Category Archives: blair

i am either a storm or a drought

i am either
a storm
or
a drought.

in-betweens
have never
been my thing.
~ Sanober Khan

The Judgment of Paris; Paris seated on a rock choosing between the goddesses Venus, Juno, and Minerva, the god Mercury with a caduceus in between them by Giorgio Ghisi

Men choosing women, that be some crazy shit there.  Paris, the god credited with starting the Trojan war because he was a wimp and choose the one that offered him the most beautiful woman instead of those who offered dominion over Europe and Asia OR battle skills and wisdom – even those male gods often thought with their dicks. I mean he had to pick between (per the picture):

  1. the Roman goddess of wisdom and strategic warfare, and the sponsor of arts, trade, and strategy.
  2. the Roman goddess who was the protector and special counselor of the state.
  3. the Roman goddess whose functions encompassed love, beauty, desire, sex, fertility, prosperity and victory.

Which is pretty much what every woman is capable of doing individually in a mythological triumvirate.

But me… I am here, at the grand milestone of being half way through chemotherapy.  In this special place of being half way done, I am fully done with the first medicinal cocktail known among us cancer hipsters as AC. AC is a shitstorm, one of those  (the A) has the nickname of the red devil or the red death and yes, that medication is fucking super strength Kool-aid red. It gets hand injected into you, and is the reason why I succumbed to the port being placed since its superpowers include being able to completely destroy any muscle it comes into contact with, so one little leak and plastic surgery would have been required. It causes all sorts of problems in spite of that.

I stand with that behind me, and the last single spirit, known as T, ahead. T being something that most tolerate a bit better, and I pray, wish , hope, make offerings that I am one of those.

I have lost most of my hair, but not all – and alopecia is a nasty thing but having some hair and some baldness is quite another.  I do, with some degree of pride, have an excellently shaped head. For the record, all ones hairy areas tend to lose hair, which is rather interesting to witness.

My superficial body fluids have turned into wax. My eyes water thick goo, my saliva is like syrup, and my sweat is like a coating of candlewax.

I have developed mouth sores, but was able to contain those nasty fuckers whose inauspicious start is as blisters around my mouth which turn into miniature wounds, sensitive to everything.

My nails, fingers and toes, are in a state – they feel as if they are slowly dying and agonizing death.

Cancer is a financial blow, so much so that my family started a gofundme for me. This is something my husband and I are trying to manage, it is so humbling in ways that I am not fully prepared to manage, and most especially not when they decided to start it (which was in the worst days of a chemo cycle), trying to manage handing them the information they needed as I as navigating the dreadful way one feelings as the poison that is chemotherapy starts taking its hold on your whole fucking body; inside, outside, and soulside…. and my immediate family were out camping. I still struggle with this, they love me, they mean to help and so, I have decided to find the grace in this experience.  Grace is something that has long eluded me. And if the lesson I am supposed to learn from this stupid fucking cancer is to find grace, then I ….

I can’t finish that sentence, it falls in the depths of despair that chronic illness can put one into if not careful to manage the  attitude.

I will leave it to, finding grace.

In other news of this cancerous nature, I am compiling a list (and I hate lists) of:

Bucket list for when my cancer shit storm is over

it includes turning my scars into tattoos, going dancing, going camping, going to Chimayo, returning to Hopi… I am totally taking suggestions!

 (and now some music to accompany my state of mind):

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the most massive characters are seared with scars

If so, then I must be YUGE!!!! (to invoke a recent expression to our collective North American vocabulary).

When I got dressed this morning I put on a shirt that carries a small almost imperceptible stain on it. I  got to thinking about the situation when it happened. It seemed like a scar, a reminder so a wound. And because of that, I gently loved the little stain on my shirt.

Scars are pretty awesome, they tell a story. I like to think of them in that Japanese pottery meme a crack filled with gold.

I have scars, the physical kind on my ear lobe, my chin, my eye, my face, my forehead, my wrist, my shoulder, my knee, my foot, and then there is the one on my abdomen (like in the picture below) a bastard child of scars.

I am still reconciling that story, making it something to be proud of…  to feel some gentleness about that line across my skin… I am nowhere near there though. I look at it on occasion and my heart still feels heavy and full of pain. I am trying to get past that, I would hate to have to go through the rest of my life with so heart wrenching a reminder.  It, the scar (maybe I should name it) has found some horrible ways to remind it is there… when I move and have to bend, my panties curl up in the front and rest along the line… a uncomfortable feeling to say the least.  In the midst of a cold day, it can tighten up and feel like it has just tasted lemons… another uncomfortable feeling. In the summer, and especially here in my beloved desert, it tends to pool with sweat and I will get a sweat line on my clothes above it.

