As Christie checks in, her mind checks out — a new year, a new approach

New Year’s Eve celebrations have seemed less than satisfying in the past few years. Most parties are filled with couples and at the stroke of midnight I am the one standing off to the side gamely smiling. So I decided I would try something different, a personal 24 hour retreat to contemplate the year past and the year about to arrive.

On Friday afternoon I took myself off to an expensive local hotel and checked in. When I handed the completed form to the desk clerk, she read it through and stared at me. “You live in St. Paul?” I nodded. She gave me a piercing look and handed over my room key. As I walked to the elevators I could feel her eyes on me, and the little bag I carried. It was not until I reached my room that it dawned on me, Crikey; I’ve been put on suicide watch in a luxury hotel! I wondered if I should go back down to the desk and assure them I was sound in mind and spirit. Then decided that I may not be that convincing.

I was here to think, and not think. To let thoughts come and go and travel where they may. To examine some of my irrational fears, search for prejudices and pre-conceptions, try and discover what I wanted in my life and what steps I needed to take to make it happen. All this I would have to do while ordering room service every hour so that no-one would break the door down to see if I was “okay.”

Starting with irrational fears: fear of losing my house key and being locked out when no friend with a spare key was available. Solved. I have hidden a key outside and, because my memory is not as good as it once was (I can hear you laughing), I’ve put a note on the fridge door (which can be read through the kitchen window) saying ITS IN THE …. Fear of locking my key in the car, because of the insane auto-locking system. Solved. I do not lock my car anymore. Yes, I know that’s asking for it to be stolen, but honestly, it’s a 2001 VW Jetta with a permanent oxygen sensor problem. If anyone wants it, vaya con Dios my friend.

When I looked at these fears, I realized they seem to be pointing to a question about my single state, and also to some prejudices and something I may want. I have no partner to call to the rescue and make me laugh instead of cry. I have lots of friends but it’s not the same is it? Do I want to continue alone, or am I ready to share my life again? Can I find a special pal to please and who pleases me. Next steps? With light heart and open mind, I will get out there again and see if I run across a chap who is as willing to take a chance as me. Wish me luck. I’ll keep you posted.

Connie Stetson discovers a brave new world with adventure around every curve

As I write, it’s been a little over a week since Lee and I completed a month-long, nearly 300 mile journey through the sands of time. Literally. I am still rinsing the freaking sands of time out my gear.

My husband, with the Greenwood Expedition, party of 11, began a river trip at Lee’s Ferry near Glen Canyon Dam on Jan. 27th to raft the upper Grand Canyon. I left Fresno on Feb. 4th, flew to Flagstaff, took a shuttle bus to the South Rim, checked in at the Bright Angel Lodge, and at 8:30 am on Feb. 5th, I began my journey down, down, down, through snow and ice, mud and streams, more than ten miles, seven oceans, and millions of years of geologic time, (sorry, fundamentalists…that would be more than 6,000) — to meet them near Phantom Ranch on the mighty, muddy Colorado River. The next day, in a driving rainstorm, two walked out; and then we were ten, in four rafts, launching off into the rapids of the Grand Canyon.

How was it, you ask? It was exhausting, thrilling, challenging, beautiful, vexing, uncomfortable, cold, painful, quiet, noisy, scary, soothing, hard, transcendent, and nourishing. My body was bruised and torn, my skin became raw and chapped, my muscles strained and ached, I have never been so stinky filthy in my life, and I’ve lost four toenails—so far. I climbed a 3 0ft. boulder on rope ladder, and then bare-assed it down with two other wild women to swim the frigid blue pool at the bottom. We all gaped into the screaming maw of a rapid so fierce, loud, and scary my mouth went dry and my brain went numb, and all of us came out rejoicing on the other side. It was an experience I will never forget as long as I live, and I am humbled and awed by that place.

