Author: place2place

After the first and second surgeries of my life, just a month apart, I got as far away from breast cancer as I could and went to Lake Tahoe for a few weeks, and then the south of France to hike and drink rosé with Gina and Augusto, and then Lulu and Evan visited us in London and we saw the Rolling Stones in Hyde Park. So, I could basically die happy right now, but because of the surgery and radiation treatments I underwent, I have an 87% chance of living ten more years.

Radiation, or as they call it here in the UK to make it sound not-so-scary “radiotherapy,” or the cutesy “RADS,” is like the poison in The Princess Bride. Odorless, colorless, invisible, and deadly. The chance of recurrence with the kind of breast cancer I had is 30%; with radiation the chance of recurrence is 2-5%. Those numbers made it worthwhile for me to take a deadly poison.

In the US, radiation treatments are usually weekdays for three to six weeks. Here, studies have been done in which they waaaaay increase the dosage–you get the same amount of beams you would get in 25 sessions in the U.S.–but in fewer treatments, with the same outcome. The treatments themselves are painless, like an x-ray. But for me, with two semi-frozen shoulders, the hardest part was holding my arms in a high-fifth ballet position for the 10-20 minutes it takes to calibrate the machine, so fewer treatments were a no-brainer.

No brainers my specialty!

The initial set-up took the longest of all the treatments, they have to minutely calibrate the machine and enter a zillion precise measurements. They put wires on my chest and dotted my skin with a pen. They aligned me with laser beams on the ceiling and around the room. You must remain in exactly the same position with only a millimeter of variance. With my bad shoulders, it was excruciatingly painful; like holding your breath for that long. After the initial session I wanted to sit down on the steps of the fancy Harley Street clinic, with window boxes of flowers blooming around me, and cry. Instead, I walked to Waitrose and bought chewy candy kittens. It was that bad.

Me planning the Rolling Stones set list of my dreams to distract myself.

I had a few rounds of “emergency” physiotherapy to try to loosen up my shoulders. If I pre-gamed with a full dose of Advil, I could tolerate the sessions, barely. Afterward, the technicians would tell me, “You can put your arms down now,” but I could only slowly, slowly inch them down, using my better arm to lift the worse arm. Within half an hour of wandering Marylebone Charity shops, I felt less assaulted and was okay. I’m so glad it wasn’t 25 sessions, and that it’s over.

I started with the intense skin cream treatments everyone recommends to keep your skin from not turning into a fiery red ball after radiation, but it made me break out.  Occasional lotion and a silk bandeau bra have been all I need. They make a big deal here telling you, during and after radiation treatments, to wear silk next to the skin. Being forced to wear silk is the treatment I tolerate well.

Radiation is so weird because it’s invisible, but the reactions can take place for years. It’s all so unknown. Nearly a month later, one side looks sunburned, and rashy, and I feel zings of nerve pain as new cells replace the ones killed, something is going on in there, but it’s not so bad. My frozen shoulders are worse, I’ve heard that’s normal.

Five months since diagnosis, three months since the last surgery, and month into recovery from RADS, I’m DONE. I meet with my oncologist later this month to make plans for the close monitoring I will have for the rest of my life. Which will also include more Keith Richards and travel, more time with friends and family, and more wine and candy.

DONE!

In my previous post I talked about how I got here: Lucky me! Two lumpectomies in a month!

April 6 Second time around, pre-surgery prep:

Covid test

Exam and talk with Patani with more of his excellent artwork.

Microchip, which Patani calls a scout, implant.

Mammogram to make sure the microchip is near the wire they inserted a few days ago.

Another chat with Patani while he makes sure he can locate the chip.

“Gettin’ rid of the cancer, babe” says Peter when I complain that I’m tired of being punched in the boob.

Regarding the surgery, I’m not nearly as scared or weepy as I was the first time around. I guess it was fear of the unknown. This time, because of the MRI, we know where all the cancer is, and I know the hospital routine. They seem to know how to take care of me, so I don’t wake up vomiting.

