"...And I Shall Wear Turquoise Panties Whenever I Please....."

After 2 weeks of the most freakishly hot October weather I've ever experienced, it finally turned cool the other day. It finally feels like Autumn, by gum, and I'm loving it.

But after 4 months in Gulu, I realized that I do not own a single pair of pantyhose. In Uganda, all you need is a decent pedicure and legs that aren't as hairy as a mountain gorilla's, and you're good to go in almost every social setting. But on that first cool morning in Cairo, I decided I desperately needed some pantyhose. Black ones. They always make your legs look great, and besides, you never know when, or why, you'll need them.

So I went over to West Park Mall, in Cape Girardeau, MO. If you don't know, you better ask somebody...the shopping mall is the center of the cultural and social universe in the Midwest. Closely followed by the nearest Wal-Mart Super Center. Anyway, J.C. Penney was having this completely off the hook 75% off sale, so after finding my black pantyhose, I did a bit of sale rack cruising.

Pretty soon, I wound up in the lingerie department. I must admit that I really don't spend much time in lingerie departments, for a lot of deeply-rooted psychological reasons that I really don't want to go into here. But since I've just typed that, I realize I better explain it, or you'll all start thinking I'm some kind of emotionally stunted freak. You see, I've never spent a lot of time there because I've always had a rather utilitarian view about underwear. It's for covering your naughty bits. It holds in your gut. It keeps your boobies in place. That's about it.

I'm also ashamed to say that during the past decade, the only times I've lingered in lingerie were when I was dating some totally inappropriate jerk. Or hoping to date some totally inappropriate jerk. Or deluding myself about wanting to date some totally inappropriate jerk. In my mind, I viewed silky, sexy lingerie as bait, nothing more. I mean, some of the colors are really pretty, and the silk feels fabulous, and you feel really sexy when you wear it, but do I really need to feel sexy sitting in front of my computer at work? And even if I'm wearing the raciest knickers ever made, do I really want the ugly-assed man drooling next to me on the plane to know about it?

For the past decade, for the most part, that's all I've done--work and travel. And traveled for work. Truth be told, that's really all I've WANTED to focus on; relationships have been little more than minor distractions from that pattern, and I think that's why I've subconsciously sought out the most ambivalent, emotionally-detached, psychologically fucked-up men I could find, and chased after 'em like a rabid dog. Lingerie was was merely the costume for my pathetic hunt; that and my terrific home cooking, my sparkling wit, and, unfortunately for me, the absolutely putrid stink of desperation.

One day I'll write about the unbridled horror of my dating life, but right now I'm talking about panties. If you looked into the top drawer of my dresser over in Gulu, you'd swear it belonged to a female lumberjack. It's chock full of big-assed cotton, comfortable Jockey bloomers. I fell in love with them about a decade ago, and now they're all I wear. You'll also find Jockey tee shirts, which are great sleeping gear when perimenopause kicks in. When you wake up in the middle of the night dripping sweat, all you have to do is pull it off, mop yourself off with it, and pull on another one. You'll also find a couple of raggedy black bras in that dresser, and a few other random bits of cloth meant to protect one's chestal and nether regions.

Oh, sure, there are a couple of nice things, but they're all tan, light blue or black. Again, in my utilitarian world, black drawers go with everything. If you're wearing white pants (not that I have in recent years, nor will I ever again wear white pants), black panties are perfect camouflage. You can wear them with casual clothes, and of course, on dressy occasions. Hell, I just spent $57 on a Marks and Spencer bra (black) in Kampala because it was hydraulically perfect. That's a HUGE deal for me. My ceiling for bras to date has been about $30....and that would have to be the SALE price.

But poking through the lingerie sale rack at Penney's, I was mesmerized by all the pretty, frivolous underthings. There was this particularly cute turquoise bra and panty set, my size, and with the discount, it came to about $12. Sure, it might fall apart after the first washing, but I suddenly obsessed about how fun it would be to wear a turquoise bra and matching panties under my tired old Gulu uniform of blue jeans and a tee-shirt. So what if nobody else knows?? I know.