It, in reading this post as I write, seems to be like an ill-tempered child, seeking attention. I need to love it, and I am bound and determined to find a way. I should give it a name.

4773180007_ba4f00a554_b

“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.”
~ Kahlil Gibran

 

 

 

Messages from my mirror

The face is the mirror of the mind, and eyes without speaking confess the secrets of the heart.
~St. Jerome  

Today I scheduled a follow up eye appointment for October.

As I opened up my calendar I realized that the four months would land on the day before I had my surgery, which was when my eye problems started.

In the eight months since my life was spared and my body was torn apart in order to do that… a lot has happened.

One of the things that I find most striking is that my eyes have changed. And I have been trying to figure out what it is that I have noticed.

I am not sure when I started to think my eyes looked different to me, but I recall wondering if somehow my irises had become lighter or cloudier in color. Cataracts at my age?

The crux is that they don’t look happy to me, they looked pained, tired, and perhaps even scared.

I don’t know that I am any of those things, but I am a very different person than I was in 2014 B.D.

That B.D. is Before Diagnosis.

This process has been hard, but the hardest part was learning to stand up for myself. Standing up to a mother and aunt that I know love me, but who felt that age gave them some sort of prize that included tearing me down… I am sure that is (was) not their intent… but as they threw things at me that I would have previously have bowed my head to and ignored but in the middle of my fight to feel whole again seemed unduly cruel coming from them. As I said, I am sure they did not mean it, but they still hurt me very deeply on a level that a doctor could not touch.

I think, perhaps, that is part of the cloudiness that I see in my eyes.

It is also navigating my health after a pretty invasive surgery, the unwanted weight gain, the change in shape, the pain, the aches… the health of my eyes included.

They are better now though, the scars left on them through repeated injury and a misdiagnosis are healing, almost gone. The burden of the change of lifestyle for them is permanent… eye drops for life, they said. Keep them moist, they said. I will, I reply.

But when I got home from my appointment today, I looked in the mirror and still saw that certain kind of cloudiness, and I hoped it was not permanent.

Then there is this.

“Behind these eyes there is a girl trapped within her pain – a girl feeling all the emotions of anger and sadness. She’s fighting for a way out.”
~ Chimnese Davids

I do not crave Squirrel Poop!

I crave PEANUT BUTTER!!!!!!!!!

For the past 5 weeks I have consumed at least 10 jars of peanut butter. At least 10 JARS! This is crazy.



It is like one of those insane cravings that can’t be sated. It has to be smooth – or as they say in peanut butter parlance – “creamy”. 

Yes, I tried to curb the insatiable craving by buying a jar of the crunchy (or chunky) stuff. It merely slowed down the intake, but not enough to think it was effective. It was actually a catalyst for a dangerous turn in this craving period. I had to eat it with chocolate. Yummy combo yes, but not when you are a super dark dark chocolate lover and find that combination is heinous….so you run out and buy some crappy milk chocolate to make it palatable. And even if you return to the no sugar added creamy peanut butter your love, the taste for hints of milk chocolate remains.  So, I elevated the experience buy snagging some of  my son’s Lindt’s.


Only to find the creaminess of their center the absolutely perfect complement to the spoonfuls of creamy peanut butter that I have been shoveling ion my mouth.

“Who uses crunchy peanut butter?” he asked the room. “You might as well eat squirrel shit.”
~ Michael Thomas Ford, The Road Home


I am not sure about the source of the craving, but the all-knowing Google gave me the impression that this is not an isolated thing, that there are many people out there with a hankerin’ for the thing I most currently consider a nectar of the gods.



There is a possibility that I am in desperate need of something that my body has been missing, much like the fierce beef carnivore I would become back in the days when I actually got my period. The interesting thing now, since I don’t get a bloody period, but do get a hormonal one is that I still crave beef, just not with as fierce a drive. 

But back to peanut butter. 





It is insane, I am carrying around jars of peanut butter with me, I make runs to the grocery store when I polish a jar off. I have bought big jars, and normal jars. I eat it straight out of the jar.



