Revised Title: How Can We Stop Mass Violence? Original Title: The Kindness Alarm: Stop. Think. What did I do today that was kind?

This post is about combating mass violence. Thus, I am re-posting it today, October 2nd, 2017, the day after the Las Vegas mass shooting.

It was originally posted about a week following a mass shooting in Isla Vista, May 23rd, 2014. 

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It is Friday, May 30th, 8:48pm.

One week ago today, a mass murderer killed six people in a community I once called home. My friend, Sean Lieberman, and I had drinks this evening. He unfortunately had been closely touched by the events last week, as an employee of the school where these students attended, as someone who has extensive contact with student leaders, as a member of the community for twenty years.

Initially, what he was saying struck me, to be honest, as mild paranoia, before I realized what it really was, trauma. Very, very, very reasonable trauma. And then suddenly I realized he was just ONE person in a community of something like 25,000 people all of whom are equally traumatized, some far more so. All exposed. All raw. All in need of healing, something that cannot really be healed.

I personally am a positive person, but the randomness and horror is hard to fathom. I attract and keep company with positive people. Sean is a positive person. As our conversation came to a close I could see him search for positive. He came to the conclusion, “At least this will enact some positive change.”

It was the conclusion, but it did not comfort him. It did not comfort me. And there are 25,000 other people who are still spiritually hungry for more than, “At least this will enact some positive change.”

There are 25,000 people who need to be healed. Sean knows it. I know it. People in high levels of authority know it, no doubt students, alone in bed, at night know it.

How do you heal a community of 25,000 people?

How do you make sure it never happens again?

How can we encourage people kinder to one another?

In the powerful TED Talk by Shawn Anchor (https://www.ted.com/talks/shawn_achor_the_happy_secret_to_better_work/transcript), the powerful effect of recalling something which made a person happy during the day, every day for 21 days, perhaps as they got ready for bed, had a startling effect on people’s outlook and happiness.

In another tangential leap, the Random Acts of Kindness bumper sticker came to mind.

Now, simply, merge the two. 

Can we be encouraged, by remembering something kind we have done for another person during the day, not for acknowledgement, but merely for the purposing of recollecting the act of kindness, every day... can we be trained to be kinder?

Instead of legislating to enact change from above, can we actually encourage people to be kind, on an individual level, so legislating change is unnecessary?

Do you want to live in a kinder world?

Will you join me in an experiment?

What have you done today that was kind?

Pick up your phone.

Set an alarm for an hour before you generally go to bed, tomorrow, and to recur indefinitely.

Call the alarm,  "The Kindness Alarm Reminder."

When it goes off tomorrow: Stop. Think, “What did I do today that was kind?”

When it goes off the next day: Stop. Think, “What did I do today that was kind?”

When it goes off the day after that: Stop. Think, “What did I do today that was kind?”

Maybe this ten seconds a day will be a waste of time of your time.

What if it isn't?

What if we can make the world a kinder place?

What if you can make the world a kinder place?

Stupid: The horror that made this line of thought a reality. (Originally posted as a result of the May 23rd, 2014 Isla Vista Shooting Tragedy.
More Stupid: Reposted due to the Las Vegas Tragedy, October 1, 2017.
Cool: Just maybe, the world could be a better place.

Winning At Cancer, The Third Time Around (May 2, 2016, Somewhere over the Atlantic, westward bound)

Tulips in Rijeka.

It has been about five months since I was diagnosed with terminal cancer.

I am on a plane home on May 2, 2016, from where I was working in Europe. Facebook reminds me I am frequently on a trip home annually on May 2nd, an odd confluence of annual scheduling.

This year though, the flight is because I have cancer. 

The truth is coming this week. The truth will either be that treatment is working or treatment is not working. And the resultant information, a real read on my life expectancy.

Six  months ago, when I was diagnosed with cancer, I chose a treatment plan and promptly got on a plane to Seychelles, but not for the obvious reason, but rather to work. 

A seemingly endless afternoon in Kraljevica

I can’t imagine a better thing I could have done. Pick me up, put me 12 time zones, and 35 hours from cancer, to fill my days with challenging work, beautiful views and amazing people I love dearly. 

Many people talk about how cancer frees them. I have cancer twice before, and maybe the third time will be the charm because, this time it actually freed me to accept myself. 

The only thing I have ever really wanted in life, was love.

