How Would You Like To Be Remembered?

Before he died of cancer, one of my heroes (Leroy Sievers) asked his readers to tell him how they'd like to be remembered. I watched a bit of his memorial service yesterday and thought some more about it.

I'd like people to remember all the times when I could have judged, but didn't. I'd like them to remember my warmth. I'd like them to remember the times I made them laugh or shared with them one of those random facts no one else would know.

I wish there were someone who could share, when the time comes, how hard my life has been and how I rose above it, time and time again. That's really the greatest accomplishment of my life. I have thrived in an environment that could have destroyed me. My cousins survived, but I triumphed over bad genes and dismal nurturing.

I hope they remember how brave I've been. Not because I've lived through breast cancer. Not because I lived through my dad's suicide. I've been courageous by refusing let go of compassion, no matter what. It's a work in progress, letting go of anger and resentment, but I continue to put one foot in front of the other.

When all is said and done, there aren't many choices to make in life. You're born into certain circumstances and, as terrible as things eventually may get, all you can do is keep going. As I've said before, no one gets to call in sick to life. We wake up every day and try to get through it, no matter what. That's all we can do.

Getting up and going on doesn't require courage. Maintaining humor, gentleness, compassion and integrity--for those qualities I've had to reach deep inside. I have had to bring my attention back day after day. They've tested my mettle.

I wish people would remember that about me. How would you like to be remembered?

Ike Threatens People I Love

The migraine raged on all afternoon, all night and was there to greet me first thing this morning. I didn't cook dinner last night. I stuck it out at work until it was time to go home. When I got there, I actually went to bed and put a cloth over my eyes. Even in the midst of chemo, I rarely hung around in bed.

Hubby made dinner: turkey burgers. He did a great job, but I may never be able to stand the smell of turkey burgers again. I wonder if, because of chemo, I developed an overly acute sense of smell. There are so many things I can't stand to smell anymore. Raw beef. Turkey. Chicken (unless it's heavily disguised by spices). I'm still good with fish. I hate the smell of coffee cake and barbecue (these are definitely related to chemo). Enough of that.

I lived 19 years on the Gulf Coast of Texas. I'm accustomed to hurricanes, the anxiety of whether the path is true and it will eventually find its way to your home. I've lived through the endless rain, the high winds, tornadoes, the endless endless rain in an area not too far above sea level.

Today, I'm worried about all of the people who took (and continue to take) such great care of me at M.D. Anderson. I hope they're safe and that their homes are spared. I know Dr. Ross will be at the hospital, sleeping on a cot, taking care of the people who are so sick they can't go home. It's probably one of the safest places to be in Houston.

I remember every last one of them, from the people who park my car to the nurses who helped me get out of bed or stop bleeding, the medical techs who x-rayed me or ct scanned me to the doctors who saved my life. I can't know how they'll fare.

I'm holding my breath a little bit and saying prayers for all beings living on the Coast. But especially all of those people to whom I'll always be grateful.

Learning to Love the Scars

I've started doing yoga again. It's the slow, meditative type that allows me to "yawn my body open." I hope it helps with the osteoarthritis in my hips, but even if it doesn't, it's the first step to regaining my physical fitness regimen. Slowly but surely, I start again.

This week, Carson Kressley's show, "How to Look Good Naked" featured a woman who had been unable to feel attractive because of extensive medically-created scars on her body. I thought about watching it, even watched the first five minutes of it, but ultimately I decided to move on. Makeup, a new haircut, a new wardrobe--none of that is going to fix my own scar issues. Everyone tells me that no one would ever know, by looking at me, that I had breast cancer. People even tell me that I'm pretty.

My only thought is, "That's because you haven't seen me naked." I'm working hard to accept my scars, if not love them. Some days are better than others. I accept that they're there. I know that having them is preferable to being dead. I even know with absolute certainty that my husband still finds me attractive.

Someday maybe I will. All the time, not just intermittently.

Losing Weight

Lisa, the only M.D. Anderson employee I dislike, pointed out that I've lost weight since my last visit. She attributed that to the Ritalin, but since I haven't taken it in a month, I don't think that's the cause.

The question is, after having been alerted to diminishing weight, why do I think that's a reason to restrict food intake?

Feeling a little nutritionally crazy, teetering on the razor's edge of my long-time eating disorder potential.

On the up side, I'm not weighing myself yet. And yes, I do still own scales.

