Cancer in my pocket

Sometimes I am surprised by the power of blogging. Sometimes it feels like a thankless compulsion, and sometimes it feels like a life-saving jolt through the heart.

For those who may remember, I wrote a blog from 2008-2012 called Rock the Silver … about gray hair and aging with style. I was never particularly good at the style part, what with my preference for all black until something darker comes along, but it was a fun blog with a core group of loyal readers.

One of those readers was Maru, a stage 4 endometrial cancer survivor. As a stage 3 ovarian cancer survivor, we shared similar medical histories and were both graduates of the Taxol School of Hard Knocks. Maru’s cancer survival tips are essential reading.

Maru found me again when I started this blog. She is healthy and strong and getting closer to retirement. We were exchanging emails, and I said, “We are so lucky to have survived – did you even think you’d get this close to retirement?”

Funny, Maru said, she and a bunch of her cousins all turned 60 around the same time. They bemoaned the milestone, as Baby Boomers often do. Maru, on the other hand, said she couldn’t have been happier to turn 60.

“And every year ongoing has been delicious. As you once put it: cancer in my pocket.”

I was completely blown away – I published that post on February, 18, 2012. The words meant something to someone I have never met, and she remembered it all these years later.

Sadly, I know only too well not everyone is lucky when it comes to cancer. I grieve for those who have passed and those who are suffering. While we survivors and caregivers get to live a bit longer, we owe it to our loved ones to seek joy and carry on with this mystery called life. We live in their honor.

Here’s the old post:

Thursday, I visited the dermatologist for my annual check-up. I go every year for the big naked look-see, because I respect cancer. I figure, well, I got it once when I least suspected it, so I should be vigilant about everything.

I saw this particular doctor for the first time last year, and I remember him being amazed I was an ovarian cancer survivor. I actually had primary peritoneal cancer, which is pretty much the same thing as ovarian. If it’s a drive-by, I say ovarian. If I’m sitting next to you on the airplane, I’ll tell you everything if you ask nicely.

The doctor walked into the room as I sat there naked and draped in a flimsy paper robe, and the first thing he said was:

You’re the ovarian cancer survivor.

Yes, 13 years next month.

Wow. You’re lucky.

I know.

They must have caught it early.

No, it was advanced. Stage 3.

You’re really really lucky.

Believe me, I know.

But sometimes I have to be reminded! He asked me a lot of questions about my surgery and treatment and was surprised they had Taxol “back then.” I said absolutely, I had a chance encounter at a golf course of all places with a researcher who helped develop the drug, and he said I was the poster girl for Taxol. It was approved for use in 1992, so by the time I needed it in 1999, they had worked out the optimum cycle.

Following the surgery to remove as much cancer as possible, I had a cocktail of Benadryl, Taxol and Carboplatin infused every 21 days for six months. I’ve been fine ever since. Benadryl is an anti-allergan, and I am pleased to let you know it was one hell of a rush when shot directly into your vein. The rush didn’t last long, but I looked forward to it just the same.

Anyway, I passed the dermo exam. It was a good visit, and I’d go back again right this minute just to hear him say how lucky I am. Sometimes I imagine that I carry around cancer in my pocket like an emergency dollar bill. And sometimes I just have to reach in my pocket and fish it out to remind me that every minute of every day is a gift.

I wish I had learned all this important stuff in some other way, but I ignored all the little sticks. It was the big stick that got my attention. For those of you who are better with sticks, I think the thing to remember is that whatever we’re doing, wherever we’ve been and wherever we’re going, no matter how bad it gets, we’re lucky. We’re really, really lucky.

Wear the jewelry, use the good china

I have some nice jewelry – not diamonds or gold – mostly unique silver pieces from when we lived in Egypt and silver, turquoise, coral and sugilite from the American southwest. I viewed them as wear-to-work or out-for-dinner, and I’m not doing much of either these days. My retirement wardrobe is functional and not particularly stylish.