I am also grateful. For my darling Lee for encouraging and enabling my going, for Tracy and David Greenwood who organized the trip, the food, (barbequed ribs, no less), the boats, the gear, and accepted the serious responsibility for our safety and well-being, for the knowledge and skill of our boatmen, and to our fellow rafters for their hard work, support, and good humor. Grateful too, to be able to let go and embrace what cannot be controlled, to be able to say, “oh, fuck it”, to laugh loud and hard at myself, to still have the ability let each day uncover its mysteries, and to revel in it.

A brave new world lives within us all; we are the discoverers of mighty canyons, of plunging, icy, white waters, of unknown terrains, but that world is not just physical, it lies in our hearts, our imaginations, and in our willingness to engage. I am deeply grateful to be reminded of that.

Would I do it again? Hmmm—good question. I’m not sure about the Colorado River, but I would be up for another incredible river wilderness experience. Could we please find one cleaner than the Colorado? Also, I’m pretty sure I’ll never hike the Great Wall of China again nor climb Mt. Whitney one more time, but I’ve been nudged to keep going out there and to seek adventure as long as I’m able.

The one error in judgment I made was to book a room in Las Vegas the day we came off the river. Seemed like a good idea at the time, but I was wrong, wrong, wrong. It felt like one of the circles of hell from Dante’s Inferno, in fact, I think that was the name of the casino we stayed in. It was ugly, loud, jarring, creepy, sad, and just plain weird. Too much to take in after being alone with ten people in a wild place, and I’m pretty sure I never want to go to Vegas again. Ever.

I was happy to get home from the river and see my dogs and cats, but when I walked in the door and looked around our home after schlepping gear on and off our boats for weeks, I said to Lee, aghast, “Whatever are we going to do with all this shit? We’ll never fit it on the raft.”

Just as Dorothy tripped the light fantastic down the Yellow Brick Road, so of late have I.

I liken the start of 2010 to my own private storm—raggedy emotions and best-laid plans, turned upside down in quick succession. Perversely stubborn and independent, it’s begun to dawn on me that life is not created on will and persistence alone. In short, nothing in my life has been flowing with ease.

The most recent and hopefully final insult being a freak accident during a ski lesson (part of my “plan” to improve my skills, face my fears and get in the best shape possible) on a mogul made of ice topped with fresh powder. Going down, my pole stuck in the wrong position with my wrist trapped in the strap; I heard the snap, snap of two bones breaking.

Adding insult to injury, one of the first questions posed to me by the young brawny ski patrol was, “Have you had a bone density test?” If Kansas was my youth, I knew I wasn’t there anymore. To his credit, he was very skilled and he did refrain from calling me “ma’am”.

Duly splinted, “slinged” and tied into a gurney-like sled in a snowstorm, ski patrol guy skied me down one of the steepest mountains in North America. All the way down I heard a familiar refrain ringing in my ears. “Surrender Dorothy!” Funny how that happens since at that moment surrender was really my only option.

I don’t know how Dorothy interpreted the message but for me the effect was visceral, a relaxation into knowing that I don’t know…a damn thing.

Currently I am reading the book Lit by Mary Karr. When Mary questions what it means to surrender she is told:

Yield up what scares you. Yield up what makes you want to scream and cry. Enter into that quiet. It’s a cathedral. It’s an empty football stadium with the lights on. And pray to be an instrument of peace.

Sliding down the hill, injured, in the hands of a stranger becomes just another part of the journey, a spiritual journey akin to Dorothy’s—demons and all. “Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!”

I know in the great scheme of things, a broken wrist is not a big deal. It has, however, forced some awakening and also made me realize in the most clichéd way how much I take for granted. Needless to say I have had to yield a lot. Or more plainly speaking, getting my pants on constitutes a good day.

Believing that the Scarecrow, Lion and Tin Man were simply aspects of Dorothy’s self, I have adopted them as my own for the time being. As I write this I am typing with only my left hand, a practice I have also had to extend to my previously good handwriting.

Thus in a peculiar homage to the Scarecrow I am developing the alternate side of my brain, and I am told, warding off early onset dementia.

