Swine flu: Will this little piggy go to market?

My son David posted a status update on Facebook shortly after 9 last evening: “AHHH, SWINE FLU AT UD!!! WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!”

News crews were staked out in a van beside his dorm at the University of Delaware, he said. I quickly googled “swine flu” and “Delaware” and got a hit at the Philadelphia Inquirer. “U of Del: four students with ‘probable’ swine flu,” the headline read.

Did I panic? No. It was more like, “Here we go again.”

About a year ago, David was diagnosed with embryonal rhabdomyosarcoma, a type of malignant muscle tumor most often seen in young children. For several months, panic became the norm as our family dealt with this rare form of cancer.

Nearly as fearsome as the cancer was the prospect of David catching a cold, the flu or some other viral infection while his immune system was suppressed. Nine months of chemotherapy kept his white blood cell count dipping like the stock market, making him susceptible to invasive germs. The staff at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, where David received his treatment, gave us strict orders to head for an ER if his temperature ever reached 100.4 degrees. I’ll not soon forget his oncologist saying, “An infection that you or I would shake off could kill him.”

David had just completed his first round of chemo when his dad, and then I, got sick. Some sort of bug knocked us right off our feet. We each spent two days quarantined in bed, breathing heavily into blue paper surgical masks. For whatever reason -- maybe his counts were still good -- David didn’t catch the bug.

He took a semester off from his studies at UD, spending the summer and fall at home. The downside? He was incredibly bored away from his peers. The upside? Except for the cancer, he stayed well.

David returned to school in February to start the spring semester. Ten days later, his roommate became horribly ill -- high fever, vomiting, hacking cough, muscle aches. David contacted his Hopkins nurse, Susan. She told him to take precautions: wash his hands frequently; wear a mask; and at the first sign of fever, go to the ER for Tamiflu.

Gene and I sweated it out for a week, not knowing how long the incubation period might last. But once again, David did not get sick. The consensus was that his roommate had the flu and because David had gotten a flu shot, he was protected.

Now swine flu seems to have taken a direct flight from Mexico to Newark, Del.

On the one hand, the flu shot won't help against this virus. On the other hand, two months post-treatment, David's immune system has bounced back. Will that be enough to keep him from tangoing with swine flu? I contacted Susan. She recommended David take the same precautions as last time.

Now we wait again. At least this time the entire university is on alert. If David gets sick, he’s sure to receive prompt medical attention. Johns Hopkins also is braced for a potential pandemic, and we can rely on our friends there.

Maybe I've been through so much this past year that it'll take more than flu gone global to put me in a state of panic. I'm really not worried.

Actually, I'm more worried about what David might do with that full box of facemasks sitting in his dorm closet. Aware of how pragmatic and entrepreneurial he can be, I could see him profiting from the pandemic by peddling his masks for “a small fee.”

Now that I think of it, I have boxes of surgical masks and gloves stored in the linen closet upstairs. Hmmm …

The marrying kind, all in due time

An article that appeared in the Outlook section of Sunday’s Washington Post is generating online comments faster than I can reload the page to view them.

“Say Yes. What Are You Waiting For? The emotional, biological and economic case for marrying young,” was written by Mark Regnerus, an associate professor of sociology at the University of Texas at Austin. Regnerus is the author of "Forbidden Fruit: Sex and Religion in the Lives of American Teenagers." His premise is that we baby boomer parents should stop pressuring our offspring to wait till they're older to get married.

According to the Census Bureau, the average age of men marrying for the first time is now 28, the oldest since the agency started keeping track, Regnerus says. He doesn’t see that as progress. Citing women's enhanced fertility in their 20s, Regnerus promotes a flashback to the 1950s, when couples married young and often completed their families by the time they were 30. He tries to debunk the theory that the No. 1 reason for divorce is getting married at a young age. He further suggests that early marriage is good for the economy and the environment.

It’s not that young people don’t want to get married, he argues. The fault lies with parents who expect their sons and daughters to finish their advance degrees and achieve some early goals before settling down:

Now we advise our children to complete their education before even contemplating marriage, to launch their careers and become financially independent. We caution that depending on another person is weak and fragile. We don't want them to rush into a relationship. We won't help you with college tuition anymore, we threaten. Don't repeat our mistakes, we warn.

Could this advice be coming from parents who married young and wish they hadn’t? Who would’ve liked more time to indulge their interests and pursue their careers before settling down?

I faced opposite pressure when I went away to college in the early ’70s. My parents definitely expected me to graduate with an “MRS.” When I didn’t, they hoped my chances would improve when I moved to Manhattan to start my career. I had the time of my life -- one I wouldn’t trade away for anything -- during those two years in the Big Apple. I still believe I would’ve stayed longer and felt more secure in my career choice had I not been subjected to the relentless Greek Chorus: Time is running out. You’re not getting any younger. If you become too successful, no man will marry you.

