Put down the paper, people, quick. Stuff the fireplace, slide it into the recycle bin or better yet, line the birdcage, preferably so my visage is up-facing. I have been writing this column since the beginning of August and today marks the first day I am fresh out of ideas. Nothing, nada, zilch.
Should I write about smoking? Naw ... sure there is information to report and struggles to chronicle, but I would like to remain quiet (shhhhh) about those until I have something positive to say. Besides, chemo patients can smell smoke, dog feet, and the fluoride in water from 100 paces. I fear if I write about it there will be a yell from the other room putting the kibosh on it.
How about trash again? Um, nope. That would just make me angry. Northampton doesn't have curbside pick-up and trash and recycling have become nothing but a pain on the back porch. I guess I don't really mind those huge New Hampshire property taxes after all.
Hmmm, what about all the amazing medical advances I have conquered of late? I can track neutrophil counts, manage dehydration, even give a shot. Naw again, why go through it twice?
I could write about weedy species and relic species (sustainers please see Stephen M. Meyer and "The End of the Wild"), but that might be too depressing. Meyer writes of the big global issues in a concise voice that mixes science, intellect and love for the environment. Unfortunately, his voice is gone. Cancer.
I might write about writing. About how I can invariably tell when a writer just writes, pours it out in story form, and doesn't bother to edit much. I could describe my own editing, more accurately dubbed a word casserole; a little clause here, a bit of paragraph there, a cup of making sure the idea brings one circuitously but surely forward. Nope, why reveal my secrets.
No. No. No. All I can come up with is an idea about Quitting Career and Taking Up Home Keeping, a la Martha Stewart or Real Simple. Stay-at-homes (whether moms or dads) have always gotten a mixed nod from me: part acknowledgement of the work (unpaid mind you) and part envy.
Envy, you ask? Yes, envy. First of all, it implies someone to stay home for, usually a child. I need say no more, as a single childless woman of 43 years of age, about that gift. Second, it evokes either plenty of cash and resources, or a pioneering independent we're-in-this-together-and-will-make-it-work spirit. Gift number two.
The other part, the acknowledgement of the work, is what is truly breathtaking. Because my charges are my friend and three dogs, I don't even have to make sure anyone leaves the house on time, like a real mother. It's a good thing, too, because my morning ablutions alone take several hours.
First, there is the Goldilocks-esque dog feeding ritual. They all get the same dry and wet food, but in different proportions. Where it gets really complicated is with the gravy. Keenan likes a lot of gravy, Phoebe likes very little gravy and Atticus likes a medium amount of gravy. I have to mix things just so and make a big deal as I do it to get the gastric juices flowing in two of the three.
Yes, two of these three pooches tend to the anorectic side. They also take to bed for three days and fan themselves with their paws if you hurt their feelings. Drama central.
After they are shepherded out the door to play in the yard comes commencement of smoothie and coffee making. Now see, I buy my coffee pre-made. Past attempts at making coffee at home have gone miserably awry. Just when I think I have the ratio right, something shifts (probably at the tectonic level) and it becomes wrong.
This is no problem when making coffee for oneself; you mutter and go to the coffee shop. But I am making coffee for one of the original coffee snobs of the world. And because she couldn't drink it for more than a week after chemo, it better come through the door right the first time. (Not really. That yearning toward perfection is all mine.)
Smoothie making is similarly challenging. Not too much banana, especially if it is too ripe, plech. Just enough protein powder to escape that protein powder taste, a splash of Pom, some good yogurt and two ices cubes. Whirr! Taste and judge. It's a ritual.
Feeding myself comes last, I usually take a bit of the smoothie, a sip of the coffee (not from the same cup, can't share germs with a chemo patient you know), and move on to wrestle the vacuum cleaner out of the corner and into service. Who needs remuneration? I got love.
Forget you-know-who. What would you do? suzanne.danforth@gmail.com.