Not Myself

The second night of insomnia. I'm not sure if it's fatigue or maybe the after-effects of surgery or maybe the coming to terms with new diagnoses, but my intuition fails me. Back in Crazy Land, I have conversations but I can't determine the mindset of participants. I hate not being able to read people. I'm frustrated and baffled by my insularity. I need to see inside their heads.

I'm fairly certain that no one else here is attuned to the subtleties of human interaction. Otherwise, they might have noticed the distance in my eyes. They might have heard my voice coming from far away, as if I were standing in an empty room. On the one hand, it's a very good thing: I'm never vulnerable. On the other hand, it's a very lonely experience.

Clearly, I'm not myself. Whomever that may be at this point.

Test Results

The mammogram was fine, except tissue density makes it hard for them to say with certainty that all is well.

I've developed osteoporosis in my hips and spine, thanks to the chemo. That aching pain in my hips is arthritis.

"You've been through a lot," Dr. Ross told me. If he says it, it must be so.

I feel like I'm tired, anxious and depressed. I got to see Dr. Ross, though.

Up At 2:00

Another night of sleeplessness. I've been waking up at 4:00 every morning for about the last three weeks. Too much stress at work, at home and the nagging anxiety about Thursday's tests jolt me awake every night.

I saw Dr. Nuesch, my radiation oncologist this morning, believing we were finally through with each other. After his examination, he said he thought we should keep an eye on the hardness that refuses to go away. It's on the side of my breast and a ridge under my left breast. Generally speaking, I try not to notice. I'll be seeing him again, but I get a break for a year.

While I was waiting, I noticed a photograph of me in my (extensive) patient files. No wonder people cried when they saw me. I looked really sick. I was really sick. Seeing it made me a little sad. I'm not sure why.

Tomorrow, off to Houston.

Annual Check Up

I'm hiding in my office today, feeling profoundly unproductive. My annual breast cancer check is coming up on Thursday. It's always nerve-wracking, even though I have every reason to believe all is well.

Not much will get done today or tomorrow. Wednesday, I'm off to Houston. Thursday is the marathon day at M.D. Anderson, beginning with blood work at 7:00 a.m. I'll see Dr. Ross at the end of that day. It's something to look forward to.

I won't be able to drive back until Friday, but then I get a non-medical day off on Monday. I just want to get the week over with.

Thank you, Leroy

Before I had breast cancer, I never had heroes. The very concept eluded me. Now I have several--Dr. Ross, Dr. Christafanilli, Dr. Kronowitz, Lance Armstrong and Leroy Sievers. Leroy Sievers died on August 15. He was 53 years old.

Leroy waged a mighty battle against the cancer that eventually took his life. Like Lance Armstrong, he was fearless in his commitment to staying alive. He endured through countless procedures and treatments. One of the last treatments involved injecting glue into his spine. He developed a post-operative infection and almost died from it.

Leroy had many friends on the Internet. He wrote about his illness every day in his blog, "My Cancer," and gave voice to so many of us who've shared the same journey.

I always think that, if cancer reoccurs as it did with Leroy, I won't be willing to go through chemo again. If that means I die, then so be it. Leroy was a stronger, braver person than I. He grabbed onto life and held on, no matter how scary the ride got.

I hope Leroy can hear all of us left behind, saying thank you for the tremendous gift of his spirit.

Thank you, Leroy. I'm going to miss you so much.

Keeping Secrets From Myself

I finally figured it out. It's anxiety. In the past three weeks, I've

burned my right arm twice on the oven
burned two fingers of my left hand, testing the heat of a grill
sprained one of my ankles
cut both of my feet
hit my lower back against a sharp-edged table

I'm a disaster. All of these were accidents, but they form a pattern, obviously. Whenever I'm anxious, I'm so distracted that I go through periods of accidentally hurting myself. For as long as I'm fearful, I'm a danger to myself.

I haven't been aware of thinking about my surgery, but clearly my mind has been focused on the pain ahead. I'm so good at keeping secrets from myself. It's how I got through my childhood. I compartmentalize to keep anxiety at bay. The Inner Fascist asserts herself and, as always, finds an abundance of qualities that need correction.

Why, why, why. I shut down the Inner Fascist and wonder why she's back. I wonder why I'm falling, cutting, stumbling, injuring myself repeatedly. They defend me from what seems like unbearable anxiousness.

