Cyclone

It feels unbelievably odd to watch with such detachment (physical and psychological) as Gustav bears down on the Gulf Coast. I'm not even at work - I'm visiting my dad in Southern California, going for long hikes, catching up with friends, playing piano & violin (fiddling while Rome burns?), taking naps in the middle of the afternoon just because...

I can't say I'm not following the storm's progress without some interest: with friends from Pensacola to Houston, and a house sitting snugly (on high ground and safely inland) in Mobile, I can scarce ignore it entirely. But this year I have no responsibilities: I'm not policing up loose gear and boarding up windows at home, not being recalled to the ship, not getting underway for storm moorings or hurricane avoidance...or as in my first assignment, not positioning logistical response teams like pieces on a gigantic chess board, safely out of the storm's predicted (and ever-changing) path, folks for damage assessment, repair and rebuilding, evacuation, food, water, fuel, claims, legal assistance, counseling, financial support, spare boat and aircraft parts, transportation, temporary lodging, command posts, generators and other disaster supplies, staging areas...even folks to handle the endless flow of personnel into and out of the affected areas, people carefully siphoned from units across the country. Not attending meetings. Not giving briefings or typing situation reports. Not butting heads with those well senior to me. Not waking from nightmares of the drowned and drowning, worrying for the hundredth time if I'd done enough to prepare or respond. Not surviving on a few hours of broken sleep, nourished only on a large daily Nalgene bottle of orange juice.

(Yeah, someday - when my career's no longer in the balance - I'll probably write a book about all I saw and heard and meddled in...)

My successor at that first assignment called me a couple days ago, sweating bullets over the storm. She's been lucky so far - the past two years were mercifully free of Ivans and Katrinas and Charleys. She wanted to pull me out to Virginia to help her, which normally I would have jumped at, but I'm not exactly free to cut my moorings right now. "You think they have a radiation table there?" I asked her. I tried to reassure her. She'll be fine. She's got a top-notch civilian working for her who was my right-hand man in Katrina. We put a lot of good policies in place after the storm. And this year, thank goodness, the residents and governments are taking the threat seriously and evacuating ahead of time.

So here I sit with this strange detachment, checking the NHC page now and then with mild curiosity, wondering idly if I'll need to alter my road trip to avoid washed-out causeways or if I'll have trouble picking up my car or if a tree might fall on my house. But this year, for once, there's nothing I can do about any of it.

Great simplifications

This summer I have savored a delicious taste, my first since I've been in the Coast Guard, of autonomy. It's been nice. While on paper I reported to three bosses, in practice, I ran my own little sideshow.

Power...when a man believes he knows what orders should be given, is a blessing....It is always a misfortune when number two or three has to initiate a dominant plan or policy. He has to consider not only the merits of the policy, but the mind of his chief; not only what to advise, but what it is proper in his station to advise; not only what to do, but how to get it agreed, and how to get it done.

Mercifully, I have eluded this burdensome yoke for the past few months.

Together with my rag-tag band of hardworking folks who didn't exist (people on medical hold, like me; people awaiting discharge; people sent back from the ships because they couldn't get underway; people awaiting assignment), we quadrupled the size of our "official" division, rescued our million-dollar security guard contract from the jaws of high-level defeat, negotiated an expensive and extensive equipment upgrade package gratis from HQ, re-wrote two landmark manuals for our unit, laid plans to remodel our offices, implemented solid disaster-preparedness steps, handled port services for two out-of-the-ordinary ships mooring in downtown SF, implemented a solid tracking procedure for over 200 people's security clearances, and - in addition to our "ordinary" workload of evaluations, awards, instructions, training, weapons qualification, key control, bomb threat response, traffic court, port services, and daily security - handled the outsized and highly visible security needs of a week's worth of high-level ceremonies, during which we hosted 2/3 of the Coast Guard's flag corps, the Secretary of Homeland Security, and around 2000 guests to celebrate the commissioning of the Coast Guard's newest class of cutter.