I wanted that crazy, gleeful, delightful, perpetual infatuation, where you smile at the thought of another, and which tears your core when you see the other in pain. That is all I have really ever wanted in life.

The bumpiness of the water is fish mouths
breaking the surface.

Unfortunately, unlike most of my pursuits in life, this is not something that can just be achieved by primarily by hard work, dedication and a dash of luck.

Love is something that is nearly all luck.

With death now nearer than I had ever expected, suddenly, while I desperately still want this incredible elusive soulmate, I now somewhat fear finding this person, because I know what the outcome will be, their pain in watching me die.

This person, who I don’t know, I love so much as to never want to cause them pain.

So with the search for them now detrimental to them and quite frankly a pain in the ass for me, the search is over.

The woods of Ljubljana

With death nearer than expected, I just don’t want to make the sacrifices, the bad dates, the time invested in online profiles, no more trying. Fuck it.  Wasted time on something that does not make me happy, for an uncertain payoff, and if it does pay off will actually cause them pain in the long run.

And that is where I found freedom. I no longer feel forced to take up a traditional lifestyle, being in a single place day after day, week after week. I am now free to be in a different country every day if I like, because I am not chasing the siren call of love.

I am now free to work 18 hours a day if I feel like it, because I have decided to give up the love pursuit… so I no longer feel like I am giving something up to work. I like my work! I get to do it. Nothing sacrificed!

Sunrise in Kraljevica

Meanwhile, strangely, about a year ago, much to my surprise, I discovered my “type.” A little late in life, but oh well. I fell entirely in love with someone who could probably care about me less, but it would be hard. 

While of course I would want this to pan out differently, I am also strangely torn. Do I really want to put him through the torture of my dying. Maybe this is actually the best way. I have someone I love… but he will never get hurt. Twisted. Very twisted, I know. But what can you do?

Rovinj, notice the playful colors of the buildings

Now I am free to travel the world and work without feeling I am sacrificing a chance at love. This stupid persistent pursuit of ethereal love I chased my whole life. 

April was amazing. I have all but the signature on the biggest contract of my professional life. I got to spend several weeks in Croatia, darting down the coastline of impeccably maintained, ancient and medieval, cities, towns and fortresses cresting knolls and cliffs beside the Adriatic of ever changing blues to suit her mood, from teal blue playful refreshing summer to dark tumultuous and moody.

The ever pervasive umbrellas of Croatia,
with timelessness in the background. Split.

Croatia needs better marketing. It is so amazing and so little known. The old towns of incredibly narrow alleys, paved by amazing white nearly marble smooth stone, with tiny closet sized artisan shops selling artisan wares, soaps, and delights. Everything in such perfect repair that in a whirl it could be 1650 as much as it could 2016.  Many of the buildings painted in rich Disneyland colors I find so surprising and pervasive in the former eastern bloc. Walk along the water front and you see schools of fish disturbing the often mirror still water. I got there at the pinnacle of tulip season and glided into dripping wisteria.

There is a simplicity born of easy living. Food abundant, weather never particularly harsh, summer afternoons lasting almost half the day, thus it is natural to sit with friend under an umbrella as the day hardly shifts forward for hours. Time becomes less tangible both from the lack of clear reminders (no cars fit on the narrow streets, no flashing lights, nothing that says 2016 versus 1650) and the lengthy never ending days. Unlike in America where there is always an underlying thread pulling you to somewhere else you need to be, Croatia sings endless summer and now instead of later, and nowhere to be instead of obligation.

Time does not exist in this photo. Vis, Croatia

It is not that I projected this new found perspective on Croatia. Croatia imparted it on me.

While I had business reasons to, and truth be known, health reasons to go to, the real reason I absolutely made sure to dart up to Ljubljana was for my soul. It is a place that speaks to my soul, for reasons I struggle to understand, but I am blessed to receive as I do as many miles as I can through the forests. I wandered the woods and found there the unity with the universe that brings me back, time after time.

I worked my butt off. I saw people who make my soul so happy. 

So cancer the third time around… well it finally scored. It is both going to kill me and finally granted me the enlightenment that so many people achieve when faced with mortality.  Cancer finally granted me the blessing of today, and fuck planning for tomorrow. Croatia took the inroads made by cancer, and branded the focus on now on my being.

