The spring of my discontent
Posted: March 20, 2012 Filed under: cancer fatigue | Tags: 50th wedding anniversary, grief and cancer, I hate Mother's Day, losing a parent to cancer, missing mom, psychological effects of cancer 7 Comments
Mom's photo for her wedding announcement in the newspaper
Pig races!
Posted: March 19, 2012 Filed under: kids | Tags: Houston Rodeo & Livestock show, Juliana pigs, micro-mini pigs, pig races, piglets, pigs as pets, swimming pigs, teacup pigs 5 CommentsThis weekend,I was too busy squeezing every ounce of fun out of spring break to get back to the pig races. Fear not, faithful readers: pig race coverage begins now.
May I just say that one hasn’t lived — really lived — until one has witnessed a spectacle such as the annual pig races at the Houston Rodeo & Livestock Show. Just as this wasn’t our first rodeo, it wasn’t our first pig race, either. It was, however, our first pig race since we became owners of a pet pig, so the races took on a bit more significance now that we know and love a little piggie. Naturally, we thought of our little Piper while at the piggie raceway.
So here’s the set-up: a grandstand full of spectators, the pit crew, the emcee, and of course, the piggies. The emcee spoke of the fierce competition among the piggie racers for the big prize: an Oreo cookie. Macy & I nodded out heads knowingly at the flat-out determination and light ing-fast speed a piggie would display in pursuit of an Oreo. We giggled among ourselves at the idea of our little piggie losing her piggie mind over an Oreo.
Our emcee. What a gig, right? Calling the pig races every hour on the hour, every day for 18 days.
Each of the three races featured four piggie racers. In race #1, it was a fierce, four-way matchup between Kevin Bacon, Brad Pig, Simon Sowell, and Justin Bieboar.
The girls in the black t-shirts escorted the piggie racers to their gates. I know the pictures aren’t great, so just focus on the little pink blob coming down the ramp, just underneath the first girl’s hand.
The racers head to the metal gates and line up for their race. Off they go!
The next race featured Jennifer Lo-pig, Britney Spare-Rib, Lindsay Lo-ham, and Christina Hogulara. I gotta give some mad props to the person who named the racers. They must have run out of clever names by the third race, though, because instead of hoggy celebs it was a college bedlam battle with the mighty University of Texas, Texas Tech, Texas A&M, and the Oklahoma Sooners. Not sure why they didn’t have the Arkansas Razorbacks, whose battle cry is Sooooo-ey pig.
After the third race, it was showtime for Swifty the Swimming Pig. We’ve been wondering how our little piggie will take to water, once it warms up enough for her to dip her hooves in the pool. If Swifty is any indication, Piper will do just fine 
You’ve heard the expression, when pigs fly, right? What about when pigs swim?
Here she is, ready to take her place at the edge of her pool.
She’s in place, ready to dive in.
Go, Swifty!
With one big leap, Swifty dove into the water and swam lickety-split across her pool. 
The crowd went wild! And Swifty was wrapped in a warm towel. Hooray for pig races!
This isn’t my first rodeo
Posted: March 16, 2012 Filed under: food, kids | Tags: baby farm animals, carnival food, carnival rides, FFA, fried food on a stick, funnel cakes, High School Musical, Houston Rodeo & Livestock show, Mommie Dearest, piglets, Troy Bolton, turkey legs 11 CommentsI’ve always loved that saying. Don’t know why, exactly, but I suppose it has to do with the directness of the statement, the idea that one can utter 5 words to clearly convey a depth of experience on the matter at hand. The first time I ever heard it was in the movie Mommie Dearest…shudder. More recently, Payton’s 6th grade speech & theater teacher, Ms Pointer, used that saying at parents’ open house at the middle school. The first-time middle-school parents, trying to navigate the newness and independence thrust upon us and our little darlings, showed up at school with our kids’ schedules in hand and followed their class schedule for an intro to middle school by each teacher. From one end of the school to the other, upstairs, downstairs, down the hallway and back we traipsed, just as our kiddos do every school day. I tried to picture my 6th grader going from class to class in this giant building that houses some 1,100 kids, and was frankly, a little overwhelmed.
Ms Pointer, one of the more beloved teachers at FCMS, is direct and has high expectations–my kind of girl. She reassured all the nervous parents in the room that she would turn our babies from shuffling, eyes-downcast pre-teens to confident public speakers who present themselves proficiently and engagingly. My boy isn’t the most, uh, talkative, and I did worry a bit about his choice of speech & theater as his elective (“it beats band, orchestra, and choir” was his rationale). But Ms Pointer assured each parent in the room that night that she could work her magic and coax even the most reluctant kid out of his/her shell. “This isn’t my first rodeo,” she said. And she was right. Not only did my guy deliver his speeches with elan, he also learned to sew — with fabric, needle, and thread — a tiny costume for an action figure. He needed a Barbie or Ken doll, but seeing as his sister isn’t exactly the Barbie type, and his mama didn’t want to trek over to Target that day, we scrounged around in the discarded playthings box and found a Troy Bolton doll from High School Musical. My kid transformed the doll from teen basketball star to an ancient Chinese warlord in full battle gear, happily and with no needle pricks, thanks to Ms Pointer. 
But I digress.
I remember well Ms Pointer uttering that saying, and I thought of her yesterday as my favorite girl and I headed out for the rodeo. It’s a big event in these parts, and she had eagerly anticipated our visit. This year is the 80th annual Houston Rodeo & Livestock Show. For 80 years, my fair city has been putting on this event, and it’s quite the spectacle. For 19 days every spring, hordes of people come to the rodeo — attendance tops 100,000 on weekends. No doubt the rodeo has evolved over the years, and it now encompasses not just ropin’ and bull ridin’ and carny entertainment, but big-name performers, a world-class BBQ championship, horse shows, wine tastings, sheepdog trials, and all kinds of fun. The muttin bustin’ has quickly become a crowd favorite.
There’s plenty of swagger at the rodeo, from the giant belt-buckles on the guys to the sundresses & cowboy boots a la Taylor Swift on the girls to the 10-gallon hats on the seasoned ranchers. I especially liked the sign on this bull ride; the Sissy Boy part made me laugh.
Our first year at the rodeo looked like this:
My little cowgirl was 3, and she reveled in the sights and sounds of the big event. The cowboy next to her was 6, and was a bit more interested in the giant ice cream than anything else.
