The Good News

I'm actually wearing a real bra today. Not my little velcro fastened-in-the-front breast vest thingy. Better yet, you can not tell the difference between the girls. That's right--we've moved on from "breast stump" to just one of the girls.

I'm not sure that this is necessarily good news, but I'm increasing my work schedule to five hours this week. I'll just have to see how close I am to crawling out to my BarneyRubblecar before I make a firm decision for all five days. Ultimately, the body's needs will take precedence over my need to get back to a regular schedule. Even if that means staying longer every day in Crazy Land.

I'm also going to try to start a very low-key yoga practice. I haven't done anything physical since my recent surgery. I think yoga will help me to learn how to stand up straight again. It also adds to my range of motion for my arm. Someday soon, I'll be back to cardio workouts and weight training. That will most certainly not be this month or next month. Soon, though.

Elizabeth Edwards

Regarding Elizabeth Edwards, I saw the Sixty Minutes interview and I'd be lying if I didn't say it made me uneasy. I don't like to think about metastasis or recurrence. Unfortunately, people tend to bring it up fairly regularly, so I don't get to completely put it out of my mind. Watching that interview was a gesture of solidarity; I thought it might be uplifting. It wasn't uplifting.

As for the continuation of the Presidential campaign, we all deal with this however we can. She can deal with it by campaigning and continuing on with her normal life as much as is possible. It seems likely to me that there will be some days (maybe many) when treatment will completely exhaust her ability to cope.

Would I do the same thing? Probably not, simply because I'm not strong enough to push myself forward while undergoing chemotherapy. I wasn't before and there's no reason to believe that I've changed in that regard.

I got an email on Friday from owner of Crazy Company railing against the decision. As for me, judging her or her husband is really none of my business. We deal with cancer (as with all life trauma) however we can, we get through treatment however we can. Sometimes you don't know how you'll cope, but eventually you just do it. Elizabeth Edwards is going to cope by getting on with life.

The End of Chemo Anniversary

"I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next." ~ Gilda Radner

I've been catching up with blog friends I haven't been able to read lately. I need to stop for a moment to talk about yesterday. It was a bad, bad day and it took me until late in the afternoon to realize it. Realization should have started when my mom told me a couple of times early in the day to stop beating up on myself.

On the way home, she was talking about the 4th of July and it immediately reminded me that July 6, 2006 was my last day of radiation. Then I recalled that March 28 was my last chemo day. But then I wasn't sure...was it March 26 or March 28? I became obsessed (oh yeah, I never do that ) with verifying the date. Around 7;00 p.m. last night, I finally managed to find some written evidence that the date was correct.

Then it suddenly hit me. A year. As someone on my breast cancer message board told me, I've been through a lot. It made for a sad and somber evening. It's okay...just a part of coming to terms with it all. I allowed myself to grieve for the relinquishment of wholeness. I remembered it all. The diagnosis--in three stages. The mastectomy. The chemo. The radiation. It was all unbearable, so I chose not to bear it.

I haven't only changed physically. I know now, with complete certainty, that I can get through anything. Maybe my father's suicide should have enlightened me on my transcendent abilities. Now I know. It seems to have created a greater reserve in myself, a distancing from the hard events of life. I am invioable.

It seems I've permanently retreated into myself to shield myself against misfortune and pain. That doesn't mean I'm emotionally unreachable; as a matter of fact, I may be more open to love (in a general, nonspecific way) than ever before. I can survive love and loss. That knowledge liberates me, but it leaves me with an openness to love primarily on a non-specific basis. I have good will towards everyone. Close personal relationships seem even more unreachable. If you care about everyone equally, do you really care about no one? I don't think so. I hope not.

How have I changed? How have I changed? It's a question that's rather haunting and not fully answered still. There's a lot more grieving to be done, a lot more suffering to be worked through. I can survive it, though. I can survive anything.

I Don't Care

I used to care how I looked. I mean, really care. If the humidity was high, I devoted untold amounts of time to getting that very annoying little wave out of the top front of my head. It was very stupid looking, especially since the rest of my hair was fine and, though a little wavy, primarily straight. It would bother me all day long. Every time I glanced at myself in a mirror or reflection in a window, I would immediately set to bending my hair into submission. It never really worked.

When I found out that I was going to have to have chemotherapy, the very first thing I thought was, "no hair.' It was traumatic. Everyone kept reassuring me that it would grow back. That didn't exactly make me feel any better. Then there were sores inside my mouth that made it excruciating to eat anything, even frozen yogurt. There were hideous and painful sores on my hands. My personality virtually disappeared into the constant, all-over pain.

After my mastectomy, it was hard to feel good about my body. Harder still with sores, that classic moon face from the steroids, the extra 15 pounds I gained (also from the steroids), and losing absolutely all of the hair on my body. I started to look at myself only from the neck up. On most days, it was tough to even do that. That was okay, though. I needed all of the energy I could muster just to have the will to go on with the treatments.

By the time I got to radiation, I didn't care so much about the hair. I stopped wearing my wig, wore a ball cap for a while (a tasteful pink Phoenix Suns cap) and, after a while, just went bare-headed. I'd gotten some of my hair back by then and I consoled my co-workers (who were a little nervous about how to deal with mostly bald Ggirl) by telling them, "You'll get used to it. I did." I said it cheerfully.

I started to lose weight when I began radiation and got back to my old pre-steroid size. I got a breast prosthesis that didn't surreptitiously migrate up towards my neck when I wasn't looking. My eyebrows came back. My hair came back, darker and curly.

But I just don't care anymore. If my hair isn't looking good, I go with that. It is, after all, hair. It's completely unruly and I'm good with that. I don't wear makeup. Like after my dad's suicide, I just don't have the energy for it. I can come to work, barefaced, or I can stay home with makeup on. I don't care what I wear. I have this post-reconstruction vest-like bra that's impossible to wear with most of my clothes. My breasts aren't yet symmetrical. I don't care.

One of my co-workers came into my office today and told me she thought my hair is cute today, liked my (turquoise) necklace and heart-shaped earrings. I looked at her blankly. Can't you see I don't care anymore? I know people are trying to be nice when they compliment me. They tell me I look pretty. It's a pity compliment, though. I've got breast cancer, but it did not make me stupid. I say thanks, because that's what one is supposed to do when complimented.

I don't think I was a shallow person before. Caring about how I looked was just part of my whole gotta-be-perfect take on the world. I look at myself in the mirror now and wonder where my pre-breast cancer prettiness went. Then I remember that I just don't care.

Dreams of Working Out

I bought three new workout dvds this week. Two of them were Denise Austin videos and one was a yoga video. Oh how it makes me long to get back to working out. Sometimes I even start to believe that, after I leave work, I can go home and at least do some yoga. On my drive home, I always realize I'm not strong enough yet.

I'm still only working three hours a day, at most. I go home and have to lie down for about half an hour or so. That's a new development this week. Usually I just park my butt on the sofa and rest there, but this week has been taking a toll. I get that massive fatigue thing that makes my back, arms and legs ache.

I have been busier this week at work. I answered the phone for a couple of hours one day, since I was the only person here. I've also done some proofreading and updating the database I created. The big energy drain, though, was having to talk with co-workers. That takes enormous energy. I've already spent about an hour this morning, listening to a co-worker. He was funny, but I'm not sure it was humorous enough to justify the energy drain.

One of my colleagues just called to request a database revision. It's good to be needed.

Dealing with the Aftermath

"Grief is depression in proportion to circumstance; depression is grief out of proportion to circumstance. It is tumbleweed distress that thrives on thin air, growing despite its detachment from the nourishing earth. It can be described only in metaphor and allegory...Grief is a humble angel who leaves you with strong, clear thoughts and a sense of your own depth. Depression is a demon who leaves you appalled." ~ Andrew Solomon, The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression

I saw my psychiatrist yesterday, just to check in with how I'm doing. I came away with a new antidepressant. Good news, bad news. I knew that something had to be done. I've been having significant symptoms of depression since my surgery, though I don't cry as much as I did the first five weeks. I've been unable to concentrate, not interested in food, sad, tired. I've lost about ten pounds since before the surgery. I'm still in some pain and I think that I tend to cry when I'm in that part of the day (after 11:00 a.m.).

On the other hand, my goal is to decrease the amount of medication that I'm on. I will probably never be able to completely stop taking antidepressants. The years and years of repeated, intense trauma have left an indelible mark. There's a genetic tendency for depression in my dad's family. Well, there's a genetic predisposition for just plain crazy in my dad's family.

I'm okay with that. I'd just like to not have a handful of pills to take every day. That won't be happening for a while yet. I just have to work on taking care of myself, physically and emotionally. I have to continue to eat, whether or not I feel like it.

I haven't felt like eating in a very long time. My doctor asked me if there was some way to make food more palatable. The answer is no. I may be hungry and I may be having something I generally like, but once it's in front of me, I completely lose interest. I can't continue to lose weight.

All of these drugs take a toll on my budget, too. To quote another Texas girl, "It's expensive being me." In so many ways.

Not So Helpful Anymore

I had a dentist appointment yesterday afternoon and I have an appointment scheduled with my psychiatrist for Monday morning. I'm so tired of seeing doctors. After these appointments, I won't have another until April 17, when I'll go back to see my plastic surgeon. My oncologist is in May and my oncology surgeon is in June. It would be great if I could get all of these appointments jammed in together in one week just to reduce the travel time, but that doesn't seem to be possible.

Recovery is going well. I'm almost all healed in both areas. The tummy incision is still healing on the inside, so I still have to be cautious about what I do. I'm still having some pain, but it's very bearable. My depression seems to be lifting. I'm persevering in trying to crawl out of the deep, dark hole into a slightly sunnier hole.

