Memory is an odd creature.

In her oft-read-by-high-school-juniors poems, Emily Dickinson called hope "the thing with feathers." Right now, for me, memory is that thing instead...a hopeful, hollow-boned creature with wings and the improbable ability to fashion a nest from string, straw, hair.

During the heart-stopping events of the past few weeks, my memory has flown away. Someone--I can't remember who, natch--told me that cancer turns memory into Swiss cheese, internally loaded with odd and irregular pits and holes. So true. In my mind, minor details from recent weeks replay in sharp focus, while entire conversations, hours, even days are completely absent, as if zombie memory-snatchers have deleted them from my hard drive.
(Transcript of actual conversation between Kevyn and Old Friend:

Kevyn:"You say visited me in the hospital?"
Kevyn's friend: "Yes." (clears throat.) "Twice."
Kevyn (in a very small voice): "Oh.")
Of course, I can blame the anaesthesia during surgery for fogging up my window. Ditto the pain and painkillers immediately following my big date with the scalpel. But I think the pressure of those bizarre, upside-down days between diagnosis and surgery also played havoc with my memory cells.
I can't remember much from that time period. I got my diagnosis on May 21 and had my surgery on June 2. In the elapsing time, I know I placed phone calls to deliver the news in person to my sister, my parents, my old college pal. I told my my kids, my stepchildren, my boss. Where was I when I dialed those digits or spoke the words? Did I deliver my news dispassionately, like I was reading from a script or with my voice shaking or accompanied by huge racking sobs? Did I lead up to the newsflash in slow and subtle ways, or blurt "I have breast cancer!"

In most cases, I'm not sure.

Days before surgery, my husband and I met with a plastic surgeon to discuss my reconstruction options. The doctor, reassuring and experienced, explained what he could do for me--what he could fashion from what would be left. During that extensive meeting, I made the choice about what I wanted for my breast--what it would look like, how it would be fashioned. I remember that both my husband and I felt comfortable with that decision.

Later, I could not recall why I had chosen the option that I'd picked. (This is why it is good to be married to a detail-oriented, note-taking man.)

When I went back to the plastic surgeon's office for my first post-surgical follow-up visit, I was struck by the impressively decorated waiting room--sleek furniture, recessed lighting, gorgeous artwork. The office was striking and memorable, in stark contrast to the typical doctor's waiting room.

And I had zero memory of ever being there before. Zero.

It's as if my memory has been exiled.
The only thing that's odder than what I've lost is what I've retained, what has floated to the surface of the muckpond that is my memory, the odd memory fragment that comes and perches, birdlike, on my mental window sill.

For some reason, such a fragment is a minor passage from a book I read a few years ago, to prepare for an interview with its author. It was an excellent biography of naturalist and bird-painter John James Audubon, "Under a Wild Sky," by Minnesota writer William Souder.
In telling Audubon's tale, Souder examines and explains assumptions about the natural world at the time Audubon began his work. Souder shows that there were misconceptions about natural history that seem hilarious to us today.
For example, the concept that birds migrated had not yet been put forth. In Audubon's day, there was no understanding that these tiny winged creatures annually made transcontinental pilgrimages. Even scientists of the day were puzzled by what happened to birds in the fall. Because so many birds nest around water, there was a well-regarded theory that birds somehow became amphibious enough to spend winters on the bottoms of lakes and rivers, only to re-emerge and reporduce in the spring.

Seriously, stop for a minute and really contemplate the concept of migration. Birds of a feather flock together--and fly hundreds, even thousands, of miles away. How do they know when to go? Where to go? What relentless clock and map sends them on their way--and then brings them back? How does one generation of bird get that information from the previous one?

Today, high tech radio devices allow birdologists--or whatever they're called-- to track them and study them. Species by species, it's no mystery where they go. But how those teeny bird brains know all that they know--that's beyond us, really. And if we can't truly understand how bird memory works, I guess it should be no surprise that human memory is even more mysterious.

Right now, in my dreams I'm like a bird, migrating for the first time--on the wing, still in flight. It's as if it is autumn and I'm forced to take to the sky. I don't know where I'm going. I don't know what it will be like when I get where I'm going. I fear I won't be able to find my way back home, to my precious nesting ground.
I'm soaring low over the river, my flyway.