Stari Grad, means literally Old Town.
Founded roughly 384 BCE

So as I sit here, on a plane, my place of meditation throughout my life, my true spiritual home… because it is essentially nowhere but in between everywhere, I do fear the week ahead.

I told my dear friend that I fear this week. And she asked, in the nativity of the young and ignorant of the impending end, “Why bother knowing? Why bother have this test? Why not carry on” in ignorance implied.

Here is the thing, I have gotten a lot better at living in the last year. 

I want to live. I like living. I am going to fight to live and I am going to continue to fight to live.
These tests suck. Flying home from my jet setting to spend a week on blood tests, drinking barium sulfate, getting CTs, making decisions on how to continue to live, it all sucks. But I need this information to maximize my life span… so I do it.

I will have tests every three months precisely to evaluate how to live longer.  And every three months will come a week of fear and turmoil. And hopefully, so hopefully, they will become so routine and so numerous as to lose their impact, until the plot twist where I get hit by a bus instead. 

But I have what I call cancer PTSD. Thus far, I don’t have a very good track record with doctor’s visits.  So while I have been in very little pain in the last month, which is awesome, and hopefully correlates with treatment is working well, the fear is terrible. 

Fishing nets in Stari Grad, today or a thousand years ago.
So hard to tell.

I have flights booked back to Europe next week, to carry on, under the assumption I am well and no treatment changes are warranted. Of course I am afraid of dying, which is probably at least a few years away. Short term, I am dramatically afraid that the test results will make flying back to Europe inadvisable. I am afraid of this because I really want to go back to Europe and carry on with my work and meet up with more friends I love so dearly.

I am flying home today. “Home” which now I equate with having cancer and fear and discomfort and things being taken from me.

I can’t wait to be flying out next week. Flying out to work I equate with interesting projects, challenging/engaging work, time flying by, and friends… so many wonderful friends and such good times.

Stupid: It took three times and terminal cancer for me to focus on now and stop chasing what just might be unattainable. 

Cool: With the chase over, I don’t feel an ounce of guilt in having jet set so much in the last few months. 

I am no longer making a sacrifice. 

No caption required. Stari Grad, Croatia

I am just enjoying Croatia, and Italy, and Slovenia, and Kathi, and Crystal Els, and Matej, and Jaylene.  The forests of Slovenia. The narrow streets of Rovinj. Pizza in Kraljevica. Tulips in Rijeka. The amazing views of the drive from Rijeka to Pula. Seaside paths in Stari Grad and Vis. Amazing medieval nooks like Bakar. Restaurants in Venice which I happen upon time and time again which bring back such wonderful memories of Venice with Sandra. Signs in Venice which make me laugh. The stunning silence before a clap of thunder and a deluge along the Adriatic.  Cappuccino! Hilarious comments by friends, “Indian passports are so funny, and they smell like curry.” “McDonalds after sex is so awesome.” “Just give it to Christen.” (Which is an inside joke not worth the explanation.) “Mika, what will do without you?” “Mika, you are still here?”  And “Mika don’t go.”

Yes, I am still here! And god damn it, I am trying to stay!

The Book of Etiquette and Morality for the Dying (Santa Barbara, February 7, 2016)

It is often said, among the dying “You find out who your real friends are.”

I disagree.

I think the unfortunate truth is you find out who can handle it and who can’t.

I know this first hand, from the other side.

My first cancer buddy was a woman, my age, in other words strikingly young for this affliction, similar educational background, who went through treatment and was well into remission when I met her. She shaved my head when the shedding got to be too much.

When suddenly she had a recurrence and went into fast decline, I could not handle it. I distanced myself from her as if her remission was wildly contagious. It was an awful thing to do. When I finally saw her, I cried. I can tell you today, crying was perhaps the worst thing I could have done. She passed away a month later, nearly five years ago. Mananya Tantiwiwat, to this day, I am sorry, but unfortunately, crying again at the thought. Sorry again and some more. (Was it wrong to distance myself from her?)

And yet, I continue to make the same error. I again know another woman, Megan, similar age, similar diagnosis, similar point in life. She would be great support, but I can’t do it. I push her away fearing, terrified, that she will get worse before me, die before me, that I will have to watch her suffer, the prophetor of my ill-fated destiny. (Is it wrong that I can’t do it? Am I wrong to fear this?)

I don’t blame those who distance themselves from me today, now.  (Is it wrong for me to accept this? Is it wrong to absolve the distant?)

