Same Song, Different Verse

I got back from M.D. Anderson several hours ago. The good news: hotel was fine, water was hot, no one suggested that I might be feeble minded. The other up side: I saw my beloved Dr. Ross. One of my online friends asks what's special about my surgeon. Excellent question, which I'll answer later.

The mammogram process was terrifying. We did the usual four x-rays, they sent me to wait in a little room to make sure they hadn't missed an area. I was the only person there. After a period of time, they came to get me again. No big deal, I thought. We just missed something; that's not unusual at all.

Oh no. We had to do a different kind of mammogram because they needed to take a closer look (they being the radiologist and person who did the mammogram) at something. Hand crank makes a comeback. I was sent to sit in the little room again. Alone. Time passed and passed and passed.

Finally, after about 15-20 minutes of waiting, the mammogram person came to get me to take even more x-rays. Now I'm really afraid. That's how it started the last time. Picture, pictures, wait, wait, then bad, bad news. "This must be making you really afraid," the mammogram person said. "Yes," I answered. No response. She put the x-rays on a light board, told me to come over and pointed out several areas they were concerned about. Great. That also happened the last time.

More hand crank action and some highly unusual poses that I had to hold, without breathing of course. Back to the tiny room. As I waited, I became more and more afraid. I was almost ready to cry when she came back and said they looked okay. Too late. That's what the radiologist told me two years ago. Then I showed up at my local surgeon's office where I found out that things weren't fine, after all.

I was still terrified while I waited for Dr. Ross. He came in and asked about any problems, then reassured me about the right breast. I could relax enough to tell him they took my oncologist away from me. I asked him if he was going away, too. "I'll do anything you want me to do." Okay. I was feeling better enough to think, "Oh, really? How about I move in with you and we spend the rest of our lives together?" Instead, I said, "Please don't go away. You're my guy. I trust you. I know you're going to take care of me."

Dr. Ross then started examining the new girl and found a hard place where I had a lot of radiation last summer. He was concerned about it and wants to have a better look. A mammogram? Ultra sound? I don't know. "See?" I said, "You're my guy. I know you'll take care of me."

We scheduled another visit in a month, I think. Or in August. When your oncology surgeon registers concern, there's a part of your brain that shuts down. Or at least that's my experience. Off he went to fetch his appointment schedule. He wrote me down for whatever date it is and gave me a hug He's a very, very compassionate man.

Now, on to why he's so special. He saved my life. I had an unusual form of breast cancer that manifested itself in unusual ways. He found it. He told me. Then Dr. Ross took care of me. He's the best surgeon in one of the best cancer hospitals in the world. He's very gentle and cares about all of his patients as individual human beings who deserve kindness and support. He gave me hugs. Dr. Ross knows how terrifying any kind of cancer diagnosis is (he also specializes in skin cancer surgery).

Here's the final and saddest reason why I have such a huge crush. He's the first man I've ever known who's taken care of me. I can count on him. That's remarkably special.

Thanks for all of the prayers and good wishes. They help, you know, both emotionally and physically. That helps to take care of me, too. I have to rest now. See you on Monday.

The Hand Crank vs. Crazy Land

Okay, here's the deal. Tomorrow morning, I will take my little Andy to be boarded, then I'm going to drive four hours to get to Houston. Thursday, I have a bone scan and a mammogram. The bone scan is no big deal. There's no pain involved in that.

As for the mammogram, my insurance company should be pleased that I am receiving the best screening possible. They manage to scrunch all of the skin and muscle from my neck to my bellybutton in between what I think of as the jaws of death. We spend a good twenty or thirty minutes getting me all lined up and making the plates capture the skin and muscle. Then, my friends, the hand crank comes into play. All of that bodily mass will eventually be compressed into a quarter of an inch. I swear.

After all of that, I'll be sitting around waiting for my beloved oncology surgeon. At least 45 minutes at best will be spent sitting in a hospital gown three times my size in a tiny, freezing little room. Given the size issue, I don't even know why they give me the gown thing. It's fastened in front and, having only two ties, I'm virtually naked from the waist up. I used to expend a considerable amount of energy trying to keep myself covered up in case one of the many nurses or Fellows or assistants show up. Going down the hall to the bathroom was always interesting. I'm shameless at this point. So many absolute strangers have not only looked, but touched extremely private parts of my body that I don't bother with modesty.

