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Staring and pointing

This past weekend, as I buckled my daughters into their car seats outside of a store, I got that prickly feeling on the back of my neck, that feeling where you know you’re being watched. I didn’t have to look far to see a family leaning against a brick wall across from my car. I saw two little girls whispering.

“Huh? Who?” said one of them, craning her neck and squinting her eyes as she flitted her head around like a little bird.

“There,” hissed the other girl in an annoyed tone. And, even though I saw her see me looking right at her, she pointed firmly, right at me, and stressed, “THERE. That lady is bald.”

Her friend looked at her, sort of bewildered.

I rolled my eyes and started to get in the car, but then felt compelled to say something to the little brat.

I got back out of the car and leaned my elbows on the roof.

“You’re right,” I told the hissing girl in the most patient voice I could muster. “I am bald. That’s what happens when you have cancer and have to take a medicine called chemotherapy. But my hair will come back soon.”

“Yes,” said a woman, who I assumed to be the girl’s mom. “We know about chemotherapy. One of our friends had chemotherapy last year,” she said deliberately, moving toward her daughter and giving her an I’m-going-to-kill-you-when-we-get-home look.

The mom’s embarrassed look prevented me from saying anything else.

Like: “You know, people with cancer have it hard enough, and they shouldn’t have to endure stares and pointing from people in public. If you want to talk about it, that’s OK, but maybe you could wait until the person is out of earshot to do it. Or, since I am wearing a bandanna and not a wig, you could conclude that I am not really trying to hide the fact that I am bald and would therefore welcome honest inquiries. I have gotten those and don’t mind them at all.”

Driving home after speaking to that girl, I felt a little silly about the whole incident, wondering whether I had traumatized her or something. At least she won’t be talking about people and pointing that nasty little finger at folks in public anytime soon.

I don’t think it’s too much to expect, even from young kids (as long as they’re at an age where they can understand, like the girl in question most assuredly was), that children can be polite in front of people who are different. I teach at a girls’ school, where I walked around in my little cancer hats in front of 500 kids from grades 4 through 12, and I have to say that, for the most part, the students were pretty easygoing about my before Spring Break I had hair, and after Spring Break I have hats look.

While I deeply appreciated these kids’ politeness, my favorite approach, though, is still from the 4 and 5 year old set, who just ask you what they want to know: “Do you have any hair?” “Where is your hair?” “Will your hair ever grow back?” “Why are you bald?”

And, there are my daughters, who simply kiss my bald head and tell me that I am beautiful.

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Lemon be the one

Like everybody, we love to listen to music in the car. Two of our favorite story CDs are Seal Maiden and Gift of the Tortoise. Both are excellent CDs, very musical, with captivating stories full of powerful images that fire up Dinah’s and Djuna’s imaginations.

We listen to great music, too. We love Dan Zanes’ CD Catch That Train and we also love Jazz for Kids: Sing, Clap, Wiggle and Shake. And if you know anything at all about my husband, you won’t be surprised to hear that he has already started teaching our daughters about the Beatles. It’s obligatory.

The favorite song of the moment then shows up when the girls are swinging at the park. A few weeks ago, Dinah and Djuna were all about Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds — at top volume.

Lately, my husband has been playing the Carpenters in the car. Dinah, especially, is completely enchanted with them and is learning the lyrics to every song.

So now, Dinah’s swinging song of choice is Rainy Days and Mondays. Picture an adorable, blonde 4-year-old girl-child soaring on a swing, feet practically touching the sky, singing Rainy Days and Mondays. Every time she gets to the chorus, “Rainy days and Mondays al-ways get me-e down,” I crack up. It’s so funny to see a sweet, happy child singing about having the blues.

This morning, they were practicing the words to Let Me Be The One. They were having a great time singing LOUD in the car, and then continued singing even after we got out and started walking toward the day camp sign-in.

Djuna’s version of the chorus to Let Me Be The One is “Lemon be the one.”

So that’s what is running through my head this morning as I sit with Dwayne at Zephyr, an awesome local coffee shop: Lemon be the one.

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Thoughts on clowns

We had mixed feelings about it, but last night we went with some friends to the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus at the Staples Center to see their new show “Over the Top.”

Mainly, I was concerned about giving my daughters a lifetime of nightmares from the clowns, which I found creepy and most un-funny when I was little. Also, I was wondering how I’d feel about the performing wild animals.

But we decided that the circus is a valuable cultural experience, so we coughed up the ticket price (and the convenience charges) and went.

As it turned out, we had to cross a PETA picket line to get in, and I felt terrible. One of the PETA activists gave Dinah and Djuna some stickers that read: “I’m an ele-friend. Circuses are no fun for animals.” My daughters said, “Oh, thank you!” and wore the stickers into the show.

My friends, the circus is not what it used to be. A bag of cotton candy is $12, a box of popcorn is $7 (and, uh, parking was $20). The toys and souvenirs didn’t really inspire my 4-year-old daughters, and if you can’t inspire a couple of eager 4-year-olds to want a circus souvenir, something is wrong. There were no peanuts or any cool circus candy (except for all-day suckers they sold when you were leaving at 10 p.m.) We did buy the girls a little stuffed toy, but the biggest hit the morning after was actually the most economical thing we got — coloring books for 4 bucks.