After all, have I not, just two paragraphs ago, admitted to the exact same moral weakness?  (Is this a moral weakness?)

But I miss them, the distant, the disappeared. I really miss them, profoundly. (Is it wrong for me to morn my loss of the distant, for the loss of their presence?)

But I also get it and I will take it over crying and sad-eyes.  Don’t get me started on sad-eyes. I hate sad-eyes. How I loathe those wide, teary sad eyes to the depths of my being. (Is it wrong for me to hate the sad-eyes people? Is it wrong for me to run the other direction from them?)

I am also grateful, in a way I can feel resonate in the depth of my body, my soul, for the people who are exactly opposite. Those distant acquaintances who step up to the plate and become real support and giving friends. Joy Ronstadt, time and time and time, and hopefully time and more time, again. (Is it wrong that I could never be this person, but I so easily take from them when I need it?)

I am also in this awkward position, currently, of being cheerleader. People who know I have had cancer, think I am a success story, and need to hear that success as they or their loved ones face similar battles. I have not told Tricia yet that I have a recurrence and I cannot be the success story she wants when thinking of her mom, recently diagnosed. I don’t know if I will tell her. (We travel in different networks, and perhaps more hopefully, more hopefully than perhaps reasonable, I might be able to pull it off this deception for a long time. But is it lying? Is it wrong to appear to be the victory I am so clearly not?)

I have not told my mother that my cancer is progressing. I honestly do not plan to. She will get upset and she will become smothering. I need normalcy. I have every intention of lying to her for as long as I can and as long as it keeps our relationship what I want it to be. (And I hate that maintaining this lie is at odds with the catharsis publishing this post.)  (Is it wrong to lie to those you love to keep your interactions the tone you find comfortable?)

In the end, I am comfortable in the decisions I make. (Originally the prior sentence was "I am exceptionally comfortable with the decisions I make." But this was clearly a lie. If I was truly comfortable, there would be no post.) 

But I can rationalize it all. (Is it wrong for me to rationalize these "transgressions?")

There is no Book of Etiquette and Morality for the Dying.

And quite frankly, if there was, it should only be one sentence: “Do what you need to do and fuck anything/everything else. #FuckCancer.”

Stupid: Everything that led to this post. Just, all of it.
Cool: The heroes who support me and hopefully, oh so hopefully, the medicine that makes this post seem wildly premature.

 

The Real Fear of Going Home (Ancona, Italy, January 16, 2016)

After being diagnosis with metastatic breast cancer (aka this time it is going to kill me), I spent a couple of weeks looking at my options… and then carried on with life which meant flying (chemotherapy packed) to the tropical nation of Seychelles for a month long business trip.

On my way home I swung through Italy.

Now, as I prepare to return home, I realize, I am terrified of returning home.

Seychelles was long days of work, very few less than ten hours a day. And Seychelles was days of not talking about cancer.

My friend Kristin says I am not exactly ignoring cancer, because I am taking the shots and the medication.

But I realize for the most part, I have been hiding from it.

On Wednesday, I will have a nephew. My family's first of the next generation. A tearful reminder to me, that I will never have children.

On Thursday, I will have blood tests which will tell me how well this treatment is working…. How I am doing on buying time.

I may be alone in a hotel room in Italy, with not a friend nearby… but at least cancer is a world away.

That said, I could really use a friend like nothing else in this world, because.

I am terrified to go home.

Day Three: Spinning The Story, Saying Goodbye To Empires and A Statistic (Santa Barbara, November 15, 2015)

(This post assumes you read the prior post: "It Was Supposed To Be A Travel Blog, Not A Cancer Blog")

As I drop work projects, move plans around, I get the question “Why?”

I am not sure how to answer this question. I have told people I am sick or that I might need surgery.

I have no idea what to tell people when they say, “Hope you get well soon.”

To be honest, this comment literally makes me laugh out loud at the shear triviality.

I don’t know how to spin the story. Yes, the Facebook’oSphere, if they read between the lines, or to the end of the blogpost, is now well versed in the story. But I am not sure I want many of my professional contacts knowing. Right now, I do expect to continue working for a few years. And as people ask me why (I plan to work), it angers me. I love what I do. I love the people I do it with. I love every flight to every destination. (And what is the alternative… staying home and waiting to die?)