For some reason, I worry about what happens to our stuff when we die. We have wills and all that, but there’s this weird dark side of me that considered selling everything little by little, so that by the time we die, all the good stuff will be gone. My dad used to sell our toys if we took a bathroom break, so I’m thinking this another oddity from the gene pool.

So, yes, I thought about selling my jewelry, among other household items, but silver isn’t all that valuable and I don’t really want to part with the stones. As they say, you can’t take it with you. I’ve decided to start wearing it, possibly even adopting the look of a crazy lady who wears all her jewelry at once. By the way, this does align with my vision of pretending I am a Bohemian heiress who spends her later years dabbling in what amuses her.

I’ve always leaned minimalist, and it was not hard to follow Coco Chanel’s advice about removing one piece before you leave the house. Why not add one piece before leaving the house? Or two? I’ve also decided items I reserved for special occasions can now come out to play. Kind of like using your good china, because it’s just sitting there otherwise.

My silver concho belt with a rash guard and denim shorts? Birkenstocks? Why not? I shined up the belt and wore it to the grocery store. We were walking down the aisle, and Dale said, “That belt looks beautiful.” Wow, so that was worth it, right?

The bad news is I need to polish up the rest of my silver, but I’m excited about wearing some pieces that have been tucked away for quite a while. And wondering how I am going to mix it up … unusual combinations I hadn’t previously considered.

I’m also thinking about new ways to wear some of the work clothes I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of. And, oh, those cowboy boots from Texas.

If we do it right, retirement can be all about freedom. Maybe with aging, we lose the fear of being judged. Wear what you want, think what you want, say what you want, do what you want.

Just live your life. Wear the jewelry, use the good china.

Saying what you think

Most of us adapt to idiosyncrasies of the workplace to earn a living, but what happens to those behaviors when you retire? Do you still sound like the person from work, or is your inside voice blurring a bit with your outside voice?

My inside/outside voice conflict goes back many years, when an Army lieutenant alerted me to the possibility I might not need to say everything I think.

I was an enlisted journalist in the Army and worked in the Public Affairs Office at Ft. Bragg, N.C. We were part of the 18th Airborne Corps, which was often sent to global hotspots to assist in disaster relief. They’d usually send a journalist to help with press releases and such. I never got to go.

One day, I approached the lieutenant in charge and asked him why I wasn’t selected for these assignments. He said, “Pekar, it has something to do with what’s between your nose and your chin.”

Although I never did get asked to go, I managed to get out of the Army unscathed and eventually learned to keep my mouth shut, which was definitely career-enhancing.

Retirement reduced my exposure to annoying situations, but it’s hard to avoid them completely. I recently played golf with a woman who announced she was extremely sensitive to sounds. She had rabbit ears and could hear even the tiniest whisper, requiring absolute silence when it was her turn to play. Even the rustling of a potato chip bag was terribly disturbing to her.

I got paired with her again a few weeks later, and she got into a snit about scoring. Rules for the women’s golf club events are rather persnickety. We all keep each other’s score, and you have to capture that information at the end of each hole played.

Around the fourth hole, she got a little huffy about our process for swapping scores and announced her demands for how it would be done going forward.

Good thing I spent my career learning “advanced” communication skills to get through challenging scenarios without injury or lawsuits. Please select the best response:

A) Thank you for sharing that. Let’s collaborate when we get to the next hole and get some consensus on a win-win solution.

B) I appreciate your perspective – and to build on that – I recommend we circle the wagons on the next hole and get input from the rest of the team.

C) Great idea! Let’s pulse the team and see if everyone’s on board.

D) Who died and left you in charge?

I chose D, haunted by the voice from the ethics videos we used to watch, “That is not your best choice.” Still, shit like this goes on in my head all the time, but I’ve learned to suppress it. Even on the golf course, I allow myself to be bossed around because it’s easier than conflict.

When we got to the next hole, she said, “Did you just ask me who died and left me in charge?” I said, yes, I did. She never spoke another word to me.

I hope I wasn’t too much of a jerk, and I hope I’m not put to the test again any time soon. However, it’s kind of interesting how it turned out. I shot my best score ever. What’s up with that?

