The Pink Well Challenge

Posted: October 13, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Houston philanthropist Lester Smith was on the Ellen show this week. I missed it, and I sure am mad — I would have loved to have gotten the word out earlier about Lester’s latest project: The Pink Well Challenge.

Lester and his wife Sue are both cancer survivors, and their foundation is ponying up big cake for cancer charities. The Lester and Sue Smith foundation is giving away $1 million to small cancer charities across the country.

There’s a contest to see how the money is divvied up, and you can help. It’s easy, takes about 10 seconds, and all you have to do is vote. I’m not going to tell you which charity to vote for, but if you’re not sure which way to go, pick The Rose.

The Rose is a fantastic organization that provides screening and diagnostic services to underprivileged women, including a mobile mammogram service.Created by two women who were inspired by a breast cancer patient & advocate, The Rose has a simple goal:  “to reduce deaths from breast cancer by eliminating barriers and providing access to essential resources. Women who are insured help The Rose care for those who are uninsured.”

The Rose does an awful lot in the greater Houston area. According to their website, last year The Rose delivered 90,067 services, including 19,053 screening and diagnostic procedures at no charge to low income, uninsured women. This program provides breast cancer detection services to those who cannot afford the costs of these potentially life-saving procedures.

See why you need to vote for The Rose to win Lester Smith’s contest?

And you need to do it now — voting ends tomorrow. Man, I wish I’d heard about this sooner.

Please, do me a favor and go to the Pink Well Challenge website and vote. Click here or type the website into your browser yourself: http://pinkwell.org; either way, please vote. Click on the “VOTE NOW” link on the blue box. I would love to see The Rose get a $25,000 grant. That would totally make my day. 

Did you vote yet?


6 years later…

Posted: October 13, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, kids | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 14 Comments

Today is National Metastatic Breast Cancer Awareness Day. Congress said so, and in making such a proclamation, let’s hope we get some action. Action beyond pink ribbons and promotional tie-ins like toilet paper and cups of yogurt. The estimate is that some 160,000 women are dealing with metastatic breast cancer, but I suspect the number is much higher. Metastatic means the cancer has spread. Stage IV. There is no Stage V. Every BC patient’s worst nightmare. Because being diagnosed at all, regardless of stage, isn’t nightmare enough.

I’ll save the mets post for another day, because there’s another commemoration taking place today, and I won’t be able to rest until I get this post out of my head.

Or so I thought.

I sat down at my computer to mark this important day, but I got nothing. I am stuck. The enormity of the topic overwhelms me. I want to write just the right thing, but in my quest for perfection I’m struck down, unable to convey the importance that screams to get out.

It’s not often that I’m at a loss for words, particularly on this little blog. I rarely have trouble thinking of what to write, and most days the topic guides me. Sometimes a topic pops into my head and I have an overwhelming urge to write. My fingers on the keyboard can hardly keep up with my thoughts as they tumble out of my head.

But today, I’ve got nothing.

And rather than make myself crazy on this day, this important yet heartbreaking day, I’m going to re-run the post from last year. I added a few more pictures, because this time last year I was brand-new to blogging and hadn’t quite figured out how to manage the images in my posts. But more importantly, I added a few more pictures because I need to remember what she looked like.

My heart is heavy as grief once again rears its ugly head and reminds me that she is gone, forever. 
It’s been exactly 5 years since my mom died. Lots of people have written about loss & grief, and most of them have done it more eloquently than I. If you knew her, you loved her. Plain & simple. She was one of those people. She never met a stranger and could talk to anyone. The stories are endless, and if I think really hard I can conjure up the sound of her laugh. I have to work hard to remember her voice, though, because her “sick” voice is the freshest one. I also have to think back to how she looked, pre-cancer, before the dreaded disease ravaged her body yet was unable to extinguish her effervescent personality.

My mom was an incredible cook. She grew up on a farm and lost her own mom at age 13, so she assumed more responsibility than a middle-schooler should. She taught me a lot in the kitchen, although I’ll never match her skill with pie crust. I try every year at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and end up exhausted, frustrated and having used a month’s worth of curse words. One year at Christmas she gave coupons for a homemade pie, and those were highly prized gifts for sure.

She was a “white” woman who married into a Greek family. “White” means anyone who’s not Greek. Sometimes the Greeks aren’t happy about “whites” joining a family, because they want their kids to marry other Greeks. My mom didn’t let that stop her. She ingratiated herself into the lives of the Greek women and learned their culinary secrets. It wasn’t long before she was the best cook in the bunch. Not bad for a “white” girl.

My sweet mama was the quintessential suburban at-home mom: PTA president, Girl Scout leader, queen of homemade Halloween costumes. She put a homemade meal on the table every night for dinner, and I was halfway through elementary school before I realized that the homemade cinnamon roll that was my lunchbox treat was a rarity.

She had a love of learning that I see echoed in my own kids. I’m sure she flourished at college, probably thrilled to be responsible only for herself for the first time in years. She was president of her sorority and got this fancy necklace to wear during her reign. The look of pure happiness on her face makes me smile all these years later. In her typical over-achieving way, she graduated college in 3 years, then became an English teacher before she became a mom. My whole childhood, she had us look up words in the dictionary to learn how to spell. I won the spelling bee in 4th grade, and to this day am proud of being a good speller. She instilled a love of words and reading that I’ll carry with me my entire life.

