As originally published on Poetry Super Highway, editor Rick Lupert, Los Angeles, California, August 2022.
Combed up Velvet
Windswept gatherings of confused moths cloud over and flitter across my speckled memory, moving, flickering candlelit flowers, held up above, hovering over such white linen, rough woven dusty with peachy sprinkles that sparkle, sparkle as a twinkling glittery, and shine. Just like dead confetti, angelic mysteries, spread out and about and unorganized as this and these, my thoughts of what was
As if there, their unheavenly scissored up, snipped and cut snowy cooled insistence, unsated and sticking to my attention lazy, bump, thump tacked heavy to jazzy sax beats beating soft, a stranger wanting more space on the train just tapping steady, beating softly at my shoulders, but I blink away your gaze and whatever there was
Toss it, again
your smile and then
a strapped touch, thick in emotion
I do not want to remember
or consider this part
of this eventual
go away, but-. Your face (damn it)
(what you said next)
and then another *thing*
that I used to like
petals down, slow and sloppy
out the window I cannot turn away
anymore
from the window and in your hair
over by the window
breathing vanilla musk kisses and Daring
Your smirk should not be in my mind, dragging
through me, too much
my old unwanted memory feeling brushed up to a thick stuff,
combed up velvet
fingertips bent,
earth spinning outside our own seams
with us and I’m still
dizzy, becoming
a bubble sipped up
dripping,
running away from what absolutely have to be dried-forever thoughts,
away, then
a drop, a
petaling sparkle, dusted
away, then I realized it, I can wait for
your return, your next visit,
your revenge, too
your comeback
of what never really was. I can.
Fingertips bent, I rake up and through past you I’m way past you and all that combed up velvet.
◆
Read about my experience being showcased on Poetry Super Highway as a Poet of the Monthright here.
I created this for my Grandma‘s birthday, remembering from my childhood that her favorite flower is the corn flower. Her brother Joe‘s favorite was poppies, and so I thought about them both as I created this image in the dead of Winter, as Christmastime quickly approaches.
Here‘s a sampling of what I was able to produce with this image. It‘s stylized but realistic, as I followed my strokes (loosely) based on a picture of an actual field here in Germany. There are wildflower fields like this all over the region where I live.
If you haven’t seen me in person for a couple of years, you might not recognize me. I’ve changed quite a bit.
Below is a picture of me before the pandemic, before I got cancer, before I was faced with a family crisis that is today still unresolved. Basically, before the cack hit the ventilator.
October 2018
That month in particular was very important to me. It marked several points of transition in my life.
I attended the Frankfurt Book Fair, which I love to do. I’d been there before, but health issues had kept me from going for a couple of years. In 2018, I felt strong enough to attend again. The fair is very exciting, but for someone whose health isn’t optimal, it’s also draining.
The event is the largest international book fair in the world. Being an accredited blogger means that I get a Press Pass for that event. I had access to secured rooms and that made me feel like a super spy!
Shortly before, I got admitted into an exclusive writer’s convention hosted by a literary agency. It meant that in 2019, I would be flying to America to meet several editors, agents and fellow writers.
Plans to visit London and Stonehenge for the first time ever were in the making (and it happened, 2019) and I had just gotten a pay increase as a teacher.
In June 2020, in the midst of the pandemic lockdown, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Doctors told me that it was the most aggressive kind of tumor, very rare, and that it had already reached Stage Three. Chemotherapy was a must.
September 2021
This is me at the hospital where I’ve been treated for breast cancer since June 2020. Hanging on the wall behind me is a print of one of my paintings, on metal. It’s in the waiting room of the Oncology Department. This was a very special moment for me.
From the first moment I’d found a small, strange lump to the meeting when my doctor told me the biopsy results, I could feel the tumor getting larger and hotter. It was burning me. In talking to fellow cancer patients, I’ve learned that this is unusual.
Typically, women don’t feel their tumor(s) at all. Breast cancer can be sneaky and that’s why regular checks with a gynecologist are so essential, especially for women who have breastfed.
July 2021
This is me the day I got my second Covid-19 vaccination. It landed on the anniversary of my first chemotherapy session, July 28, 2020.
People ask me why I celebrate the first day of chemotherapy. I do that because it marks a time in my life where I endured so much, so many things that I never would have thought myself capable of surviving.
But I did survive it. It’s a day that’s currently more important to me than my birthday. Maybe when I’m over 100 I’ll feel differently about that.