How to use an alarm clock

Everybody has an opinion, but I was shocked to see retirement advice stating it’s important to establish a routine by getting up with an alarm every morning and filling your day with activity. I was going to leave a comment, but this particular site doesn’t enable comments. Here’s my comment:

Are you smoking crack?

Seriously, that is the dumbest advice I’ve ever heard. Dumber than even the new Abby, who hardly ever gets it right, in my opinion. The old Abby had her act together.

Back to the subject of sleep. The author says once you’re retired and don’t use an alarm, your whole day might be spent in bed or on the couch watching TV or on the porch watching the world go by.

I imagine there are retirees who might spend 30 or 40 years working their butts off and then suddenly decide to squander the rest of their lives doing nothing, but no, I really can’t imagine that. Even in my quest to be less productive, I have many interests, and well, shit must be done.

My body wakes up naturally around 6:30 a.m. I read the news and do the NY Times mini puzzle from under the covers, which by the way, is an art form. Bad things happen if you press too hard on the back of the phone. Most mornings I choose not to get up until around 7 a.m. I pack a lot into my days, but I go for the late start and ease in slowly.

The blur of breakfast and lunch can be problematic if you’re not careful, but retirement meal clash can be avoided with proper management.

Waking up without an alarm is one of the greatest joys retirement brings. I waited my whole life for this. While there’s no shame in getting up early to be productive if that’s how you roll, I’m here to say you can ignore all the advice if you like. Not everyone needs a routine. You don’t have to be productive. You can do what you want. You can sleep in.

During my last few years on the job, I had a long commute and got up every morning at 4 a.m. I don’t miss it. In fact, I was thinking the other day about what I do miss from work, and it was hard to even make a list.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

Room service! A tiny moment of pure joy after a long day of business travel and painful encounters with disagreeable executives. So, yeah, I miss room service, but I could probably get Dale to pretend.

I only set an alarm if I absolutely positively have to be somewhere early, and these days, that usually means golf. Alarm clocks are also good to make sure you don’t overdo it on a nap. 

Passenger seat drivers

Everyone said just wait until retirement, when you’ll be spending all your time together driving each other nuts. There’s some truth to the prophecy, but we’ve been working our way through it and doing quite nicely. The driving part is where we get into trouble.

Much of our marital success can be attributed to spending time away from each other. Our love of food and cooking puts us in the kitchen a lot but not usually together. I do most of the housework, so there’s a fun solo activity for me. Dale tends to the yard, barely, but I’m still giving him points for keeping me out of it. I play golf and am sucked down that shame spiral two to three days a week.

All that aside, we are emotionally attached at the core and cannot imagine the day when one of us has to go it alone. But the truth is, we actually don’t need much togetherness. Maybe it’s the secret to our 40-year marriage. We each have our own interests, sometimes they align, and if they don’t, we meet up for happy hour in the living room and swap stories.

But then there are the together days. A trip to the market, the library or a local winery. Road trips. This is where driving issues emerge, and I’m the first one to admit I’m a huge part of the problem. It’s not that I’m a better driver, it’s that I’m a terrible passenger seat driver.

Why would you park in that spot when there’s a better one over there?

Slow down! It’s not a race.

Are you sure you parked inside the lines?

Watch out – there’s a car in the next lane!

Something’s going on up ahead – you’d better slow down.

Oh, don’t turn left here. Go up to the next light, where there’s an arrow.

I can drive if you want to just drink your coffee and relax.

In all fairness to me, his sister confidentially shared she was riding with him, he was going kind of fast down the hill outside our neighborhood, and he cried out, “Wheeee!” all the way to the bottom.

I do trust Dale’s driving. It’s mostly my neurosis at play, but wheeee goes against all I stand for when it comes to interacting with a motorized vehicle. Still, I have worked hard to zip it, and Dale agrees I am much better. Now, if I start to say something, I catch myself and stop. Unless, of course, it’s a speak up or die kind of thing.

