Julo's Journey

My mother, Juloe Elizabeth Gauthier, was born in St. Paul and lived in the same house on the West Side her entire childhood.  At some point, the 'e' was dropped from her first name, but I was never able to find the origin of either version.  I recall stories that her father named her after a star that was used for navigating by Norwegian sailors, or that it was the name of his first love.  Either way, it suited her.  It was unique and memorable, just like she was.  She had beautiful black curly hair, intense brown eyes, and a laugh that got the attention of everyone in the room.  She had a sense of mischief that had clearly started when she was very young, and a fiery side.  If she wasn't happy with something that was said or done, she would shoot a look that made her point very well.

As a child, she loved art, sewing, archery, swimming, and rollerskating--all passions that stayed with her throughout her life.  When she graduated from Humbolt High School in the late fifties, she went on to get married and start a family.  She had four children--two girls and two boys--and was a stay at home mom who devoted most of her time to volunteering at her kids’ schools, scouts, and church.  She also had her own business as a tailor, and made beautiful clothes for several clients, including me.  She taught me to sew when I was around 12 years old, after my custom clothing requests became too elaborate for her patience.  But she was always willing to repair my sewing mishaps.  I think one of her favorite spots on earth was her sewing room--a warm and cozy place with a straw mat on the floor, an old family trunk full of hundreds of pieces of fabric (a trunk that I have in my living room today), and walls covered with photos of her favorite things.

My mom joined the workforce when my brothers and sister and I were in junior high and high school, and found her niche in the health care field.  She worked at a few hospitals before she ended up at Abbott Northwestern, where she worked for nearly 15 years.  Although she enjoyed her job, she only worked so she could do the things she loved when she wasn't at the hospital.  She had a free spirit and was very independent (something she instilled in me as well).  She cherished life and appreciated nature, especially being in the woods walking, camping, or painting the beautiful scenery she surrounded herself with.  She kept her camping gear in the car year round, so she could take off on a whim, and head for the forest.  She also enjoyed just sitting on her deck, feeling the sunshine on her face, and admiring the beautiful gardens she tended to so lovingly.

Her sense of adventure led her many places, not just in travel, but hunting for treasures at antique shops and flea markets, finding the perfect pottery or jewelry at the Renaissance Festival, or discovering just what she was looking for at an art show.  Her love of children inspired her fun spirit--she roller skated into her fifties, dressed up in costume every Halloween, and collected antique toys.

Something I really admired about my mom was that she found pleasure in simple things like putting handmade bows on Christmas packages, sending Valentines to her kids, and decorating her house for every season.  Her warm smile, laugh, and gentle nature drew people to her.  She had a lot of class, an artistic sense of style, and often wore vibrant colors that mirrored her personality--her favorite was purple.  She was good to her children and her friends, and was always willing to lend an ear, a shoulder or her time.  She always gave so generously of herself.  She made the people she was near feel special.

She was diagnosed with Stage 4 ovarian cancer in 1997.  For 23 months she fought with a strong will and brave spirit.  She never gave up, even in the end when her body could no longer serve her beautiful soul.  When the nurses told her she shouldn’t walk, she’d muster up all the strength she could to get up and walk across the room.  She hated being cooped up in the house and would ask to be taken out for a meal, even though she barely ate a thing.  She was determined to care for herself and although she had always been so generous, she found it difficult to accept help from those who loved her.  She didn’t want to burden anyone.  She didn’t know she was giving them a gift--especially me.  I had the pleasure of being my mom's caretaker for the last months of her life, and was finally able to give back to her what she had given to me from the day I was born.

My mom’s wish was to spend her last moments surrounded by the comforts of home.  Thanks to a wonderful team of hospice nurses, health care workers, volunteers, friends, and family, we were able to give her greatest gift of all.  She died with dignity and was surrounded by the people, pets, and things she loved.  On November 29, 1999, my mom Julo’s journey took her back to the beauty of nature that she respected and loved so much.

I will never, ever forget my mom, and I think about her every day.  She was a role model in many ways, and I see so much of her in me, especially as I get older.  This past year has been the most difficult of my life, and I often compare my own journey with cancer to hers.  She is one of the reasons I was able to make it through, because she was with me every step of the way.  She is in my heart always.

Happy Mother's Day.

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.

Big gulps or tiny sips?

My boyfriend Matt and I have known each other for a couple of years, but officially started dating last October.  There were a few things that he said and did when I was battling cancer that made me fall for him.  The first was after I shaved my head before starting chemo.  He made a point of telling me that he thought I was cute bald.  Of course, I didn't believe him, but it was nice of him to say so.

