A Pain in the Neck

For the first time since I was about 10 years old, I found myself looking for a four-leaf clover this week. As I weeded the brick path of the community garden, I examined the few patches of clover I found for any lucky ones.

I’ve never found a four-leaf clover, outside of the plastic or paper shamrocks at St. Patrick’s Day celebrations. But I figured I could use some luck. I’ve had two job interviews and sent out countless resumes. I have a PET scan in about three weeks to see how the chemotherapy is working. When you’re waiting and hoping for good news, you’ll take anything as a good sign.

About four weeks ago, the evening before the company I worked for shut down, I was weeding the paths in the community garden. I thought that if I had some time off, I would completely conquer the paths and free the bricks from the weeds, at least temporarily. The paths are never weed-free all at once, because once I weed the path, they’re back in a few weeks.

Now that I finally had time this week, finally over my cold and eye infection, temperatures outside soared over the 90-degree mark all week. That’s not good luck. So I stopped by early in the morning, to beat the heat. There’s something therapeutic about weeding the paths. Almost all the plants growing in between the bricks aren’t supposed to be there. A landscape architect I interviewed once told me an old garden adage: “A weed is just a plant out of place.”

So I don’t have to think much, except for the occasional pressing matter: “Why are all these ants crawling on me?” and “I hope that’s not poison ivy.” With my mind freed up, I can reflect on the random information that collects in the junk drawer of my brain. “Whatever happened to Tom Green? I really think his show was a precursor to Jackass and other shows I didn’t like, when MTV started to lose me.” Or, “I really liked that Jesus Jones album in 1991, but I think if I went back and listened to it, it wouldn’t hold up.”

I don’t think about cancer all the time—I don’t think anyone does. The other day, my boyfriend noticed I was pensive and looked upset as we were walking home from a comedy show, so he asked me what I was thinking about. “The first Sex and the City movie was on the other night, so I watched it, and it’s even worse than I remembered,” I replied. “It’s so bad that, for me, it even ruined the TV show, which I used to love.” Some people seem relieved that I still have the energy to reserve such ire for trivial matters.

Sometimes, however, I get a strange chorus in my head that’s just, “Cancer, cancer, cancer, cancer.” Just that word, over and over again, like Jan Brady’s jealous proclamation of “Marcia! Marcia! Marcia!” on The Brady Bunch. More alarmingly, I suppose it’s also like the phrase “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” typed over and over again in Stanley Kubrick’s film version of The Shining. So either my subconscious is jealous of all the attention the Hodgkin’s lymphoma thoughts are getting, or I’m losing my mind. Probably a little bit of both.

As I weeded that morning, I didn’t find any four-leaf clovers. But my search sparked a childhood memory I hadn’t thought about in a long time.

When I was little—maybe from the ages of 4­ to 6—my grandma would get out sheet music and we’d sing songs together. This is notable because no one on my mom’s side of the family can sing. In my 20s, a friend and I stayed with my mom and my grandma to see a Peter Murphy concert in Cleveland for her birthday. My grandma baked her a cake. She was an amazing baker. I explained that we meant well, but we’d all be off key. To anyone who celebrates birthdays with us, I assure you, the song is mercifully short and the homemade cakes are delicious.

I’m not sure if my grandma could sing at one time, but age made her voice a little creaky. My mom always sings high and off-key. I don’t sing. In fact, even when I’m required or expected to sing, I usually would just lip sync in high school choir, church and birthday parties.

But in those days, my grandma and I would get out the sheet music and sing a few songs, joyously and loudly. One of these was “I’m Looking Over a Four Leaf Clover,” the 1948 version by Art Mooney. (Apparently Willie Nelson also has a version of this song, but c’mon—do we really think he was looking for clover on purpose or he happened upon some while looking for a different type of harvest?)

The other was “You Are My Sunshine.” The line, “So I hung my head and cried,” always sent me into fits of laughter. Not because I enjoyed dark lyrics—that would come later, during my goth years in high school and college. At 4, I wasn’t familiar with the term hanging your head, so I pictured this poor guy taking off his head and hanging it on a coat rack to cry and dry off. And that image is hilarious to a 4-year-old.

Since then, I don’t think I’ve ever really sang a song without some degree of self-consciousness or self-awareness. I got the picture when I was never picked for singing or dancing parts in grade school productions.

My grandma died in 2006, so I can’t ask her why we sang songs together, other than it seemed to be a lot of fun. That must have been the point. Just doing something fun even if you weren’t very good at it. I’m not sure that lesson stayed with me, as I stress out over everything from how I do on these interviews and tests to whether or not I’m doing all I should to beat cancer.

I wish my grandma could have seen me move to New York City, by far one of her favorite places in the world. She took me here first when I was 10 years old. She thought the city was so exciting and enjoyed interacting with so many people.

So I didn’t find a four-leaf clover the other day. But the next day, as I boarded the A train, a man was playing the guitar and singing. He was playing “You Are My Sunshine.”