While I was there, I picked out a few other sets in outrageously bright colors...yellow, pink, orange. Then I plunked all of them down on the sales counter next to my black pantyhose. It finally hit me....I've spent my entire life wearing practical underwear, and for what purpose?? Why do I think the only time I deserve to feel sexy and hot is when there's a man in my life? What am I waiting for?

And what fate is out there waiting for me? Tomorrow is not promised to anyone, after all.

The Penney's panty purchase was so exhilarating, my next stop was Victoria's Secret, where I spent a grip on their new Very Sexy bras that offer astoundingly good support without underwires that set off airport security scanners and cut into your chest cavity during your bloated PMS days. And I made sure to get matching panties for each one.

You see, there's something about cradling your beautiful 57-year old-sister's bald head, and rubbing cream on her distended, cancer-filled belly, that makes you realize life is too goddamned short to spend it wearing granny panties almost every day of your life. So maybe I'll start a new club, sort of the precursor to the Red Hat Society. I'll call it the Turquoise Panty Crew, and membership is open to all 40-something women who dare to feel pretty every damned day of their lives, no matter what society says or what some man says or what your hormone-addled brain screams at you about the few extra pounds around your waist, or the slightly flappy arms, or the broadening butt. None of that crap matters.

Right now, for me, all that matters is helping Julie find some peace. And I'm gonna do it wearing some seriously frilly drawers.

She Won't Back Down.....

It’s relatively quiet today in Julie’s room, and she’s sleeping. Comfortably, it seems. She hasn’t grimaced or moaned at all since I got here, which is good.

I’ll never understand hospitals. People go there because they’re sick, and yet there’s so much noise and disturbance, constantly. Julie’s in a private room, which may explain why it’s a little bit quieter, but in hospitals, there’s always somebody talking, or yelling, or rolling in a cart, or re-setting a machine, or giving a shot, or shifting your position, or flushing your port…..

How are you supposed to rest????? But then, Julie is so full of painkillers, including the maximum allowable dose of Demerol, she’s been able to sleep a lot. But sometimes the pain breaks through, and that’s when she grimaces and moans. That’s what freaks me out….I can’t stand to see her hurting.

Yet whenever she’s lucid, Julie says she wants to keep fighting. We’re still waiting to hear something from the M. D. Anderson Cancer Center, but all of her Carbondale doctors have pretty much shut down all hope for a miracle. They say the cancer is spreading so fast, there’s no way she could survive.

But I don’t think they’ve ever come across anybody like Julie Ann Marie Jones Newell. As sick as she is, whenever she’s lucid, she’s still as feisty and sassy as she is on her healthiest day. She’s been shooin’ hospice coordinators out of her room since she got here. She even tore into a doctor who brusquely advised her to just accept the fact that she’s gonna die and get it over with. Julie stopped short of telling him to kiss her too-sweet chocolate butt, but she vowed she’d see him next year, and the year after, and the year after.

Now my dear brother-in-law Ron is faced with the most grim, heart-wrenching task any mate has to tackle. He KNOWS she wants to keep fighting, so he’s determined to do whatever it takes to help her. He has rejected all hospice recommendations, too. He’s still clinging to hope that the M. D. Anderson folk will call and tell them to “come on down!” Ron says he’s in it for the long haul, and that he wants her to be at home, where she can still get medical help if something goes wrong. If she’s in hospice, you can’t call 911. Ron can’t bear the thought of letting her die that way.

But I don’t want to watch her writhe and scream with pain, and that may happen if she goes home tomorrow. The closest home hospice program is in Marion, Illinois, about an hour from Cairo, and there’s no way they could give us round-the-clock support from 60 miles away.
So, it looks like Julie will get her wish, to keep fighting and doing whatever it takes to stay alive. It looks like girlfriend does NOT want to go gentle into that good night. She’s going to rage, rage, rage.

