It's just one of those days. The closer I get to the surgery date (August 3), the crazier I get. Up until the past couple of days, I've been more than capable of distracting myself from The Breast issue. Every once in a while, when I found myself at a loss for something to amuse myself with, I'd have a tiny anxiety attack. I'm fairly well medicated (by a licensed physician), so I've had a little help in preventing myself from collapsing into a fetal position and drooling on the carpet. I've also just got exceptional skills in that area, honed from years and years of living in The Original Crazy Land with my parents.
All day today, I've been incapable of determining whether anything I've said makes sense. I'll be having a conversation with someone about The Breast or about something completely unrelated and it dawns on me that I may be incomprehensible. I had a long telephone conversation with my therapist today and, somewhere in the middle, it occurred to me that we were probably not talking about the same thing.
I keep asking people, "Does that make sense?" Heaven only knows what they think. I'm not generally all that concerned about my ability to be clear with people. At this point, though, if I don't check, I have no idea whether the internal dialog is bleeding over into the external dialog. I don't know...does that make sense?
There's much more to the whole hospital story, but I don't think today is the right day to tell it. I can only hope that, by tomorrow morning, I'll still remember my name and how to drive myself to work. Putting nouns and verbs together in a coherent manner may beyond my capability, though.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Houston. It's a Whole Other Country
"The more you let yourself be distracted from where you are going, the more you are the person that you are. It's not so much like getting lost as it is like getting found." ~ Willliam Stafford
Houston. If you've never been there, take my advice and stay home. I'd been there several times before my recent foray to M.D. Anderson. Furthermore, I've traveled a lot over the years for various jobs and I've gotten very comfortable with reading maps. There are only a couple of problems here. The first is that I have a phobia about bridges, overpasses, flyovers...if it's high, I don't like it. The second is that whoever is responsible for making road signs in Houston should be taken out and shot. Summarily.
The first order of business was to find a route from my city to Houston. It's only around 350 miles or so, which is no big deal because I know how to get there without going over any bridges (or any of the other aforementioned high places). Once one arrives in Houston, it becomes well nigh impossible to avoid Loop 610. It's really tall in some places and you're frequently required to cross four lanes of traffic in a matter of seconds because they've decided no one needed to know more than a half mile in advance that people would have to exit the freeway at some point. Thousands of automobiles, travelling at breakneck speed, completely oblivious to the fact that others are on the freeway, too. Or if they do notice, it's because they're having a road rage event. No one is much inclined to cut anybody any slack.
We decided to forego the Loop and all of the other freeways in Houston. The shocking thing is that it can be done. We located a small road that used to travel the outskirts of the city, but it ended up in the heart of downtown. There were just a few twists and turns which were not marked on the map at all. Arriving in the heart of the city was one of the many day trips to hell I endured during the three days I was there. Streets fork and, not only do they not warn you in advance that it's going to happen, they don't even put street signs up so you have any hope of knowing if you're on the road you're supposed to be on. There's no way of telling the name of the streets that intersect. Some streets are one way, then a two way, then a one way again. What the fuck were these people doing when it came time to order street signs? Do the guys in Houston have some stash of LSD left over from the 60's? I could go on and on about this...and I may again at some point, but I have too much to cover to get obsessed over it now.
We finally arrived at our hotel at around 9:00. We'd gotten into the city around 6:00, but we aimlessly drove around, hoping to get a clue as to where the hell we were at any given moment. Having arrived at the hotel, we breathed a big sigh of relief, then we made the fatal decision to go out for dinner. We hadn't eaten since early that morning and I knew that not eating was not an option. Off we went, I tried to stay on the same road because I thought if we went in a straight line, there would be no problem getting back.
We ended up eating at a Sonic. Just typing it here depresses me, but even more depressing is the fact that we were thrilled. Foot long hotdogs--after not eating for 12 hours, they start looking pretty damn good. By 9:45, we were on out way home.
At 10:30, we were still on our way home. Streets kept branching off and, even if there had been street signs, we wouldn't have been able to read them because Houston city officials apparently don't think installing adequate lighting is a requirement. I just drove. I doubled back a couple of times and my mom was giving me a hard time about the number of times we'd been by the same Sonic. Suddenly, miraculously, we were on the right street. To this day, I can't figure out how that happened.
The real fun began the next day.
America held hostage day 1390
Bushism of the day:
"You know, let me talk about Al Qaida just for a second. I made the statement that we're dismantling senior management, and we are. Our people have done a really good job of hauling in a lot of the key operators. Khalid Shaikh Mohammed. Abu Zubaida. Ramzi--Ramzi alshibh or whatever that guy's name was."