Since the time of the initial biopsy, February 14, to this point not quite two months later, they have been constantly taking things out or putting things into my breast! I’m so tired of it! My boob looked better five days after the first surgery than it looks after the MRI and repeat biopsies. Biopsies cause more destruction than the actual surgery! Hopefully after this second surgery Righty can do some healing, before they start attacking her with radiation.

Initial biopsy-big yellow-green-blue-black bruise

Microchip-another big bruise

Surgery-stitches, some swelling

MRI-more swelling than after the surgery, my breast didn’t like not being supported

Second biopsy and marker-big bruise

Second microchip-more bruising

April 8 Today was the first day that I got dressed and forgot to put a bra back on. Even with all the bruising the breast tissue just feels more knitted together. So in a month, mid-May after today’s surgery, I might feel almost normal. And then I’ll start radiation. Sigh.

Three hour surgery to take further margins in the area first operated on, then another golf-ball sized piece of tissue containing very sneaky lobular cancer area removed. Boob hurts. I drank coffee with cream the morning of the surgery, not knowing the surgery would be at 2:00, so I had to be intubated! Throat hurts. Don’t need the egg and cress sandwich in spite of how cute it is. Just want camomile tea and to sleep.

Getting to love Patani and his super serious ways. I’m just a case to him, one of many projects, like a painting he’s working on. If this, then that. He’s absolutely humorless, but has published a million research papers. Saving my life and my right breast is enough I guess, he doesn’t need to be hilarious. He’s a natural teacher, and I wish he had a podcast called, “Just to Recap.”

I hate how it feels like my skin is all that’s holding my boob together, I have to sleep in the dumb bra/vest which makes me feel more secure, like my boob won’t ooze open, but it’s not super comfortable

April 13 Patani called, as I walked down King’s Road with a friend, to tell me that the pathology from the surgery was clean. Woot! Celebrated at Peggy Porschen. One boob a little bigger than the other, but whatever.

April 21 Appointment with Patani yesterday, “Just to recap,” all seems okay. Righty is not as well-shaped as after the first surgery because now they’ve taken out two golf ball-sized pieces of tissue and I’ve lost about a third of the breast on that side. Size looks okay now, but Patani says it’s holding fluid, and will unfortunately shrink. And radiation will mess with the shape as well. We won’t know for a year what it’s really going to look like.

Radiation in a month or so for three weeks. More on that after their team–which Peter calls Cancer Club–meets next week. I still have bruising from the biopsies and Patani wants me to take an antibiotic—he’s afraid of cellulitis, or even one bad bug.

Here’s my collection of cancers:

• DCIS high grade-closer to becoming invasive
• Ductal cancer 14mm grade 2
• Lobular cancer in situ 4mm, 15mm grade 2

Patani says the fluid is keeping the breast tissue away from the skin, which will keep the skin from twisting, so he likes the swelling I have going on. He reminded me that we are only a week and a half out from the surgery, and that everything looks good. I should keep wearing the black vest bra, when I’m not sneaking around wearing a more comfortable one from ARQ.

Radiation will be the next saga. Radiotherapy, as they call it here, increases of chances being alive after ten years from 45-54% to 54-64%.  All the photos I can find find show hugely red, swollen reactions, like photos from the covers of Peter’s medical journals. I meet with the radiologist doc tomorrow, I’m scared.

We carry on, boobs against the water, see what’s next. ( • )( • )

Because I would love to read someone’s blow-by-blow experience to normalize the fear of breast cancer treatment, and I process through writing, I present to you my life since February 14, 2022.

14 February Valentine’s Day, at the Princess Grace Hospital Breast Clinic getting a breast exam. What’s more romantic than boobs? Worst part, the mammogram, is over.

Spoke too soon. After the scheduled ultra sound, they did another, special ultra sound, then a biopsy, which hurt worse than the mammogram, but I survived. Looks like a small lump- may have to be -ectomied? How can they know this soon?

19 February I’m either a future cancer survivor or am worried to the point of petrified about nothing. Why would the clinic do this?  Scare me that it’s cancer?  They did this to me ten years ago, and so did the clinic in Portland,Oregon–they had me suffering scanxiety for a week before I got the news that all was well.

