more on female medicine

We are now in the beautiful young fall days, saying good-bye to summer, relishing in the cool/warm mixture of early September days with blackberry picking and the fog playing games just off the coast each morning.

I am still struggling with the aftermath of having had what is called a "cold cone biopsy" last spring.  Stayed up way too late last night writing my doc an indignant letter protesting the difficulty presented in attempting to contact him with questions from home.

One goes in for an appointment, has a test, in this case a PAP, asks some questions and is given alarming information.  (In the case of prolapse of the vaginal wall, the doctor's preferred treatment is the surgical removal of one's still healthy uterus).  He also said he would get the test results to me as quickly as possible. I imagined, oh foolish girl, receiving a phone call from the doctor himself.  One receives a generic form in the mail with one little check mark on it stating that another PAP smear is advised in one year, it says if you have any questions, call this number.  You make the long distance call when you can find some time.  It's the general switchboard at the hospital who takes your message and says someone, (certainly not the doctor to whom you'd really like to speak) will call you back.  You stress that you are at work for the rest of the day, not at home.  They call home anyway, leave a message about what you already knew from the check mark and say that if you have any further questions, you can, you guessed it, call this number. .. The same long distance switchboard one.  And round and round we go.  I think I was supposed to be happy and content with that check mark, good news, we don't want to see you again for a year.  Pay us your money and go your merry prolapsed way.  Sure, I'm glad I don't have cancer, but I don't think I ever did.  Unnecessary surgery is a nasty thing, causing anger, which can cause all kinds of residual health problems if not dealt with.  Which is what I am trying to do.

Damn it, 'scuse my French.  This is my body, this is my life, this is my money and my time.  Hence the long night writing an angry letter, which, of course, needed to be edited extensively to try and make it not so angry, not so reactive and yet at the same time, get across my concerns, both of procedural and medical nature.  I did not mention anything in the letter about unnecessary surgery by the way.  I know that in the medical world, the surgery was what was called for after the test results from my PAP and spot biopsies.  I guess I'll never know for sure if my tissues were really infected or if the surgery wasn't necessary.  I don't blame the doctor for doing what he knew to be an effective method of removing questionable cells.  What I object to is the lack of follow up care and denial of connection between surgery and what is happening to my body now.  And privately, it is difficult to deal with my doctor's world in the sense that I cannot really express my grief and sorrow to him about the results of surgery.  He doesn't understand why I would grieve the loss of my cervix and I do not wish to appear overly emotional, it doesn't feel safe there.

So after I finish the letter I get on line and google "prolapse", an alarming and embarrassing word, don't you think?  Makes me think of "collapse" and old people just barely able to keep it all together.  There's some encouraging stuff on line though, particularly a woman, RN, named Christine Kent who claims to have some postural suggestions that help.  (I wasn't sure about the pictures though, a very different way of standing up straight, with the pelvic bone making up the supportive structure by allowing the lower back to curve much more than we are told by yoga teachers to allow).  She is honest though, stating that there is no cure for prolapse, but improvement is possible and that the docs who advise surgery are in a system that doesn't have a history of being a safe place, especially for women.  With that, I now agree.  It's funny that I ever strayed from that belief, seeing as how I used to teach childbirth education and would caution my pregnant parents to be very careful about their hospital plans, to state all their preferences and desires on their pre-registration before the birth even if they were not planning on having a hospital birth, just in case they landed there by emergency.  And for the birth coaches to be vigilant at making sure that those stated wishes were honored, etc. 

But because of a "bad" PAP result, I allowed myself to be talked into what I now consider a radical surgery.   A great deal of my cervix was removed, in the good intention of trying to remove any "bad" cells, which, upon inspection, could not be found in the removed tissue.  I now blame myself for not putting it off, getting another test first.  It felt as though I were healthy right before surgery.  But who ever heard of anyone not getting preventative surgery after being told that one had shown evidence of pre-cancerous cells?  I know there are those brave souls, I just didn't have their input at the time.  I didn't want to be foolish, or dead.  I was also told, by professionals and friends alike, that it was "no big deal."  But now, I feel as though I gambled with my health in a way that did not serve or honor my core self.  I feel as though I gave permission to give away part of my core.