Caving to pressure, I married for the first time at 25 and divorced at 26. It was a disaster; my heart wasn’t in it. I told myself I was going to swear off men until I was 30, just so I could get my writing career under way. Instead, I met my husband, Gene, a few months later; we got married the next year. That was 28 years ago.

Ours was also a second marriage for Gene. He married the first time before he’d finished college. He, too, bowed to the pressure of the times but also believes the hours he had to spend on the job, establishing himself, contributed to the demise of that relationship.

Regnerus, however, suggests that marriage and youth go best hand in hand:

Marriage actually works best as a formative institution, not an institution you enter once you think you're fully formed. We learn marriage, just as we learn language, and to the teachable, some lessons just come easier earlier in life.

Obviously, some couples are sufficiently formed to marry at 20 or 21. But many are not. And it makes me shudder to think of the possibility of returning to a time when early marriage was the norm. The ’50s-era artwork that accompanies Regnerus’ print article only heightens my worries about his retro-sounding advice. Somehow it feels like a backlash.

Many of us will remember the rhyme we sang as children: “First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in the baby carriage.” If a woman is going to capitalize on her peak fertility in her 20s, that sequence has to play out fairly quickly. Which leaves scant time for building a career. Or anything else.

Don’t get me wrong. Marriage can be wonderful. Having a family can be awesome. Managing both well takes not only maturity, but also a lot of time and energy. For too many young women, that can mean putting personal goals and interests on a back burner for 20 or more years. For me, those early years in New York gave me something to hold onto during the intense years of childrearing. My early success gave me confidence that I could return to that career someday -- reassurance my mother, who married at 20 and gave birth to me at 22, never had.

Gene and I have been clear with our three sons from the outset: Don’t rush into marriage. The older two, now in their mid-20s, have significant others. All four young adults are building their careers; the SOs are pursuing advance degrees. My sons are saving money, learning how to deal with less-than-ideal co-workers and managers, and figuring out what they need to do to achieve long-range goals. They’re flexible and mobile because they’re unencumbered. Delaying marriage seems to be working for them.

I know I can’t speak for everyone. Some people get lucky and find their mates when they're very young. They're able to raise bright, healthy, well-adjusted children. But I don’t think Regnerus can speak for everyone, or even most, either. Letting ourselves, or our children, believe he does -- therein lies the danger.

Deadened woman walking

Cold. Dark. Morning. Those are three of my least favorite words.

So it strikes me as odd that I gave my neighbor’s e-mail a second look. Someone I hadn’t met, she’d e-mailed all the families in our pocket of cul-de-sacs:

Neighbors,
Is anyone interested in a neighborhood walking group? A few of us are planning to walk for about 45 minutes on weekdays at 6 a.m., before the craziness of the day begins. Would you like to join us? It's a great way to catch up with neighbors and friends and also get your exercise first thing in the morning. If you would like to join us, please email me, or just plan to meet in front of my house at 6 a.m. this Monday, the 13th. Looking forward to seeing you ...
Megan

Did I mention “exercise” is also on my least-favorite-words list?

But I do like to walk -- which is one reason I loved living in Manhattan in the ’70s. I could walk everywhere. Lately, I’d been thinking I ought to start walking again. I’d grown sedentary after a year of sitting in hospital and physician waiting rooms and at the pediatric oncology clinic. Too much time thinking about test results, possible outcomes and the improbable demise of our little family translated into an anxious outlook.

A little voice nudged: “This would be good for you.” But at 6 in the morning??

I answered the e-mail, telling Megan I'd join the group … and then started to stress. The night of the 12th I lay awake, at once wanting to bag the idea and worried I’d oversleep my 5:40 alarm. (Uh, one other thing: My ideal day starts at 10 a.m.) When I got up, it was really, really dark. I bundled up and stepped outside. It was really, really cold. I thought, “I must be insane.”

Alas, I was too chicken to chicken out. I figured all these motivated moms would be gathering at Megan’s house and I’d look like a wuss if I didn’t show up.

I arrived a couple minutes before 6 a.m. No one was there. Not a soul. I stood in Megan’s quiet driveway and listened to the birds tuning up for the day. With a spritz and a whoosh, the sprinklers embedded in the lawn across the street turned on in white plumes of spray. The predawn world was peaceful and fresh. I liked it.

Megan emerged from her garage; I introduced myself. We waited a few minutes, but no one else came. We started to walk. We found we had so much to talk about, we walked until 7:15.

