Pissed

(Written in August 2009)

Two months reading a book and I hated the ending. I have never devoted two months to a single book, and I thought I'd get some kind of reward at the end. I'm a capital-R Reader! Surely I deserved some kind of closure after reading 981 pages of story and another 100+ in end notes! Over a thousand pages of time-skipping, acronym-laden, deliberately ambiguous writing about tennis and addiction and depression and Quebec separatism and film theory.

Instead, I feel cheated by the outcome of Infinite Jest, which came to an abrupt end with no resolution to ANY of the dozen plot lines. I was resigned to ambiguity, but I got concerned when I was five pages from the end and David Foster Wallace still seemed mid-stream in the narrative. I read on, increasingly dumbfounded as I realized he wasn't even going to drop any more clues.

I read a comment later that an editor probably told DFW that the novel was just too long, so he's going to lop off the last third. The ending is so abrupt that I like that characterization, even though I don't believe the answer is that simple. I've read other commentary that the extensive jumping around in time means that much of the "beginning" of the book is actually after the ending and provides some clues. Someday I will go back and reread it and see if that's true.

But for now, I'll just pat myself on the back for having finished, and I'll pick up a Stephen King novel.

Avon Walk for Breast Cancer

At the end of October, I finally did the long walk I've been prepping for - the 2-day Avon Walk for Breast Cancer in Charlotte, NC. Although my physical journey was slightly shorter than the planned 39.3 miles (I fell victim to low blood sugar late Saturday afternoon, a few miles short of the end point for the day), the emotional journey made up for it. But first, a few statistics from the months leading up to the walk:

• 5 months of training
• $2275 raised with the help of my family and friends
• 3 pairs of running shoes for training
• 10-13 pounds lost since last fall
• 1 clean baseline mammogram (and the ability to say "mammogram" without blushing)

And a few stats from the walk itself:

• 35 miles walked (including a 1/2 mile detour when we followed a crowd that missed a turn sign)
• 4 threatened blisters (3 headed off by moleskin)
• 78,417 steps (clocked with the free pedometer given out at Event Eve)
• 14.5 hours of walking
• $2.3 million raised
• 1200 walkers

But enough of the quantitative! This walk was a much-needed opportunity to do something big and meaningful, and it has had a profound effect on both me and uncounted strangers. During the walk, I was touched by the spirit of the survivors, the dedication and fortitude of the other walkers, the selflessness and unflagging good spirits of the crew members, and the promise in the eyes of the donation recipients. The training hours leading up to the walk strengthened my friendship with my friend K, and the walk itself gave me a rare opportunity for extended conversation with my sister-in-law.

I've also been touched by the generosity and good hearts of my friends and family. Many of them opened up their wallets to donate, enabling me to raise more than the "necessary" amount for the walk. The Avon Foundation awarded $750,000 to local organizations at the closing ceremonies, and the rest will go to support ongoing grants in the areas of awareness and education, screening and diagnosis, access to treatment, support services, and scientific research.

Equally important, tons of people supported me emotionally by asking about my training, patiently listening to my training reports, asking their friends to donate, providing entertainment during my walks, and coming out to cheer us on during the big walk itself.

Best of all, this is not the end! The donations will continue to help people in need for months to come, I'm still walking on the weekends, and I have tentative plans to do another breast cancer walk next fall. Walk on!

Eulogy for the Living, Part 1 (Donald R. Witt)

Much of my father's life has been devoted to keeping my mother warm. His gifts to my mother over the years have included sweaters, slippers, a remote starter for her car to warm it up on cold mornings, a heated towel rack, and, my personal favorite, a homemade heated toilet seat during the early years of their marriage when they lived in a mobile home. If you know my mother, you know how appropriate these gifts are.

This is typical of how my father shows he cares. He pays attention and takes care of his family without verbalizing his feelings much, but it always came through clearly. When he did verbalize, though... One of my treasured possessions is a letter he wrote me in my first weeks of college to tell me how empty the house (well, my room, I guess, since my brother and mother were still home) seemed with me gone. I also treasure the book Butterfly Kisses and Bittersweet Tears, a set of father-daughter stories in which he underlined meaningful passages.

Although he doesn't say it often, his big heart is apparent. He has spent about 20 years worth of his limited vacation time driving to Appalachia to improve people's homes. He also adopted (although my old friend Andrew would say "abducted") and loved the neighbor's neglected dog-like cat, Pooch.

Dad and I shared a joy in cars. Mom always said that proof of his love for me, his firstborn, was that he gave up his two-seater Porsche for something that would hold a baby seat. He waited almost two decades before indulging himself that way again. After buying the Alfa Romeo, he very generously let me drive it on a regular basis (the only one in the school!), and he almost never complained that the tank was always empty when we swapped.