On mammogram days, I usually get back to my hotel room around 9:00 p.m., exhausted and starving. They make it impossible to actually eat anything substantial in a day always positively action-packed with waiting. In spite of all of this, it seems infinitely preferable to another day in Crazy Land. I know it will still be there waiting for me on Monday. But for the following three days, I can occupy my thoughts with more important things than back-stabbing attempts by co-workers, random rage attacks by others and my own weariness with it all. Bring on the hand crank. What a relief it will be. See you on Monday.

On The Other Hand....

Okay, well maybe not an up side. More like random thoughts that aren't quite so glum.

I'm back to some semblance of my old workout schedule. The good news: there really is muscle memory! The butt is making a comeback. The triceps--not so much. They need lots and lots of work. The rest of me is getting more muscular and my stamina improves every day. It was vitally important to get the muscle tone back to some extent so I can resume flirting with my oncology surgeon. That's such an odd concept--trying to flirt with a guy who regularly makes me lie down and then touches my breast (and now the new girl, I suppose). I have hair now, though. That's got to be an advantage. Yes, I will leave my husband. In a heart beat. Or a breast check, whichever.

I had a compliment from one of our contract employees last week. I always call him "The Ladies Man," although he's known by his peers as Killer, a tribute to his lady killer days. I've known him for years now, but he's still a looker. Killer told the Superhighway that I'm looking very sexy. I naturally thought she was making this up as a tonic to my poor physical self-esteem. Now I'm not sure. She looked pretty sincere. That used to be a thing that irritated the hell out of me--I always wished men would pay less attention to how I looked than how the brain worked. Now? It made my week.

I passed the compliment on to Hubby. Interesting how that made him actually see me again. After 30 years, in at least a couple of which I looked like absolute hell, we tend to take each other's positive attributes for granted. I don't care. I'd still leave him for surgeon noted above.

Should there be another post? Yes, I think there should. I write these long, verbose posts and I'm always afraid they're too long. They may become tedious. So next topic. I'm making up for my absence later this week. I can always tell myself that, anyway.

Another Month, Another Trip

I've got a trip to M.D. Anderson this week...it's never-ending. Bone scan and a visit with the ever lovely Dr. Ross. Even my great affection for him isn't quite a panacea for the stress extravaganza. I woke up four times last night. It never fails. Even when I'm not thinking about, my brain is working overtime with anxiety.

I think I get the month of July off, except for a visit to check on the progress of my macular degeneration. I fear the news will not be good because the eyesight in my left eye (the one most affected by the disease) has deteriorated. I can still see the grid I use to check md's progress, so that's good news. I'm tired of doctors and I'm tired of bad news.

In August, I have a follow-up with my radiation oncologist. He's here in town, so that's something, I suppose. August 29 is my next (and, I hope final) surgery.

In September, it starts all over again. I'll have to schedule a visit with my medical oncologist. I'll never forget the last visit after chemo ended. I told my doctor that I really like him, but I'd be thrilled to not see him again. Oh no, he told me, you'll be seeing me for the next five years, at least. Four times a year. My heart sank.

There will never be an end to this, unless they find a cure. I have my very own M.D. Anderson page on the web. A dubious distinction. It could be worse, though. As far as we know, there's no cause for concern. The Watcher notes the one-cell rule.

Just Another Bad Day

I'm having a bad day today, sitting in my office crying. Why? Well who the hell knows. I actually had to leave a minute ago and spend some time in the other building, sobbing. Then I walked around the block to make sure I wasn't carrying the Dreaded Fleas into the main building.

Today I guess I'm thinking of everything I've lost. It wasn't just a breast, it wasn't just a childhood, it wasn't even innocence. It wasn't any of those individual things. I'm not sure I can even enumerate them. And, after all, what would be the point of that? Sometimes hope seems so far away I have no idea of how I'll reach it, or if I ever will. Hope for what? If I knew, I'd be working hard to get it.