I had a conversation this morning with a co-worker who's having some pain issues about how I've dealt with all of this, physically and emotionally. Without using the name, I told him that I practiced mindfulness meditation and that helped me get through most of the past year and a half.

Paying close attention to physical and emotional states definitely helped me get through the frequent panic attacks after diagnosis. It was also useful during chemo and radiation therapy. "This is what it feels like..." experience skin, muscles and bones one tiny bit at a time, inch by inch. Rejecting the physical and emotional agony only makes things worse, because there is, after all, no escape.

"I don't see how that helps," he said.

I told him I don't know how it helps, either. It's a paradox. We all have to find our own way of dealing with intense, ongoing physical and/or psychological pain. It's not magic, unfortunately. I try to stay focused on the moment at hand. Even if it's a really crappy moment. I have to confess, though, that the week after my reconstruction surgery was not spent in the moment.

A couple of years ago after a conversation like this, I would have scurried off to find on the web some techniques for coping with pain and sent my co-worker the urls. I'm just not that helpful anymore. This co-worker would like a panacea that requires no work on his part and I think that, if he can't put some effort into it, neither can I.

I don't think I'd now offer help under any circumstances. Sometimes you have to know when to take care of yourself. Sometimes that takes all the physical and emotional energy you can muster.

Getting Better All the Time

Things are looking up. It's a warm, sunny day and I just completed a project that has been making me crazy for about a week now. One of our clients requested some information that...oops...we don't keep track of it that way. Our software won't allow us to keep track of it in the format they need. I've been pleading with my co-workers, beating my head against the wall, being generally frustrated and stressed about the whole thing. Finally, I gave them a reasonable facsimile of the type of data they requested. I've now washed my hands of the whole matter. It's tough to have to be back at work, but it's a whole lot better than losing my job because I'm never here.

I just started a new book, Touching the Void. It speaks to my need to find people who've overcome tremendous odds. Their struggles make my own difficulties seem small in comparison. My most recent inspiration came from a program I watched on The Learning Channel about a woman who was born with tiny little legs and no arms. She became pregnant accidentally. It chronicled her journey through pregnancy and the birth of her son. She's tough, determined and a very loving mom. When I told her about it, my therapist tactfully pointed out the extremes to which I have to go in order to find bigger hardships than those I've faced all of my life, and that I continue to battle.

My emotional state has improved a lot. I'm able to crawl out of my black hole into a slightly smaller one and stop being so depressed and miserable. You know how I hate that feeling sad thing. I'm sure I'll revisit it, many times, but I'm grateful for the break. I'm now trying to re-learn how to stand up straight. If I could start doing yoga again, it would help tremendously, but my energy level is miniscule. Speaking of which, time to go lie down for a while.

Doppler Radar

Right after breast reconstruction surgery, there's a significant danger that the breast tissue will die because of insufficient blood circulation. That can happen because one of the micro surgically stitched veins has come apart. Should that occur, you have to go back to surgery immediately to repair the problem.

The way they checked to make sure the tissue was still living was by using Doppler radar. Isn't that astounding? I don't understand how it works, but the nurses came around about every half hour for a while and moved a little hand-held device over the new breast stump.

There was a lot of static, but when they figured out the right places to check, there would be a sound a little reminiscent of a heart beat. It was incredibly noisy and the nurses always had trouble finding the places to check, even though my surgeon had marked them with x's with his handy Sharpie.

I'm just astounded that anyone even thought of using radar to check on the quality of transplanted tissue. After the first 24 hours or so, they didn't need to use it anymore. The doctors and nurses could tell the tissue was still living by touch.

Welcome to my World

Hubby and I seem to be in the midst of a disagreement. I say "seem to be" because I'm not angry with him, but he left yesterday without a hug and didn't call me as he usually does at lunchtime. I'm alternately hurt and infuriated. Of course, those tend to be my predominant emotions all the time, so I guess it's just business as usual for me.

Hubby has a new job that started last Monday. He had a previously scheduled performance responsibility on Saturday, so he went in late to work on Friday. I think it was about an hour and a half. The performance went well, by all accounts. I couldn't go because I'm still in daily pain and I get worn out very quickly. My stepson came to town for the performance and they spent some time running around together. Stepson came by to spend about an hour with me. But I digress.

Hubby mentioned over the weekend that he thought he was getting a cold. Monday, he went to work as usual. On Tuesday, as he walked through the living room sniffling, he told me that if he wasn't feeling better in a couple of hours, he was going to call in sick. "I'll just knock this thing (the cold) out," he said. I was feeling optimistic and didn't take the comment too seriously.

I went to work and, when I got back, I went upstairs to see how he was feeling. There he was, lying in bed without a stitch clothing on, huddled up under the blankets. "I have a little temperature. I'm not going in today. I already called my manager." I turned around and walked out of the room. They're in the middle of training and last week, he called to tell me he didn't think he could get the system. That's excellent. Perfect time to take to the bed.

Around 4:00 (when he should have just gotten to work), I went upstairs, told him my mom was going to the grocery store and asked if he needed soup. Hubby requested chicken noodle. I just couldn't stand it. I told him that I was very unhappy that he was staying home. I pointed out that I've worked through chemo, radiation and I'm beginning to transition back to full time after my reconstruction surgery. I went back downstairs, my mom left to go to the grocery store and then I heard the water in the bathroom running. He took a bath, got dressed and left without even making a sandwich. I'm pretty sure I was supposed to feel badly about this.

Yesterday, I asked him how he was feeling and he said "bad." Note that he did not ask me how I was feeling. Later, he was at the computer and I went over to rub his shoulders. I mentioned that I have a bit of a sore throat, too.

As he was getting his stuff together, I got some tiny packs of Kleenex and dropped them in his brief case when he was out of the room. He got ready, and said, "I'll see you tomorrow," as he walked out the door. As I noted before, I was alternately infuriated and heartbroken. I keep trying to stay with that angry thing, because I think that's probably the saner reaction. He clearly doesn't understand that grown up boys and girls have to go to work when they're a little sick. If they have the flu, they get to stay home, but for a cold or hay fever? No. Apparently I'm a bitch for pointing this out to him in the nicest way I could. Trust me when I tell you I could have been brutal when I found him holed up in bed.

I'm not sure whether he just thinks I'm angry and isn't interacting because of that. I was friendly and concilliatory, though, so I doubt that's the case. I considered writing him a note and leaving it on the kitchen counter, asking if he's angry with me. I vetoed that thought every time it came up last night. Or I could just leave a note that says: "Hate your job? Bored? Not feeling well? Welcome to my world."

It's Alive!

I'm back at work today! Yes indeed, boys and girls, I am sitting here with cable access, being annoyed by a co-worker. It just doesn't get any better than this. I came in yesterday, too, but for only one hour. I expect to be here an hour again today, but at least I'm out of the house and attempting to be productive.

One of my co-workers needs me to fill out a form for a client's safety department in order for us to be an approved provider. I attempted to open the file and couldn't because it's corrupted. I called her (she's downstairs and I just can't do the trek) and asked her if she could print it out. Silence. I'm waiting, waiting, waiting. Silence. She doesn't know if she can open it. Silence. I have no idea what she thinks I can do about this. Finally, she says that she'll try to open it, but if she can't she'll have to forward it to the IT guy to open it. Being productive has its down sides.

It's a Marathon, Not a Sprint

Sometime early in my treatment for breast cancer, I saw an M.D. Anderson oncologist who had been diagnosed himself with a rare type of cancer. He said, "Cancer is a marathon, not a sprint." "Oh yeah," I thought. "Of course it is." I knew I'd be having a mastectomy, several months of chemotherapy and a course of radiation treatment. Seemed like a marathon to me, but a marathon I was steeling myself to get through. I thought I had gotten through it.

It wasn't until the reconstruction surgery that I really hit the wall in the marathon. Forcing myself to go on requires more strength than I think I have on any given day. I just sort of wander through life in a daze, focused on pain. I sit on the sofa. I lie down on the bed. I sit on the sofa some more. This takes stamina. It takes stamina to continue to feel the pain and not be able to crawl out of your own skin. If I could just take a break from my body, I could get back to the suffering with renewed spirit.

The people in my life tell me that it's no surprise to them that I'm feeling this way. I guess what I'd truly like is for someone to say something that will make this all more bearable. Telling me they're not surprised isn't it. I'm surprised. I thought I had endless stores of patience and stamina to call upon. I've been practicing for this all of my life, really. Unfortunately, it turns out that I didn't have quite enough practice, after all.

The sun is shining here today. That's something good. I still have hair. That's pretty good, too. Ditto the new breast stump. Every day I look for things to be grateful for and every day I can find quite a few. Sadly, after I've counted them and ruminated on them, I find myself back where I started. I've hit the wall and there's at least another ten miles to go.

A Tall Order

I'm braving the torment of slow dial up connection again. I need to get back to work if for no other reason than slow-loading pages drive me insane. Thank you thank you to everyone who sent good wishes! I can't tell you how much it means to me. My Good Boy is eating a little more now, so I'm a tiny bit less worried. Last night the temperature was down into the 20's. I know that compared to other parts of the U.S. that's balmy weather, but for stick thin feral kitties, it makes for a very cold night.

I got out yesterday to go to therapy and, by the time I got back, I felt like someone had taken sandpaper and rubbed the insides of my stomach. After I took some pain medication, it felt like the sandpaper was a finer grit. The pain never goes away completely and, considering the enormity of the surgery, that's to be expected. I have a high threshold for pain, so I'm mindful of how lucky I am in that regard. I'm healing well, also. My surgeon was really pleased with my progress. (I say this like I have anything whatsoever to do with it.)