Basically she just won’t back down from the Grim Reaper. She’s stood toe to toe with that sickle-bearing bastard, and actually sent him packing, so many times that she’s just not afraid of him. Through all of her health problems, accidents, and major crises, Julie has snarled, “Bring it ON, fella.”

While I was driving to the hospital the other day, a Tom Petty song summed up everything beautifully. It captures the essence of who Julie is and what’s happening to her now. When I think of that song, it makes me smile, and it helps me feel richly blessed that she’s my big sister, and that she’s passed on her strength to me. I wish Julie knew that all of the love and kindness and generosity and sweetness she has ladled out will never die. I wish she knew it’s okay to rest now.

Que sera, sera. So, with overwhelming gratitude to Tom Petty for providing the soundtrack for my sister’s journey, and with a heart bursting with love and joy, let me share these lyrics with you.

Well I won’t back down, no I won’t back down.
You can stand me up at the gates of Hell
But I won’t back down.

Gonna stand my ground, won’t be turned around
And I’ll keep this world from draggin’ me down
Gonna stand my ground, and I won’t back down.

Hey baby, there ain’t no easy way out.
Hey I will stand my ground,
And I won’t back down.

Well I know what’s right, I got just one life
In a world that keeps on pushin’ me around
But I’ll stand my ground and I won’t back down.

Hey baby there ain’t no easy way out.
Hey I will stand my ground,
And I won’t back down
No, I won’t back down.

"Superiorly Strong...."

We’ve been teasing Julie about her blood sugar peaks and valleys this past week. As we lean over her bed and kiss her pretty face, we’ve been telling her she’s just too sweet for her own good. But when you think about it, is there really any way to be too sweet?

Now, saccharine is another thing. Or smarmy. And then there’s the category of people I like to call “Splendas”…technologically-engineered sweet. You can always spot them. The sweetness and light never really quite makes it to their eyes. Their generosity always comes with a catch. The friendly trill in their voices could just as easily be coming from a v-chip implanted in the base of their skull.

TRULY sweet people fall into an exalted category. My closest friends have proven this
to me over the past few days. First, I’ve known my friend Ron since we both interned at the Washington Post in 1984. Ron got me my first full-time job at a newspaper, by recommending me to the managing editor of the St. Petersburg Times following our summer at the Post.

I still can’t comprehend what he saw in me that made that made him put his fledgling career rep on the line by recommending me--a college dropout who had spent most of the Post internship cringing with fear and insecurity. But Ron was one of just 2 people I clung to that summer, because of his hilarious sense of humor, and because we were both from the Midwest….Illinois for me, Indiana for him. (Heartland is in the HIZ-ouse, y’all!!!)

In the 23 years since that summer, Ron and I have remained good friends. That’s mostly ‘cause, though we’re both seasoned professionals, our psychological age is still firmly entrenched in 1984. And Ron never forgets my birthday! It absolutely astounds me every year to get a card or an e-mail or a message from him during the first week of October…I mean, this man travels all around the world re-designing newspapers, for God’s sake. How does he manage to remember my birthday? (Especially since I think he was born in June….but it could be November. I mean who has TIME to keep track of that stuff???)

This year, Ron had just gotten back from a month in India, two weeks in Nairobi, and a week in Manchester, England. He was jet-lagged and battling a cold, bronchitis, and a few other bugs thrown in for good measure, but I got my birthday greeting from Ron. In fact, he’s been reading my blog regularly, and sending me all kinds of lovely feedback on it, so he knew I was back in the States dealing with my sister’s crisis. Ron sent me prayers, hugs and love along with the birthday greeting voicemail.

Now that’s sweet.