Now I have a cystocele, which is the prolapse of the front of the vaginal wall, which causes all kinds of difficulties, the details of which I will not go into here.  The doc doesn't think it had anything at all to do with the surgery.  I do not believe that, its presence directly followed the procedure.  When I do a self exam, there is no longer any familiar cervix to be felt, the structural integrity of my body has been compromised.

I am angry and sad here now, my friends.  I feel like I have received a partial hysterectomy without realizing that that was what was happening.  Granted I am not going to have any more children, but one doesn't remove one's breasts after breastfeeding time is over. Is there anyone out there who can relate and not consider my feelings as over the top?

Enough anger for the moment.  It is a beautiful fall morning, warm and sunny with just the hint of coolness to come, like a fine wine in your favorite glass.  I intend to swirl it around, smell it and take sips slowly throughout the day.  Let's move on to healing now, and magic: the possibility in all things.

Thank you for reading this.  I welcome all opinions and comments.  I have ordered a new book called Wild Feminine and am making an appointment with the author who is a physical therapist in Portland specializing in womens' health and especially pelvic health.  I need the knowing sure touch of a young witch woman to help me through this next phase of healing.  I need to become empowered once again.  As Confucious had engraved upon his bathtub:  Renew It Daily.

If any of you women readers are interested or concerned about pelvic health and have any thoughts about a support group, or know others who might be interested,  please let me know.  I'm coming out of the closet with this issue.

Happy gorgeous September in the Pacific Northwest!  much love, Rosie

Lopez Summertime

Well, friends, July 4th is my least favorite holiday.  I can't help it, I want to fly the American flag upside down and halfway down.  Especially now.  Besides that, I am going through some personal stuff which is sad and makes it hard to stay upbeat.   I'm glad it's raining.  I hope the tourists go away and stop littering and using their cell phones anywhere near me.  I think I could use a good cry.

Still sleeping outside.  The early morning cries of the eagles and the other twitterings are a constant reminder of the continuance and goodness of life. 

Eat more greens.  Get outside.  Smile more often, even if for no apparent reason.  Get out of your own head and do something kind for someone else, even if, and especially if they have no idea where it's coming from.  Put on some music and dance.  Send loving thoughts out into the universe.  Get enough rest. 

This whole story is much bigger than we know.  The only way to feel connected is to act with as much integrity and open heart as possible. 

Good luck with all that.  Report in if you'd like to help my spirit out.  See you on the other side (of the 4th).

Reed College

I have just returned from the 100th birthday party for Reed College in Portland, Oregon.  I drove down there with my dad.  He is 90, class of '43.  His dad, my grampa whom I missed meeting by less than a year, was class of '19.  I am class of '73 and Madrona Blue, my daughter, graduated from Reed in 2002.  My mom was also class of '43.  My Aunt Rosie was class of '47.   You can go to Reed for a year and be considered an alum.  It's hard work staying there for any length of time.  It's quite a place.  I ran screaming at the beginning of my junior year.  Felt guilty about it for decades.  After all, my parents met there, they want their ashes to rest there eventually and here I was, without the gumption to stay. 

Well, I'm back now, in the Reed fold.  I have been previously disdainful of people's loyalty to a "club" or  organization, or...college.  I understand that I can take no real credit for my family's generational history at Reed.  Except..I am proud of it and so very glad now for it.  I have Madrona to thank:  she thrived there (majoring in a combination Political Science and Biology degree) and during my visits to see her while she was a student, I came to understand how much it had changed for the better since my time, and how, to be honest, it was a lousy place to be in the early '70's for a young artistic type just finding her way during the era of Vietnam.  I have forgiven myself for leaving and am making up for it by going back often, volunteering when I can and enjoying my affiliation and identity as a Reedie.  

