Lost and Found

Vidmantas Goldberg “The Advice” Image used with permission.

It’s good, here with you
you in front
me in back
the dust behind us

You, with your backpack, green and hugging
your sweaty body as we chug
where even a rock or feather or piece of garbage
finds purchase because I say slow down, hold up, wait
so I can unzip the side pocket and stuff my treasure
or trash
or secret into that space and when I finish
when I store what I think needs keeping
I zip it closed, pat you on the shoulder and say
let’s go

And then, with the end nowhere in sight, I keep walking
and for a long time I wonder why I am here, now
with you, why you

why not someone else
someone else I know

And as I step forward I think about those people

I think about the friend who has stage 4 lung cancer but still knows Joy
And the friend who cooks me stew

I think about the friend who runs a non-profit
And the one who sent me flowers

I think about the friends who have lost their parents
who’d lost their pasts;
histories burned through by mitochondrial heat

I think about the friend who paints gentle landscapes
And the one who paints pain across a clean white sheet

I think about the friend who was once a lover
And the friend whose card never arrived

I think about the friend whose guide dog leads her through gardens in a distant land
And the friend whose daughter became a man

I think about the four friends I have who are doctors
Healing the sick, stemming the tide,
Catching babies with their gloved hands

As a dry wind rises to rinse the sweat from my neck
I think of my friends who work to change laws
And the friends who protect creatures who walk on all fours

I think of my friends who critique my words
And all the others who share their words

I think about the friend who adopted two babies
who have long since grown
And the friend in Peru sowing grief on her own

I think about a friend who shelters the homeless

And another who fixes computers
And another who sells computers

I think of my friend Igor

I think of the two lovelies I met in Mexico
As well as the friend who lives in Reno
And then
while stopping to retie my boots
I remember the friends I’ve had to let go

I think of a friend who works for a dentist
I think of my friend who is a dentist

I think of a friend who lost her two breasts
And the too many friends who have lost friends to death

I think of old friends who have since become new
The poet, the wealth manager, the Microsoft guru

And I think of the cousins who happen to be friends too

I think of my friend who writes stories for kids
And the one who buries the dead without cement lids

I think of the friend who at last found her one true love

Up ahead I see the lake, the sun spitting across its surface
Mayflies, alive for a second, crowding the luminous dermis

As we push ourselves toward the crest of the hill
I think of the friends I’ve never met
I see them I talk to them I write to them, yet
I have no idea how they smell
I’ve never watched them eat
I’ve never seen them walk into the room
I have no idea if they cross their legs while sitting or
If they pick at their cuticles while chatting on Zoom

I think of the many friends who have picked me up
As if I were a carelessly discarded gum wrapper or
a treasure; a pretty stone that is tucked into
the side pocket
zipped shut, safe
worthy enough to carry
like I carry them
once we leave the view from up high
and head back to the car.

I Couldn’t See The Moon

I watched the woman with the
pink pretty boots standing, trying to decide
whether or not to jump
but she jumped
And so I jumped.

Beneath the calm I saw her
           kick and writhe
I went below too
as if I’d be able to join her
although I knew
I’d see her again
on the surface
so I breathed
air, looked up, and saw the
the light, full and round, readying
my words my mouth to exclaim,
as if I’d been the one true discoverer,
“Look! There’s the moon!”
but I couldn’t
shout. I couldn’t lay claim.

My eyes found only
fog, as if
behind a milky gauze.

Blurb Your Enthusiasm

A woman in one of my Facebook writing groups recently solicited advice on how best to approach a “rockstar” level person for a blurb, given that she’s a “nobody.” I laughed when I read the post, remembering a time long ago…

…It’s 2005 and my second book/first novel is soon to be released and my editor is all askew with worry that I don’t have any blurbs for its back cover. She’d sent off 30 galleys to A-list writers, but none had yet to respond. I suspected not one of those 30 authors were going to put out.

Why? Mostly because I wasn’t part of the in-crowd. Much like what goes on in Hollywood, it all comes down to who you know, and I knew no one in the literosphere. (If you look at some of the “highly praised” novels on your bookshelf there’s a good chance you’ll see a lot of the same authors passing blurbs back and forth amongst themselves like massages in a college dorm.)