I think I will work less. I don’t plan on building my company any more. I will take consulting jobs but have no expectations of employing others on an ongoing basis. It is about enjoying what I do, the dreams of building something great and successful are yesterday’s.

I need to say though what those plans were. I have a network of incredibly intelligent, dynamic, capable, skilled friends who just cannot handle the monotony of eight to five. I am like that. I dreamed of an empire (ok, maybe a loose knit web) of amazing people who worked the way I and they wanted to. Generally we are all game for hardcore months, but then we equally want months off grid, who cares about income. We want engaging, stimulating challenging work, but also wild adventures to the end of the earth for weeks and months at a time. 

This was the consulting company I was building. This was my dream. An incredible consulting company delivering a great product because the employees, my friends, got to work the way they wanted, on what they wanted to, the way they performed best and were happiest. For me, I like to put in five hours every day… and I like my afternoons off to go hiking. I am perfectly happy to put in two months of 15 hours straight every day, for two months of zero to two hours a day. My goal was to facilitate my friends’ desires for a happy life, following their own goals, through my consulting company. 

That was the business dream. I am not a standard humanitarian. I don’t give to charity. But I anonymously give to friends and acquaintances in my network when I realize they are in need. I am selfish in my need to see the ramifications of what I give. But I don’t need recognition. I am good at business. If I could give not just myself but the people I know the lives they wanted, it would have been amazing. 

It is like the dream of kids. Faded, like skywriting on a breezy day.

That is not to say I will stop working, cause in the end, I love what I do and the people I do it with. I won’t take the crap work I don’t like anymore to build my business. But the projects I like, fabulous!

So how to tell people… so they still give me work but give me the latitude to understand that sometimes, that work is just not the priority for a very good and personal reason….

There are people alive today who in the 1980s tested positive for HIV. They didn’t expect to see the 1990s. They are very rare. But they are here. My oncologist may give me a timeline tomorrow, but that doesn’t mean I have to match it. 

I said in my last post that every woman on my material side has died of female cancer. Every one of them was diagnosed after menopause. Every one of them died older than 55. Now I got an unfortunate jump on the game, with a diagnosis in my thirties. But my 93 year old grandmother, who had cervical cancer, 39 years ago, is clearly still here. My mother is a survivor. My great aunt will probably leave the sisterhood of survivorship to casualty this year. She is in her seventies; I think past life expectancy for her generation.

My cancer has responded, repeatedly, very well to treatment. And who knows what treatments will come tomorrow.

I am not stupidly optimistic. But I have friends who doctors thought would die in 2010, who are still here today. The truth is, while cancer treatment is considered a science… it is far too close to a black art to start talking statistics.

But here is a statistic and some education anyway, cause that is the type a girl I am, a quant girl. Metastatic breast cancer has a five year survival rate of 22%. But that does not differentiate for age; that statistic includes far more women who are in their seventies than women in their thirties. It does not differentiate between cancer types which are highly responsive to treatments (like mine) versus others. It does not differentiate for size of tumor (mine are all small). It does not differentiate for location (mine are in my bones which are considered strangely treatable). It does not differentiate for wealth (which also plays in my favor). The statistic is from 2014, which means it includes people diagnosed in 2009 before advances available today. My only major hit right now is that I believe I have four tumors (multiple spreading); and that does not work well in my favor.

Women with this diagnosis have lived over a decade, and for that to be true, they had to have been diagnosed in 2005, again, ten years before current medical treatments.

It is a strange pep talk. But you know, I think I have more than five years. I am not sure I will hit ten. But I am pretty confident I will get close. It is strange to think of your life expectancy when it is closer than decades away. It is also true but strange to think, there are people I know today, in perfect health, who are younger than me, who will die before me.... a simple statistical near certainty. 

The only question now, for me, is how to buy the most time. 

Cool: Denial and my current good spirits.
Stupid: A reason to be in denial.

It Was Supposed To Be A Travel Blog, Not A Cancer Blog (Santa Barbara, 3:15pm November 13, 2015)

Let me set the scene for you. I am alone in the cancer center parking lot. The cancer center is closed.

I am slowly radiating away the radioactive bath from my test for metastatic breast cancer a couple hours ago. 

It is a Friday. I am hoping for results today… which I may not get.

On Tuesday, I had a blood test which while not conclusive for cancer, has better odds for accuracy than most things in life.