This is the kind of ride they enjoyed back then.
And this is the kind of ride my girl enjoys now. 
Let me state for the record that I am not an amusement-park kind of girl. I don’t enjoy the rides, the crowds, the footsore grumps who are tired of waiting in line. It’s not my scene. I’m also a little teeny bit scared of heights. And jerky motions. And flunky ride-operators who hold my life in their hands as they operate thousands of pounds of machinery that may or may not have been properly inspected. There’s even a website devoted to chronicling accidents on carnival rides, after all. Yikes.
But hey, my girl wanted to ride some rides, and she wanted me to do it with her. I’ve already faced the scariest thing I can imagine — a cancer diagnosis — so surely I could handle the Sky Flyer. Which happens to be the tallest swing ride in North America. Oh goody. Here we are in our swing, ready to soar over the rodeo crowd. I’m terrified. Seriously. My girl is in disbelief that her otherwise-fearless mama is actually riding this ride.
Aerial view as we began our ascent into the sky. Up high. Very, very high. Looking down at lots of pavement and people and pointy things that would not cushion a fall.
But we survived, with a complete absence of screaming and a minimal amount of cussing by me. My girl was very proud of me for doing something she knows is way, way, way outside my comfort zone. As we exited the Sky Flyer, a girl in her early teens asked me, “Is it scary? How high do you think it goes? Does it last long?” She must have recognized a fellow reluctant rider. I wish we’d stuck around to see if she was convinced by my answers enough to hop on.
But no, we had to hustle on over to the G Force.
My girl had heard about this ride or remembered it from last year or something. I can’t recall because I stopped breathing when I saw it and was focused on remaining upright as I saw people hurtling through the sky on this G Force of death.
Really?? People pay money to ride this?? On purpose??
20 people, in groups of 4, get strapped into this thing, which hurls them from side to side and around in circles as it swings back and forth, climbing ever higher into the sky. 
It swings in great arcs that cover a huge swath of landscape over the midway, traveling fast enough to elicit the unit of force equal to the force exerted by gravity. The force to which a body is subjected when it is accelerated by a crazy carnival ride. Which may or may not have been properly inspected. I’m thinking you’d have to be cuckoo to ride this thing. And lo and behold, there’s the cuckoo house right across from the G Force.
Well, guess who rode the G Force? Yep, that’s right–it was me. The gal who really doesn’t like rides. At all. Of any kind. The gal who is perfectly happy to hold purses, hats, cell phones, drinks–whatever, as long as I don’t have to go on a ride. The control-freak gal who hates putting her fate in someone else’s hands. Uh huh, I rode the G Force. All for my favorite girl. It was scary, ok terrifying really, and people were screaming. Some people were actually smiling. My girl reached over to hold my hand, and told me it’s ok to scream but please don’t cry. I did neither, although one time I extolled the ride operator to make it stop. For the love of all things sacred and holy, make it stop.
After surviving the G Force, we were ready to sample some of the fine delicacies the rodeo is known for, and the choices were plentiful. This one, we skipped. Ewwwwww.
This, however, is what my girl wanted. She’d never had a funnel cake and was jonesing to try it. 
She pronounced it heavenly, and only scowled at me a little when I encouraged her to throw half of it away. We won’t mention the giant stomach ache she ended up with after consuming half of that bad boy. We skipped the Cowboy Kettle Corn, but I do like the Texas-sized bag on the right.
Sweet Cheeks is well-known for its fried desserts on a stick. The fried Snickers bar made headlines when it debuted, and this year’s addition to the lineup is Fried Fruity Pebbles. Apparently they coat the cereal in melted marshmallows, form it into a rectangle, add a stick, dunk it in batter, and fry it. 
As the recent article in the Houston Chronicle says about the Sweet Cheeks booth, “it’s not a health-food store.”
Plenty of people lined up for the non-health-food-store wares.
After the sweets we happened upon the meats. The Texas-sized turkey legs are popular. 
Lots of carnivores were strolling the midway while gnawing on a turkey leg. Inside, at the livestock show, I noticed this sign about just how many turkey legs are consumed at the rodeo.
That’s bad news for this guy. Tom Turkey better rest while he can, because before long, it’ll be curtains for him, and lunch for someone else.
Seeing the animals is always a highlight at the rodeo. The local FFA kids work really hard to raise and show their animals, and hope for a big payoff. The rodeo has resulted in some $238 million in scholarships, research, and youth programs.
This longhorn looked like he had something to add to the topic. Perhaps it’s that some 2,000 students attend more than 100 different Texas universities on livestock show scholarships, enjoying $30 million in school funds.
We saved the best for last at the livestock show: the birthing center. The tally board shows the babies born at the rodeo, and of course our eyes went straight to the column that lists the piglets. 
As of yesterday, 67 piglets had been born at the rodeo.
That’s a lot of little squealers.
We saw some of them, and could have stayed all day watching them. 
Yes, those are the mama pig’s hooves you see, and yes, they are indeed bigger than her babies. Mama pig weighs 600 lbs, so her hooves have to be able to support her heft. Those piglets are a week old, and their mama’s hooves could crush them. Miss Piggy is the proud mother of 5, all of whom were ready for their next meal.
Next to Miss Piggy’s little family was another brood named The Brady Bunch.
Why some of the mama pigs were in the clear enclosures with the scary-looking bars near their faces and some were in more friendly fenced enclosures I don’t know. Perhaps the scary-looking pens were for feeding and the fenced ones were for piggie playtime? The fenced ones allowed the piglets to run and play, and Macy and I loved watching them cavort like puppies.
Piglets galore! This mama pig snoozed while her little ones entertained each other. So did Jasmine, as her 5 piglets, named The Wrecking Crew, delighted the crowd with their piggie antics.
The Wrecking Crew at work. 
Seeing the piglets was the perfect ending to our rodeo fun. After gazing upon their little pink faces, there was only one thing left to do: go to the pig races!
To be continued….
Piggie’s day out
Posted: March 14, 2012 Filed under: pets | Tags: Beyonce, Charles Darwin, feed store, Lakewood Forest Vet, micro-mini pigs, On the Origin of Species, pig chow, Ranch Pony, Shakira, the Bloggess, Wabash on Washington, yard art 8 CommentsYesterday was a big day for our little piggie. She met her vet, Dr Borland, and returned to Wabash on Washington, the feed store where she’s a full-blown celebrity.
