How To Become A Cancer Doctor

Start with one excellent childhood experience—a loved one who is cured.

Add a generous helping of baseline optimism, a cup at least.  More is better.

Mix in well a half cup of ability to suspend disbelief.  And then, maybe a pinch more.

Add a teaspoon or two or even three of denial.  Pollyanna had it right.

 

Remember to include an ounce of prevention—

Worth a pound of cure, so they say.  Suspend a quart of judgement, or two.

Make sure the oven is preheated with family.  Children help sweeten the mix.

Add three pets, or more.  A dog to welcome you home.  Two cats to curl up with.

 

Believe, truly believe in the best of all outcomes.

“Everything is for the best in this best of all possible worlds.”  Voltaire knew.

A gallon of forgetfulness goes a long way to wash the silt of failure away.

When there is nothing else, pray. Or wish.  Or hope.  Or desire.

 

Ice the cake of sadness with a sweet coating of self-forgiveness.

And when that recipe fails, start again.  Be kind.  Your patients are waiting.

Gone With The Wind

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind,
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

Ernest Dowson

Having no artistic talent whatsoever myself, nonetheless I am fascinated by art, and especially by artists themselves.  My father has been both an artist and an avid collector since the ship he served on as a Navy dentist docked in Sicily, and the local artists were allowed to come aboard to sell their wares.  He still has paintings he bought in 1945 hanging on his walls.  As a teenager in Depression era Chicago, he took classes on Saturdays at the Chicago Art Institute and wanted to become a portrait artist when he grew up.   His father, my grandfather, told him to get real and learn a trade.  He chose dentistry, and only later, after going to medical school, discovered that as a plastic surgeon, he could both be a portrait artist and earn a living.

Many of my artist friends do not take commissions.  When asked why, they say that it is often very difficult, if not impossible, to reconcile their own interpretation of a subject with that of the person commissioning the work.  Fortunately for me however, some do, and I have been the appreciative beneficiary of portrait work by artists such as Stephanie Snell, Paul Doyle and Marilyn Terry.  What do these artists paint?  They paint my dogs of course.  My children and I would never be able to focus and sit still for our own portraits to be painted and besides, despite this age of “selfies”, we are far too self conscious.

A few years ago, a young man’s wife developed breast cancer at age 25.  He is a well-known video artist known as Daarken and he and his wife needed money to meet their medical expenses.  An on-line fund raising auction was conceived, with the theme stated as “Beautiful Grim.”  Beautiful, because despite his young wife’s diagnosis and treatment, she was and always will be beautiful– yet for some young women with breast cancer, the prognosis can be grim indeed.  His friends and fellow artists rallied to the cause, and many contributed original works to the auction.  I am a friend of Daarken’s sister, and I followed the auction with interest.  In particular there was one painting that I kept coming back to, that no one was bidding on.  It was a portrait of an African American woman, beautiful and naked, except for her long stockings which were peppermint striped, red and white. Her hair was a tangled wild mass of curls against her beautiful skin. When no one else bid, the portrait was mine.

Over the years I have become very friendly with the artist and his wife, who shall be unnamed because of the personal nature of this anecdote.   They visited our home this past summer, and we commissioned a work of art.  The assignment was intentionally vague—“just paint something you see in New Mexico that inspires you.”  A few weeks ago the painting arrived, a full 4’ X 4’ landscape entitled “Sombrillo Vista.”  It is as beautiful as I had hoped, and emblematic of the New Mexico I have come to love.

When I called to offer my sincere gratitude, the artist’s wife said, “You know, just after he finished your painting he received another commission—a most unusual one!  A man called and said he wanted a portrait painted of his ex-wife. He is still in love with her and wants an oil painting to remember her by.”  Apparently he had sent a few snapshots of his ex along with his request.  Always a romantic at heart, this struck me as both somewhat insane, but also a true romantic gesture.   I said, “Send me a phone pic of the work in progress.  I want to see the woman who inspired this act of unrequited love.”  She did.  The woman was indeed beautiful, and playful, and mysterious all at the same time.  I said, “Well if the ex-husband doesn’t like the portrait, let me know because I will buy it.”