I wasn't able to take a car to college (something I selfishly whined about way too much), but it led to one of the best discoveries of my life. Dad was often the one to drive me to and from Charlottesville for school breaks. On one occasion, he accompanied me to a Friday evening beer and music festival, and I had to leave him talking to my friends while I went to the restroom. I hurried, feeling guilty about leaving him on his own, and returned to find him talking easily with my friends. He hadn't been uncomfortable at all. He drove me back to Roanoke that night, sharing stories about his college days (taking the train to Manhattan from college at night and coming back in the morning, "borrowing" trays from the dining hall to go sledding), and I came to the startling and pleasant realization that if I'd known him in college, we might have been friends.

A realization that took much longer and didn't come in a flash was that we could be friends anyway. I admire his dedication to the things he considers important and share many of his interests (or at least appreciate his dedication). We share a love of wine and music and a dedication to our work. Like me, he likes to read (he gravitates toward Christian history books). He loves to sing, has a playful streak that often comes out as goofiness with his grandchildren, and has been a long-time dedicated servant to Windsor Hill United Methodist, his church home of nearly 40 years. He has a strong sense of civic duty, lending his talents to the county planning commission and creating recreational trails to improve the lives of his fellow Roanokers.

Like the best friends, he lets me when I ought to be doing things differently. (He shares this characteristic with my brother.) When I'm done being mad about my will being thwarted, I grudgingly become grateful because it's always for my own good. His advice is generally good, though often bolder and riskier than what makes me comfortable. (I try to remember his advice that doing what makes me uncomfortable expands my "comfort zone.")

I consider myself very lucky that my father is someone I like and admire, and I started writing this "living eulogy" a few months ago, for no better reason than that I was in a "writing mood." It seemed appropriate to finish it today, on the 66th anniversary of his birth, to show my love for him. Happy birthday, Dad!

Plus, I'm too late to send a card.

Cross-post from my Avon Walk for Breast Cancer page:

I’ve committed to participating in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer in Charlotte, NC at the end of October. It’s a big commitment - a marathon and a half of walking in two days and a minimum donation commitment of $1800 - but it is a worthy cause.

I'm doing this for love.

Love fpr my family who've experienced the fear of being diagnosed with this disease and gone through sometimes painful, sometimes simply inconvenient, treatments. The survivors: my mother, my aunt who was recently diagnosed, my sister-in-law's mother. And the ones who lost the battle, particularly my paternal grandmother, whom I never met because treatment wasn't as advanced in the 1960s.

Love for my friend who underwent a double mastectomy and has become a valuable mentor for other people going through the experience.

Love for my friends who have struggled with fear and uncertainty after finding a mysterious lump.

Love for my sister-in-law Heather, who's agreed to walk this journey with me.

Love and hope for my niece, Emma, that breast cancer will be a less likely prospect in her thirties than it is in mine.

Love for all the people to whom I send this, both men and women, who have been affected by breast cancer without me even knowing it.

The money I raise will be used to provide access to care, fund educational programs, and accelerate research into new treatments and potential cures.

How You Can Help

Ask me about my training. I'll need all the motivation I can get to work up to the necessary distance. Your questions, concern, and interest are a powerful motivator! So is the embarrassment that would accompany having to confess having slacked off on training. :) So ask me about it.

You can also donate.

Thank you in advance!

Surprises in the CSA

It's hand-me-down CSA box time again!

CSA is community-supported agriculture and refers to a large set of programs that vary in the details but generally revolve around a household buying a subscription to a local farm. The farm puts together a box of produce every week, and depending on the farm, you have more or less control over what you get. With some programs you get what you get, with others you can add items to a "don't ever send" list or swap out one item for another each week.

I've been intrigued by the idea for a while but haven't ever pulled the trigger, partly because I enjoy the browsing at the local farmer's market so much.

My hand-me-down CSA box is gifted to me by a traveling coworker who's out of town yet again - lucky me! He knows I love cooking, and I've been fortunate enough to receive his produce while he's gone. I suspect he could just as easily cancel for the week, so I'm very grateful that he and his wife have chosen to share the bounty.

While he's out of town, his wife forwards me the announcement of the box contents. It's always exciting to see what they're planning to drop off and start searching for recipes to make the best use of the ingredients (epicurious.com, eatingwell.com). The best thing, however, is that they always include something that isn't on the list. A pot of cilantro to plant in the garden one week, green beans the next. It's unpredictable and fun (in the geeky way that I think cooking is fun)!

This week, I ended up with the anticipated potatoes, kale, Golden Delicious apples, and butternut squash, but I also received an eggplant and some kind of peppers.

Tonight: soup with pork, kale, tomatoes, and smoked paprika/red pepper/onion/garlic to season. Yum!

