An evening with Bill Clinton

I first saw Bill Clinton in person back in the Fall of 1992 when he was running for his first term in office. He was speaking on the grassy area near the LBJ Library on the UT campus. I missed Deborah Morrison’s Advertising 387-Creative Topics class to attend the rally that warm afternoon. When I later explained my absence to Deborah, one of my favorite professors, she told me I made the right decision because I would remember his visit more than anything said in class that day. I don’t know what I missed in class, but I do know that I remember her words and philosophy. I apply this same philosophy with my own students. And this philosophy guided my decision to haul Emma out last night for the opportunity to see the former President of the United States.


The rally was slated to start at 5:30 on the UT campus. David, Emma and I got in line at 5:00. At promptly 5:30, the line started to move. As usual, David led the way while I looked around at everything and everybody. While we were inching our way toward the South Mall, I caught the eye of an "older" woman who stood out from the crowd like me. Mind you, this was clearly a UT student, 20-something crowd. For some reason, this woman and I locked gazes. I smiled. She smiled back. Then this woman with a ‘Hillary Volunteer’ badge started waving a bunch of yellow pieces of paper at me and called me towards her. “Here,” she said. “Take these special tickets.” I asked her why me? She said, “Because you brought your daughter.”

I gave David a “just stick with me” look and off we ran with our yellow tickets in hand. We bypassed the general standing area, walked passed security, and quickly made our way up the steps of the UT Tower Building.

From the steps of the Tower, we had the most amazing view of the crowd. We were standing with all the volunteers, event organizers, photographers, secret service guys and warm-up speakers. It truly felt like we were back stage.

After about an hour of very lame student speakers, Bill Clinton himself walked right by us as he made his way to the speaker’s stand. I held Emma close and whispered in her ear to remember this moment when she got to see the former President of the United States. She asked what “former” meant, but she understood “President of the United States.”

David and I are on a roll. I’ve got energy and we are going to hear Obama speak this morning at the Austin Convention Center.

Here are some pictures from last night....


Here is a visual cliché of Texas: cowboys with attitudes. People don't really dress like this in Texas. I think these young men are members of the Silver Spurs, an honorary service organization responsible for taking care of Bevo, the UT longhorn steer mascot.


Another Silver Spur fella under the UT Main Building.




I am fascinated by secret service guys. About a dozen of them surrounded Clinton while he talked.








A photograher pointed her camera out at the crowd while Emma surveyed the scene in disbelief.



Here is Bill Clinton as he walked by. I'd say Bill was about 6 feet away from us... about the same distance between our refrigerator and our side exit door.

Goodbye, infusion room!

The night before Chemo Day is usually a tense evening. To lighten up the evening, we have a tradition of ordering pizza. This time, the night before Chemo Day was a bit different. Ebru and Hakan from Turkey were in town. Ebru offered to take me out at night. I suggested we attend a political rally since both Barack and Hillary were in Austin for the debate. We both liked that idea a lot. I had read somewhere that a rally started at 10 PM, so I told her she should pick me up at 8:30ish for a late dinner and on to the rally. I haven’t kept these hours in years!

As planned, Ebru and Hakan picked me up after I got Emma in bed. Dear David stayed behind to watch the sleeping Emma. I told Ebru and Hakan that my “Chemo Brain” kicked in and that I got my rally days mixed up. The political rally was not on Thursday, but on Friday. No worries. We would still have a late dinner.

We tried eating BBQ at the County Line, but we arrived too late and the place was closing down (I think my European friends forgot that Americans like to eat early). So “Plan B” was the Iron Cactus on 6th Street. Yea, 6th Street! I haven’t been on 6th Street in years! I felt so young and happy and excited.

When we walked into the Iron Cactus a little after 10 PM, it looked like a normal restaurant. We ordered and waited for our meal. Then out of nowhere, at promptly 10:30 the place morphed into a nightclub. Bada bing. Bada bing! The lights were dimmed; the music started blasting and in walk all these beautiful, young women…lots of them… tall, blondish, thin women with fabulous clothes. Our table was right by the bar, so we were surrounded by blond hair, tanned legs, midriffs, and cleavage. Yes, there were young guys around, but the women were the showstoppers.