Shortly after our conversation, a photo of the unfinished work was sent to the hopeful ex-husband.  He liked it a lot, but he felt that it was not quite there yet.  He had some advice for the artist– he said, “Just think—complex and Mona Lisa eyes with a dash of mischief and you’ll nail it!”  I laughed and said, “Now that should be simple.  You know, just be Leonardo da Vinci.” The finished portrait was unveiled to the good patron last week who promptly proclaimed, “It gave me goosebumps!”   The man likely needs a good therapist instead of a portrait of his ex.   But let us be clear:  he has been faithful to her, in his fashion.  And my artist friend, well—clearly, he NAILED it!

The View From Here

For Mrs. Shirley Wiley

 

Last Saturday I suddenly found myself flat on my back on our gravel driveway.   The events leading up to this are all too familiar to my fellow deerhound owners—sometimes even walking with bent knees doesn’t work if you don’t see it coming—“it” in this instance being an 85 pound seven month old deerhound puppy who has absolutely no sense of personal space.  At least not MY personal space.  He came around the corner of the garage at a hard gallop, his six month old borzoi “brother” in hot pursuit.  And quite literally knocked me off my feet.  As I gazed up at the sky, I thought to myself, “What the HELL was I thinking?”  When I went to shower Saturday night, I caught a glimpse of a bruise the size of Texas on my derriere.

When good old Magic died a year ago in January, I was down to only three dogs.  Practically “dogless”—at least for me.  The girls, Queen and Quicksilver, were aging themselves and little Yoda has never really caused any trouble.  There was a time when my household contained (well, contained is hardly the right word, but you know what I mean) three kids, eight horses, five Scottish deerhounds, a toy dog, two cats and a couple of guinea pigs.  I drew the line at birds. They required far too much attention.   My friends say I thrive on chaos.  But that has been true only at home.  Work has always been a quiet haven, a place of order and even relaxation.  It’s all relative.

People have been wondering where I’ve been, and why I haven’t been writing.  The reason is two-fold and can be summed up by two names:  Pibb and Cole. Pibb is the six month old borzoi–his “fancy” show name is Russian and unpronounceable.  Cole is the seven month old Scottish deerhound, registered as Jaraluv Unforgettable.  They are very busy boys, and even under constant supervision the casualty count is rising—a favorite antique trunk…the inlaid veneered Italian cabinet, the coffee table books, the lawn, the television remote control, and various and sundry shredded dog beds.  And judging from past experience, they’ve only just begun.

When I was a senior in high school, I had an English teacher, Mrs. Wiley, who changed my life by teaching me how to paint a picture with words.  When I started this blog, I decided after much deliberation–because I love photographs and photography–that it would be words only and no pictures—that I would force myself to be descriptive enough so that my readers wouldn’t need the photographs to accompany the stories.  So picture this:  two nights ago I left the kitchen/family room area to go to the study to find a calculator so I could run some numbers. I was gone maybe 20 seconds when I heard a loud THUMP!  I ran back into the kitchen to discover the source of the noise—Pibb, standing on his hind legs, had shredded a 4 pound FROZEN and wrapped package of hamburger meat meant for a lasagna. Whole Foods free range grass fed expensive hamburger meat. The sound came when he inadvertently pushed the now gnawed and bloody meat into the sink from the countertop. The lasagna never happened.

Years of experience tell me that this too shall pass. I am working with an excellent trainer. Someday people will admire my elegant and well behaved hounds as we walk across the Plaza.  Children will stop to pet them and I daresay they will both have a few titles to add to their names.  In the meantime, I’m going back to work where it’s quiet and the patients are well behaved and none of them knock me down or steal my dinner.  You’ll be hearing from me more often now!