As my journey continued, Matt wasn't afraid to actually talk about cancer, or the fact that it affected my reproductive organs.  Most of my guy friends disappeared when I went through surgery and chemotherapy.  My own brothers left my hospital room when the surgeon said the word ovary.  I know many men are wired differently than women when it comes to dealing with illness and death.  But Matt had no fear.  He asked questions, he checked in on me, he offered to help in any way he could.  He'd offer to take me to lunch, or bring me food, but always understood if I wasn't feeling up to it.

In late June, as I was gearing up for my final round of chemo, he sent me a picture of a bike.  An avid cyclist, vice president of a mountain bike club, and bicycle shop manager for many years, Matt came in contact with a lot of bikes.  So at first I didn't get why he was sending me a random photo.  As it turned out, the bike was for me.  He made it.  If I hadn't been going through chemo and my brain wasn't in a perma-haze, I probably would have figured it out sooner.  Matt was not so subtle about asking me bike-related questions.  Nonetheless, I was at my aunt and uncle's house when I got the picture message and my cousin Alisha suggested I date Matt.  I recall explaining to her that we were just friends, and her matter-of-fact "so what" response.

At summer's end I started to feel good again, and I started to spend more time with Matt.  We went out to eat, we went to movies, we went for walks.  We talked a lot.  We had a lot of deep conversations.  During one of our conversations, I shared that I was sad because it seemed that I would never feel like myself again.  Matt said the nicest thing.  He said he talked to a friend whose wife had been through chemo.  He said he knew without a doubt that I would feel healthy and happy and whole again... soon.  His words touched my heart.  He had talked with someone who had been through a similar journey because he wanted to better understand what I was going through, and to offer his support and love.  It overwhelmed me.  A few months later we decided we should "date" but looking back, we were sort of dating the whole time.  Granted, we never even made it to first base, but we were getting to know each other--really know each other.

Matt and I still have a lot of deep conversations, and the time when we are sharing who we are, and discovering what we might become, is my favorite time together.  The other day, we were having a discussion about how I tend to make decisions quickly and act on them, and Matt takes more time to think through things and weigh out all the options, before he makes a decision.  I wondered how it would be possible for two people who were so different in this way not to drive each other crazy.  Would I become annoyed every time he discouraged me from diving into something without first considering what could go wrong?  Would my pushing him to take risks and follow his gut instead of his head always get on his nerves?

Once again, Matt's words touched my heart.  He said, "Chris, you take big gulps of life, and I take tiny sips.  But that doesn't mean one tastes better than the other."  And he was right.  Either way--whether you gulp it, or sip it--life is really good.

Hair!

Hair is a blessing and a curse.  Especially for women.  Also maybe for men who have balding heads along with bodies covered in fur like Silverbacks.  I never realized how much I loved my hair until I went through six sessions of chemotherapy and it all fell out.  And I never realized how much I hated it until I began experiencing the 'growing back' stages that followed my final treatment.

After my cancer diagnosis and surgery I took on my impending drug-induced hair loss like a champ.  I cut off my 10+ inches and donated it to Locks of Love before I even started chemo.  Only LOL wouldn't take it because it had been processed.  Seriously.  They didn't want my hair.  What woman is sporting her natural hair color?  I couldn't help but wonder how many more wigs the LOL people could make for kids with cancer if they weren't so picky.  I got compliments on my faux golden locks all the time.  I mean really, what kid wouldn't want a full head of beautiful blond hair complete with dark roots?

I purchased a wig before I shaved my head.  It was a pretty good one and looked a lot like it was my real hair if my real hair had ever been a dark brown inverted bob.  Classic yet sassy.  I stopped wearing it after a few weeks when I developed a rash on my tender bald scalp from all the steroids I was prescribed.  Steroid folliculitis.  Ahh, what wonderful memories I have of playing Scrabble with my cousin Alisha and a bag of frozen corn niblets on my head.  It was then that I switched to hats and never looked back.

You can imagine how happy I was when I started to sprout peach fuzz at summer's end.  By mid-December I had a full head of half-inch dark blond hair.  At first I loved it.  I was so happy it was back.  It was so low maintenance.  Every morning I'd step out of the shower, give it a shake, and it somehow dried itself into a mini faux hawk.  I soon realized it was a great look for David Beckham or a six foot tall super model, but I was being mistaken for a 12 year old boy.  I decided a 'brightening up' might help.  I ended up with a bleach and tone at the hands of my well intentioned but somewhat careless stylist.  I still looked like a pre-pubescent male--just a weird one with a baby chick yellow mullet.  Sexy.

My favorite aunt, an old school cosmetologist, helped me manage my hair dilemmas every step of the way.  She presented me with a kick ass leather Harley Davidson cap when my treatment began.  She spent our hours together at the cancer clinic crocheting custom beanies for my bald head.  But most importantly, the woman who gave me a bubblecut on the front porch when I was a little kid, modified my bi-level disaster into a thing of beauty.