While attempting to secure my own valuations, my editor asked me to blurb a book by one of her authors. I said, “Of course,” since that was the polite thing to do. Ultimately, I found the book—a memoir about growing up on an Indian ashram—a little too self-absorbed. (This, from a writer who would go on to publish a self-absorbed memoir about living in a bamboo hut in Bali). As I needed all the good blurb karma I could round up I opined that the book was “wonderfully entertaining and wholly original.”

Once I realized that said blurb karma wasn’t going to kick in, I emailed A-list author Jennifer Weiner directly. Her (many bestselling) books had little in common with mine other than that they were both pigeon-holed as “chick-lit.” Her reply to my ask was curt, polite, and utterly forgettable. Interestingly, in an essay she wrote nine years later, she decries blurbs but goes on to say how sympathetic she is to blurb-seekers:

It’s hard out there for a new writer. It’s especially hard for new women writers who, statistics tell us, are less likely to get published or reviewed. If you’re lucky enough to be in a position to help, why wouldn’t you? I believe in karma, in paying it forward, in using whatever influence I have for good.

Not having been in the path of Weiner’s forward-paying behavior, I began to look further afield. I read a news clip about the actress Emma Thompson who said she adored traveling to  Zanzibar. Since my novel takes place almost entirely on the Tanzanian island, I felt it reasonable to ask a famous movie star to blurb a novel by an unknown writer.

A nobody.

As luck would have it, a writer friend of mine knew an agent who knew her agent who generously offered to send the book to her in London.

Alas. She didn’t blurb it, but she did mail me a lovely handwritten note on personal stationery:

By the time Emma’s (naturally we’re on a first-name basis) note arrived I’d received three good-enough blurbs: one from a local author whose reading I’d attended. The other two came from lesser-known writers enlisted by my editor. One called it a “sexy triumph.” The other stated that my “ambitious debut novel brims with heart and heartache.” (My assumption is that they, too, were trying to garner their own blurb karma.)

Did sales of my novel suffer because I didn’t get any rockstar blurbs? Maybe. It also might have been because it’s not a very good novel (please don’t tell my agent I said that). It started out great but then the editor who bought it in the first place left the publishing house for the opportunity to edit Al Gore’s An Inconvenient Truth. The new editor eviscerated my plot, wanted more sex, and, well, that part of the story is best left for another time…

I will tell that Facebook writer that there are no hard and fast rules when it comes to getting attention from A-listers. I will point out that it’s not going to be easy to extract blurbs from famous people, but I will encourage her to give it a try. I will remind her that even somebodies were once nobodies and maybe, just maybe, one of them will remember that and actually pay it forward.
This essay was also published in the 12/18/2020 edition of Brevity’s Nonfiction Blog.  

Model Behavior


California Gov. Gavin Newsom apologized on Friday for attending a dinner party last week at Thomas Keller’s French Laundry restaurant in Napa Valley, noting that
he “should have modeled better behavior.”

On a sunny afternoon in the fall of 2001 I did the same thing: I went to The French Laundry when I “should have modeled better behavior.” For one thing, there was no way we could afford it. More to the point: I was newly pregnant.


Soon after I finished writing my first book I ran into an old friend who introduced me to his agent who loved it enough to sign me on as a client. 

And then I got pregnant. Perhaps for most women this wouldn’t have been so momentous, but I was 40 years old and had recently suffered a first-trimester miscarriage.

Which is why, when my husband Victor suggested we celebrate our plenteous good fortune by splurging for lunch at The French Laundry, I hesitated.

“You know I have to be way careful with what I eat,” I whined, imagining being served unpasteurized French cheeses shot-through with listeria. Mercury-laden fish. Bivalves swimming with fetus-killing bacteria. “Plus, we  can’t afford it.” Between Victor’s public school teacher’s salary and my non-existent earnings, we were barely scraping by. A splurge for us usually amounted to going out to The Willo Steakhouse on Highway 49 and not paying extra to be able to cook our own steaks.


Victor’s college friend Jeff happened to be in Napa for a wedding and asked if he could join us. Jeff was a bigwig at Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory with a bigwig salary to boot. Maybe, I thought as we hugged hello before sitting down, he’d offer to foot the bill.

As a waiter placed the linen napkin on my lap he remarked, “Chelsea Clinton sat in this very chair just yesterday. She was celebrating her graduation from Stanford.”