Whew.

So now, on the back end of this frantic slew of events and demands, while our haggard division is relievedly taking as much leave as duty allows, after we've written up the "lessons learned" and "hotwashed" and battened down to knock out our remaining responsibilities...ah yes, now arrives my new boss. Or replacement, call it what you will.

I'm not angry or bitter - after all, his job exists and mine doesn't. And it provides perfect exit music as I head out for underway time on our local ships or other TAD opportunities this year. I'm confident I've squared away the division for a presentable handover, unlike the scattershot I inherited. And my new boss is a great guy (ironically, a watchstander I supervised in my first Coast Guard assignment). Still...the added imposition of bureaucracy, well, complicates matters. I've gotten used to handling thorny situations myself, dealing directly with key people, whether our own command cadre, at other units, or at HQ. Having to play politics and then sit impotent feels like a regression. It leaves me doing little more than - shudder - writing manuals all day. And it makes me utterly redundant (see above: a good thing) - my chiefs report to me, and I turn around and play Telephone with my boss. The ultimate in middle management.

At the top there are great simplifications. An accepted leader has only to be sure of what it is best to do, or at least to have made up his mind about it.

From whose bourn no traveler returns

Terminals. The word is so misleading. "Exchange" is so much more appropriate. Like a stock exchange or a mercantile exchange; except instead of securities or hogs, it's people coming and going, trading one city for another, constant motion, endless options.

I love to travel. And I love airports. Not, of course, for the endless sits in plastic molded chairs, or the hurried strip-search at the security checkpoint, or the overpriced pseudo-regional fast food smelling up the waiting areas, overcrowded with screaming toddlers and rumpled businessmen, folded over their laptops, too cheap to fly first class but angling endlessly for upgrades. I love to walk along and glance over at all the other destinations, all the places I'm not going, as I wander to my gate, envisioning myself in Paris, Ft. Lauderdale, or Butte, blaming the inscrutability of descriptionless numbers for assigning me to flight 1202 to Portland instead of 1203 to New York; gate A37 to Oregon instead of C37 to Toronto. Airports hum with possibilities.

It's not so easy to board the wrong aircraft (though I've done it), to "accidentally" arrive in unintended places, but cars are another matter entirely. The "next big city" destinations on freeway signs always tempt me terribly. Why exit here, at mile marker 28? Why not keep going into the Gorge, to the Dalles, to Idaho? It's not that far, right? If I just keep driving...Sunsets are especially alluring. Why not stay behind the wheel until sunrise, wherever the road takes me, wherever I end up? What if I'm not there on Monday morning? What if I just don't come home? What undiscovered country awaits me?

Perhaps the threat of truancy is so tempting because I'm so damn reliable. I certainly wasn't itching to come back to radiation today, though. Halfway done with the zappings, I escaped to Portland this weekend for a friend's wedding and to spend time with my mom. Beautiful weather, tasty (mostly vegan) food, refreshing walks outdoors, a massage, church, roller skating, and a very entertaining wedding...not to mention, somehow, a lot of relaxation...and despite its various protests, my body was very happy to avoid the zapper for a couple days. But radiation beckoned, this afternoon, inexorably.

What if I just stay here?...if I take a different flight?...if I stay at work too late?...if I miss my bus, or my train, or my shuttle?...if I just don't show up?

I've never been all that good at breaking the rules.

An Epic Journey

The Epic Journey approacheth.

Shortly after I finish radiation, I fly to Alabama to see some friends, pick up my car, and begin the long trek back West.

In my race to get out here for treatment in April, I (intentionally) left my car and just about everything else behind in Alabama. Driving a couple thousand miles across country in a mad rush wasn't so attractive. My stuff - that which I didn't rent out with my house or box up in long-term storage - rejoined me, for the most part, in early June, once I had an apartment here. But my car remains down South. I won't use her much, here, but the mobility will be nice. And besides, I miss her.