This past weekend I decided it was time to splurge and treat myself to a salon day.  Although my hair was growing quickly, all areas were not growing at the same pace.  My sideburns were having trouble keeping up with the top and back.  But it was finally long enough for foils, and I was eager for low lights and another mullet modification.  As I sat in the stylist's chair, I realized it had been over a year since I had the full salon experience--putting on a gown, sipping on sparkling water, paging through gossip magazines, eavesdropping on the stylist/girl chat going on around me.  I had forgotten how wonderful the head and neck massage were.  I had forgotten how long it took to go through this beauty regimen.  I had forgotten how important it was to do nice things for myself.

Two and a half hours and $280 later, I had a fabulous new color and a cut I was pretty sure was great.  It was just difficult to see its exact potential because the French-speaking stylist misunderstood when I said NO volume.  I felt like Liz Taylor in the 80s.  Only blond.  And maybe less glamorous.  But in the end, my day of pampering was well worth it.  Because you can't put a price tag on feeling normal again.  Well, maybe not 'normal.'  Maybe just the way I felt before cancer.

Guilty pleasure

I was raised on television.  My parents never restricted my viewing time and I watched whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.  My TV addiction continued as an adult.  Reality shows were my guilty pleasure.  I loved watching weekend marathons of MTV's Real World, Road Rules and Making The Band.  But something happened a few years back when I got rid of my clunky big screen.  I found other things to do with my time, other simple pleasures--reading, writing, cooking, walking my dogs, spending time with friends.  When I finally purchased a TV again, I didn't want to get hooked, so I decided not to get cable or satellite.  I would only watch the movies that I had missed in the theater and past seasons of my favorite shows on DVD--Lost, Weeds, Entourage, Dexter.  Oh, and occasionally an episode or two of Dancing With The Stars with my friend Nicole.  But that was it.  Really.  I had no idea what shows aired when.

Things started to change a year ago after I had major surgery for ovarian cancer.  I was laid up for quite a while.  During my recovery my girlfriends Nicole and Austine would come over, they'd help me take care of things around the house, we'd have food delivered and then we would hang out, eat and watch television.  Boy, was I thankful for my TV!  Once I started chemotherapy, our viewing nights continued and evolved into a Monday night tradition that we now call Girls' Night.

Even though chemo is a distant memory and I have fully recovered, Girls' Night is still my favorite time of the week.  I cook dinner and my friends and I settle in and chit chat about whatever comes to mind.  We talk about men, we talk about work, we talk about each other.  As soon as the clock strikes 7, we stop talking and get completely caught up in our current guilty pleasure--The Bachelor.  OK, so it's not really reality, and the premise of the show is ridiculous.  But my friends and I can't get enough of it.

Monday night was the season finale, and hot 38 year old bachelor Brad Womack was forced to choose from two beautiful women.  I guessed he would propose to Emily, the sweet 24 year old blond single mom who lost her fiance in a plane wreck before she knew she was pregnant with his daughter.  From around episode three, every time Brad was around this woman, he could barely speak.  It was clear to me that he was smitten with her.  I was so sure she would win, I bet a coworker a sandwich.

The other finalist was Chantal, a 28 year old divorcee, who was fun and sassy.  She slapped him in the face during the season premier (coached by the producers, I'm sure).  She was the opposite of Emily in every way.  Brad and Chantal's dates were amazing--everything from zip-lining through the jungles of Costa Rica to swimming with sharks in South Africa.  It would have been difficult for them NOT to have a good time together, given the activities they shared.

In the end, he did indeed propose to Emily, and my friends and I were pleased.  That was until we watched 'After The Final Rose'--the show that featured Bachelor Brad and his bride-to-be reunited in public for the first time since the taping of the final episode.  Suddenly the woman who seemed so confident, poised and unshaken by any of her former competition was insecure and whiny.  Apparently she had not considered the possibility that her fiance had shown other women his affection when he wasn't stuttering and stammering his way through picnics and walks on the beach with her.  Even though she signed up to be on a game show for a chance to win a husband, somehow the fact that the other women were there for the same reason slipped her mind.  And I guess as she watched the show every Monday night, and what really went down, her feelings were hurt.  So much so that she called off the engagement more than once.

I have to say, I felt a little sorry for Brad as he continued to ogle this chick and rub her finger sans engagement ring while she went on about how he hadn't gotten anything right.  She was completely hung up on how if she was really 'the one' from the moment they met he would not have given anyone else the time of day.  He was completely hung up on her.  He couldn't change what had happened, and she was not going to let it go.  She eventually announced that they were still engaged, but my friends and I weren't buying it.  Poor Brad.  The bottom line was that it was a competition, and he treated it as such, taking advantage of the time he shared with all of the women.  He did his best to get to know them and decide who he thought was right for him.  He did what he thought he was supposed to do.  He selected a woman with whom he was most compatible and shared many common interests.  A woman he connected with intellectually and spiritually.  A woman that shared his priorities, values and goals.  Oh wait, that's not how it works on The Bachelor.  All that couldn't possibly be squeezed into 10 episodes.  The truth is, Brad Womack did what any man who was nearly 40 and finally ready to settle down might do.  He chose a Southern Belle who was 14 years his junior and looked like a real-life Barbie.

