doobie Brothers, etc. I passionately dislike The Beatles–I know, I know–but in early childhood, I was listening to my parents’ 40s and early 50s music. I literally had two albums of my own: a Jackson Five and the Carpenters. The Beatles, in particular, were NOT on the record player. Later, when my dad was an Outlaw Country fan, we were listening to 8-tracks of Willie and Friends. My mom’s favorite music was silence. She abhorred Outlaw Country, lol. I like Willie, in particular, but I prefer his folk and indie music, such as Last Man Standing. He’s renowned for his lyricism and I find his later stuff particularly smart and quite funny. I also admire his frank disdain for people who have forgotten or perhaps deliberately misunderstood what he represents.

This morning, I entered the coffee shop early and saw an acquaintance absolutely immersed in his computer screen. I waved but he didn’t notice so I bent to his eye level and waved until he looked up and saw me. It made me, him, and the barista laugh. Day’s goals met. 

I haven’t talked much about my health but had a reminder this morning from a friend that silence can be distressing to others. So, quick update and then we won’t talk about it again unless it’s necessary: September scans picked up a new spot too small to biopsy. It’s in the gallbladder fundus, which, so that you don’t have to google, is at the top of the gallbladder under the right lobe of the liver. (I no longer have a left lobe. lol) 

It might be something. It might be nothing. My healthcare team calls it “concerning,” though not to me, which I find rather funny. They like to be very optimistic and cheerful. I’m an optimist, too, and continue to buy green bananas. (Why do I know they call it concerning? Because a resident at my PCP’s office read the medical record to me. I’m pretty sure they weren’t supposed to. haha) My next scans and bloodwork are December 1st. I’ll see my healthcare team again in mid-December, at which point we’ll know what’s next, whether it’s more scans, surgery, treatment, or a combination thereof. 

Sure, I am occasionally awash with, to paraphrase Aragorn, “…The fear that would take the heart of me.” Cholangiocarcinoma kills 80-90% of patients. I wish this weren’t my path. “”So do I,’ said Gandalf, ‘And so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.’” (Tolkien sure knew how to turn a phrase.)

I’ve had all the very difficult conversations. I’ve updated the will. I’ve made all the lists–finances, bills, passwords, etc. There’s even a spreadsheet with all the home repairs I’ve done over the years since Ken died. I’m probably more paper-work prepared for death than most of you who ALSO have no idea when you’ll die. (So, maybe, get on that. It will benefit your family.) Anyway, I’m as determined today as yesterday, and the day before, to keep living until I die. Some days the worry wins but most days I win. And now we’re done with that topic. If there’s more to say, I’ll say it when I’m ready.

Much love.

The (Early) Winter of Our Discontent

Rose, Who Lived By Another Name

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , 2 Comments

About 20 years ago, I was seated next to a quite elderly woman on a flight to Las Vegas. Her name is lost to my memory but I’m going to call her Rose, which I think she would have appreciated. 

Rose had that terrible middle seat in a full plane. Everyone hates that seat, of course, but she was okay with it. We hadn’t even taken off when she started talking to me. If you’re anything like me, you have your in-flight entertainment prepared in advance. You’re working or reading or napping or watching something on your device. If you’re anything like me, you’re not chatting with your neighbors, except for the usual “excuse me; I need to visit the restroom.”

I was not delighted but Rose drew me in. She introduced herself to me by saying that she was fighting cancer. Obviously, I’m paraphrasing but here’s the gist of her introduction: “I don’t have cancer,” she said. “I didn’t want it, didn’t ask for it, would give it back if I could. It’s a demon that I’m fighting. I won’t ever own it but I’ll fight it for the rest of my life.” 

She was on her fourth fight and untiring in her objective. It was daunting to me at the time, to think about that fight. I didn’t understand, hadn’t had much experience with cancer yet. My paternal grandmother died within a month of her cancer diagnosis, long before the treatments that exist today, long before I met Rose. 

I could see how fierce she was. And joyful. She laughed often on that flight, telling me her story, asking me about mine–though, to be honest, mine seemed very small compared to the very big and important life Rose was living. She was a tiny woman, you know, whose spirit was the size of a dragon. I can still picture her, sitting to my left, a neck pillow around her neck, a book in her lap that she never opened and occasionally handed to me while she dug something out of her purse. 

Her hair was short and curly, more salt than pepper, her eyes brown, marked by laughter. It lined her cheeks, too, curving around a big, wide smile that, you might say, she shared generously. Her laugh was bigger than her small frame but suitable somehow. 

I think about her strength, her determination often and I believe, though I only knew her for five hours some 20 years ago, that she’d be delighted to have made an impression. Even if she won her battle with the demon–something that I’ll never know–she’s likely gone. But like all of us, she’s left memories that keep her alive. And for me, they’re good ones. 

Much love.

Rose, Who Lived By Another Name

Who Are The People In Your Neighborhood?