You can see my hair is growing back pretty well at this point, and it’s curly! And also rather white! That tank top is kind of significant too, because it’s one I purchased at a clothier near my chemo rehab clinic in Freiburg.
It was at the rehab clinic that I started wearing make-up again, daily. The experience there was actually extremely social, which was especially helpful to me. Being around other cancer patients was wonderful, because it meant I could talk freely about what I’d been going through without scaring anyone.
It was also super important to just be around people again because while I’d been going through chemotherapy, we were in a lockdown. The best part of having cancer during a pandemic lockdown is that most people are wearing a mask. That’s actually really important to someone who’s getting chemo because the immune system is just getting hammered.
April 2021
This is me at the Chemotherapy Rehabilitation Center in Freiburg. I was starting to feel better here, as at this point I was done with chemo and surgery. You can see my eyebrows are coming back.
At that time, it was still quite difficult for me to move my arm (due to the surgery). Actually, there was a lot that I couldn’t really do. The chemo caused nerve damage in my hands and feet, so I was very clumsy and movements were unreliable and weak.
I could not curl my toes, for example. It was painful and difficult for me to bend my fingers. Stuff like that.
Learning how to move, how to do any kind of sports again without hurting myself, was essential to my recovery. At the clinic, I was able to learn all that. I wouldn’t be doing so well now if it weren’t for my experiences there.
Chemotherapy made all my hair fall out, of course. But once it grew back, it came back curly and considerably more white. As a result, I could easily walk past people I knew without being recognized until I said something.
February 2021
This is me after I got to come back home after my mastectomy.
While my hair started coming back much sooner than I expected, certain bald spots were still obvious.
You can see in this picture that my face is somewhat swollen. It felt strange, a little as if I’d been to the dentist.
It was a side effect of the surgery (actually, the drugs needed for that surgery), but more than that I just don’t know.
Most of the time, I only took my picture if I felt like I could manage a smile. But there was one time where I decided to photograph myself feeling miserable (just below). I wanted a reminder, something to mark a low point as exactly that: something I would overcome, and where in the future I could look back at it and say, “I overcame that.”
I did not know that I would be able to ever do that, but I did hope. I think that’s significant, that pinch of hope.
February 2021
Ugly, right? Brows: all gone.
So this is me doing a pretty good job looking like a Sith Lord. I had definitely embraced the Dark Side here. Fear, doubt, anger – all that.
It’s me before the mastectomy. This was a bad day, though nowhere near my lowest point. I’d had considerably worse days than this. But on this day, I was extremely afraid of the coming surgery.
I felt that absolutely nothing in my life was right, nothing was going well at all. Everything sucked. This was of course not true and I did realize that I truly did have a lot going for me.
I was able to get the mastectomy that I needed. I had family that was supportive of me, and friends who sent me funny messages to make me feel better. All in all, I had it pretty damn good.
But I can forgive myself for the dark days. I felt like crap and I was in a lot of pain – pain of every kind there is. I think it’s ok to own that. Pretending there’s no reason to be angry is also unhealthy. I had reasons.
Wigs were absolutely a MUST HAVE for me. I was completely bald for about 9 months. I mean like an egg. I had this great idea of filming a short story where my bald head could have a starring role as the Far Off Planet, upon which small toy-characters would enact a plot.
It was my dream to do this for my niece, as she had sewn for me a little giraffe toy, Ginni Pelosi Giraffi. But I couldn’t gather the energy to do it. I was just so sick so much of the time, it took a lot out of me to just exist. I was very busy with that. Full schedule.
Making even a short film does take time and energy. I’m still bummed about that. Missed my window to get my noggin on film!
What I was able to do was to doodle on my iPad. Sometimes I could manage some painting, but that required more energy, and less feeling like I needed to vomit. But it’s during this time I started creating designs on RedBubble. It was fun being able to share my artwork on a public platform and to get it produced.
Browse through those designs on my RedBubble PROFILE HERE.
I could not write fiction. Fiction is far too demanding and my brain could not find words – not in that way.I did try. But more than sit with a pen in my hand? Nope. That’s as far as I got. Chemo sucks.
I always wore a hat of some sort with my wigs, otherwise I just looked like a transvestite. My era of wig wearing was mostly in 2020. I had fun with it, playing with different looks. All me, just different aspects of me. I could have teamed up with Sherlock Holmes, no problem.
