Rock the Silver

The gray hairs as a population

I heard a young person at work say in front of a couple of dozen people that it's important to develop a process for transferring knowledge from the gray hairs to  ... well ... everyone else. There was one other woman besides me with gray hair in the group and quite a few men with gray hair. You could hear a subdued gasp. She realized she'd stepped in it a bit and said she wasn't sure what to call this group other than more experienced workers. Someone said that ought to take care of it.

Although I tried to stay out of it, she eventually asked what she should call everyone else. I suggested the brown hairs. I couldn't help myself. Yes, I was kidding. We all eventually agreed on less experienced workers and more experienced workers until someone tells us that's insulting.

Of course, I am proud of my age, my knowledge and my gray, but I did think it was sort of uninformed to round us up by the color of our hair and judge us as a population. But I suppose it's dificult to know where the boundaries are these days. I'm certain she didn't mean it to be insulting. Consultants sometimes use the term "gray beards" to describe learned professionals, but then they don't have to hang around the office explaining themselves either. And the media -- Google "graying workplace" and see what you get. It's not like she made it up.

I felt bad for her. She was right about the importance of knowledge continuity. We can't stick our heads in the sand and pretend there aren't people who are likely to retire with a head full of information somebody needs. What's the right way to have this discussion without lining people up by DNA?

Cancer in my pocket

I am as amazed as anyone that this french twist comb works on my fine hair. Melissa at Stone Bridge Hair Accessories demonstrates how to do it. Melissa inspired me to give it a try, but I purchased it from France Luxe because she doesn't sell outside the UK. For extra holding power, you could use spin pins and then add the comb.

But enough with the hair. I couldn't wait to share the epiphany I had this week about the joy of breathing. You'd think I wouldn't need a refresher course in the pleasure of being alive, but as you know, sometimes the bastards grind you down. I already wrote about my silly computer trauma. In the grand scheme of things, it was nothing, yet it still made for a rough week.

Thursday I visited the dermatologist for my annual check-up. My husband is one of the pink people with lots of little glebs and blebs, but I have darker skin and have fared pretty well in the sun wars. But I go every year for the big naked look-see, because I respect cancer. I figure, well, I got it once when I least suspected it, so I should be vigilant about everything.

I saw this particular doctor for the first time last year, and I remember him being amazed I was an ovarian cancer survivor. If you read through my archives, you'll learn I actually had primary peritoneal cancer, which is pretty much the same thing as ovarian. If it's a drive-by, I say ovarian. If I'm sitting next to you on the airplane, I'll tell you everything if you ask nicely. Or maybe I'll just tell you anyway, because I am working on an e-book about my experience, and I'll be posting some excerpts from time to time. Consider yourself warned. My encounter with the dermatologist may or may not make it into the book, but telling this story is a public declaration of my intent. No backing down now.

So, the doctor walked into the room as I sat there naked and draped in a flimsy paper robe, and the first thing he said was, "You're the ovarian cancer survivor."

Me: Yes, 13 years next month.

Him: Wow. You're lucky.

Me: I know.

Him: They must have caught it early.

Me: No, it was advanced. Stage 3.

Him: You're really really lucky.

Me: Believe me, I know.

But sometimes I have to be reminded! He asked me a lot of questions about my surgery and treatment and was surprised they had Taxol "back then." I said absolutely, I had a chance encounter at a golf course of all places with a researcher who helped develop the drug, and he said I was the poster girl for Taxol. It was approved for use in 1992, so by the time I needed it in 1999, they had worked out the optimum cycle.

Following the surgery to remove as much cancer as possible, I had a cocktail of Benadryl, Taxol and Carboplatin infused every 21 days for six months. I've been fine ever since. Benadryl is an anti-allergan, and I am pleased to let you know it was one hell of a rush when shot directly into your vein. The rush didn't last long, but I looked forward to it just the same.

Anyway, I passed the dermo exam. Another stroke of good fortune. No bad moles. I have mild rosacea on my face, you almost can't see it, but he gave me the name of a cosmetic dermatologist who can laser it off if I want. I'm thinking about it.

It was a good visit, and I'd go back again right this minute just to hear him say how lucky I am. Sometimes I imagine that I carry around cancer in my pocket like an emergency dollar bill. And sometimes I just have to reach in my pocket and fish it out to remind me that every minute of every day is a gift. I wish I had learned all this important stuff in some other way, but I ignored all the little sticks. It was the big stick that got my attention.

For those of you who are better with sticks, I think the thing to remember is that whatever we're doing, wherever we've been and wherever we're going, no matter how bad it gets, we're lucky. We're really, really lucky.

 

Breaking pencils to reduce stress

Yesterday was Valentine's Day, and it's supposed to be all about love and kisses, but I was too angry with my computer at work to do anything but eat candy Conversation Hearts and think dark thoughts.

I was apparently the last person on the planet using Vista at work. Last Thursday I got a call from my company's computer guy. I was being upgraded to Windows 7. Yay! My computer has been performing poorly -- painfully slow -- and I hoped this would be the fix.