Many people said, “Well, don’t worry until you know conclusively.”

Can I shoot those people? 

I have had cancer twice now. I honestly don’t know how many surgeries. I am missing factory installed body parts. I have been on four types of chemotherapy spanning years. I have done radiation. And I am in my thirties.

So far, every woman on my maternal side has died of female cancers. 

When you cut down to it, my odds fucking suck.

So I called my cancer support group friend on Wednesday. She said something really prescient. When cancer is displayed on TV, people go for tests and within four minutes of screen time, they have the diagnosis. TV and most people never talk about the agony of the wait. It is AGONIZING.

I don’t know if I have cancer. I strongly suspect it has spread to my abdomen for a variety of vague reasons, none conclusive. 

I was supposed to leave on a six to eight week business trip in two days. It is surprising to me to discover how much I was looking forward to this trip and how much I feel it is being pulled away from me.

I was supposed to deliver one of the biggest projects of my professional life this week; I didn’t.

For the first time in years, I have felt great in the last few months. Really great. And happy. And like my life is going the direction I want. And like I have control of it.

And it is slipping through my fingers like sand.

I am technically old to be having kids, but I always had dreams of meeting someone amazing and having a couple of munchkins. I would be lying if I said I have not had names picked out since childhood.

Names which are fading…

For children which I suspect will never be.

I am a strange one. I LOVE facebook. I posted this morning “Today I am asking the universe for favors and my friends for prayers. In lieu of hugs, a like of support would mean the world to me.”

The outpouring of support was amazing and something which I cannot even begin to explain how grateful I am for everyone there. So grateful it brings me to tears.  I really don’t think I can explain how much this means to me.

It is also in a strange way the best support. I need support, but I need the right support. Support that says, “I care.” That is all I want and I want a lot of it.  But that is really all I want at this point. (No company, no calls, just, “thinking of you.”)

I am alone in this parking lot by choice. The people willing to be supportive and present, don’t, quite frankly, provide the type of support I need. Forgive me, but fuck the cheerleaders. Let’s be realistic here. The ones best for right now, are too far away, some of them so far away as to be dead for years, of the same malady. (Rest in Peace, Mananya Tantiwiwat.) I don’t have a significant other, and I have to be honest, sitting alone in a cancer center parking lot sucks. But if I knew the right person to call…. for the support I need...

(And don’t get me started down the road of whether it would even be fair for me to have a significant other, given the likelihood of just torturing them with my dying sooner rather than later.)

So in the last day, walking along multiple beaches, I have my A, B, C, etc plans. I know what I am going to do for the range of possibilities.

But I am so angry. I really liked my life. I loved my work and the three continents of travel I expected to do in the next six weeks. I was looking forward to seeing old friends in strange places. I feel great and was finally looking forward to actually considering dating for real.
I was happy.

The last time I had a rediagnosis (yes this is different from a recurrence), I felt like I had failed cancer the first time. My rediagnosis occurred when I was working 40 hours a week, spending 20 hours a week in the car, ten hours a week in classes and another 20 studying. I was not happy.  Unlike many survivors, I had not made changes for the better though I had definitely made changes committing to a long term life.

This time around, I AM HAPPY. I like my life. Quite frankly, people tell me it shows. Everyone I has seen recently says I am “glowing” and I am. (I hear glowing so often recently, from so many different people, it is just weird.) Cause I like my life. The only improvement I wanted to make was someone to share it with. 

If you move in cancer circles, you know the #FuckCancer movement.

#FuckCancer.

Cool: I love my life.
Stupid: This cancer fucking crap going and screwing the whole thing up.

PS: At 4:45pm, I was provided with the diagnosis of metastatic cancer.  By the way, this diagnosis was not on my list of planned contingencies. I will likely be asymptomatic for years, with a cocktail of modern medicine. A decade may be optimistic. There will be no munchkins and that retirement fund, no need. Kind of feel like I saw the future, and it says, “Game Over.”

Becoming a Woman, Again, After Cancer (Seattle, September 25, 2015)

I stopped chemotherapy about a year ago.  Having been on that regiment for three some odd years… it took about six months for my body to wash all the residual toxins away, and trust me, I marked, in red, the day the effects were gone.

Aside from being furnace hot and never sleeping two continuous hours, I would have said that there were no side effects from the chemotherapy.