Last night, my friend Faith, who’s struggling with her own mother’s transition, patiently talked me through my fear and anguish that Julie would die on my birthday. (I know, it’s all about me, right?) Faith is in San Diego agonizing over her mother’s failing health in Cleveland. She’s headed back this weekend, and she says it feels like her heart is just going to explode. But after talking me off the ledge of hysteria, Faith insisted that I call her whenever I need to talk.

How sweet is THAT?

And today, I was sitting in the hospital chapel hyperventilating and dry-heaving sobs when I decided I needed to talk to my friend Veronica. Veronica is an editor on sabbatical in Chicago, with an almost three-year old angel baby girl named August, a hard-headed Sagittarius with a grin that could melt butter, and a husband, and all the life stuff that goes along with those things. In fact, today Veronica and August were heading to the zoo with Veronica’s cousin Sydney and Sydney’s daughter, for their regularly scheduled play date.

While I gasped and spluttered into the phone, Veronica’s soothing voice calmed me down. She was solid as a rock, and said all the right things. She even handed the phone to her cousin Sydney, who practices meditation and got me to calm down long enough to stay centered on my breathing. Then Veronica told me to remember that I should not be afraid to let that soul wrenching grief out, because that was the only way I’d be able to move through this experience.

Again with the sweet, already!

But the sweetest thing I’ve seen today, besides my sister’s smooth, round face and bright, unfocused eyes, is the e-mail I got from my friend Joyce in North Carolina, or “North Cackalacky” as she calls it. Joyce has a Carolina accent so strong you expect Andy Griffith stroll up whenever you’re talking to her. I met her in the summer of 1994, when she was interning at the Detroit Free Press. Thirteen 13 years later, I’m a godmother to her fabulously cute and brilliant 6-year-old boy, Ty.

Joyce knows the past four years have been absolute PURGATORY for me, and she’s given me unfailing emotional support, even when I’ve been so self-absorbed I didn’t stay in touch. She tracks me down, and keeps tracking me down even when I don’t answer her calls. She sends Ty’s drawings, and his latest school pictures. Whenever I’m in Raleigh, I’m treated like family in her beautiful home.

Here’s what a crappy friend I’ve been to Joyce….she spent the past few years struggling to have a baby brother or sister for Ty, and finally gave birth to a beautiful, big-eyed cherub named Talia in September of 2006. Whom I’ve only seen in pictures. I’ve somehow managed to always have an excuse about why I couldn’t get down to Raleigh. That stinks.

Joyce sent me an e-mail today full of love and prayers and support. And she called me “superiorly strong.” Somehow the term feels right. I’ve earned a PhD in grief survival, and Julie was my strength coach throughout. She’s still fighting just as hard as she can.

And she’s doing it rather superiorly, if I do say so myself. She’s spent most of today sleeping, and I really hope she’s been having sweet dreams.

Happy Birthday To Me....

I’m writing this from the 3rd floor waiting room at Carbondale Memorial Hospital. God, I’ve been here so many times, I almost know every nook, cranny and vending machine of this place. I totally recognize the nurses and phlebotomists and meal cart ladies who wind their way through these corridors. I can easily find my way around the maze between the emergency room and the patient floors. It feels like home.

I am 46 years old today. This morning at around 7:30 AM, after four days of trying to manage Julie’s care at home, we had to bundle her up and send her 40 miles away to Carbondale Memorial. There IS no hospital in my hometown of Cairo; hasn’t been one since the late 80’s. Clearly, this situation had to have aggravated my sister’s many health care problems, to say the least. But that’s another story that I don’t have the strength to tackle right now.

I’ve sat in so damn many of these hospital waiting rooms crying my eyes out, or pacing, or curled in the fetal position. I’d cried because I was afraid I would lose Julie. And when I wasn’t crying, I was holding my breath waiting for the surgeon to come out and give it to us straight. Usually, it was something fairly routine…at least for Julie. Adhesions from old abdominal surgeries, a torn rotator cuff, knee surgery….I’ve forgotten how many surgeries and on what parts of her body they took place.