First, the vet visit. 
What a relief to find a piggie vet, after calling 19 different clinics in the greater Houston area. I was beginning to think they were all messing with me because I’d call one to be told, we don’t see piggies anymore but Dr So-and-So does. I’d call Dr So-and-So and say, Dr Whozit recommended you as a piggie vet, then Dr So-and-So would chuckle and say oh really? By the way, several of the 19 clinics recommended I call the vet school at Texas A&M. Not saying it’s an Aggie thing, but no one ever answered the phone. No answering machine, no voice mail, no human on the other end. Hmmmm. Those Aggies missed out on their chance to see Miss Piggy all dressed up for her doctor’s appointment. 
Big, big thanks to Cyndi at Ranch Pony for turning us onto Dr Borland. Everyone in her office was so excited to meet Piper. I felt bad for the lady who walked in at the same time as us with her adorable lab-mix puppy, who certainly was precious but didn’t get much attention with Miss Piggy in the house! Several of the vet techs wanted to take a picture of Piper, and one even wanted a pic of Macy’s t-shirt. Our little piggie got a good report from Dr B, and I’m sure Piper wanted to kiss Dr B when she recommended we increase Miss Piggy’s food rations a bit. Music to Piper’s ears!
We picked a day to bring Piper back to get spayed; gotta get the idea out of my head that it would be fun to let her have a litter. No! No! Walk away from the crazy idea!
After the vet visit, we trekked across town to Wabash on Washington, the feed store, to buy another bag of pig chow. Piper made a trip to Wabash about a week after we got her and was quickly befriended by the folks who work there. A couple of them remembered her from our last visit, and our little piggie was a lot more comfortable exploring the store. It didn’t take her long to find the doggie Cheez-Its, and we came home with a big bag. And two mesclun plants, because our piggie likes her some fancy lettuce.
Wabash is a super cool place–not just because they sell pig chow, but because they have some cool live animals, gorgeous plants, fun trinkets, and out-of-this world yard art.
We were greeted by Beyonce the giant metal chicken.
If you haven’t read this story about Beyonce the giant metal chicken, I urge you to do so now. Not because the Bloggess needs any more publicity, but because it’s hilarious. There’s a bit of cursing, so beware.
After the giant chickens, we spied this giant pig. The iPhone photos don’t do it justice. 
That is some pig. I must go back and discover what the handle on the side opens up to; a grill? a cooler? a hiding place? The plot thickens.
On to the fabulous yard art, of which I am a big fan. Most species are represented at Wabash. I’d be hard-pressed to choose my favorite, but if I had to pick just one yard-art species it would be the weenie dogs. 
Or maybe the flamingos.
Or maybe the peacocks. So proud. 
But which version? They’ve both fabulous in their own right.
But of course, we are rather partial to pigs in our house. The winged ones are just delightful, although the black & white ones with the long eyelashes look a lot like our piggie girl. 
Seeing as how we are in Texas, the longhorn would be a good addition to the yard (Hook ‘Em!).
If the full-size version is a bit much, there’s always the convenient smaller guy.
The “We don’t dial 911” signs don’t really do it for me, but I applaud the delivery and the sassiness nonetheless.
Piper enjoyed all the yard art species, too.
Almost as much as she enjoyed rooting in the soft, damp earth.
As if all the species weren’t enough, there are flowers and birdhouses, too. 
Tall & short, big & small, the flowering yard art on display made us smile.
The girl is there to give you an idea of the scale (both of the flowers, and of the piggie snacks).
What bird wouldn’t feel luckier than a dog with two tails to live in these houses?
Just when I thought we’d seen every piece of yard art, we spied this little guy, tucked into the corner of a pond. 
So cute!
Once we were sure we’d laid eyes on all the cute inanimate objects, it was time to move on to the real deal. With “Chicks and ducks and geese better scurry” playing in my head, I thoroughly enjoyed seeing these guys. I especially like the guy in front of the red feeder with the duck-fro. That is one stylin’ duck.
Next to the ducks were the chickens, a most beautiful color of chickens, in fact. I absolutely love that soft grey/beige/white combination. I’d always thought chickens were rather bland looking, but now I know better.
Next to the chickens were the roosters, and they were quite proud and preened for us. 
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear these two were having a conversation. I’ve no idea what roosters talk about, but I’d bet it has something to do with the broody hens they can peep at through the wire of their enclosure.
In between the chickens and the roosters, naturally, were eggs. Something about this simple line-up speaks to me. Each egg is a little different, whether in size, color, or the number of speckles contained on the shell, but they all represent some primal, untapped potential. 
The fantailed pigeons are lovely and a step up from the run-of-the-mill pigeons seen begging for scraps in an urban landscape. 
This guy didn’t seem to mind me snapping a pic of his backside.
While the brown & white fantail pigeon got our attention, it paled in comparison to its all-white neighbor. 
Wow. What a showy, feathery display. Beautiful. I wasn’t sure what fantail pigeons were all about, but a quick peek at wikipedia schooled me. They have 30 to 40 feathers, which is “abnormally more tail feathers than most members of the pigeon family.” The less-endowed pigeons tend to have a measly 12 to 14 tail feathers. There are two varieties of fantails, the regular (pictured above), and the silky fantail, which has more variegated feathers. Charles Darwin used the fantail pigeon as an example of the correlation of growth principle in an opening chapter of On the Origin of Species. Fantails are also used in training other pigeons, called Tipplers, that engage in endurance trials. Who knew that a Tippler can fly for 22 hours nonstop? Fascinating.
Stuffed full of pigeon knowledge, we can now move on to the rabbits. 
So cute! I was struck by how similar their markings are to our piggie girl’s. Dark face and body, with a white neck and a white blaze. 
I sure hope these two get to stay together. They look pretty chummy. And the feet on the reclining bunny…precious.
This little bun-bun was kinda shy. I’m not sure, but I think she whispered, “Take me with you!” Ok, but only if we can get this hutch, too. So beautiful (but I’ll pass on the cowboy dude).
It was naptime for this guy, so we didn’t stick around after admiring his extreme cuteness.
