Care to Comment?

Writers write for myriad reasons, including but not exclusively: to be read, to invoke, provoke, inspire and entertain. Most blog writers appreciate getting comments on their posts, and while a number of my readers respond either via Facebook or email, there are some who like commenting directly on my blog page. An advantage of having comments left on the actual page is that a conversation begins to unfold that includes other readers. Readers inspire and give one another courage to use their voices. Also, I then have an active archive of responses, which is valuable feedback.

This “How To” post is offered today for those who want to leave comments on my blog site. Hopefully, by following these steps, you can successfully engage in blog commenting not only on Martha Phelps blog, but other intriguing sites also.

Step 1) At the bottom of any blog entry, there is either an empty field (looks like a blank box) entitled “Post A Comment”  or there is a line that says when the blog was posted and the word "comments" highlighted. (Sometimes there is a number after the word "comments" showing how many comments have been made on that particular post.)

Step 2) Either click in the box/field and begin typing, or click on the highlighted word “comment” which will then create the “Post a Comment” Box - in which you can start typing.

Step 3) Let’s say your comment is “Gee! I didn’t know this. Thanks for posting.” So, you type that in.

Step 4) Next, just under the comment box are the words “Comment As:”  with a tab that reads “select profile.” If you click on the “select profile” tab, you’ll get a drop down menu with choices like: Google account, Live Journal, Word Press, Type Pad, AIM, Open ID, Name/URL, Anonymous. Your profile is your identity.

NOTE: Selecting Name/URL is probably your best choice, as you can simply type in your name in the "Name" field and then click "Post Comment."

If you select anonymous, then (duh) I won’t know who wrote to me. Anonymous posts make that challenging - though not impossible to have virtual conversations. Be brave. Let me know you’ve stopped by!

Step 5) Now. whether you hit the "Preview" tab or the "Post Comment" tab, you’re going to be asked to do a word verification. This is where there are a bunch of scrambled letters in odd shapes, sizes, upper and lower case that you are supposed to read and type into the required field. This is to prove you are a human being and not some mean-spirited computer out there in cyber world. In a nutshell, this step helps reduce viruses and spamming. It’s a good thing.

Step 6) After having done the word verification and clicking submit, you will receive a notice that reads “Your comment will be visible after approval.” The comment then comes to me via email, and I read it and post it for all to enjoy.

Easy!

Just as you are one reader at your computer screen so are most blog writers. We prefer constructive criticism, lively debates, alternative thoughts, hearing that you liked what you read, and gifts of chocolate and wine more than negativity. I reserve the right not to post comments that are clearly inappropriate or offensive, especially if they are anonymous.

I look forward to hearing from you soon!

Words & Art

We shake with joy, we shake with grief.

What a time they have, these two

Housed as they are in the same body.
Mary Oliver

Sketch:Bird in hand study by Martha Lee Phelps

"We Shake With Joy" from Evidence ©2009 Mary Oliver

 

The Salt Shaker

Over the last twenty years I’ve managed to create a public persona that quite frankly, has earned me a salty reputation. My children, family and close friends have lived through varying degrees of amusement, embarrassment, and even distress over my fluctuating amounts of outspokenness, opinion, radical honesty, and just plain - talking too much. (And I thank them for their tolerance; I truly do.)

I use the adjective “salty, “ because - it’s not necessarily distasteful, this particular way that I am in the world. At times, people like the intensity and passion of my style. Some profess even to enjoy, admire and aspire to it because it can add flavor and spice to occasions that might otherwise be bland and thoroughly forgettable. On the other hand, too much (of anything) can create imbalance or make things rather unappetizing. And socially, let’s face it, everyone doesn’t always want salt. Sometimes we are only in the mood for sweet, calm, quiet, safe, non-confrontational, ever-positive milk and honey. 

With (slow) maturation, I’ve learned and practiced - just a tiny bit - reeling in my outspoken exuberance. There’s a time and a place, right? And, as idiom goes “You can attract more bees with honey than vinegar.” 

So, when Reid got sick, it became necessary to make some serious choices about how, what and why to communicate with the people in our lives. Cancer is, for better or worse, an opportunity to practice being one’s best person, and I quickly realized that singularly being salt may not be the best approach. 

Thus for the last four months, I’ve been trying to be as publicly strong and positive as possible. “Patience” is the watchword for day to day interactions and exchanges; “Honest” and “Educational” are close runner’s up. The brave face is the one worn out the front door, and if I can’t find it - I stay home and look into the face of my gentle and truly brave son. 