I'm a slow learner. Shhhh. Don't tell anyone, especially not me.

Surgery, Round Four

I've been complaining for weeks about not hearing from Dr. Kronowitz to set a surgery date. Yesterday, Brenda left a message on the machine requesting that I call her to discuss Dr. K's schedule. I was immediately plunged into depression.

I don't have to do this. I could allow the necrotic tissue to remain. Dr. Kronowitz suggested doing some scar revision on the tummy tuck. He said the scars might come back, though, and it will definitely be painful. I tried to think clearly about it last night, to determine whether I'd be sorry if I didn't do either one.

The brain was already hunkered down, trying to steel the body for the coming onslaught. I'm familiar with the mental strength that must be marshaled to get through the pain, though it most certainly will be pain of a variety I've already experienced.

At this moment, I don't think I can stand another abdominal surgery. Certainly a few more steroid injections might help with the pain I still experience over both of my hips. I plan to ask Brenda about whether surgery ultimately will be more efficacious in resolving this chronic pain. My guess is that it won't.

I can't speculate on how much of a toll surgery will take on my energy level, which is being managed relatively well with Ritalin. I need to carry on with my life and that requires that I'm not burdened with insurmountable fatigue.

I've worked so hard the past several months to regain strength, stamina and mobility. I wonder how much will remain after the surgery. Of course, I will start rebuilding again as soon as I'm able. Right now, I need to come to terms with the loss.

I can elect to move on and leave things as they are. I regularly remind myself of that fact. Just as regularly, my thought process shuts down. I know I will have the necrotic tissue removed. I like to think that in the dissociative silence settling over me that my brain is sending messages to this body beaten down by three years of medical assault. It's reminding the body that I can get through this.

Ritalin

Clink. Clink clink. Clink. Clink clink clink. A teenager sat to my left, opening and closing windows at the speed of light on the public computer. Her bangle bracelets jangled together every time she moved her arm. A couple of men of Middle Eastern descent walked arm in arm from the elevator area to Nuclear Medicine, on the far side of Internal Medicine, where I sat, waiting. They passed in front of me ten times in the two hours I waited for my appointment. I never could figure out where they were going or why they had to keep leaving and coming back. I wasn't nervous about it; I was puzzled. Over the two hours, four people wandered up to the coffee machine, some of them stood there and looked at the empty carafe for a few minutes before they left. Others actually attempted to make coffee, going so far as to remove the coffee basket, only to find that the filters and coffee were nowhere to be found. Being a pro, I knew they were locked in drawers under the cabinet.

Two hours. My appointment with the Internal Medicine physician began to seem like an incredibly stupid idea. I'd already completed the 50 page (no, seriously) questionnaire within the first half hour. Why wouldn't I get up, leave the questionnaire and drive home? Why wouldn't I just continue to be exhausted? I was getting ready to check myself out when they called my name.

I'd handed over my completed questionnaire an hour earlier, but no one could locate it. I guess a search party was organized. They found it about ten minutes after I'd been sitting in the tiny exam room, still contemplating whether I could get up and leave. I knew the exam was going to be lengthy, because I had two scheduled, back to back. I had the Advanced Nurse Practitioner, then the Internal Medicine doctor. I was almost certain there would be blood work, which would mean I'd have to probably wait another 45 minutes in the lab area. Then there would be a four hour ride home.

Fatigue is hard to quantify. On the questionnaire they asked things like, "How much does your fatigue interfere with your ability to clean the house?" Please define the word "interfere" in this context. "Can you walk around the block?" Yes, but then I have to lie down for two hours. There was no place on the form to note the toll the walk would take. I can do virtually everything, but there is an energy cost and it's high. They attempt to quantify by assigning numbers to all of the answers and adding them up so that you fall into a range of fatigue levels.

Luckily, my new doctor didn't rely only on the answers to the questions. The nurse and I talked for about 45 minutes, then I spent another hour with Dr. Escalante. It was worth the wait. She listened to me, prompted me when she needed more information, then examined me. She ordered lab work.

Dr. Escalante reminded me that long-term fatigue is very common among breast cancer survivors and it's more likely for those of us who've had multi-modal treatment. That's a fancy way of saying that they've beaten me down with chemo, radiation and four surgeries. Of course I'm tired. There are some new research studies underway to try to determine why this is so, what internal mechanisms are factors in creating fatigue, but no one knows exactly why right now. Dr. Escalante acknowledged that I'm doing everything I can to improve my quality of life, so she suggested another alternative.