What does that mean anyway, especially to an outsider who has no knowledge of Reed or how it could be different from any other school of higher learning?  This is the hard part for me, since when I hear other Reedies define Reed, they usually speak of the high quality of education they received there:  the different goals of self-inquiry and examination, thorough and precise questioning and experimentation of thought... Long nights crafting papers that got minutely examined by their excellent professors who then did not reveal the grades but only wrote helpful comments, so that students were free to keep striving, even if they were already "good enough" thinkers.  Unfortunately, I can't describe my excellent educational opportunities about my Reed classes.  I was lost there and had no good guidance.  There was one kind music teacher who purchased and presented me with a musical dictionary when I tried to take and understand an advanced Beethoven course, and the one Lit. prof. who invited all of us to have classes at his house while we sipped whatever liquid refreshment seemed appropriate to the text we'd been reading (tequila with Carlos Castaneda was a memorable time).  But for the most part, because of problems the college was going through that students were unaware of, the teachers were distant, remote and troubled, unapproachable, to my mind.  I, in turn, felt disoriented and deserted, spending more time marching in downtown Portland against the Vietnam War and helping type up conscientious objector forms for my friends than attending class.  This behavior, after being an A+ student in my high school, left me wondering who I was becoming and where I was supposed to be.  I had been led to believe by my parents and their friends that I would find myself in intellectual Nirvana at Reed and be very happy most of the time.  I was not.  Nor were most of my classmates.  Fully half of my freshman class left the institution after the first semester!  I stuck it out for another year and a bit more before giving up and leaving.  Enough said of that time.  I have learned a little more now about what Reed was going through then with internal conflicts, money problems and identity crisis.  I wish more had been shared at the time with the students so we could have understood what was happening to all of us.

But over a very short time Reed picked itself back up and began to recover.  I have a lot of Reed friends who are younger than I am who loved it there, and I'm glad.  And more importantly, I have forgiven myself for leaving.  For years I would have recurrent nightmares that I was again living on campus, maybe with my family in my room as well, trying to go to class, feeling unprepared and frantic to try and turn in papers and do all the reading, struggling again to succeed at Reed.  I don't have those dreams anymore.  Madrona did succeed there.  She spent a lot of time in her professors' offices discussing her educational progress and goals.  She was awarded Phi Beta Kappa on Graduation Day.  She did it, for herself, of course, but in the process, it cured and absolved me of all guilt for not graduating  from Reed.  And Reed doesn't care, it accepts me as well.  So my definition of a Reedie is broader than how it is to be a present student there.  It has to do with a way of life, a way of life-long thinking and pondering and relating to others, an encouragement to always have an open inquisitive nature, to listen carefully to all viewpoints and to form one's own, based on close examination of the many factors involved, including the humor it takes just to continue on this path of challenging intellectual thinking.  There are many many different types of Reedies:  conservative to communistic, but still, they are recognizable to each other by some sort of clue:  some humorous twinkle in the eye, some nod of acknowledgement to a different viewpoint expressed, to the struggle of encompassing and distilling what is presented, both verbally and non-verbally by others into something of their own intellectual crafting which they continue to examine, not presenting it as fact, but as their offering to the Great Discussion.  Reedies are not only willing but inviting toward criticism and examination, so long as it is given in the spirit of furthering the goal of understanding and even some kind of right action.  I am an avid reader of the Reed magazine, which features articles about the myriad crazy and wonderful things Reedies are off doing, or thinking. 

It was a wonderful weekend celebrating Reed with my dad and a couple of thousand other Reedies.  There were hot air balloon rides, a Ferris wheel, amazing fireworks, lots of fantastic music, a beautiful exhibit of Renaissance teacher and calligrapher Lloyd Reynold's art (I did get to meet him briefly as a freshman after he had retired the year before I got there), and the meeting and greeting of many friends.  Dad not only survived it but loved it, seeing old friends and applauding his sister, (singing in a light operatic Gilbert and Sullivan adaptation of Reed's one hundred years especially written for this reunion), marveling over how big all the campus trees have gotten, listening to Reedie Gary Snyder give a beautiful talk about the enduring qualities of art and inquiry that have helped him on his path as one of our most creative literary artists, and just being there again, where he met Mom, had a fine education and feels, still, very much at home.

I'm so glad we had this time together, he and I.  He now is looking forward in a couple of years, to attending his 70th reunion at Reed in 2013!  I would be honored to be his companion then as well.

Sleeping outside

For the past few years, I have used sleeping outside as a many leveled therapy.  At first, it was to escape:  my messy house, my messy thoughts, my insomnia and even depression.  I found that to go outside and slip into bed was to remove myself into the world of nature, which soothed, forgave and comforted me.  I got over being depressed and continued sleeping outside to marvel at the bird sounds that woke me each morning and to fall asleep with the sounds of the wind and the tide waters from MacKaye Harbor down below my rise of land.