My husband has a performance tonight, so he's been rushing around all week. Rehearsals and work (yay for a job!) have kept him really busy. We haven't had time to talk much. My stepson will be in town later today. He and his girlfriend are staying at a hotel, so I probably won't see them today. I was going to try to go to the performance tonight, but that wouldn't be a good idea, I know.

My stepson is drinking far too much. When my husband talked to him on Wednesday, Stepson was at a bar for last call. He was with his girlfriend and a former band mate who's had some very serious addiction issues of his own. I know he had a heroin habit for a while and I think he abused some other types of drugs but I can't remember what they were. I'm very distressed about this situation.

I'm angry with my stepson. He doesn't have a job, but he's at a bar getting absolutely hammered. Hubby said Stepson kept saying the same things over and over. Hubby is a little annoyed, too, it seems. I'm just always terrified that Stepson is going to go home, pass out and aspirate his own vomit. He could die very easily. Even if that doesn't happen, he's killing himself slowly with the damage he's doing to his body. Stepson still thinks of himself as a "kid," but he's pushing 40 now. He needs to pull himself together and get on with things. Get a full time, steady job. Get some training so that he can actually support himself.

I'm so physically and emotionally vulnerable right now that I really have to work at not getting into a codependent relationship with him. I constantly remind myself that this, like so many other things in my life, is not within my control. Most likely he's just going to have to find his personal bottom in order to be motivated to quit.

His mom is going to move back to the same city sometime in the near future and I'm hoping she can keep an eye on him. Unfortunately, she has her own alcohol and drug issues. So there you are. I guess the lesson I'm learning now is the same one I've been learning ever since I was diagnosed--I'm not in control here. The other lesson is that sometimes I have to put myself first. Right now I have no choice. It's a hard lesson to learn, but I suppose I'm going to have to keep on learning it until I get it. I'm trying to stay open to whatever gifts may come from this ordeal. Sometimes that's a tall order.

Take a Deep Breath and Go On

On Monday, I had four drainage tubes removed. It's amazing how much better I feel without five inches of plastic tubing stuck into my body in four places.

When I finally went over to my office after the ice storm, I found my wild, gold Good Boy looking very emaciated. He's my favorite kitty. We've known each other for over 10 years now and, though he likes to leave the comfort and security of a guaranteed meal to roam wild across the street at the former airport. He was gone all summer and when he came home, he was a skinny guy. He always loses weight during his wild times, but this year he hasn't been able to gain the weight back. I think he probably either has parasites or feline leukemia. Maybe both. The ice storm was hard for him and I can tell he's not well. I've cried about it every day for three weeks now. Yesterday, I tried to capture him so I could take him to a vet, but he got away from me. It was heartbreaking. He's always been able to trust me and to count on me. I'm sure he felt betrayed. I was afraid he'd leave and never come back, but I went back late yesterday afternoon and there he was. He let me pet him a little. I worry that the struggle to get away from me cost him precious energy he needs to survive.

The nature of life is suffering. Eventually, we all become ill, we all get hurt, we all lose everyone and everything we love. Love requires us to open wide our hearts to this suffering and embrace it, time and time again. I'm willing to walk through the pain in order to receive the blessings of love. This is one of those times when love will be painful. Over the past year and a half, I've learned to let go of the illusion of control. Whatever happens to me is God's will and my job is to get with that program. I can do that. I do that every day. It's not so easy to do it when it involves someone I love. I won't be able to protect my Good Boy from pain, from the cold that's coming this weekend. I'll do what I can to create a place for him, but none of this is truly within my control. I'm so, so sad.

Aside from that, I'm still in a lot of physical pain. My absence here has less to do with the pain than the fact that I don't have the luxury of cable access. I just waited a good five minutes for this page to load. I am not, by nature, a patient woman. This surgery has been the most difficult part of my treatment. I feel well enough to struggle with my physical limitations. I can't do very much for fear of tearing the stitches that hold my stomach together. My doctor has pointed out to me several times that he had a very difficult time getting it to work. I have to be mindful of what I do.

My patience and will have been used up getting through all of the other parts of my treatment. Sometimes I don't feel I can continue. I don't have a choice, though. I must continue. My friends and family tell me that it would be very odd if I weren't down at this point in my treatment. Unfortunately, I have to live inside this body and it's not so easy for me to accept the inevitability of feeling bad. I take a deep breath and go on.

Finally

My surgery was last Monday. It lasted over eight hours and involved some "fancy stitching," according to my plastic surgeon. They make new breasts from several places--back, butt or tummy. My tummy seemed to have the most amount of tissue available, but I'm not a very large person so it was hard to come up with enough tissue. Nonetheless, I now have a new breast stump. I also have a very, very painful wound on my stomach. I don't know if people do tummy tucks anymore or if liposuction is the method of choice, but I'd never do this just to have a smaller tummy area.

I'm not sure what they did to me in the operating room, but my right arm was bruised from the wrist to the elbow on the inside of my arm. They used my right arm for the i.v. lines. I'm right handed, but because my sentinal node biopsy surgery was on the left-hand side, they will never be able to use that arm for blood pressure checks or needle sticks of any kind. When I woke up in the recovery room, I thought I heard someone say "He's dead." That seems pretty dramatic, so I could be wrong. People do die in surgery, though, so who knows.

The pain was extraordinary and immediate. My mother said that, as they wheeled me out of the recovery room, she could see tears rolling down my face. They just parked me in my room, hooked me up to all of the i.v. stuff and left me to my own suffering. My mom was with me, though, so I wasn't completely alone. I had a self-administered morphine injection (who knows if that's the right word) system. I had a button that would periodically light up. Whenever that happened, I could push the button and have more morphine. I was always in pain, anyway, no matter how many times I pressed the button. Intense, inescapable pain.

Around the middle of the night on Monday, they came for one of their regular vital signs/ wound inspection visits, turned me over and found I'd been bleeding for quite a while. The i.v. had slipped or something and I was lying in my own blood. "You've lost a lot of blood," one of the nurses said. For some reason, I took this as a criticism. The room filled with people and someone came by to move the i.v. line to the bend of my right arm. Then they had to move me to get me off of the bloody sheet. That whole process was indescribable. There was nothing to be done for it, though, other than to try to hang in there. After that, I didn't have any more trouble with bleeding, but there were more i.v. problems later on. I'll have to get to all of that later.

I'm completely exhausted. I got out of the hospital on Saturday, rode home for five hours in the rain on Sunday and I've been in too much pain to write until now. Thank you so much to everyone who checked in and sent me messages! I haven't had the time to read through all of them, but I feel so grateful that there are people who care about how I'm doing. I'm not sure if I'll be online later. It's hard to judge my future energy level. I'm fine, though, so if I'm not around it's just because I'm in pain or tired. I'm thinking of all of you and it cheers me up so much! See you later.

Surgery on Monday

Today is the last day I'll be at my trusty computer for a week or so. Maybe longer, depending on how much pain there is. I don't have much to say, anyway, because my mind is very preoccupied with Monday. I'm sure all will be well, but I'm so tired of pain. There's nothing to be done for it, though, other than enduring it. Enduring is something I learned very early. I'm going to be fine.

Countdown: 12 Days

Only 12 more days until reconstruction surgery. I'm losing weight and my therapist thinks it might be as a result of the adrenaline surging through my body. The closer I get, the more anxious I become.

I don't have any fear that the surgery won't go well. I chose M.D. Anderson because they 're experts at breast cancer and my plastic surgeon has performed this operation hundreds of times. I'm anxious because I don't wish to be hurt anymore. I'm tired of constantly being hurt in one way or another for the past year.

I start to think of it--the drains, the alcohol swabs, the pain--and it makes me terrified. I can't stand the smell of rubbing alcohol from my previous two surgeries (the surgical biopsy and mastectomy). They will make me eat chicken broth, which is another thing I hate from my last hospital stay.

The bed I was in the last time I was there was designed to prevent bed sores, I think. It periodially inflated itself in some places, especially if I changed position. The mattress would compensate by poofing up in some other area. It made a mechanical noise every time it moved and it used to wake me up every time.

I was sick for a couple of days after my mastectomy. Nurses would come in and tell me to drink water. Whenever I drank water and immediately threw up.

I try to console myself with the thought that I will have a new breast when it's all over. Pain trumps the thought of looking normal again. I don't want to do this, but I'm going to have to do it.

Breast Cancer Has Been Good to Me

"Every act of conscious learning requires the willingness to suffer an injury to one's self-esteem. That is why young children, before they are aware of their own self-importance, learn so easily." ~ Thomas Szasz

Even sugar couldn't help me yesterday. I was in a black mood all day. When I got home, I had a card from an old high school friend of mine. She included one of those holiday update letters that people seem to like to send. It sounds like things are going well for her and, though I'm certainly glad for her, it further damaged the day. It hasn't been a good year for me. That goes without saying. I don't have any business comparing myself to her or anyone else, though. Things are what they are.

I'm feeling better today. Nothing has changed, of course, but I'm not interested in questioning too much for fear of slipping down into the darkness again. I really hate that.

I've been thinking maybe I've lost some weight in the past couple of months. I never weigh myself. When I started working out regularly, I actually gained weight by adding muscle mass. I can always judge more accurately by how my clothes fit. I put on a pair of jeans this morning and they were a little loose, even though they were just washed. A month or so ago, I had trouble getting into them.

