A year ago I stood at the mirror, glaring at my left breast which was starting to show the strain of breastfeeding my baby. The good boob, the one on the right, remained as firm and perky as it was when I was 18. I couldn’t have guessed that all that perkiness was supplied by 11 centimeters of cancerous tumor.
I now have a scar that runs from under my arm almost all the way to my sternum. I have 5 little pin-sized tattoos that are used to line me up in the beastly machine that irradiates my skin – which is now burned rough and red from collarbone to abdomen, and breastbone to armpit. In the place where my breast used to be is an implant called an expander (Aaron calls it my bionic boob) with the mission of stretching the skin to hopefully make it possible for doctors to manufacture a new breast once I complete treatment.
My left side is scarred as well, with the tell-tale 2-inch horizontal line just below my collarbone where the medi-port was installed for my chemo infusions. Cancer survivors recognize each other by this this little scar that peeks out from any kind of V-neck top. The port shows through my skin, and my husband and I joked that with these implants and my bald head, I should have dressed up as a Borg for Halloween. Beneath the skin and ribs, my heart has been damaged by the chemo drugs as well.
The memory of wishing that my left breast was more like my “good” boob now brings a chill. But the left breast will soon become a scar as well, as I’m having a second mastectomy with my reconstruction this summer. The type of cancer I have has an extremely high rate of recurrence.
My attitude towards these scars is changing. Each scar tells a story, and since I’m still kicking, each scar represents a challenge I overcame. I’m learning to accept them as a kind of private little merit badge. Having a supportive husband helps. And since the perky boob, the “good” boob, turned out to be evil, it’s worth mentioning that just because something is pretty doesn’t mean it’s good.
My grandmother was born 1/11/11 – 1911, that is – one hundred years ago today. She didn’t live to meet that milestone, she passed away just a few months ago. But in those just shy of 100 years, she led a remarkable life.
I wanted to write a biographical blog post to tell her story today, but it’s too much. She went from being very active in Detroit’s social scene, to being a pioneer in a (then) remote area of Alaska, active in Territorial, and later, State politics as the wife of a politician, and even running for State Legislature herself – all this was done while running an active farm, raising her seven children, and managing the office of my Grandfather’s dental practice, as well as the family’s Medical/Dental Supply business. That deserves more than one blog post.
Instead, I’ll use her 100th birthday to kick off the first of a series of posts about my Grandmother. In this first one, I’ll let her tell her own story of her first trip to Alaska. A few years ago, she let me copy some of her personal papers with the idea that I would post them online, making them available to the rest of the family. It’s taken me until now to do anything about that.
So here she is, Doris McKinley in her own words. I just added a title and a couple photos. It’s a long post, so grab a cup of coffee, kick your feet up, and settle in for a story of the rugged North.
The Alaska Highway is an overland route connecting the United States with Alaska through Canada. During the summer and early Winter of 1942, United States Army Engineers blazed the original road through 1,523 miles of unbroken wilderness. They put over a project of road building in eight months never duplicated in history, and considered by experts impossible in less than two years.
Their record is as glorious as that of any combat unit fighting on the front, for here, too, men suffered and died in a battle of the wilderness so that America might be made safe. These men endured mud, rain, fought hordes of voracious mosquitoes, and lived at times on subsistence rations with the constant threat that their precarious supply lines might be broken and they would be isolated in the wilderness.
On their heels or sometimes in step with them, came the United States Public Roads Administration with its civilian contractors and road workers, using the Army road as a base and making it into a highway as fast as they could. During the next summer the road was made into a permanent wilderness gravel highway, wide enough for two or three vehicles to pass with ease.
The present route was selected from the point of view of military strategy, intended mainly to serve as a link between various airports strung northward across Western Canada to Alaska. A tourist route would have been laid closer to the Canadian Rockies.
It stands as a symbol of friendship between nations unparalleled in history. The name Alcan, an unofficial designation, was subsequently changed to Alaska Highway by agreement of the two governments. It starts at Dawson Creek, British Columbia, a village at the end of the Railroad line 300 miles northwest of Edmonton, Alberta, and terminates at Fairbanks, Alaska, a distance of 1,523 miles.
