A few years ago, I visited The International Spy Museum in Washington D.C. The museum offered some pretty cool exhibits--but the one that really stuck with me involved a little-known (at least to me) group of people who helped win World War II. The Navajo Code Talkers. The exhibit at the museum wasn't anything spectacular, but in all honestly it didn't need to be--I loved the story and I was really fascinated by what I learned. I stumbled across this video while I was doing research for a short story that I am writing for my creative writing class. This documentary does a nice job of giving a brief look at the role that these men played during the war:
This site provides a lot of historical information as well as a page that lists many of the words created by the Navajo Code Talkers:
Now, I am by no means a historian, so I am not going to go into great detail regarding their story. However, I do recommend that everyone do a little reading about them--they are quite an interesting group. The reason I was so drawn to the story is two-fold. First, I love stories about Native Americans. I often imagine that somewhere in the desert or mountains there exists a small group of them that have been completely unaffected by time and colonialism.
Second: I love anything that has to do with espionage or military secrets. They created a code that was unbreakable--in my book, that raises their coolness to a level is completely incalculable on the coolness scale.
I found out that there is even a Code Talker GI JOE!!
But, I digress....the purpose of this blog is to pay homage to this brave group of men whose contributions were not discovered until many years after the war because the code that they created was considered too valuable to be made public. It wasn't until 1968 that it was declassified and the men who created it weren't given any official recognition until 2001.
I feel lucky to have stumbled upon such a fascinating bit of history and am truly captivated by the story of these men.
Car crashes. It's what I do for a living. I don't crash them, but I listen to people tell me about them all day. Every day. Most of the calls that I receive are very uneventful--and I am grateful for that. I dread the day when I receive a call such as the one that my co-worker got a few days ago where the mother of a young man called in because he and his friends were sitting in his car and were shot by an unknown gunman. Thankfully, the "fatals" are not common.
My job requires me to be an amateur detective. "Why?" Well, because people lie. A lot. They lie about what happened to their cars, about where the accident occurred, and about how the accident happened. Sometimes they even set their own cars on fire or stage a phony theft. In my old age, I have become somewhat of a cynic. Although in my heart I want to believe that most people are good, I have days when I wonder if anyone owns-up to their mistakes anymore. So many people invent these cockamamie stories to try and weasel their way out of taking responsibility for an accident. They say things like: "I was driving home and a kid threw a pumpkin at my car. It ripped the front bumper off, smashed the head lights and bounced off the hood and landed on my back bumper, and cracked the bumper in half." When what really happened is this:
But, then there are days when I get to speak with lovely people like Mrs. Schwartz who was born in 1937 and was involved in a hit and run--she was the runner! The funny thing is, that she had no idea that she hit a thing---and I honestly believed her. She was brilliant, hilarious, humble and a bit confused. While she was telling me about how she went to the hardware store--and for the second time in a week was involved in an accident in the same parking lot, she laughed and simply stated "I'm not going there anymore." I imagine that she looks something like this:
The only way that she knew that she had hit another car was because the police showed up at her house (the car that she hit had damage to the entire passenger side and a witness gave her license plate to the police). As charming as she was, I sincerely hope that she turns in her license very soon before seriously hurting herself or someone else. But, it is people such as her who make my job really enjoyable--we chatted and laughed and at the end of our conversation, she thanked me for being so kind. She said: "only about 1% of people are as nice as you." Funny thing is, I didn't do anything special, I listened to what she had to say and told her not to be so hard on herself--that accidents happen and that's why we have insurance.
These are the moments that I live for. Moments in time when you meet someone and are able to in some way make their day a little bit better. Thank you, Mrs. Schwartz for making me laugh today.
This time I am not writing a semi-humorous account of my cancer diagnosis--but an exciting blurb about my upcoming vacation. A Trans-Atlantic Cruise! Below is a map of where I will be headed. It is impossible for me to express in this little blog just how much I am looking forward to taking this trip. The word "cruise" is so much better than "cancer."