It's a bad day. That's all. One of the great things that breast cancer taught me is that it's just fine to cry. Furthermore, I couldn't stop it even if I wanted to. And I really, really want to. I'm a person who just gets up every day, hoping to learn whatever lessons the universe has to teach me, and I get on with things. Buck up. Get a grip. Move on.

I'm more composed now. Thanks for listening. I am now officially bucking up. I could do that a lot faster if I had chocolate, though.

Visit With Oncology Surgeon Slated

My next visit to M.D. Anderson is slated for June 21. It's a full day, though, so I'll be gone from June 20 through June 22. I'm going to have a bone density test, a mammogram and (I hope) see my oncology surgeon. Given my recent experience with my oncologist visit, I can't be sure about actually seeing my surgeon.

I love Dr. Ross. I'd leave my husband in a minute for him. He takes excellent care of me and he's one of the best in the world in his field. If I'm shifted off to a Nurse Practitioner, even if she's advanced, I'm going to be very, very unhappy.

If my insurance company and I are paying big bucks for the top of the line cancer treatment, why would I choose to not get it? Why wouldn't I see an actual oncology surgeon here? The answer is, I wouldn't.

So far, they haven't altered my schedule to reflect such a change, but I'm clearly going to have to monitor the situation. That's why I went there in the first place. Trust. I'd like to see my real surgeon, please.

Oncologist Appointment

I made a trip to Houston to visit my oncologist last week; it was just a standard "waiting and watching" kind of appointment. The blood tests were good–nothing to be concerned about. My platelets are a little low, some other cryptic stuff is high and I probably need to address some bone density issues. I had the beginnings of osteoporosis before I began chemotherapy and the treatments sped up that process. We’re not medicating now because I take a lot of medication already. I already take calcium with vitamin d, so I need to concentrate on getting more natural sources of calcium, in addition to addressing my anemia. These are small problems in the grand scheme of things. Thank you, kind friends, who were sending positive thoughts and prayers.

The seriously bad thing is that I won't be seeing my oncologist anymore. Ever. Unless I have some recurrence of the breast cancer. I get to see an "Advanced Nurse Practitioner." She seems like a very nice person and probably knows her business. My other meetings with nurse practitioners is that they don't necessarily have the level of information that doctors have. I have had wrong information imparted from my plastic surgeon's nurse practitioner, among others. Furthermore, I do not go to M.D. Anderson to see a nurse practitioner. It's expensive, it's grueling and I could see a real oncologist here.

The Department of Oncology needed to cut the budget and it was either we all see nurse practitioners or people were going to be laid off. The standard procedure was that patients saw the nurse, then the oncologist. All of that is gone now. The woman I saw said the oncologists were taking credit for their work. Hmm...maybe the oncologists were merely taking credit for their own work.

Obviously, I'm extremely unhappy with this turn of events. I'll have to make a decision about what to do now. Damn it.

The Watcher

"I'm back." It was only a couple of weeks ago that I had that epiphany. I might even be better than I once was in some respects. I seem to laugh more easily. I joke with people and poke fun at myself. It seems I'm more chatty, more friendly and less anal. Yet another medical marvel brought to me courtesy of the new medication I'm taking.

Underneath the new, better me is the Watcher. She hovers just under my consciousness, ever mindful of the fact that a mastectomy, six months of chemo and seven weeks of daily radiation do not in any way guarantee that all the errant cells have been killed. The Watcher is the mad woman in the attic. She's extremely irritable and the closer I get to my three-month blood test, the more easily frustrated the Watcher becomes. I can hear the annoyance in my voice as I talk to someone while I'm struggling to get the batteries out of my wireless tracball. Everything demands more from her than she has to spare.

The Watcher notes every unusual physical experience. What is that itchy spot on my upper left shoulder blade that I keep forgetting to show someone so I can get some reassurance? As if anyone could reassure me. Is that a new mole on my face? I have a new cough. That's particularly troubling to the Watcher. She knows where breast cancer will metastasize and, even though the rational mind remembers we're in the middle of allergy season, the Watcher knows she needs to keep track of how many times I cough every day. My radiation oncologist told me months ago that part of the carcinoma was very close to the chest wall. The Watcher remembers as if it were yesterday.