“That’s cool. We’re celebrating too.”

“Oh? What are you celebrating?” he asked, slapping away a non-existent hair from the back of my chair.

Before I could answer, Jeff said,  “A book and a baby! They’ve got both on the way!”

We were giddy, oh yes, were we ever: so when the waiter came back and said, “Thomas [as in the Thomas Keller] would like to prepare a special menu with wine pairings for you today if you don’t mind,” we said, “Of course!”

I quietly reminded the waiter that I was pregnant and would take merely a sip or two with each course so half bottles would probably do just fine.

Oh, and no innards like liver or foie gras, I added before he left. Not good for the baby.

And could he perhaps mention to Chef that I cannot eat unpasteurized cheeses I subtly mentioned when he returned with the first bottle of wine.

Or raw fish, I may have muttered under my breath as he handed each of us a tuile filled with salmon tartare. (Victor ate two.)


We had white truffle soufflé served in a delicate egg shell (was it okay to eat pig-sniffed fungi?); lamb done three ways; peas prepared in some spectacular guise. On it went, course after course, me alternately fretting and feasting. I cannot remember much more of what we ate because, honestly, two sips of wine multiplied almost a dozen times make for a pretty tipsy pregnant chick.

Four hours later the waiter brought the check.

I opened the brown leather packet.

And almost fell out of my chair.  


I won’t divulge how much the bill was (and no; Jeff did not offer to pay), but it was more than we presently spend on our groceries for an entire month. Sure, the food was delicious and the service impeccable, but for weeks after that meal, all I did was worry that I/we screwed up. That something I ate was doing harm to my growing fetus. That I shouldn’t have taken even one sip of wine. That the money we spent was irrevocably reckless. 

But…a month later a slew of  New York editors read my book and fought over it, Hyperion offering me a 6-figure advance for a two-book deal. Four months after that I gave birth to a healthy baby girl.

Knock wood.


It’s a shame that Governor Newsom’s memory of that inimitable meal at The French Laundry will be forever stained, like my own was, by the worrisome fallout that followed. He never should have disregarded his own edict in the face of this pandemic. I never should have taken a chance on eating anything beyond whole clean healthy foods in the midst of a precarious pregnancy.

But sometimes we humans forget that our behaviors have the capacity to change others’ lives. That how we act, whether we are public figures or private citizens, can change the course of history—writ large or small.

Which is why it’s more important than ever to model better behavior.

Why it’s a good idea to maintain a distance of 6 feet.

Why it’s imperative , above all else, to wear a mask.




She Loved

And did whenever she had the chance.

I’m not just talking about the millions of times she’d grab one of my unruly child hands before crossing a street or while strolling through a crowded mall. I mean like when I’d visit her in California and we’d be sitting side by side watching television and she would casually reach over and take my hand and place it gently in her own. I usually let her.“—Lisa

She read the San Diego Tribune daily and religiously watched the evening news. At 5:00, no matter what she was doing, she’d “shhh” anyone within earshot and turn on the TV so she could be in the know.

Brianna and Blake and MJ and Loy. They were her treasures.


She hated the way I dressed. I still cannot rid my memory of her barring me from leaving the house one day while proclaiming, ‘You cannot wear a pink dress with black shoes!‘”—Lisa



And she won far more often than not.


She was forever gloating about Lisa’s accomplishments, Scott’s business acumen, and Marc’s big beautiful heart. Marc, her firstborn, called her daily and she adored hearing from him. She loved her baby boy Scott so much that when you’d ask her (in recent years) how many children she has she’d often say, “Four: Marc. Lisa. Scott. And Scott.” She must have felt that she could never have enough of him.

Even if you mistakenly believed you didn’t need her, like right after I gave birth to Loy and didn’t want her to fly up from San Diego to stay with us, but she did anyway and everything she did to help was exactly the right thing, from keeping at bay the myriad visitors (while graciously accepting their dropped-off meals) to cleaning the house to holding the baby so I could shower to teaching me the lullabies I would sing to Loy for many years to come.“—Lisa



Okay, so that’s a slight exaggeration. She enjoyed when Marc took her out on his boat in Missouri.
Mom would never touch a fish or worm so when she was here I gave up fishing to help her. The priceless look on her face every time she caught a fish was so worth it. The excitement, the thrill, the squeal of joy she would give out I will hold forever and relive whenever I’m out on my lake. There is a point at the start of a cove that she named “crocodile point” because Mom thought it looked like a croc’s mouth. I will always call it that. Every time I look out at the lake the first thing I see is that point and it makes me think of Mom.”—Marc





But she hated him for leaving her after thirty years.