My husband must think I am crazy, but even he has helped me give in to this madness by running to the store late at night to help keep me in stock.

It has to be chocolate, no bread, no jelly… just peanut butter… and lately some milk chocolate is nice (but not required).

Queen of my cancer domain

There is a certain nervousness and apprehension as I approach my oncology follow up visits. 

I know to expect the following;  a vaginal exam, a pap smear, and my scar gets a review. 

I never really thought I would ever blog about these things, but here I am talking all about my girly bits.
My oncology center has a pretty new office, it is fancy schmanzy. I was able to see their previous office space several years ago. I helped a colleague through their own diagnosis. The space has different kinds of patient rooms and this visit I got a room that I call a throne room. They have these modern chair-that-turns-in-to-an-exam-table-complete-with-stirrups-that-miraculously-appear things.

After being ushered in to the room by the nurse  I proclaimed that I was glad I got to get a throne room. I  sat down with royal aplomb, gestured grandly,  and proclaimed myself as queen of my own cancer.

This is the chair, with me in it… and yes, you can see my butt poking from behind that silly paper drape if you look hard enough:



Anyway, turns out that my abdomen is not lit up by my disco ball ovaries. 

My oncologist is incredible, there is a gentleness to him that is unseen in so many other physicians. All the Ob-gyn’s I know consider him their go-to guy for their patients with oncology needs. I understand why.

When he examines me, there is a certain gentleness. A real look at his handiwork not in how they reflect on him, but on how they are for the patient. If you are open to the idea of therapeutic touch, I would say this doctor was born with it. 

So, as I lay on that table-formerly-a-chair, I asked him what he had done with my ovaries. He explained that he had tied them down to a ligament. He followed up by explaining that they are about 3 cm lower than where they used to be. he added that they should continue to function as long as they normally would. My ovaries were not left to roll around. Nor were they hung up on my ribs like a disco ball.  

I told him my story was better. He laughed and said he thought so too.

Cancer patients tend to develop a kind of crush on their oncologists. I can totally see that. It is not the kind of crush where you feel love. It is the kind that comes from feeling gratitude, It is pretty amazing.

I am still reflecting a lot on gratitude. It is hard to properly express gratitude to people  in this experience. Gratitude, it seems, is my lesson that is still being developed in this experience.

On The Facebook today, I came across an essay on suffering and gratitude. There was something intense to ponder  in the message. And the message was made moreso when the essay ended with this message:

I am grateful for your hair, the beauty of your eyes, your way with words, your heart that always is ready to give, your willingness to grow, your willingness to not know, the way you garden, naked, early in the morning, your love of family, your love of wine, your love of Scrabble, your glass-half-full ways, your love for your son, your belief in God, your belief in the power of poetry, your belief in the power of love, your Catholic ways, your love of your mother, your love of Mother Divine, your pale white skin, your lips, your smile, the way you love your friends, the way you love. (Source)


It appears that little piece was about a woman named Adele. I believe Adele is pictured at the bottom of the page in source link. That part, though, touched on some of the things that people comment about me or that I feel about me. In some divine sense, I want to believe that I was meant to see it. And to relish this sisterhood I share with this woman named Adele.

TEDx yzpdqbil*

I have to admit, I am currently a little obsessed with TED talks.




It all started with this one talk – I think I saw it sometime in the fall of 2008;

https://embed-ssl.ted.com/talks/jill_bolte_taylor_s_powerful_stroke_of_insight.html


I was floored, and moved, and thought “what a great way to put things out there”.

And since this was new I kind of waited to see what it would bring. I made my mother watch it. I sent it to my friends, and have fondly referred to the talk and my reaction to it ever since.

I was not a Ted-aholic, though. I would only reach out to Ted videos when I referred to them.

But something changed.

As I was preparing to host a movie screening with panel discussion, and I could not find anyone willing to serve as master of ceremonies, I realized that the job would fall to me.

So, I began watching them to see what makes for a good speaker, what are things that are compelling, what things did I like.

I even made Squink watch them while he would take a bath, the bio-luminescence ones are super cool!

I think I am a mediocre speaker. I have some strengths, but plenty of weaknesses.

But after the event, I had the idea of a themed series of talks, something like the Ted talks I had been watching for cues.

It is possible:  https://www.ted.com/participate/organize-a-local-tedx-event

But I think the one for Phoenix is taken.

And they frown upon “themed” events.