Friends, co-workers and family know nothing about The Watcher. As far as they're concerned, I'm fine. The minute radiation treatment ended, I was officially fine. My mom thinks I should have a positive outlook. I do. I just wish someone would figure out that worry doesn't end when radiation does. The fact that it doesn't makes me feel like a hypochondriac. I feel silly and embarrassed.

The Watcher knows it's not silly. Just under the level or ordinary consciousness, she reminds me about that one cell.

Tales of the Ditzy Oncology Nurse

It's 4:29 here now, so this will be a short, venting kind of post. I got a call from my oncology nurse this morning, telling me we need to reschedule my appointment with my oncologist. We agreed on 11:00 (same day as scheduled); she advised me that I'd need to do lab stuff an hour earlier than previously scheduled (that was originally scheduled for 11:00).

That sounded odd to me because the whole point of going there is to review blood work with my oncologist and I assure you the lab would never have results to my doctor within an hour. I decided to check my personal page at their website and, lo and behold, Pat (the oncology nurse) got it wrong again.

My lab work appointment is scheduled for 8:45 a.m. and I'm going to see the nurse-practitioner at 11:30. I wonder if I should feel comforted that they're not making me see the doctor. That's probably too much to hope for.

Pat. I'm sure she's extremely competent somehow. Unfortunately, my experiences with her have been less than satisfactory. She's ditzy. When I was having sores in my mouth and on my hands because of the chemo, I called Pat and explained my symptoms (as they told me I should). She asked me in a vague tone of voice whether I was doing prescribed oral hygiene. Oh God yes. Believe me, you will do anything to try to get rid of those.

As things got worse over the weekend, I called my oncologist. He immediately called me back and prescribed antibiotics to prevent the sores from getting infected. Had I depended on Pat, I would have had twice the problem--and infection and the sores. My immune system was almost completely shut down by the chemo, so an infection would have been difficult to overcome.

I really try hard to respect and value Pat The Oncology Nurse. If only she'd give me more reason.

Remembrance Of Loss

I started writing a post about lost abilities, but the universe (or the cyber-universe, at least) took it away. As I was writing, it disappeared. I take it as a sign that, though I may examine it briefly, I should not pursue this topic at length. All things have a reason.

Maybe breast cancer has taken far more from me than I ever imagined it could. Today, I realize that's the very definition of spirituality for me. We lose everything, eventually. No matter what. No matter how many vitamins we take, how many trips to the gym, the body will deteriorate and, eventually, die. Intellect will fade and personality will alter. That's how it goes.

I just have to remember that, accept it and, ultimately, I must embrace it. That which I believe myself to be is just an illusion. The whole is more than the sum of its parts. The one I truly am will not be touched by deterioration of any kind.

Chemo clarified the things I am not: not hair, not intellect, not memory, not physical health, not my emotions. These are merely things that I've stepped into, only to leave them behind when the time comes. It's a liberating and mournful clarity.

Today I remember and I see the task stretching out into the distance. Celebrate. I'm here to learn this lesson. Remain open to suffering and dissolution. Greet them as friends. Just like all friends, they can be problematical at times and hard to love.

Along the way, smaller realizations lead me to the greatest one. At every moment, I can choose to search for the lesson that invites me. Seeing the truth is strenuous work and sometimes I'm not up to the challenge. That's why I'm reminded, from time to time, in many ways, that life slips away.

There's a great Zen precept "Do what is in front of you."

That which is in front of me today is a remembrance of loss.

Learning To Live With Someone New

I type things and then erase them. Over and over. The bad day began last night. I got weepy earlier in the day and now it appears there's no point in trying to remain upbeat. I had some fun this morning, writing about Crazy Land. Then a friend asked my opinion about Phil Spector. That's currently one of my favorite topics.

I told my mom it would be okay to bring over my book, Living With Breast Cancer. She took it away during the time I was undergoing treatment because every time I started to read parts of the book, I would become terrified of what was going to happen next.