When / if (and it’s a big IF) people consider disease, like cancer, it is considered scary,  confusing and analogous with dying; dis-ease instills ill-ease. Few want to think about these things, most want to avoid them, no one wants to be ill at ease, and I find no fault in that.

So, while reaching for the salt is no less enticing (because I’m no less passionate that I ever was!), I now stop and consider my choices.  These days being a little less colorfully candid and a lot more gentle feels essential and even healing at times. When you look fear in the face and smile, maybe it can inspire courage and hope. Now that’s a reputation to strive for.

Exploring The World

As if her yellow sneakers have
extra (butter-flavor, chrysanthemum petals, sweet lemon icing and goldfinch wings…) 
she has ventured out beyond the garden – 

Leaving the gate swinging in her passing. 

Her pack, complete for now:
a stash of curiosity,
extra questions (wouldn’t want to run out of those),
a leaky bottle of imagination – to quench her thirst,
and a little hesitation, leftover from an earlier journey. 

Inspired in her travels, she sings. 

Quiet trebled quarter notes spiral and ride along the dust kicked up under her joyful step,
followed up by bellowing alto whole notes – drawn out dramatically for (bushes, soil, trees, birds, sun and sky) her audience. 

From where I watch,
Her stride is an easy, swaggering, sure-footed dance of graceful tumbling movement.. 

movement..
move..meant…(pure happiness)
meaning…
meandering… merging into, 

her clear heart -
a graceful and easy, tumbling wonder of love
exploring the world
in bright yellow sneakers.

What NOT to Say to Someone with Cancer

When presented with the opportunity for a new life experience, many of us  take anywhere from a few moments to a few days to “bone up” (study) on what we may need to know for the greatest success, pleasure, reward and impact when we have said “new experience.” The internet is an incredible resource for quick studies on damn near everything. So as I sat considering today’s blog, I started with a simple search engine query to find out what others have had to say about: “What not to say to someone with cancer.


There were 52,100,100 search results. Wow. Why bother with today’s blog?

Maybe the real question is: why have there needed to be 52,100,100 posts, articles, videos, newsletters, ezines and statements about this topic? Clearly, people aren’t getting the memos being sent out over and over and over and over. While no one denies the good intentions that friends and community may feel deeply toward a cancer patient and their family, nor the gratitude that a cancer patient and their family feel in response to the care and concern extended to them, there truly are things that one SHOULD NOT SAY to someone with cancer.

Lori Hope at care pages has written a short and clear piece about this issue that I highly recommend, while pink prozac’s blog relates “41 Things Not To Say To Someone With Cancer” in a very direct, non nonsense, language colorful manner. Wild Roses has both a “what not to say” entry as well as a “what TO SAY article” that is very well informed and positive.

Should I attempt to be the 100th monkey on this topic? The one that ultimately tips the proverbial balance so that there is an awakening of compassion and understanding in how to talk with cancer patients? The answer is yes. Because if you want to have the greatest success, pleasure, reward and impact in the life of a friend battling cancer; if you want to be a part of their HEALING journey, then you need to study up on how best to communicate and be present for that person and their family.

I won’t recreate a list of 41 things (but please, click the link and see for yourself). I am going to touch on things I hear about eight times a week (unless I happen to be at a social event, in which case - I hear them eight times in an hour).  For each of these, I offer an alternative thing one might say instead.

1. “What’s your (son’s) prognosis? “As Lori Hope says, this word reminds us of mortality. Hearing it challenges one’s ability to remain present and positive. 

Try this: You are in my thoughts and prayers.

2. “I saw your son, he looks great for someone with cancer.” What is someone with cancer supposed to look like? My son looks like himself. He cares about his appearance in the world, even when he feels like shit, is completely exhausted, frustrated over having his nineteen year old life ripped off and has just weathered an hour long nosebleed and a three hour blood transfusion.

Try this: I’ll bet this sucks. Would you like to talk?

3. “I had a (fill in relation) who had cancer.” Stop. Just stop. Don’t even think of telling the story unless it is positive and the outcome is LIFE.
Try this: Say nothing. Offer a hug. Say I love you. Talk about something besides cancer.

4. To me, the caregiver/mom: “You’re so lucky you don’t have to work right now.” Good grief. First, I’d take ANY job over having my boy have cancer. Second, this IS work. My son is working harder than he’s ever in his life - for his life; I am working very hard also - to support him, his sisters and myself. Third, I’m unemployed and while the timing (as if there were such a thing with cancer) allows me to care for my son, this is anxiety producing on multiple levels.
Try this: I’ll bet this is hard work. or - I have a lead on a part time job for you that will allow you to keep taking care of your son.