As I have recovered at home in these past few weeks, I have spent many solitary hours propped quietly against the pillows on my bed. I have gone still to listen and have heard my own voice--the one that I've too often been too busy/noisy to hear. That voice speaks haltingly, shyly, as wary as a cornered wild creature. As I sit in silence and wait, I hear the airplanes scraping against the sky over my house and I hear the rhythmic chirp of birds who live in the trees outside my room. I think of their patterns of flight and gather my strength to go to that unknown distant place...and then to return home.

This image of the river was provided by Don N, a listener. 

No matter where I am
No matter what I do
I'm always coming back home to you
From the heaven I've had
To the Hell I've been through...
I'm always coming back home to you
-"Always Coming Back Home to You"
Atmosphere

Monday's the day.
June 25th, 9 a.m.
I'll be back in the studio, on the radio, doing my show.

Let's get together. I can't wait!

One of the bizarre chores I had to do when breast cancer hijacked my life was to get out my calendar (yeah, I'm old fashioned; it's a little black-covered paper book) and cancel out all the activities that I had so blithely and trustingly inked in the little squares there.

My To Do list had to be undone.
I called friends to cancel lunches, business associates to drop meetings and scratched out kid-related activities.

Then I wrote an X over was two words: New York.

Trip cancelled.

It was a Big Deal a few months back when Colleen and I won a Gracie Award. (Warning: here comes horn tooting.) This is an excellent national award given by the American Women in Radio and Television. Recognizes outstanding broadcast work that is by, for and/or about women. Lots of Very Important Women (and quite a few Big Cheese men) have won this award over the years. (BTW, as an aside, I am very grateful to be part of a business where people love giving each other nice awards.) This Gracie represents the first such award that FM107.1 has ever received.

I know something about this award, because I have previously won two Gracies-- and one honorable mention. I won those Gracies for television reporting work that I did when I was a reporter at WCCO-TV. Twice before, I went to New York to get my Gracie. Both times the ceremony was Quite the Quite, held at the Waldorf Astoria, my dear, pretty heady stuff for a hick like me!

The first year, 1995, I sat next to Meredith Viera (another winner that night but no household name at that point) and Lesley Stahl of Sixty Minutes was the mistress of ceremonies who gave me my award. The second time I won, Sharon Gless and Tyne Daly (Cagney and Lacy!) were co-MC's. Sharon Gless gave me the statue.

Funny aside: I was about three months pregnant with the 4-footer at the time. It was early enough in the pregnancy that I was not mentioning that I was in the family way, but late enough that I was, uh, swellin' up pretty good. Meanwhile, I was suffering from the worst morning sickness I'd ever experienced in my many pregnancies. I had been bilious and seasick for weeks and was pretty much living on pretzel rods and salt bagels--the only things I could reliably keep down. Truly miserable--and bloated to boot. You know, that pre-maternity-clothes stage when you want to wear a sign that says, "I'm not fat, I'm pregnant!"

As we made introductions at the dinner, other TV types kept asking me if I was the producer. They looked quite startled when I said that, in fact, I, the cow, was the on air reporter.

Here are some pictures of that ceremony in 1997:

Kevyn Burger and Sharon Gless, Waldorf Astoria, NY NY - April 1997

It was going to be a delight to accept my first Gracie for radio work. I had planned to fly to JFK last Friday, June 15. My older kids, the 6 Footer and the 5 Footer, were set to join me. For weeks we had talked about all the Manhattan sights we would see together. My husband planned to arrive a bit later and be there for the award ceremony on June 19. Some of the bosses from the radio station would also attend and there were Whoopin' It Up plans made with them as well.

Well.

We've been pretty stoic about the fact that we'll just have to win another one of them dang Gracies so we can fulfill the I-Heart-N-Y plan next year. It's a little tempting to feel sorry for myself on this--I'm resisting mightily. Kids and husband have not bemoaned the lost trip for an instant. Just wasn't in the cards now that the game has changed.

Actually, with all the Heavy Stuff I need to think about, not going to New York hasn't made the cut into Items that are Worthy of my Attention.