All clear, I thought. Treatment is over, so I thought I might get some useful info about what my radiation oncology nurse called "reclaiming my life." Instead, what I found was confirmation that some of the bothersome things I've been experiencing may be treatment-related. And permanent.

I read that chemotherapy used for breast cancer (and maybe other types) can change the structure of the brain and how it functions. Or doesn't. Antidepressants can exacerbate the bad effects. As can steroids used in treatment and Tamoxifen used post-treatment.

They may affect memory, spatial-visual abilities, verbal (especially written) skills. There may be permanent alterations in concentration and attention span. I've experienced a lot of these. I chalked it up to depression, hormones, and/or age. Any (or all) of those things may actually be part (or all) of the problems. Or not.

It's yet more potential for the possibility that breast cancer has taken away all of the qualities by which I've defined myself. The ability to write well and think sharply would be great losses. They have always been self-defining. I'm not sure I can recognize whether verbal skills have deteriorated. Certainly cognitive functioning has changed and not for the better. I'm kind of stupid now and I have absolutely no memory at all. Maybe permanently.

One of my co-workers has a daughter who's participating in an American Cancer Society event which will culminate in an all-night walk by cancer survivors. Luminarias will light the way. It brings tears to my eyes as I type these words.

I've developed an abrasion underneath the new girl where some scar tissue has formed. There is a patch of irritated skin on the scar that runs across my lower stomach. It's hard for me to tell what's going on, from day to day, with my incision sites. Sometimes things hurt for no apparent reason. Even in places where I'm numb to the touch. I note it and move on. What else can I do?

I've had pain for a couple of days now in those places, so I asked Hubby to look in case something was actually wrong. Obviously, something was. So. Back to the vesty bra and underwear that comes up to my waist.

I'm not sure why this seems overwhelming to me today. I gave it my best shot to buck up and was doing fine, it seemed, for a while. I have extensive experience with bucking up. Not today, I guess.

Living With Cancer

I just wrote a lengthy post about Ted Koppel's documentary, "Living With Cancer," that was on the Discovery channel last night. (The post went flying out to Internet Purgatory.) The documentary will be aired again tonight at 8:00 Eastern time. If you have a friend or family member who has cancer, this program can be very helpful.

Leroy Sievers is Ted Koppel's best friend. He is dying of colon cancer that metastasized to several parts of his body. He is in Stage 4. That diagnosis almost inevitably ends in death. Elizabeth Edwards (who participated in the town hall meeting shown after the documentary) has Stage 4 breast cancer. No matter where the cancer travels, it will always be colon cancer or breast cancer. Just in a different location.

I can't imagine suffering through the treatments only to postpone death. We're all going to die, but some of us have medical proof that we're going to die sooner rather than later. There will be an end to Christmas lights, an end to friendships, to all of those daily things we tend to take for granted.

Since about halfway through chemotherapy, I've been almost certain that I would not choose to go through it again. Even if it meant dying. Of course, when I was first diagnosed, I thought I would refuse chemo and radiation. In retrospect that was profoundly naive. So maybe I would do another round of chemo, another round of radiation. I guess that's just one of those things you don't know until you get there.

All of the people at the town hall meeting were either currently being treated or had been treated for cancer. Without exception, everyone could see some positive things about having cancer. It certainly changes your perspective and clarifies priorities. It measures the level of inner strength you possess. I have attained heretofore unknown amounts of suffering. I care less now about how my hair is looking every day than to celebrate having any hair.

Cancer changes everything. It robbed me of all of the things I thought defined me. I'm trying to get some of them back. Some of them were inaccurate measures of who I am and needed to be left behind. Some of them are things that frustrate me, make me angry and cause me great sadness. Nonetheless, I'm still here. That's a lot. I know that I will live every day until I die and I will learn to love whoever replaces the person I used to be. No matter how hard that may be.

Phase 2 Reconstruction Scheduled

I finally got in touch with my plastic surgeon's nurse, Brenda. The last time I visited him, he told me Brenda would get in touch with me with a new surgery date. He thought it would be about four months down the road, but he cautioned me that he has an (outrageously) busy schedule.