Superficially, I am now aware of many more physical side effects, from my slendering physique to the frequent compliments on my skin's glow.

But these are the fairly inconsequential. 

Having been off chemotherapy for nearly a year, I was categorically wrong on so many fronts about the side effects.  As I sit here, a tumultuous mess of emotions, I am aware of how emotionally castrated I was by the chemotherapy.  In some ways, this was exceptional. I was never terribly bothered. But on the other hand, like a depressive waking from a winter fog, the world is just so much more rich now. For the most part, this makes me seem a ridiculously happy person from the outside. I would say, it is actually pretty damn true to the depths of my core. But man, when I get upset, I feel like a two year old having a tantrum, beet red, face a splash of tears, snot dripping from my nose, trembling with over powering emotion. And I can see the irrationality. And I can feel the chemistry. And I am as confused by it from the inside as I am overpowered by its force.

The castration, for far too much information, was very physical as well. At thirty something, to effectively go through puberty for the second time in life, is a bizarre experience. I was sitting on the bus one day, feeling mentally uncomfortable and not able to figure out why. It was an experience I cannot properly describe.  Uncomfortable in my own skin.  The next day, I was reminded, this sensation… PMS.

After seven years of various forms of hormonal manipulation related to cancer, I got my period, unanticipated, clearly, for the first time in years, six months after stopping chemotherapy. Having fallen asleep at a platonic coworker’s, I completely saturated, like a slaughtered pig, his white linens.

While we pass at work, we have never spoken again.

Every girl has their pubescent accident story from her teenage years. Try it on when you are thirty something, your accident is about two pints of blood (well, it felt that way), the sheets were brand new white, and he is a platonic coworker.

I am startlingly willing to share, with the world, my mortification perhaps because, it seems alien to me. Perhaps it is just one of the funnier indignities gifted to me by cancer.

This whole being a woman thing, which I took a time out from for so many years, it is just fucking crazy.

I am batshit in love with this guy, from a distance, like a fourteen year old girl with posters on her bedroom walls.  It is the most absurd, distracting, intoxicating, biological magnetism. How on earth does anyone get anything done if they ever feel like this?

And this goes to something else I feel cancer took from me. While all my friends were pairing off and finding love, I was textbook interested, but I was not compelled or animalistically driven to it like I am now. I honestly question if I could fall in love when I was on chemotherapy. I really feel that love is a physiological ability, biological function, primal instinct, cellular attraction, an ephemeral, intangible sensation, that was simply amputated, like my breasts, or perhaps shed, like my hair.

No longer on chemotherapy, I know the world is the same place, but my experience of it is so much different.

Cool: On the right day, which is pretty much most days, the joys of biology when happy, or in love, or in bed….

Stupid: How on earth do you people get anything done with all these hormones in the way. Seriously!

Santa Barbara, Little But World Class (Written in Santa Barbara, June 21, 2015. Posted from Seattle, June 26th, 2015)

Arguably, Santa Barbara is my home. I say arguably because it is not where I grew up, and it is not where I live, but it is probably the single place I have spent the most time in my life. Santa Barbara is small, but world class. After my latest project, in Europe for three plus months, I came home for the tail end of what I call purple season, the May Jacaranda bloom (pictured right). Quickly thereafter was I Madonnari, billed as an Italian Street painting festival. It is a small, but world class, fleeting, extraordinary art exhibit drawn, in chalk, on the pavement outside the mission, erased by time, a mere memory weeks later.  Photo (left) early morning before the crowds and artists arrive. Photo (right) in the midday sun, as the artists work and people admire. The skillful, popping, 3-D nature of this chalk drawing on the pavement is hard to capture in a photo. Photo on Saturday (left) and then on Sunday (right) as the artist worked. Most recently, yesterday, the Solstice Parade, a glorious celebration of summer mixing Scandinavian traditions of MidSommer, with Mardi Gras exuberance, feathered grandeur and swing, some Halloween weird, a sneak-peak of Burning Man oddities, a liberal sprinkling childlike happiness, and some amazing creativity. Nonetheless, coming home this time, I am vaguely aware, somewhere, in my stomach, Santa Barbara is no longer home. This strikingly hit home by happening upon, on that same afternoon, the article “What It’s Like WhenYour Hometown No Longer Feels like It’s Your Home” by an organization (Girl Gone International) for and by women who travel extensively. The reason I can write about the above Santa Barbara experience with such delightful intrigue, is because it has transitioned from the common place experience of my hometown, to the foreign experience of the new. I have a myriad of mixed emotions about Santa Barbara no longer being home. The first and most obvious question is, if Santa Barbara is not home, where is? < This line intentionally left blank. > I don’t have an answer for that. Home is where the heart is, right? My heart is in Malmo Sweden (Sandra), Ljubljana  Slovenia (Matej), scattered across Switzerland (Pia, Louis, Michael, Michael, Dan), Edinburgh Scotland (Ruth), on ships far and wide (with so many people), New Bern North Carolina (PJ and Kevin),  New Hampshire, Seattle, …. The list is long. But, with surprise, I notice, I ended the paragraph and did not think to put Santa Barbara on that list. I suppose that says a great deal. Santa Barbara is small, and world class. I would know, as a tourist who has been a lot of places. I would know, as a tourist. Cool: Santa Barbara Stupid: The odd, albeit mild, discomfort associated with not really knowing where home is. Santa Barbara, from the air, as I flew away on June 25th.