For the first year, I just put a mattress on the porch and threw a tarp over the covers so that if it rained, I could still stay out there.   It was a bit damp and crinkly and sometimes I gave up and came inside.  A dear friend saw how I was doing this and gave me a wonderful gift:  a sailcloth that attaches to the eaves of my roof and ties over the bed to the porch railing.  Now I can easily stay outside in all weathers and do.  Something about sleeping outside: snug and warm in the rain, makes me feel giddy with pleasure and just a bit smug.

This time of year, mid-May, the smells from the crab apple trees and other blooming bushes are luscious.  The robins and the crows and the geese chorus away and all manner of other birds I can't identify add their two cents worth.  The cat comes and curls up too.  I highly recommend this therapy and feel I am awfully lucky to have the chance.  May all of us get enough outside time and may we also find ways to slow down and not use as much gas fueled transportation as before.  It doesn't make sense anymore, does it?

Flags in Washington State were at half mast for young soldier, but what about Osama?

Upon hearing about the murder of Osama Bin Laden

May, 2011

These words, sent from Laurel to her parents ~

"I will mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy. Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that."

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Simple joys of tribal connection

Singing last night in dear friend Lorrie's house, welcoming new family: Marjorie, Diano and Niema there.  (I have a feeling I'm not spelling all those names right!)

Seeing and being with loved friends and sweet black dog, good healthy food.  Listening to Niema direct us all and call her adult friends by the names she chooses.  My favorite is "Kenny Fugi" for Kenny Ferrugiaro.

Oh, how sweet it is
To be wishless
Without a sign
An empty mind...

Joe Reilly, spirit boy

La Push and now

What a lovely weekend, striding up the Coast in the sunshine.  Wild Mama Ocean, makes me dance and sing and celebrate bare feet.  Brought back some rocks and baby driftwood pieces.  More clutter, but so beautiful!  I knew a Reed professor who built a loft in his living room and put his bed up there with a ladder going up, the feet of which were planted in bucketfuls of beach rocks.  I like the idea but if I went to all that work, I'd never move them to sweep.  Practicality rears its ugly head!

And now it's overcast again in the morning
and back to work
and sadness over one dear one's sorrow
joy over the news of another's surgery completion
picking nettles
walking to the low tide
building a fire
running a bath
listening to two dueling frogs close by

end of another beautiful day

Best pie I've ever made

Ingredients:

one pie crust, previously made, defrosted from freezer and rolled out for bottom crust.  Butter a 9 inch pie pan and make the crust all nice and pretty.  Preheat oven to 425.

Three little bags of last year's frozen rhubarb  (a gift from JoJo Tran, Seattle, more about him later.)
One big bag of frozen organic strawberries, from summer of '09, needing to be used.
Candied ginger, cut up small, maybe 1/8 of a cup
some lemon juice
1/2 cup organic sugar, a combo of date and cane I think
4 T. flour
1/2 t. salt

Mix all that up in a bowl and let it comingle for awhile.  (Of course, a little later in the season, I'd be using fresh rhubarb and strawberries.  But believe me, this totally worked.)

Pour it into the pie crust, put a baking sheet in the bottom of the oven to catch any spills and cook for 20 minutes.

Make a crumble top by mixing up some softened butter, a cup's worth of oats, flour, quinoa flakes or whatever you've got, could just be flour, some sugar, not much, and a dash of salt.  Play with that until you've got a nice crumbly mixture.

Ok, now here's the interesting part:  I had some amazing smoothie left over with pineapple, yogourt, sour sop fruit and papaya in it.  I mixed some flour and tapioca in that, swirled it around in the blender and poured that over the pie.  You could probably do this at the beginning, and cook the pie for 30 minutes before putting on the crumble but I didn't think of it until halfway through, it worked fine.  I got it out of the oven, poured the smoothie mixture into the filling, patting it around with the spoon to even it up, and stuck it back in the oven for another 10 minutes:  30 in all.