Moreover, the show is not the Greatest Show on Earth, as it is billed. Overall, it was a satisfactory presentation. Pretty good, but not great. Maybe I am just hankering for my childhood, when my grandparents took my sister and I to an old fashioned circus where everyone walked to the big top, which sat out in the middle of a big grassy field. I remember circus treats and circus smells and all the wonkiness of people working hard to entertain you in the dead heat of summer, with those fat, lazy Maine mosquitoes hunkering everywhere in the humidity. Now, THAT’S a circus.

First of all, last night’s ringmaster’s script was dull, with a running gag where the clowns kept stealing the guy’s hat, you know, the ringmaster’s hat that makes HIM the ringmaster because of its symbolic significance. It didn’t feel like there was enough of the traditional ringmaster banter, like “Laaa-deees and gennnntlemen, IN the center ring, witness the death-defying feats of the one-and-only Spaaaaa-deee-neeee!” There was some of it, but not enough to make it feel like a real circus. By the end of the show, I wanted to steal his hat too.

I was also not a fan of the quasi S & M section, where the dancers had bike handles coming out of their costumes at the hips. Call me a prude, but that was just plain odd.

I really liked the trained dogs and the pretty white ponies with purple feathers on their heads — seeing domesticated animals perform was actually fun. These animals appeared healthy and happy, especially the dogs. The dogs had these gleaming coats and engaged in a joyful performance where they ran at breakneck speed through an obstacle course and caught Frisbees. But watching wild animals perform — like a tiger jumping on its hind legs or an elephant laying on its side — was just icky and weird.

The traditional acts, like the high flying acts, were pretty good. Also, there was a neat act where the acrobats jumped and did tricks on these giant inner-tube things that were turned on their sides.

But the real hit of the show, we all thought, was Tom Doughtery, the lead clown. He was excellent! I honestly have never really seen a clown I liked, but I found myself genuinely laughing at his antics. My daughters loved him too and talked about him all the way home. They understood his gags and his storylines. I was pleasantly surprised.

The finale of the show was pretty, with black lights and huge fluorescent flowers.

The best moment, though, was not even in the show. When clown Tom’s toupee flew off during a gag, revealing his bald head, my electrified daughter Dinah shrieked across the aisle at top volume: “MAMA! Clown Tom is bald JUST LIKE YOU ARE!”

We all laughed so hard that our own toupees flew off. Coming to the circus was a good idea after all.

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Done with chemo and hankering for a new pair of shoes (Is that odd?)

Yesterday was the last of eight rounds of chemotherapy. It really feels great to be done, but I am a little nervous because now there is no more “medicine” for me — that’s in quotation marks because chemotherapy is the medicine to help me get better from breast cancer, sure, but it is so toxic that it’s more like poison. Is, actually. Yesterday the chemo nurse said that once she dropped some Adriamycin (one of the drugs I had) on her finger and it burnt her so badly that she had to seek treatment.

Sure, there is surgery ahead to remove whatever’s left of the tumor (I had chemo first to shrink the honking thing) and radiation, too, I imagine (they’re going to throw the kitchen sink at me, and why not?), but still, chemotherapy is the medicine for cancer.

And I’m done with it.

And I’m still alive.

I want to continue the healing process with something less toxic than chemotherapy but that still offers as much firepower. Now I feel ready to get into some meditation and visualization and alternative forms of healing. I’m looking into books and tapes by Tara Brach, Deepak Chopra, Louise Hay, and Jon Kabat-Zinn. While I was going through chemo, just getting through and taking care of my family and going to work was all I could handle. I was able to make good progress in bringing myself around to the present and in sitting with gratitude for my many blessings (of which there are many and for which I’m overwhelmingly grateful). Now, it’s summer and I’m off from work, and I think I can concentrate on taking it deeper.

Except, instead of getting into meditation right away, since the end of chemo yesterday, I have been thinking about getting a new pair of shoes. Is that wrong? Wanting a new pair of shoes for no other reason than greed, desire and yes, hot longing, is pretty much the opposite of Zen Buddhism and the types of energies I’ll need to channel to do healing meditation and to practice daily mindfulness and gratitude.

And why shoes? Buying shirts feels weird now because I don’t know what my new shape will be after surgery (more about THAT another time). Buying pants feels wrong now, too, because I lost some weight after my diagnosis, and since I didn’t mean to lose it, I’m not sure if it will stay off.

So, I keep thinking about shoes.

But what to get? Some sexy Mary Janes by Born? Engineer boots? A retro sneaker? A hip, vegan walking shoe by J41? Something comfy and great-looking for work when I go back in the fall?

Down, girl, easy.

You know, even though I have quite a bit of treatment ahead of me, I just feel celebratory. The house is full of flowers from well-wishers, there is a deadly chocolate mousse cake in the fridge from my sweet husband, and my adorable daughters keep kissing my bald head saying they are glad I’m done with kermit-thermanies so that now my hair (and eyebrows and eyelashes) can start to grow back. A dear friend came over last night and we got take-out Chinese food (very yummy to me after chemo — explain that?!), and we dug into that cake.

And I’ve gotten the gift of another day with my family.

How that all feeds into a hankering for shoes, I don’t know. But somehow, it seems to fit. A sturdy new pair of shoes will be just the thing a body needs to help take the first steps of a long journey.