A random collage of purple trees from around the city. Scenes of I Madonnari.

Turkish Tulips and Transient Tribes

The tulips are lovely this time of year in Istanbul. Don’t ask me how I know this. I am not really sure. I know I have been here at this time of year, sometime in the past, but I could not tell you when or in what year.

This project is coming to an end, the launching of another ship, after a grueling 30 days, many exceeded 16 working hours.

The last few hours I have been alone, for the first time in weeks. It is startling in it contrast. It’s quiet, deafeningly, loudly in some strange way, quiet.

No one calling, no one emailing, no one knocking, no one speeding up to walk next to me as a transit from one place to the next, no skype messages, no text messages, no PA announcements, no one “Can I have just a minute?”

I am reminded, by this project, both of lure of working cruise ships and its alarmingly precarious fulcrum quality, a peak between something I thoroughly enjoy, like an addiction, and something more akin to incarceration.

Today, the majority of my team went home. The one that sang at dinner, the stern mother hen, the silent one, the one with the childlike curiosity of one who has never really traveled, the one that did impressions of the lighting in the cabins (HYSTERICALLY), the brother I never had. The Brit and the one with the completely out of place southern drawl let yesterday.

And now it is quiet.

One of the reasons I loved working cruise ships is because it was a lot like college. You live, work and spend every waking moment with your friends.  The comradery and common experience, despite almost literally world away cultural backgrounds, speaks to the fundamental need and joy of being part of a tribe.

One of the reasons I left, is that strong tribal bond is as intangible and consistent as the fog. Sometimes it is there, wonderful, and makes the ridiculous hours, and sometimes miserable conditions, the stage dressing of later warm stories. Sometimes that bond is allusive; you can see it in others and not feel it yourself. Sometimes it just isn't there.

I left cruise life, when month after month, it became apparent, that it was completely allusive to me.

The truth is, it’s the people. I used to always say there was a conservation law on cruise ships, the conservation law of people who annoy me. At any given point in time, there was a crew member that drove me nuts. It was often a different person in any given contract and often different people within a single contract. But, there was always one crew member that drove me crazy.

Unfortunately, there was no conservation law for people I loved. Some contracts were great, with a ton of people I adored, who made me laugh, who I would stay up talking to until all hours of the night. But in the last few contracts, this was no longer the case.

As the majority of my team went home today, I am so strongly reminded how important the tribe is. While I still have friends onboard, the tribe has disbanded.

The tulips are lovely this time of year in Istanbul and the large pod of porpoises breaching the glass-flat water off the port side is calming.

Perhaps it is just the sudden contrast that made this shift so uncomfortable, but as sadistic as it is, I must admit, I would prefer the intense work and the tribe, to the quiet beauty of nature, if I am going to be bound in this tower of luxury, my prison.

Stupid: The mind numbing, sleep deprived, agonizing intense, rattled month preceding today.

Cool: That I honestly can say the team I worked with somehow made it incredible, almost enjoyable and worthwhile.  So blessed to have such wonderful colleagues.

Thank you Matej, Sabine, Dejan, Harry, Rok, other Dejan, Barry, Michael, Jasminka, Michele, Luka and Emilie. (25% Marko.).

And by extension, Michael, Uwe, Luca, Johann and Cookie Monster.

The team on go live at 1:00AM.