So in early September, I'm taking some time off work and setting out on a road trip for the ages, stopping to visit friends, places I like, and (mostly) places I've always wanted to see, viz.:

Mobile, AL
New Orleans, LA
Baton Rouge, LA
Shreveport, LA
Port Arthur, TX
Houston, TX
Austin, TX
San Antonio, TX
Roswell, NM
Albuquerque, NM
Canyon de Chelly, AZ
Mesa Verde/Durango, CO
Salt Lake City, UT
Lake Tahoe, NV
Yosemite, CA
San Francisco, CA

Altogether, about 3500 miles and 11 or 12 days. Most days, around 7 hours of driving, with plenty of time for sight-seeing both in and out of the car. I'm aiming to stop at the kitschiest motels along the way, pick up some unique and unusual souvenirs, and in general, indulge my Bad Girl of the Open Road.

If you live along the route, I'd love to stop by and say hi; just let me know. If you have recommendations to enhance this Classic and Epic Road Trip, I'm open to those too.

The fun kicks off shortly.

With catlike tread

This radiation has made of me an idle and indolent feline.

On days I work, I: get up early and go to treatment, commute to work, work from 9:30 to 4:30, commute home, sleep, wake up for dinner, then go to bed and readily fall back asleep, until morning.

Still a thin crust of industriousness. But the days I don't work are much more indulgent: sleep in (on Tuesdays, at least), go to treatment, come home & snack, lounge in the hot tub, curl up in the sun (radiated area carefully covered), stretch out inside for a nice long nap, rouse myself for dinner, & then once more to bed for an early night's sleep.

I can't help but feel a little uncomfortable about all the snoozing, dozing, and otherwise quite restful hours of slumber. Shouldn't I be doing something?

I'm a little past 25% of the way through the radiation now. Other than the machine breaking 2 out of the 5 days, the mask being extraordinarily tight, and the receptionist rarely arriving early enough to check me in, I guess it's going okay. So far the only real symptom besides the inescapable urge for a good deal of quality REM is a lot of soreness and aching of my lower cheeks. At first, I couldn't move my jaw to chew, or turn my head at all. And anything involving saliva production - drinking water, chewing gum, even just trying to swallow - evinced incredible pain. Although that symptom's somewhat faded the past couple of days, it's been replaced by a constant thirst. The doctor said she'd be nuking my salivary glands - they still seem to be working, but I'm thirsty nonetheless.

yawnnnnnnn

Time for a little more shut-eye.

Childless in SF

There's no shortage of information out there about cancer treatment and fertility, particularly women's fertility (more potentially usable sperm can be generated, but more eggs can't; what you're born with is all you have, and when you run out you're done). In general, chemo fries your eggs, and anything left over, the radiation further scrambles. This generally causes your periods to stop, at least temporarily, and also often causes premature menopause. Note to self: hot flashes suck.

Most women who get cancer succumb later in life, so fertility is less of an issue. But for the under-30 crowd that gets treated, preserving fertility is apparently their primary concern. At least, according to most of the websites that address the topic, many of which bear titles resembling "How to have kids after cancer".

There are ways to dance around the issue, including freezing eggs (doesn't work very well) and freezing embryos (much more successful, but you have to fertilize them first). All of this entails the risky, expensive, and body-intensive world of fertility treatments down the road.

With my permission, my doctor opted for the more experimental (and unproven) method of shutting down ovary production during the chemo and radiation months. This is supposed to protect your eggs somehow.

But truth be told, I'm really not all that depressed about losing the chance to get pregnant. (Sorry, Mom.) Is that such a horrible, anti-woman thing to say? I'm relieved I don't have my period. I'm happy I don't have to worry about getting pregnant. (Plus, no body hair!) I've not worried much about timing my career to fit in kids, because I've haven't been that dead-set on having any.

