Friday, November 1, 2013
Check out my new site
Just a little test to see if I remember how to use blogger. I now post on a different site: www.lindamalcolm.com
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Hump Day Short: February Break Boy Quotes
“You can’t judge a woman on her looks.” Liam after watching the Berenstain Bears Halloween episode: “You can’t judge a book by its cover.” Apparently the message stuck.
It’s been a week of Liam hovering three inches from my hip if I leave a room. “I can’t be by myself. Remember my bad dream? Skeletons…” Berenstain Bears Halloween episode.
“Look, Mom!” Liam is playing tonalization from piano lessons. On his toes. (We are in Vermont with no piano.)
“I just love being on vocation!” That’s just so darn cute none of us can tell Liam that it’s really “vacation.”
“Cool, we have the roll out bed!” At age 8, Will is not heavy enough to feel every spring and rod in the pull-out sofa.
“I never want to get off my skis!” Liam, after his first-ever ski lesson.
“Did you see me come straight down that hill?” Will, after his first-ever ski lesson, exiting the chair lift and zipping down the hill, leaving me at the top. He’s become one of those little guys on the slopes.
“I think I really hurt my knee…” Bill stated after the 45-second-long wipe out on the entrance to the bunny-hill chair lift – a scene leaving me laughing so hard I couldn’t stand up straight. After all, I am married to alpine skier, Bill Malcolm, who regularly picks me up off the sides of mountains.
Happy Hump Day…
It’s been a week of Liam hovering three inches from my hip if I leave a room. “I can’t be by myself. Remember my bad dream? Skeletons…” Berenstain Bears Halloween episode.
“Look, Mom!” Liam is playing tonalization from piano lessons. On his toes. (We are in Vermont with no piano.)
“I just love being on vocation!” That’s just so darn cute none of us can tell Liam that it’s really “vacation.”
“Cool, we have the roll out bed!” At age 8, Will is not heavy enough to feel every spring and rod in the pull-out sofa.
“I never want to get off my skis!” Liam, after his first-ever ski lesson.
“Did you see me come straight down that hill?” Will, after his first-ever ski lesson, exiting the chair lift and zipping down the hill, leaving me at the top. He’s become one of those little guys on the slopes.
“I think I really hurt my knee…” Bill stated after the 45-second-long wipe out on the entrance to the bunny-hill chair lift – a scene leaving me laughing so hard I couldn’t stand up straight. After all, I am married to alpine skier, Bill Malcolm, who regularly picks me up off the sides of mountains.
Happy Hump Day…
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Hump Day Short: Eat Your Frog
Love these Mark Twain quotes:
“If you eat a frog first thing in the morning, the rest of your day will be wonderful.”
“If you have to eat a frog, don’t look at it for too long.”
At 6 a.m., the laundry maven went down to the laundry room; stumbled over the dirty clothes; sorted those into organized laundry piles; and put a load of laundry on.
That frog didn't taste too bad!
Happy Hump Day…
“If you eat a frog first thing in the morning, the rest of your day will be wonderful.”
“If you have to eat a frog, don’t look at it for too long.”
At 6 a.m., the laundry maven went down to the laundry room; stumbled over the dirty clothes; sorted those into organized laundry piles; and put a load of laundry on.
That frog didn't taste too bad!
Happy Hump Day…
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Hump Day Short: My Hair According to Will
Resident cartoonist Will recently gave me his take on my curly chemo hair.
Will: “Mom, I really like your curly hair.”
My ego buds.
Will: “It’s so much easier to draw than your other hair.”
My ego… silly old ego.
Happy Hump Day…
Will: “Mom, I really like your curly hair.”
My ego buds.
Will: “It’s so much easier to draw than your other hair.”
My ego… silly old ego.
Happy Hump Day…
Friday, February 3, 2012
Taming an Elephant
I’m traveling through my journals looking for a story to polish and post today. That’s my usual pattern.
It’s not working. I’m distracted.
Until 4 a.m. this morning, I was trying to tame an elephant so we could keep it as a family pet. It understood my words. I got it to sit back on its rear legs with the bribe of a run through the sprinkler if it did what I asked. It was going well until Bill pissed it off. Then it turned into a cartoon elephant, flipped upside-down, and pounded my cartoon family with its head. Disturbing.
Ahhhh… just this minute I worked out where the elephant came from: we had friends over for dinner last night, and we talked about elephants being afraid of mice! Enter the elephant into my dream.
I’m pretty sure the house is my elephant. I can’t tame it all at once or even one bite at a time.
So this is it. I’m out of words for the day. And, again, I will be out of the house for most of the day, giving the elephant more time to grow even bigger.
But starting tonight, like every Friday night, I will be nibbling away at it right through the weekend.
It’s not working. I’m distracted.
Until 4 a.m. this morning, I was trying to tame an elephant so we could keep it as a family pet. It understood my words. I got it to sit back on its rear legs with the bribe of a run through the sprinkler if it did what I asked. It was going well until Bill pissed it off. Then it turned into a cartoon elephant, flipped upside-down, and pounded my cartoon family with its head. Disturbing.
