Cancer time capsule

While I was battling cancer, my friend Lisa suggested that I keep a journal on CaringBridge, so that friends and family could track my progress, and show their support along the way.  I am so happy that I did.  The last few weeks, I have found myself revisiting my posts there to see what was happening in my life just one year ago.  What's strange is that although I have recalled some of the milestones (surgery to remove the tumor, starting chemo, etc.), I had forgotten how I felt during that time.  I have very little memory of how horrible the chemotherapy drugs made me feel--the physical and psychological side effects.  And how despite the dark times, I always managed to find the silver lining.  Reading those entries is a true testament to the human spirit.

Last year at this time, I had finished my second of six chemotherapy sessions and was struggling through a nasty bout with infected hair follicles on my scalp.  I was still working at the museum full time, taking the week of chemo off, and returning to my marketing director duties for two weeks until the next treatment.  I was so happy it was spring, and that green was bursting all around me.

A springtime memory from the cancer time capsule...

Monday, April 5, 2010

I am still having trouble sleeping, so I thought I would update my journal.

Easter was lovely.  As a child Easter meant getting a new spring dress and coat (that matched my sister's) and going to my Grandma and Grandpa Olsen's house to hang out with my family.  We would have ham and all of the fixings.  If it was a warm, sunny day like yesterday, we would spend time in the back yard.  The adults sipped on iced tea while the kids played.  My grandparents had a big wooden double glider swing in their yard.  To me, that white painted swing represented summer.  It sat four adults comfortably, but up to five or six of my siblings and cousins and I could pile on it and pretend we were on a ship, rocking with the waves at sea, or some other adventure.

This Easter was reminiscent of my childhood.  Although I didn't get a new dress and coat, I decided to wear a spring dress, just like old times.  The hair on my legs had not fallen out, so I even shaved my legs (well, that was not something I did as a child).  I threw my dog Jake in the car, picked up a strawberry pie and I was off to my aunt and uncle's house.  As I was driving, all I could think about was how great I felt, how great the sun felt, how happy I was to be over the first hump of chemo side effects, how life was truly amazing.  I told myself to remember exactly how I felt at that moment--to bank the memory for the times when I wasn't feeling so great.

When I arrived, my cousins and their young children were in the midst of an Easter egg hunt in the back yard.  As I walked through the gate, and heard the laughter and excitement of the kids, I was transported back in time to my grandparent's back yard.  All that was missing was the swing.

My aunt made an incredible amount of delicious food!  She cooked a ham, green bean casserole, croissant rolls the size of my arm--and my favorite cheesy potatoes.   She even channeled my grandma a couple of times, in particular when she was carving the ham and making commentary.

The day also included watching five happy wiener dogs run around the yard (my cousins, aunt and uncle and I all have dachshunds), watching my cousin Amie's husband Scott get pooped on by a passing duck, and listening to my cousin Alisha obsess about the plans she had for transforming my aunt's garden into a grove of various fruits and berries.

It may have been just another Easter to the rest of my family, but to me it was really special.  I appreciated it more.  I'm not sure why it took cancer to make me appreciate the little things so much, but I know for sure, I will continue to take note of these little things every single day.  It was a perfect day!

Goodbye, Big Pig

Growing up, my family almost always ate dinner together.  The menu was often uneventful and usually included meat, potatoes, and a vegetable selection.  We rarely had a meal without bread and butter, or what I now refer to as 'The Olsen Family Salad'--a medley of iceberg lettuce, croutons from a box, and Western Dressing.  But my dad loved hamburgers, so on Saturdays all that well-balanced meal stuff went out the window, and we had burger nights.  My mom would fry up a whole mess of thick, homemade patties on her electric griddle.  We'd scarf them down with potato chips and baked beans, and sometimes even root beer floats.

On special occasions, we'd all pile in the car and go out for burgers.  There wasn't a burger in the Twin Cities that my dad hadn't tried, and he did not discriminate.  His favorites included 'Gut Bombs' from White Castle, and cheese-filled Jucy Lucys from Matt's Bar.  But his top choice for a good old fashioned hamburger was Porky's Drive-in on University Avenue.  It was the 70s, so carhops actually brought platters piled high with burgers, fries, onion rings and shakes, right to the car.  I loved how the tray rested on the partially rolled down window, and how my dad would divvy up the food.  I would sit in the backseat, munching on the greasy goodness, imaging that Fonzie and the Happy Days gang were going to show up at any moment.  I would stare up at the Porky's sign, watching the Big Pig in his top hat and bow tie, as he winked his neon eye at me from high above the parking lot.

As time went on, and my brothers and sister and I grew older, burger nights were history, and our family outings to Porky's became a thing of the past.  My dad's visits there continued, but it became less about food, and more about tradition.  He would jump in his 1950 Ford pickup truck, cruise up and down University Avenue, and meet up with his hot rod buddies in the parking lot.  They would pop open their hoods, compare parts, and 'shoot the shit' for hours and hours.  Almost every time I saw my dad, he had a story to share about something that happened at Porky's.  It was such a big part of his life that at his funeral a year and a half ago, dozens of his classic car cohorts came to pay their respects, and share Porky's Drive-in stories with my family.

This past weekend, Porky's closed its doors for good after 53 years.  I drove by one last time, and the memories came flooding back.  I thought of my many childhood trips there, but mostly I thought of what a special place it was for my dad.  I recalled the last time I was there, three years ago.  It was a warm summer evening and I had tried numerous times to reach my dad on his cell phone.  When he didn't answer after several hours, I began to worry.  I called my older brother to find out when he had last spoken to him.  He asked if I had checked Porky's.  I drove up to the restaurant and didn't see my dad at first.  But then I heard his laugh and spotted him at a picnic table with four or five of his friends.  There were several empty red plastic burger baskets in front of them.  As I got out of the car and approached the table, he didn't think it was at all unusual that I was there.  He invited me to join him and the gang.  I sat down on the bench and his friends immediately started cracking jokes about my dad.  I will always remember that night, how happy he looked, underneath the Porky's sign, with the Big Pig in his top hat and bow tie, winking his neon eye.

Goodbye, Big Pig.  Thank you for making my dad smile, and for bringing my family many years of joy.  You will be missed.