Not that I hate kids or that I revel in a selfish career- or party-focused lifestyle. I loved being a camp counselor when I was younger. I did my share of babysitting as a teen. I've eagerly volunteered in some tough schools. I've helped fund kids' education. One of the most rewarding experiences of my adult life was helping to raise two amazing kids for a few years. I'm always glad to take care of (or take in) someone else's kids if they need it, no matter if it derails my career plans or my personal life. And foster parenting is extremely attractive to me, although for the kids' sake, I'm waiting until I'm out of the "military-operational-single-mom" category.

What I don't get is the assumption, whether by the media, by well-meaning friends and family, or by religion, that not wanting to pass along my personal genetic material somehow makes me unworthy of my estrogen. "It's such a shame," they whisper amongst themselves. "I'm so sorry," they say out loud.

I'm not. I'm relieved I got an easy out on this one. Now I can say the reason I'm not having kids is because my eggs were cooked. But should I have to have such a terrible excuse?

Fried

Early-morning radiation appointments mean getting up, well, early. I was up at 5:30 Monday morning to leave at 6 to walk down and catch the 6:35 shuttle to get to the hospital at 6:55 for my 7:15 appointment.

I arrived in the basement of Mt. Zion to find a dark and deserted reception area. Even the fish in the waiting room aquarium floated around bleakly in their unlit greyness. The roll-top shutters on the reception windows were closed and locked tightly, like concession stands in empty stadiums. No one was in sight.

I took a seat in the waiting area and caught up on the Sunday paper, trying not to glance at my watch. Was the reception always closed in the early morning? Should I have taken a later shuttle bus? And eventually...Should I forego the check-in process of scanning my bar-coded card and proceed directly to the dressing room?

At last, at 7:12, the shutters rolled up and the lights flickered on. I asked the bleary-eyed receptionist eagerly, Can I scan in now? My appointment is in three minutes. I'm sorry, she said, I have to boot up my computer. It will take several minutes. Just go in and put your gown on and tell the doctors know you're here. (That's the function of the bar-coded scan card.)

After gowning, I realized there was no way from the waiting room to contact the doctors and techs, so, gowned from the waist up, I briefly snuck back out into the reception area to scan my card. A few minutes later, the tech poked her head into the waiting room, surprised to see me. Your receptionist only just arrived, I said. Really? said the tech. I had no idea. She said something about the carpets being replaced over the weekend, I answered, glancing around at workmen still moving furniture back into place.

After "assuming the position" on the radiation table, my neck torqued by the plastic neckrest, my face clamped down by the net "mask", I waited motionlessly and uncomfortably through some 10 minutes of whirring and buzzing until the tech reappeared to tell me I was done. Except she didn't. My computer crashed, she said. It will take a few minutes to reboot.

Luckily, the tech removed my mask and plastic neck-creaker and replaced them with a nice, hard pillow. After the computer got past its BSOD (blue screen of death...), I was put back in the vise and the process repeated. Now I was done, right? No.

I can't get the machine to work, said the tech. I'm calling an engineer in to fix it. You'll need to go back in the waiting room while I see if we can use the machine in the other room.

I made one too many turns trying to navigate through the maze of corridors en route to the waiting room, which ended up to be a good thing, because they were able to take me right away in the other radiation chamber. This time, the procedure went off as planned, although I staggered out with a serious crick in my neck.

My voyage to work also was not without adventure. I opted to forego waiting for the Muni bus from the hospital to the BART station, walking instead. It ended up being a pretty sketchy and colorful two miles of town. The train ride was without incident, but upon arrival at the East Bay station, I patiently read my book for about twenty minutes before remembering that the base shuttle only stopped at that station during the morning & afternoon rush hours. By the time I'd walked to the other station where the shuttle did stop, it had just come and gone...and it would be another hour before it reappeared. So it took a while to get to work, where inevitably I was greeted by all the work I haven't done lately.

Hopefully next time, the process will go a bit more smoothly.