Now, although I am beyond excited about crossing the Atlantic, there are a few things that I would like to address. The first is this, I am afraid of the ocean. Why, you ask? Because there are things in it that will eat you:
Fish with teeth....it doesn't get much scarier than that. The second is this little tidbit: The average depth of the Atlantic Ocean is 12,881 feet. I can't swim very well. I have also seen The Titanic and the Poseidon Adventure:
I know that all of these are semi-irrational fears, but they are very real to me. I have to say that of all of the horrible things that I can imagine going wrong, THIS is the one that almost paralyzes me with fear:
We will be passing right through the Bermuda Triangle. This is the place where aircraft and sea faring vessels mysteriously disappear. One minute they are happily traveling to their destination--the next, all members aboard the ship or plane become residents of Davy Jones' Locker. Dream vacation to watery grave....just like that.
I refuse to let fear keep me from doing what I want, but I will say that I will stay away from the sides of the ship and I will be very aware of where the lifeboats, life jackets, life preservers and all other saving devices with the word "life" in front of them. I will not hang off the front of the ship and pretend that I am flying, nor will I spend any time in the bowels of the ship...I will be aware of all emergency exits and memorize escape routes. And as long as the ship doesn't sink, it will be the most fantastic voyage that I have ever taken!
On March 8, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Since then, I have been subjected to a barrage of tests, doctor's appointments, poking, prodding, donning of ill-fitting paper gowns, and baring my breasts to everyone in Western New York. I suppose all of this should be horrifying--and don't get me wrong, I'm not thrilled about it--but, I have found many aspects of the experience to be kind of humorous.
After my initial diagnosis, I was scheduled to see many doctors--the first of which was a radiologist who works at the Cancer Care Center of Western New York:
Looks like a nice place, right? It is, except for this:
That's right....it is located directly across the street from a cemetery. Doesn't exactly inspire hope or confidence, just saying. Anyway, they are really quite nice there and explained the radiation procedure very thoroughly--complete with a brief PowerPoint presentation. In every picture, each person was smiling--even the person receiving the radiation treatment and the presentation ended with a photo of a beautiful forest, which compelled me to ask: "so when I'm done, I get to take a walk in the forest?" I was met with a blank stare and then quickly handed a business card.
Then I had to have a bone scan which required that I be injected with some radioactive concoction. I was hoping that afterward I would have the ability to glow in the dark but all my body did was bruise at the injection site and produce hives at an alarming rate. Decidedly less awesome than glowing in the dark.
I have decided to have a double mastectomy with reconstructive surgery. I initially considered having just a lumpectomy (they remove the tumor) and then 4-6 weeks of radiation. This procedure is way less invasive and involves less recovery time. However, if the cancer recurs, I cannot have radiation again nor can I have reconstructive surgery because I have very little body fat. So, because I am not a gambler, I have opted to have both breasts removed and just get on with my life. The following video made my decision a little easier:
Today, I met with two plastic surgeons. The first was a very nice man who sets up shop in an office that smells of cigarette smoke and stale scotch. He very calmly and thoroughly explained the procedure and then reached into his desk drawer and pulled out three old, yellowing ziploc bags. The first contained the expander that they insert into your muscle after removing the breasts and the next two contained a silicon and saline implant. He then explained how the expander attaches itself to the inside of your body. I wish that I could explain the process but I stopped listening after he said the following: "what we do is use CADAVER SKIN... blah, blah, blah." To which I said: "Excuse me?" He laughed and I felt nauseous. I mean, removal of the breast--ok. Scarring--don't really care. Tattooed-on nipples--not my favorite, but I can deal with it. However, I think that I have to draw the line at CADAVER SKIN!! Blech.
Right now I am sitting in my living room-- cell phone beside me--waiting for my surgeon's office to call. They may be able to fit me in for this Friday. Fingers crossed, I would really like to get this over with. I have a Trans Atlantic cruise to go on in about a month and frankly, having cancer is a drag. Overall though, I feel very lucky. It definitely could have been worse, and I have so many friends and family members with terrific senses of humor that I haven't spent too much time feeling down. I'm going to try my best to make the thought of absorbing CADAVER SKIN into my body as hilarious as possible and I guess I am grateful that someone had the foresight to donate their skin so that I can have fake boobs. I will admit that I smiled slightly when I typed that, but I'm still a little nauseous.
...Fingers crossed that I receive that call today...