I waited and waited and finally sent an email to Dr. K's scheduler. I just wanted to get the surgery date scheduled so I could attempt to put this out of my mind. It never does me any good to think about this stuff in advance. It's highly anxiety provoking, though not so much as my visits with my oncologist and surgical oncologist. There will be drains. That is one of the big reasons I need to put this out of my mind. Well, that and the pain.

My date is August 29, much sooner than expected. I immediately freaked out. Yes, it's good but no, it's not good at the same time. Let me just say it again: drains. My mother points out to me that I had drains for the mastectomy and they were very bearable. I'm not certain that didn't have more to do with the psychological trauma of having a breast removed than the lower pain level in having plastic inserted into your body. Maybe if I just get my beloved Dr. Ross to do it. Of course, Dr. R. is much better at cutting things off than at recreating them.

I probably won't be writing much more about this until the drop dead date (no Freudian slip here). I will be posting about the upcoming oncologist visit (the end of May) and my trip to see the wonderful Dr. Ross (sometime in June). I'm putting surgery out of my mind now.

Maybe I'm Manic, Maybe I'm Not

It's Monday and I haven't ventured out of my office. I've sent one email to Owner and spoken with Crazy Employee over the intercom. Oh wait. Crazy Employee just spent twenty minutes in my office, telling me about Rat Cleanup Day. Just send me a memo, okay? Do not make me talk to you. It's Monday. I'm in my office. Isn't that enough?

I think my new antidepressants are finally kicking in and I have to say, last night the thought actually arose, "I'm back. Is that right? Am I really back?" I'm more animated (like I used to be). I'm funny and quick-witted (Only about funny things, though; not important things like where I put my keys.). Last night around 7;00 p.m., I started dreading having to come to Crazy Land today. Surely that's a sign of improved mental health. For a while, I actually wanted to be here. But that was during chemo. Then there was a bout of it right after that last surgery, when I wanted to be anywhere but sitting on a sofa, being despondent. I can be despondent so much better here.

I actually wrote something with paper and pen last night. I haven't done that since my beloved friend Becky died. It was something intellectual. Oh my God. The end must surely be near. I need to check that supermarket tabloid that warned me the end is imminent and find out if my name is listed under the "Who's Going to Live?" part of the article.

It could be that I'm just a tad manic today. It looks like rain outside my windows and I haven't started drifting downward into weather-induced melancholy. Yes, that's definitely a sign of tad-ish mania. So is making up words like "tad-ish."

My mom just called me to tell me she got one of those spaghetti cookers you see on tv. It's like a clear cylinder and you pour hot water over the spaghetti in it and--voila--fully, but not over cooked pasta. It was a short conversation because, as she rightly notes, she has to hurry over to my house so she can be there when Phil Spector gets going. I urged her to hang up and get on the road. Trial is due to start in about 13 minutes. See? Maybe I'm just a tiny bit manic.

There are important things I need to share with you, but I'll be damned if I can remember what they are. I've been having serious memory problems lately (that's probably the real reason I'm so chipper--has nothing to do with meds). Maybe I'm just not remembering I'm unhappy. I'm blaming the Tamoxifen. I don't always think as clearly as I once did. I have to hang onto the thought that the memory and thought processes will improve as time goes on.

Now I remember. I spent some time over the weekend thinking about breast cancer long term. I have an appointment with my oncologist later this month. We'll do the blood test that confirms there are no cancer cells. This is always an anxiety provoking event. There went that mania thing. Not feeling so frisky suddenly. It's good to face reality, but it's sobering to remember this is a disease for which we have no cure. Many things in my life will never ever be the same. I'm now severely lacking in pep.

I had "Take care of ggirl" day on Saturday and Sunday. I've never done that before (unless I was forced). I read, did some yoga (very gentle), took a bubble bath, laid down to rest for a couple of hours and just generally focused on things that would be soothing. I should probably mark my calendar because I think this is the first time I've ever devoted two days to making myself feel better. Do I feel better now? Well, no. It's Monday now, but that's not really the point.