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

My brain is a roiling mass of noise. But also, this weekend is the Latrobe banana split festival. In case you’re not aware: Latrobe is the HOME of the banana split. It’s a great story of a pharmacy student working at a soda fountain in 1904 who was challenged by young customers to make a fun treat using that crazy exotic fruit.

I’ve finally found the model for my current male protagonist. He’s a construction supervisor here in Pittsburgh who is doing his part to prop up that ‘90s Diet Coke commercial. I’ve been holding off describing my protagonist in detail because I just haven’t been able to see him in my mind. My friends, he is finally visible. I would never objectify anyone, so I won’t tell you about the construction supervisor’s, I mean, my character’s magnificent beard, biceps the size of a normal man’s thighs, and rugged, grumpy face. He’s PERFECT as my hero…I mean, my character’s hero. Hehe

Two regulars are playing chess by the window. The coffee shop doesn’t stock games. One of these men brought a whole-ass chess board ON HIS BICYCLE. It’s a full-sized board, too. No travel-size nonsense for them. 

The people sitting in front of me are speaking Portuguese. A man sitting beside me is speaking farsi, I think. A group of girls on the cushy chairs upstairs are speaking Korean. Several people are speaking English, some with an accent that suggests they’re from a different country. And you know what? I’m just fine.

This is a comment on our sudden fear of immigrants.

Oof. Someone spilled their 20oz latte. The completely full latte they’d just been handed by the barista. It went everywhere. I did that with my iced tea a few weeks ago, except that I spilled mine on the only carpeted section of the store. Also, and worse, IMHO, I didn’t drop mine. I put it on the table behind my computer and proceeded to knock it over when I slid my computer further back on the table. The tea stain is still visible on the carpet. I say, “Hi tea,” under my breath when I walk by it on the way to the restroom. It’s a greeting and word play. If you think that doesn’t make me laugh every single time, you clearly don’t know me.

There are two young children at the coffee shop negotiating with Grandma to get a treat. The little girl, maybe 5 or 6, has a pink bow in her hair. She’s being extremely naughty, trying to climb onto the counter and sitting in all the chairs like a little Goldilocks. The boy is rolling on the carpet in front of the counter. I keep gasping, thinking Grandma is going to step back onto him. Apparently, though, she’s got Grandma radar because no one gets injured. 

Unfortunately, Grandma yells at one of the baristas for not being friendly enough. That sucks. Don’t do that. Your barista doesn’t owe you friendliness. They aren’t your friend. There’s a significant power imbalance and you, as the customer, hold most of the power. Baristas are paid like $12/hour to make your drink, serve you a pastry, wipe off the tables, put toilet paper in the bathroom, and ask you to leave at closing. They’re not your friend. They don’t even owe you a smile. It’s nice to get one but it’s not necessary.

There’s a server at Kelly O’s in Pittsburgh’s Strip District who is slightly more animated than a cardboard cut-out. She’s had it with being artificially friendly. If she’s waiting on you, you are going to get rote questions (how do you like your eggs what kind of meat do you want sausage bacon or ham white wheat or rye toast). There’s no inflection, no commas in her voice, no pauses inviting conversation. She’ll also be giving you rote responses to your witticisms, questions, and attempts at connection. She does not give a f**k about you or your desire to be friendly. But her service is efficient and high quality. There’s another server there who, every time she sees me and Tristan, says, “Hey, babes. How are you?” She does this even when she’s not our server. It takes all kinds and it’s okay if the kind you get isn’t your best friend from the moment you meet.

Another server I know, Daisy, works at Ritters, a local diner that’s been a fixture of Bloomfield for longer than I’ve lived in Pittsburgh (and that’s a long time). We used to go there often as grad students to eat inexpensive food on laminate tables with vinyl booths. A much younger Daisy was already working there, though I didn’t know it. 

When my son lived in Bloomfield, we started going there pretty regularly again. Not much has changed, including the vinyl booths and laminate tables. Thirty years after I first visited Ritters, I got to know Daisy. She has now worked there for 45 years. We’ve been friendly for about 10 of those, I guess, but really connected while I was getting chemo. She’d had cancer about 15 years before and immediately was suspicious when I didn’t order my usual iced tea. 

We’ve compared notes on lots of things over the years, mostly superficial, though sometimes, it’s been mom-related stuff. I know that Daisy likes patty melts without the onion and French toast and never switched back from decaf coffee after she entered remission. I also know that she’s dying of bone cancer and that I’ll never see her at the diner again. She’s inpatient right now, fighting for another few months of life. I hear she has a grandbaby on the way. I’m not on her mind right now, probably never will be again, but she is on mine. I suspect that, like so many other people I’ve met, she’ll continue to be there.

Much love.

Who Are The People In Your Neighborhood?