While making our way toward the door after a thoroughly enjoyable time at Wabash, a family walked in and exclaimed over Piper. The two young girls were smitten. Their mom told me that on the way to Wabash, one girl said she sure hoped she’d get to pet a pig there. Well, Piper was happy to oblige. Poor Macy was about to collapse from holding her piggie during the family’s Q&A session. They asked all the usual questions: where did you get her? what does she eat? where does she sleep? then the mom asked me one I’ve not heard before: how great of a mom are you for letting your daughter have a pet pig? Macy chimed in before I could answer by saying, “Pretty great!”
We were almost out the door and to the car when we were stopped by one more family, this time a young mother and her mom and a toddler girl clutching a green Care Bear. The moms were way more interested in Piper than the little girl, who eyed our piggie from a safe distance and the security of her mama’s arms. More questions, more ooohing and aaahing, and we were home free. As I was loading our purchases into the car, however, a man with his two tiny, fluffy dogs pulled up beside us and shouted out the window, “Wait! Don’t leave! I’ve got to see that pig!” Another parking-lot chat ensued, and he finagled a trade with Macy so that she had his two fluffy dogs, Shakira and the one who growled a lot, in her arms and he ended up holding Piper. His visit wasn’t complete without taking a picture or two, both with his “real” camera and his iPhone camera. Man, that little piggie is popular.
Finally, after our long, pig-filled day, we were safely packed into the car for the ride home. Piper had a belly full of Cheez-Its and lettuce and a snout full of dirt. The only thing left to do was nap.
Sweet dreams, little piggie.
Shrimp & grits
Posted: March 12, 2012 Filed under: food | Tags: berry desserts, Chambord, shrimp & grits, southern comfort food, trifle, whipped cream 10 CommentsI’m not feeling very bloggy today, probably because I’m feeling just plain awful from the naughty sinus fairy who’s been visiting me the last few nights. Instead of leaving little trinkets under my pillow, this fairy jacks up my sinus tissue so it’s swollen and painful, and she blows a bunch of hot air into my forehead and eye sockets so I feel lots of pressure there. To add insult to injury, she also concocts some thick, nasty gunk to drip down the back of my throat, and for a little bonus, she saps all my energy, too.
I hate her.
Instead of waxing poetic about any number of topics, as is my habit in this space most days, I’m going to give you my recipe for shrimp & grits. I made it Saturday night, and it was scrumptious. If you’re not from the South and not familiar with grits, I’m so sorry, honey-child. It’s high time you made yourself familiar with grits. Because I’m feeling nice, despite that bitchy sinus fairy, I’ll throw in my new favorite dessert recipe, too, with thanks to Debbie C for introducing me to this little bit of yumminess.
Shrimp & Grits:
- 1 1/2 pound shrimp (at least 26-30 count), peeled & deveined and preferably from the warm waters of the Gulf coast
- juice of 1 lemon
- Tabasco sauce
- 1 1/3 teaspoons salt
- 1 1/2 cups grits, preferably stone-ground and not quick or instant
- 1 bunch green onions, white parts finely chopped and green parts diced (keep them separate)
- 2 garlic cloves, minced
- 2 Tablespoons flour
- 1 cup chicken or veggie stock
- 2 T unsalted butter
- 1 cup cheddar cheese, diced or grated
Combine shrimp, lemon juice, and several big shakes of Tabasco. Let sit while you prepare the grits.
Make the grits in a large, heavy pot. Bring 6 cups water to a boil, along with a teaspoon of salt. Whisk in the grits a little at a time, being careful to watch that they don’t bubble up and boil over. After all the grits are in, lower the heat to a simmer and cook 30-40 minutes, stirring often, until they’re tender. If you have to use quick or instant grits, follow the package directions but plan to add an extra pat of butter to make them taste creamier.
While the grits cook, make the gravy: heat a tablespoon of olive oil in a skillet over medium-high heat and add the white parts of the green onion. Saute until soft, about 3 minutes, then add the green parts. Sprinkle the flour over, stir, and cook for about 5 minutes until the flour browns a little but don’t let it burn. Stir in the stock and 1/3 t. salt. Whisk until smooth and slightly thick. Add shrimp and saute until shrimp turn pink, about 5 minutes. Don’t cook too long, though, or they will get tough.
Add a splash of Tabasco to the cooked grits, along with the butter and cheese. Stir well so cheese melts. Serve a pile of grits on a plate, top with shrimp & gravy. At this point the room will go quiet except for the sounds of “mmmmmmm” coming from your guests. 
Dessert: not sure what the name of this is, but it’s similar to trifle, except that the cake is soaked in liquor instead of pudding (quite the trade-off, in my mind). It’s so easy, yet so good.
Here are your ingredients:
- an angel food cake, cut into bite-sized pieces
- Chambord (raspberry-flavored liqueur)
- a pint of whipping cream
- a few tablespoons powdered sugar
- assorted berries (I used a pound of halved strawberries, 2 pints of blackberries, and a pint of raspberries)
Sprinkle the Chambord over the cake bits. Don’t be shy; dousing is ok. Rumor was that the pastry chef was quite liberal with the booze last time around and everything turned out fine. Toss to coat.
Whip the cream with a mixer, adding a tablespoon of powdered sugar at a time, until still peaks form and it is sweet enough for ya.
Layer the cake bits, berries, and whipped cream in a large bowl (a clear, footed trifle bowl is pretty but not required). Dig in.
You’re welcome. 
That hospital smell
Posted: March 8, 2012 Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: breast cancer and young kids, cancer recurrence, carcinista, CT scan, IV contrast, Methodist Hospital Sugar Land, psychological effects of cancer, PTSD from cancer, Rachel Cheetham Moro, The Cancer Culture Chronicles, Toddler Planet 19 CommentsThat hospital smell. Yuk.
It’s been a while since I’ve smelled that familiar and powerful smell. Yet as soon as I walked through the sliding glass doors for my CT scan, the smell of sickness, helplessness, confusion, fear, uncertainty, and anxiety flooded my senses. I’m back at the hospital for a scan of my chest and abdomen, to peer into the inner workings of this body of mine to determine if that wily cancer beast is setting up shop again.