By the time I got home, though, I had a searing pain in my right groin. I collapsed on the living sofa and stayed there all day.

It hurt to move, but my husband, Gene -- who walks during his lunch hour -- encouraged me to stick with it. "You'll walk out the pain," he said. He kept saying how proud he was of me, for doing something so beneficial -- and so utterly out of character.

Two days later, when Megan and I were scheduled to walk again, my leg was fine. I haven’t had a problem since. We’re walking 3 ½ to 4 miles, three days a week, trying to perfect our 15-minute mile. It’s still just the two of us. I’m kind of proud that I’m keeping up with someone nearly 20 years my junior. By the third morning, I’d traded my ratty jeans and bulky jacket for a pair of sleek exercise pants and a cute hoodie. I’d also traded any dread of the new regime for a happy anticipation.

Megan talked me into participating in a 5K that she organized for her son’s preschool this past Saturday morning. Gene and I both walked; it was our first 5K. We trailed the runners but were ahead of almost all the parents with strollers. We finished the walk in a respectable 43 minutes.

I’m sure people assumed we were one of the preschoolers’ grandparents. It didn’t matter. The day was bright, the air was warm, and it felt so good. Even better, illness and despair were the furthest things from my mind.

A blog about something

Is there a baby boomer alive who doesn’t remember Jerry Seinfeld’s and George Costanza’s oddball pitch for a television sitcom, “a show about nothing”?



Well, I'm aiming to write “a blog about something.”

My friend Anne and I -- both of us displaced print journalists -- have been brainstorming blogs over lunch since February. She recently helped her mother, Robin Hathaway, a mystery writer in New York, launch a blog called “Robdoneit.” Before that, Anne and I wrote blogs at the Loudoun Times-Mirror. Anne is convinced that if writers want to stay in the game, they have to blog. They have to be “out there.”

I've been curious but reluctant. How would I set up a blog that wasn't affiliated with an existing newspaper or Web site? Anne deftly directed me to resources. How would I, someone without an art background, design a layout? She suggested I look for blogs I liked and emulate their features.

One of my favorites is David Loeb’s blog, "Musings of a Pediatric Oncologist," at doctordavidsblog.blogspot.com. Dr. Loeb, my son David’s doctor, generously shared with me some of the unexpected pleasures and benefits of blogging. He patiently answered questions about such things as “search engine optimization.”

But content proved to be the bugaboo. I had to write about something! During March I stewed over topics. Should the theme be broad so I’d have lots to say? Should it be narrowly focused to distinguish it from the zillions of blogs out there? I tried several ideas on for size, but none fit.

My friend Megan suggested I look at dooce.com, an enormously popular blog by Heather B. Armstrong, a Web designer and “recovering Mormon.” She blogs about, well, mom stuff. I thought, “I can do that.”

Meanwhile, I resisted launching a public blog because I was quite happy with my private blog on the CarePages Web site. There I could keep writing about our ongoing, but diminishing, cancer challenges as my family tentatively moved forward after a year of upheaval. I could tell my stories from a recovering cancer mom's point of view.

But suddenly David took editorial control of our CarePage, and my role was curtailed. I could almost feel myself gasping for air, my lifeline cut off. The time had come to launch a new blog, whether or not I was ready. It was do or die.

So I’m “out there,” a little duck in an immense puddle. This is a fledgling effort; I don't know how it will evolve. I suspect it will undergo several iterations before I hit on something that works. Or not. It could be a big flop.

For now I'll keep writing the sorts of essays I was writing on the CarePage. I'll write about those things -- the everyday and the monumental -- that happen to most of us as we get older, but I'll try to bring a new perspective. As I try to make sense of the changes in my life, maybe I can help you make sense of yours.

Perhaps this blog will amount to nothing. But for now it's something.

I am Susan Boyle

OK, we all know I’m not really Susan Boyle, the frowsy chanteuse who blew away millions of viewers this past week, first on “Britain’s Got Talent,” and then via YouTube’s instant replays.

First of all, I’m 55, not 47. I live in the United States, not Scotland, in a collection of sprawling suburbs ringing Washington, D.C. I have been kissed, and I’m married. As for my singing, let’s just say it’s not one of my stronger attributes.

But strip away the superficialities and I am Susan Boyle, the tentative, would-be artist trying to hone a talent in the safety of her living room, far from potential critics and disapproving voices.

In the broader scheme of things, Boyle represents all of us who toil in the arts and dream of being discovered, doesn’t she? Don’t we all long for that mystical moment when stunned audiences leap joyfully to their feet as we finally dare to open our mouths, put brush to canvas or pen to paper, click on the camera or jeté onto the stage? How many of us imagine ourselves as emerging swans after a lifetime as ugly ducklings, indistinguishable from the masses?