Ebru wondered what we were doing there. I started feeling quite old and poor Hakan couldn’t finish his meal because he was so distracted. One woman almost accidentally disrobed when she caught her wrap-around dress on my chair. Minutes later a fella almost impaled himself on my chair trying to get passed us.

It was so funny and wild to be in such a different environment. For the past several months, I have been living in the little space where “cancer world” and “kindergarten mom” merge. Yes, an odd space, but a familiar one. So, spending an evening at the Iron Cactus was a bit out of my comfort zone. I forgot about being young and single with strappy heels and dresses. Actually, the Iron Cactus was never my scene as a grad student, but I do remember when the only thing on my plate was reading journal articles and keeping a social calendar.

The actual infusion went well. Ebru and I talked about the political situation in the Middle East until I could no longer hold my eyelids open. I slept through almost all of the infusion process. Ebru cared for me like I was her child. I loved it.

On Saturday, I went back for the usual shots and saline solution. They gave me my “Chemo Graduation T-Shirt.” I took my last round of pictures. I thanked the nurses from the bottom of my heart and told them they were great, but I never wanted to see them again. They understood.

I was in that infusion room 13 times. (One test treatment + 6 actual chemo treatments + 6 follow-up infusions of just saline). Every time I just drive by the clinic on 38th street, I start feeling queasy. The smell of the soap in the bathrooms of the clinic make me sick. I can’t watch anything related to medical situations on TV because I might see an IV stand. I think it will take a while to get passed the mental imagery from this experience.

This weekend was particularly bad…nausea, headache, dry mouth and fatigue. Yes, the chemo effects are cumulative. I do not know how in the world people survive more than 6 chemo treatments.

Here I am with my nice chemo nurse, David and my graduation t-shirt which says, "Let's make cancer extinct."




Ebru and I with our Sweet Leaf Ice Tea Tops. Mine said, "Luck is when preparation meets opportunity." Ebru's said, "Be grateful for what you have."

Last Treatment

In about an hour, I will start my 6th and final chemo treatment. I circled this date on my calendar back in October when I was trying to figure out when all this would be over. I remember noting that February 22 would be Washington’s Birthday and thinking how far off that seemed.

My dear friend Ebru and her husband Hakan flew in from Istanbul, Turkey to be my final chemo sitters. Ebru and I met in grad school. One summer, we lived together in New York City in a very tiny one-bedroom apartment in the Village. Like so many of my friends, we laugh a lot.

More later...

Stranded in the Dairy Section

For those not familiar with Austin grocery stores, here is a primer: Austin is the home of Whole Foods. I have lived long enough in Austin to remember the original Whole Foods, a hippy grocery store with creaky wooden floors and florescent lighting. There are two really wonderful Whole Foods here in Austin including the flagship store for the entire company.




In addition to Whole Foods, Austin also has two Central Markets. Like Whole Foods, Central Market is a foodie paradise. Central Market is owned by HEB, but there is nothing HEBish about Central Market. We like Central Market more because it is closer to our house and because of the kid friendly Café which hosts lots of great local musicians. There is one little annoying, quirky thing about Central Market: the store layout. To prevent people from running in and out, Central Market aisles are laid out like a maze. Shoppers are forced to start in the produce section and then work their way through the meat, wine, diary, bakery, deli, prepared food and finally to the checkout counters. The idea is to encourage more time in the store, which means more sales.



So, last weekend, I was shopping in Central Market. By accident, I found myself in Central Market’s “Chocolate Covered Everything” weekend extravaganza. I had worked my way to the diary section when I was overcome with exhaustion. I needed a chair, but they don’t have chairs in grocery stores, much less at Central Market.