21 February Met with the oncologist-plastic surgeon, “Mr”–as surgeons are called here in the UK–Patani. I indeed will need a lumpectomy to remove a pea-sized Invasive Ductal Carcinoma from lefty. We wait the results of hormone and protein testing to determine if I will need chemotherapy before surgery. All this feels unreal and I’m emotionally exhausted.

House of Cards is my escape.

Will I be able to wear a tiny bikini after the surgery? Oh good, because I never could before.

Man, if being in your 50’s doesn’t make you stop giving AF about anything, having breast cancer will.

I have, like, best case breast cancer. Tiny. Early. Non-scary kind. Forgiving work situation. Insurance. Great care. My friend Gina says I always have good bad luck.

But I’m dreading surgery, I’ve never had general anesthesia before and I’m so weepy about it. And I have even more apprehension about the pre-surgery Covid PCR test! I have PCR PDST from the overly-aggressive German test center in Muscat.

March 1 Clinic called to tell me that before the surgery they will only need a rapid Covid test—if I’ve had Covid. No fair! Talk about performance penalization!

March 3 The pea-sized cancer is HERS negative, which means it’s not the kind that calls for pre-surgery chemo.

It IS the kind that is reactive to both estrogen and progesterone, as is all breast tissue. It’s ERPR positive for those who speak breast cancer, not a language I ever wanted to learn.

[  After surgery and radiation, they want me to take a hormone suppressant, an “aromatase inhibitor” or AI. I’ve been doing Hormone Replacement Therapy (which ups my ERPR) for eight years and it has saved my teeth, skin, hair, bones, heart, and most importantly, my sanity. I’ve tried to go off, but I get really depressed within a matter of days. I will try to cut down. The benefit of the AI (the hormone suppressant) gives me an extra 2% chance of being alive in ten years, from 85% to 87%.

Would you rather live longer with dentures, visual migraines, broken bones, and feel like everything is bad? Will I regret that decision when I have to have a double mastectomy later if the cancer comes back in either boob? Or one cell escapes and metastasizes somewhere else? Vigilance will be key. I just don’t think I can wean myself all the way off the HRT and then suppress what little estrogen I still produce. If my kids were small and I was 35 years old I might feel differently? Right now I think: Let me live beyond Peter retiring in four years to so I can go for a few hikes in Big Sur with my kids for a while. What a hellish decision. Quality of life vs burden of symptoms.

It sounds like an easy decision until you hear the AI horror stories–sort of like Mefloquin stories for Malaria. ]

This is a really good tool developed by the NHS to evaluate the statistical outcomes of early invasive breast cancer treatments.

March 1 Peter had a work trip to Brussels, so I got to go. Riding the Eurostar, pawing through goods at a flea market, and meeting up with a long-time friend was a great therapeutic distraction.

Now I’m back home from Brussels and crying. I don’t want surgery. So, I’m sitting on the little sofa by the big windows that open onto the back garden and the magnolia tree gloriously in bloom with two dogs on my lap.

March 7 Since the cancer is small and nearly invisible, the next step is to locate it via ultrasound and mark it so the surgeon can locate it with a beeper. Wish I would have known that being microchipped wouldn’t hurt at all.

March 8 Coffee, the first Wordle I had a nearly impossible time finishing (v i v i d) and Covid, blood, and heart tests today in prep for Friday.

Covid test was like the rapid test, not horrible at all. The blood stick was harder—I had to be poked twice. I couldn’t get an Uber so I rode the bus, which I don’t know why but I sort of enjoy. I can see better out of the bus, I kind of get car sick in the Ubers. It’s nice to be with people in the coziness of the bus, but I don’t have to talk to anyone.

In three days, I will be practicing some radical self care by having the poisonous pea removed. I really don’t like this cancer mindset, it takes over your identity. I’m trying to think of this process as taking tender care of myself.

March 9 Surgery Eve Eve. The last night before the last night. I will wake up and drink self-care coffee and check on my friends and Zelensky in Kyiv. Vacuum and mop. Maybe do a little work. Wash my hair. Admire the magnolia tree in our yard and “check into” Princess Grace Hospital around noon for my four o’clock surgery. I will spend the night.

March 11 It’s a chilly morning, I feel nauseated and Peter picks a bus route I don’t like. Whatever. I was the one who didn’t want to go by car.