As much as I hate being here, smelling that hospital smell, I’m strangely comfortable here. Although I haven’t had my all-important cup of coffee or one bite of breakfast, and although this is the last thing I want to be doing this morning, I’m not too grumpy. I know exactly where to park to get me closest to the Outpatient Imaging area. I proceed effortlessly to the hospital registration desk, the payment cubicle, and the Imaging reception area. The ubiquitous white ID bracelet circles my wrist like an old friend slipping her hand into mine. I recognize some familiar faces. There’s the kindly, grandfatherly volunteer who guides lost patients, so eager and proud in his dapper red vest and jaunty bow tie. There’s Christy the phlebotomist who remembered that I have young kids, and asked how they’re doing. There’s Mary the nurse who took pity on me when this cancer “journey” first began in May 2010 and I was in the imaging area all day for tests. She took pity on me and presented Amy and me with a pink Astros jersey, just in time for Mother’s Day. Another familiar face: Lily, who was my nurse in the OR during one of the many surgeries to try to contain the infection and clean up the swath of destruction it left in its wake. I first wrote about her a while back, and was tickled to see her smiling face today at Methodist. Lily is a breast cancer survivor herself, and she showed Amy and me the scars from her mastectomy years ago. Choosing to forego reconstruction, she put her cancer in the past and bore her horizontal scars with a quiet dignity and strength that often pops into my head. Imagine my delight when I see Lily ‘s face on a poster announcing her as the recipient of the 2011 Care Award. Well done, Lily, and well deserved.
Of the 12 others in Outpatient Imaging Waiting A, I’m the only one without an AARP membership. One woman is in her house coat, napping in her wheelchair. One is reading a large-print edition Agatha Christie novel. I’d be willing to bet I’m also the only one who packed kids’ lunches and juggled two different school drop-offs with my early morning appointment. Such is life as a “young” cancer patient.
I’m well prepared for my visit today, and look like a walking Apple ad with my iPhone, iPad, and iPod. The phone is the constant companion every mother of dependent children during school hours. The iPad is to distract and entertain, and the iPod is vital to block out the blare of the morning news show coming from the hanging TV. Today it’s Concerto for Violin and Orchestra No. 4 in D Major. Mozart reminds me to stay calm, don’t focus too much on the germ breeding-ground that is a hospital. Those of us who’ve contracted strange hard-to-treat infections after surgery tend to be on edge in the belly of the beast.
All set up with my personal electronic devices, I wait to be summoned to the back rooms of the imaging area. This is not my first rodeo, so I know what to expect: I’ll get an IV inserted in the crook of my arm (always a pleasure since my veins are so tapped out and reclusive after all this mess), 
then I’ll have to drink two big cups of gross-tasting liquid contrast that somehow goes down my gullet and lights up my belly for the abdominal scan.
It is not tasty.
I had hoped the pink labels on the cups would provide a clue as to exactly what this concoction is, but alas, that hope was not to be recognized.
Both times I’ve had an abdominal scan and had to drink the non-tasty drinks, I’ve been the only person in the entire waiting area to be served a beverage. The other patients waiting for their scans always stare, perhaps wondering why I’m so special as to get not one, but two special drinks.
I have one hour in which to drink this vile stuff, but I chug it down as fast as I can to get it over with. Christy, my phlebotomist/comedienne, quipped that if I had come after 3 pm she would have spiked my drinks for me.
After I’ve ingested all the non-tasty drinks and they’ve had time to light me up from the inside, I’m called back for my scan. 
Of course it’s freezing in the scan room, and because I’ve just chugged a 40 of cold nastiness, I’m a bit chilly. Christy makes my day by giving me a warmed blanket, and tells me to lie on the narrow “bed” of the CT scan machine. Once covered, she tells me to pull my jeans down to my knees — under the blanket — so the zipper and button don’t interfere with the scan. After drinking those awful drinks and enduring yet another needle stick, I’m not going to do anything to mess up this scan.
The machine starts clicking and whirring, and Christy and Lucas the technician tell me to raise my arms above my head, stretching them out as much as I can with the IV inserted. I do as I’m told, and Christy and Lucas leave the room. I’m all alone, except for the chugging of the machine and the computerized voice that tells me to breathe in, hold my breath, then breathe. This goes on for several cycles, then Christy comes back in to push the contrast dye into my IV for the chest CT scan. While this isn’t nearly as unpleasant as drinking the yucky drinks, it has the strange side effect of presenting a gross, warm sensation that is reminiscent of wetting your pants. Thankfully, this side effect was explained to me the first time I had the scan, so I didn’t panic.
It’s a weird feeling to actually feel something going into your veins. For this IV, I literally felt the needle entering my vein, and am happy to report that after all the needle sticks over the last 20 months, I’m not nearly as freaked out by this as I used to be. I don’t like it, but I don’t get sweaty palms over it anymore. I also felt the contrast push as it entered my vein, and I could feel it as it coursed through my bloodstream. Strange, unpleasant, and draining. I haven’t seen any clinical evidence to support this, but this whole experience wears me out, big time.
After the contrast spreads throughout its intended path, the computerized voice tells me to breathe in, hold, and breathe out a few more times, and then I’m done. By this time, my blanket is no longer toasty warm, and I’m more than ready to leave. Christy comes back in to remove my IV, and I’m all done. I feel a little woogity from all the junk that’s been injected into and ingested by my body and from the fact that it’s now getting close to lunchtime and I haven’t had a sip of coffee or a bite of breakfast. No matter, I’m done. I’m outta there, blowing off the stink of the hospital as fast as I can.
But here’s the rub, people: the fasting, the absence of coffee, the disruption of my morning routine, the sharp stab of the IV, the gross drinks, and the unpleasantness of the IV contrast are the easy part. Now, the waiting begins. Waiting to hear what shows up on those scans. Now that I’m well acquainted with my fellow cancer-chicks in the blogosphere, I know a lot more about breast cancer and recurrence than I used to. I’ve left the security of “we caught it early and think we got it all” for the real world of recurrence. Getting a glimpse into the harsh realities of metastatic breast cancer is a sobering experience. Through intrepid bloggers like the beloved Rachel and the eminently wise Susan and the witty Sarah (who had ovarian, not breast, cancer), I’ve learned first-hand that while being diagnosed with cancer, especially at a young-ish age, is scary, the really scary part is recurrence. We may think we’ve dodged a bullet or done our time or earned our freedom or whatever metaphor applies, but the truth is, it’s random and it’s scary. The periodic scans that make up the fabric of a cancer patient’s life are unnerving. There’s a delicate balance between wanting to be normal and being realistic. We hold our breath for the “all clear” while awaiting the blow that once again knocks the wind out of us and shatters our fragile peace.