5. Again, to me: “I just can’t imagine having my child die before I do. Where do you find your strength and positive attitude?” Guess what? I can’t imagine such a thing either. What parent wants to imagine such a thing? Our family is moving through stages of grief and loss. Dealing with depression, anxiety and panic is very taxing. I am doing this because I love my child. I find strength in my love for my child - just as any true parent does in times like these.
Try this: I’m here for you. So there you have it.

Now the search engine will read 52,100,101 results. Hopefully this one will help teach.

Photo Share

As I head out of the studio this morning to take some publicity photographs of Duo Flamenco (the talented duo - Grant Ruiz and Terry Longshore), I'm feeling grateful to do something I truly enjoy. I love taking environmental portraits - shots of people in their natural habitat, doing what they fills their heart, being who they best are (themselves!). Here are a couple shots taken recently that turned out to be very special. What do creative task do you routinely explore? How does it feed you? How do you keep it alive?

Peppers in the Wine Aisle

(a fictional interlude)

He stood quietly in the wine aisle of the local organic food coop watching the local not necessarily organic, but self-appointedly hip patrons do their late afternoon shopping.

Some moved with residual business office productivity. Even though their workday was through, clocks punched, files filed, duties done -- they had yet to dial down their inner speedometers as they talked on iPhones and juggled their baskets. 

Opposite these get-it-and-go folks, were those gliding along as if on some quaalude-induced vacation. They wheeled carts from one colorful display of goods to the next, fingering fresh produce and then bags of chips with equal fascination. Their purchasing was as influenced by pleasure as whomever they happened to chat with in bulk foods.

The third customer-type was paced and intentional; with their lists in hand and an occasional child in tow, they had a chore to do. Several full recyclable bags, a couple coupons and a bit of comparison pricing later, they would leave with thoughts of restocking the pantry and dinner prep.

This was his wine selection ritual. (1) Watch the coop anthropology parade. (2) Let it pass; close eyes and take deep deliberate breath. (3) Open eyes and select the nearest colorful bottle.

Tonight’s pick: Chile Pepper Red. Adorned with red and green peppers perfectly spooned together and long golden vines tangled artfully on its label which read,  “A yin yang burst of earthy fire and spicy delight. Its long, lusty finish will inspire your tongue and flex your palate. Best pared with something that drips on your chin.”

Old Wounds

At some stage, lovers share their scars.

They point, carefully,
at the old wounds
explaining the nature and origin:

here, the bicycle crash
when I was twelve,
there, your arm was burned.
This one, playing with my brothers
and that, was just some
surgery. They are visible vestiges

not only of events
but also who
we have been in our lives.

There, the motorcycle accident
because pain and anger tried to
defy reason.
Here, the cut
when loneliness prevailed;
That one, impatience. This one,
grief.

And the injuries that
do not show? Old hurts that
made deep 
impressions, fears sliced
into our bellies,
and sadness in our hearts 
that was poorly
stitched and left an angry mark?

What of these unseen scars
in the grain of our souls? 

We show and tell
in a ritual of comparisons
as if to 
ask, “See here, I am marked.
Can you still love me?”
As if to say,
“I have been wounded
enough, now
let us be gentle.” 

© 2008 martha lee phelps

New Math

Leukemia is the general term used to describe four different disease-types. That’s FOUR (4) disease types.

There are eight subtypes of Acute Myelogenous Leukemia (which is what Reid is dealing with). Didja get that number? EIGHT (8). Treatment for AML may vary by subtype.

Some people have differences in the chromosomes of their AML cells (chromosomes are the part of the cell that carries genes. Genes give instructions that tell the cell what to do.) The cell has 46 chromosomes. Look -- more numbers: FORTY-SIX (46).

Please, please, please -- don’t walk up to me and say “I knew (NOTE: PAST TENSE) someone with the same cancer your son has.”

Maybe, but doubtful.

Pay attention. Do the math. There are a lot of variables with leukemia. There are many types, subtypes and chromosomal combinations. Put them all together - and then add in the FACT that each individual is, well - an individual. While there may be commonalities between people, there are also totally unique treatments, responses, life styles, personalities, attitudes and possibilities. 

Get to know Reid, and you'll be certain he "has" a positive, strong, optimistic and vibrant life spirit. Concentrate on that equation; it's what counts here.

Everything Essential

We were strolling along in downtown Seattle, going 

no where in particular.

It strikes me as so poignant 

that we're looking in opposite directions.

I remember, feeling restless -

(and quietly disappointed) that day.

I had expected something else

(I don't know what, precisely), but not what showed up.