I finished the Primo Levi biography and thought about the puzzle of why people choose to commit suicide. Thoughts on that will be available at my book site sometime soon. I started Wild Ivy, by Hakuin Ekaku. I'm taking a hiatus from depressing, intellectually demanding, concentration camp reading. Hakuin is intellectually demanding, but he also lifts my spirits and reminds me of the precious gift of this very moment.

More notes from Crazy Land tomorrow. Or maybe that tale I keep meaning to tell of the peculiar behavior by an old friend of mine. Either way, you win.

It's The Tiny Little Rooms That Get to Me

I'm worn down to a nub today. I ended up sitting in one of those little examination rooms for over an hour. Surgeons' schedules are like that, I know, but I start to feel a little claustrophobic after 30 minutes or so.

Everything is progressing nicely, except for some thickened scar tissue. I had a series of steroid injections along the incision site across my lower stomach. I had two at my belly button and two or three right around the new girl. Everyone (the nurse, 2 physician's assistants, the surgeon) was concerned about the pain involved. I'm still numb in several places. The other sites hurt, but I now laugh at pain. Hahaha. A few steroid injections doesn't even really show up on my radar screen.

I'll have another surgical event in four or five months (whenever he can fit me into his very, very busy schedule). We're going to do some liposuction and other work on both the new and old girls. I'll have to be in the hospital overnight and more drainage tubes. (Oh no!!! Anything but that!) Those really hurt. Maybe they won't extend so far into my body this time. Nothing like having sensitive inner body contact with plastic.

Still waiting for the day when I'll be able to wear normal clothes and/or everybody stops hurting me. My psychiatrist tells me I shouldn't think of it that way. It's not very "empowering," you know. She can get back with me on that when she's gone through the same things I have. I have not, for the past year and a half, chosen to be hurt.

Aside from all of that, the skies are blue, the trees outside my windows are lush again and waving in the breeze. Nesting continues and the squirrels are feeling energized. They run along the branches and make daring leaps from one to the other. Out of my other window, I have a bit of a crepe myrtle tree visible and the roof of a church. The crepe myrtle isn't in bloom yet; it's too early still.

There's plenty of action on the church roof, though. The courting going on over there is hilarious. There are a lot of pigeons in the neighborhood and they like to hang out on that church roof. Since it's mating time, there are constantly three or four male pigeons chasing after (usually) one female at a time. She keeps moving away and here come the gang of boys right after her. Generally, when the females get exasperated and leave, all the boys stand there, looking at her as she flies away, collectively baffled. That's usually about all they're willing to put into the chase, so they mill around until some other hapless female arrives.

It's so good to be back. I have another M.D. Anderson visit with my oncologist coming up next month. I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

Temporary Visit to The Dark Hole

There's nothing like a trip to M.D. Anderson to throw me for an emotional loop. My depression got even worse as the day wore on and there's a good chance it will return (in spades) today. That's just how it goes. I thought I'd get this post in before I take up today's temporary residence in Crazy Land.

There won't be any painful tests. There won't be any bad news. This is just a check in with my plastic surgeon to make sure the New Girl is doing okay and the tummy tuck hasn't killed me (from accidentally ripping out stitches). It's the mere fact that I have to enter that building. Everything comes back to me, even before I get there. Like yesterday. Things got very grim.

I saw Elizabeth Edwards on Larry King last night. It was really nice they made room for her after the wall-to-wall Imus coverage. There is a woman who is most definitely bucking up. More than I ever have. She's chosen not to give any more of her life to this disease. I get it. I've lost almost two years now that will never come back. Choose to live until you die. That's about all any of us (both people with or without serious illness) can do. She has my deepest respect; I am humbled by her courage.

So that's how it is. I'll be away until next Wednesday, by which time I'll probably have returned to the Land of Crazy and be back to my cranky self.

Hogging the Pity Vote

"We are discreet sheep; we wait to see how the drove is going, and then go with the drove. We have two opinions: one private, which we are afraid to express; and another one - the one we use - which we force ourselves to wear to please Mrs. Grundy, until habit makes us comfortable in it, and the custom of defending it presently makes us love it, adore it, and forget how pitifully we came by it. Look at it in politics." ~ Mark Twain

It's started already. My esteemed co-workers think Elizabeth Edwards' revelation about her cancer constitutes an attempt to get the pity vote. After I commented that I need to limit how much I think about the subject, they're off and running anyway.