I'm never hungry anymore. I guess that's been going on since I finished up chemo. For a while, I chalked it up to radiation, but it's been five months since that was over. I know when my stomach is empty for too long, but I don't ever feel hungry. It makes it difficult to tell when I've eaten enough...or too much. After lunch, I didn't feel like eating the rest of the day. I made myself eat a tangerine around 6:00 p.m. because I definitely didn't get enough fruits or veggies earlier. That was all I had, though.

I generally end up feeling a little sick after I eat, so I'm really never particularly interested in food. I'm not sure why it makes me not feel well. My mom speculated this morning that maybe I've been worried about the upcoming surgery. (Surgery countdown: 17 days) I've definitely been anxious.

For a while now, I've been working hard to silence the little Fascist inside my head. It's some remnant of my childhood self that really marshaled all of my personal forces to successfully escape from the kind of life my parents had. I had tough expectations of myself. Any misstep was cause for severe self denigration. If I wasn't perfect, I was a terrible person.

The little girl in the brown shirt still thinks she needs to monitor my behavior. Not only does she punish for current imperfections, she also has a very long memory. I can still drift into "I'm a terrible person. I hate myself." very easily, even for things I did when I was 8.

However, every day now, I remind myself that I'm worthy of love. I'm worthy of the same level of kindness I extend to everyone else. When the little Fascist pops up, I'm more able now to stop the accusations.

It's a sad thing that I've only recently been consistently aware of that voice. For years, whenever my mind was unoccupied or whenever I wasn't completely pleased with my behavior, the haranguing began automatically. I'm hardly ever completely pleased with my behavior or, if the behavior is okay, my motivations are questionable. The nasty little voice was a constant companion.

At some point, I would notice that voice, but I wasn't necessarily able to stop it. I didn't necessarily believe that I should stop it. Hey, it worked for me for years. Why stop now?

I'm stopping now because I have breast cancer. Breast cancer has been very, very good to me. I'm a lot kinder to myself. I've had a lot of time to sit around on my sofa and listen to whatever comes up in my head. I don't need that voice anymore. It's no longer critical that I work so hard to be a good person, a hard-working person, to be completely beyond reproach in every way. It took this catastrophic illness to recognize that.

To revisit the beginning of this post, I'm alive. I'm not in pain. I know for right now that I'm doing the best I can. In some ways, it hasn't been a bad year at all.

Official Surgery Countdown Begins

"I don't know why we are here, but I'm pretty sure that it is not in order to enjoy ourselves." ~ Ludwig Wittgenstein

I can tell it's getting time for a new oncological procedure. I have once again completely let go. Letting go followed quickly on the heels of detachment and dissociation.

Last weekend, I ran a red light. This is not a thing I would normally do. I know lots of people do it several times a day, a little like Russian Roulette. I tend to stop for caution lights unless it looks like the asshole behind me has absolutely no intention of slowing down and that, if I don't keep going, I will probably be launched through my windshield. I didn't even see it. That was a very frightening experience, soI let my mom drive the rest of the day. After it happened, I could definitely feel a slight fuzziness in thought process. I could tell there were fairly large areas in my brain where there were no synapses firing.

Then I went to do my weekly grocery shopping. I'm a very decisive woman. My motto used to be, "If you need a decision, just call me and I'll make it." As I wandered through the aisles, I would periodically find myself just standing there, blanked out, unable to decide whether I should get bread or whether I even needed to go down Aisle 9.

Chemo brain, I thought. I've read it can go on for a decade after one finishes chemotherapy. Last Monday, more chemo brain. Standing in the middle of my bedroom, wondering which clothes to put on. I took four or five shirts out of the closet and ended up leaving them on the bed. The plan was to wear jeans. Then I thought maybe I just needed to switch to a skirt and that would solve my blouse impasse. Wrong again. I took out several skirts and they made their way onto the bed, too. Finally, after standing there for a while longer, I decided to go with a dress. Ah, yes. That way you only have to pick the appropriate shoes for the dress. I was up for that task.

I mentioned to Therapist that I was having this standing around like a deer in the headlights problem and I attributed it to the chemicals still floating around in my body or lodged in places like my liver. I noted my irritation and frustration. She parried with her diagnosis of dissociation.

That might explain my general level of detachment I've noticed for the past couple of weeks. It makes perfect sense. What do I do when I'm anxious? I dissociate. Does the upcoming surgery make me anxious? That word doesn't begin to describe how I feel.

I'm still detached, but I managed to get through grocery shopping on Sunday and getting dressed this morning without aimlessly standing around. I had a little panic attack last night, but then I suddenly remembered that I'm not in control here. Oh yeah! I can let go. So I did. Whatever happens will happen and I'll get through the week in the hospital with God's grace. I don't have to worry about those five days.

This phenomenon seems to be limited to breast cancer-related issues. I may not be able to let go in any other situation, but there seems to be an automatic on/off switch when it comes to breast cancer. Suddenly I'm on autopilot and at peace with whatever comes. I'd really, really like it if they would stop hurting me, but my life has never been about what I like or dislike. It has always been about what must be done. I'm okay with that. I mean, I might as well be because who cares what I want? Not the universe, obviously.

The current surgery countdown is 22 days.

Surgery Countdown

On Friday, my therapist asked me what my plans were for Christmas. I was dumbfounded. Plans? I'm supposed to be making plans? Well I don't have any. My big plan is to hide from myself as long as possible how quickly January 8 is looming on the calendar.

Nonetheless, I'm festively attired and jingling still. How can I sustain both? Well, that's why people call me "complex." It's just one more dichotomy amongst many others. I haven't done any Christmas shopping. I don't even have any plans to shop. I haven't decorated my house. I haven't participated in thinking about a menu. I try not to hear Christmas songs, even though they're absolutely inescapable.

I lose track of days and months. Have we gotten through winter yet? I actually had to think about that question over the weekend. Let's see...I know it's not May. Are we close to May, though?

I rode my stationary bike on Saturday and, instead of feeling a bit more energized, I just ended up feeling more exhausted than when I started. That fatigue followed me all day yesterday and today I still seem to be at least partially brain dead.

Breast Cancer Has Been Good to Me

I've been blithering on all week, so just a short post today.

When my hair came back after chemo, it came back really curly. I used to have a few small waves in my hair, but most of it was straight. The waves used to drive me crazy because they always ended up ruining my hairstyle in one way or another. As a matter of fact, before cancer treatment, the hair I currently have would have driven me crazy. It's impossible to style and kind of curls in unexpected places and directions. The hair right over my ears flips forward towards my face. People tell me they can't believe I ever had long hair. They think the current length is fabulous. It's about 1.5 to 2 inches long. I'm happy. I'm just happy to have hair. I've come to be very accepting about things that would have made me miserable a year ago. Yay for breast cancer!

Surgery is looming in front of me. January 8. Whenever the thought enters my mind, I have to banish it almost immediately. It's terribly anxiety-provoking. The thought of being in a hospital for a week, the thought of the nausea/vomiting I experienced during the first two surgeries, the prospect of having a couple of drains attatched to my body--it's all pretty awful to contemplate. Over and above all that, the nagging question is, when will they stop hurting me? I'm tired of being hurt. Really, really tired.

However, my choice to do this now does have some up sides. I like to think that, in the not too distant future, I can be through with the hurting. I will also have a breast again. That's very exciting. My prosthetic breast has developed what I like to think of as continental drift. It edges its way towards the center of my chest. It's kind of like a breast unicorn or something. I just try to find a private place and rassle the damn thing back over to the side. I have no idea why it started doing this. I've lost some weight, so that may be part of the problem. The thing is, I'm okay even with that.

There's nothing like a year of cancer treatment to increase your ability to accept where you are physically. Weird ass hair, breast in the middle of my chest...it's all good to me. Seriously, breast cancer, though I wish I never had it, has been a good thing in many ways. However, this is about as much growth in self-acceptance that I'm ready to have right now. I'd rather not deal with the prospect of cancer returning somewhere. Breast cancer can metastasize in various places throughout the body, but no matter where it is, it's always still breast cancer. Enough, enough! No more growth experiences!

Having said that, I'm putting all of this out of my mind for the day. The breast unicorn is signing off for the week.

Breast Cancer Awareness Month

http://www.planetcancer.org/html/index.php

A site specifically for young people with cancer of all types.

Reconstruction Surgery Date Set

I spent the morning doing number-related stuff, which I hate, so I decided to indulge myself and spent the last part of my day here. I just got off the phone with my plastic surgeon's nurse and she scheduled my surgery for January 8! I'm excited and terrified. I'll be spending five days in the hospital. The last time I was in the hospital (for my mastectomy), they had these beds that made me sea sick. The inflate and deflate periodically. I'm sure the goal is to prevent bedsores for people who are hospitalized for long periods. I was nauseated from the surgery and the bed just made it worse. Furthermore, it was noisy. It's going to be painful and there will be a substantial period of time when I'm pretty limited in terms of my physical activity. On the other hand, it can't possibly be any worse than chemo. It won't last as long, for one thing. Here's the other weird thing: nipple and aureola won't be constructed for a year after my surgery. I'm not sure why that's so, but I think it's because there's a lot of adjusting that goes on in an effort to make sure everything is symmetrical and looks like an actual breast. I'm sure I'll be complaining about it all here.

Reconstruction

"Modesty is the conscience of the body." ~ Honore de Balzac

Yesterday, after I got home from my visit with the dog I'm hoping to adopt, I got another call from my oncologist's nurse. She had called Tuesday to find out if I'd had a mammogram done. (She's the one who ultimately confirmed I didn't need one when I was there last week. Shirley drives me crazy.) The minute I heard her say her name, I panicked. She told me before that the mammogram was fine, but the white blood count was a little off. No reason to worry, she said on Tuesday. So when she called yesterday, I thought maybe he'd changed his mind about the blood work. After telling me her name, she could have at least told me immediately that everything is okay. The less I hear from my cancer doctors (all of them, even my beloved Dr. Ross), the happier I am.