Still Coughing After All These Years

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

Years ago, when a friend and I were discussing religion, my friend asked me, and I’m paraphrasing here: What’s the point? She was asking me what’s the point of life if one doesn’t believe in God. This, I told her, this moment is the point. This time that I spend here, each moment, is exactly the point. We all get these moments, whether we believe in an afterlife or not. Sometimes, though, we forget to appreciate them.

Recently, I’ve had quite a lot of time to reflect on that and a variety of other memories that have visited and then flown from my brain. It’s easy to find time for silence when you can’t, in fact, do much speaking. I’ve been sick for nearly two weeks now, bacterial pneumonia, again, to the chagrin of myself and my children. We’ll see if the treatment is effective this time. It hasn’t always been in the past, though I have a lengthy infection to thank for my quick cancer diagnosis and treatment. And for that reason alone, I would be loath to complain this time.

Coughing is the problem. I’ve got fairly broken lungs – as any CT scan will prove – and there’s nothing like a good lung infection to kick off an extended coughing journey, one that often lasts for several weeks. My mother-in-law, one of the nicest people you could ever hope to encounter, absolutely could not bear to hear me coughing. Her beloved older sister, Mary, died of tuberculosis when my MIL was just 10 or so. It was 1935-ish and their family of 10 lived in a tiny apartment in NYC. Mary was 19 and tuberculosis, although on the decline, was an epidemic in the poor, overcrowded neighborhoods of NYC. Treatments weren’t cheap. Margaret’s father, Giovanni, cooked in a restaurant kitchen for 12 hours a day to earn enough to pay for Mary’s treatment. Unfortunately, he put his trust in a shyster who took the money without treating the TB. Mary spent the last year of her life in the girls’ shared bedroom coughing herself to death and Margaret, my sweet MIL, sat at her bedside, powerless to have any impact. 

Of course, with that kind of experience in her formative years, it’s no surprise that my coughing – pleurisy as some of my friends jokingly call it – would send Margaret into a spiral of despair. She never, ever stopped grieving her beloved Mary and hearing me cough regularly made her cry. If she were alive today, she’d scold me even now, while I ingest cough medicine and antibiotics. “Bella,” she’d say, with a sigh. She called all of us bella. Most of her conversations were sprinkled with Italian phrases like scungilli or scocc (from scocciari), which Google would tell you are insults. Coming from Margaret, with a twinkle in her eye and her finger gently shaking at you, being called a sea snail or a pest was loving and we all knew it. 

Anyway, she’d say, “Bella” or “Bella girl. You work too hard.” It wouldn’t matter to her that I’ve been sitting in this darn bed for 10 miserable days now, leaving it only for two doctor appointments and one essential visit with friends. She’d still scold, tell me to eat – like Mrs. Claus scolding Santa on the days before Christmas, “Eat, Papa. Eat.” – and ask me to rest more. I can’t imagine what she must have experienced as a small child, listening to her sister cough until she wretched. 

My grandfather also had tuberculosis around the same time. He was, however, a well-educated man in his 40s, living in Erie, Pennsylvania, rather than a child of Italian immigrants whose knowledge of English was poor, at best. Grandpa – Charles Park, or just Park, to most of the world – was sent to a sanatorium, like the one in Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain, although Grandpa’s was definitely less mountainous. 

My grandmother, Marion, became a woman of business, definitely out of desperation but also with a surprising acumen. Two relatives – I believe a great-aunt and my grandmother’s grandmother – moved in with my grandmother and her four children and somehow they made ends meet. My grandmother continued to work after my grandfather returned from the sanatorium. They needed the money. He was trained for the church, not much use if you’re trying to feed four young children, but he knew everyone, was kind and competent in his own quiet way; and he eventually found work making prosthetics and durable medical equipment. Because of his TB, he was never able to get life insurance, which they all laughed about because he lived into his mid-80s, far outstripping the actuaries’ expectations. 

My mother and MIL tested positive for TB their entire lives, though neither ever had symptoms. Perhaps their physical health wasn’t impacted but both of them lived with the emotional consequences of their encounters with TB. How could it not be so? Because of my own family history, I’ve been planning to read John Green’s new book, Everything Is Tuberculosis, but now doesn’t seem the most apt time for me to pick up a book about coughing. 

In other news, one of my darling nieces introduced me to a new song, “Word to the Trees,” from which I fear I will never recover. It is an absolute delight of a song, by whatever mike (yes, that’s the band’s name), and now has an important position in this girl’s writing playlist, though, so far, I’ve stopped writing to sing every time it starts playing.

It occurs to me this Memorial Day weekend that Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address should hold renewed meaning for us all as we, in this country, stand more divided than anytime since the Civil War. Perhaps, as we honor those who “…gave the last full measure of devotion,” now is a time to remember the rest of Lincoln’s speech and consider whether “…government of the people, by the people, for the people” can survive this current test of our own devotion or whether it will, inevitably, “…perish from the earth.”

Much love.

Still Coughing After All These Years