Days Seven through Nine: Bangkok Temples

The remaining two and a half days at the resort were fabulously relaxing and not at all productive (which was my goal!). I read almost non-stop, chatted with my new cooking friend L at the pool, roamed the beach, took photos and managed another visit to the spa before flying back to Bangkok.

I had two days in Bangkok before heading home. Saturday was "temple day." On my last visit, I didn't make it to Wat Arun, the Temple of the Dawn, so that was definitely on my list. The grounds of the temple were filled with schoolchildren, saffron-robed monks (who were somewhat incongruously carrying digital cameras), and tourists getting their pictures taken in the rented garb of traditional Thai dancers.

I climbed the incredibly steep sides of the temple, hauling myself up the 14-inch risers using the railing and dodging the tourists coming down the narrow Up stairs. From the temple's heights, I could see across the Chao Praya River to the Grand Palace, my favorite place in Bangkok. I could make out the tiled and gilded roofs, but I had to venture onto the river taxi and into the massive complex to see my favorite sights: the gold towers and painted giants, mirrored mosaics and golden statues, stone dogs and gilded murals.

The palace is incredibly ornate, in a style that anywhere else might seem tacky, but since it's Thailand, it's fabulous and exotic and wonderful. I spent hours absorbing the details.

As I was leaving the palace, I was ambushed by a schoolgirl who asked me a ton of personal questions in fractured English. She was observed by an older woman, probably her teacher. I sat down on the sidewalk with the girl and tried to communicate with simple sentences, sound effects, and hand gestures that I love Fourth of July because of the fireworks. Some schoolgirl in Thailand also knows my name and age, my father's name, that I don't have children, and my favorite color is red. I made sure to say I was from America because nobody in Thailand got it when I said "United States."

That night I listened to a jazz singer in the top-floor 360 degree lounge and started to think of home.

Day Six: Scheduled Activities (for real)

Today I really did have a schedule to keep. I woke at 6 again (well, really, I woke at 3:30 and forced myself to go to sleep again until 6), had breakfast, and then eagerly showed up at Moo's Kitchen for my cooking class. Unlike the last class, which was composed of couples from all over the world, with boyfriends/husbands who'd clearly been dragged in and didn't care about cooking, this class was composed of four women who were all native English-speakers and liked both cooking and Thai food.

We set off for the market, where we lingered, asking a billion questions of our chef, Su. She explained how to select the best pieces of fruit and how to prepare morning glory (saute' the greens with butter and garlic). She showed us how to flake coconut (I got to take a whirl at the giant spinning drill bit and escaped with all digits intact), how to press for coconut milk, and how to tell the fresh fish (clear eyes, not cloudy). We watched the catfish squirm when she touched them. We inspected the plate of salted cockroaches, ready for eating, but we all passed when offered a sample. Hot basil and sweet basil; longan; pineapple; all kinds of fish, prawns, and squid; coconuts; large bowls of curry paste; aubergines ranging from the familiar long and purple to green and pea-sized; beautiful pink dragonfruit...

Eventually we picked out the ingredients for class and headed back to the hotel to start cooking. Four dishes: seasonal salad (greens, mushrooms, baby corn, prawns), tom kha gai with a coconut milk base, pressed that day at the market. Minced pork with deep fried hot basil, and pad thai. The pad thai was like none I'd ever seen. We had to cook a “crepe" of egg - large, round, and thin. We piled the pad thai on, folded it up, and then used another plate to flip it so the folded ends were underneath. We cut an "X" on the new top and folded back the edges to reveal the pad thai, with the prawns on top. It looked beautiful.

One of the women in the class is the only other solo female traveler I've met here. She intended to come with her boyfriend to celebrate her 40th birthday, but things fell apart. She's here because she decided she wouldn’t let him ruin her vacation plans. We’ve been hanging out at the pool and are getting dolled up for the nice restaurant tomorrow night.

I over to my spa appointment for my scrub, wrap, and free 30 minute massage. They warned me at the beginning that some people are allergic. Although I'm allergic to almost nothing, I became paranoid and fretted over every tiny discomfort. After rubbing me with a salt scrub, they spread a seaweed wrap on me and folded me up in a human-sized piece of wax paper. They tucked the ends in at the bottom as if I were a giant burrito, then left me on a heated table. I relaxed for about 5 minutes after the masseuse left, then my nose started itching. My hands were wrapped at my sides, so there was no scratching. Especially since every move I made was amplified by the wax paper! "Endure, endure, endure," I thought, trying to stay strong until it was over.

Finally, the Thai woman returned and unwrapped me, and I was able to shower off all the seaweed. The final 30-minute massage was lovely and erased the memory of the previous discomfort (except for the parts I think were funny).

I signed up for another spa package, a facial and massage, on Friday morning, then headed home to sit on my balcony with the mosquito coil and type this up. Tired and satisfied, I headed off to sleep.