Then they moved on to Tony Snow. I just had to tell them (more than once) that it was making me anxious and depressed to continue that conversation. Finally, I walked away. I came over to my side of the building where, for the moment, I don't have to offer up my opinion "as a cancer survivor" about any of this.

As if the anxiety and depression and fatigue weren't enough, I'm now having colon pain. Thanks, guys, for stressing me out just a little bit more. What the hell. It's important that you express your opinion to me. We all know I can take it, but it might just cause an eensy bit of pain in my stomach. What's the big deal, anyway? I think they should all just talk amongst themselves.

Apparently it hasn't occurred to anyone that I'm still struggling emotionally. Despite the number of hours I'm whiling away at the office and the fact that the girls are sporting a new bra. Even though I regularly (though not always) expend the energy in the morning to actually put on make up. I'm still in free fall. On the inside, I'm still bruised, you assholes. Wake up!

Maybe I'm just being too demanding. Why should anyone get the hint when I tell them I don't want to talk about it anymore? Suddenly the words from an old folk song come to mind, "If I had a hammer, I'd hammer in the morning..." right on the tops of your heads, you inconsiderate lumps of humanity with whom I have to spend my days. Jesus.

I guess I'm just trying to hog some of that pity vote.

When You're Going Through Hell...

"If you're going through hell, keep going," ~ Winston Churchill

Owner of Company is on a rampage. He most definitely does not approve of the Edwards' decision to continue the Presidential campaign. He's been calling me all morning on the intercom, reading his own satires of news stories about them, asking me for synonyms, wanting definitions. He just called me while I'm writing this to tell me that "satire" was, indeed, the word he was looking for, instead of "parody" or "lampoon" or whatever. When Owner of Company gets worked up about something, he can get obsessed. This is a quality we share. I'm just not obsessed about this one.

He thinks that it's really John Edwards' decision to continue the campaign, no matter what his wife wants. I don't know. I don't think that's necessarily the case. Sometimes it's helpful, when you're battling cancer, to just try to get on with daily things. For them, political campaigns are a regular part of their lives. You certainly don't need to be sitting around with nothing to do but think about your diagnosis or how the chemo is making you feel or any of the other wrenching sidetracks you mind creates. Maybe you just campaign, if that's what you do.

Owner of Company thinks John and Elizabeth Edwards should spend their time, however much that is, being with their small children. I have a stepson I first met when he was 7. I don't feel qualified to judge. Owner just told me that they plan to take their children out on the campaign trail with them. I've worked on several political campaigns and they are incredibly grueling, even if you're young and healthy. I'm not sure how much time they'll really have to spend with the kids.

These are very early decisions, though. Those decisions may change as treatment and illness progress. I didn't have stage 4 breast cancer that metastasized to the bone, but early on in treatment, I thought I could maintain my regular schedule. That vision of my future was incorrect. That may be so with Elizabeth Edwards. As I said before, you deal with it however you can.

Everyone has their own way of coping with cancer and with death, I think. I'm reluctant to seem judgmental or be judgmental. It's a tough journey to even get through treatment. I know that when I was first diagnosed, I didn't know where I would find all of the mental, physical and emotional resources I'd have to call upon to endure.

Throughout my own treatment, people felt comfortable suggesting how I might deal with it. Many friends pushed me to confront my feelings about everything that was happening to me. I wasn't hurt or irritated by those suggestions; I didn't have the physical or emotional luxury of being offended. I just plowed through, hanging on until it was over. I know everyone has to find their own way. The path isn't always easy to see.

Owner will be working on emails about this all day. He calls me up and asks me how I feel, as a cancer survivor, about what he has to say. I'm not really the person to ask. I have a predilection for dark humor. I can be very sardonic. What he's saying is fine with me.

But then I don't have Stage 4 breast cancer that's metastasized to my bones. He might need to check back with me should that come to pass. (I'm superstitious about this. I'm knocking on my fiberboard desk.)

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.