Most of the time I know what I’m going to write about, long before I get around to clicking on “publish.” Today, not so much. Some blog post ideas are hatched whole and well-formed, bless their little hearts. Others get stuck under the laundry basket lid, hide beneath the back porch…who knows where. This week, all my good ideas are playing olly-olly-all-come-free, but skipping the part where they show their faces.
So, in the absence of any grand themes, here you go, a random collection of observations and a couple of favorite views of the past few days.
First off, here’s something that popped up on my news feed: Recent studies show that people who are treated with chemotherapy have markedly lower rates of Alzheimer’s later on in life. Well, huh! There’s a silver lining, if I ever. Or, if you have a cynical twenty-something in your midst, you stumble straight to his all-too-logical line of reasoning: “That must be because they don’t live as long as the rest of the population, right?” NO! Well, maybe. Study didn’t say. But NO.
The fact is, I suspect the experts may have simply re-categorized our fuzzy thinking, post-treatment, into a new malady, known as Chemo Brain. It resembles that thing where you find yourself circling around the word you can’t retrieve, or the name of the actor who was in that movie, you know, with the little girl actress, and she was also in the one about, oh, hell, what was it about? Little girl beauty pageants! That’s what it took for me to come up with Ryan Reynolds’ name a couple of days ago. Three degrees of separation had to be bridged to come up with one insignificant strand of a story. What did any of us do before IMDb, Google, Wikipedia? I know, we woke up at 3AM with the answer to the question that was driving us nuts eight hours ago. Then, absent a piece of paper and a pencil, promptly forgot it.
Item #2 from this week’s collection of odd medical factoids in the news: Tall people are more likely to get cancer than short people. Um, okay. I’m 5’2”. The members of my family who’ve had what I’ve had: 5’1”, 5’2″ and maybe a half. My mom was a little taller, somewhere around 5’6” before she started shrinking. The one female member of my family who hasn’t been visited by the pink peril? My 5’10” sister. I realize that my observations are from an exceedingly small pool, but still. There’s something annoying about studies that profess perfect statistical knowledge that flies in the face of one’s personal experience. And yet, I get it, how statistics don’t actually prove anything; instead, they offer some imperfect data to base future odds on events taking place, or not. I get it, that when the anesthesiologist goes through his/her pre-op patter before you sign the piece of paper (usually without the benefit of contacts or reading glasses) that says you’ve been told of the possible outcomes, including that one in 10,000 chance that you’ll die on the table from whatever it is that the anesthesiologist is about to do, is just offering up the odds. One such doctor pointed out to me that while the statistical likelihood that the fatal outcome might occur is miniscule, if it happens to you, you’re 100% dead. Well, thanks for pointing that out, I guess…
That’s it for news flashes. I’m short, and I have 100% had cancer, and now I can’t remember that little girl actress’s name.
Meanwhile, my heel is getting better, or at least a tiny bit better. Or probably it’s just that I just keep wanting to go for walks, so I do, heel be damned. I’m also enjoying the end of July floral offerings on the sides of the road, and along my reservoir walkway. And the good news is that I’ve made it onto my road bike for some classic early Sunday morning rides, which is a complete gift. Here’s a bit of what I’ve enjoyed this past week:
This is how you can tell the Concord minuteman from the Lexington one: the one by the Old North Bridge has his hand on his plow. Sculptor Daniel Chester French added this detail, to remind us all that these were citizen soldiers, roused from their homes and their fields to fight the British regulars at a moment’s notice. Daniel Chester French totally nailed it. Perfection, on a blue sky day.
Ah, now I remember her name. Abigail Breslin. The little girl actress. What was the question?