Friday morning the company's computer guy shows up to take my laptop. I'm like, you're taking it? He said I told you yesterday I would take it. I don't remember that, but it might have been the Windows talking. He said it was only for five hours. Five hours!

I find a conference room with a computer, and I log on there. As people flitted in and out, I felt as though I was holding a salon. I saw people I hadn't seen in awhile. It was pleasant. Toward the end of the day, my Blackberry rings, and it's the company's computer guy telling me they couldn't get my data to backup automatically. He said they would give it back to me for the weekend -- oh goody -- and then take it again on Monday.

Monday morning rolls around, and they haven't come to pick it up yet, so I call. Let's get this show on the road. The company's computer guy arrives within minutes and runs away with my laptop yet again. It feels like Groundhog's Day as I head back to the conference room where I log on to a computer, except that I see new people this time, and they want to know why I'm there. I don't feel welcome. There's an actual meeting at 10 a.m. so I log off and eat lunch. It doesn't feel like a salon anymore. Now I feel sort of like a prostitute looking for cheap rooms by the hour.

It was close to 5 p.m. when I got the call that my computer was ready. I met a different person at my office -- not the company's computer guy but possibly his delivery dude -- and he gets me set up. He says poke around, make sure everything works. It seems to be fine, except for one thing. All my files are gone. I try not to panic, but I really thought I was going to throw up. He says the company's computer guy is gone for the day, and I will have to wait until tomorrow to find out where my data went.

For dinner that night, my husband offered me a glass of wine, and I said no, because I was afraid I wouldn't stop.

Tuesday. Yesterday. I call the company's computer guy and casually mention that he needs to show me where my data is. I wanted him to believe that I believed it was there. He remotes in and starts digging around. Not here, not there. I was getting really nervous, and I thought I could hear him breathing funny as well. Finally, he finds it all, all ot it, and we both do kind of a weird hysterical giggle of relief. He confesses that he was worried. Then he says let's make sure your printer works, except it doesn't.

He can't fix it remotely, so he shows up in person. Spends a hour trying different drivers, different whatever. He leaves it in a set-up mode and says to just let it sit there for awhile, maybe something will happen. In a parallel universe, perhaps, but I go along with the gag. I am able to leave it running in the background while I work.

Around 1 p.m. the delivery dude comes back to fix the printer. I am deeply suspicious. He was there at least 45 minutes, and all hope is gone. However, he is apparently more than a delivery dude, because he finally got it working. He said, and I quote, "I'm good with printers."

Nice. Before he left, he said I would probably be getting a lot of updates on the computer since Windows 7 was new. I have so much work piled up, deadlines looming, and I'm eager to just get on with it. But from about 2 p.m. to 5:30 p.m. -- when I left out of complete frustration -- something would automatically update about every 15 or 20 minutes, and I'd have to restart the computer each time.

Here's what I did to relieve the stress. I found a pencil, and I broke it in half with my bare hands. Little pencil shards scattered across the top of my desk, so I left the pencil carcass there as part-sacrifice part-warning to any and all who would mess with my mojo again.

I feel pretty good. Optimistic that Wednesday will be happy and productive. Hopeful that no more pencils will be harmed.

 

Gray hair -- no minimum age requirement

If you haven't visited Diana Jewell's new Going Gray Looking Great Facebook site, by all means -- go! One almost gets the feeling there's a gray hair revolution. Women in various stages of gray are posting their pictures, and there are some stunningly beautiful women rocking the silver hair. Check out Mia, Robin, Claire and Claire again!

Hair stylists and well-meaning friends like to say it's OK to go gray, but wait until you're 65 or 70 or whatever is in their heads as the definition of old. When I saw these silver-haired beauties in their 30s, 40s and 50s on GGLG, I was reminded of the George Bernard Shaw quote, "Youth is wasted on the young." There's no such thing as a minimum age requirement for gray hair. You don't have to save it for the end.

Much too often women view gray hair as the line of demarcation for aging. When you mostly see elderly women with gray hair, well, that's what you think. But when you see women of all ages sporting stylish gray hair, you begin to see the line is blurring. Gray is neither young nor old -- it's just a color like any other.

A lot of the women engaging with GGLG are in the awkward stage when you stop dyeing your hair and start letting the the gray grow in. Talk about a line of demarcation! But once you're on this path, you just have to hang tough and roll with it. And there are some happy surprises along the way.

I remember when my hair was coming back in after chemotherapy 13 years ago. I made a decision to remove my bandanas and expose my bald head so everyone at work could see the day-to-day progress. What an eye-opening experience -- taking off the head covering was an invitation to talk to me, and I connected with people in ways I never imagined.

After my hair grew in, I decided to dye it, and that lasted a few years. But when I made the decision to quite dyeing it, it was a lot like when I had cancer -- this time I removed my head covering of dyed hair, and people were curious about what was going on. Going through this difficult transition in public somehow makes you more approachable. I made a lot of new friends as my hair transitioned to silver.

I used to say I felt like I was leading a parade of one, but I now believe the tide has turned. I like it.