And when I thought about it some more, I saw so many possibilities and had to chuckle at the notion that each one had at least one “rule violation”.

I thought about one dealing with the many faces of cancer; from the physicians that find it, the pathologists that decipher it, the oncologists that treat it, the people who have endured it, the families of those who suffered it, the nurses who care for them, the scientists researching it.

It would be good, but it is a theme and violates the programming rules.

Then I thought about what it was like growing up as a third culture kid, and how cool it would be to get other people who grew up that way. I think my friend Doralice would have some wonderful insights, as would my friend Sparrow, and my friends Jeff and Erica. I think it would be interesting to give voice to that kind of experience. It is a bit unusual.

I have met so many interesting people, I would love to have an event to hear them talk… the Jivaro indian that had to flee his tribe because he wouldn’t convert, the people who started putumayo, the circus people, the rodeo folks, singers, entrepreneurs of the ridiculous, those off grid (the hardest to organize), photographers, movie stars, cartoonists in the golden era, explorers, survivors, hedonists, narcissists, and so on.

That got me to thinking about what would happened if I was told I had to give a Ted talk…  kind of talk could I give? what would it be about?

My ideas for Ted events is large…. but the list of things I feel I would be qualified to talk about is pretty non-existent.

I suppose I could talk about how being diagnosed with cancer was life changing in some spectacularly subtle ways… or what it was like being born to a bullfighter father and an explorer mother, though that is really their stories. About being a child of divorce (booooooring).  What it was like managing a high stress pregnancy, most of which was spent on bed rest (gag me).

At this point in my life, I think I would talk about why I think vaccines are important, from a theoretical view, and cultural view, and prevention view, a mothers view, a survivors view,

What would your Ted talk be about?









*stands for examine your zipper, pretty darn quick, before I look (a childhood phrase)

Day 1 – 40DOW – viewpoints on vaccines

This morning was a struggle. 

I am trying my damnedest to get this to happen:

If you can RSVP for a Phoenix event click here.


I struggle because I want it to be successful 

The team I am working with has been UNBELIEVABLY supportive… but it is so hard to get buy in from other folks.

I struggle with that.

But it, my sense of struggling, may have been that I had an unscheduled visit to my oncologist today. 


Bleeding.


Something I am not supposed to be doing at this point.

So I went in and saw my doctors nurse practitioner. Who performed a biopsy. 

I have had biopsies before, in that area…  it hurt like a motherf*&%#r. 

Even though she told me that it was my job to assume it was due to scar tissue, she also told me it was her job to rule out recurrence. She reassured me that it looked like granulation (BTW – don’t Google it).

What makes this situation even crazier is that the woman who did my biopsy is also a woman who will be on the panel for the movie screening.

Following up on the fact that I am helping to host a conversation about a preventable cancer
and that one of the panelists will have seen my girly-bits, I just got word who a second panelist will be and…. guess what??????

She has seen my girly bits too.

She was there when my son was born, as in the room… standing right between my husband and my mother.

So, I am trying to find the beauty of all of this. So, “this” being a weird place in my life (waiting for biopsy results) the week before I am helping host an event. The event which happens to be about something that most likely got me into the biopsy situation in the first place.

Anyway, the big shift for me has been to try and be kinder, gentler, more gracious… and yet stay my own person. Hard to do when you are in pain.

I lay there waiting for the biopsy, pretending to be under a fancy kitchen heat lamp