Other than:

How's this for IRONICAL?

FM107's BossLady actually selected the program segment that was entered for the Gracie. She chose a segment that Colleen and I began doing on a monthly basis. On the 22nd of each month, we do a monthly breast self-exam. On the air. If you listen regularly, you know that I encourage listeners to join in and use this as a time to put in the reminder of the importance of self exams and mammograms.

This on air exam (which started, frankly, as a bit of a bit/stunt/gimmick) prompted one of our listeners, Delores, to do her self-exam--and led her to find a lump in her breast. She was tested, found to have cancer, and had a mastectomy as a result. Delores came on the radio with us to express her gratitude--because our program ultimately led her to treatment for her cancer--while it could still be successfully treated.
Need more irony?

I saw Delores on Mother's Day; I walked with her for a time at the Race for the Cure. Wearing a hot pink feather boa, Delores was our LoJ Team mascot and she was all smiles. Doing great, she said. I admired her hair--growing back nicely after chemotherapy--and again admired her upbeat spirit. We embraced and I wished her a happy Mother's Day.

The very next day, I had my routine mammogram.

One week later, I had a breast cancer diagnosis of my own.

The last day I was on the air, I got a phone message from Delores. She was weeping as she told me how sorry she was about my diagnosis. She knows the road I'll be walking. She wished me well. And through her tears, she thanked me again.

Maybe that's why it doesn't matter so very much that I won't be able to accept my Gracie in person. The bosses will accept my award and bring it back for me. But seriously--as nice as it is to get a fancy statue, it feels so much better to have Delores's grace and gratitude.

This month, I won't be behind the microphone on June 22nd. No matter. I can ask you through this blog to take the time to check yourself. Do those self-exams. If you're overdue, choose this day to make the call to schedule your mammograms. Nag your mothers, sisters, daughters, girlfriends to be vigilant. Demand adequate health care for yourself and for all women.

I'm not going to kid you or sugar-coat it--this breast cancer is very rough stuff. The toughest.
I so wish there would have been another way for me to learn the lessons that breast cancer will inevitably teach me.

But I can't wish it away. I can only lift my voice to remind you to take care of your body, value your health and seek the joy in life. As I am realizing, we are all just one doctor's phone call away from Never The Same.

Did you do your self exam? Urge someone else to? I would love it if you would take a minute to let me know.

I am choosing silence right now.

For me, that's like visiting a foreign country without a passport.

My voice has been my career. As a TV reporter, I fashioned words into sentences, paragraphs, stories, distilling facts into the news/soup that viewers could swallow.

On the radio, my beat became my take on the world. At first, I feared talking honestly about my own feelings and opinions. I was lost without a prepared script to read from. Gradually I found my way and my voice and filled hours with my pointless meandering with listeners and on air guests. Still talking it up, conversatin' with you and with myself.

On the air, my voice carried me and cared for me.

Off the air, my voice connected me to friends, family. The only time I'm quiet is when I'm sleeping; otherwise, I want to/need to verbally dissect everything I encounter. On a walk, over a meal, over the phone--I'm one chatty chick.
But since I came home from the hospital, I have shut off the volume.

Usually, I listen to the radio when I'm just hanging out at home, loading the dishwasher or chopping onions or paying bills. Tuning in to the chatter. Interested in other people's words.
It's all been turned off. I crave silence; I need to spend days quietly now. I read the paper in the morning, then shut out the chat, the current events, the endless broadcast updates.
I don't really know what's going on in the world right now.

My inner self is trying to tell me something new and I won't be able to hear it unless I keep silent and keep silence around me. My world is shifting in subtle ways. I am convinced I can find new wisdom if I am quiet enough to hear it. I am certain that when it comes, it will be in a whisper.

My house, my room, my bed. (For you visual thinkers, here's the sequence: Wide shot, medium shot, tight shot.) That's my world right now.

I'm here. Listening. Waiting. Preparing.