Doris and Doc (Lee) McKinley
My husband, Lee, made this trip to Anchorage in October with our 12 year old son, Blake, and Frederick York, a young laboratory technician. They drove a Hudson pickup truck and expected to be able to have certain heavy supplies shipped by boat from Seattle. However, shortly after they arrived there, it became apparent that the West Coast Shipping Strike would not end soon. So, three weeks later, Lee took a plane to Seattle and then East to Detroit. He was most enthusiastic in his first impressions of Alaska and insisted that I drive back with him.
I hurriedly collected clothing for Arctic wear. At Peter’s Sportswear Clothes Shop I found a down-filled jacket, parka and leggings, and fleece lined gloves and stadium boots. The leggings were most comfortable which I wore in place of slacks. They are cool enough in the heated cab of the truck and warm at 40 degrees below zero.
This time we drove a Dodge one-ton express truck. Our neighborhood garage men had put forth great effort to hurriedly build a strong frame of 1″ pipe over the truck bed. This was covered with large tarpaulin and tied securely. On the running board we carried four, five gallon army gasoline cans, and acetylene torch and new axe.
We left home at 9:30 A.M. Monday, November 18, 1946. Our route was Highway 12 to Chicago. Then Minneapolis and the fourth day we arrived in Fargo, North Dakota. We enjoyed three perfect Autumn days, cool and bright, then ran into sleet and snow. In Fargo, we placed the truck in a garage where booster springs, airplane tires and fire extinguisher were installed the following day. We now felt we were properly equipped.
Leaving Fargo Saturday morning on our way to Montana, we drove through the wheat prairies with their great elevators in every village. At the Immigration Center in Coutts, Alberta, we spent two hours making arrangements to travel through Canada. Stopped overnight in Calgary, and arrived in Edmonton Tuesday afternoon, November 26th.
Our instructions at the border had been to see Mr. Eveleigh of the Control Board at Edmonton. He looked over our credentials and checked our list of extra supplies – tire irons, jack, air pump, extra tires and tubes, patching supplies, flashlight and extra batteries, extra electric wire and friction tape, fan belts and spark plugs, extra gasoline and oil containers, general repair tools tow chain and numerous other articles.
I was eager to see the shops in Edmonton so took a few minutes while Lee was having the truck serviced. I was certainly surprised to find that stocks of warm winter clothing were as meager at Hudson’s Bay Company as they were here. The stores generally are fine, modern buildings with good merchandise.
It was 4:30 when we slid past the outskirts of Edmonton and into the prairie Northland. We were on concrete until we passed the airports several miles out, where the road became black-top. Then this, too, ended and we settled down to a straight-away grind over typical Canadian prairie road. This was not the endless wheat-field prairie we had traversed south of Edmonton. We were now headed into the flat, bush country of the (more…)
You’ve become quite the little monkey this month, climbing all over everything. You’ve always been a bit of a climber, you were climbing bookshelves as soon as you were walking. But this month, you managed to climb your way right out of your pack ‘n play.
I noticed your kung fu kicks while you were in there. I thought they were cute, but I didn’t realize how productive they were – until you hooked your ankle on the upper edge, and then pulled yourself up and over. Such strength! I watched in slow motion from across the room as you rolled over the top of the rail, and fell to the ground, landing on your feet, deep knee bend, then up to standing with your arms raised high and a big smile on your face. You stuck the landing like a little Olympian.
It was one of those moments where I was immensely proud of you, and at the same time, terrified. I’m not ready for you to be able to roam the house at will. Your crib rails are lower than the pack ‘n play, which means you can get out of your bed as well. I’m not sleeping much since your little triumph – I keep my ears peeled, listening for the midnight pitter-patter of little feet.
Your acrobatics are not limited to the escape act, you’ve also started turning summersaults. It was the funniest thing. You would start out in this deep downward dog pose, with your butt up in the air. You’d just hang there in that inverted position, looking around at the room upside down while rocking back and forth. After you’d done that several times, I decided to help you on over. You thought that was pretty cool! Then you kicked your legs over all by yourself in the slowest summersault imaginable. But, oh, my, what a grin.
I guess Daddy and I are going to have to start saving up some money for gymnastics lessons.
You couldn’t get enough of the tree this Christmas. We only put up a handful of ornaments, and made sure they were all safe for you to play with – but you still weren’t supposed to mess with the tree. I guess it was just to amazing to leave it alone.