I was looking for something in my suitcase last night and I came across my photo panties. I'm not sure I shared any info about that. The first time I saw my plastic surgeon, they made me take everything off and put on the teeny, tiny little panties. Now I don't mind people looking at my mastectomy. I've had so many strangers looking and touching that the whole breast thing is no big deal. (I've even threatened to make people look at it if they give me any trouble about anything.) The doctor made me drop my gown and stand in front of him (on a little platform). He made me turn around so he could look at my backside. Okay. This is difficult for anyone, I think, who doesn't undress for a living, but for a survivor of sexual abuse, it's pretty harrowing.

The only way I could get through it was to dissociate. Dissociation has caused problems for me all of my life, but sometimes it's a huge help. This was definitely one of those times. I know the man had no interest in me other than as a surgeon, but that didn't make it any easier. With any luck, I'll never have to do that again. He's very sweet and tries to make it less uncomfortable for me, but it has been a very very long time since any man, other than my hubby, looked at me without clothes. Standing on a pedestal makes it even more fun.

The point was that he was trying to figure out where to take the skin and tissue for reconstruction. There are three places they normally use: the tummy, the back or the butt. I don't have much to spare in any of those places, but we're going with the tummy. I'm still trying to get over the fact that, because my bra size is 36D, I probably won't be able to have it reconstructed to that size. It has to do with the weight of the breast potentially tearing the veins that will be sutured together. I'll probably need to have a breast reduction on the other side so I'll match. As anyone would tell you, my breasts used to be one of my best anatomical features. Have I mentioned lately that I really hate having breast cancer? The good news is that the tummy tuck will return me to that fabulous pre-50 flat stomach. Of course, I'll have a scar that runs all the way across my stomach, but as I said, no one ever sees me other than Hubby. At this point in our relationship, a scar isn't even going to faze him...I've looked pretty wretched for most of the past year. Virtually anything would be an improvement.

Oncologist and Plastic Surgeon

I got back from M.D. Anderson late Friday afternoon. What a debacle! I had a mammogram check-in scheduled for 7:00 a.m. (Have I mentioned that I'm not a morning person?) I drug my butt out of bed at some barbaric time of day only to find that I didn't need a mammogram. My oncologist just hadn't seen the mammogram I did the last time I was there. I had blood work scheduled and that went fine...they're virtually always on time. My next appointment was at 1:15 with my plastic surgeon, followed by an appointment with my oncologist at 1:30.

They led me back to the little exam room at around 1:20, made me put on "photo panties" and a gown. The doctor didn't show up until around 3:45. I'm very claustrophobic, so by then, I needed several tranquilizers. My mom kept suggesting that maybe we should let someone know about my appointment with the oncologist. "Oh no. That's okay," I kept saying, "They always know where you are." Right. That worked before, but not this time. I ended up missing my oncologist appointment altogether. I really wished to see the plastic surgeon, but even I would admit that the oncologist visit was more important. I got a call from his nurse this morning, telling me that the mammogram was fine and my white count was a little low, but not enough to worry about. I'm currently trying to be okay with that statement. (I tend to panic a little after the experience with the mammogram radiologist here.)

The good news is that I can have reconstruction surgery as soon as I can schedule it. That may be as early as January and as late as March. The plastic surgeons are really busy there. I can't call his scheduler until Friday to give the paperwork a chance to catch up with me. On the one hand, I really look forward to getting this over with. On the other hand, I'm aware that it's not going to be fun in a very big way. I'm working hard to get back in good physical condition so that my recovery will be easier. I've managed to do yoga three nights a week at this point and I'm going to add stationery bicycle this evening. I'm just going to do 15 minutes at a slow pace with no resistance. I'll just have to see how that goes. If I'm not exhausted tomorrow, I'll continue to use the bike once or twice a week.

The other news is that I'm in the process of getting another huskie. I had contacted a rescue organization and met this wonderful boy named Sebastian, but he's big and wildly enthusidastic about everything. I thought about adopting from the Humane Society, but when I went to the city's animal shelter, I knew what I had to do. Those dogs will die if someone doesn't adopt them; they're a euthanizing facility. It's been emotionally difficult to go there, but doing the right thing is usually not the easy path.

I met a 10 month old husky mix when I went by this weekend. He's white and doesn't have a mask, but I'm good with that. He's in the process of being evaluated by the animal behariorists to ensure that he's not aggessive. They told me that they should have that finished by this afternoon. I'm so excited!

As soon as they finish the evaluation process, we can have a "meet and greet" with Sheba. I think they'll get along fine, if her experience with Sebastian was any indication. I've been doing a little reading about how to introduce a new dog into the household. I was right; it's best to have a male and female. The worst combination is two females. Very interesting. I would have thought that two males would be the most aggressive. I think that we probably need to do a couple of get togethers with Miss Sheba Woo.

They won't be open until 11:30, so I'll have to contain my excitement. This makes me very, very happy.

Reptilian Brain

We need cancer because, by the very fact of its insurability, it makes all other diseases, however virulent, not cancer. ~ Gilbert Adair

It dawned on me this morning that, somewhere in the reptilian part of my brain, I still believe that I'm sick and, therefore, weird looking. It's hard to get over the feeling when you've spent most of a year looking like you're getting ready to die. Then there was that 7 weeks when I wasn't allowed to wear a bra because of radiation. I wore shirts over my tee shirts to try to camouflage the remaining (unsupported) girl. That was really depressing. I just had to stop looking at myself in order to pretend it didn't matter to me.

In reality, my hair is growing back really quickly. I was still pretty bald in July when I finished up radiation and now it's probably about an inch long. It's curly, thicker and much darker than my hair used to be. The hair on the rest of my body is coming back really slowly, but that's okay with me.

I also now have some color in my face. During chemo and radiation, I was just white the whole time, with dark circles under my eyes. My face was completely round because of the steroids they used. So there you are...a white, moon-faced bald person with dark circles under my eyes. Wow. I've never looked so attractive. I gave up the desire to wear make up or nice clothes. Partly it was because I just didn't have the energy, but it was also because I just hated the way I looked. There wasn't really anything that could be done to make me look better, anyway.

I've been wearing makeup for the past couple of weeks and I've even worn some skirts and dresses to work. I'm not getting much joy out of it, though. My therapist asked me last week if I was excited about being able to dress up again. Um, no. I wish I were, but I'm not. Throughout the past year of treatment, I always assumed I'd be happy to be able to dress up again. It's just another one of the many assumptions I've given up.

I just realized yesterday that it's time for my three month checkup. I think that's part of the reason why I noticed how unattractive I feel. I try not to think about cancer until I have to. It makes me so anxious to even think about going to M.D. Anderson. I feel a little queasy and a lot of dread. I'm sure everything will be okay, but I'll have to manage my thoughts until I go. My appointment is scheduled for next Thursday.

That means I'll be incommunicado for a while next week. On that note, I need to write a long email to the attorney who lives next door. I've decided to talk with him about the breast cancer diagnosis. They had been watching the cancer grow for some period of time. I did my part...I did monthly self exams and annual mammograms. Well, I'll save that for another day.

Chemotherapy

As if having ghastly looking fingernails weren't enough, one of them is now infected. My first clue was the odor of something decaying that seemed to have attached itself to me somewhere on my body. It took a couple of days to figure out the offensive odor was coming from my middle finger. How appropriate. I almost expect a parade of carrion following me, waiting for me to stand still for a while.

The mouth sores are back, along with a generally sensitive mouth. I live in Texas. You're required to have Mexican food weekly at the very least. I thought bean and cheese tostado compuestos would be a viable choice. It was--right up until the second tostado.

I'm emotionally very edgy. The mere fact that Hubby is breathing annoys me. I know he has to breathe. I just wish he wouldn't do it in my space. Meanwhile, Hubby is in a slightly hypomanic period, which is making him a tad testy. I'm sure he wishes I'd stop breathing, too. We're just a laugh a minute at my house these days.

Reclaiming my Creativity

As I near the end of chemotherapy, I'm feeling more creative than I have in years. I've started to reclaim some of those creative parts of myself that I left behind because of my father. Unfortunately, my father was not only psycho, he was an extremely gifted person. His entire family had extraordinary talent in music and art. When I was a child, I thought he was an excellent storyteller.

My father was the most narcissistic person I've ever known. That's saying something, because I tend to attract narcissists in droves. Under my father's tutelage, I learned how to effectively manipulate them. But that's another story for another time. One of the ways my dad's narcissism manifested itself was an inability to tolerate anyone else doing anything better than he could. He had the artistic thing wrapped up and was probably somewhat gifted mathematically. I lost my interest in math very early because of some childhood incidents involving abuse. It was a terrible paradox. How to be good at things without threatening my father, who required high academic achievement from me.

Some things just got abandoned along the way, as a coping mechanism probably. I gave up art when I was around 15. I gave up music at about the same age. I hung on to my superior verbal skills, though I kept them to myself for the most part, unless I was at school.

I started to reclaim my math skills about ten years ago and finally came to understand that I'm not a complete math idiot. I'm actually pretty good at it. I never let my dad know that I had discovered my abilities. At about the same time, I decided to pursue my interest in science, specifically, the TOT and cosmology.

I gave up creative writing when I was around 30. That was more a result of a dearth of time and imagination than a response to anything my father did. This journal serves as a means of reawakening my commitment to writing, if only for my own pleasure.

