My Wobbly Bicycle, 45

The hair thing.  I can pinch my “bangs” between thumb and forefinger. At the back, hair’s about twice as long. I try a hairbrush and see a slight difference. Not much, but it’s coming along. It feels like healing. That’s the wonderful thing about hair. The more of it, the better I am. From the front, it’s cute, but from the sides and back—of course I stand with a mirror and study it—it’s still plastered to my head in a way that isn’t flattering.

[None of MY hair in these photos. They're all from the book launch. I wanted you to see them.]

Upside: my hair may grow slowly, but it’s thick, as thick as it always was, it seems. It’s steely gray, coming to a point of gray at the front, whiter on the sides. Patchwork. The lower back is darker gray, the crown and upper back is lighter gray. As it gets longer, the unevenness doesn’t seem so radical.

Now that I can see the crown, the cowlick, and the growth pattern, I can see I’ve been parting it the best way all along. Some beauticians have said the part should naturally fall on the right, but they were wrong.

I do not tire of this analysis. A once-in-a-lifetime (one fervently hopes) chance to see what’s under there, like tracing my own development, hairless baby to eventual full  head.

I’m tired of the wig, but when I look at me without it, I’m not yet happy with what I see. Too severe, too wild.

It seems as if I’m slowly watching myself come back together. I am having cataract surgery tomorrow. When you’ve had surgery for detached retina and a vitrectomy, the lens of the eye develops a cataract very quickly. My right eye is all foggy. When this surgery is over, it’ll be as clear and see as well as in its original state, before nearsightedness set in.

Eventually we’ll all be in our original state, if you want to go that far! Dust to dust. I’ll settle for the original I can imagine, being what’s called well, all systems working.

All systems working: I’m planning to go to the Writers’ Convention in Seattle in February. I’ve chosen to work with two MFA students this year in the Rainier Writing Program that I teach in. And I just launched my new book. No Need of Sympathy (BOA Editions). The party at Brilliant Books in Traverse City was spectacular. The owner, Peter Makin, always makes book launches an event. He’d gotten a cake (pictured), an exact replica of my book cover.  Jim Crockett, retired from Northwest Michigan College,  played guitar and sang. Jennifer Steinorth, who’s currently studying in the Warren Wilson MFA program, introduced me. I cried of course when I looked out at so many people who’ve supported me, brought me food, sent me cards and gifts, through my chemo and radiation. I feel surrounded by love, and simultaneously intensely aware of those who have to endure this godawful treatment with few friends and not-enough love.

I’m pretty public. I was Delaware’s state poet laureate for seven years and am still in contact with many Delaware friends; I comment on poetry monthly for Interlochen Public Radio; I write a monthly poetry column for the Record-Eagle newspaper;  I teach in the Rainier program; I give poetry readings.  So when trouble comes, there are people aware of it. There are friends.

It was once otherwise. When my children were small, my marriage was falling apart, and I wasn’t yet teaching. my life was constricted, isolated. Lonely as hell.  There’ve been other times, later, when I’ve been lonely as hell. I honestly do think, as Hilary Clinton wrote, it does take a village. It takes a village to raise children without trapping them within your own narrow prejudices; it takes a village to disperse some of the fear and anguish of a terrible diagnosis. To let some others help you carry it.

Most likely this is why I’ve loved writing this blog so much through all of this. You’re my village.

My Wobbly Bicycle, 37

It’s been a cool summer, for the most part. We’ve spent a number of evenings in front of the fireplace in the big cottage—at one time six grandchildren, their parents, and Jerry and me (the others had come earlier). My press had sent me a carton of 25 advance copies of my new book of poems, No Need of Sympathy. The book is dedicated to my grandchildren, and I wanted each child to have a copy.

But the sequence called “The Grandmother Sonnets,” one for each child, are not children’s poems. They deal with complex emotions, often alluding to difficult situations, often from my own past. Maybe they’re my anti-Hallmark poems. I’ve always wanted to wash the sugar off my hands when I read poems by grandmothers about their grandchildren.

Our combined grandchildren are ages 9-20. What a range! I could (1) hand the parents the books and trust that when the kids are older, they’ll read the poems and be able to understand them, or (2) read the poems to them now and talk them through a bit and hope for the best. I showed the poems to the parents first, to get their sense of things. Then with great trepidation, I read each child his or her poem, aloud to the group, plus a few others. I warned the kids that these are adult poems. I briefly talked about what an Italian sonnet is. The parents are all big readers, but not of poetry, so I felt I need to help them, too.

But how much help? If I paraphrase the poem, the poem disappears. Anyway, I don’t have a nice, neat paraphrase in my head. If I did, might as well write an essay instead of a poem. This is a bigger issue than what to do for my immediate family. Teachers have this to face all the time. Shall I give my students essentially a Cliff Notes version of Shakespeare? Shall I paraphrase for them, line by line, Hopkins’ “The Windhover”?    