Meanwhile, He was content.

 With hands sticky from a yogurt snack

and a day that was warm and bright,

his intense and perfect face gazes 

across the street where 

life "on that side"

was so intriguing that in fact,  yes

yes, in fact

  he was tugging (just a bit) - as if to say,

 "Hey Mama, let's go look over there!"

Funny...

what stands out in one's memory after sixteen years:

small damp fingers,

deep restless sighs,

the sound of shoes on dry cement,

the need - no matter how separate our immediate desires -

 to stay connected to each other,

and the belief that holding hands

would keep everything essential intact.

 Reid and Martha - Seattle, Washington 1992 - Photo taken by Dan Rankin

"Please Drain Tub"

"Please drain tub." That’s what a tasteful little sign above the jacuzzi requested as I steeped in appreciation of a gift certificate recently given to me. The words brought memories into mind --

First, I recalled 17 years ago when, at day’s end of a very intense personal growth workshop, the facilitator said to the group, “Take a long bath tonight but be sure to shower for a moment afterward. You don’t want to stew in the juices you’ve been releasing; be sure to rinse it all away.”

And next, I remembered our fourth day of cancer. I was on the phone with a friend. The stormy debris of the first shock-wave was surfacing: intense fear, the gravity of Reid’s illness, a leukemia diagnosis, being alone, being homesick for my daughters. Searching to offer me some sort of comfort, she said, “See if you can find a bathtub, Martha. You need to be held. Find a bath and let the water hold you for a little while.”

We’d been there for three days, and I wandered from Reid’s room only far enough to get a cell phone signal or use the bathroom. It was hard to conceive of leaving long enough for a quick meal, let alone an entire bath, but I went searching.

I discovered the “family facilities” in the Knight Oncology Treatment Unit: a laundry and sleeping room on the 13th floor; another sleeping room and a shower on the 14th floor. A shower. For family. Hot water - and a moment in time.

I’ll never forget that first shower. It was neither an embrace nor a receptacle for the grief that washed from me. I closed my eyes and let the water take control. It was elemental, and with deep shuddering breaths of solitude and vulnerability, I stood naked  - in all ways - and cried.


Maybe it’s a good thing there is no tub in the oncology unit. Maybe someone very wise said, “Let's not put bathtubs in the family facilities. There’s already so much sadness here, we’d best not have folks soaking in it also. Showers only here, so we can send grief down the drain.” 

Let it go; let it go. Let it all go down the drain.

At The Sound of the Tone

The phone and I have a different relationship since Reid's cancer diagnosis. “Different,” like how? Different like this: now I don’t really want to be talking on the phone at all; now the actual eager impulse to make a telephone call comes at wildly random moments that may or may not coincide with lunar phases, or how good my coffee tastes, what shoes I’m wearing or any other number of indiscriminate and unrelated factors.

This is not to say I won’t pick up, call back or dial out. I will, but not without either gritting my teeth - or being in the mood (which, as you’re deducing, has become a rare phenomenon). So far, there isn’t a middle place between my two “be on the phone” settings.

Don’t get me wrong, please. I really like having a phone. It’s a tremendously useful tool, and if it gets momentarily lost or left behind, my anxiety meter definitely goes to yellow zone. What did we do before cell phones? Instant messages? Texting the immediate occurrences of our day to day lives? How on earth could anyone reach us way back when? And if they tried us twenty times, and we didn’t have a message machine -- they could certainly feel frustrated, but rarely held against us that we weren’t returning calls we didn’t even know had been made. To me, use of the phone was more fun back then and less obligatory, but in times of crisis - it made communications very difficult. Which brings me back to Now.

Now - one part of being a family with cancer in the 21st century is that (hopefully) communications are easier and more frequent. During the 34 days that Reid was at OHSU - 350 miles away from home - the telephone was an essential part of dealing with both distance and difficulty. I was inundated by calls - multiple times a day - from family and friends who were desperate with worry and a deep need to know what was happening. Likewise, in our isolation, calls out were like distress signals from a tenebrous fog - reaching for connection and comfort.

Since that time, as Reid’s treatment has progressed, I can honestly say “Thank God for the phone.” Calls to the clinic and the nurses, late night emergencies with on-call physicians, and especially - my being able to keep in touch with Reid and his younger sisters at the push of a button - have immeasurable value to us. Leukemia is some seriously scary shit, and being able to check in regularly can occasionally help ease fear.
 
Yet the days of chit-chatty, long and rambling, just for the fun of it telephone calls are temporarily gone. I don’t have it in me to press the phone to my face for longer than a few minutes. Come sit for a cup of tea, share a meal with us, or let’s take a nice brisk walk. Come be face to face; we don’t even have to talk and if possible, we can leave our cell phones on silent.