A little levity
Posted: March 7, 2012 Filed under: breast cancer, kids | Tags: best girlfriends, funny things kids say, Planned Parenthood, psychological effects of cancer, Rick Santorum, Rush Limbaugh, Susan G Komen, tennis 7 CommentsThis blog has been mighty serious lately. With topics like this and this and this, there’s been little room for the funnier things in life.
Time for that to change.
At least for today.
No doubt I’ll be up on my high horse again, ranting away about the evils of cancer or the lunacy of Rick Santorum or the despicable-ness of Rush Limbaugh.
But not today.
Today is about smiling so hard my face hurts. About being in the company of girlfriends so funny and true. About belly laughs. About soaking up the sun and feeling the breeze.
To assist me in my pursuit of all things jovial, I present the latest list from my favorite girl: Five Things The Internet Loves. I’ve no idea why she wrote the list, or what spurred this bout of out-of-the-box creativity, but like the best things in life, it doesn’t matter.
Enjoy!
by my favorite girl
Her spelling is a bit off, but that doesn’t stop her from getting her message across:
1. People getting hurt/embarrassed
2. Animals doing ridiculous things
3. Old people rapping
4. Little kids cussing
5. Fat people dancing
Brace yourself for a rant
Posted: March 6, 2012 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: breast reconstruction, Fit for the Cure, Nancy's Point, Planned Parenthood, Serena Williams, Susan G Komen for the Cure, The SCAR Project, Wacoal 31 CommentsIt’s been a while since I’ve gone all Serena Williams on a company or organization. Now that the Komen-Planned Parenthood debacle has died down, I’m in need of a new reason to rant.
Lo and behold, as I browsed the Sunday paper, a new rant fell right into my lap.
An ad for Dillard’s titled FI{gh}T FOR THE CURE has me seeing red, not pink.
“Help Wacoal KNOCKOUT breast cancer at a Fit for the Cure event,” reads the ad. It’s a simple idea: the bra maker will donate $2 for every woman who comes to the store to be fitted for a new bra during the event. And for every bra purchased, an additional $2 will be donated.
I’m all for donating to good causes, and I’m all for shopping. But I have 2 problems with this Wacoal campaign. First, the money is being donated to Komen “for breast cancer research and community outreach programs.” Come on, Wacoal — donate for something that will actually make a difference. We’ve all seen the pathetic Komen numbers on just how much (or how little) of these donations go toward research. Research that could potentially find a cure. As in Susan G. Komen FOR THE CURE. Or research that could potentially KNOCKOUT breast cancer, as in the Wacoal FI{gh}T FOR THE CURE slogan so tantalizingly states. Wacoal has donated $2.5 million to Komen from its FI[gh}T for the Cure events. Assuming that Komen continues on its current path, it will use 19 percent of that $2.5 mil for research. I’m no expert on medical research, but based on my own experience with my medical bills, I’m guessing $475,000 won’t go very far toward finding a cure.
Wacoal has a line of underthings called B.Tempted. Looks to me like it is aimed at young, beautiful women who like a little pizzazz under their shirts.
btempted.wacoal-america.com
Nothing wrong with that, but when Wacoal uses its B.Tempted line to promote supposed good-works for my disease, then there’s something wrong. My message to the B.Tempted models and consumers is this: enjoy those perfectly round, nicely supported breasts now, because if you’re unlucky enough to be among the one in eight women diagnosed with breast cancer, you’ll never see the likes of those again. No, instead you’ll be facing something that looks like this:
The SCAR Project
Oh but don’t worry, that flat chest etched with red, raised, painful scars can be temporary. You won’t have to deal with the indignity of a being flat as a board in our breast-obsessed culture for long. Fleeting will be your struggle to find a bra that fits (whatcha doing about this problem, Wacoal?). Before long you’ll no longer spend anguished moments in your closet and countless dollars in your quest to find something to wear that doesn’t advertise your deficiency. If you opt to undergo even more surgeries to have reconstruction, that is. Then you might be facing something that looks like this:
The SCAR Project
There we go. All better now.
My second problem lies in the images Wacoal — and by default, Dillard’s — uses to promote the FI{gh}T FOR THE CURE. The ad in my Sunday paper was black and white, so not as eye-catching as the others, and it was a little less in-your-face overly sexualized.
A quick googleimages search, however, turned up some disturbing stuff:
One in eight women in the United States will be diagnosed with breast cancer. Some 40,000 women in the Unites States will die from this disease this year alone. Some men will, too. How many of the one in eight can identify with the sirens in the Wacoal ads? How many of the 40,000 would be happy about and grateful for this type of campaign?
I am one of the one in eight, and I can do neither. I don’t identify with these models, and I think this type of advertising is shameful. It appeals to the lowest common denominator, and Wacoal should be ashamed.
Questions abound.
My blog friend Nancy at Nancy’s Point has asked some of these same questions:
“What other disease has the afflicted body part(s) displayed on articles of clothing with silly, even degrading commentary?
When did it become more about saving breasts than about cancer and saving lives?
Have we lost sight of what the original intent of all this awareness was?
Has breast cancer awareness merely morphed into a big business?
Is breast cancer being used? Are women being used? I think they are.
How did we let this happen? How did WOMEN let this happen?”
I’ll tell you how women let this happen: by going along with things like Fi[gh]t for the Cure. By seeing glossy, photoshopped images of young, thin, sexy women in frilly & lacy bras and somehow conflating that with philanthropy. By allowing companies like Wacoal to dictate the face of breast cancer.
Could Wacoal not get the message across by using a less-racy, less-sexualized image? How about something like this? 
She’s young, strong, fit, and wearing pink. Looks to me like she could KNOCKOUT breast cancer. There’s a hint of cleavage, a peek into the area of our discontent, without being so in-your-face. Why isn’t that enough? Would the public not be swayed by the campaign without the sizzle?