And she had quite the collection.


One year a mama bird made a nest in one of her planters on her deck. She considered moving it, but knew that would be cruel. A few days after the babies hatched she woke up to find her body covered with small itchy bites: her house had been inundated with bird mites. God, that made her so mad.”—Lisa

So much so that she moved from her beloved California condo to a gated community in a state she very much abhorred, just to be nearer to her. Sure, they had their differences, and yes, they fought over the silliest things, but the devotion those two had for one another was immeasurable. “She was my world.”—Sharon

We had a lot of fun together. Sometimes when I had work in San Diego I’d stop by and surprise her and her eyes would light up when she saw me. I remember one New Year’s Eve, she was dating that Woody guy at the time, and we all went to a Disco. We danced the night away. She could boogie like no one else. She was my wife’s sister, sure, but she and I had something special between us.—Marty 

Particularly her sister’s children and grandchildren: Jen and Howard and their children Cameron and Ashley and Noah; and Jamie and his children Nathan and Arianna. 

From left: Cameron, Blake, Ashley, Nathan, Mom, Arianna, Noah, Brianna

Ashley, Cameron, and Noah had their own special bond with her. Ashley and Aunt would always enjoy playing dolls or Barbies together, especially when we would visit her at her home. Cameron would enjoy the cars and trucks that she played with him and looking for the special snacks/cookies at her house. She and Noah developed a very silly relationship making up the most ridiculous names for each other. Like when she called him peanut butter he’d call her hot dog. For a long time she called him meatball and he called her pizza.”—Jennifer  

The first time I met Aunt was at a Pesach Seder dinner at Jen’s parents’ house. I really didn’t know anyone that night other than Jen, and I was a little nervous. That’s when I met her. Aunt. I called her that right away. Even before I knew where my relationship with Jen was headed. Even before I called Sharon and Marty, “Mom and Dad.”  I called her “Aunt” because that’s what Jen called her. Never “Aunt Florine.” Just “Aunt.”  Aunt had a spirit about her that made you instantly comfortable around her. And yeah, she was, what’s the right word? She was…elegant.”—Howard

When I was a young girl, Aunt used to come spend the night at our home in New Jersey. I would always want to sleep with her because we would stay up talking for hours.  Our talks were always so much fun and I recall the time we discussed where the sun rises and sets. Her makeup and hair always had to be done and she dressed to impress. I will never forget her silky pink bathrobe that she wore to have her coffee in the mornings. We had an amazing bond between us:  whether we were near or far I could always count on her. One more thing: Aunt always wrote the best birthday cards!“—Jennifer

But she hated that it made her hair frizzy.

When Lisa and I bought a dilapidated 1871 miner’s cabin, she immediately volunteered to help us fix it up, even if that meant donning a pair of dirty jeans. Naturally, she wore a pair of protective gloves as she cleaned 130-year-old walls. God forbid she ruin her manicure.“—Victor  

Whenever we needed help, she was there. When Jen’s back went out Aunt didn’t think twice about coming to stay with us to help with our 21-month-old twins and 3-month-old. She was selfless.“—Howard


Her name was Florine and even though she never loved her own name, she despised any play on it. After Loy’s godmother Ellen called her Flo, she refused to speak to her.


They threw some crazy pool parties. Yeah. They did.


And oh did she ever have plenty of suitors. She opened her heart to many, but none meant more to her than Keith Anderson. Keith loved her passionately, took her on trips, and kept her comfortable. That is, until one night in a bar in Las Vegas he met a woman who looked like his dead wife and, in a drunken haze, he married her. After that, my mother began a decades-long affair with her own boyfriend. It suited her just fine.

She especially loved apparel that made her feel spoiled and sexy, like furs and silk and cashmere. A long time ago she bought a pink satin robe and not a day went by when she didn’t wear it.

Growing up we all just assumed the telephone was attached to her hand.