Most of the time, the surgeons would come out and tell us that Julie made it through the surgery fairly well, considering everything else that was wrong with her. And it usually only took her a month or so to bounce back. But this last time, they opened her up and decided there was nothing else they could do.

While in those waiting rooms, I was also groveling, pleading, bargaining, begging God to keep Julie alive. She is my touchstone, and owns half my heart. She is the heart and soul of the Jones family. She was my “adjunct mother” growing up, and any kindness, generosity, affection and friendliness I possess I learned straight from her. Julie is the wind beneath my wings.

But she’s also struggling, desperately, tragically. And we can’t keep taking care of her at home, because her blood sugar fluctuates so wildly, she spends half the time nearly comatose. She’d beg and plead for ice and water, so we’d give it to her and watch her slurp it like a camel. And then she’d spent half the night wretching it right back up. When we told the home health nurse about it, he said we should only give her ice chips…and not many of those.

One of the first things emergency room staff said when Julie got to Carbondale Memorial was that she was terribly dehydrated. DUH!! And after a couple of home feedings, we also started suspecting that the milky glop we’re pumping through her chest port was elevating her blood sugar. But when my brother-in-law Ron suggested laying off for one night, the home health care nurse told him, “Well, it’s the only way she’ll get nutrition.” Naturally, the thought of starving his soulmate did not appeal to Ron.

But it turns out that nutrition almost killed her. NOW what are we supposed to do?

Hospital staffers insist Julie should be in a hospice program. There is no home hospice care available in Cairo--forget about a specialized hospice care facility. Besides, both Julie and my brother-in-law Ron don’t want to go there, not just yet. In fact, they’ve sent her records to the MD Anderson Cancer Center in Texas, and they’re praying for a miracle.

I’ve already received my miracle. Back in all those waiting rooms I’ve sat in through all those years, I was also sternly warning God NOT to take her from me until I was emotionally able to deal with it. If she had passed 20 years ago, I wouldn’t have had the strength to achieve my goals as a journalist. I just know my heart would have given out. If Julie had died 10 years ago, I would have been so devastated, I probably would have lapsed into a crippling depression that would have taken me out of the game literally and figuratively. If she had died 2 years ago, when she was diagnosed with Stage 3 colon cancer, it would have broken my heart so terribly, I could not have tackled the challenges I’ve confronted in the past 4 months alone.

But today, I’m 46 years old. Hell, I’m staring 50 dead in the eye. I am a seriously grown-assed woman. I can handle whatever comes, just as long as Julie gets some pain-free peace.

However, if she passes on my birthday, I will kill her.

Labor of Love.....

Finally, I’ve found a good reason to have jet-lag! It’s 2:30 AM, and I just helped my sister Julie throw up. There’s a tube in her nose that leads down to her stomach and sucks out all the bile, but sometimes it backs up and makes her nauseous. So my sister Marilyn, my brother-in-law Ron and I take turns doing puke patrol duty.

Julie’s a tough cookie. She is refusing to give in. She wants her records sent to the Mayo Clinic and to MD Anderson Cancer Center. Says she ain’t going out like no punk. Hey, if anybody can stick her foot up the Grim Reaper’s ass, it’s Julie. She’s already done it about 50 times in her life.

The good news is she’s not exactly on hospice care, ‘cause every night at 6, she gets a big old bag of milky glop, injected with her insulin and protein, to keep her nourished. It drips into tubing that flows into a port in her chest. Takes about 12 hours to empty out, and then you have to flush out the port with saline, and then shoot her up with some heparin, to thin her blood. My sister Marilyn says that if it was hospice care, they probably wouldn’t be feeding her. And she’d be on powerful painkillers, like Demerol or morphine. So far, she tried liquid oxycontin, but it gave her hallucinations and violent muscle cramps. We flushed that out of her system and now she’s coping with vicodin.