Simon Cowell asked Boyle about her dream. “Why hasn’t it worked out so far, Susan?”

“I haven’t been getting the chance before,” she replied. “But here’s hoping it will change.”

Getting the chance, hoping for change. It’s what every novice artist seeks. My chances kept eluding me as I raised three sons, all now in their 20s. Life has a way of slipping by, especially for women, when the care and feeding of others is allowed to block the creative process.

The time has come for me to take a chance on blogging. After three decades of modest writing success -- favorable comments from editors, an award here and there -- I’m striving for something bigger, even as my favorite print venues crash and burn. This blog is a new chance, where I can play with my ideas and see what happens.

“I dreamed a dream of time gone by,” Boyle sang, echoing Fantine's frustrations in “Les Misérables.” Electricity surged through that auditorium and ignited a response no one could foresee (sorry, Simon, not even you). Nothing could extinguish it, least of all the disconnect between that radiant voice and the awkward singer. Now Susan Boyle can dream a dream of times to come.

I’d venture to say artists around the globe are telling themselves, “That could be me.” I know I am.

Why "Chatterlines"? Why now?

As the creator of "Chatterlines," I come to you as a longtime journalist -- just one in the thundering herd of dinosaurs fleeing newspaper burial grounds, trying to avoid extinction. My younger colleagues tell me that to survive "The End of Life as We Know It" in the print world, we all need to blog.

The concept isn’t entirely new to me. I’ve actually had three moderately successful blogs over the last two years. Each ran its natural course. The first, “Empty Nesting,” was posted to the Loudoun Times-Mirror Web site in Leesburg, Va., from June to October 2007, after my youngest son graduated from high school and left for college.

When my husband and I discovered that we, too, wanted to escape our empty nest, we sought out theater productions to fill our many free (read: lonely) evenings. In a natural progression, “Empty Nesting” morphed into “Backstage,” as I wrote about community theater for The Fairfax Times in Fairfax County, Va. I had a great time reviewing musicals and plays -- and meeting directors, actors and stage crews -- after scooping up my complimentary tickets at the box offices.

“Backstage” came to an abrupt end a year ago when that same youngest son was diagnosed with cancer. Biopsies and endless consults with doctors at Georgetown University Hospital in Washington, D.C., and later at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, Md., left no time to languish at the theater. May 2008 brought a diagnosis of embryonal rhabdomyosarcoma and more than nine months of chemotherapy and radiation treatment.

During that time I kept a private blog via the CarePages Web site. I wrote about everything -- from the mind-blowing to the seemingly insignificant -- related to our cancer journey. As David’s treatment wound down, and particularly after he returned to college in February, I started filling the CarePage with family news instead of cancer updates.

The other day David revolted. Threatening to hold the CarePage hostage by changing the password and denying me access, he asked that I no longer fill the page with “chatter” but confine myself to news about his care and treatment. Having no choice, really, I agreed. I posted an update announcing the new parameters, noting that this censoring might force me to set up a blog elsewhere.

Several readers wrote to say they actually liked the chatter:

“These CarePages, I think, have served many purposes for different people. I do understand David's position, and it sounds like the time is right for a change. Just let me know where you're ‘chattering’ …”

“I understand David's ‘takeover,’ but it makes me a bit sad as well. I've followed every CarePage since I first learned about it. The family news and ‘chatter’ have been an important part of it for me. It lets me know how and what everyone is doing as well. That's a significant piece of the whole process. ... Please find your new outlet and let me know where you land. I'm interested in all of it!”

Of course, others, like my oldest son, applauded the change. “Vive la revolution,” he wrote.

So, what exactly is “all of it”?

“All of it” is what goes on around a cancer story -- the context into which the illness fits. Cancer lands in families merely going about their business, paying bills, chasing dreams, building friendships. No one sits around waiting for cancer to strike. When it does, it comes flying out of left field and knocks you flat. As you lie there, you wonder if you’ll ever get up again.

You do because your doctors make sure you do. You have to keep getting up to report for surgeries, scans, treatment and frequent checkups. The primal need to fight the invading beast takes over and sets you on a new course. Friends hold your hand as you put one foot in front of the other.

And when it’s over, you face what many call "a new normal." Much is still the same, but a lot has changed. That’s where we are now. The future is uncertain, but David is moving on, which forces me to move on as well. As he strives for wellness, there’s a lot of chatter in the background as the rest of our family recovers and puts life back together.

"Chatterlines" is not a cancer blog. It will enfold as the story of an everyday family pursuing life even as cancer has reworked its reality and expectations.

Welcome, friends! Thanks for stopping by.

Lorin