The biopsy was really painful, it still hurts as I type this some 12 hours later.
I still have so much to be grateful for, But it is kind of nerve wracking to be in my position, again… you know, waiting for results. Not the most fun place to be.
Anyway, after my ridiculously painful “procedure” I yelled out “fuck, that hurts” and immediately apologized and lay on the exam table, in tears, for a while. The nurse practitioner who took the biopsy was so very kind and seemed very distressed by my reaction.
I was pretty shocked by it too. It was, however, really painful. I have had biopsies of my girly bits before, without any numbing agent, and it was nothing like this.
At one point, during the second “grab” for tissue I screamed out “oh fuck that hurts”, and then immediately apologized. I am generally not one to curse much… I was embarrassed.
I lay on that exam table, tears streaming down my face, trying to get back to a normal breathing, staring at the bright light above me wishing there was something like a rainbow pooping unicorn to look at…
The nurse practitioner held my hand, asked me how I was feeling, helped me get some of my ibuprofen and drink it down. She seemed very concerned. All very kind considering that she had just learned she would be speaking at the HPV movie thing and that I was involved.
After my breathing got back to normal and the tears stopped falling down my face, she told me to lay there as long as I needed. She, and the other NP with her, quietly left the room. I lay on that exam table, and the tears came back.
It was a pity party I suppose. I lay there crying and trying to remember to be thankful that this was an experience in which I had had tremendous luck. No chemo. No radiation. a tumor the size of a grain of salt.
I lay there looking at the light above me. Trying to make it something more than just a light, making a distraction from the pain in my internal surgical site and the pain in my heart.
My heart did hurt, I had a vaccine preventable disease.
Let me say that again, I was diagnosed with a vaccine preventable disease.
One that would have prevented everything, a sub-total hysterectomy, worry, agony… and today’s darn biopsy.
It is a vaccine preventable disease.
Granted, I was born before this miracle vaccine was developed. But it is a vaccine preventable disease.
And as I ran through a list of people I do not particularly care for, not one of them and not one of their children were eligible for my wanting them to suffer what I had suffered through, I AM suffering through.
Vaccinate your children. In some cases yourself. Your boys. Your girls. This alternative is not fun. not fun at all. The HPV vaccine is good for kids aged 9 to adults aged 26.
It is a vaccine preventable disease.

..

A year in my life

A year ago, I had sent my son off to Europe and missed him terribly.

I think it was the Starbucks app of the week that was a picture a day app. I downloaded it, because;
1) it was free
2) I was thinking about documenting how much I missed my son

So, I took the selfie… and time flowed and I stuck to it and yesterday I got a notice that I had taken 365 photos.

One year, one insane year.

A son sent abroad at a very young age and being diagnosed with cancer. Not really sure which was hardest at the inception.

I missed my son terribly and was so happy when I reunited with him.

And hearing you have cancer sucks, sucks, sucks… and somehow it infiltrates everything.

But I missed my son and that was the hardest thing ever, and yes.. in a way, it was harder than being told one has cancer.

But the cancer things has its own craziness, craziness that makes everything outside the norm seem so much scarier.

So here is that one year of selfies, and as I sit here trying to figure out what all to tell my oncologist when I call him tomorrow, I think I look so much happier now than I did when I missed my son so much!

https://www.flickr.com/apps/video/stewart.swf

A seasonal urge

I grew up in the land of eternal spring… some even called it eternal fall.

I never have experienced four strong seasonal changes… usually it was two… but it could even be argued that there was one season unless one counts “more rain” as another season.

Ecuador had that… rain and more rain, it was eternal spring, or something akin to the glorious autumn season of the southwestern US.

Yes, it is confusing, but the big seasonal denominator for me has been the presence or absence of rain.

Today was that kind of day here in my beloved American Southwest… overcast and lightly rainy. A huge high pressure system that seemed unexpected causing tension headaches and achy bones. The release when the rain managed to push past. The smell of creosote wafting in the air.

I always feel a different kind of contentment in the rain, no matter in what part of the world I am in. If there is rain, I get this feeling. It isn’t particularly productive, but is a certain kind of peace or contentment. Though I do tend to write more when I can hear water droplets hitting the windows or the cadence of rain on the tin roof of my back porch. I feel the magic that my favorite authors are able to convey about this world, the kind that feeds the stories of Borges, Allende, Esquivel, and Garcia Marquez. While I do not claim that there is a Latin Exclusivity to the genre, as a daughter of its lands, I can understand the origins every so deeply.

When it rains, the world feels magical.

Rain in the magical jungle city of Tena in Ecuador


“The seasonal urge is strong in poets. Milton wrote chiefly in winter. Keats looked for spring to wake him up (as it did in the miraculous months of April and May, 1819). Burns chose autumn. Longfellow liked the month of September. Shelley flourished in the hot months.” Helen Bevington 

