Talismans

Other than knocking on wood when I say "knock on wood," I don't have too many superstitions, although there is a very pretty old brick on Prospect St. that I make a point of always rubbing my heel on when I walk over it. Someone carved "Polk" into it in a lovely 19th-century script, and it's the only one I've seen with what I guess is very old graffiti. I find it charming, and so I regard it as a charm:

But while I may not be particularly superstitious, ever since my diagnosis, I find myself doing two things when it's time to see the oncologist, which I now do quarterly - and let's hope there's no need to see him more frequently, KNOCK ON WOOD (I just did). 

(Note: there are plenty of things I do in the anxious days before my appointments - watch insipid and/or escapist TV, bite my nails, etc., but I'm talking about the rituals on the day of my appointments.)

The first thing is that I always dress really nicely for my appointments. This isn't about impressing the doctor, it's some weird psychological need to know that if by chance there's bad news, well, damn it, I'm going to receive it while looking fabulous.

I did this in New Zealand on the afternoon that Sam and I went to see my neurosurgeon to find out what the post-surgery pathology report had said. I wore my white Karen Millen trench coat and carried the Gilda Tonnelli handbag, both of which I had bought in a Takapuna consignment store, as pictured here:

The second thing I do is that I have talismans. I can't rub my heel on the special brick when I see the oncologist, so I often wear or bring other lucky charms. There's the pendant of Ganesh, remover of obstacles, that I bought in Jaipur (previously featured in this post). And there's this little owl. When Jesse and I were detained at immigration in New Zealand on our way back from Samoa in December 2010, I kept rubbing it between my thumb and forefinger:

I also have a Chanel wallet that is simultaneously the most awesome and the most ridiculous thing I own:

This wallet, along with the owl necklace, was a gift from a dear friend, who sent it to me when I was in New Zealand. It previously belonged to a woman I was privileged to know: a festival producer named Marie who had exquisite taste, who bayed like a beagle when she was in the bathroom, and who never could figure out how to use the office intercom. Those of us who knew Marie especially remember that she had her assistant write complaint letters, and the stock phrase in those letters was "Imagine my mortification when." We've gotten many laughs out of this over the years.

Imagine my mortification when I got diagnosed with brain cancer at 39 years old.

Ergo, one should have a Chanel wallet.

I am very pleased to report that my MRI last week was uneventful, and my meeting with the oncologist was mostly notable for what he showed me on the MRI - the huge blank space in my right hemisphere where my neurosurgeon carved out part of the tumor. It looks like a pond, and it's absolutely incredible to me that despite this, I am me. To paraphrase from Whitman, I celebrate myself... I see, dance, laugh, sing... I sing the body electric. 

I don't for a second really believe that my talismans keep me safe from further bad news, but a lot of this is just luck, and I am lucky to even be well enough to care about how I dress for my appointments. 

Lucky, lucky me.

I haven't been doing much secondhand shopping lately, but I did want to show off this crazy Marni top my sister bought for me on eBay, as well as my wonderful eBay Miu Miu pants. eBay is always a bit of a gamble, particularly with European sizing, but when it works, it's a beautiful thing, as these are. 

Finally, I'm pleased to say that the This I Believe program has finally archived an essay I submitted last summer about cancer and how I define family. Enjoy.

Namaste, 

Kelley