This morning’s paper had a column on driving with one finger on the wheel – one of Dale’s signature moves. I use one finger, too, but it’s the middle one, pointed straight up.

I hate being a harpy, but then I believe every bridge, every overpass, every onramp, is an invitation to death. I marked up the article when I was done with that section and left it there. Came upstairs and sat down at my computer, when I heard this big laugh. I said, “What’s so funny?” He said, “Oh, the subtle message. Thanks.”

You’re welcome! That’s retirement, I thought, just trying to live through it.

What I learned in a year

I just hit the one-year mark on my retirement, although I was still on the payroll through most of October burning up the last of the vacation I could never seem to take for one reason or another. That means a year of not getting up at 4 a.m. or commuting 2.5 hours a day. Bliss!

What have I learned in a year?

  1. I was better at work than I am at golf.
  2. The house gets messier when you actually live there.
  3. Libraries rock.
  4. There is no shame in going to bed early and waking up late.
  5. My husband never says no when I say, “I’m going to Target, do you want to come along?”
  6. The kitchen gets messier when you actually cook.
  7. An occasional beer with lunch is a nice treat.
  8. Worrying about money doesn’t make the stock market go up or down.
  9. Housework sucks but keeps you moving and burns calories.
  10. My wardrobe fits into a laundry basket.
  11. Cannabis in small doses reduces pain and makes me happy.
  12. The dishwasher runs more than I do.
  13. Crocs make great slippers.
  14. Writing for pleasure and practice is fun and therapeutic.
  15. Sometimes I start thinking about lunch as soon as I finish breakfast.
  16. It’s better to say nothing than to criticize my husband’s driving.
  17. Cooking delicious food at home ruins you for most restaurants.
  18. Men don’t see dirt.
  19. Birkenstocks go with everything.
  20. The idea of a job has become increasingly unattractive.
  21. Change is good.
  22. I still can’t get rid of my work clothes.
  23. My inside voice and my outside voice are converging.
  24. It’s no big deal to squander a day – lots more where those came from.
  25. Gray hair looks good and saves time and money.
  26. You can have a social life without social media.
  27. I like Kohl’s better than Nordstrom.
  28. Homemade yogurt is worth the trouble.
  29. My husband does not report to me.
  30. Walking is good exercise, and it’s free.

Fitbit couples therapy

Is there a point in life when you can no longer stand being told what to do? Is resisting authority and relishing freedom a byproduct of retirement or aging? I mention this because it turns out my husband, Dale, does not appreciate my handy lifestyle tips. Personally, I’m more annoyed with Fitbit, which is much too bossy for my taste.

Neither one of us likes to be criticized. Who does? However, I do have more time on my hands these days, and I can’t help but notice things. But it was not until I broke up with my Fitbit that I noticed something about handy lifestyle tips and marriage.

Who needs couples therapy when you have a Fitbit?

The break-up went down like this. I took it off – the Fitbit – I’m like screw you, Fitbit. You don’t own me. You don’t appreciate how busy I am, and you give me weird tan lines. I’ll walk bare-wristed. I’ll walk when I choose. I’m a free agent. Got that? I don’t need your fake incentives and dire warnings.

  • You walked the length of your intestine!
  • Your Flex battery level is low! Are you OK?
  • Goal not met. You suck.
  • Your Flex battery level is low again. Use it or lose it!

But then … oh, wait, what’s that over there? I won the Nile badge with 4,132 lifetime miles? Well, thank you, thank you very much. Why, yes, I am pretty amazing. What if I had worn it everyday like you advised? What badge would I earn then? #becauseiwantthefuckingbadge.

Despite my fiery electrocutions about freedom and resistance, it appears I am programmed for an incentive-based life. Tell me there’s a prize involved, and I’m your girl. Maybe it works with husbands, too?

My first thought was to create a system of rewards for Dale. The Artist badge for successfully parking inside the lines. The Counterintelligence badge for wiping down the granite. The Blue Lagoon badge for cleaning the toilets.