* * * * *

This past month has schooled me in gratitude.
I have always been somewhat carelessly grateful. But, to be honest, I've been like a rich kid who doesn't quite understand that not everyone is a trust funder. My blessings have not necessarily been material in nature--although I have never known real want. I was blessed from my first breath by being born into a family of people who truly and unselfishly loved and nourished me. I grew up with encouragement, kindness, faith.
And always good health. I saw vitality as my birthright. Blessed with a body that required zero maintainence, I have always had the strength and stamina to work hard and play hard. No medications, allergies, disorders. I didn't get colds or flu. I didn't just see myself as invincible--I WAS invincible.
Well, ha ha on me. The bigger they come the harder they fall.

Today I am newly grateful for the health I've enjoyed--and I ask myself if I enjoyed it enough.
As I thoughtfully review the parts of my life that I took for granted, everything seems fresh and fragile. The word HEAL is the first part of the word HEALTH. The first word fits itself neatly into the second.

I am mostly at home, but I leave the house briefly at least once every day--a walk or accompanying someone on an errand. Colors seem more intense; noise is more raucous. I watch the faces of strangers and often notice people who look distracted or as if they might be in a bad mood. I want to stop them and remind them to notice how lush the trees are right now, casting patterns of shade on the green midsummer lawns. I want to warn them--what if you get a cancer diagnosis tomorrow? What if today is your last day of unambiguous health? Have you appreciated this day or have you squandered it?

* * * * *

Princess Alexis and BossLady came to visit, bringing papers for me to sign, updates from the workplace and a box full of my mail.
After they left, I took the mail to my boudoir and flopped into bed with it. My paycheck stub, press releases, invitations to attend and opening of a new restaurant and a new play.

And then, the cards.

My letter carrier is probably annoyed with me. Every day, he deposits a hernia-inducing load of envelopes in my home mailbox. I have gotten dozens and scores of cards and letters from my friends and acquaintances. Everyone who has ever had me on their Christmas card list has fired off a get well wish. Invest in Hallmark, people--I should be getting dividend checks from them!
I have gotten an incredible assortment of cards--funny, serious, inspirational. Some from old friends, some from people whose path I hardly recall passing. It has been an amazing paper shower. I rub my finger over each signature, touched that the sender has followed that impulse to find words to wish me health and healing. Quiet souls write me long letters while some garrulous friends simply sign their name and let the verse on the card speak for them. Confronting illness makes some people wordy while others are rendered inarticulate. I know each envelope was sealed with fear, sadness, hope, love...with me in mind.

The cards that Alexis and BossLady brought were different.

They all came from my friends who know me exclusively from the radio. From fm107.1 listeners.

You don't know my home address, so you sent your cards to the station. Some of you I have met in the flesh--at the Fair, or while I was on remote, or perhaps our paths crossed coincidentally at some point.

But most of you know me because we regularly spend time together when I am in a room speaking into a microphone. I'm with you when you're in your car or cubicle or kitchen. We do what friends do--get together, talk it over, laugh it off, make each other think.

It's an odd friendship because it's so one-way.
But active conversation is two-way communication--the talker and the listener.
And how gratifying it has been for the talker to listen to you.

Cards and notes, gifts, music, advice--it spilled out of your envelopes. Some of you wrote to me in the middle of the night, when you couldn't sleep because of your fears for me. Some of you have lived with breast cancer and you write to give me your own surivial tips to help me in this battle. You sent me your favorite Bible verses, quotes and poems--words that have comforted and served you well in your own trials. You offered to cook and clean for me. You sent me your home phone number. You promised to pray for me when I would be too tired or confused to pray for myself.

I read of your true and deep affection for me.
I have tried hard to do a show that reflects who I am. I have worked hard so that you would want to give me some of your time every day--so that I would earn your friendship. I have tried to put together a program that is fun, breezy, upbeat, fodder for thought. I have revealed more of myself than I would have thought I could.
And I see that I have been a thread that you have woven into the fabric of your life. I am not an anonymous voice to you==I'm a person. You know me. You care about me. You know I'm in trouble You are worried about me.
It is enormously gratifying to know that we have made that connection.

I covered my bed in your cards and wept a bit, feeling so fortunate to be lifted up by such fond tenderness.

And then, amid the envelopes and cards and stationary, I fell asleep, slumbering sweetly on the magic carpet of well wishes that came from you, my friends. Thank you.

Thank you. Thank you.