All around me, happy, energized people were sampling chocolate covered everything (pineapples, tofu, nuts, peppers, etc). Everyone seemed to be having the time of their lives…pick up a little soy milk here, grab a few Kalamata olives from the olive bar there, get a loaf of black bean chipotle bread here, can’t forget the cactus pears there, a little pumpkin seed pesto just in case…... All of these busy foodies were swirling around me with their carts full of organic, locally grown, free-range, hormone-free stuff. As for me, I was exhausted. Forget the cage-free eggs, just get me a folding chair!

At this point, I allowed myself to feel sorry for myself. It actually felt very good to feel pathetic…. “Poor, sorry me. I don’t even have the energy to go grocery shopping. And if I can’t go to Central Market and buy expensive, exotic food that is not on my shopping list, then there simply is no more joy in my life.”

With no chair for relief, I just leaned heavily on my shopping cart and inched my way through the maze to the checkout counters. I collapsed when I got home.

Grocery shopping is just one of my many failed attempts to be “normal” again. Oddly, the fact that my cancer is gone has caused me stress and frustration. I keep thinking I am normal again, yet I am really not. I am still very tired, yet I want to jump back into life because I am in remission. I need to keep reminding myself that fatigue is the number one side effect of chemo and the effects are cumulative. I haven’t really bounced back from chemo treatment #5. I have my last chemo treatment a week from today. This too will pass.

Goodbye, friend.

Funny things happen when you are sleep deprived. Last week I was on steroids and going through the usual round of sleeplessness. Like always when I am on steroids, I was moody and emotional. On day 3 of the required 5 days of steroids, our clothes washer stopped working. I usually don’t get too worked up about broken appliances, but because I was on a daily dose of 100mg of Prednisone, the broken washer was like a death in my family. The Maytag washer was 28 years old! How could I not mourn the loss?


You see, the washer is the last remaining appliance from my Aunt’s original house. I inherited the house we live in from my dear Aunt Mary. David and I remodeled this house. I now have the best of both worlds…the warm memories of my Aunt’s old house together with a new, updated version.


In 1980 when it was first installed, the machine washed my Aunt’s clothes. So that meant blue and brown polyester pant suits plus lots of tea towels (thin, white embroidered towels used to dry dishes).



In 1991, I moved next door to my Aunt Mary. Because there was only one washer between the two houses, the Maytag washer washed my clothes too. I stuffed my grad school clothes into that washer: jeans and lots of black things.

After my Aunt Mary passed on, I got roommates to share the house. The machine washed their clothes too---Belinda’s pretty pastel sweaters and Logan’s jeans and sweatshirts. During grad school time, my friend Shari and I were regular Saturday night patrons at Borinquen, a south Austin Puerto Rican owned salsa dance club. That washing machine always did a nice job of getting smoke out of my clothes.

After finishing my dissertation, I emptied the house and moved to Berkeley with David. I rented the house to 3 young college guys and they used the washer too! I imagine that machine washed lots of guy clothes during that time.

In 2001, David and I moved back to this house. David started putting all his Gap jeans and shirts into the washer and I put my teaching clothes (still black) in as well.

















In November 2001, I started putting in the clothes of our darling little baby girl. I began with pink little onsies and sleepers. Now I put in pink dresses and skirts. Most recently, that machine washed my cancer wear, which means sweats and other types of cozy, comfortable clothing.

















This machine washed twenty-eight years of sweat, stains, smoke and dirt out of soiled clothing. Will our new washer take us to 2036? I don’t think so. They just don’t make them like they used to.

Fun with Wigs

Here is Gigi with her old hair.





Here is Gigi with her new wig.




Here is David with no hair.




Here is David with Gigi's new wig.




Here is Emma with Gigi's new wig.





Here is David with his old wig.

High School Reunion #2

I had my fifth treatment last Friday. Sylvia, my good friend from Colorado, flew in for the treatment. Like my other friends from last week, Sylvia and I also grew up together. We spent the day before the treatment going to lunch and a movie. It was a windy day here in Austin last Thursday and my wig flew off twice! ….once outside of Central Market and the other outside of Trudy’s. Both times, I sprang into action and caught the wig in the air before it fell to the ground. A couple walking near me at Central Market saw the flying wig and kept staring at me. Of course, Sylvia and I laughed and laughed both times. I am so glad Sylvia was with me! By myself, I would have been SO embarrassed, but with Sylvia, losing my wig was just one more crazy event in our 27-year friendship. Sylvia makes me laugh. I make Sylvia laugh. When we get going, our bellies hurt.