—Bush, at a July 30 press conference
Source: Washington Post, July 30, 2003
Website of the day: Center on Policy Attitudes
http://www.policyattitudes.org/
Houston. If you've never been there, take my advice and stay home. I'd been there several times before my recent foray to M.D. Anderson. Furthermore, I've traveled a lot over the years for various jobs and I've gotten very comfortable with reading maps. There are only a couple of problems here. The first is that I have a phobia about bridges, overpasses, flyovers...if it's high, I don't like it. The second is that whoever is responsible for making road signs in Houston should be taken out and shot. Summarily.
The first order of business was to find a route from my city to Houston. It's only around 350 miles or so, which is no big deal because I know how to get there without going over any bridges (or any of the other aforementioned high places). Once one arrives in Houston, it becomes well nigh impossible to avoid Loop 610. It's really tall in some places and you're frequently required to cross four lanes of traffic in a matter of seconds because they've decided no one needed to know more than a half mile in advance that people would have to exit the freeway at some point. Thousands of automobiles, travelling at breakneck speed, completely oblivious to the fact that others are on the freeway, too. Or if they do notice, it's because they're having a road rage event. No one is much inclined to cut anybody any slack.
We decided to forego the Loop and all of the other freeways in Houston. The shocking thing is that it can be done. We located a small road that used to travel the outskirts of the city, but it ended up in the heart of downtown. There were just a few twists and turns which were not marked on the map at all. Arriving in the heart of the city was one of the many day trips to hell I endured during the three days I was there. Streets fork and, not only do they not warn you in advance that it's going to happen, they don't even put street signs up so you have any hope of knowing if you're on the road you're supposed to be on. There's no way of telling the name of the streets that intersect. Some streets are one way, then a two way, then a one way again. What the fuck were these people doing when it came time to order street signs? Do the guys in Houston have some stash of LSD left over from the 60's? I could go on and on about this...and I may again at some point, but I have too much to cover to get obsessed over it now.
We finally arrived at our hotel at around 9:00. We'd gotten into the city around 6:00, but we aimlessly drove around, hoping to get a clue as to where the hell we were at any given moment. Having arrived at the hotel, we breathed a big sigh of relief, then we made the fatal decision to go out for dinner. We hadn't eaten since early that morning and I knew that not eating was not an option. Off we went, I tried to stay on the same road because I thought if we went in a straight line, there would be no problem getting back.
We ended up eating at a Sonic. Just typing it here depresses me, but even more depressing is the fact that we were thrilled. Foot long hotdogs--after not eating for 12 hours, they start looking pretty damn good. By 9:45, we were on out way home.
At 10:30, we were still on our way home. Streets kept branching off and, even if there had been street signs, we wouldn't have been able to read them because Houston city officials apparently don't think installing adequate lighting is a requirement. I just drove. I doubled back a couple of times and my mom was giving me a hard time about the number of times we'd been by the same Sonic. Suddenly, miraculously, we were on the right street. To this day, I can't figure out how that happened.
The real fun began the next day.
America held hostage day 1390
Bushism of the day:
"You know, let me talk about Al Qaida just for a second. I made the statement that we're dismantling senior management, and we are. Our people have done a really good job of hauling in a lot of the key operators. Khalid Shaikh Mohammed. Abu Zubaida. Ramzi--Ramzi alshibh or whatever that guy's name was."
—Bush, at a July 30 press conference
Source: Washington Post, July 30, 2003
Website of the day: Center on Policy Attitudes
http://www.policyattitudes.org/
Monday, July 25, 2005
By All Means, Do Clamp Down a Bit Harder on My Breast
"The greatest evil is physical pain." ~ Saint Augustine
For once, St. Augustine and I are in agreement. I went to the cancer center last week and was treated to the most intense physical pain I've ever experienced. Just having people manipulate your breasts and position your body in ways you otherwise thought impossible is difficult enough. I steel myself for the physical discomfort and emotional humiliation for my annual mammogram. I had no time to search for a bullet to chomp down on. I didn't even have any Jack Daniels on hand.
The first couple of slides were about what I expected, but then the perky radiology girl started twisting the hand crank. I wear a D cup bra...god help me. She managed to take all of that tissue and squish it down to about a quarter of an inch thick. "Let me know if it gets unbearable. We want to see everything, but we don't want to torture you," she said. She then decided that one of the breasts was incorrectly positioned, so she released the breast, had me lift up an arm, grab on to the other breast with the free hand and turned on the compression machine. (I have no idea what the actual name is, but this will do.) Then the dreaded hand crank. Once again, I was close to tears and I am not a crying kind of person. She proceeded to the right (unaffected) breast, found the threshold of exquisite pain and continued to crank. Having finished that, she said, "I'm going to let you have a little break while I go check with the doctor." I was feeling a bit more optimistic. I don't think I've ever had a mammogram that had to be redone immediately.