It didn’t matter if she needed something—it was just the idea that she could get it at a discount that made it special. Her pantry was stuffed full of expired foods, as well as things she’d only eat if the world was ending and she wouldn’t be able to get to the store—things like sugar-free pudding and canned onions. Whenever you asked her why she purchased such items she’d say, “I had a coupon!”


Mostly she loved a crunchy salad. Before she lost her ability to cook for herself, she made a salad every night. It always included the crispiest lettuce available. She’d add whatever the bottom drawer of her packed refrigerator would offer, whether it be purple cabbage or cold tasteless tomatoes, she’d throw it in. She never ever used bottled dressing but would make her own dressing of olive oil, red wine vinegar and lots of dried herbs, always adding a pinch of sugar before tossing it. Whenever she went out to eat she ordered a salad and, if it was in any way subpar (even one small piece of brown or wilted lettuce), she’d send it back and ask for a better one.

And she did, often.

And she was…fiercely.

80th Birthday

Florine Lorraine (Knapp) Kusel (born June 20, 1937), late of Boynton Beach, Florida, La Costa, CA, Edison, NJ, and New York, NY, died a painful and preventable death from Covid 19 on Friday, July 31, 2020.  She was a compassionate and generous daughter, sister, mother, grandmother, mother-in-law, sister-in-law, aunt, cousin, and friend. She shall remain forever in our hearts and memories.



On the advice of a Facebook friend, I took a bite of Apple TV+’s “Ted Lasso” this week, and you know, what? It’s a really tasty sitcom.

Last night I watched the fourth episode which centered around a charity ball thrown by the lead female character, Rebecca, whose ex-husband, Rupert, cheated on her. Up until now Rupert’s been off-camera, only being described (derogatorily), or glimpsed in newsprint—over Rebecca’s shoulder—where we see the never-ending paparazzi shots of him cavorting with his young dalliances.

Rupert made his first real appearance at the ball, and, as expected, he was both dashing and dreadful. Halfway through the final scene I realized I recognized the actor playing him but had no idea who he was.

A quick search led me to the British actor, Anthony Stewart Head. As I scrolled through his long list of credits I was struck by two things:

1. Anthony Head has played a great many characters named Rupert in his career;
2. Although I’d seen many of his past performances, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I knew him from some place else. Somewhere more, um, intimate.

OCD as I am, I doggedly dug deeper, until at last I found it: that moment in my past when our worlds collided—or, rather, clinked.   


In 1987, Nestlé ran an ad campaign for British television featuring Tony and Sharon, fictional characters who slowly fall in love after Sharon borrows a jar of Nescafé instant coffee from Tony. The 12 “episodes” of these soap opera-style commercials were a huge hit. The Gold Blend Couple, as they were known, were played by Anthony Head and Sharon Maughan. Here is the first episode which aired in England:

(And no: this is not where I knew Mr. Head from. Let me continue…)

In 1990, Nestlé brought the couple and their love story to American consumers, with a few variations. In the U.S. version, “Gold Blend” becomes “Taster’s Choice,” and Tony (now Michael) loses his accent. Here is the second episode which aired in the United States (the first seems to have disappeared):

Wanting to arouse more customer involvement, Nestlé launched their “Taster’s Choice Most Romantic First Date” contest. Participants were asked to describe, in 250 words or less, their most romantic first date. Presumably, it would involve coffee-drinking.

Here is my (entirely fictitious) entry:

As you might have guessed by now, I was one of the (10?) winners. I was flown to Los Angeles and put up in a fancy hotel (I cannot remember which one), where I enjoyed a lovely lobster lunch with none other than Mr. Head and Ms. Maughan.

I wish I could say it was an experience I will never forget because, well, I’d completely forgotten about it until last night.



Sunsets missed.
Hair alight and lighter
Cancel culture, covid clusterfucks
Parents up in arms
Teachers angry and afraid
Florida, where my mother rests
Totally in the dark
No longer afraid. I’m thinking it’s time
To move to New Zealand
To paint or
To clean the brushes for the painter so that he has time, more
Time to find the greens.



Even though I know that reading the news is bad for my mental health, I still open The New York Times every morning. After clicking on the Coronavirus Update I immediately scan the U.S. maps, and if I see Vermont in the “Where new cases are decreasing” section, I softly, silently, clap. Only then do I move on to the non-corona stories.