Santa (or Sassa, as you call him) brought you toys and books that focused on letters and numbers. That was so perfect because you surprised us with being able to identify numbers in print. At least one through six, or as you pronounce them: none, two, free, foof, sigh, sick. You also know a few of the letters, odd ones like Q, and I. For other letters, I can tell you’re starting to get the picture. You held up a cutout of a C on it’s side and called it a U. Makes sense to me. You held up a V and said Y. How are you learning these letters? I haven’t been teaching you. You are such a little sponge, just soaking up information. Sesame Street is probably helping with that as well.
You are so precocious, and quite a handful. You’ve started asking why. You shush people when you put all your babies down for a nap. On the other hand, you are so sweet. You’ve been very protective of me lately. I’ve had a terrible cough, and every time you hear me cough you come over and say “K?” and keep repeating it until I tell you I’m OK. Then you smile and give me a big kiss. On days when I’m stuck on the couch, you bring one of your blankets (you call them buddies) and cover me up – and of course, give me a big kiss. You are very demonstrative with your affection.
I stopped to capture a few pictures on my way to the medical center yesterday afternoon. I was feeling a little cranky about having to go in every day. It was cold. frigid. Chunks of ice were still clinging to the edges of the 8-inch-deep potholes in the road.
But views like this make me pause a moment.
Views like this make stepping out of the car to take in the environment so worth while.
It didn’t take very many shots before I was so cold I had to get back in the car (my arm is all bandaged up so it doesn’t fit in the sleeve of a coat – another story for another post). But, what a difference it made in my attitude.
There’s nothing like a little time with the camera to help me hit refresh.
I’ve been procrastinating on writing a blog post for a very long time now. It’s Christmas. It’s the end of the year. It’s the beginning of the new year. So much pressure to write a deep, meaningful, soul searching, profound piece that sums up the meaning of life, and what I’ve learned this year. Or at least pull together a humorous and/or touching year in review post.
This year I learned I have cancer. I endured two surgeries, 6 months of chemo, and I’m currently on radiation. I survived. My family survived. I haven’t completely messed up my daughter. yet.
This year was too deep, and too long, for me to sum up in one pretty, little post. Maybe one of these days, when I’ve put some distance between me and what I endured, I’ll be able to write something meaningful about this year, and my experience. For now, I don’t want to think. I don’t want to plumb the depths of my soul. I don’t want to share what’s in my heart. I haven’t processed it yet. That will take some time.
Besides all that, I’ve been sick. I don’t mean cancer sick; I mean coughing, sneezing, mucus like rubber cement, don’t you dare turn on the lights, throbbing sinuses, and it feels like a mile-long hike just getting to the bathroom sick. I’m feeling much better, and starting to dig my way out of the haze now, but this has been lingering since before Christmas. To all of you waiting on a return email, or phone call, I’m sorry. I’ll get back to you soon. If you’re waiting on a Christmas card… ha ha ha. giggle. snort. Yeah, right, it’s been years since I was organized enough to send those out – even when I was healthy.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy. I’m afraid the first few paragraphs of this post may have led you to believe I’m bitter and pouting about this year. Not so much. I just don’t understand how I feel about it all yet. I need more time to sort it out.
Early last month, I started the Reverb10 project with such enthusiasm, but found myself avoiding my computer for the month of December, because I knew each new reverb prompt would lead to more thinking. Shudder. I still plan on continuing the Reverb10 project, but on my own timeline. It may take me the remainder of 2011 to finish, and I may not make public all my responses, but I think it’s a wonderful way of reviewing where I’ve been, and making plans for the future.
You still want to know about the day my husband threw up and saved our relationship? Gross. Ok, just kidding, that would have piqued my interest as well. Earlier today, my husband reminded me of this moment in the history of our relationship. That memory is what brought me back to my computer to write, and thus, the reason the title of this post is dedicated to that moment.
Long before we got married, and about 6 months after we met, I decided that falling in love with Aaron would be terribly inconvenient. I wasn’t ready to be in love (this after years of “looking for love in all the wrong places”). I went around the house and gathered up the items of his that had accumulated (CDs, a hat, a shirt… ) and placed them next to the door, ready to send them and him on their way when he arrived at my place after work.
When he showed up, he brushed past me, rushed to the bathroom, and spent what felt like forever in there puking. Monstrous, earth shattering, roaring, I’ve never heard anyone puke like that. By the time he was done, cleaned up, and passed out in my bed, I had given up on thoughts of breaking off the relationship. I grabbed his possessions by the door and redistributed them back around the house. It was too late. I was already in love.
Instead of fighting what is, I needed to accept it (good or bad), and then decide how I was going to respond to it.
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