First stop is a clinic where I get a shot in the nipple with a radioactive isotope that will trail along to the sentinel lymph nodes that will be removed during surgery. They will be biopsied to see if the poisonous pea has polluted the area. The syringe is brought into the room in a lead box. The injection is a little poke and I wish I’d known not to be worried, it was quick, with a tiny needle, and totally tolerable.

Peter has to Covid test himself in the hospital to be allowed onto the surgery floor with me. I “check into” my room. Lots of visits from the doc, the anesthesiologist, the nursing care person, the people taking meal orders, the physio person. It’s all keeping me distracted, but my palms are sweating anyway. My surgery is scheduled for 4:00. I don’t like laying around in a bathrobe, it makes me feel like I’m supposed to be sick. I postpone changing into the hospital gown for as long as possible. Gown, robe, stupid cheesecloth underwear, compression socks, non-slip socks over those.

The nurse walked me, with sweaty palms, to the surgical room where I was invited to lie down on a narrow table. Patani, in surgeon mode, used a wand to locate the microchip, which chirped in a sure-minded way and made him the happiest I’ve ever seen him. After a short, but really good conversation about artistic talent vs learning, the handsome anesthesiologist asked me “What’s your drink?” giving the situation a party-chatter vibe. Awaiting my answer, he poked a needle into the back of my hand. “Old vine Zinfandel,” I told him. “Here’s two glasses!”he said pushing the medication into the needle. What’s more friendly than that? The ceiling rotated slightly.

One and half hour surgery to remove a 9 mm lump, knit the breast tissue back together, and remove two lymph nodes.

Post-surgery feels like one of those painful transcontinental flights. All I want to do is sleep and they have raised the window blinds and mistakenly think I want to eat an omelet.

I spent the evening propped up in bed, strapped into my black neoprene vest, pouring chamomile tea from a cute tea pot and texting my friends. Great mantra from Dani: Float on your blessings.

March 12 My boob looks okay, not too scary, and Patani was happy. If he’s happy, I’m happy. The scar is around the nipple, he didn’t have to slice into my boob at all, and didn’t have to inject any dye to find the lymph nodes, turning me into a partial Smurf. The locator marker was easy to find and right where the lumpy bruise was, he said that made his job ten times easier. So, yay?

Now a tortured week-long wait to see if the lymph nodes are clear. If they are, I swerve around chemotherapy. Patani keeps finding ways to threaten chemo, but if the lymph nodes are clear, chemo is indicated based on tumor size. Mine was smaller than 2 cm, so I’m hoping this is just his strategy of posing routes I don’t want to take to up-sell less odious options.

March 13 Day two post-op. Took the bra off for the first time to take a partially submerged bubble bath and it feels like my skin is all that’s holding my boob together. Like a little puppy it needs to be held all the time, in a wet-suit vest, for six weeks. Sometime after mid-April I should be able to be a braless hippy again.

March 14 Righty is looking bruised and smaller, but otherwise okay. I’m glad Patani didn’t have to cut into the sides at all. Unintended consequence: not sleeping on my side is killing my back. Found a little pillow of the kids’ I still had and sewed a new organic cotton cover to aid side-sleeping. It’s the little things that bring comfort.

My friends have been so wonderful! I didn’t realize how much a card, flowers, a package of bath products, or even a message could mean when you are undergoing something so alien.

I am more bruised from the biopsy and chip placement than the surgery. One cm tumor meant they took out a 3 cm ball of tissue. Now it looks like I have one D boob and one C boob, or one C and one B? unless the newly smaller boob is swollen—doesn’t seem like it though.

Looking back at “before” photos, one boob was always bigger than the other one! Now they’ve traded, the smaller is now the bigger one. Or maybe now they are the same? If I never noticed, neither will anyone else.

March 17 I vacuumed using mostly my left side and gave myself permission to do a less-then-perfect job. A week ago I was so anxious about the surgery. It was really quite painless and I needn’t have been so worked up about that part of the process. Pain is now about a two, and I haven’t taken Advil (which I prefer over Tylenol) in a couple days. I’m back in my neoprene vest, but I bought a pretty bra that will do what it needs to do, and makes me feel less like a patient.