I did my best to cover as much of me as the flimsy little gown would allow. I sat down and waited to be released and sent on my way to the ultrasound test. Why I haven't come to realize that optimism is hardly ever rewarded is a mystery to me. I'm an upbeat kind of person. There's no way I could have survived my childhood without a remarkable ability to find the up side in virtually all situations. I'm steadfastly optimistic no matter what. The perky radiology girl came back and announced that we'd be taking a couple of slides over again. One of them didn't show enough of the muscles behind my breasts. I can't remember what was wrong with the other slide. The next thing I knew, she was at that fucking hand crank again, chirping at me about how much she didn't want to hurt me. The woman missed her calling...she should definitely look into the possibility of being a dominatrix.
There was so much fun on this trip that I find I have to divide it into manageable portions. Remembering too much too quickly is clearly not in my emotional best interests. I'm having breast pain from the memory alone. Furthermore, now I have to completely recalculate how many days that idiot W. has been in office. Shit.
America held hostage day 1389
Bushism of the day:
"It's going to be very important for the Iraqi authorities to reach out to those people and talk about a system that guarantees minority rights, and a system which says that for some the future is bright."
—Bush, speaking in Washington, D.C., Dec. 15, 2003
Website of the day: Public Citizen Health Resources
http://www.citizen.org/hrg/links/index.cfm
For once, St. Augustine and I are in agreement. I went to the cancer center last week and was treated to the most intense physical pain I've ever experienced. Just having people manipulate your breasts and position your body in ways you otherwise thought impossible is difficult enough. I steel myself for the physical discomfort and emotional humiliation for my annual mammogram. I had no time to search for a bullet to chomp down on. I didn't even have any Jack Daniels on hand.
The first couple of slides were about what I expected, but then the perky radiology girl started twisting the hand crank. I wear a D cup bra...god help me. She managed to take all of that tissue and squish it down to about a quarter of an inch thick. "Let me know if it gets unbearable. We want to see everything, but we don't want to torture you," she said. She then decided that one of the breasts was incorrectly positioned, so she released the breast, had me lift up an arm, grab on to the other breast with the free hand and turned on the compression machine. (I have no idea what the actual name is, but this will do.) Then the dreaded hand crank. Once again, I was close to tears and I am not a crying kind of person. She proceeded to the right (unaffected) breast, found the threshold of exquisite pain and continued to crank. Having finished that, she said, "I'm going to let you have a little break while I go check with the doctor." I was feeling a bit more optimistic. I don't think I've ever had a mammogram that had to be redone immediately.
I did my best to cover as much of me as the flimsy little gown would allow. I sat down and waited to be released and sent on my way to the ultrasound test. Why I haven't come to realize that optimism is hardly ever rewarded is a mystery to me. I'm an upbeat kind of person. There's no way I could have survived my childhood without a remarkable ability to find the up side in virtually all situations. I'm steadfastly optimistic no matter what. The perky radiology girl came back and announced that we'd be taking a couple of slides over again. One of them didn't show enough of the muscles behind my breasts. I can't remember what was wrong with the other slide. The next thing I knew, she was at that fucking hand crank again, chirping at me about how much she didn't want to hurt me. The woman missed her calling...she should definitely look into the possibility of being a dominatrix.
There was so much fun on this trip that I find I have to divide it into manageable portions. Remembering too much too quickly is clearly not in my emotional best interests. I'm having breast pain from the memory alone. Furthermore, now I have to completely recalculate how many days that idiot W. has been in office. Shit.
America held hostage day 1389
Bushism of the day:
"It's going to be very important for the Iraqi authorities to reach out to those people and talk about a system that guarantees minority rights, and a system which says that for some the future is bright."
—Bush, speaking in Washington, D.C., Dec. 15, 2003
Website of the day: Public Citizen Health Resources
http://www.citizen.org/hrg/links/index.cfm
Thursday, July 14, 2005
I Caused a Minor Uproar at the Hospital
This will be just a breast cancer update. I thought I had all of the arrangements made to have surgery on the 21st. As I may have mentioned before, I don't live in the same city as the hospital where I'll be treated. I also have two dogs, one of which is diabetic and very, very moody. I began to get concerned this week that I'd heard nothing from them and the 21st is rapidly approaching. I have to have some lead time to make arrangements for everyone (especially the dogs). What to do?
I searched the website for clues as to the correct person to call. Silly me. No luck. I thought about calling Leslie, my original bcl, but I have a very significant dread of being a pest. I determined that I'd just have to figure it out for myself. That's a very comfortable conclusion that I frequenly come to in any number of situations. Having made that decision, I went back to the website with a renewed sense of purpose.
