Life is so weird.  Grand pianos from the sky can be just missing your head, and most of us wouldn’t notice.  And then there is some universal equalizer in life that smooths down the bad parts if we can simply see it, coming to us at the same time.

With Kathryn, I would have thought the message would have been received with more clarity.  It took three car accidents within months, falling down the back steps on ice, all events happening on the left side of her body, to get her to notice that something else was going on there.  And it wasn’t pregnancy.

Although the cyst was as big as a baby, the surgery was certainly not the same.  Then there was the colon cancer part.  This is where the universe presents problems, and then solutions.  Kathryn’s friend, me, has sooooo done this colon cancer thing.  Here I can help.  Colon cancer was the pivotal event in our family (my parents and three girls), and then important in my life, but not the most.

She is going to lose some body parts, for sure.  Here is another place where the universe provides:  I stitched a womb in a new series of embroideries, and gave it to her two years ago.  If she wants one, she has it.  Kathryn is my same age, and those parts mean nothing to me, but they do to some.

frankly my dear

The cancer lingo is different now then when I had colon cancer.  The last woman who did my mammogram called those years of the mid-nineties the “dark ages” of cancer (for my dad, dying in the ’70s, it must have been the Paleolithic).   Looking up what docs now call “frank” cancer, meaning that they are sure cancer is present, I would say, “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn!”.  And keep thinking that while you do everything medical.  Brain shift in whatever age one finds oneself is required.  Feed yourself the correct narrative.

And find symbols.  Like the stitched womb, for a start.  Kathryn will find her own.

hammered aluminumCollecting hammered aluminum objects during my chemotherapy and long after, they shielded and comforted.  Also had two pairs of purple suede penny loafers during that time; wore them every day and wore them out too, but they stomped over cancer cells.


Do you know the first life affirming thing she did from the hospital bed?  She bought a sweet little house!  She has it down.


A friend lost two kitties this year.  Glenn and I are making a spirit house for them to live in now,  something that will also function as a piece of art.  By the time you read this,  she also will have two more kittens.  Classic cat-woman.


I watched her grow up as part of a family of three strong women.  Her mother was my framer and has been my friend for years.  Then the whole group went to the Northwest.  Way under 40, she was diagnosed with breast cancer and has been beating the piss out of it for two years.  And standing up to politicians who want to balance their budgets on the backs of the unlucky.  She does not go quietly.

1-one side

But she is not going anywhere (except back to work, brava!).   Not now.  What is remarkably healthy about this woman is that she is taking control where there can be little,  when in your cancer chapter.  This house will be for her as well, in the future.  To a  person who has been in dialog with cancer herself,  this is a fine idea.  Apply everything related to creativity and creation during your cancer interlude.  It can work wonders.  Creating anything is the exact opposite of being in decline.


She has been going through old pictures and little stuff for me to include on the surface of the house, and also inside it.  Wonky doors and windows will be defined by the people in the pictures.   Reminders of the beach of South Carolina will be imbedded in the walls.  I have found amazing little artifacts at flea markets to include, as if the universe was chucking them out to me.

1-for nikki

Stay tuned.


At least that’s what they call me here in America.  Things have a lifespan.  Mostly it is short because in America, some people want to sell more stuff.   Many feel strange if their stuff is not new.  The best, the newest version.

I must make an argument about this, as I feel trash has something to offer.  Experience.  Wisdom.  The wisdom of the trash.  My maker studied about Japanese tea bowls in school.

tea bowl 1

The Japanese are aware of their long history.  Maybe that is what is wrong with America.  We are adolescents as a country;  we have not been around long enough to be wise.

The tea bowl above is beautiful mostly because of the broken and repaired lines.  It is an old woman.  It has been cupped in someone’s hands for generations;  different someones who felt the heat of the tea inside and warmed themselves.

teabowl with gold 2

Some wise Japanese have gone further with their old and experienced tea bowls.  They have outlined the broken parts with gold, and put them back together. They have emphasized the broken and wise parts.  The bowl says “Look at my history”.


Above is an example of my maker’s work from the nineties.  All of the bodies are that of my maker, and all the scars mark the history of her cancer, and make her a more experienced person.  It is the same thing.

tea bowl with gold 3Above is something new, based on an old idea.  Look at the gold lines.  And look at the substitution in parts of another bowl.  This is building on the history of trash.


Here is my maker’s work, using just broken trash.  This is not talking about experiencing history, it is history as it is old stuff.


For me, this is an old topic.  A tale about warriors and shields, an idea put forth by my friend Judy.  A tale from the 1990s and I mean to discuss this now because of friends engaged in this battle.