Waiting to hear about the lymph node results has been the hardest part of the recovery.

I’m going to say recovering from the surgery is a bit like jet lag, you think you’re fine and then it hits you again. I’m so lucky to have a comfortable sofa and a magnolia tree to admire.

March 23 Went to Patani’s office for mostly good-ish news: lymph nodes were clear.

However. Lab tests showed the cancer area was bigger than he thought during the surgery. Although they got all the cancers out –surprise!– there was a mixed bag of cancers in there, including a 4 mm lobular cancer they didn’t know about. They also didn’t get quite enough clean tissue around some edges to 100% promise that no new cancers will grow in that soil. Only one in ten lumpectomies have to be re-marginalized, but I’m the one. So, I have to go back for a clean up in a couple weeks. Now that I had surgery I’m not as scared, and it will be with the same team. It doesn’t hurt and I recovery quickly. Onward!

The surprise easter egg of lobular cancer isn’t detectable by mammogram or ultrasound, so now I have to have an MRI with contrast dye to see if there is more.

And if there is more, I will consider myself lucky that they found the lobular bit which forced an ultrasound. Early detection is what leads to good outcomes.

March 28 MRI day. The technician can’t find a vein on the inside of my arm,  so he pokes the needle into the back of my hand which hurts but at least he does it the first time. With my extra small lady-like veins, it’s a good thing I’m not a drug addict. Afterwards, I sit in a little room and sweat with anxiety. Change out of my clothes into scrub pants and a hospital gown. A week and half later I still have a yellow-green bruise on the back of my hand.

I lay on my stomach with my boobs in a mold and tolerate, repeatedly and in a cycle, a jackhammer, the open-doors signal of the Parisian metro, and loud banging that says “Bab! Bab! Bab!” Or “Bear! Bear! Bear!” Half way through the ordeal they inject a radioactive dye into my hand that is cool and dissipates after a moment. Back to the duck and cover drill sounds, right on the edge of the tolerable volume threshold. I try to recount the last episode of House of Cards.

Regarding lobular cancer, more than half the time there are more that one area, almost half the time in both breasts. I don’t expect that the one they extracted was the only one. What to do with the more that might be found will be the decision. Early detection is key, but I’m worried.

April 1 Pretty good news on the MRI, left boob remains pristine! Yay! Right boob, the OG boob, has something that lit up. Next up is another ultrasound and biopsy to figure out what it is that’s lighting up. But they have to go back in to redo the first surgery there anyway, and the lymph nodes are clear on the right side so if its a cancer, it hasn’t spread. So, overall good news. I can breathe.

It’s hard to undergo so many unpleasant treatments. My poor boob was swollen and now it was punch-biopsied three more times this morning, and marked with a tiny wire so they can locate the area again. Rotating Tylenol and Advil, one boob is twice the size of the other now. Really hurts. And Patani called to say if they don’t find cancer, I’ll have to have an MRI-guided biopsy to be sure. Why didn’t they just go to the MRI biopsy directly? I want to cry. Want this over.

April 4 Biopsied area is a 9mm-ish area of a rare, lobular cancer, only–10% of all breast cancers are this kind and they don’t screen for it. It’s the kind my sister had. You don’t see it on mammogram or ultrasound, which is how my sister’s got to stage four before they discovered it.

Note to self: if there is a one in ten chance, I’ll be the one.

There’s no way this cancer would’ve been found if I hadn’t had the other easy-to-find IDC pea.

Have to have another marker placed. The anesthetic doesn’t go that deep, but the microchip does, and the whole area is chewed up inside. This procedure hurt, and caused more painful bruising.

Surgery number two next Friday. Update soon.

Before we spend too much time in London, let’s review those last few weeks of the previous packout, which was the most difficult of the six we have done in fifteen years working for the State Department.

I can’t even deal with the overdose of cortisol that is this move.

Mark divorced my mom and today, at age 98, Adult Protective Services put her on a plane with one suitcase to move her into an assisted living facility we’ve arranged for her in California.

In addition, I’m separated from Peter while he’s doing a tour in Pakistan. After not seeing each other for 14 months, we finally got in a visit, but now it’s back to living on two different continents.