Sitting in the quiet, accepting what I cannot do and asking for help is humbling. These things when mixed with practical challenges such as sheets of ice in the driveway require a digging down deep on my part, relying on faith and summoning courage.

The heart part I am finding in the prayers.

And pray to be an instrument of peace.

Prayer has as many interpretations as people who practice it. For me it’s often a simple plea, “Help”. Sometimes it’s a silent interaction with the natural world such as the resident magpie on my fence. But heart, I’m finding is also about extending patience and tenderness toward loved ones and myself. Acceptance brings peace.

With two more weeks of imposed stillness, I am hoping I can make solid friends with the silence and carry it always as a reminder of all the things I do know but had for some months lost sight of. “Surrender Dorothy!” then becomes a most valuable mantra.

photo by M.A. Howden

The change of season has Melissa Howden working on her equilibrium.

We just hurtled into fall. The autumnal equinox has just taken place. But lest you think you’ve missed anything, know this; the actual equinox (etymology = equal & night) actually takes place several days after the event depending upon where you are, geographically speaking.

In my neck of the woods, we will experience equal amounts of day and night within a minute on the 25th and 26th of the month. What does any of this mean? Generally speaking it means that the Sun rises directly in the east and sets directly in the west. It is a turning point—literally—in the year, the seasons being determined by the tilt of the Earth on its axis. It is also the time when we enter into the astrological constellation of Libra, the sign of balance on the scales.

THIS is where metaphor is made manifest. I find this time especially meaningful if not extremely challenging. I’ve been off kilter, out of step, unsure of my center, off my game, call it what you will it has not been especially pretty.

Simply put, I. AM. OUT. OF. BALANCE!

So with the arrival of the equinox, I welcome the possibility for some kind of return to balance.

This is the first time in over 30 years that I have lived in place with distinct seasons. I have almost lived here for a full cycle of seasons. I can say that summer went too fast and autumn is throwing itself toward winter with great abandon. Flip flops have already been traded in for down jackets.

Given my internal unrest I have been trying to learn the lessons the seasons have to offer. September brings the last day of summer and the first day of fall. I am awash in bushels of apples off of my tree, soon to become pies and cider, and plums and peaches off friend’s trees soon to be jam.

Here in the Southwest, the Native Americans believe that the Sky is Father, Earth is Mother and the Great Mystery contains aspects of both. We are the seed, the seed is intention and the ground in which we are cultivated is our will. The perfect balance makes all things possible. Therein lies the rub.

How does one achieve perfect balance? For an object to have definition there needs to be a balance of light and shadow in order to give it shape, indeed life—in effect the yin and the yang of it all. I have an overabundance of one hormone and not enough of another. I am weighted heavily toward technology and not enough in the zone of poetry and nature.

I find amidst all this harvest abundance that I cannot get enough air; the smallness of this town has its benefits and also claustrophobic drawbacks. Finding the place between impulse and intuition is proving to be a monumental challenge.

I have watched the leaves on the maple tree through my kitchen window go from green to red without stopping at orange. They will soon be last season’s artifacts. It seems as though the meadow grass I planted in my back orchard pushed through just in time to welcome the snow, and the flower pots no sooner got planted than it’s time to bring them in. How does this happen that the seemingly timeless becomes time limited in a flash?

So as I seek balance, so too does the season of equal light and dark; my overabundance of a particular hormone can be counteracted by increasing exercise. The technology can be self-limited as one does a child’s television viewing, replaced with more time on a trail, or mulching the fruit trees and planting bulbs.

As with cooking, when one adds a pinch of salt or a dash of cumin, achieving life balance seems to be nothing more than trial and error.

And sometimes, one simply has to gracefully accept the fact that the pie is just too tart.

Strongman Eugen Sandow, 1893, Library of Congress

I want to sing the praises of good men. Men who teach, love and protect children. Men who deny their own needs in order to put their families first. Men who really like and seek the company of women. Men who are called to service, or art, or creation, or justice; who can fix broken things, can build and farm, who cook, and men who use their strength to stand for those who cannot.