Then I took it out:  crumbled the crumble mixture on top (I had too much mixture, have to figure out something to do with it later, maybe just add it to oatmeal for breakfast) and put it back in the oven for 12-15 minutes to brown the top.  Take out, let cool.  YuMMMM.

This was a hit over at Nick and Susie's tipi singing party last night.

JoJo Tran is a lovely young Vietnamese man who accidentally got in hot water with the Vietnamese government by showing some Navy Seals where a POW camp might possibly be, over fifteen years ago.  He fled to America, becoming an illegal immigrant in Seattle, torn away from his wonderful wife Saray and Tano, his infant son, back in Vietnam.  It took him fifteen long years to get legal.  There were no guarantees:  he became an incredible gardener:  teaching others how to garden in local pea patches, a Quaker: garnering friends who showed up to support him at his hearings and finally, with the Quakers' help and the testimony of one of the original Seals, he was granted citizenship in this country (after having been turned down numerous times and faced with possible exportation back to a government which would commit him to prison and probably execute him).  Recently, he was able to get his wife and son here as well.  I met them last week, they came for dinner at my house, the guests of my dear friend Richard, who brought them up for an American spaghetti feed and a tour of Lopez.  JoJo contributed the rhubarb for the above pie, and Saray prepared the sour sop for my smoothie, thus making this pie truly unique.

I look forward to more pie adventures with odd ingredients.  Oh, I put some currants in the crumble mixture, but I wouldn't recommend that, as they tend to burn.

weirdnesses of modern medicine

I really admire Dr. Prins.  He doesn't care about lawsuits or appearances, he knows he's a good doc so he just tells it like it is:  "you didn't have ANY bad cells in this chunk of stuff we cut out of you."  Great.  And I haven't even paid the bills yet, or recovered from the asthmatic effects of the pain meds.  Hmmm.  So, are the bad cells somewhere else, did we miss 'em?  Or, did I cure myself before showing up for surgery Monday morning? I'm pissed that the surgery may have been unnecessary, but working to balance that out with the lessons I'm learning:  stay away from Ibuprofen,  that I'm asthmatic even though I've never expressed symptoms before, and that when you have hours to kill at home in bed, you can start a blog and read weird books a few pages at a time.  Oh wait, I already knew that last bit.

things of note for now

Things to remember, people really:  Kiba and April as they go through their life changes, Alia and Michael, as their family expands by one miraculous little girl, Greg E. and his family, as they look forward to their summer together and live in the present moment, Russel and Madrona, as they gear up for "the season": studying and protecting our island and its surrounding seas, Aimee, as she searches for the perfect ski pack, Bob and Janis and the other wonderful souls who are learning how to be skilled Lopez EMTs,  Ron Metcalf, as he readies himself for travels through England (his blog is called Travels with Ron, check it out,  and Alia has one too, called The Alia Trip), Polly, as she navigates the medical world to stay healthy and vital.  Each day I am grateful for the way people share their lives with me, the lessons observed by this generosity and the ways in which we reach out and share.  Like our radio station, KLOI, and how people take the time to get on it and share their favorite music and thoughts:  John Waugh and his "my two cents" is precious and so well done, Gary Alexander and his endless knowledge about musicians and composers, Shantparv and his hippie philosophies every Sunday night, Sue Dumond and her wonderful modern musical discoveries, Josh Ratza, many others.  Thanks, all!  May we get the most out of our beautiful world now, right now.

Friday, April 15th comin' on spring on Lopez

Recuperating is a good time to write.  The world feels shifted, slowed down...not going to work and doing the daily routine gives time for ruminations.  I used to keep a journal, and a handy thing it was too.  I would use it later to look back to see when something of importance had occurred as I have very little recall of exact dates in history.

I haven't done more than scribble on the backs of bookmarks and envelopes for quite awhile, though I often think of things I'd like to journal about, especially as pertains to island community living.  I do write a lot of musey emails and so it occurs to me now that a blog might be a way to get back into writing more regularly.  There's a lot of funny wonderful things that happen around here worthy of note.

And now I've begun...of note today is that my daughter took me for a walk down by Watmough Bight (and it is "bight" not "bay" as the erroneous signs now state, tsk-tsk) yesterday after snow flurries the night before and we saw the first Calypso orchids of the season!