I found a section named "Information." That seemed as good a place as any to begin. I commented that I had a surgery date set, but no one had contacted me about it. The brochure they send you when you become a patient says that you will need to come at least a couple of days prior to surgery so that they can perform some tests. I told them that I need to have some time to set up accommodations for everyone. I thanked them for their help.
I finished that email at around 10:15. By the time I got home for lunch at 11:00, Leslie left a message on my home answering machine. In a testy tone of voice, she told me that she had received a copy of the email I sent to the Information folks. She pointed out that she had provided me with a callback number in case I had any questions.
When I got back to work, she had left the same message on my voice mail. Oh dear. I have once again caused an uproar. My first thought was that I had inadvertently created problems for Leslie by making her supervisors believe she hadn't done her job well. Aside from coughing frequently in my ear, Leslie has been very helpful, so I was anxious to correct my mistake. I called Leslie and began apologizing profusely. I offered to send additional apologetic emails to her supervisors. That was unnecessary, she said.
Leslie then informed me that the date I believed to be the surgery date is really just a consultation date. We will explore treatment options. Oh great. I have no idea if this is also the preliminary event they mention in their brochure that can last for several days. I don't even really care at this point. I would just like to do something. Today is not a good day. I've been consuming chocolate to help with mood elevation. I probably need to go get some now.
I searched the website for clues as to the correct person to call. Silly me. No luck. I thought about calling Leslie, my original bcl, but I have a very significant dread of being a pest. I determined that I'd just have to figure it out for myself. That's a very comfortable conclusion that I frequenly come to in any number of situations. Having made that decision, I went back to the website with a renewed sense of purpose.
I found a section named "Information." That seemed as good a place as any to begin. I commented that I had a surgery date set, but no one had contacted me about it. The brochure they send you when you become a patient says that you will need to come at least a couple of days prior to surgery so that they can perform some tests. I told them that I need to have some time to set up accommodations for everyone. I thanked them for their help.
I finished that email at around 10:15. By the time I got home for lunch at 11:00, Leslie left a message on my home answering machine. In a testy tone of voice, she told me that she had received a copy of the email I sent to the Information folks. She pointed out that she had provided me with a callback number in case I had any questions.
When I got back to work, she had left the same message on my voice mail. Oh dear. I have once again caused an uproar. My first thought was that I had inadvertently created problems for Leslie by making her supervisors believe she hadn't done her job well. Aside from coughing frequently in my ear, Leslie has been very helpful, so I was anxious to correct my mistake. I called Leslie and began apologizing profusely. I offered to send additional apologetic emails to her supervisors. That was unnecessary, she said.
Leslie then informed me that the date I believed to be the surgery date is really just a consultation date. We will explore treatment options. Oh great. I have no idea if this is also the preliminary event they mention in their brochure that can last for several days. I don't even really care at this point. I would just like to do something. Today is not a good day. I've been consuming chocolate to help with mood elevation. I probably need to go get some now.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Things Are At A Standstill
Still no word from my friends at The Best Cancer Hospital in the United States. (That's what they would have us believe, anyway.) I had to call my insurance company for another issue earlier today and they said no one from the BCH had called. Fabulous. My mother and one of my aquaintances here at work suggest that I need to call someone at BCH and light a fire under their lethargic asses (due to high temperatures and higher humidity levels, no doubt). I'm not enthusiastic about it because it's going to burn through hours of my precious free time. It will be an enormous hassle. I don't know...I like being in denial. I guess I'll make that decision tomorrow. Right now I have another problem.
I have an appointment in exactly an hour to check on the progress of my macular degeneration. God knows I've done everything I know to do to halt its growth. I've started eating five (yes, five!) fruits/vegetables per day. Most of them are high in the specific antioxidants that should control the degeneration. I take the vitamins they've told me to take. I quit smoking a year ago. Nonetheless, I'm reluctant to go because I am up to my eyebrows in bad news. I don't want any more bad news for a while. Is that so bad? No. I was hoping my insurance company would cause me to postpone the appontment but, for once, the insurance company is ready to pay.
Heck, just when you want them to be lazy fuck ups, they're not.
I have an appointment in exactly an hour to check on the progress of my macular degeneration. God knows I've done everything I know to do to halt its growth. I've started eating five (yes, five!) fruits/vegetables per day. Most of them are high in the specific antioxidants that should control the degeneration. I take the vitamins they've told me to take. I quit smoking a year ago. Nonetheless, I'm reluctant to go because I am up to my eyebrows in bad news. I don't want any more bad news for a while. Is that so bad? No. I was hoping my insurance company would cause me to postpone the appontment but, for once, the insurance company is ready to pay.