January 12, 2021
This is me getting one of my last chemo doses. As I recall, I was thinking at the time, “I look pretty good today.”
I look like hell, in fact. But as the chemo phase came to an end, the toll was obvious even on a good day.
Interestingly, my hair started to return before the treatments stopped.
But then my eyebrows finally gave out. They held on for quite a while though.
I went through two courses of chemo cocktails. First one cocktail for a few months, and then another cocktail for several months.
The longest chemo session I had to have was close to seven hours. A short session was about three hours.
October 2021
As I write (October 4, 2021), this is the most recent picture of me. I’m 100% cancer free!
I’m still going through antibody treatments. They’re pretty ok after chemo, really. Just a needle in my leg for ten minutes, a blood test and I can go home. Nothing like before.
Though the treatments do have chemo-similar side effects, they’re much lighter. I’m lucky here too, because my doses will be finite. They’ll end early January.
I’ve got plans again (other than: don’t barf) and I can write fiction again. It’s a big deal for me. A really big deal.
I still have nerve damage, but I have physical therapy and I exercise daily to help my body heal.
I’ve decided that I won’t be getting my breast rebuilt. For me, it just isn’t worth it, but it wasn’t easy for me to make this decision.
Read More about my reasons behind not going through reconstructive surgery RIGHT HERE.
I created this for my mom, Mother’s Day 2021. It’s a quiet and contemplative place, a little corner with pink and a bench to sit on, a place for a light breeze to sweep away the stress. It’s a place where someone can be alone or with another special person, to talk.
I really love this design. And I do know that mistletoe is a parasite. It doesn’t matter. It’s beautiful and the symbolic importance of the plant has been around since the pagans. The berries are said to be the tears of a goddess who mourned her lost love. So get the kissy-kissy stuff going!
To me, mistletoe is a warm, giggle-making plant that bears the tradition of making everyone smile, hug and kiss. Any excuse will do! If you’re wearing this, you’ll be better off than the neighborhood chimney sweep.
As a design, the color palette is striking, with bold colors that are going to look great – no matter the weather – with a slightly batik inspiration, texturally.
MiniskirtSpiral Notebook (choose paper)Scarf (140 x 140cm)A-line DressGraphic T-shirt DressComforter (choose from 5 sizes)
As someone who’s going through chemotherapy, I’ve found that people often want to know what it’s like for me. And when I start to explain it, they typically want to know more. I think it’s natural to be curious and to even have a certain fascination with what I’m experiencing.
And truly, it is fascinating. Even for the cancer patient. At least – for this one. An aunt of mine died of breast cancer when I was a kid, and I’ve learned that quite a bit has changed since then.
Not all breast cancer is the same breast cancer.
Not all breast cancer is the same – so not all chemotherapy is the same. Not these days. About thirty years ago – yes. If you had breast cancer, you went through the same chemical treatment as any other patient with breast cancer. Fortunately, we’ve learned quite a bit in the past decades and that knowledge has changed how it’s treated.
Breast cancer describes only the location. That’s it. There are many kinds of tumors that might be found there. Some grow very slowly and some are highly aggressive. Some are caused or influenced by hormones and some are not. Some tumors are common and some are rare.
So the type of breast cancer determines the chemical cocktail the patient needs. It also determines if the cancer can be beaten without chemotherapy or not. In some cases, radiation is needed. But in all cases, the tumor has to go. It cannot stay.
About my cancer.
The type of cancer I’m currently battling is extremely aggressive and it’s also very rare. When the doctors talk to me about it, they can’t help but show how excited they are. They are, in fact, scientists, and my funky tumor calls out to their secret Mad Scientist to come and play.
It’s their love of science that’s going to save my bacon, so their not-at-all-hidden excitement with the rarity of my cancer is a good thing. I’m like a hobby. Saving my life is fun!
Port or no port?
I have a port, or chemo port. Not everyone with breast cancer needs one of these. If they don’t, they get a regular IV. My port was surgically installed just below my collar bone, which means I’m a little bit of a cyborg! It also means I don’t have to go through this looking like a junkie.
I am extremely grateful for the existence of my port. When I did a bit of research to see who I should thank for this nifty thing, I discovered it’s something that has slowly been developed by many people over many decades. So my thanks goes to the diligence of many people who bothered to give a damn.
