Purse Traditions

On an elevator ride from the 21st floor to the ground, I did the following: pulled a tissue out of a pocket tissue holder in my purse and blew my nose, pulled a lipstick container with little pocket mirror out of my purse and reapplied my lipstick, and pulled a piece of gum out of my purse and chewed it.

As the doors opened on the ground floor I realized that all three things I carried in my purse were things I associated with my mother and grandmother's purses.

For both women I have distinct mental images of them taking lipstick out of their purse and applying it before getting out of the car to go to the store. I remember both women being able to whip a tissue out of their purse and wipe my face as ice cream or snot dripped down it during a drive.

Whenever my cousin and I wanted a candy and couldn't find one in the kitchen or some candy dish, we relied on finding a spare in my grandmother's purse. She was generous with her supply and had an "open purse" policy. My mother did not. She would share, but she guarded her stash.

As a teenager, I thought the pocket tissue pack and pocket mirror were fussy and vowed to never carry them. It seemed that holding a spare tissue and looking in a shop window would suffice. Besides, I tried to go out without carrying a purse at all. It seemed really uncool to haul so much stuff around.

I didn't break down and get the lipstick case and tissue pack until I was in my late 30s. Almost every time I use them I am reminded of the many ways that I have followed the habits of my mother and grandmother.

In some respects it seems like a defeat because I feel the need to cart around a bunch of stuff and fuss about how I look and what I smell like. On the other hand, I am prepared for an impromptu job interview. Ultimately, I'd rather endure the nuisance of schlepping around a small pack of tissues, gum, lipstick, and pocket mirror than go to a meeting with lips looking like they belong on Casper the Friendly Ghost, bad breath, and snot sliding out of my nose.

The Unexpected

With the exception of two friends who inspired me to start this blog, I didn't provided any of my friends with links to it. I wanted to write anonymously so it would free me to write without self censure.

It turns out that a friend accidentally found my blog when she happened to see a comment I left on another blog and followed my profile link. This is how she found out that my biopsy was positive for skin cancer.

When she emailed to inquire about my health and to offer help, she mentioned that the situation kind of felt like reading a room mate's open journal. Of course, my postings have been placed on the Internet for anyone to read so that isn't the case.

On the one hand, I felt abashed for not communicating directly with friends about my health situation but on the other hand I don't want to thrust my problems on them. Frankly, I reread the posting about my fears regarding scarring and felt foolish. That said, what I wrote reflected what I felt at the time. The concern may be petty, but it was one that occupied my thoughts that day and is one that I thought others experiencing similar unknowns may share and reflect upon.

That this friend discovered such timely and personal information about me in this way is an interesting chain of events and a contemporary circumstance that will probably not be unique for long. My evaluation of the situation is evolving. There are both positive and negative aspects to it, and probably many outcomes that I cannot or am not equipped to anticipate.

When I am facing a potential negative outcome, I tend to acknowledge that something positive could happen but not focus on it.

There are several positive outcomes to this situation that I would not have expected. First, it confirmed that I have dear, caring friends. Second, it revealed that someone read my posting and that it resulted in a connection. Third, I reaffirmed that I wanted to keep my blog as it is.

Finally, my doctor confirmed that all of the bad cells were removed. I got my stitches out today and the scar isn't nearly as bad as I imagined it would be.

Good Attitude

Tonight a man sitting on my subway train was wearing several buttons on his jacket. This one caught my eye: I heart being black.

Fabulous

Today I took the 6 train to meet a friend at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The trains were packed and there was a crush of people trying to get on the stairs to exit the station at 86th Street.

A young Latino man was directly behind me talking on his cell phone. I heard him say "There is this lady in front of me wearing a fabulous fur hat." Then this dude in baggy jeans, gold chains, and reverse baseball cap continued to make plans to meet his friends at the sporting gear store.

This is about the third time this week I've heard a straight man use the F word. When did they claim the term fabulous?

Ruined

About a year ago I read a Victorian novel that included the term, "ruined" to describe a family that had declared bankruptcy. I wrote down the term and usage in a notebook because it struck me as odd. People go bankrupt but their lives continue. In the past couple of decades I knew several people who declared bankruptcy to have their debts cleared and to start anew.

So the use of this term led me to wonder what could ruin a person.

I never answered the question, but a new play, Ruined, at the Manhattan Theater Club explores it. The second I read about it, I was curious to see it.

I got to see the show last night. Basically, it follows the lives of a small group of people associated with a brothel in the Congo. The sex workers are women who have been raped by soldiers and shunned by their husbands, families, and villages. The rape stigma and the war conditions have narrowed their options to a life in the brothel or on the dangerous streets. Some of the women have bodies so brutally damaged by soldiers, they are considered "ruined."

The play explores different forms of caring (employer, uncle, lover, husband, mother) and coping (fight, appease all sides, flee, drink, make art, become callous). It offers a picture of the dire situation in the Congo and the great difficulties faced by people who remain in the area.