It is not the 1990s anymore.  With my last mammogram, 2011, the tech had all my old info available.  She told me that I was a miracle.  She referred to that decade as the Dark Ages for cancer.  Years ago,  a doctor shook  my hand because he had never met anyone who survived a metastasis of colon cancer.

My father died  in 1974 at age 47, after many years of dealing with this humiliating disease.  When it started in on me in the nineties, the docs asked lots of questions about him.  Where in his colon was the disease?  Was it right sided or left sided?  We knew nothing.  If that information was somewhere, we didn’t know how to find it.  At that time there was a rudimentary form of genetic testing, but my doc asked me to think about whether we should do that or not.  Was it good for the world to know that I had the gene for colon cancer?

Because I was so young (42, 43, 44) Mayo Clinic Jax was very aggressive with me.  With the first operation, 40 percent of my colon was taken.  That fact has made absolutely no difference in my life.  Fearful of this, probably more than death, that “bag”  gave my father so much trouble, and it fairly separated him from the rest of us.

I was to have three more operations and learned a little about dealing with the medical community.  I remember telling a friend, a radiology technician, while standing in a line at a buffet,  that there was now a lesion on my lung.  She got this odd look on her face.  I did not know exactly what a lesion was, but she did.

Later I had one third of my lung removed.  Of course Mayo had been looking closely, but they had been doing CT scans only from about my waist down.  Very lucky that this lesion was seen.  I insisted on full body CT scans after that and no one argued with me.

My tumor was rated Dukes B2:  it was in the colon, involved the colon wall, but did not extend outside it.  Never had any lymph node involvement.  How did it get to the lung then?

After my first operation the tumor was deemed so localized that they removed it and we did nothing.  A year later was the lesion.  Then we did six months of chemotherapy, not at Mayo’s but in Columbia, SC.

I did everything to fight my cancer.  It was used as the topic of my art, I integrated it into my life symbolically and removed it symbolically (I bought two pairs of fabulous purple suede penny loafers which could stamp out cancer cells as you would a fire on grass.  Wore them until they were in shreds).  I had four surgeries and chemotherapy.  It was on my chemo trips to Columbia that I began buying hammered aluminum in thrift shops.  Started with ice buckets, I loved their double walls.  I went on to corner the market in my area.

A trip to the oncologist was paired up with a trip to the thrifts.  I also took work to my photographer, etc.  I could do anything after chemo, save getting my words out all lined up perfectly.  That was a little weird.

The point was to integrate the beast, to direct its removal symbolically, talk about it, and go on.  Women join groups, they are good at that.  It is healthy to speak about these things.  I absolutely loved chemo in a group situation.  Here were these people, removed of pretense, sitting in lounges fighting the beast together.  It was like being in a huddle on a football team.


I had an exhibition at the Mayo Clinic.  They were interested in promoting the correct mind set for healing.  They were impressive that way.  As an artist, whatever was going on in my life was subject to being featured in my art, and that turned out to be a very healing idea.  An then of course, there was all this metal armament that I bought.     

Search in the box with “Lee Malerich”.


Bonanza (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This is my experience with guns.  This is why some of us are the way we are.

Having grown up en masse in the suburbs of St. Louis, we had no needs or interest in guns.  The baby boom was making the shooting territory run for its life.  Houses were spreading like a very active disease.

As maybe a person in junior high, I heard a story about a burglar shooting Mr. X over on Canter Lane; at least it was one of those horsey names we had in “Paddock Hills”.  Years later, repeating the story to someone, I was corrected.  It was Mrs. X who shot Mr. X over on Canter Lane.  Sooner or later, the kids get to know the truth.

Fast forward 30 years.  There is a famous (and true) old story about our (now dead) long time state senator from around here.  Everybody knows it.  Mrs. SS (state senator) shot Mr.  SS one Sunday morning and the both of them managed to go to church anyway.  What pressure.

The next two stories are more personal.  We were a number of women who came together as friends as we all had experienced cancer.  One friend had written a grant to present a little creativity class at a local hospital to help cancer patients deal with the experience.  I was taking chemo there at the time.  My art work was all about having cancer, so I did not need the training to use creativity to exorcise the poison, but the teacher was my friend and through her we all met.  Only one of this group has died, to this day.  She was a fabulous woman, a family court judge (correct me if I am wrong) and she fought cancer for eight years.

Carol died.  On the day of the funeral, feeling desperate, I went outside to plant bushes.  It was a healthy thing to do.  If the day were not bad enough, while digging a bush-hole, a singing noise without a perceptible body raced by my ear.  Having never had an experience like this, I knew what it was.  Maybe it was from watching Bonanza all those years.  It was a bullet that just missed my head.