Sitting in the chair, which is much like a barber’s chair and considerably more comfortable than an airplane (check that: chemo is more comfortable than flying, folks), I’ve noticed that some of the women can stay awake and even get up to chat while they’re on chemo. They’re clearly on very different stuff. When I’m in chemo, I’m just seriously drugged. It’s hard for me to keep my eyes open.
My chemotherapy goes like this…
Because my cancer is aggressive, my chemotherapy is also aggressive. Some of the women going through chemo with me are in and out of their chairs in a couple of hours or less. Some only need maybe half an hour. Currently, a short day for me is four hours. A longer day (every third week) is six hours minimum.
When I started chemotherapy, I was on a different chemical cocktail than I am now. At that time, I was going to the hospital once every third week for chemo. But every week, I went to my gynecologist for bloodwork tests.
If the test results were poor, I’d get a call from the hospital later that day. Sometimes I’d need more medicine, sometimes I’d need to give myself a shot, and once I needed to move into the hospital and stay there under quarantine.
How it is for me right now…
I’m now taking different drugs with my chemo, so I go to the hospital two days a week. Wednesday is my weighing and bloodwork day, and Thursday is chemo day. Wednesday determines whether I’m fit enough for the full dose of chemo planned.
The chemo doesn’t hurt me. Not in the chair. I’ve noticed though that for some women, the process causes them some discomfort. For me, the discomfort and pain comes the next day. The day of – I’m just really out of it.
It’s the days following chemo where I need to get through various side effects. They aren’t fun, but I have found ways to deal with them. I think I’m doing ok.
But the most important thing? Deciding I’m going to make it. That for me was the most important step.
Her answer: “I don’t know! It just feels more personal.” This idea came to me as I was thinking about my folks and the video call we were going to have the next day.
This drawing was actually my first stab at creating a comic panel, something I’ve always wanted to do. Very hard work, but super fun.
I just really like this. I started first with the thought of fingerprints, and how each is unique. If you read my blog about My Strangest Chemo Side Effect, you know about how the chemo treatment has erased my fingerprints. So that was on my mind.
It’s winter, and while we haven’t had any snow yet, it’s something I both expect and hope to see. A quiet snowfall is peaceful. These ideas were in my head and I started drawing this. It started as a traditional doily, very classic, and changed as I worked on it.
There’s a bit of a floral slant, a bit of a peacock feather, and a bit of a compass. I don’t know what all was in my head, but I like the result.
The original artwork an illustration of actual orchids and a bird figurine that once hung on the edge of the pot (the figurine has since fallen one too many times and broken). These orchids are quite special to me, because they were a present from my mother in-law on my very first Mother’s Day. They’re now fourteen years old.
I wanted some of the products with this design to be delicate and light, and for others to be more bold. The dark background is a deep and warm brown – almost black, but not quite. I especially love how this looks on ceramic and stainless steel.
Wrap-Around Hardback Journal (choice of paper)
I decided to keep this a very limited series, so a good number of products that were once available on RedBubble have been discontinued.
I’ve shared this comic panel (my second one EVER) with some of my friends and the response has been both varied and extreme. I was so uncertain by the feedback, I considered just sticking this in a drawer forever. One close friend who loves me said this joke hurt her.
Most said they were impressed by the artwork and could intellectually get the joke and why it would be funny to ME – someone going through chemotherapy right now.
But then I realized – that’s how humor is. Humor is funny that way. Ahem.
It was my dear friend Celeste who told me to just go for it. The Gallows (chemo) Humor and the sentiment in it is something I need, and it’s my guess that other cancer patients out there will get a good laugh out of this.
Celeste says it’s important to laugh through the pain and that feels right to me. As someone fighting cancer, this is just absolutely hilarious. It rings TRUE.
Shown below are five products I’ve designed, though more options are available.
I’m showcasing the items a cancer patient generally needs when going to the hospital for another chemotherapy session. Utmost priority: a water bottle (or travel mug for tea) to stay hydrated and flush the chemo drugs through your system. If you don’t drink enough, the chemo can cause permanent damage to your bladder.
Cancer TIP: Green Tea has been proven in several scientific tests to shrink tumors. Make sure your green tea is without caffeine so that you won’t get the jitters.
Also important for a chemo patient: a scarf to stay warm, a zipper pouch to keep the pills and/or shot they give you to take home that day, and a simple bag to keep everything together, with straps that drape over the arm of your chemo chair for easy access. (Otherwise your bag is just on the floor.)
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