Recently, I skimmed through an article about Bayer agreeing to pay $10 billion to the more than 95,000 people who developed cancer after being exposed to Roundup, a popular weedkiller produced by Monsanto (Bayer purchased the company in 2018). I’d been following the story on and off and was glad to see that those sick farm workers were finally going to be compensated.

I was about to close the tab and go read about the rising cost of cheese, when it dawned on me: Roundup causes non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.

I have that kind of cancer.


The first time I met Leslie, my radiation oncologist at Dartmouth-Hitchcock, she was wearing a cute brown tunic dress and biker-type brown leather boots. I told her I liked her outfit and she said she liked my beaded bracelet. I could tell we were going to get along like friends who haven’t had to quarantine together. After some preliminary “blah blah your cancer blah blah electron radiation blah blah” discussion, she walked me over to a small room for my “simulation.” I was told to lie on my back on the CT scan table and hold still while a very handsome technician named Damien (really? Did his parents not watch The Omen?) draped a warm wet sheet of plastic mesh over my face. After what seemed like an hour (I think it was more like 15 minutes), I turned onto my stomach so that Damien could repeat the process. This video will make clear what happened (btw: Damien did not speak with a British accent and that guy at the end is far too jovial for my taste):

With the completed mask now screwed into place, they conveyed me in and out of a CT scan machine a few million times. The resultant images were to help Leslie and her team of purportedly intelligent physicists design my treatment.

Before saying goodbye, my good friend Leslie nonchalantly slid a consent form in front of me. On it were listed some side-effects that might ensue, including:

1. hair loss;
2. extreme tiredness;
3. the possibility of getting future cancers.

“I’m not signing this,” I said, looking at her. Her pager had just buzzed and she was reading it.

“Why not?” she replied. I could tell our friendship was about to be tested.

“You said I wouldn’t lose my hair.”

She sighed. “In all likelihood, with such a low dose of radiation, you won’t, but you still need to sign it.”

I hemmed. She glanced impatiently down at her hip, which soon buzzed again.

I hawed. She smiled at me. “I have to go.”

I signed. 

“I’ll see you back here in two weeks,” she said before rushing out the door.


Dear Insert Lawyer’s Name Here,

Between 2008 and 2010 I lived in a co-housing community on 125 acres in Charlotte, Vermont. To the north of the community there was a dairy farm with accompanying corn fields. To the south, more corn fields. A strawberry farm bordered us on the east side. At the time I had a small child and was worried about her exposure to toxins so I reached out to both farmers and asked what exactly was spewing out of their tractor sprayers and crop dusters buzzing over our house. They were defensive but forthcoming: they used glyphosate (the herbicide in Roundup).  

In January of this year I was diagnosed with Cutaneous B-cell Follicular Lymphoma.

I have no idea if there is enough evidence to prove causation, but if so, let me know if you are interested in pursuing this.

Yours truly,


Leslie walked into the exam room. “The machine is ready to go so we should make this fast,” she said snapping open her laptop.

I was supposed to check in and proceed directly to the radiation treatment room, but a few days before my appointment I’d emailed my ever-growing list of questions and concerns to Leslie, and she’d generously agreed to a quick visit.

“The team wanted to radiate down through this area,” she said pointing to an image on the screen that might well have been a map of Turkey. “But I told them to redesign the plan so it’s brain-sparing.”

I blinked. “They wanted to go deep enough to zap my brain? Why would they choose to do that if they don’t have to?”

“What can I tell you? They’re just nerds who look at computers. They don’t think in human terms.”

I pictured a bunch of frat boys with beers in their hands maneuvering around my CT scan pics like they were shooting for the next level in Grand Theft Auto. “Let’s blast these mofo tumors, dude!”

“Huh,” I said noticing on the screen a large red band crossing the entire top of my head like a bloody caul. “Is all that red where the radiation is going? I thought you were just directing the beams at the individual tumors.”

“No, we changed our minds,” she said to the person who hates a last-minute change of plans. “They’re too diffuse and there might be more under the skin that we can’t see.”

I fell back into the chair and started to tear up. I touched my scalp, imagining nascent tumors budding through it, like baby goat horns. “Then you’re radiating my whole head?” I asked my ex-friend Leslie.

