Visiting today is Rebecca Durkin and her latest
release
Chemo On The Rocks: My Great Alaskan Misadventure
Please enjoy the introduction to her book and an
excerpt!
Chemo on the Rocks is a shoreside
seat on Rebecca (Becky) Durkin’s great Alaskan misadventure. It highlights the
hilarity and heartache of a young girl who finds herself marooned in
Ketchikan—fondly known as “The Rock”—where she remains on her self-imposed
Alaskatraz for almost thirty years.
Chemo on the Rocks is witty,
inspirational, satirical, and sometimes terrifying. It is a mix of pain and
laughter as Becky walks the IV gauntlet, trailing behind the unfettered back end
peeking through the drab hospital gown
of the man shuffling before her. Chemo
on the Rocks is a hard-fought battle in the fallopian trenches where Becky
wages war on ovarian cancer—the ultimate wedding crasher—as it invites an
entire medical team into her honeymoon suite.
She slays the cancer dragon and has two children in defiance of the
beast, but just when it seems life has returned to normalcy, she prematurely
crashes onto Mount Hysteria and wanders aimlessly through the Hormone War Zone
in the Land of the Ovary Snatchers.
Everything about having chemo on
the rock was made more difficult by Becky’s fears of boating and flying—the
only escape from the island—which became more terrifying with each trip to
Seattle for surgery or testing. Chemo on the Rocks showcases the many parallels
between sea adventures and cancer adventures, such as doldrums while awaiting
diagnosis, the skull and cross bones of chemo, the bitter end of a failed
marriage, tying the knot of another, listing dangerously, and perhaps a return
to navigable waters.
Excerpt:
Short toddler legs and
sharp driftwood slivers slowed me down as I tried to keep up with my older
brother Mike as he hopped from log to log in front of our Whidbey Island home.
Snow-capped Mount Baker loomed high in the distance, completing the backdrop of
our postcard existence. Lazy summer days sipping lemonade with neighbors,
playing with cousins and friends, and a friendly black lab named Sam proved the
American dream.
Dad’s store, Bill’s Jiffy
Mart, was just a few miles away in downtown Oak Harbor. Clad in his green
apron, he spent hours arranging perfect rows of canned vegetables and fruit. He
always had a pencil tucked behind his ear, a feather duster in his hand, and a
pen in the pocket protector of his crisp white shirt. There was nothing better
than leaning into the freezer and pulling a crystalized Fudgesicle on a sunny
day or trying to decide which box of Cracker Jacks had the best prize. I loved
the store and all the promotional gimmicks Dad brought home, like my life-sized
green Squirt soda balloon with fuzzy hair, and the greatest prize of all, my
bright red two-seated tricycle.
Bill’s Jiffy Mart had a small home in the back
parking lot. When I was about three we left the beach to live closer to the
store, substituting convenient downtown living for fresh salty air. We moved
from picture-perfect postcard to a postage stamp lot. A public beach was not
far from our home but repeated pestering didn’t sway Mom to drive me there any
sooner.
Impatient to play in the water, I planned our
beach escape for days. “Hurry up, Sam,” I lisped, as we furiously dug a hole
under the fence. We belly-crawled under the fence and I loaded Sam into my
powder blue get-away wagon. I tugged at my swimsuit trying to loosen the itchy
dirt, as my canine conspirator and I began our trek. Sam’s pink tongue dripped
with excitement as I pulled him across the parking lot. I had plans to show Sam
Oak Harbor’s Flintstone-mobile and for a dip in City Beach Lagoon, which would
wash away all evidence of our escape. We made it all the way to the end of the
parking lot and hung a left towards the beach.
“Becky! Sam!” Mom’s voice, shrill above the
busy traffic, brought everything to an abrupt halt. Sam abandoned me on the
side of the road and went skulking back to Mom as she bustled across the
parking lot. The whole town heard my wails as she spanked me in front of the
busy intersection, loaded my downtrodden dog and me into the wagon, and pulled
us back to my backyard prison. My tears stained the brown floor tiles inside
Bill’s Jiffy Mart as Mom reported my crime to Dad. After careful consideration,
he gave me a Canada Dry Ginger Ale, his feather duster, and put me to work in
the canned goods section
.