About a month ago, I decided one night to draw one of my huskies as she lay on her bed in the living room. Suddenly it dawned on me that I used to draw pretty regularly and that I miss it. I also found myself led to learn how to create mosaics. I'm awash in creativity.

Before I started working again about 15 years ago, I used to spend a fair amount of time crocheting, knitting and doing crossstitch. I didn't stop doing those thing becase of my dad, but because of the heavy toll my job took on my energy level. I plan to crochet a throw for one of my friends at work. I've just been looking for the right pattern.

It's surprising and exhilarating to find the parts of myself that got lopped off along this journey. It's almost too much to bear. There are so many things I wish to do, so few hours in the day. I don't know where the surge of creativity has come from, but I'm embracing it with all my heart.

It's a State of Mind

"A cancer is not only a physical disease. It is a state of mind." ~ Michael Baden

My next to last chemo treatment is scheduled for next Tuesday. This should be a relatively happy time since the end is now definitely in sight. Unfortunately, the part of my brain that's keeping track of how bad I feel is screaming at me, "Don't go! Don't go!" As if I had a choice.

It's gotten really hard for me to keep putting this out of my mind. I was so good at that for such a long time. Fuck.

My toenails are turning black. One of my thumbnails is also turning back. The last time I was at the hospital, I had a discussion with a patient (which I did not wish to have) who told me that her nails turned black and fell off. Apparently the good news is that, when that happens, it doesn't hurt. Yay.

Just in case my week wasn't already crappy, my brother in law is spending the night at my house tonight. I'm spending the night at my mom's condo. I just don't have the stamina to deal with him.

Hell, the truth is that I'd be going to my mom's condo, no matter what the circumstances. I really don't like "Baby Hughey," as my therapist likes to call him. He reminds me a lot of my dad, although my dad was psychotic. Baby Hughey hasn't worked in the past 30 years, was spongeing off his mother's social security payments when she was alive.

Somehow he's managed to find someone else willing to support him. He's living in a shelter, but the rent is $250 a month. How does that qualify as a shelter? I thought those were usually free. Oh well. The important thing is that he's not moving in with me.

Lately I find myself thinking about what great times I used to have in high school and college. That's just an indication of how bad things are now. Even worse, I just searched for images of my first boyfriend. I found one. It's hard to connect him with the young man I loved. This is just sad.

Okay. Enough whining and complaining. I'm getting on with the day.

Christmas in Xeloda Land

I'm writing this retrospectively, since I was absent through so much of my treatment. Christmas was grim: No tree, no decorating of any kind. I don't even think I had the energy to buy gifts. I bought something early in my diagnosis for one of my office cohorts. I don't think Hubby got anything. He didn't mind. He could see how it was for me.

I felt wretched for the first 5 days after chemo. About the time I started to feel better on some level, it would be time to go back and have more poison pumped into me. I also had to take Xeloda at home as an extra chemo bonus. I think it was the Xeloda that caused the mouth sores that continued throughout the time I was taking it. I also had sores on my hands, on the skin in between my thumb and forefinger. On both hands.

I hurt all over. I felt like I weighed 300 pounds and it was 300 pounds of unassailable pain. I couldn't really pinpoint exactly where I hurt (except for the mouth and hand sores) or explain the kind of pain I had. It was definitely bearable, but bearing it took an enormous toll in my energy, concentration and memory. I did, in fact, gain about 20 pounds from the steroids. They were supposed to help with the nausea sometimes experienced by chemo patients. I never had any, so I guess it worked.

There was a me somewhere in that 300 pounds of pain, but I was hard to find most of the time. When I could find myself, it was always in the context of being a tiny speck of personhood in an enormous body. The speck was dedicated to holding on.

I held on. And on and on. Just when I thought I was almost through with chemo, I learned there was another 3 months in store for me. It was demoralizing. I had no choice. So I kept on noting what it felt like to be so sick and trying not to have any feelings or thoughts about that.

Sometimes all you can do is hold on and it takes everything you've got to do it.

Magic

I've been silent a while because of the overwhelming effects of my chemotherapy. Every new round brings mouth blisters and blisters on my hands. I feel like I'm on auto pilot most of the time, just trying to endure the pain and not think too much about the future. I'm getting a lot of practice in living in this very moment. Unfortunately, the more in the moment I am, the more parts of me get shut down. I don't really have the concentration to read or write. Sometimes it feels like there's only a small part of myself that isn't in pain. I continue to try to live in that small space, profoundly aware of the pain, but walled off from the full impact. I have no choice but to insulate myself to whatever extent I'm capable. Luckily, I got really good at this when I was a kid.

This is where the post traumatic stress disorder comes in. Admittedly, ptsd adds a whole layer of complication to life and it diminishes my range of feeling. Those are just a couple of ways that my survival mechanism that saved me keeps me chained to the past. However, the ghost of christmas past has a part to play in helping me to endure the present. I've got an enviable ability to place issues beyond the reach of my mundane thought processes. I imagine the difficulty (or fear, worry or pain) in a box. I imagine opening a door in my mind and placing the box inside of it. I bar and then lock the doors. While I know that the gift box will have to be opened and dealt with at some point, it's safely tucked away so that I can resume my life.

Everyone in my life tells me what an inspiration I am. They're inspired by my ability to find and celebrate humor. They're inspired by my steely determination to get out of bed every day and function at work. They don't know the secret. They don't know that I created a room in my head long ago and that pain gets ushered through that door. Pain and I have an understanding. I'll be back to deal with it as soon as I can. Pain is patient and settles in for the wait.

I've never doubted that I managed to grab some magic from my terrible past. I've used it in far less difficult circumstances than these. When things get too hard, I search for the correct incantation. At those times, I'm grateful for the terror and pain of my childhood.

Thanksgiving

There was no Thanksgiving celebration at my house. I had to be in Houston the next day for chemotherapy. I didn't really care by that time; I'm too far gone the black hole of chemo.

The weird thing about chemo is that I started having an aversion, not to foods consumed the day of or after my treatment, but the day before. Even when I'm not suffering from sores in my mouth and down my throat, I no longer eat barbecue, no cheese and sometimes Olive Garden commercials are a bit much.

My hotel is right across the street from an Olive Garden and a Mexican restaurant. God only knows how the Mexican food has survived the onslaught of chemo.. I live in Texas; I'd have to move to another state if I'd developed some kind of distaste for it. I gave up Starbucks pretty early in the game after having purchased a piece of cinnamon coffee cake the day before one of my treatments. I may never eat coffee cake again. As a matter of fact, I can't even stand to smell it.

I never ever get accustomed to the coldness of the room we have to sit in before they call me back to my little room with its hospital bed, the television and a chair for my mom. Sometimes I spend an hour or ninety minutes in that frigid tundra of a waiting room before they usher me back to where the real pain begins. It always hurts to attach the i.v. to the port in my chest. After that initial pain, everything is fine except for a cold feeling as the drugs flood into my body. On some level below normal consciousness, my body knows what's happening; industrial strength poison is flowing through my veins and internal organs. That knowledge is too frightening for me to allow into my thoughts.. It's really amazing how many carcinogenic chemicals are introduced into your system in order to diagnose, then treat, cancer.

Getting all the chemicals into my body generally takes 45 minutes to an hour. After treatment is over, I sometimes have difficulty making it out of the hospital. The drugs immediately exhaust me and bone pain sets in right away, too. I get out of breath; this person who used to be in such great condition can barely make it down the hallway to get to the escalator that will take me to the valet parking area.

Usually we have breakfast and many appointments leading up to the chemo treatment. Sometimes a full 12 hours elapse before I have anything else to eat. I can't eat at the hospital because the two cafeterias there (really excellent, as far as hospitals go) are so connected to pain that I can't force myself to even pass by them after my treatment is over. The smell nauseates me. Furthermore, they rarely leave me enough time between appointments on chemo days for me to even make it to the cafeteria if I could bring myself to eat something there.

After it's all over (usually around 9:00 p.m.), my mom sometimes has to go pick food up from time to time when I just can't get up and out the hotel door to get something. The restaurant at the hotel is just as noxious as the hospital cafeteria, for exactly the same reason.

The next morning, I don't generally feel nauseated, but I have to eat really bland foods. Comfort foods, except there's really no comfort to be had. I don't generally feel like eating at any time, whether or not it's a chemo day.

I suppose we could have celebrated the holiday in advance, but it would have been a lot of work with very little payoff for me. Hubby doesn't seem to need the ritual of celebration. So there was no turkey at my house for Thanksgiving; just a trip to Houston. Not that I missed it.

Chemotherapy

Chemotherapy. I spent a week with blisters in my mouth, unable to talk and barely able to eat. My hair is now falling out. I've lost most of my pubic hair. Of course, on the up side, I haven't had to shave anything. Legs and underarms are nude. I noticed this morning that my skin has started to peel.

My next round is on November 22. I've already started to dread it. I'm going to buck up about this, but it's just taking a little longer right now. I plan to have a serious discussion with my medical oncologist about the mouth issue. I can be very determined and vocal when situations warrant. I'd say this warrants it.

People constantly tell me that I'm an inspiration. They're easily inspired. About the best that could be said about me is that I don't mope or take to my bed. I frequently find things funny and invite others to laugh with me. Is this inspirational? Maybe that's just because I choose to search for personal meaning in this current travail.

I think that it's imperative, when one has lived such a difficult life as mine, to try to find some meaning in it. If I believed that all of my suffering has been random and meaningless, I'm not sure I'd wish to continue. Meaning is a tricky thing, though. Sometimes it can take years to assimilate terrible circumstances, wade through the pain and actually find reasons why all that suffering wasn't pointless. There are definitely some things I'm still trying to puzzle out. I'm patient, though. I have time.