Heck, just when you want them to be lazy fuck ups, they're not.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Okay, Now I'm Anxious
"Independence I have long considered as the grand blessing of life, the basis of every virtue; and independence I will ever secure by contracting my wants, though I were to live on a barren heath." ~ Mary Wollenstonecraft Shelley
Thursday and Friday of last week were tough. There seemed to be a general pall over everything, but I couldn't pinpoint the cause. My therapist suggested that it might be the end result of ongoing high anxiety. Hmmm...I didn't feel anxious. Of course, the only time I feel anxious is when I have a cold lump in my stomach. Other than that, I'm pretty clueless. Take the Xanax, she said. So I have been. It makes me sleepy, though, so I'm not crazy about taking it. If I split the pill in half, that has absolutely no effect whatsoever on me.
Starting yesterday, even I could tell I'm anxious. I just want to get the whole surgery thing over with. It's not so much a thing about being afraid of the cancer or the operation itself. I have no idea what the anxiety is about. My mother says this is predictable and normal.
On Friday, my therapist pointed out once again that I'm pathologically independent. I really hate it when she says that, primarily because I have no idea what it really means. I've always taken great pride in my independent spirit. I think for myself. I try to be as self reliant as possible. We were discussing my dismay when I found out I might not be able to dress myself after the operation. That means I have to depend on someone, primarily Hubby. I hate that I hate that I hate that! This is where the pathological independence quote came in.
I've never had anyone I could rely on. Not my parents, certainly. Not my boyfriends. Not even Hubby. At my advanced age, I wouldn't think it likely that I'll be able to curb my independence. As if there would be someone around who could actually deal with me being less independent.
I took my last Xanax at 10:00 this morning and I'm still feeling like I could just nap sitting up. Fuck.
America held hostage day 1375
Bushism of the day:
"Well, I think we need to work with governments and institutions and NGOs to encourage the institutions of a free society," Bush said. "See, one of the interesting things in the Oval Office—I love to bring people into the Oval Office—right around the corner from here, and say, this is where I [have an] office, but I want you to know the office is always bigger than the person." —Bush, responding to a reporter's question about how he plans to accomplish U.S. goals in the Middle East
Source: Al Kamen, The Washington Post, "Rocking the Vote in the Middle East," Feb. 20, 2004
Website of the day: Center for Media and Democracy
http://www.prwatch.org/
Thursday and Friday of last week were tough. There seemed to be a general pall over everything, but I couldn't pinpoint the cause. My therapist suggested that it might be the end result of ongoing high anxiety. Hmmm...I didn't feel anxious. Of course, the only time I feel anxious is when I have a cold lump in my stomach. Other than that, I'm pretty clueless. Take the Xanax, she said. So I have been. It makes me sleepy, though, so I'm not crazy about taking it. If I split the pill in half, that has absolutely no effect whatsoever on me.
Starting yesterday, even I could tell I'm anxious. I just want to get the whole surgery thing over with. It's not so much a thing about being afraid of the cancer or the operation itself. I have no idea what the anxiety is about. My mother says this is predictable and normal.
On Friday, my therapist pointed out once again that I'm pathologically independent. I really hate it when she says that, primarily because I have no idea what it really means. I've always taken great pride in my independent spirit. I think for myself. I try to be as self reliant as possible. We were discussing my dismay when I found out I might not be able to dress myself after the operation. That means I have to depend on someone, primarily Hubby. I hate that I hate that I hate that! This is where the pathological independence quote came in.
I've never had anyone I could rely on. Not my parents, certainly. Not my boyfriends. Not even Hubby. At my advanced age, I wouldn't think it likely that I'll be able to curb my independence. As if there would be someone around who could actually deal with me being less independent.
I took my last Xanax at 10:00 this morning and I'm still feeling like I could just nap sitting up. Fuck.
America held hostage day 1375
Bushism of the day:
"Well, I think we need to work with governments and institutions and NGOs to encourage the institutions of a free society," Bush said. "See, one of the interesting things in the Oval Office—I love to bring people into the Oval Office—right around the corner from here, and say, this is where I [have an] office, but I want you to know the office is always bigger than the person." —Bush, responding to a reporter's question about how he plans to accomplish U.S. goals in the Middle East
Source: Al Kamen, The Washington Post, "Rocking the Vote in the Middle East," Feb. 20, 2004
Website of the day: Center for Media and Democracy
http://www.prwatch.org/
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Prince Albert in a Box
Perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princes who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave." ~ Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)
I've been sitting here for about the last two hours, reading other people's blogs and debating whether I should call Leslie. I talk myself into it then I talk myself out of it. I mean, if she had something to share, wouldn't she call? Seems pretty likely to me. On the other hand, this is driving me fucking crazy. I just need to know things are moving along. Okay. Okay. I'm calling. Now. Oh god, she answered the phone. I'm on hold now. I feel like a twelve year old making prank calls--maybe I should just ask if they have Prince Albert in a box and hang up.