The problem isn’t that he doesn’t already do these things. The problem is I feel compelled to suggest he do these things on a regular basis and in a timelier fashion – just as I would! But yes, I see it, I’m starting to sound like the Fitbit. Pretty soon I will buzz when he loads the dishwasher. Keep it up! You’re in range and on point!

As for incentives, I’m pretty sure a simple thanks, I love you, will suffice.

I’m going to work harder at keeping my mouth shut, especially when he’s driving and in the wrong turn lane. That gets ugly fast. We’ll call it the Zip It badge, because a good marriage is a lot like Twitter – one day you wake up and realize not everything needs to be said.

Meanwhile, I’m back to being bossed around by the Fitbit. The Earth badge is only 7,992 miles, and I learned in Fitbit couples therapy we all like a little positive reinforcement now and again.

Thinking about missiles and dinner

Just prior to my retirement, I was working on a couple of intense communications projects involving missiles and people who love them, and while I love the people who love them, mostly I was bored and thought about dinner.

Retirement freed up my brain to think about dinner without the distractions of incoming missiles. My husband and I spend a good bit of our day thinking about dinner, shopping for dinner, cooking dinner, eating dinner and then talking about it afterward. However, Dale is retired military, so I’m pretty sure he thinks about missiles, too.

Dale and I are both avid cooks, so for us, dinner is a hobby, the highlight of the day. Well, that and happy hour. When we were both working, it was an opportunity to connect after a long day at the office. Now it’s an opportunity to connect after a long day of getting in each other’s way.

Although we’re not overly materialistic, we do like our kitchen stuff, old and new. We still use the dishes we bought at the PX when we got married almost 40 years ago, and we have a handheld mixer from the early 80s. Dale has a vintage Wearever Super Shooter specifically for making cheese straws. Then there’s the yogurt maker, the juicer, the Instant Pot. We converted a downstairs bedroom into the Williams Sonoma annex.

I also like what I call side dishes. Artichoke plates, egg cups. Bar ware. Pasta bowls. My sister makes us beautiful two-sided cloth napkins, my favorite being pizza on one side and garlic on the other.

We sometimes take sides on what to have for dinner, but during the meal itself we may bicker over what we had for dinner on that rainy Saturday in June of 1998. Remember, it didn’t rain until late? No, it was pouring down when I woke up. I’m pretty sure it was a rib-eye. I remember buying it. No, he says, I bought it, I remember it was on sale at Publix. No, it was Harris Teeter. No, they had closed by then.

Eating together unlocks the memories so we can argue about whose version is correct.

I don’t understand sacrificing dinner to climb the ladder at work. I met several high-powered women executives in my career who said they usually ate a bowl of cold cereal for dinner because they worked such long hours. A former boss said she often ate a granola bar in her room during business travel, presumably to win the prize for saving the company money and free up more time for emails.

Now, I get the whole thing about holing up in the room after a day in close quarters with vice presidents and their ilk, but I had different priorities. Bath fizzies! Movies! Room service! I didn’t care if I had to pay for it myself. It was like a fiesta. I enjoyed the time alone, but the best part was coming home, when Dale would make something delicious to celebrate my return.

We make almost everything from scratch and do focus on healthy foods, but we also have lots of not-so-healthy food rituals:

  • Comfort Food Tuesday
  • Full Mexican (Mexican food Friday, Saturday and Sunday night)
  • Meat Weekend (Meat Friday, Saturday and Sunday night)
  • Pizza and Beer Friday

I know there’s plenty of serious stuff going on in the world that probably needs my attention, but as you can see, I’m kind of busy.

The other kind of retirement dreams

I was in the Army back in the 70s and to this day, I sometimes have a dream where I’m back in, but I don’t have the right uniform. I’m trying to get to the clothing sales store before somebody catches me, but I don’t know where it is. I’m walking around, knowing I’m about to be caught and in big trouble. Mercifully, I wake up.

Sounds kind of like college dreams, right? It’s the big test, but you forgot to study. Or you didn’t graduate after all. I suspect everyone has a version of these dreams, which I assume are related to stress and/or anxiety.