I establish some meaning for myself. That is not necessarily the meaning the universe has assigned to it. Nonetheless, there are lessons to be learned if one is capable of waiting patiently for them to become manifest. At the end of all suffering, now and in the past, is a way to become more fully human. For as much as I have suffered, I'm more able to see the suffering of others. I'm more able to find compassion for others.

For a month or so, I've been working toward releasing all of the anger, hatred and resentment that I carry around with me. Some of it is easy to find. I could probably name five or six people I'm enraged with just off the top of my head. There is a lot that I keep hidden from myself. Rage has never been an acceptable emotion for me. My dad pretty much had that market cornered. Unfortunately, I will have to dredge it up in order to let it go. That's quite a task.

Today my lesson is that I am more than the sum of my parts. I am more than my breast, my hair or my skin. It's much easier than learning all of the places in my being where I've stashed some rage just so that I could function effectively in the world. That's the other part of being an inspiration, I guess. Having the heart to keep going, come what may.

Birthday?

Hey, I don't need no stinking birthday celebration. Chemo. Bring on more chemo.

Mastectomy Aftermath, Part 2

Don't walk in front of me, I may not follow.
Don't walk behind me, I may not lead.
Just walk beside me and be my friend." ~ Albert Camus

I finally had to look, goddamn it. I accidentally ripped out the remaining drainage tube after taking a shower. I was fine with that, really sick of having the reservoir attached to my hip. My mother came over and took a look at everything to reassure herself that I didn't need to make a trip to some medical facility. Then I was left to deal with it myself. In order to clean the wounds with alcohol, I have to see the wounds. Apparently I've decided not to have any feelings about it. I try to avoid catching glimpses of it when I'm psychologically unprepared. So far, so good.

On Thursday, I have a follow up with my beloved surgeon. It's not until 6:00 p.m., though, so I anticipate having to sit in the stupid little exam room with a huge patient gown on until around 8:30. That's just the way he is.

I don't quite get the gown thing. Everytime someone hands me one at the hospital, it's enormous. Do they only expect to have patients 200 pounds and larger? It never fails that I end up having to try to find a bathroom while hanging onto the tent, tied in the front. It would be funny if it weren't quite so chilly.

Things are going pretty well. I've been dedicated to trying to regain my range of motion in my left arm. I was so looking forward to getting my yoga practice up and running, but I'm lucky if I can just lift my arm straight up at a 90 degree angle. I had great flexibility and strength before all of this started and I can't imagine what it must be like to try to rehab if you're not in shape to begin with.

Today is the eight year anniversary of my father's suicide. Saturday was the first anniversary of my best friend's death. I'm right on the razor's edge emotionally these days. I actually started crying about an Elvis song playing on the radio. I don't even much like Elvis.

I dreamed about my father last night, but I don't recall what happened. I think about Becky virtually every day. I can't believe she's not here even now. Sometimes I'm still angry that she left so soon. I miss her so much.

The weeks prior to surgery, when I was afraid, I'd imagine all of the people who loved me standing around me, with their hands on my shoulder, my arm, my hand. They were comforting me, reminding me that there's no reason for fear. Either way. Live or die. No reason for fear. When I was a little girl, I would swing as high as I possibly could, beyond fear, and at the apogee, let go. For just a few moments, nothing could hold me to the earth. Not my parents and their madness, not my own misery, not even my rage. Letting go is still exactly the same. These days I'm flying free, no holding on just like then. I count on the universe to keep me aloft. I count on gravity to hold me close until it's time to go. I count on the people I've loved, who've gone on without me, to remind me of who I truly am.

America held hostage day 1388
Bushism of the day:
"But we will bring the weapons and, of course—we will bring the information forward on the weapons when they find them. And that will end up—end all this speculation. I understand there has been a lot of speculation over in Great Britain, we've got a little bit of it here, about whether or not the—whether or not the actions were based upon valid information. We can debate that all day long, until the truth shows up."
—Bush, unwavering in his certainty that one way or another WMDs will appear in Iraq
Source: The White House, "President Bush, Prime Minister Blair Discuss War on Terrorism," July 17, 2003

I live for the Karl Rove, Scooter Libby thing these days.

Website of the day: Health Journeys: Resources for Mind, Body and Spirit
http://www.healthjourneys.com/

Mastectomy Aftermath, Part 1

If you are distressed by anything external, the pain is not due to the thing itself, but to your estimate of it; and this you have the power to revoke at any moment.... " ~ Marcus Aurelius

They removed my left breast about two weeks ago now. I haven't looked yet. I may never look. I have family members who are very sweet about helping me deal with the wound so I don't have to get too personally involved. It's working out great for me; I may never have to leave the safety of my profound denial. Of course pain doesn't give me that option. I can't just delegate it to someone else. Pain is the least of my problems, though.

Every painful event is measured by what I've come to call "The Needles In the Breast Scale." I have yet to come across anything that crosses that threshold. I spent the day after surgery throwing up. Even soft drinks refused to take up residence in my stomach. Meanwhile, nurses kept coming and going, telling me that I needed to drink water and, noting that I was throwing up, about to throw up or having just done so, would wander back out of my room on the pretext of getting someone or something to help me. I wouldn't see them again for another hour or so, at which time the whole process would start all over again. My doctor's assistant told me that it was just a reaction to the anesthesia and I should be better in about 24 hours. I nodded my head, but I was skeptical. She was right. At almost exactly 24 hours, the nausea completely disappeared and I started eating solid food.

I was really just out of it for about 8 hours after the surgery. After I got into my room from the recovery room, they brought some chicken consomme for my enjoyment. I started eating, but I was still under the influence of the morphine drip. I would get a spoonful of soup, lift it to my mouth and fall asleep before it actually got there. I ended up wearing more chicken soup than I ingested.

I'm at work today for the second day in a row. I'm trying to keep my fatigue level under control, so I'm only staying a couple of hours at a time. I woke up with some pain today, so I was already a little tired before I got here. All of this is by way of saying that , though there is much more to say, I don't quite have the wherewithal to say it. There will be more when I'm more able.

Things I don't generally like to admit

"Change alone is unchanging." ~ Heraclitus

I'm feeling a little spaced out today. I missed taking one of my antidepressants for a couople of days and it makes me feel a little like I'm having an acid flashback. Not in a good way.

I'm still living in denial about what's going to happen next week. I spent a lot of time trying to get my mind right about losing a breast and I still haven't come to terms with it. I'll just have to deal with it when the time comes.

Have I talked about how ironic it is that this is happening to me? I was abused over a period of years when I was a very young child. I had a father who absolutely could not keep his dick in his pants. I have this rock solid idea floating just below the surface of consciousness that women are valuable to men to the extent that they're physically attractive. See, I don't even like to admit that to myself. My intellect rejects that idea. I am, after all, a feminist.

My breasts have been one of my best features since I was a teenager. Now if it were butt cancer, that might be different. I'm not crazy about my butt and I never have been. Mainly because I don't really have one. Well, I have one now because I work out like crazy and I have well developed gluteous muscles. I've never herd of gluteous cancer before, so I'm not sure that's even in the range of options.

No one ever thought I was very pretty until I was about 18. Lots of people thought I was beautiful after that age and up until at least my early 40's. Some people still do, but that's just because they love me, I think. It's been a hard thing to give up, even though I'm very aware of the many other aspects of myself that are interesting. Nonetheless, it's a hard thing to come to terms with.

I anticipate being a much different person at this time next year. I don't recall when I started to be uneasy with the concept of change, but I'm definitely a little anxious about it now. I suppose that's why I'm so fond of the Nina Simone song, "Everything Changes." It's a heartbreakingly beautiful song. Everything does indeed change, all of the time.

I think there are definitely parts of one's personality that become solidified and resistant to change pretty early on. I'll always be an introvert. I'll always be intellectually curious. I'm sure there are other qualities that I came equipped with at birth that just are what they are. There is a fair amount of damage that was inflicted on me at a very early age that also seems to be immutable.

The ways that those qualities are manifested in my behavior have probably changed over time. Or not. Scientists can't tease out which is weightier--nature or nurture. I'm certainly not going to be able to figure it out. But I digress.

Right now, I think the challenge will be to open to whatever lessons are available to me throughout the coming year. I hope I'm able to recognize them when they become available to me and, having recognized them, embrace them. It's a tall order, I know. May I keep my heart and mind open. It's about the best I could wish for.

America held hostage day 1362
Bushism of the day:
# "First, let me make it very clear, poor people aren't necessarily killers. Just because you happen to be not rich doesn't mean you're willing to kill."
—Bush, speaking about terrorism and poverty
Source: Public Papers of the Presidents, "The President's News Conference With President Macapagal-Arroyo of the Philippines," May 26, 2003

Website of the day; Sacred Text Archive
http://www.sacred-texts.com/index.htm

New Surgery Date

Hurricane Rita postponed the surgery, but today they rescheduled me for October 5. I still have to get there a day early so they can do the CT scan and anesthesiology thing. I asked the physician's assistant, Lori, if we couldn't just postpone it a bit longer until the plastic surgery guy is available. She had mentioned he was booked through November when we first discussed this. Now I guess he's busy through January.

I'm incredibly bummed out. I finally just gave up the whole idea of getting my mind right about this. It isn't going to happen. I'll just have to come to terms with it after the surgery. Or maybe I'll never come to terms with it. I just have to get through it, one way or the other.

Hurricane

The hurricane is threatening to ruin the upcoming trip to the hospital. It would be fine with me to postpone the mastectomy a bit longer, but the nodule problem is making me completely nutty. I'm still planning on going, but I understand that they're evacuating Houston, so that doesn't bode well. I'm unconvinced that the weather forecasters know what they're talking about. Hurricanes are unpredictable creatures who like to veer off suddenly into unanticipated directions.