Oh excellent. She's made me an appointment for July 21. She's requested a lot of shit that I thought she already had, like my pathology report and the ultrasound. She sent my file to financial to make sure somebody's going to be willing to pay for all of this. I'm guessing they'll call promptly if they discover that I need to ante up. I don't anticipate a problem, though. All of the other breast cancer bills have been paid promptly. I also received a hefty check from my friends at AFLAC. It's just a little bonus payment for those of us who have a cancer policy who then actually get cancer. Woo-hoo! Party time! I think the extra cash from that policy may ensure that I won't have to amass enough debt that it'll take till I'm 70 to pay for everything.
My big question is, if Leslie has already done all of that, why hasn't Leslie decided to keep me posted on the progress? How annoying. I could have been sitting around waiting for her to call until...what?...the 20th? Hey, lady! I have breast cancer! I need answers. I need reassurance. Is everyone else just fine and dandy with waiting around not knowing what's going on? Just more evidence of the decline of customer service standards.
One more bit of good news...no chemo. Yay!!!!! I thought that was likely, but it's so nice to hear it from someone who actually knows.
On the other hand, I've been down all day today. I thought I would feel better once I got some definitive information. No. I'm still feeling like I have about ten pounds of lead located somewhere in the center of my chest. Fuck.
I'd planned to do more yoga tonight. Last night's tape was "Pure Tranquility." It might lead to tranquility someday, but today I feel like I've been run over by a truck. Tonight I'm planning on doing a more aerobics-oriented series. Maybe I'll be able to climb the stairs tomorrow, maybe not.
I'm thinking of breaking with tradition and dressing up tomorrow. Everyone else here honors the casual Friday rule. As a matter of fact, it's a little like a requirement, not just here, but everywhere in America. I don't care. I never let a little thing like other people's expectations prevent me from doing anything I please. I just have this serious need to feel pretty. Beats the hell out of me. I guess it's the knowledge that I won't be so pretty soon. It will be quite some time before I'll be able to wear any cute dresses. I'm going to have some difficulty getting dressed after the operation. I don't want to think about that right now.
America held hostage day 1372
Bushism of the day:
"I'm honored to shake the hand of a brave Iraqi citizen who had his hand cut off by Saddam Hussein." —Bush, meeting with Iraqi citizens who received medical care in the U.S., May 25, 2004
Website of the day: G8 Information Center
http://www.g7.utoronto.ca/
I've been sitting here for about the last two hours, reading other people's blogs and debating whether I should call Leslie. I talk myself into it then I talk myself out of it. I mean, if she had something to share, wouldn't she call? Seems pretty likely to me. On the other hand, this is driving me fucking crazy. I just need to know things are moving along. Okay. Okay. I'm calling. Now. Oh god, she answered the phone. I'm on hold now. I feel like a twelve year old making prank calls--maybe I should just ask if they have Prince Albert in a box and hang up.
Oh excellent. She's made me an appointment for July 21. She's requested a lot of shit that I thought she already had, like my pathology report and the ultrasound. She sent my file to financial to make sure somebody's going to be willing to pay for all of this. I'm guessing they'll call promptly if they discover that I need to ante up. I don't anticipate a problem, though. All of the other breast cancer bills have been paid promptly. I also received a hefty check from my friends at AFLAC. It's just a little bonus payment for those of us who have a cancer policy who then actually get cancer. Woo-hoo! Party time! I think the extra cash from that policy may ensure that I won't have to amass enough debt that it'll take till I'm 70 to pay for everything.
My big question is, if Leslie has already done all of that, why hasn't Leslie decided to keep me posted on the progress? How annoying. I could have been sitting around waiting for her to call until...what?...the 20th? Hey, lady! I have breast cancer! I need answers. I need reassurance. Is everyone else just fine and dandy with waiting around not knowing what's going on? Just more evidence of the decline of customer service standards.
One more bit of good news...no chemo. Yay!!!!! I thought that was likely, but it's so nice to hear it from someone who actually knows.
On the other hand, I've been down all day today. I thought I would feel better once I got some definitive information. No. I'm still feeling like I have about ten pounds of lead located somewhere in the center of my chest. Fuck.
I'd planned to do more yoga tonight. Last night's tape was "Pure Tranquility." It might lead to tranquility someday, but today I feel like I've been run over by a truck. Tonight I'm planning on doing a more aerobics-oriented series. Maybe I'll be able to climb the stairs tomorrow, maybe not.
I'm thinking of breaking with tradition and dressing up tomorrow. Everyone else here honors the casual Friday rule. As a matter of fact, it's a little like a requirement, not just here, but everywhere in America. I don't care. I never let a little thing like other people's expectations prevent me from doing anything I please. I just have this serious need to feel pretty. Beats the hell out of me. I guess it's the knowledge that I won't be so pretty soon. It will be quite some time before I'll be able to wear any cute dresses. I'm going to have some difficulty getting dressed after the operation. I don't want to think about that right now.