My dreams are vivid, and I remember most of them. When I tell my husband about them, the first question he asks is if I crossed state lines. The answer is usually yes, many times.

So, I’ve had a few retirement dreams. Last night I dreamed my boss asked me at the last minute to sit in for her at the big Monday staff meeting. Sadly, I had worn slippers to work. I had time to go home and get appropriate shoes, but I was also invited to participate in a ceremony, where I would be honored for something that was not revealed in the dream.

But I wanted to go, so I skipped the shoe exchange and planned to attend the ceremony – in my slippers. I forgot to tell the administrative assistant who runs the meetings that I wouldn’t be there. I couldn’t find the ceremony, and the staff meeting was already over by the time I gave up. I called the admin and apologized for being a no-show.

She starts telling me how much trouble I’m in, the big guy is really mad, but in my dream, I’m thinking, wait! I’m retired! This isn’t really happening. Wake up! They can’t do anything to me. And then mercifully, I wake up.

So, wow. I suspect for many of us, it will take years to completely unwind from the pressures of the workplace. As I think about it, the dreams are similar to a few unpleasant dreams I had when I was working. Doing something stupid and then coping with the fear of getting in trouble.

Um, wait, I think that actually happened … the stupid and the trouble. However, I’ve been pretty lucky none of my mistakes were deal breakers. Although one time in the Army it came close. I had a pattern of saying whatever was on my mind. I asked the lieutenant why I never got any of the cushy assignments, and he said, Pekar, it’s got something to do with what’s between your nose and your chin.

I did learn to control my stream of consciousness ramblings, and that served me well in corporate life. I’m grateful I made it to the finish line and even more grateful I can now wake up and say, wait! This isn’t real. I’m retired.

Bacon of the Month Club

During the first couple of months after I retired, my husband and I were driving each other nuts, what with me wanting him to eat healthier and live longer and then his raging indifference to my loving intentions. So, I thought, fine, you want to die, let’s get this show on the road, and I gave him “Bacon of the Month Club” for Christmas.

He would receive a monthly shipment of bacon for three months courtesy of Zingerman’s. I would have done the whole year, but that seemed too obvious.

I like bacon, but most of the time, I’m like, no thanks, I’ve already had cancer. Until delicious specialty pork products started arriving at the door, I wasn’t even tempted. But now there was pressure.

The first shipment was a pound of Nueske’s applewood smoked bacon from Wisconsin. The package included a keepsake binder with articles about bacon and the people who make it, “A Pocket Book of Bacon” and a pig magnet for the refrigerator.

Nueske’s was by far the best of the three we sampled. The article in the binder described it as the Platonic ideal of bacon, the one against which all other bacons are measured. And it’s true. I’m not good at describing the positive qualities of bacon after so many years of pig-shaming, other than to say Dale cooked it to perfection, and it was crispy, smoky and succulent.

At first I would only eat one piece, and I said we can never have this more than once a week. Then I said, oh, two pieces won’t kill me, but never, never more than once a week. And then I said, oh, what difference does it make if we eat it twice a week? We’re all going to die anyway.

In hindsight, I can see bacon helped us bond through a challenging transition in our lives. Whatever was going on – me in bed at night, worrying about what happens if the North Koreans bomb us and ruin my retirement and him worrying about me being awake worrying about North Korea.

But then it’s morning, the sun is glorious, the birds are chirping and wait, what is that other sound? Could it be the siren call of bacon?

One morning I took a picture of two simple slices of bacon on a plate and posted it on my Instagram account. I don’t get tons of Instagram traffic, but bacon is my most popular post to date. I look at the number every couple of weeks, and I report to Dale that bacon, of all my posts, is still in the lead. He laughs every time. The picture of me bald after chemotherapy is a heart-tugging second, but it’s not bacon.

We’re adjusting to our new lifestyle. I gave up pestering him about what he eats. Besides, he kind of came around on his own. Our membership in Bacon of the Month Club had expired, and one day he said, you know, that was fun, but we shouldn’t eat so much bacon.

I let him think it was his idea – a trick I learned at work.