My new anti-fatigue drug is Ritalin. The other drug they use is something called ProVigil, which is FDA-approved for treatment of narcolepsy. I understand why that works, I think. I fall asleep sitting up, using the bathroom, anywhere I have a moment of inactivity. It's supposed to help with chemobrain, too. Some days I'm able to think clearly, but mostly not. I'm in a perpetual fog.

I got home around 11:00 Monday night. Wednesday night there was a terrible storm. We're still dealing with the aftereffects. It's been a long, long week. I can't feel any upsurge in energy since I started Ritalin. Next week, I'll tell you about Loathsome's take on the fatigue issue. You're going to love it.

Tattoo

It was a standard-issue M.D. Anderson day: Arrive early and wait...and wait...and wait. I thought I had an appointment with Dr. K.'s nurse to have myself tattooed. Brenda and I had a difference of opinion, though. I wondered why she never appeared on my schedule. We had a couple of phone conversations about it, but she neglected to pencil me in. After about 30 minutes of waiting as she scurried around getting the necessary approvals, we got down to the ink.

It took a couple of hours to finish, including the prep time spent finding the right colors, drawing the template, etc. There were a couple of areas where I had some pain, but I'm virtually completely numb. In case you don't know, scabs will form that must not be disturbed or the color will come off with them. I can't wear a bra for 5 days and I have to apply Aquaphor twice a day. I hated to see the jar of Aquaphor. They gave me that during chemo to stave off the sores on my hands, but it did absolutely no good. My brain automatically rejects everything that was related to chemo.

So here I am at work, bra-less. Being a member of the groovy generation, I used to go without a bra rather frequently, before propriety and gravity asserted themselves. I don't think, even in my youth, that I ever showed up at a job lacking adequate foundation garments. Today I wore a large NBA tee shirt from the year the Phoenix Suns were in the Finals, but the Aquaphor almost immediately created a dark round spot the exact size of the tattoo (or aureole). I'm not sure how I'm going to get through the rest of the week. I simply don't have that many XL tee shirts, even of the NBA variety (of which I have quite a few).

The other issue is one of bounce. The girls are pretty perky and, no matter how slowly and carefully I walk, they tend to move around a bit. The thought that Loathsome or Mr. Moneybags glimpsing the girls actually moving makes me a little queasy.

There's ever so much more to share; the day actually went downhill from there. However, in my absence, Crazy Employee has managed to make part of one of the databases malfunction. I can't figure out how she did it. She's gifted, I suppose.

Due to database repair and exhaustion, Part Deux tomorrow.

Steroids

Dr. Kronowitz agreed that I've healed enough to move on to the next step, the tattoo. We discussed the upcoming (final, I hope) surgery to remove a lot of necrotic tissue caused by the high radiation doses I received. He may also try to cut away some of the chelation at the donor site so that maybe I'll have less ongoing pain. We had originally discussed doing it in July, but now Dr. K. thinks his schedule may be too busy.

I guess that could be a good thing. I would have more time to continue to recover physically and psychologically. I'm less concerned about my physical condition than my mental strength to endure more pain. It's far easier to rehab physically than to rebuild psychological reserves. At least with physical strength and flexibility, there are identifiable milestones and definitive means towards reaching them. Though I may be in a lot of pain from tearing internal scar tissue while I do my exercises, I know the pain will end shortly after I stop working out. After surgery, there is no predictable end in sight. Pain will end when it feels like it.

Brenda is supposed to call me soon to set up the appointment for my tattoo and I suppose we'll discuss a surgery date then, too.

We rounded up the visit with some more steroid injections in the scars running across my tummy and my "umbo" (his PA's word for my navel). Jennifer also did some injections in my sides above my hip bones. I didn't realize we were going to be doing that until Dr. Kronowitz told Jennifer to get the supplies. It's probably good that it was a surprise. At least I didn't have a couple of weeks of anticipating the excruciating pain.

I'm back at work today, feeling mostly brain dead. One of my colleagues in Virginia called to ask about a legal issue and I could barely summon an intelligible response. I must look pretty beaten up, too, because everyone is giving hugs today.

There's some strictly lay-out work that I plan to do today so my diminished intellectual ability won't be a problem. Maybe tomorrow I'll be more capable of working and writing. I had a phone call from an old friend as I was scurrying around, trying to leave town on Monday. I'll try to get around to that tomorrow.