America held hostage day 1372
Bushism of the day:
"I'm honored to shake the hand of a brave Iraqi citizen who had his hand cut off by Saddam Hussein." —Bush, meeting with Iraqi citizens who received medical care in the U.S., May 25, 2004
Website of the day: G8 Information Center
http://www.g7.utoronto.ca/
Leslie BCL leaves me hanging
No word from Leslie, my official Breast Cancer Liaison. It's beginning to make me a little nervous. What reasons could there be for not calling? My co-worker reminds me that my situation isn't as pressing for them as it is for me. Why don't I find that comforting?
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Week Three: More Decisions
"I observe the physician with the same diligence as he the disease." ~ John Donne
I was on vacation last week, so I spent the bulk of it trying to learn as much as possible about breast cancer. I determined that the type I have accounts for only one to two percent of breast cancer diagnoses. It is invasive, but doesn't tend to metastasize. It grows slowly. I also have some pre-cancerous tissue, but I'm not any clearer about that than I was at the beginning of last week.
I decided to try to get treatment at one of the best cancer treatment facilities in the country. As soon as I made that decision, I started to wonder why I thought my situation warranted it. Even though I banished the thought, it's continued to nag at me from time to time. I guess the fact that it's a fairly rare form of breast cancer was a huge deciding factor. I think that if my dad had gotten better treatment of his prostate cancer at the beginning, maybe he'd still be alive now. (Well, maybe not.) The surgeon who did the stereotactic biopsy told me he felt "comfortable" performing the surgery and that he'd be happy to refer me to an oncologist. He said the oncologist would only be able to hazard a guess about treatment until the surgery was performed. Ditto with the radiologist.
While he talked to me about my diagnosis and the options, he kept checking his pager every 5 seconds. The entire lecture (it was most assuredly not a conversation) lasted about five minutes. You know, when you're going to tell someone they have breast cancer and need to have surgery, it might be good to clear your schedule a bit. He asked me if I had any questions, but I was still trying to process the meaning of the diagnosis even after he left the room. Breast cancer. You have to let it sink in a bit, because the brain shuts down temporarily. His nurse came in a couple of seconds after he left. She was obviously concerned about my state of mind and reminded me that many women survive breast cancer now. She offered to talk with me if I needed to talk.
I didn't need to talk because I was too dazed. I went to the surgeon's office by myself, because I wasn't all that concerned about the results of the stereotactic mammogram. I don't suppose it really mattered because, whether or not I had someone with me, I would have been alone, anyway. By the time I walked out of the clinic door into the parking lot, my life had already permanently changed. It's one of the few moments in life when there's a little click in your head and you know, without a doubt, nothing will ever be the same. That's about all that I knew, but that was enough. And I knew I was alone.
All in all, the surgeon didn't inspire a lot of confidence in me. Even if I could be certain he would be a competent surgeon, the five minute lecture didn't bode well for our relationship. I'm not fond of male doctors, especially those who lecture me instead of actually engaging with me as a human being. I am not just a piece of meat that you're going to cut on, buddy.
He told me that I need to make a decision about the surgery soon. He gave me four weeks to come up with a plan. I decided almost immediately that I don't want him to do the surgery.
Aside from the rarity of the type of cancer, the other issue that is very troubling is the the lymph node biopsy, which will be performed at the same time as the cancerous tissue is removed. I've learned that there are far-reaching ramifications if it isn't performed properly. Having an experienced surgeon doesn't guarantee anything, but at least I'll have a better chance of success.
I got considerably more anxious as I attempted to set up appointments and get my medical information ready for M.D. Anderson. My therapist keeps telling me to just take some Xanax. Actually, so does my psychiatrist. Sometimes I take it, sometimes I just try to manage it through conscious breathing. I've started doing yoga more instead of my usual aerobics and weight training.
My hubby cries from time to time. I am as comforting as I can manage at any given time. He started crying last week and I suddenly started wondering if he knew something about my cancer that I don't know. Well of course he doesn't. In the early stages of assimilating the information about my disease, I'm a little paranoid because I'm very frightened.
Cancer is a participatory event, I've found. Everyone who knows about it wants to offer advice or they just really, really want to talk about it. I'm mindful of their caring, but sometimes I don't want to talk about it. I don't need anyone's advice...unless they've had breast cancer, too. They want to cheer me up. All of that is just exhausting. I have to deal with my own ongoing anxiety, verging on panic. I have to summon the energy, concentration and organizational skills needed just to get me through the preliminary steps of arranging for medical care.I don't have any extra energy to engage with everyone who wishes to talk with me about it.