Ahhhh… just this minute I worked out where the elephant came from: we had friends over for dinner last night, and we talked about elephants being afraid of mice! Enter the elephant into my dream.
I’m pretty sure the house is my elephant. I can’t tame it all at once or even one bite at a time.
So this is it. I’m out of words for the day. And, again, I will be out of the house for most of the day, giving the elephant more time to grow even bigger.
But starting tonight, like every Friday night, I will be nibbling away at it right through the weekend.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Hump Day Short: Little Black Dresses
Giving up on my little black dresses from the 90’s, I was bagging them up for the Vietnam Vets. Will came in to see what I was up to.
Will: “Are those dresses from college?”
Me: “A little after college… they are too small now.”
Will: “Wow, you are getting so strong, Mom. Big and strong – that’s why you can still lift me!”
Thankfully, between a size 10 and now, I became a mom.
Happy Hump Day…
Will: “Are those dresses from college?”
Me: “A little after college… they are too small now.”
Will: “Wow, you are getting so strong, Mom. Big and strong – that’s why you can still lift me!”
Thankfully, between a size 10 and now, I became a mom.
Happy Hump Day…
Friday, January 27, 2012
MRI Happy Dance
My last radiation treatment was in April of 2010. My follow-up: Alternating every six months, I have a mammogram and an MRI.
Friday, January 13th was my MRI. Driving to the appointment, I thought how crazy it was to schedule an MRI on this day. But, hey, Bill was flying home from China today. What the hell, we live on the edge of superstition.
With my whole being, I try to keep these appointments like a regular dentist cleaning or a physical. And it works – to a certain point. On that Friday it was all calm until the transfer ceremony of the blue Johnny.
Damn. I hate blue Johnnys. They are a transfer of power – away from me.
The same tech has set me up each time I’ve been in for an MRI. And after questions about any metal implants or fake eyeballs in my body, she says, “OK, let’s get your IV set up.”
Damn. I forgot about that needle. But my veins are from a line of women who hand-milked cows and carried 5-gallon pails of feed. “Wow, look at that vein! That’s a nice one.” My veins always excite phlebotomists.
A tiny, tiny prick and we are set. I don’t watch the needle entry or the taping or anything. I strike up conversation, reverting to that good old safe Iowa topic: the weather. Unfortunately, while protecting the visionary sense, another one kicks into high gear.
“Damn! I forgot my gum! I can taste the saline.” And the tech says, “Yeah, that happens to some people.” I thought she should understand a bit more. “That sends me right back to the infusion suite, hooked up to a chemo IV.” “Oh…”
We move from the IV center to the MRI chamber. “What radio station do you want in your headphones?” Country. It would be nice to hear bits and pieces of a story in between the jack-hammering magnetics.
“I imagine you remember the drill: Put the girls in the two holes.” We get “the girls” placed; then I get a panic buzzer in my left hand and hold the IV string in the right hand. Looking down, I should be able to see the wall with the magic mirror. But I’ve already decided I’m going to close my eyes because I don’t want to see a red curl flung over the mirror. For my very first MRI, the curl and I talked quite a bit about its impending travels away from my head.
The techs leave the room and turn on the music. “…I went sky-diving; I went Rocky Mountain climbing; I went 2.7 seconds on a bull named Fu Man Chu; And I loved deeper; And I spoke sweeter…” Are you fucking kidding me? “Live Like You Are Dying” crooning in my ear as I roll on into the cancer-seeking chamber?
“OK, are you ready, Linda?” Sure. “The first test will run for 3 minutes.”
BANG, BANG, BANG.
“You are doing great!” I’m not afraid of tight places. I’ve dove down to 100 feet in the Caribbean and communed with turtles and Rock Beauties. My body lies there, but my mind goes for a scuba dive. One of the most tranquil places on earth.
Three more… four more sets of BANG, BANG, BANG tests, then, “We are going to start the IV now.” Another quick hit of saline in my mouth. And I don’t think it’s my imagination that the tracer liquid has been kept at -32 degrees prior to running cool through my arm.
Finally, “OK, Linda you are all set. We’ll bring you out, but remember you are up high, and we need to lower you before you stand up. And move slowly, you might be light-headed.”
Farm girls, you know the scene of the cow being corralled into a livestock trailer? And the ambitiousness of her attempted escape? My feet flew to the ground and my horns popped up ready to gore anything in my path, with a smile on my face. The techs just looked at me. “I’m fine,” I assured them. I focused on the table with my glasses and moved to it. I thanked the techs, but one walked with me to the dressing room.
“Are you OK?” “Yup, I’m fine.” “OK, good luck!”
What the hell does THAT mean? Is that the kind of thing you say to someone after an MRI on Friday the 13th? After an IV to the ear of “Live Like You Are Dying?”