I had no idea what to do, so I called the police.  Told him my story, and he crept up the dirt road to the next house to investigate.  We live on this road in plots of ten acres.  In this state, you can shoot anywhere as long as there is no house within so many feet.  Cannot remember how many.  The guy next door had been practicing with his gun, but said it was always in the other direction, over the pond.  The cop told him to call me when about to do shooting in the future.  He said OK but never did.

This visit was not even important enough for him to tell his wife when she came home.  He never told her.  Years later, their teenager admitted to my husband that it was he who shot the gun in the wrong direction.

Same family, about a year ago:  the teenager and his new puppy were playing on the floor of the family room, with a friend in a chair there, looking at a gun.  The teenager got up, and within a second the puppy was dead.  The gun was loaded and went off.

I cannot tell you how happy we are that the family moved last month.


Once I was juried into a show called “Ephemeral”.  It was at Cal Tech as I remember and the show was very well done.  Fabulous catalog and invitation.  It included all media, and many definitions of the word: ephemeral.

Some works looked like ghosts.  Some self destructed.  My work at that time was about my colon cancer and its re-occurrence, so it was me, the artist that was ephemeral, not the work.  Still fit in.

Big opening, of course done without me, living so far away.  Carried off  in the absolute heights of coolness.

After a couple of weeks, the sprinkler system malfunctioned and would not shut off.  The art was recovered but the gallery walls were like soaked cardboard.   The truncated show was all over.  Ephemeral.



My doc asked me what patients thought about when they had a pain, knowing that he would solicit the answer from me.  What?, I said when we were in the examining room.  My mind froze trying to think of any answer.  Focusing on my running injury which was why I was there;  I did not get the game.

Cancer, he said.  Anybody with your history would think of that first.  I did not.  I wanted to run again and not be dealing with sciatica, which was what I thought was my problem.  How long ago was your cancer, anyway?
18 years ago.  Oh, I did not realize it was that long ago.  Of course, a return could happen after that interval of time, but….ok then.  Never mind.

I was looking for a referral to a sports doctor.  He obviously was looking for something else.  We did x-rays.  We looked at them in the hallway.  Most of my patients have not the good reason you do for your back pain.  Look at these vertebrae.  The bottom two were out of line about an inch.  It was rather dramatic.

I always knew my back was of a bad design.  I am not supposed to do this, but you should see a chiropractor.

I had seen one 26 years ago.  In the office, he provided me with a technique to deal with my back up to now.  He put blocks under my hips while I lay on my stomach, and I was a quick study.  I put a pillow under my hips for sleep for the next 26 years.  It worked until now.

I was trying to be smart.  We pay two thirds of our base income for health insurance and it does not allow for chiropractors.  Why do these docs occupy such a questionable part of the medical world?  Why aren’t their offices built of pink marble like everyone else’s?  It could be because they don’t have a strong lobby in Washington.  That would be a good thing.

I am not sure I can trust.  Remembering vividly my first visit,  there were two old scales, the kind from the fifties or sixties, placed side to side.  You know the ones with the bump up in the middle and the magnification of the number of pounds that you were?  And they had little black ribbed mats glued on the surface?  He had me step one foot on each scale.  Yep.  Your body is all screwed up.  Why does a device like this make me doubt?  FYI, the two scales are still there in the office.  He did not use them on me this time.  They are now probably part of  his collection of antique devices.

He took x-rays too.  They looked like the others, except he did my neck as well.  Are you sure that you don’t have any neck pain?  Look at these deposits of bone where there should be none.  No, but I have a strong will.  I believe you do, he said.

Just patch me up so I can run, please.

I had metastatic colon cancer in the early nineties.  I should not be alive.  Most who have had this problem are not.  My dad is not.  He died at 47, and I have the gene for colon cancer.  As I proceeded through my cancer years, there was one primal scream that came from deep within:  I am not doing this.

And I did not.  My will prevailed after four operations.  It was very simple.  I would not entertain the idea of having cancer, and took great pains to always think of it in the past tense.  I had other techniques as well.  Having found two pairs of beautiful dark lavender suede loafers, I wore these cancer cell stomping shoes until they wore out.  My art at the time was all about claiming and then exorcizing cancer.

So I have not run for six weeks, trying to be smart, and not trying the chiropractor.  I have attended two high school cross country meets where students with lithe bodies, streaming hair and red faces crossed the finish line in droves, boys and girls.  It was hard to take.

The day after the last meet, three days ago, and still in pain, I ran.  Did my entire four miles, and also picked up 34 cans.  Strange pains were shooting around, and I knew that this was because I was favoring my left side and carrying 34 cans in a grocery bag.  But I did it.

And I did it yesterday and today.  The pain is not like it was.  Should have depended upon my will first off.  That’s my best characteristic, not trying to be “smart” about anything.  Being smart feels foreign.