It often becomes so easy for women in our righteous anger, disappointment, frustration and worse, real fear, to disparage our brothers. Some of the most hilarious, satisfying, nasty conversations I have with my girlfriends are over martinis and indulging in a little cock talk. (And you can take that any way you want.)

But it hurts my soul to feel that we need to see men as adversaries, that we feel the need to brace ourselves in their presence waiting to see if we’ll be assaulted, and that we feel essentially unsafe in their company. So we get snarky and funny, and blame them for what has and has not happened to us in our lives. Of course, lots of women, me included, have real reasons for arming ourselves. I am a rape survivor and other women have endured worse and more than I, and so many more have not survived their encounters with damaged, brutal men.

Yet, I just had a call from an old boyfriend who wept tears of joy because he’s found true love again in his midlife and I have married a good man who would stand in front of a moving train rather than see me hurt. And all my male friends, funny and sweet, who almost never get the grace to allow themselves to crack, who have also had their souls injured—(who among us has not?) I often wonder who is actually carrying the heaviest burden, women—who are still not free and equal—or men, who have been socialized to deny their authentic hearts?

What would it feel like to be truly equal? To shed our prejudices, pride and pain, and just look into the eyes of a man and see simply another human being?

In my fifties, I long for more understanding, compassion and forgiveness. I have a deep need to release myself from the quagmire of my past and move forward to a more peaceful, productive, reasonable place. I am far from that place right now, but sisters and brothers; it’s where I’d like to be, and it is all about the journey, isn’t it?

When will women stop being such people pleasers?

Case in point: “Goody Two Shoes” is an expression reserved for females. It conjures up images of a child, a dimpled Shirley Temple-type, in a starched white dress, bobby socks and Mary Janes. “No more Mister Nice Guy,” on the other hand, is reserved for men. Picture a driven, successful executive. Mad Men’s Don Draper comes to mind.

After watching the finale of Top Chef, I was peeved. The three remaining finalists, two men and one woman, were asked to cook a $100k-winning meal. I was enthusiastic about Carla Hall, a 44-year-old woman with her own catering business, a great sense of humor and a big heart; an underdog who eventually found her stride and became a real contender.

Carla has personality as big as her hair. She cooks with love, and is proud to say so, plus she has classic French training and southern roots to boot. But Carla did not win. Why? Because, like so many women, Carla is just too nice! 

The finale’s twist brought back three finalists from prior seasons to be sous chefs to the competitors. Carla was going to play up her culinary strengths, using her talent for French sauces and win, right? Wrong. When her sous chef, a woman named Casey, strongly suggested two changes to Carla’s carefully planned menu (mini soufflés and to cook the meat sous vide, a technique that Carla was unfamiliar with) Carla, being the typical people pleaser, agreed to do things Casey’s way. That was Carla’s downfall. The dishes that failed were the beef and the soufflé. My heart dropped, as did those sorry little soufflés. And then I got angry.

Why are so many women so frickin’ nice? We’re taught from an early age to smile and be good little girls. Have we come a long way baby? I think not. From generation to generation we’ve been playing nice—and where does that get us? Stuck in an elevator with a creepy person? Saying yes, when we really mean no? Getting overlooked for a promotion? When will we get the balls (a male accoutrement) to listen to our instincts and act upon them? Can women find the sweet spot between nice and nasty, and not be labeled bitches?

I fret if I think someone’s feelings might be hurt. What if, God forbid, I let someone down? Good daughter, good sister, good coworker, good patient…. “You’re so good for him,” said my ex-father-in-law about the Peter Pan husband, a comment that made my skin crawl. (Too good is what he really meant, but that’s another story.)

In an interview with New York Magazine Carla was asked, “So Casey wasn’t bossy or overbearing? She gave ideas and you liked them?” Carla politely answered that she was so grateful for the help that she gave her power away.

The LA Times Blog wrote: “…it was beyond painful to watch Carla second-guess herself out of the running, causing her to sob openly in front of the judges.”

We were sobbing with you Carla—and for so many reasons. Nice girls don’t win.