In addition, Peter can’t figure out how to pack out the 200 carpets he bought in Islamabad.

In addition, dealing with Airbnb renters to the Tahoe house who can’t figure out how to turn on the dishwasher.

In addition, coordinating the pack out of the house here, which is happening this weekend. I’m hiding all my haram perfumes, and Stefan wants me to Saran wrap all 300 of his legos sets so pieces don’t get lost.

In addition, using my tons leave days after my last day of work was refused, even though it’s encouraged by the State Department.

In addition, the car needs body work before I can sell it to the buyer who is waiting and doesn’t care about the body work. I had to get the car to an embassy guy who kindly drove it to Ruwi, and a rental car is being delivered to me, hopfully–for $60 a day so I don’t miss my supervisor’s mandatory meeting.  Ends up I think I was scammed by someone in Facilities not named Siraj. I asked Siraj what the next step is for the body work and he said for me to send him Peter’s driver’s license, the registration “mukia” for the car, and Peter’s MFA card. Except I sent all that eight days ago. So we continue to wait for the MFA approval to sell the car.

In addition, a new July 14 CDC deadline now restricts importing dogs from Oman into the U.S. Bea is visiting the vet every few days for vaccinations, having 14 teeth pulled, dropping off her records, and final health check.

In addition, it’s 105? 110? 150 degrees? during the day and I have to wear a long dress with long sleeves and a high collar when I go out. Going from the car into work yesterday, I had sweat running down my legs. After talking to the motorpool guy because I couldn’t find where the guy who took the car to be painted had left it my hair felt like I’d gone swimming. Car was parked right in front of the embassy.

I enjoy that it’s 99 degrees at 7:45 in the morning.

In addition, I’ve submitted five job applications for London, had three interviews, gotten three, “we have not moved your application forward” emails, and two more interviews in the next four days. After that, packout will occur and I will be doing all this from my laptop.

In addition, Stefan extended his lease on a crappy apartment in a crappy neighborhood. At least it’s cheap.

In addition, because of the super high Covid rates in Oman, Kumari’s flight, and all flights into Sri Lanka, were cancelled until July 13 and maybe beyond. She can’t leave until after I go, and now I have to get her a new plane ticket. Then it looked like I needed to find her a new sponsor and a place to live until Sri Lanka decided to let in people from the GGC. Then Sri Lanka LIFTED THE BAN. I believe in the power of prayer and magical thinking now.

Yesterday 90% of the Embassy housing was out of electricity for a day. Have I mentioned it’s 150 degrees? And today, a city-wide main water break, all water turned off until further notice.

In addition, my baby dog died.

In addition, I decided now is a good time to buy a new dog whose shipping has to be coordinated.

I’m basically working at home in a nightgown all the time, angry crying, except when I put on hard clothes and go into work with sweat running down my legs.

I’m in a travel group and people want to know if they should go to London or Florence or Santorini for four days or if three is enough, and now I know, four months is how long it takes me to feel at home anywhere.

I am not in the frame of mind to lose a pet right now.

You are the glue that held all of us together when, as Stefan said, we needed a moral boost. Then you were the glue that held us together as a fun and hilarious topic of conversation when I am in Oman, Peter is in Pakistan, and Camille and Stefan are on separate ends of California. We all loved you so and fought over who got to take care of you. Beau updates were our love language.

Did I cry this much over my sister dying?! I didn’t carry Valerie around a front pack I made of a scarf on the trails of Big Sur.

My sister was an animal lover and had 12 dogs over the years at my last count, and I might be forgetting some of them. She believed three dogs was the perfect number of dogs. “Any more and they form a pack,” she said. And having three dogs at all times, they were always new ones coming and other ones “checking out” as she said–of poison, drinking anti-freeze-laced toilet water, or tottering old age. She was not sentimental about replacing one with another as quickly as possible, she thought a puppy was the best way to heal from a dog’s death. My sister had lived through the loss of an infant son, and she felt like, you can go BUY another dog. Sometimes within days of one dying, she would have a new one.

So I contacted the breeders, and Beau’s mom is having a new litter soon.