 Here’s one of the sonnets in the sequence. I wanted to somehow write the complexity of step-grandmothering, the sense that it can’t quite be done adequately, that all the trying in the world won’t make me a “real” grandmother to this child. And that also, I haven’t done enough, haven’t tried enough.

Joie, 7

The child’s serious brown eyes, full without prejudice.Eyes like her mother’s: part mirror, part well.The step-grandmother flies to Oregon, not to be remissat grandmothering. Ah, a child can easily tellthe truth of absence! Here in the minivan’s back seat,they find objects out the window, beginning with lettersof the alphabet, in order. She keeps on, street after street,to the tiresome end: good reader; speller, better.Knows q needs u. Knows the rule that one parentlives miles from the other, an alphabet to range.The grandmother and the actual grandfather cometogether. The grandmother’s brought gifts: a senseof continuity, of love. She’s carsick. It’s strange,she thinks. Happiness is not a direct sum.

Here's Joie, We were looking for turtles.

Someone asked, “What does that mean, “Happiness is not a direct sum”? How could I exactly say? It’s all so strange, this life in which the father’s somewhere else, the grandmother’s not a “real” one. There is a “real” one—so what am I? I guess that’s what I meant: we do what we do. We can no longer, if we ever could, add up the exact way relationships are supposed to go.

I can’t say how this all went. It was definitely most successful with the oldest children. But I figure, each child got to hear me read a poem about his or her very own self. They got to have a copy of the book. And if the words didn’t make sense, the sound may imbed itself, and years later, this poem and the others might possibly carry its weight and loving attention into whatever present there is at the time.

Speaking of the present, I feel better all the time. I’m walking two miles some days, and swimming my old usual route to the yellow raft and back, but not as often as I used to. I get cold very easily. I wear more clothes than anyone. I’ve achieved my professed summer goal—been out on my paddleboard. Wearing a Speedo cap, not the silly cancer swim cap I ordered.

I’m cranking up for fall: I have two students to work with this year in the low-residency MFA program I teach in (Rainier Writing Workshop). It’s a light load—students who are at a stage that requires fewer mailings. I’ve also made hotel reservations for the Associated Writing Program’s conference in Seattle in late February. No plane reservations yet—I still might decide not to go. (My book comes out this year, and so I should be there.) There are other trips we will want to take. Frankly, I’m a bit scared of all that. I still feel too tired. So none if it may happen. And Jerry may have back surgery. We’ll know something about that in Sept.  

I can now pinch a little hair between my fingers. There’s a widow’s peak of dark on top, with white at the sides. A lot of white. All earned.

My Wobbly Bicycle, 26

The doctor’s office just called. My platelet count is down to 40 (normal is 150-400). They warned me to be careful with knives, not to operate a chain saw, etc.) I said I wouldn’t. I may have another blood test before the weekend. My hemoglobin is way low also. I am so tired I got dressed this morning and flopped down on the bed in exhaustion from the effort. I sat down three times changing our king-sized bed on Sunday. I sat and read all day yesterday, including an hour-long nap. Walking up stairs makes me huff and puff.

I also feel icky. “Icky,” in case you’re not sure, means “messy, disgusting, horrid, nasty,” according to my computer thesaurus. My IPhone app, a bit more idiomatic, says “crappy, lousy, rotten, shitty, stinky, probably from 1935 icky-boo, ‘sickly, nauseated,’ probably baby-talk elaboration of sick.” My friend Anne-Marie gets pretty close in guessing what it’s like—like unto the feeling you have the next day if you’ve had way too much to drink the day before. Your body buzzes. It feels, well, of course, poisoned. Every cell is in rebellion. The skin’s sensitive. There’s a slight sense of nausea and food is wretched to contemplate. The air around you is unsettled, kind of a “whump, whump” feeling, as if you were in a car with one window a little open in the back.

The inside of my mouth feels a bit numb as well as bad-tasting. The taste buds aren’t working right. Oh well, I’ve said this before. Nothing new.

That’s the thing. “How are you?” people ask. They’re hoping to hear, “Oh, better now.” or “Not bad, doing okay”—something to which they can then respond, “So glad to hear it.” I sometimes imagine a tendency for people to want to pull away if I say “Not good at all. I still feel awful.” People like me, who’ve always wanted to fix things, feel frustrated when we can’t. But we can’t. What we can do is just be present. Just be concerned, say we’re sorry.

This blog has put me in touch with several people who’ve had their endometrial cancer return, or who have other life-threatening illnesses. And a couple of people who are clearly dying and know it. They’re me. And they’re not me. I can’t explain that, but I know it to be true. I’m deeply sad, thinking of the pain and fear I see. And those (at least 50%) who’re well now, who’ve had no return of the cancer, those I’m also separate and not separate from—where are they? I figure they’re quiet about it. Maybe they don’t want to alert the gods! After all, nothing’s sure. At any moment. . . .This is the way it is, whether we see it or not.