She nodded. “Yeah. It makes the most sense.” She looked at her watch and stood up. “Let’s go before we lose the room.”

The large “room” which held the enormous MACHINE was freezing. The technicians—a surly man named Trevor and a meek woman named Liz—told me to lie face-down on the table and make myself as comfortable as possible. They affixed the heretofore mentioned mask onto my head, making sure the nose holes were positioned properly—I would need to breath—before tightening the bolts; thus rendering me completely immobile.

From behind the safety glass in the other room Trevor spoke into a microphone, warning me each time something new was going to happen, like, “We’re taking an x-ray now just to check our placement,” or “We’re raising you up a little more,” or “Is this music okay or do you want something different?”

I could only answer with a thumbs up, which I did, even though the very bad 80’s music was anything but relaxing.

I sensed the table rising then lowering then twisting around. I saw flashes of light through my closed eyes. I breathed—in for 5, out for 5. I pretended I was getting a massage and that my face was resting through that soft hole at the end of a massage table. I felt the masseuse’s hands caressing my shoulders, my tense back, my—and then Trevor said, “Okay, here we go. It’ll be about 30 seconds,” and I braced for it, having no idea what I was actually bracing for, but suddenly there was a light so bright it was as if an atomic bomb had exploded before my eyes.

And then it was done and someone lowered the table and someone else unbolted me and someone else helped me off the table and someone else handed me my purse and said, “See you back here tomorrow for round 2!”


Low likelihoods aside, my hair began falling out two weeks later. It wasn’t like what happens to people who get chemo and become totally bald: only the follicles in the irradiated parts of my scalp died. Picture Christian Bale in “American Hustle.”

Since Blue Cross covers the cost, I figured I’d splurge on a deluxe wig prosthetic hairpiece, but after it arrived and I tried it on, I cried. Sure, it was luxurious and it hid my exposed pate (as well as my new gray hairs), but the clips tugged on the few remaining hairs I had and…honestly, my head couldn’t stomach it.

I watched 3,478 videos—most of them made by stunning Muslim women—that demonstrated nifty ways to tie a turban with a scarf. I learned how to make an easy head covering out of a t-shirt.

This is the wig

A few friends came to my aid with some fashionable fixes: Lori sent me a cool summer-colored Boho Bandeau. Marcella bought me a silky flowered scarf and a very chic fedora. Karin mailed—all the way from Australia—an Aboriginal Art sun hat.

To be sure, losing my hair has depressed the heck out of me. I feel as if my feminine side got ghosted. I avoid looking at my reflection in the mirror. I don’t go out and see people, but hey—I wouldn’t anyway since we’re in the midst of a pandemic.

Timing is everything, right?


All four law firms I contacted told me that unless I actually used Roundup, there was no way to prove causation. Being that I’m not a litigiously-inclined person, I wasn’t too disappointed. I mean, I wasn’t hoping to get money. I was just hoping to find some answers.


“Oh yes, this looks beautiful,” Joi, my dermatologist, pronounced this past Monday as she ran her hand across my now-smooth skull. “Excellent results.”

“Does this mean I’m cured?” I said, quickly retying my scarf.

She frowned. “No. There’s still a fifty percent chance you’ll get more tumors, but probably not in the same place.”

“Hunh.” I glanced over at Kevin, my oncologist who sat typing on his laptop. “If they do come back I’m guessing you’re going to suggest I ‘mow the lawn,’” I said, quoting him with a smirk. Back when we’d first met, Kevin had strongly advised I get four infusions of a monoclonal antibody drug. He felt it would clear my entire system of the cancer: it would “mow the lawn.” Given the very scary side effects, I had adamantly refused.

He nodded. “Right now you’re fine, but if it comes back it could be a more serious form of lymphoma. “And,” he said, adding his pièce de résistance, “Rituximab won’t make your hair fall out.”

As if reading my mind, Joi put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Your hair will grow back, Lisa. It’ll take a few months, but I did see some tiny ones just now.”

I shrugged, feeling only slightly mollified. I knew it would be a while before the tumors returned, if ever. I knew that my cancer was an indolent, not-so-deadly sort. I knew I had to take what good I’d been offered and be grateful. Okay, so I lost my hair, but, as Loy pointed out, “It’s way better than losing your life.”