I stuck the Johnny in the bin, stood up straight, got to the car, and called my sister. I recapped the morning’s events. “Linda, she says ‘good luck’ to everyone.” We laughed.
I still think the tech needs a better sending off line. And I couldn’t think of one. “Good bye.” No good. “Have a great day!” It may be one of your last. “See you next time!” Bad omen.
“Good luck” it is.
And it was.
On Monday I got the message on my cell phone. “Linda, I’m just calling with good news about your MRI…” And this time I was in a public place, I held it together.
I rarely collapse to my knees in tears on the kitchen floor. That's an over-acted scene in a bad movie. I don’t think I ever did that in the middle of the cancer year.
But those calls that say, “You’re OK”… Boom, down. They take my breath away. They open flood gates.
They give me six more months of living cancer-free.
Friday, January 13th was my MRI. Driving to the appointment, I thought how crazy it was to schedule an MRI on this day. But, hey, Bill was flying home from China today. What the hell, we live on the edge of superstition.
With my whole being, I try to keep these appointments like a regular dentist cleaning or a physical. And it works – to a certain point. On that Friday it was all calm until the transfer ceremony of the blue Johnny.
Damn. I hate blue Johnnys. They are a transfer of power – away from me.
The same tech has set me up each time I’ve been in for an MRI. And after questions about any metal implants or fake eyeballs in my body, she says, “OK, let’s get your IV set up.”
Damn. I forgot about that needle. But my veins are from a line of women who hand-milked cows and carried 5-gallon pails of feed. “Wow, look at that vein! That’s a nice one.” My veins always excite phlebotomists.
A tiny, tiny prick and we are set. I don’t watch the needle entry or the taping or anything. I strike up conversation, reverting to that good old safe Iowa topic: the weather. Unfortunately, while protecting the visionary sense, another one kicks into high gear.
“Damn! I forgot my gum! I can taste the saline.” And the tech says, “Yeah, that happens to some people.” I thought she should understand a bit more. “That sends me right back to the infusion suite, hooked up to a chemo IV.” “Oh…”
We move from the IV center to the MRI chamber. “What radio station do you want in your headphones?” Country. It would be nice to hear bits and pieces of a story in between the jack-hammering magnetics.
“I imagine you remember the drill: Put the girls in the two holes.” We get “the girls” placed; then I get a panic buzzer in my left hand and hold the IV string in the right hand. Looking down, I should be able to see the wall with the magic mirror. But I’ve already decided I’m going to close my eyes because I don’t want to see a red curl flung over the mirror. For my very first MRI, the curl and I talked quite a bit about its impending travels away from my head.
The techs leave the room and turn on the music. “…I went sky-diving; I went Rocky Mountain climbing; I went 2.7 seconds on a bull named Fu Man Chu; And I loved deeper; And I spoke sweeter…” Are you fucking kidding me? “Live Like You Are Dying” crooning in my ear as I roll on into the cancer-seeking chamber?
“OK, are you ready, Linda?” Sure. “The first test will run for 3 minutes.”
BANG, BANG, BANG.
“You are doing great!” I’m not afraid of tight places. I’ve dove down to 100 feet in the Caribbean and communed with turtles and Rock Beauties. My body lies there, but my mind goes for a scuba dive. One of the most tranquil places on earth.
Three more… four more sets of BANG, BANG, BANG tests, then, “We are going to start the IV now.” Another quick hit of saline in my mouth. And I don’t think it’s my imagination that the tracer liquid has been kept at -32 degrees prior to running cool through my arm.
Finally, “OK, Linda you are all set. We’ll bring you out, but remember you are up high, and we need to lower you before you stand up. And move slowly, you might be light-headed.”
Farm girls, you know the scene of the cow being corralled into a livestock trailer? And the ambitiousness of her attempted escape? My feet flew to the ground and my horns popped up ready to gore anything in my path, with a smile on my face. The techs just looked at me. “I’m fine,” I assured them. I focused on the table with my glasses and moved to it. I thanked the techs, but one walked with me to the dressing room.
“Are you OK?” “Yup, I’m fine.” “OK, good luck!”
What the hell does THAT mean? Is that the kind of thing you say to someone after an MRI on Friday the 13th? After an IV to the ear of “Live Like You Are Dying?”
I stuck the Johnny in the bin, stood up straight, got to the car, and called my sister. I recapped the morning’s events. “Linda, she says ‘good luck’ to everyone.” We laughed.
I still think the tech needs a better sending off line. And I couldn’t think of one. “Good bye.” No good. “Have a great day!” It may be one of your last. “See you next time!” Bad omen.
“Good luck” it is.
And it was.
On Monday I got the message on my cell phone. “Linda, I’m just calling with good news about your MRI…” And this time I was in a public place, I held it together.
I rarely collapse to my knees in tears on the kitchen floor. That's an over-acted scene in a bad movie. I don’t think I ever did that in the middle of the cancer year.
But those calls that say, “You’re OK”… Boom, down. They take my breath away. They open flood gates.
They give me six more months of living cancer-free.
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