I’m also thinking about those with chronic illnesses, those who constantly feel bad. I’ve been at this for nearly six months and already I feel like a bore saying how I am. Let’s talk about writing, politics, anything else, okay? But really, how I feel is registering with me every minute. So when I talk about something else, this is lurking, waiting to take center stage again. Think of those who hurt or feel sick all the time! No wonder there’s a withdrawal. First of all, there’s no energy to shop or go to concerts or read complicated essays, and second, the attention must keep rounding back to “me, me,” my illness, how I feel. ow How

I’ll feel better in a week or so. My experience has shown me this is the case. My blood counts will start to improve (I might end up having to have a transfusion to make that happen!). I may have to postpone the next (last) chemo. But it will happen, and I will start to get better.

Still, I’m giving up my always-anticipated-with-joy teaching in the residency of the Rainier Writing Program this summer. I don’t think I have the energy to engage all day long, day after day, with the necessary intensity. I’ll miss the faculty and students, a lot. I’ll miss the mental stimulation. But I think of this as temporary. I see myself jumping back in, full force, next year.

And I keep writing stuff, which has saved my soul over and over again. I can’t say why, but it’s what necessarily emerges from what I call “me,” and shapes this “me” as much as any damn fool collection of errant cells.

Why I Love Teaching in a Low-Res Writing Program

Every August I pack an almost-over-the-weight-limit suitcase and my computer and fly to Tacoma, WA, to teach for ten days at the Rainier Writing Workshop, a low-residency MFA program (to my mind, one of the best in the country). This is where I am at the moment—I have a little free time in the middle of pretty intense days—workshops, readings, craft talks, lectures, classes. It’s a great deal of fun. Every year I’m giddily happy to see my colleague-friends, about 30 of us, young and old writers from all over the country. At the end of the ten days, we mentors are paired with mentees, and we spend the winter shuffling packets of work back and forth.  They read and write; I comment and push.The photo is taken looking backward into the large room we use for our morning talks. Today was Judith Kitchen talking about the boundaries between fiction and nonfiction. She is a brilliant writer and critic. I always take notes when my colleagues present.I’d say most people who attend a low-residency MFA program are between 30 and 60. They’ve had, or have, careers and children. Some are grandparents. It’s not cheap to attend such a program—it takes a commitment of time and money, and a willingness to take a risk. After all, who knows if someone else will think our work is any good?  Yet, the number of people who choose to make that commitment is pretty large. This doesn't surprise me:   1. In no other educational setting is literature studied as just writing, no ulterior motive. The questions we ask are simply: Does it succeed in making us care about reading it? How does it work to make us feel the way we do about it? How can we learn to do that, too? What other work can we study that also does this successfully?It’s such a relief to read as writers, to walk alongside the written word to see what it is and how it works, not to attempt to stand above it or impose paradigms upon it.2. No place else I know of are people gathered to help each other in the name of the truth art can point toward. If the poem is untrue, if a word is untrue, the workshop will eventually shine a light on that untruth. If a story is untrue—at base, untrue to nature/human nature—that will become evident.3. No place else I know cares almost nothing about credentials. If you can write, we are all in awe. If you can make us weep or laugh, we love you. If you need help doing those things, that’s what we’re there for.4. No other educational experience I know dwells equally in past and present. We study Emily Dickinson and Gerard Manley Hopkins alongside Dorianne Laux and Stuart Dybek. We know we’re inheritors of a tradition and everything we write owes homage to that tradition and must be seen against the backdrop of that tradition. We cross borders: we read Lorca and Rilke and Paz, and on and on.5. No place else exists more for the experience than for the degree. Most people who complete the MFA do it because they want to learn how to write better. The degree itself is hardly the issue. The degree is useful as a measure of what’s been learned, how the writing has improved, how much writing has been accomplished in three years.But if you asked a typical student, she’d say, “I’m here because I’ve always wanted some really fine writers, ones whose work I admire, to help me become a good writer, too. I’ve always wanted an intimate, ongoing correspondence with a writer who gets to know me and my work enough to see where I need help, where I’m succeeding.”The low-residency program gives a student access to a well-published writer over a whole year.  And then another writer the next year, and another the next. To me, that seems like heaven. If there had been such a thing when I was younger, if I had been free to enroll, if, if, if. I’ve been stumbling along, finding my own way, for the past thirty (plus) years. I imagine what it might have been like if someone had taken my hand and shown me something, anything, I needed to know.But who knows? I probably needed to do what I did. The Ph.D. has been good to me and for me. Furthermore, the MFA isn’t a guarantee of anything. We’ll never corral writers into one pen and brand them. The best thing about poetry, and fiction, and non-fiction, is that we can’t even say what “succeed” means. We write our hearts out. We get some publications. We may win a Pulitzer. But in the eye of God or Ginsberg or Glasgow, have we become “good writers”? If they could say so, would that make it so? We will never know.