The fossils of dead superlatives

I am the best at beating cancer.
Though in some respects, there was not much to beat.
In the end, we caught the cancer so early it was only the size of a grain of salt.
Yes, I talked about that before.
There are many strange things that happen when that words gets tossed into your life.
Trying to make sense of it may be the hardest.
In my case, it is managing the whole thing of having CERVICAL FUCKING CANCER.
It is, after all, considered to be a sexually transmitted infection.
And then there is managing that stigma.
I am finding my path as an advocate for the HPV vaccine. And am meeting with many people about how to help spread the word about the vaccine. I will state that I would not wish what happened to me on my worst enemy, and I had it easy.
Anyway, the stigma thing.
Some people that I tried talking about this with dismissed my concerns as my being more upset about it than the situation merited. In my fragile state I listened to that too much. Several months out from hearing this.. I am calling bullshit.
As I talk more with others, it is very clear the stigma is there.
After all, it forces us to have a conversation about S-E-X.
Because, that is understood to be the main way that you get it.
At a dinner to talk about HPV recently, a dear friend revealed that she had cervical cancer. And I watched her talk about her experience, and the others at the table leap at the chance to blame it on her husband at the time, as he was older, more experienced. I was pretty horrified by this, one could tell the others at the table liked her. Most likely they did not want to have any unpleasant ideas about her and her choices in behavior. We were meeting to discuss how best to spread information about the importance of the HPV vaccination among a particular religious group. As I heard them accuse the man, the hair on my back flared a bit. I reacted this way because it was judgement…  this happened and lets blame the older ex-husband because that is easy to do (though there is no way of knowing if it was the correct thing to do).
My tendency is to assume that everyone is having sex.
What that translates into can vary;
  • waiting until marriage
  • waiting until in a committed relationship
  • Sex on the first date
  • Sex with strangers
  • Sex with multiples
  • and on, and on, and on…
We have chosen, as a culture, to decide that one (of these) is better than the other.
We tend to judge men and women who choose to move outside the boundaries we set. That is, those of long term, spiritually certified, monogamous, committed sexual relationships.
And while this may present a cultural ideal, it really is not the case. One just has to look at the research coming out of the Kinsey Institute to be witness to this.
It is unfortunate that the assumed cultural demographic for women with HPV and cervical cancer tends to be among what is often referred to as the loose woman. 
Working in the early 80’s in some health promotion programs (breast and cervical prevention models) it was often a topic of discussion that cervical cancer was either transmitted by 
a) loose women or 
b) the husbands who had sex with loose women who would then  give this disease to their ever so chaste wives.

The truth is, is it really any of our business to worry about past choices? Past experiences?
We can all assume that the women who’ve had a diagnosis of cervical cancer have in fact had sex. It follows that in some way they have been exposed to the virus either through her own experiences or those of her partner.

The possibilities range from 
a) being raped (which is much more common than is reported, regardless of how you feel about it being deserved or not, and that is a whole different conversation) to 
b) choosing to have sex with a partner who is infected.
The only thing for certain is that there has to be at least a third person. This is in regards to the sex lives of a couple for HPV to happen (I don’t mean a three-some per se, though that is not excluded). The couple can be gay or straight.
Divorce rates indicate we participate in a form of serial monogamy. We can follow that with the idea that people who remarry have been exposed… which helps accounts for the idea that 80% of our American populace has the HPV virus.
But there is that stigma, it hides out there as this article recounts and is poked fun at by this Onion piece.
Dear me, I seem to be ranting…
Announcing I had cervical cancer allows people to make  assumptions about my sexual behavior. These assumptions create a need in me to discuss my health and sexual history to allow people to form a correct opinion of me.

Hell, even my husband was lamenting that he hoped  that he was not the cause for my disease,

In the end, my cancer was something that my body was unable to fight and the cells decided to mutate…  in most cases, this is something that bodies able to fight on their own.

A vaccine would have helped.
Oh, and by the way the incidence of oral cancers is on the rise and in men and these are associated with HPV too… how is that for a fun conversation. Lets talk about sex baby!

~sigh~
The funny thing is that I titled this post just because I read this article and liked the phrase enough to want to use it.  I did not intend to write a diatribe about my dislike of judgey people in terms of sexual behavior, but it happened… I suppose it is something I am still processing. one does not hear the word whore cancer and move past it easily.
Anyway, I love words, I love concepts… concepts like the consensus of definition, etymology, and epistemology (to name but just a few).

I have had several friends comment on the cautiousness in which I choose my words.  However,  when I am excited  I tend to fall back on strange metaphors, similes,  and synonyms that are tied up in my multi-cultural background and present what to some as gibberish. My  friends are able to figure it out or at least pretend to. 

I do love words, I like to listen to them, make sense of them, argue and chat using them… and I was charmed by this idea that remnants of my ancestors word choices are alive and well in my current vernacular.