Meanwhile, this is day two, and today, after 10 hours of sleep I can put his death out of my mind and think of something else for a few moments. I spent the day applying for a job in London. Day three, slept 12 hours, this seems key to helping me cope.

Beau was a terrible scavenger and while on my watch ate: a glasses wipe cloth, a pair of underwear, and a man’s sock, all of which he either pooped out or threw up. He also had eaten Christmas chocolates out of the box and rocks. After a day of vomiting, Stefan took him to the vet. The vet said Beau had something in his tummy, but it was soft, and he would pass it. He died the next day in his bed. I feel so badly for Stefan, who did everything he could.

Oh my sweet pup, I wanted to see you again. You literally loved everyone. You were love and light and the best distraction during a really confusing time.

I’m posting this without photos, I can’t bear to look at pictures of him yet.

I'm so thankful for all of it. 

For the words "President Biden."

Peter working in Islamabad and buying us rugs and getting settled in, and only until summer.

And then London. 

Intermittent fasting. I've gained 10 pounds since I've been in the U.S. but at least I know how to get rid of it. Also, wow does it improve the way I feel, and I hate to think of how much I would have gained if I'd been eating all day, instead of only eight hours a day.  

My kids, Camille with her crazy new job and finding her way, and Stefan being such an easy and fun person to live with. I cherish these two funny people and that we've had 10 months of living closer to each other. 

My mom and her strength at age 97. 

Social media. Zoom wears me out, but I am so inspired by bloggers and instagrammers and people in my Facebook groups putting pom-poms on chandeliers, reminding me to get out and look at trees, painting, cooking, and just looking at the world in a way that reminds me of to look for the beauty. 

A huge TV and all the amazing and beautiful entertainment right from my rented sofa, my favorites: Occupied, The Good Lord Bird, The Queen's Gambit, Schitt's Creek, Person of Interest. 

This apartment and somehow finding my landlady/friend/lighting designer/concrete expert/fellow airbnb-er/skincare expert/mover-shaker Ahnalisa who has been such a godsend and inspiration. 

Our little Mini Coopers, so fun to drive around. 

Art supplies, what a treat it has been to be 15 minutes from Michaels in case I need glitter and two-days from two-day shipping for Dawler-Rawley inks and my favorite German-made Schminike oil paints and small-batch lavender medium, and acrylics by Golden and Sennelier. 

Pretty dresses. I bought 50 clothes hangers and said I can't possibly need to hang more than that while I'm in the U.S. I was wrong. I love clothes, and I love nothing more than going through the dress rack at Goodwill, even though day after day I end up wearing jeans and a sweater. From The Vintner's Daughter to the Vampire's Wife, the U.S. has the best shopping.

I'm especially appreciative of this little village of Pacific Grove. What a sweet, sweet place. A mile to Aslimomar beach or four blocks to Lover's Point, Pavel's Bakery, Acme coffee beans from Grove Market, second-hand stores, theaters selling tables on wheels to hold art supplies, the little antique store with vintage Stieff animals and old postcards, it's all so sweet. 

Starting with the Sultan dying, and then our Omani colleague getting marched out of the office for posting on social media about Soulimani's killing, to reading the increasing Coronavirus cases in the car to Peter every morning, to deciding to leave on a whim with Beth and Matt–and if I hadn't gone, I would have been trapped in Oman this whole time–to finding the house on Walcott, to Peter's sisters in Monterey, to my job that I could easily do remotely, to the fireplace I turn on by pushing a button, to hiking along Big Sur with Gina (even though I fell in barbed wire that one time), to hearing the seals bark at night, to the pink sunsets, the kind guy who runs the dry cleaners across the street who accepts my packages from UPS, to the candle section at Homegoods, and seagulls perched on metal buildings, and being reminded that October and November are the best time of year along the coast. For all. of. it. I'm grateful. 

My question for everyone is, "What are you doing?" Because I so want this answered by all my friends, I will answer it myself. 

In a way, I'm wondering if I've already died of corona virus and gone to heaven. I am well, my family is healthy, I'm working remotely with my awesome colleagues in Muscat from the coast of California. 

But please do let me complain about my life during Authorized Departure as I go hiking in Big Sur. 