To top it all off, my huskie, Miss Woo, has been terrified for three days now because of fireworks going off in my neighborhood. (We haven't had any rain for 29 days now and the temperature has been hovering in the upper 90's. These people are lunatics.) She's been keeping me awake every night and the lack of sleep isn't doing much good for my emotional stability.
Tonight I hope to do some yoga and get a full night's sleep. We'll see....
I was on vacation last week, so I spent the bulk of it trying to learn as much as possible about breast cancer. I determined that the type I have accounts for only one to two percent of breast cancer diagnoses. It is invasive, but doesn't tend to metastasize. It grows slowly. I also have some pre-cancerous tissue, but I'm not any clearer about that than I was at the beginning of last week.
I decided to try to get treatment at one of the best cancer treatment facilities in the country. As soon as I made that decision, I started to wonder why I thought my situation warranted it. Even though I banished the thought, it's continued to nag at me from time to time. I guess the fact that it's a fairly rare form of breast cancer was a huge deciding factor. I think that if my dad had gotten better treatment of his prostate cancer at the beginning, maybe he'd still be alive now. (Well, maybe not.) The surgeon who did the stereotactic biopsy told me he felt "comfortable" performing the surgery and that he'd be happy to refer me to an oncologist. He said the oncologist would only be able to hazard a guess about treatment until the surgery was performed. Ditto with the radiologist.
While he talked to me about my diagnosis and the options, he kept checking his pager every 5 seconds. The entire lecture (it was most assuredly not a conversation) lasted about five minutes. You know, when you're going to tell someone they have breast cancer and need to have surgery, it might be good to clear your schedule a bit. He asked me if I had any questions, but I was still trying to process the meaning of the diagnosis even after he left the room. Breast cancer. You have to let it sink in a bit, because the brain shuts down temporarily. His nurse came in a couple of seconds after he left. She was obviously concerned about my state of mind and reminded me that many women survive breast cancer now. She offered to talk with me if I needed to talk.
I didn't need to talk because I was too dazed. I went to the surgeon's office by myself, because I wasn't all that concerned about the results of the stereotactic mammogram. I don't suppose it really mattered because, whether or not I had someone with me, I would have been alone, anyway. By the time I walked out of the clinic door into the parking lot, my life had already permanently changed. It's one of the few moments in life when there's a little click in your head and you know, without a doubt, nothing will ever be the same. That's about all that I knew, but that was enough. And I knew I was alone.
All in all, the surgeon didn't inspire a lot of confidence in me. Even if I could be certain he would be a competent surgeon, the five minute lecture didn't bode well for our relationship. I'm not fond of male doctors, especially those who lecture me instead of actually engaging with me as a human being. I am not just a piece of meat that you're going to cut on, buddy.
He told me that I need to make a decision about the surgery soon. He gave me four weeks to come up with a plan. I decided almost immediately that I don't want him to do the surgery.
Aside from the rarity of the type of cancer, the other issue that is very troubling is the the lymph node biopsy, which will be performed at the same time as the cancerous tissue is removed. I've learned that there are far-reaching ramifications if it isn't performed properly. Having an experienced surgeon doesn't guarantee anything, but at least I'll have a better chance of success.
I got considerably more anxious as I attempted to set up appointments and get my medical information ready for M.D. Anderson. My therapist keeps telling me to just take some Xanax. Actually, so does my psychiatrist. Sometimes I take it, sometimes I just try to manage it through conscious breathing. I've started doing yoga more instead of my usual aerobics and weight training.
My hubby cries from time to time. I am as comforting as I can manage at any given time. He started crying last week and I suddenly started wondering if he knew something about my cancer that I don't know. Well of course he doesn't. In the early stages of assimilating the information about my disease, I'm a little paranoid because I'm very frightened.
Cancer is a participatory event, I've found. Everyone who knows about it wants to offer advice or they just really, really want to talk about it. I'm mindful of their caring, but sometimes I don't want to talk about it. I don't need anyone's advice...unless they've had breast cancer, too. They want to cheer me up. All of that is just exhausting. I have to deal with my own ongoing anxiety, verging on panic. I have to summon the energy, concentration and organizational skills needed just to get me through the preliminary steps of arranging for medical care.I don't have any extra energy to engage with everyone who wishes to talk with me about it.
To top it all off, my huskie, Miss Woo, has been terrified for three days now because of fireworks going off in my neighborhood. (We haven't had any rain for 29 days now and the temperature has been hovering in the upper 90's. These people are lunatics.) She's been keeping me awake every night and the lack of sleep isn't doing much good for my emotional stability.
Tonight I hope to do some yoga and get a full night's sleep. We'll see....
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