Good luck, Brad.  We'll miss you on Monday nights.

Candy coated crack

I was never a fan of plain M&Ms.  I never craved a plain M&M.  I never purchased a package at the store or at the movies.  I never rummaged through the Easter or Halloween candy belonging to the children of friends or relatives hoping to score a 'fun size' pack of plain M&Ms.  Peanut or pretzel M&Ms?  Different story.  I've got a thing for the salty sweet combo.  But plain M&Ms?  I just never thought they had that much to offer.

At the museum where I work, a tradition of having an endless supply of plain M&Ms available for staff was started a few years back by a teacher-in-residence.  This particular educator was a bit of a pack rat and brought in random stuff that he collected during his off time to 'share' with the rest of us.  For example, one day he showed up with a few dozen hard plastic Pillsbury Doughboy dolls and gave them to everyone on staff.  Why he thought we would all like a personal Doughboy that didn't even giggle "Hoo-hoo!" when its belly was rubbed was beyond me.  Anyway, the M&M tradition began when this teacher brought in one of his yard sale finds--a dispenser in the shape of a couple of M&M guys.  He placed it on his desk, filled it with plain M&Ms and announced that he and future teachers-in-residence were responsible for keeping it filled.

People were drawn to to the dispenser.  Every day, at least a dozen times a day, someone would walk by, press the lever and take a handful of M&Ms.  At first the noise was annoying.  There were many interesting responses to the dispensing of the candy.  Some people acted surprised when candy came out.  "Oh!  There are M&Ms in here!"  Others did not want to call attention to their candy consumption and attempted to dispense quietly.  When that didn't work they seemed almost irritated and would say things like, "Wow, that's way too many... does anyone want some of these?"  The best reaction was always from the people who acted as if they had hit the jackpot on a Vegas slot machine.  "Woo hoo!  M&Ms!!!"

During the first year of the dispenser, I rarely indulged.  But the following year brought a new teacher-in-residence and a second dispenser--one that was filled with peanut M&Ms.  I helped myself to this candy once or twice a day.  I have to admit, it was addicting.  And not just for me.  Many of my co-workers loved the peanut M&Ms as well.  And occasionally there were peanut butter or dark chocolate M&Ms.  The fancy flavors always went quickly.  It got to the point where the dispensers were no longer being used and people were just digging their hands into the super size bags of candy that were kept on a shelf nearby.  Honestly, I don't recall who started this.  It may have been me.  All I know is that the germaphobes in the office were freaking out and my clothes were getting tighter by the minute.  I had to do a self-intervention.  I quit cold turkey.

I was M&M free for over a year.  And then something happened a couple of months ago.  I was having a bad day and as I walked by the teacher-in-residence desk, I took a handful of plain M&Ms from a bag on the shelf above the dispenser.  There were none of the peanut variety, otherwise I surely would have selected those instead.  At first I was dissatisfied and wondered why I bothered eating candy I didn't even like.  But then the sugar rush hit me.  My mood improved.  I was bubbly and happy and started making noise in our otherwise mostly quiet office--thinking out loud, singing whatever song popped into my head, sharing celebrity gossip, cracking jokes.  The M&Ms brought me joy.  So much so that almost every time I walked by the bag, I grabbed a handful.

A month or so ago I had one of my regularly scheduled visits to the oncologist.  He shared the results of my quarterly CT scan and blood work--still cancer-free!  My incisions had healed well and all my vitals were outstanding.  There was just one issue.  Weight gain.  I knew it was coming and at first I blamed cancer.  It was the heavy duty steroids administered before each chemotherapy treatment that helped fuel a 15 pound weigh gain over the summer.  But that was more than seven months ago and there was no longer a trace of steroids anywhere in my system.  I thought about how my eating habits had changed.  It was true, I was indulging in some M&Ms, but I questioned how a couple of handfuls of candy a day could lead to such a fast and significant increase in weight.  So I conducted an experiment.  I put three of my 'handfuls' of M&Ms into a measuring cup and calculated the calories.  I practically fainted when I realized I had been eating around 400 calories a day in M&Ms!  An additional 2,000 calories a week!  It was at that point that I had to be honest with myself and admit that I was packing on the pounds because of my candy coated crack addiction.

It's amazing how you can mindlessly pick up such a bad habit and not completely grasp what you are doing to your body.  And how when faced with reality, it is still so easy to deny it.  Thankfully, I have entered into a treatment program for sugar addicts and I am happy to say that I am once again M&M free.