Breast Cancer update: I had donated my breasts to science last June, got new ones (no they’re not bigger), went on Tamoxifen and thought I was back to the “new” normal. But, things have changed. I’ve since decided to go the chemo route, based on second and third opinions, and to cover all my bases. I’ve had one treatment thus far and, as predicted, my hair started falling out precisely two weeks after my first chemo blast. I kept a diary of sorts: from hirsute to hairless, in just three days.

Hair Fall-Out: Day One

I’m taking my wig for a test drive today. My hair is starting to come out. It’s much shorter, since I cut it a couple of weeks ago to the nape of my neck; so it’s not as bad when I see a sink full of hair. But, it’s no frickin’ picnic.

I’ve long been a shedder. Lots and lots of hair: hair to spare. How long until bald patches happen? When do I go for the military buzz cut? When my part resembles parting of the Red Sea?

I put the La Charme wig cap on my head. I pulled the nylon (as in pantyhose) cap down over my face, and looked like I was ready to rob a bank. I really didn’t want to draw that much attention to myself on my first outing, so I pushed it back, which reminded me of the actresses of days gone by—Gloria Swanson, Garbo, those true glamour girls of Hurrell’s Hollywood portraits. I was ready.   

I went to Trader Joes…looking kinda crazy. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Not a bad wig, kind of a Jane Fonda Klute shag, but it looks like a wig and I kept wondering if I didn’t look like the Caribbean lady I often see at the bus stop, her matted Godiva locks askew as she gestures and yells at her invisible friends.

Day Two

I’m trying to think of the pros. The cons are obvious, no?

“Think of the joy of several months free of the chore of waxing or shaving your legs, underarm or bikini line.” —cancerbackup.org
Joy?? That word has not yet come to mind.

OK, the pros: One sure way to get complements is to tell your friends you’re going to be bald. Who knew I had such great bone structure?

Saving time and money: If I had a nickel for each hour I’ve spent on hair maintenance and products—cutting, drying, styling, straightening, coloring, highlighting, de-frizzing—I would be a rich woman. Not to mention all the time lost during those hours trapped in salons aka “hair prison”.

Hiatus from shaving and plucking: Please let me keep my eyebrows—or as my European mother calls them “eyebrowns”—and my eyelashes.

Last night I slept wearing a hair net to keep the hair from pulling off on my pillow. I looked like the cafeteria lady. “Would you like some mashed potatoes with your meatloaf, Hon?”

Day Three: Pre-Buzz

Enough hair debris! Today I’m going to do it. Go for the buzz cut. My kind friend David said it would “be an honor” and he and my dear pal Rebecca (The Mermaid Queen) have offered to do it in their home. Rebecca is sure to keep me laughing and distracted as David does the buzzzzing. I decided not to go all ritual-like and just DO IT! Did I mention that I put vodka in my health juice drink?

Day Three: Buzzed

David did a great job. As their 24-year-old black cat Max sat on my lap, Rebecca reminded me to channel my inner goddess. I’ve been channeling my inner princess for months now, easy, right? Yet, I still have one more stage to go: bald as an 8-ball. Right now my head is Sinead O’Conner-esque (circa 1992, when she torn up the photo of the pope on SNL) and it’s not that bad!

Just before the deed, I called Mara, who’s been through it all before me. She told me it was freeing. I do feel liberated, and really, it’s not that bad. A bit cold though. I think the anticipation was much worse than the reality.

I drove home listening to The Best of Aretha, looking at a beautiful view of the San Francisco Bay, the mountains dark against a most magnificent sunset, knowing this too shall pass and it’s going to be fine. My hair should be growing back in March, and spring is my favorite season.

The weather report predicts rain for tomorrow. There will be NO FRIZZ in my forecast. No bad hair days for a while. See there is an upside to wigging out. And so, I’m planning on buying a blue one, just for fun.

Cathy first wrote about her bout with breast cancer and her favorite charity, Breast Cancer Action, in “My Big Pink Protest” October 2008.