Of course, on the up side, if I still needed a reservation in Houston, I'd probably be able to get one now. I don't need a reservation, though.

Farewell sex was better than I anticipated. I've been so uncomfortable with my poor mangled breast and I was afraid that would make it hard to have my husband touch it. I was afraid he wouldn't touch it because I think I needed some reassurance that it doesn't ick him out. What a sweetheart!

Tests and Farewell Sex

My surgery is scheduled for September 26. In the meantime, I have to go Friday for more tests! Yet another CT scan (I'm guessing it's of the breast, but no one has seen fit to tell me, the patient) and another chest x-ray. They're also taking blood, but that's not a big deal. I just want them to stop. Stop it. Just stop it.

The people at my office have arranged for a massage on Thursday morning. I can't wait. I love massages, but I haven't scheduled one all summer because of my breast. It sometimes still feels very painful to touch and that's completely unpredictable. Sometimes I have no pain, sometimes I do. Makes it a little hard to plan.

Hubby and I are having farewell sex this evening. I'm not sure how open I'll be to that with one breast missing. Just in case, I'm giving him (and me) one last hurrah. Who knows, I may schedule in another tomorrow night. You have to have something to look forward to, you know.

A Year Without My Breast

Before we can become who we really are, we must become conscious of the fact that the person who we think we are, here and now, is at best an impostor and a stranger. - Thomas Merton

I'm just back from the city where I'm being treated for breast cancer. Shortly after I returned yesterday, my surgeon's physician's assistant called me to tell me she can't schedule the plastic surgeon until the end of November. In addition to the mastectomy, I'm also scheduled for a bone marrow test and they'll install the port through which I'll receive chemotherapy. None of us feels particularly comfortable with waiting that long. My other option is to have the mastectomy done on September 26 and leave things as they are until later. Much, much later. Lori informed me that I won't be having reconstructive surgery for a year. Once again, I was not prepared for that news.

As a survivor of sexual abuse and the weirdest fucking childhood of anyone I know, the mastectomy triggers a lot fear. It's a terror that is both predictable and astounding.

My breasts and I have always had an unusual relationship. On the one hand, they were one of my very best features. Even as I've gotten older, they haven't begun to sag. On the other hand, I've had more men hold conversations with them than I can count. It can be annoying beyond compare to try to have a serious, intellectual discussion with someone whose eyes never get above my chest. On the other hand, breasts are the source of enormous power. That hasn't mattered as much after I met my husband. My hubby loves my breasts. On the face of it, you'd think that would be a good thing. It is a good thing until one of them is getting ready to disappear for a year.

I know Hubby loves me for much more than The Girls. He loves my intelligence and sense of humor, my gentleness and compassion, my creativity and humor. Nonetheless, I find that I'm terrified that he'll leave me when only one of The Girls shows up to party on date nights. It's so hard for me to confront those fears and I think that, no matter how much reassurance he gives me, I probably won't be able to rid myself of them.

That's because the problem is me, not him. When you've spent many years of your life reaping the benefits of being pretty, you just have to start to wonder if the world will be more difficult to navigate when that's no longer a factor. Do I have something to offer the world other than the way I look? Of course. Maybe I'm just uncertain as to whether other people can recognize those things.

I hate it that I feel this way. If, twenty years ago, someone had told me that there would come a time when I would be afraid of losing my attractiveness, I would have told them they were fucking idiots. And yet. Here I am. I can't help but think that this ha something to do with the values with which I was raised. Specifically, the idea that men really are shallow assholes who only respond to women's sexuality.

In my house, if the woman wasn't having sex the right way (i.e., the way my dad wanted it), then one could be replaced. Or one could be beaten until they got it right. Sex was the be all, end all. You cannot imagine how wrenching it is to write about this. It feels like something inside of me is being ripped apart. No matter how much I may identify myself as a feminista, the bottom line is that it seems I've adopted those values. It's just one of those nasty little secrets I've kept from myself.

I suppose the opportunitiy to be seized in this situation is a greater acceptance of myself, without regard to how I look. I suppose I should use this time to test the assumptions I've made about men and about me. Opportunities abound. I guess the question I'm left with is whether I'm strong enough to see them and, having seen them, can I find my way to embrace whoever will be still standing at the end of this year. I know she will not be the same woman who now sits here, typing.

More Tests

This will be the last blog for a little while because I'm going out of town (back to the hospital) tomorrow morning and won't return until at least Thursday afternoon. I had made a reservation at my usual hotel, but I discovered this morning that I didn't make one for tomorrow night. Oh, no problem, I thought, all of the evacuees are probably living in quarters that are a little more convenient and a little less pricey, given the long-term nature of their hejira. Wrong. Wrong in a big way. I tried to add a day to my existing reservation, but they were booked up. I called my mother and gave her some numbers to call of hotels close to the hospital and I went online to see if I could track something down. I found another hotel, same chain as my usual, but it was downtown and extremely expensive. Then I found a hotel they chose to describe as "high rise." It was very close to the medical center, but it could definitely be iffy accomodations and the most important thing to me is to be as comfortable as humanly possible. My mom found one that's pretty close, we think. I ended up cancelling all reservations for tomorrow except for the one my mom made. I don't know how I managed to get myself so confused about the dates of my medical tests, although I think it likely has something to do with the fact that I don't want to go.

That's been the almost incessant litany this weekend. I do not want to go do this. That kind of inner chatter just annoys the hell out of me. I used to do it all the time about working out. I'd start at around 3 p.m., with my regular workout time scheduled for around 7 p.m.: "I don't want to work out." "You have to." "Yeah, but I'm tired and I just don't see why I shouldn't take a break." "You have to work out." Finally, of course, I would just do it. I finally managed to find a way to break out of that stupid incessant arguing with myself, but I haven't been able to transfer it to the breast cancer scenario. My current response to not wanting to go is, "It'll be okay. I'll get it over with and everything will be okay." Oh yeah. That's really helpful. About twenty minutes later, I get to start the argument all over again.

Hubby's performance is imploding because of his co-author's atrocious behavior. He's managed to get fired from the production, which is so impressive, really. How does the co-author get fired? Now he wants to renegotiate rights to archival materials, script, et., etc. The performance is this coming weekend. My husband seems to be dealing with all of this relatively well. I know he's already stressed out about my breast cancer tests, so I'm sure this magnifies it exponentially.

That's all there is today because that's all the time I have.

Two Questions and the Answer

Whosoever wishes to know about the world must learn about it in its particular details.
Knowledge is not intelligence.
In searching for the truth be ready for the unexpected.
Change alone is unchanging.
The same road goes both up and down.
The beginning of a circle is also its end.
Not I, but the world says it: all is one.
And yet everything comes in season.

Heraklietos of Ephesos


Yesterday, I found myself pondering two questions.
Does god hate me?
Does the relentless afflictions in my life really reflect god's profound love for me, because god knows I'm up for it?

I really get tired sometimes of endlessly bucking up and surviving the nasty things that seem to follow me around in life, right from the beginning until today. I generally try not to see the broad panorama of my life because it's just a bit much to embrace. First there was my parents, then my uncle, then a rape, then a suicide and, finally, breast cancer. I would really appreciate it if the universe would just give me a break for a while.

I'm already getting anxious about my upcoming visit to the hospital. It will be a fun-filled adventure featuring CT scans, a bone scan and more blood work. The blood work is just a small blip on the radar screen, but the thought of having to lie still on a table for two hours is unnerving. When I had surgery, they made several attempts to do an MRI so I was on and off that table several times. By the time I got to the surgery holding area (I know there's another word for that, but my word is more indicative of how it felt), my lower back was in so much pain. Too much pressure applied for too long in that area. After they put a pillow under my knees, I was much better. There will be no pillow this time. I've been waking up at 5:00 a.m. lately and, though I'd like to blame it all on the corticosteroids I'm taking for poison ivy, I know that anxiety plays a role, too.

It's okay. Telling myself over and over that I don't want to do these things is really stupid and counterproductive. Somewhere in here the universe is sending me a message. Ultimately, I believe it is a message of love and growth. Staying open to that understanding waxes and wanes. If I get too absorbed in the suffering aspects, it may just prolong my inability to see clearly the potential for positive changes.

Sometimes Ignorance is a Blessing

After deciding I could read just a tiny bit in my "Living Through Breast Cancer" book, I was demoralized once again. I have yet to find even one sentence in that book that hasn't upset me. I know that's what happens; it happens every single time I open the damn book. Nonetheless, I don't seem to be able to stop myself. I'll think, "Oh, this part will be okay. This is past all of the torture stuff." Finally, I've figured it out. I can not have the book in my house. My mother volunteered to take it and she even offered to read it. I don't really wish for her to read it because it's too upsetting. Obviously, I don't have any control over whether she reads it, so I've let that go. As she started to leave with the book on Sunday, I had this panic attack and I tried to get it back from her. She's not going to give me the book back. Damn.

I've moved on to a book written by Bernie Siegel, M.D. He's a surgeon who's handled a lot of cancer cases. I had to call a halt to reading that book because his premise is that those of us who get cancer do so because they've given up on life. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Isn't that just blaming the victim? I have most certainly not given up on life. Sometimes I take a brief hiatus, but I always regain my will to engage in life. The fact that I have this blog is ample evidence that I haven't give up anything. I have, in fact, reclaimed something that I'd stopped doing long ago. If I was going to give up on life, I would have done it in 1965, after my suicide attempt. I guess I'm going to finish the book--because I compulsively do that--but I don't agree with his central premise.