Like airline travel, I like my infusion treatments to be uneventful. Unfortunately,my treatment last Friday was a little different. I shook up the nursing staff and broke the peaceful silence of the infusion room when I started vomiting. I was sleeping with Rituxan on a slow drip into my port when all of a sudden, I woke up with a cough which quickly became loud retching. I immediately had several nurses buzzing around me. One quickly gave me a sick bag. Another gave me a wet towel. Even another patient’s chemo sitter tried to help. All the nurses shook their heads wondering why I got sick. I was on two different anti-nausea medications at the time. I think I shook up the other patients too. Every patient in that room dreads getting sick. During treatment, chemo patients are given several powerful anti-nausea drugs. Yet, there I was defying the drugs and reminding everyone that they might be next.


After my blood pressure and pulse returned to normal, they turned the IV machine on again and resumed “pushing” (as the nurses say) the Rituxan into me.


Here I am with Sylvia during treatment #5. I wear the same clothes for every treatment. It’s my little ritual. I wear my dad’s blue sweater and my Aunt Mary’s winter coat as a blanket. (My dad died in 1991 from brain cancer and my Aunt Mary died from bile duct cancer in 1996.) I feel like my dad and aunt are hugging me when I wear their clothes.


The patient and chemo sitter next to me also wore chemo outfits. These ladies were both wearing white Victoria’s Secret jackets with pink skull and crossbones images ironed on. They also wore big, black skull and crossbones rings. They held up their hands and showed me the cancer fighting power of their rings. The ladies told me they always wear special outfits to the infusion room. Once they wore matching tiaras. Another time it was bunny ears. Their clothing ritual is bit more whimsical, but I think just as meaningful as mine.

Thank you!

Wow. Thanks for all of the continued support from everyone. I REALLY welcome the posts, emails, prayers, calls, cards, thoughts, gifts, voice mail messages, books, food, hats/scarves, shopping runs, lunches, hugs, flowers, visits and love. I really have never had this type of attention in my life. I have been really moved by all the support. THANK YOU!

As I have written, this cancer has been a real life-altering event. One of the realizations is how many wonderful, dear, loyal friends we have. Perhaps, the magic of the Internet has helped create such a great support network. Just days into my diagnosis, our friends Saundra and Steve set up a local Yahoo group. People wanting to bring food simply put their names down on a calendar on the Yahoo group. Since my first chemo treatment on Nov 7, we have had about 30 meals brought to our house!! I know, amazing!

In addition, this blog as created a virtual community of supporters beyond the Austin area. What did we do before the Internet? How did we keep everyone updated? I guess we just called everyone or had others call with progress reports?

Blogging has been therapeutic for me. Instead of thinking about the nasty cancer cells in my body, I am always thinking of blogging topics and writing drafts in my head. Who would have thought that a cancer diagnosis would provide fuel for creative energy? Sure, private journal writing can provide emotional release, but there is something about public interactivity that makes the blogging experience so powerful.

The story is not over. My last chemo treatment is on Feb 22. I am not sure at what point I move from cancer patient to cancer survivor. I do know that I will continue to blog all about it. More to come….


My "Happy Complete Remission" bouquet of flowers from David.

PET Scan Results!

I had my 5th chemo treatment yesterday. I also got to meet with my oncologist to discuss my treatment plan and the PET scan results. As soon as the doctor walked in the door, he said, “The PET scan results look great.” He didn’t even wait to sit down to deliver the news. He just started talking the second the door opened. He usually does not do this. When he got to his chair, he continued, “The tumor is completely gone. There is no cancer left in your liver!