Let’s make a date. Call me.

The Making of a Groove

Before one can actually "get into the groove" there needs to be one in existence.

I was kindly informed by a follower yesterday that my pieces are too long. I agree, and beg allowances and forgiveness due to the infamous learning curve of one trying something new.  

While I've read that the "best" blogs are about 250 words, I suspect that the length of my entries will fluctuate according to topic, degree of motivation and/or opinion and time. Every blog is unique and their purposes vary. I sense that one of the natures of this particular blog is that it bend toward organic and liberated spontaneity.  Because my platform is the untamed life I'm currently experiencing, and particularly the situation of having a family member with a cancer diagnosis, there's a huge degree of "let's see what shows up today" in this exercise (and I mean that literally, metaphorically, and on multiple levels of this blog's purpose).

Be the entries long or short, it's tough to fathom what insights I can possibly share, or who may be interested, or if I'm skilled and articulate enough to produce something worthwhile for another. I'm committing to this process, and although I have no idea where it will lead,  I hope it will be positive. Seth Godin he says that he believes writing a blog is "a lot like curating a sound on the saxophone. Training helps, listening to records helps, but mostly you blow a lot until you resonate and then repeat, prune, experiment, prune, repeat, prune until a groove occurs."

I've started curating.

"Oh My God...How Risky."

The wind and rain did some serious window rattling last night. My youngest - despite her own awareness of the mountains rising protectively around our hometown - asked as she was surrendering to sleep, "Are you sure we can't have a hurricane here?" It was a concern I remember having myself as a child in this very same town, and I cherished the sensation that we lived in such a remarkably safe place.

Ashland, Oregon is a sweet-natured, semi-conservative, attractive to big city refugees, feels-slightly-metropolitan but is actually a fairly-small-town -- that is tucked into the foothills of the Siskiyou and Cascade mountains. It's not geographically conducive to tornadoes or tsunami's and it's been a long time since the last volcanic eruption. I happily settled here, in part, to give my own kids the same nurturing and sheltered childhood that I experienced.

While social and economic times and ways of the world have grown and shifted, Ashland, Oregon has been fortunate to keep crime and calamity to a minimum. But it's not a utopia, so occasionally bad things happen to this good community. Most recently, a couple incidence of sexual assult. The response throughout Ashland has been swift and vocal. Newspaper articles, police warnings, a composite sketch, internet messages with safety tips, announcements at the University and local high school, and even a "Take Back the Night" march to raise awareness. It's good stuff. When alone it's smart to tune in; be familiar with one's surroundings; take off your ipod and listen to the world around you; practice "wide angle vision" (a tracking term for seeing and intuitive awareness  much further than the distance between self and screen, steering wheel or Wii);  walk with a "don't mess with me" confidence. They don't always stop the worst, but employing these tools and others will definitely increase one's odds of well being.

So, here am I, finishing today's blog so that I can -- go for a walk, in broad daylight, in the rain, ALONE! Oh my god...how risky. 

Let's face it, we can spend our whole lives being afraid or cautious - or even equal and intelligent parts of both. We can employ every measure of safe living and behavior that we are taught. We can stay in, lock the doors, filter the water, "green" the house, eat organic, take our vitamins, put on our coat, walk with a buddy and carry pepper spray, but in the end, we have no control.  Huh? Nope. Nadda.

Sometimes, no matter what you've done "right," a monster shows up. Shit happens -- in spades -- right in your own living room. 

Having recently lost so much of the freedom I treasure so dearly and the sense of safety -- for myself and my loved ones -- that I have always prized, I will not relinquish a simple act that brings me joy. I will take walks.

Too Revealing

People keep saying I should be writing all "this" down. "This" being the vague euphemistic reference to the fact that my eldest child was diagnosed with leukemia last September.

While I've been diligent in semi regular communications about Reid's health status via a blog created on his behalf, it's the more personal and in depth that are being called for: the experience of being a family with cancer, how it feels to be a mother dealing with a child's cancer, and how I'm a woman who's world has been turned on tilt (by a number of things).

"Why don't you do it?" Asked one old friend, and I told her that I felt as though I was sparing others by not sharing all the dirty details. It's my version of "what you don't know - can't hurt you, " and after seeing the people I love hurt so deeply by cancer - why would I want to add to their pain?

Writing the reality feels raw, uncomfortable, too revealing. So why am I here today?

Because I've realized that to be revealing may be the most honest way to embrace life.