A year or so later we’d
outgrown our humble abode behind the store and moved to a larger home with a
neighborhood filled with friends for Mike and me. Mike had a tree house high up
in a backyard tree, with a strategically absent rung to keep his sister from
infiltrating the fort. Sam had free run on the grassy lawn, and I spent hours
playing hide and seek in the forest just beyond our property line. My all-time
favorite activity was pushing my two-seater trike to the top of the hill for
the exhilarating ride back down, stopping only by the skin of my shoes. I got
in big trouble from a friend’s mother when her daughter hopped on behind me and
set her barefoot brakes—Fred Flintstone style.
As our house size grew,
so did our family, and Mom’s tummy expanded by the minute. A tiny baby was
getting ready to join the Holman clan, and I had plans for my new sister. I
would dress her up in fluffy dresses and push her around the neighborhood in my
doll stroller. I was anxious to have a real live doll and after what seemed
like forever the big day finally arrived. Dad drove Mom across Deception Pass
Bridge to the hospital in Anacortes, while Mike and I stayed home with Grandma
Chesley.
It seemed Mom had been
gone for days. When the phone jangled, I pounced at the first ring.
“Hello?”
“We have a new baby.”
“What’s her name?”
“Curt.”
It took a minute before the meaning behind the
name dawned on me. How could Mom ruin my months of planning in one phone call?
There was nothing more to say, so I hung up on her and tried to figure out what
I’d do with a baby brother.
Curt grew from a robust baby to a darling
brown-eyed imp whose summertime tans set off his shaggy blond hair, and even
though he shunned pink dresses, he was a fun playmate. In contrast, Mom says I
was puny. I had straight brown helmet hair, deep blue eyes, colorless lips, a crooked
smile, freckles, knobby knees, and a lisp. I wanted long pigtails with ribbons,
but Mom had no desire to fight my fine locks. Every few months she drove her
stringy-haired daughter to downtown Oak Harbor for a visit to the beauty parlor
where purple-tinged, pin-curled Betty and Evelyn waited for their next victim.
Permanent wave solution and cigarette smoke burned my nose as I turned page
after page of glossy picture books and smiled back at the little girls sporting
beautiful curls. The pink-smocked gals gently set the impossible styles aside,
pulled out a black padded bench, laid it over the salon chair, and pumped it up
to haircut height. Betty attempted to hold me while Evelyn wielded scissors
dangerously close to my ears, promising me a lollipop if I held still. I jumped
out of the chair as a Peter Pan pixie. I loved the pink ladies. I hated the
haircuts.
Afterwards Mom tried to make amends for my
hair loss with a trip to the shoe store next door. Mousy locks for Mary Janes.
My hair looked ridiculous but my feet were always well-clad.
I endured stupid haircuts
well into grade school, but my pixie looks were not a problem when Clover
Valley Elementary School cast me to deliver the leading line in the Spring
Concert. Our first grade class had been practicing silly barnyard songs for
weeks. On the evening of the big event, Mom pinned a giant blue bow to my
slippery locks, completely dwarfing my head. The tiny singers passed the
microphone around as the bevy of children bellowed a barnyard bleat, moo or
quack, much to the delight of their proud parents. At the end of each animal
utterance, I stood tall at the center microphone and belted out And the Cat
Goeth Fiddle I Fee. I was confused when the entire audience roared each time I
sang my part. Whether because they thought I was adorable in my oversized bow
and pronounced lisp, or hilarious, I’ll never know, but my blue bow sunk lower
behind the students after each Fiddle I Fee.
*****
Rebecca Durkin,
author of Chemo on the Rocks: My Great Alaskan Misadventure, and her short
story, Behind the Smile, is known for her candor and sense of humor.
Rebecca is a featured
speaker/creative trainer for an annual women’s retreat in California, where she
shares her experiences and provides writing ideas. She is also a volunteer for
the Survivors Teaching Students: Saving Women's Lives ® program for the Ovarian
Cancer National Alliance. The program brings ovarian cancer survivors into the
classroom where they present their unique stories along with facts about the
disease to future physicians, nurse practitioners, nurses and physicians
assistants.
Rebecca spent the
majority of her life living on the edge of the shore, first on Whidbey Island,
Washington and then in rainy Ketchikan, Alaska where she lived a waterlogged
existence for almost thirty years. She currently lives in the Pacific Northwest
where she enjoys road trips with her husband, hanging with her adult children,
playing with her three Bichons, and finding the humor in everyday life.
Thank you Rebecca!
*****
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