Tamoxifen and kids
Posted: March 5, 2012 Filed under: breast cancer, drugs, menopause | Tags: adjuvant therapy, CVS, estrogen, Extreme Home Makeover, National Cancer Institute, philadelphia college of pharmacy, presecription drug mix-up, recurrence prevention, side effects of tamoxifen, tamoxifen, Tamoxifen side effects 9 CommentsDid y’all hear about this? A Trenton, New Jersey CVS pharmacy accidentally dispensed tamoxifenn instead of pediatric fluoride pills.
abcnews.com
Yikes.
I love CVS for the generous donations they made to Extreme Home Makeover, the feel-good show that used to be on TV. I searched to find a source to tell me how much CVS donated via the show over the years, but my patience wore off before I could find an answer. Suffice to say it’s a lot.
When I read about the drug mix-up, I cringed. The estimate is that as many as 50 kids received Tamoxifen instead of their chewable fluoride pills between December 2010 and February of this year. CVS hopes that any one of those 50 kids who tried to chew a tamoxifen pill instead of the usual fluoride pill would notice that something was different. Daniel Hussar, who teaches at the Philadelphia College of Pharmacy, was quoted as saying that because tamoxifen is meant to be swallowed, no effort is made to make it taste good, as is the case with chewable fluoride. He says a child who tried to chew tamoxifen would likely “want to spit it out or tell his parents it tastes bad.”
If they didn’t notice the taste, I wonder if they noticed the side effects. I pity the parent who has to deal with a moody, hot-flashing kid.
Because tamoxifen’s job is to block estrogen and prevent breast-cancer recurrences, it can monkey with one’s hormones. I’ve written about this very topic. More than once. I feel pretty qualified to complain about the side effects of tamoxifen, even though I know it’s an integral player in the recurrence-prevention game. I know well that this drug is my best shot for keeping that infernal cancer beast from showing its ugly mug around here again. The National Cancer Institute says explains it, “As adjuvant therapy (treatment given after the primary treatment to increase the chances of a cure), tamoxifen helps prevent the original breast cancer from returning and also helps prevent the development of new cancers in the other breast. As treatment for metastatic breast cancer, the drug slows or stops the growth of cancer cells that are present in the body.” Great right? Yes. Definitely. But, as we all know, there is no free lunch, and tamoxifen comes with some heavy side effects.
At the risk of sounding like one of those annoying commercials that lists every side effect under the sun, here goes: increased chance of blood clots, increased risk of strokes, development of uterine cancer, and cataracts. But wait, there’s more: menopause-like symptoms such as mood swings, hot flashes, joint pain, and leg cramps. Not listed is the accelerated aging characterized by dry skin, loss of collagen, brown spots (aka “age spots”), and thinning hair. Because losing my rack isn’t enough, I also got thrown into chemically-induced menopause and became a brittle old woman decades before my time.
Not that I’m complaining.
Instead, I’m looking on the bright side: when I pop the little white pill every morning, I know exactly what I’m getting. No surprises. No mistaking a chewable fluoride pill for a powerful anti-cancer weapon.
On this day in history…
Posted: March 2, 2012 Filed under: breast cancer, Surgery | Tags: breast reconstruction surgery, Center for Breast Restoration, DIEP surgery, JP drains, Texas Medical Center, the Big Dig 15 Comments
bag packed, Snoopy donated by Macy to keep me company
One year. 365 days. Or, 366 days with a leap year. Either way, a year is a long time, a lotta days. So much can–and does–happen in the span of a year. Each day is ripe with possibility, and none was as much so as March 2, 2011. Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, “Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year.” Looking back at this day last year, I’m taking his advice and am going to write it on my heart: being one year out, exactly, from The Big Dig makes this day the best day in the year. This time last year, I was once again in a hospital gown while my cabal of surgeons brandished multi-colored Sharpies to designate the roadmap that would lead us out of the ravages of infection.
pre-surgery note from my sweet girl
I haven’t yet processed all the thoughts and emotions attached to this day one year ago. I don’t know when or how that will happen. My reconstruction surgery was big. Epic, even. After a long and winding road of “whatever can go wrong did go wrong” post-mastectomy, getting to the point of being able to have reconstruction was major progress. All of the research, doctors’ powwows, appointments, testing, and paperwork involved was just the tip of the iceberg. Then came the actual procedure, and then the recovery. None of those, however, are as arduous as it is to wrap my head around the “journey” that reconstruction was–and still is–for me.
Because I haven’t yet wrapped my head around my reconstruction “journey,” and because frankly I’m kinda scared to pick at that scab and let loose the torrent of emotions lying under the surface, I’m not going to write about it. Yet.
Instead, I present highlights from the surgery day and the days and weeks that followed. As you loyal readers will remember from this time last year, it was several days before I was able to sit at my computer and type. My trusty stand-in bloggers were the hubs, Trevor, and my surgery sherpa and dear friend Amy. They filled in for me when I was unable to process a coherent thought, sit upright, or use my arms.
While I never got bogged down in the “Why me?” school of thought regarding the complications that ensued from my cancer “journey,” I know now that there are a lot of thoughts and feelings still untapped regarding the perilous trek from normal person to breast cancer patient to survivor. So busy was I handling the logistics of each new complication that dealing with the emotional fallout took a backseat to just getting through each new hiccup. I know all you arm-chair psychiatrists out there are shaking your collective heads and tsk-tsking me for tamping down these thoughts and feelings. I would pass the same judgment on any other poor sap in my shoes. However, you do what you gotta do to get through the worst times, and “when you’re going through hell, keep going,” as Mr Churchill so sagely advised.
Mr Churchill would probably also advise me to quit talking about it and get to it, so here, without further ado, are the highlights (or are they lowlights?) of The Big Dig.
After the surgery was finally complete, Trevor was eerily prophetic when he forecasted the tough days ahead: “She is still awake but in a bit of pain. They are not fooling around with it at least and they just upped her pain-med clicker along with a nice big slug of morphine. We have some tough days ahead while she recovers but everything looks great so far.”
morphine pump with a very large keychain
After surgery and the recovery room, I was shipped straight to ICU for an unpleasant stay that seemed endless. In Recovery Trevor wrote, “We made it through the first night in ICU. The nurses checked on her every hour last night so she didn’t get too much sleep though. They have ordered a regular room for her but they won’t let her out of ICU until she sits up in a chair for an hour. They just wheeled the chair in, this is gonna hurt.”