Celebrate!

Today is the second anniversary of my final chemotherapy treatment!

Hero

I just spent an hour on the phone with my health insurance provider, straightening out my complex maze of doctor bills. For many years, I've tried to do at least one good deed every day. I recently upped that ante to 3. My second good deed of the day was to be patient and cordial with the insurance guy who helped me get it all cleared up. He was obviously surprised when I thanked him and wished him a good day, even though we came up with another $900 in bills I have to pay. I'm certain he talks with a lot of angry people every day and I hope our conversation makes his day a little better. My previous good deed today was traffic-related. One more to go.

I happened to see Elizabeth Edwards on television over the weekend and was once again impressed with her positive energy and commitment to getting on with life, even though she battles Stage 4 breast cancer. "She's my hero," I thought. Lance Armstrong is also my hero. Before I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I had absolutely no heroes. Now I do. I have three.

I discovered that I am my own hero.

Nipple Reconstruction

I was told not to wear jewelry, but I didn't think that meant rings because I don't need any nipples on my fingers. Brenda, the nurse, made me take off my rings and jeans, then attached a pad to my back to ground me. I wasn't sure I heard her correctly, so I asked her again why I needed the pad. I still have no idea why I had to be grounded, but removing all metal from my body prevented me from being burned in those places.

Jennifer, his PA, came in and asked me if they'd given me any nipples to try. I know. Go ahead and laugh. She handed me a plastic nipple and told me to put it where I wanted the new one located. Well heck, I didn't know. I stood in front of the mirror and tried to find the right place. I turned around and asked everyone (Brenda, Jennifer and one of Dr. Kronowitz's fellows) what they thought. They reached a consensus opinion and helped me to move it to a better site. When Dr. Kronowitz came in, he didn't think much of the placement and moved it to where he thought it should be. Couldn't we have just waited for him?

The room had a chair much like a dentist's chair, but much more comfy. After they reclined the chair, Brenda put a cool, damp cloth over my eyes and turned on some "new age" music. It was all very calming. Then Dr. K. went to work. He double checked to make sure I couldn't feel anything.

He was in high spirits and we all had a fabulous time. He made me laugh almost the entire hour and a half that it took to create the new nipple. There were a couple of places that hurt, but Dr. Kronowitz gave me some local anesthesia immediately. The fact that it hurt is great news. That means the nerves are forming new connections. Someday I may actually have sensation in the new girl.

It's a little like breast origami; Dr. Kroniwitz cut some of the existing skin and twisted and turned it until it looked like a nipple. They asked me, after he left to report to my mom, if I wanted to see it. Of course I did. They asked if I was sure. I have to say it wasn't pretty.

Jennifer put a piece of foam over the new nipple. It's 2 inches in diameter and about 1.5 inches tall, with a hole cut in the middle like a donut. That will prevent the new nipple from being compressed and potentially dying.

I'll wear my dressings for the next two weeks, then in 3 months, I'll go back for the tattoo. Maybe no more nerves will have reconnected by then. Three months after that, I'll have my final surgery. The end is in sight.

Size 2 Is Not Fabulous

I broke down and bought some new (on sale) pants for work this weekend. It's official. I'm now down to a size 2. I see women on t.v. diet commercials, enthused about reaching that size. I'm not thrilled.

Even I can see how tiny I am now. All of my doctors have commented, as did my physical therapist. I only note that my jeans are baggy and all of my old clothes (sizes 6 and 8) hang off of me.

My mom thinks I'm not eating enough. She's started bringing food over and checking my menu items. I'm eating enough. As a matter of fact, I just consumed 3 Shrimp en Brochette, fries and a very large piece of cheesecake.

As you can see, I'm working on it.

Sandbox Revisited

"Finish every day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely and with too high a spirit to be cumbered with your old nonsense. This day is all that is good and fair. It is too dear, with its hopes and invitations, to waste a moment on the yesterdays." ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Thirty minutes of intense pedaling on the stationery bike relieved me of all my fury last night. My legs are still tired this morning, but my mind is calm. I emailed a note to Dr. Cristofanilli's scheduler to see if I could manage to work in a trip to the lab next Tuesday (nipple day revisited). I conceded that I might not be able to see Lisa (his nurse practitioner) that day, but we can always discuss the report via telephone. (Usually one sees the doctor/PA/ nurse the same day as the tests.) Though it's highly unlikely that anything unusual will turn up, not checking makes me crazy and scared.