I think of ruin as near total loss. While the women in this play (and those who have actually suffered similar circumstances) have had a great loss, they are still able to function. So the brutalized women in this play are not ruined -- they sing, dance, work, and love again, but the application of the term to their condition presented many issues worth pondering.

I am Not Going to Freak Out

The moment I heard that Dr. Goldman left a message on my voicemail, I knew it wasn't going to be good news.

In addition to biopsies in my intestines, I also had a biopsy of a small growth on my shoulder last week. In comparison to the colonoscopy, this procedure at the dermatologist was an after thought.

In fact, I had watched the thing bloom on my shoulder for months before pointing it out during my annual exam. It didn't display the classic characteristics of skin cancer: dark color or irregular border. Dr. Goldman gave me a cream to put on it, and I expected it to go away.

But a month later it was still there and he did a biopsy.

Now I know it is basal cell carcinoma. Skin cancer.

I've had it before, and I am not as worked up as I was the first time. But I am still reeling from the fact that there is cancer in my body.

He thinks removal of more skin from the area will take care of it, but he wants it done quickly.

I have 3 lovely scars on my body where moles have been removed. It is incredibly petty, but I am depressed about getting a scar on my shoulder.

It feels like there is less and less of me that is still pretty and I am about to lose another pretty piece.

This reminds me of the ugly truths one learns while growing up. I tend to think these realizations -- parents have faults, a person who loves you one day can be indifferent the next day, people who seem nice can be dishonest -- happen in adolescence or young adulthood.

But I am confronted by disappointment over and over again. This is the way life is. As I age, I will look worse and worse. My diet, mobility, and energy will be curbed. And I have to learn ways to cope with it. This process will last a lifetime.

The Fantastic Voyage

The good news about expecting a pink slip is that I have been proactive about taking care of medical issues simmering on the back burner.

I've had gastrointestinal problems longer than I'd like to admit. There has been a painful tugging sensation behind my bellybutton since I was in junior high. I certainly have enough gynecological issues to attribute my symptoms to female problems, but I thought I better see a GI specialist while I still had insurance.

Naturally, he recommended I get a colonoscopy, a procedure I was hoping to avoid for at least another decade.

What a mine of dread and humor a colonoscopy is. I didn't want to admit to anyone that I was getting one, yet I wanted to vent my fears and gather information.

It turned out a few friends had the procedure and shared their experiences. This helped me brace for what was to happen. Frankly, what I imagined was much worse than what happened.

The preparation is awful, but Dr. Harary has it down to a science. I took a laxative drink on Friday night. On Saturday afternoon I took two laxative pills. I was apprehensive about all of these laxatives, but it turned out to be OK. I was able to go out on Saturday without any emergencies.

On Sunday, I ate no solid foods. Instead, I was restricted to clear broth, sorbet, jello, and clear sodas or tea. In the afternoon I started drinking this awful mixture called NuLytley. It was like drinking a gallon of oil. I drank 3 glasses in the first hour, but had difficulty getting down two glasses an hour each hour after that. The solution made me feel nauseous, so it was difficult to ingest the cause of the nausea. I didn't finish the gallon until midnight.

This solution clears the intestines. It requires many trips to the bathroom. I was worried that I would be up all night, but was able to sleep about 6 hours without interruption.

I expected to feel dehydrated and faint the next morning. I also worried about requiring emergency bathroom visits. Instead, I felt a little hunger and needed to use the restroom only about once an hour. I made it to the doctor's office via the subway without problem.

Anesthesiologists must be full of anecdotes. As I lay on the table with the IV inserted, he told me I might feel a burning sensation travel through my hand, up my arm, through my shoulder, and to my face. Sure enough, that happened. I said "My face is burning!" and was out.

As I emerged from consciousness, I had this idea that I was watching the "fantastic voyage" through my colon on the monitor in the surgical room. I dreamed I had a device where I could send a text message to the monitor. In my unconscious, I texted "This procedure is over." and saw the message on the monitor.

As the anesthesiologist wheeled me out of the room I mumbled, "Did you get my text?"

"What?" he asked.

"Did you get my text?" I said a little louder. "This procedure is over."

Then I lost consciousness again.

When I woke up, Dr. Harary was giving me instructions and having me sign papers. He told me they took a biopsy but not to worry about it. He asked how I felt, and I told him there was a pain behind my bellybutton.

"It's just gas." he told me and walked out of the room.

Gas! I felt so stupid complaining to the gastrointestinal specialist about gas.

Then a nurse walked in. She said we were going to deal with the gas. She had me turn to my other side. "Let it out." she told me. "Just relax and let it out."

My mind reeled. The nurse was encouraging me to fart for her! It would only have been more strange if she were wearing a cheerleading uniform and waving pom poms.

"Let it go." she coached, "Don't worry it's clean air."

Clean air! This made me laugh. It was true there was nothing in my intestine to add an aroma, but it just seemed wrong.

"I can't do that to you!" I told her.

She laughed. "Honey, this is a gastroenterologist's office. This is what we do!"

So I farted. And she said, "Good!"

It was a surreal moment.