Julie is so tiny. Her arms and legs are like a Barbie doll’s. Her face is still just as round and smooth and beautiful as ever, though. Her skin is so clear and soft. And her hair is growing back in; it’s like a cloudy white buzz cut. I’ve always believed her hair would come back in fluffy and softer than it was before all the chemo. She’ll look like Fred Sanford…a really pretty, tiny Fred Sanford.

There’s not much else to say, except that I’ve finally figured out the meaning of life. The goal is to live a life that’s so full of love, you will be assured that someone will be there to hold your head and help you barf at the end of it. For Julie, it’s my pleasure.

Things I Will Miss About Uganda While I'm Away......

.........um......er.......

Let me get back to you on that.

Never a Dull Moment in UG.....

Earlier today, at around 1:45 PM, I was sitting in a Kampala cafe waiting for my Internews colleagues Akiiki and the Intern to arrive from Gulu. I had flown down yesterday on Eagle Air, because, frankly, I’m the Boss, and I didn’t feel like having my spine reconfigured during the 6 hour ride on pot-holed roads so bad you’d think you were in Mississippi. Akiiki and the Intern actually left Gulu at 6 AM, but at around 10 AM, about 120 kilometres outside of Kampala, they got stopped at a police checkpoint.

Their personal papers were "in order", but the weaselly rat bastard we rent the Land Cruiser from had forgotten to renew the insurance on it. So, Akiiki and Sean were escorted to the nearest police station. They were told to turn over the keys and wait for a magistrate to show up and sort the situation out. When Akiiki refused to give them the keys, they offered him the option of a few hours in a jail cell. Naturally, he rejected that offer.

Meanwhile, The Intern had to sit outside the police station and guard the stiflingly hot car, even though there were a myriad friendly Ugandan military police officers milling about carrying AK-47's. Finally, at about 1 PM, The Intern called to say the magistrate finally showed up, fined them 400,000 shillings (and ordered the rat bastard to repay us), and sent them on their way. Of course, when The Intern called, there was another torrential downpour in Kampala, so I knew it might take a while for them to get here.

At 5 PM, I started panicking. I still hadn’t heard from them, and I was on the phone with my boss in DC trying to explain what the heck was going on. I just knew I’d be called to a jail, or to a morgue, to identify them at any moment. Thankfully, The Intern called while I was talking to DC, and said they’d arrived and checked into the hotel. My blood pressure finally started dropping from the 220/198 range, and I could breathe again.

In short, I share this experience to you as a stern reminder that you HAVE to develop a spine of steel and a warped sense of humor to survive in this world. I mean, I will be returning to the US tomorrow evening on THE most difficult journey of my entire life, and yet somehow, compared to living in Uganda, it almost feels like I’m going on vacation.

Oh, and here are a few random observations:

* The ONLY reason Akiiki and The Intern weren't either shot or sent directly to the chain gang was that officials recognized Akiiki. Before joining Internews, he was a BIG DEAL recording artist with multiple top of the chart hits. Everywhere we go, we get instant access because of his fame. And then there's the fact that he gives his heart, body and soul to training journalists, working himself past the point of exhaustion at every workshop. If I were Akiiki, I would demand an automatic doubling of my salary before renewing my contract.

*Let me be even more blunt: If my bosses have even a lick of sense, they would offer The Intern a full-time job. That young man is fearless, hard-working, extremely smart, charming, and totally committed to this project. So much so that he passed out a few times today sitting in that hot-assed Land Cruiser waiting for the police to release Akiiki. ‘Twere it moi, I’d have bypassed Kampala and headed straight to Entebbe, where I would have shaken the dust of Uganda off my boots and headed back to the good old U.S.of A. But this guy just shook the whole experience off and is still down for whatever happens with Internews Gulu.

I suppose if he can handle it, so can I. However, after savoring just one bite of a Wendy’s hamburger while I’m back Stateside, and revelling in 24 hour electricity on demand and the Lifetime Movie Network, Internews might just have to find themselves a new Gulu project director…….