Dr. Sandbox gave me a little lecture about the limits of technology and how, even if there were some early signs of cancer, a blood test might not be subtle and sophisticated enough to spot it this early. True enough. No question about it. It's not "predictive," he pointed out. There is another reason to take a look at what's going on, though. It's important to have a clear idea of whether the level of Tamoxifen is adequate. I'm not as clueless as he seems to believe. Furthermore, if the National Cancer Institute recommends it, shouldn't we do it if only to ease my troubled mind?

Sandbox reminds me of why I used to hate doctors, specifically male doctors. It's the arrogance, the utter lack of interest in the patient's questions and concerns. Yes, you've been to medical school, but so has my ex sister-in-law. Believe me, I'm not that impressed. I, on the other hand, have lived in this body 54 years now. I'd like to live in it another 20 years or so, long enough to take up smoking again. (I've promised myself that, if I make it to 70 or 72 depending on my mood at the moment, I can throw all caution to the wind. Thank you, Frank Sinatra, for the inspiration). Sandbox and all of his ilk should listen more and talk less.

I was momentarily called away from my relentless Sandbox bashing to do a little freelance computer assistance for my friend the Superhighway. What blind faith they have in me. Fortunately, she had a question I could answer and I even remembered the exact process without fumbling around the way I do most of the time. I always find my way eventually, but I hate making my faithful friends wait while I noodle around endlessly.

I've belabored Sandbox enough, anyway.

It's a cold, gray, rainy start to the weekend. I had to go downstairs a little while ago to fetch my yogurt from the refrigerator. The atrium is always chilly, so I ran upstairs. The wooden stairs creaked mightily as I did my best to sprint. As a matter of fact, it sounded to me like the entire building shook. I'm reminded of the proverbial herd of buffalo. Can I blame this on the boots? Wait. Maybe Sandbox is somehow responsible.

No Blood Work

Warning: Ggirl is furious. Bad language will be used. If this offends you, move on to another post.

I just got back from seeing Dr. Sandbox. He is now being called by that name because he is one of the most narcissistic people I have ever met. And that's saying a lot. My dad pretty much had the market cornered on that quality.

He entered the examining room and I said, "Hi, Dr. Sandbox. How are you?" I'm a southern girl. I have southern manners. We always ask.

"I'm here," he says.

Oh really. Well I'm fucking fine, too, asshole. I'm thrilled to be here. At least you're getting paid.

He makes me take my clothes off and pokes around on my breasts. It's not like I don't have millions of guys doing that. Seriously. I do not need my oncologist to feel. It is a massive waste of my time and it makes me cold sitting on that stupid table.

"Are we doing blood work today?" I ask.

He launches into a lecture about how blood work doesn't really tell you anything. Again, oh really? Then why does the National Cancer Institute recommend one every six months. Am I at six months? Hell yes.

So we did not do blood work. That scares me. If we're not doing blood work, then I'm wasting my time. Seriously. There is absolutely no reason for me to be there if all he's going to do is poke around on my breasts. Even I do that. An extra pair of hands is NOT NECESSARY.

Then I broach the question, once again of BRCA1 and BRCA2. I noted that the last time I saw him, he thought I should do one. He said that after I mentioned it, though. So.

"If you think I should have the test, then I'll have one. Don't do it because you're humoring me, though. I don't have any vested interest in having one, but if you think that's what I should do, then I'll do it."

Again another lecture that has little bearing on the issue at hand. Finally he said he thought we should pursue it. Okay. So we're doing genetic testing but we are not doing blood work. This makes complete sense to me.

BRCA1 and BRCA2 are indicators of whether it's likely breast cancer will develop in the other breast and whether it seems likely ovarian cancer is a risk. Fine. We'll test, but I am NOT having anything cut off. I am not having ovaries removed. I am sick to death of surgery.

On the other hand, I don't want to wake up two years from now and find out I need to do more chemo. (Again, another important reason for BLOOD WORK.) I will not do chemo. I don't care what that means. I WILL NOT DO MORE CHEMO.

So here's tomorrow's agenda. I will call M.D. Anderson and see if I can schedule and appointment with my oncologist's nurse practitioner and see if she will do blood work. Then I will cease the procrastination and find a local oncologist I don't hate.

Dr. Sandbox. What an asshole.