David, being a probability type of guy, wanted to nail down a confidence level that all the cancer was gone, not just in the liver. So, David asked what was the doc’s confidence level of complete remission? 95%, 97%, 99%? The doc said as close to a 100% confidence level as he could possible get.

I wanted to cry when I heard the news. I thought crying would be appropriate at this point, but I just couldn’t. I have been feeling so good, that I knew I was better about a month ago. For me, the PET scan just confirmed what I was feeling both physically and emotionally.

The protocol for my therapy is to have two treatments past complete remission. The doc was hoping for complete remission at this point. So we continued with yesterday’s treatment and the treatment on Feb 22 will proceed as planned.

The very, very big question is the maintenance plan. There is no definitive protocol as research results are always changing. There is a 60% chance that the lymphoma will return within the next five years. We plan on getting a second opinion regarding maintenance from MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston.

We celebrated last night with the amazing Saundra’s matzah ball soup, challah, and several high calorie desserts.

I thank everyone for the positive thoughts, prayers, well wishes, and karmic energy that was sent my way. Nothing like a little western medicine, a good attitude and lots of positive support to cure a cancer.

Best Wishes from the PET Scanner

Big milestones in a cancer patient’s journey are the pre and post CT and PET scans. The pretests are used to help assess the cancer stage. The posttests evaluate the effectiveness of cancer therapy. My pretreatment CT scan and PET scans showed that cancer cells were present throughout my lymphatic system including the large mass in my liver. Because cancer cells were present above and below my diaphragm, I was classified as Stage 3 out of a possible 4. There is no stage 5.

My particular chemo treatment protocol calls for a follow-up CT scan after treatment #2 and a follow-up PET scan after treatment #4. After only two treatments, my post CT scan showed that the tumor had gone down significantly.

So, I had my post PET scan on Wednesday. This is how the nurse explained the test to me. PET stands for positron emission tomography. With a PET scan, radiated sugar water (FDG) is injected into the vein. Cancer cells love sugar, so the sugar molecules attach themselves wherever cancer cells are located in the body. Because the sugar water is tagged with radiation, the PET machine can pick up all the “uptake” locations in the body where the cancer cells connect with the sugar.

Here is the PET scan experience…you can’t eat any carbs or sugars starting at noon the day before the exam. Also, no food 6 hours before the test and no strenuous exercise 24 hours prior to the exam. When you come in, you are given a white “shake” that kind of tastes like bananas (barium). They check the blood sugars in your blood and weigh you.

Then they escort you to your private “uptake/relaxation room.” This room has a radiation warning sign on the door. Here they inject the radioactive sugar water into you via an IV catheter. The nurse carries the sugar water injection into the room in a little radiation proof metal box. She also wears a ring monitor on her finger to measure how much radiation she is exposed to throughout the day. Then you are told to relax in the lazy boy chair. No talking on the phone, no reading, no listening to music. Nothing. Just keep warm and relax. I forgot about the “total relaxation” part from the first PET. I brought a whole stack of books that I wanted to read.

After about an hour in the relaxation room (which is the time for the body to metabolize or “uptake” the sugar water), they tell you that “you are ready for your pictures” and you move to the PET scanner room. At this point, you are asked to lie on your back on a little platform that slides you into the PET machine, a doughnut looking thing. You are in the tube for about 25 minutes. Last time they asked me for my radio station preference. This time they just kept the country music radio station on.

Just before I got into the big doughnut machine, I asked the technician to take my picture. The young woman was a little confused and surprised by my request. I admitted to her that wanting a picture was kind of weird, but that I was documenting every step of my cancer journey. She agreed. I posed. She snapped.

So here I stand next to the PET scan machine, like a smiling tourist standing next to a well-known attraction. Unlike a tourist, I didn’t plan to take this trip nor am I very happy to be traveling down this road. People that have taken this journey might recognize this landmark. The good thing is that this trip has turned into a life-altering experience. I just want a few pictures of the roadside attractions to help me remember the highlights.

I expect to get the results of the PET scan today, just before I go into treatment #5.