I remember how ominous it was when the chair was wheeled into my room. A hush filled the room as everyone realized what was about to take place. Anyone who’s had a C-section knows how difficult it is to move straight after, and with a hip-to-hip incision, “difficult” barely covers it.
Trevor wrote about making the switch from ICU to a regular hospital room: “Finally out of ICU. It took forever to get out of there, there just seemed to be always one more thing. They had to take blood and couldn’t get enough from the line in her hand despite much digging and infliction of pain. They finally just opened up her chemo port and had it done in a snap. Of course they had already packed her up for transport so the morphine pump was temporarily disconnected. But Nancy is a bad ass and toughed it out.”
I have no recollection of this at all. That’s probably a good thing. I’m glad I was a bad-ass about it, though.
In So Long ICU Amy wrote: “She’s super tired. Come to find out her new breasticles have to have their arterial blood flow checked once an hour and it’s been that way since the surgery ended yesterday and will be through tomorrow…..so cat naps abound. They made her get up and have a ‘sitting trial’ time for an hour and she did really well. To hear her tell the doctors about it, it was ‘hard’ but as an observer she handled the “trial” with grit and humor–typical Nancy. Tomorrow’s plan is to do a little bit of walking and take a shower.”
It wasn’t long before the wailing & gnashing of teeth commenced. As soon as I made the transition from drugged up to mildly lucid, I figured out that this wasn’t going to be an easy recovery. In Utter Exhaustion Amy explained: “I’ve only had to charge her the $10 for ‘having to put up with your complaints fee’ twice today. As much as Nancy would like you to think she’s a troublesome patient, she is not, at all. In fact, the staff enjoy her very much. Her easygoing nature was complimented today when she had to make the effort to get in the chair to sit for another hour. Le, her nurse, commented about how Nancy’s attitude really made her job easier.”
I put on a happy face for my medical peeps, but was a bit more realistic with my closest caregivers.
Amy continues: “Complaint number 1: This particular complaint is what brought on the $10 charge twice today. The ICU room was hot, very hot. In fact there were heaters brought in just for this purpose…two of them. Seems that the stomach tissue that they harvested for her new rack doesn’t realize that it has to get its heat source from her body instead of the outside air, so for the next few weeks Nancy needs to have a warmer than normal outside air temperature. I think the docs even suggested turning off the AC at her house once she gets out of here, but Nancy and I decided to let that one go over our heads. Nancy actually assessed herself the charge after I mentioned that I charge $10 at my house for being ‘grouchy, irritable, or just plain mean.’ Then she said, ‘And you can charge me another $10 for this one…..’ Complaint number 2: Headache. A bad one. She’s been dealing with this all day. The nurses say she had a pretty major dose of morphine in the ICU so that is a side effect of morphine and it should work itself out as she uses less and less morphine. Because of this, Nancy has decided that Mr. Morphine Pump may not be summoned every time the pain surges. She’s thinking about it before she presses the button. On one side there’s the headaches. On the other side there’s the pain. It’s a delicate seesaw to manage.”
“The good news is that despite the pain, she managed to move from her bed to the recliner, sat for an hour, then ambulated back to the bed with only 1 morphine pump at the beginning of the whole scenario. The nurses are impressed with how tough our girl is!”
I still owe Amy $20. Maybe more.
My intrepid sherpa wrote the Morning Report the day after I was released from ICU: “This morning the muscle tightness and tenderness in the belly incision reared its ugly head and has taken the forefront in the battle for attention. While Nancy hasn’t actually called it pain, I think that may be the best word for it. There’s a lot of bruising around the hip-to-hip incision, and the docs said that they did had to work hard with her muscle layer there as well as on her chest wall so this is to be expected. She has been given Flexeril (a muscle relaxer) to help with this and the added benefit is that it makes her VEEEERRRYYY sleepy. So, even though at 5:15 AM, Nancy was confident that she was up for the day and we did the teeth brushing and face washing that comes with a new day, she was within minutes back to sawing logs. Good Girl! She has been dreaming out loud and woke asking me, ‘Is that due tomorrow?’ You can take the Mom out of the home but you can’t take the Home out of the Mom!”
Whatever assignment was due hopefully got done; I have no idea what it was!
Rejuvenated?? was written 2 days after surgery, by Amy: “Mr. Morphine Pump and the rest of his crew are yet again dust in the wind. Nancy is free of anything that follows her on a pole. She does have 6 drains and 2 doppler wires, plus her central line access port, so she’s still got a little gear. The big event today was a shower. Well, all I have good to say about that shower is that Nancy is clean. One word I could use to describe how Nancy tolerated the event was that she was speechless. So, suffice it to say that the pain from the ab incision reached out and grabbed hold of her. By the time she had recovered enough from the trauma of the shower to find her voice she said, ‘That’s NOT happening again! I’m clean enough!'”
Finally, I was able to post for myself and in 1 Week Ago, I got to it: Long story short, the flaps [newly fashioned breasts from belly tissue] were cooperating, the morphine headache abated, some regular food arrived, and life rolled on. At some point they moved the flap checks to every two hours instead of hourly, which was mighty nice. It’s amazing how your perspective changes in a situation like that. After umpteen hours with no food, a simple PB&J was a delicacy. After being awake most of the night, a short cat-nap seemed a decadent luxury. While I feel a whole lot better and am ready to get back to normal, my handlers think one week post-op is a bit premature to jump right back into the day-in, day-out routine. I am trying to take it easy. I’m resigned to the fact that I’m back to one outing a day for a while, and sadly, a doctor’s appointment counts as an outing. Yesterday I had a small entourage escort me to for my checkup, and we had a bite of lunch (sans margaritas) beforehand. 
The handlers insisted on snapping a photo of this maiden voyage, and there was some talk of me earning a margarita for every device I had removed at the subsequent appointment. Between the two doppler wires and the 4 JP drains, somebody owes me 6 margaritas. No salt.” 
A little later, in Wisdom from the DL, I got real about my hatred of all things invalid-related: “I’ll never be good at being a spectator in my own life, and I’ll never be one who enjoys the journey in my haste to get to the destination,but I have learned the value of time & place and that sometimes you have to be instead of do. I’ve learned to chant It’s temporary a thousand and one times to remind myself that while this is my life, it won’t always be like this.”
One year later–one very long year that was equally horrific and hard yet insightful and triumphant–I’m still reminding myself.
The Pink Underbelly 