But while I am really enjoying this Viking stove, and the luxury of having a puppy, and walking two blocks to Ludmilla's house, I feel nothing but anxiety about the future. How can my kids go back to student housing/dorms? California state universities are going to be online fall semester. Camille doesn't even want to go back. But there are no jobs! This is the perfect time to go to school, except what's the point of doing school online? Why am I living so far from my family?

I miss Peter. How can I even begin? I love our life together in Muscat. Driving to work, seeing him in his "coffee lab," deciding if we are making dinner or getting gas station shwarma, taking care of Bea together. No one is more fun to live life with than Peter. 

But, should I move back to the U.S. and live somewhere where kids can sit out the virus and finish school? Will future us say, gee that was a dumb time to go to school, or gee, that was brilliant, going to school then. Being a half a world away from college-age kids, is hard enough. Having the world be turned upside-down makes it even harder. 

My thought for today is to try not not treat this time–waffles with blueberries and huckleberry syrup, goldfinches in the water fountain in the garden, the crows patrolling the street, the walk to Asimolar Beach in perfect weather with one of my best friends–as a burden. Or to be afraid. Win in your dreams, says Atsya. 

 

How are you faring?

I'm somehow in Pacific Grove, California. Totally randomly, the place I rented is a three-minute walk from my sister-in-law Ludmilla's. We lucked into a fire place, windows that look out onto a water fountain that attracts finches, hummingbirds and a stellar jay, and a ten minute walk to Asilomar beach. Today, after a Mother's Day lunch of barbecued hamburgers with homemade buns, the kids have retreated to their bedrooms. The puppy has gone from chewing on a deer antler, to wrestling with a shoe, to sleeping on my lap.

 

Peter, as essential personnel at the embassy in Muscat, won't leave unless the Ambassador does. He's one of the few going into the embassy to work, as everyone else is, like me, on mandatory telework. Back in March when Covid19 was first a thing, during our morning commute, I'd report to Peter the day's statistics. When we reached 8000 cases worldwide, Peter said, "It'll be ten thousand by the end of the week," and he was right. Today's number is over four million. I miss Peter and his predictions, and not being with him every day is the one thing I don't love about this situation. I mean that and people's loved-ones dying. 

I feel bad admitting it, but I'm enjoying being forced to stay home. I never liked leaving the house anyway! So, at the risk of sounding grossly over-privileged, I thought everyone would discover the pleasures of staying home, throwing in a load of laundry between phone calls, checking the birds in the water fountain while writing emails. I feel like I've been given permission to live exactly how I like, to sign in to the computer in the morning with a puppy on my lap, go for a lunch-time run, work on a project, check the mailbox in my slippers, then respond to emails. In the evenings watch Schitt's Creek with Camille, or draw the Matillija poppies Ludmilla brought over. I live in my Allbird wool slippers. Stefan, sheepskin-muled feet propped on the coffee table, complains about an art history class on zoom. On the weekends, I put on real shoes and go for hike, to Big Sur, or yesterday to Garland Ranch in Carmel Valley. Life is fine, and I'm not sure I want to go back to the beforetimes. 

But after a couple months of only being able to go to the grocery store or for walks, and then being forced to wear masks, (like that's a hard thing,) Americans are bored and angry and want everything to reopen. If I weren't working, maybe I'd feel differently. 

The first thing I hear in the morning are the pair of crows that live on our street. I'm seeing spring in California for the first time in fourteen years. I'm in the same time zone as my mom, which makes phone calls so much easier. This was the first mother's day with both my kids in at least seven years. I walk around the yard in my slippers, trimming the cala lillies, wrapping the budding rose plant around the trellis, collecting mint for tea. Camille loudly thumps down the stairs like she always did and picks up the puppy and demands for him to tell her why he's so cute. 

When I was five my Aunt Edie got married in Las Vegas. We all stayed in a hotel, and then, after a few days my parents announced that we were going "home." What home? I thought we'd moved to the hotel. "I don't want to leave!" I said, "I like this place with the baby pool and the walk-to breakfast!" Story of my life.

Coronalife. Bottom photo, my friend Gina doing her thing–getting me out of the house.