When Trevor graduated from business school in 2004, she was as proud of him as if he were her own child. In fact, once he married into her family, she considered him a son. Not a son-in-law, but a son. She was sick at the time this photo was taken, but hid it well. She didn’t want anything to interfere with his big day.

She had a lot of success in life, but her greatest achievement was being YaYa. She loved her grandbabies to the max, and when she knew she was losing her battle against cancer, she spoke of her sadness in not being able to watch them grow up. She’s missed out on a lot. But loss is a 2-way street, and the 4 kids who were lucky enough to have her as their YaYa, albeit way too briefly, have missed out as well. As each year passes, and her grandbabies grow up, they change and take on new interests and habits. She would have loved every minute of it. Something tells me she would have been quite adept at navigating whatever stage those little darlins are in.

Here they are on the day of her funeral.

Andrew was 8, Payton and his cousin Megan were 6, Macy was 3 when YaYa died. She was 67. Way too young, all the way around.

Life isn’t the same without her. While the pain of loss has lessened over the years, it’s still there, and I suspect it never goes away. No one in your life loves you the way a mother does. And no matter how old I become, I will always miss my mother’s love. Oliver Wendell Holmes said that “mothers carry the key of our souls in their bosoms.” That certainly was the case with my mom.

Milestones are hard when you’ve lost someone so dear. Every year, the week or so leading up to the anniversary of her death has been miserable. I find myself transported back to the time of  illness and all of the unpleasantness that entailed. Taking care of her was both the hardest thing ever and the greatest honor. I went into it knowing it would be hard, but having no idea how brutal. Balancing that with taking care of my young family was grueling, no doubt. But I wanted to come out of it with no regrets, and I’m happy to say that I did.

This year, however, was different. I wasn’t dreading the date. Maybe because I’ve got a lot on my mind and a lot on my plate. Maybe because as I get ever closer to regaining my “normal” life after my own cancer battle, I have a new perspective. Maybe I’m just getting absent-minded in my old age.

For a while after she died, I looked for her in crowds: at the grocery store, at a baseball game, at any random gathering. I knew, of course, that she wasn’t there. At least my rational brain knew that, but I looked anyway. I don’t know when it was that I stopped looking, but at some point, I started to see her. Not really her, but glimpses of people or expressions on faces that recalled her: the woman at the gym who looks a lot like her from the back. The resemblance in my niece to my mom’s photos as a child. My aunt’s hands, which look just like my mom’s.

This year, today, on the anniversary of her death, I wasn’t looking for her, but she was there. Today in my much-anticipated first tennis match since my mastectomy, my opponents’ names were Barbara and Ann. Guess what my mom’s name was? Yep, you got it — Barbara Ann.

A day of docs

Posted: October 12, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, menopause | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Yesterday was my regular check-up with my onco-crush, Dr D. 

He’s so young and so cute ya just want to squeeze him. And he’s a hugger, too, so squeezing him is definitely an option.  Me, I’m not much of a hugger, as my book club buddy Laura will tell ya. She manages to get more hugs out of me than anyone. I’m not very touchy-feely by nature, but I’m working on it.

I got a couple of hugs from Dr D yesterday, and since I won’t see him again until January, he said Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, too. That makes me panic a little, thinking the holiday madness is upon us and I don’t have enough time to engage in the consumerism that has become de rigueur. I also don’t tend to think that far ahead. I’m more of a small-picture kind of girl who’s learned not to look too far down the road, because there might be something wicked lurking, like a 15mm invasive ductal carcinoma and its nasty friends, DCIS and Paget’s Disease.

Dr D is very big-picture, though, and he’s not at all worried about something wicked lurking down the road. That’s one of the many reasons I like him — every time I see him, he tells me he doesn’t think my cancer is going to come back. That’s music to my ears and a balm for my worried soul. When I told him that I think about recurrence every single day, he tut-tutted and told me to think about something happy instead. Duly noted.

We had a long talk about my love affair with alcohol, as we do at every visit. He knows I’m a fan of the sauce and while he would like to see me cut back because of alcohol being a risk factor for breast cancer, he also advises his patients to live their lives, and he’s realistic about the studies being inconclusive about just how big of a factor alcohol is anyway. I pointed out the tragic and really-not-fair example of Linda McCartney, wife of the famed Beatle, who died from breast cancer even though she was a hard-core vegan, ate 100 percent organic, had no family history of the disease, and never drank. You can’t live much cleaner than that, and the bastard still got her. I’m not vegan, but I am hard-core vegetarian, I eat a lot of organic, I actually like fruits & veg, and had no family history of the bastard disease, so I’m going to enjoy raising a glass here and there. Not every day, like I would like, but that’s my choice. There’s nothing I like more than having a glass of wine while I cook dinner every night. I don’t do that anymore. But I’ll still say cheers to the freaky weekend. And if a certain someone shows up with an unexpected bottle of bubbly because it’s Tuesday, then I say life is for living and pop that cork.

Once we discussed and debated the effect of alcohol on BC patients, we (thankfully) moved on to other topics. He has a very nice bedside manner that involves him spending a good deal of time looking right in his patients’ eyes and asking how the feel. How they are coping. How they are emotionally. He knows that fighting the vicious beast that is cancer is way more than a physical battle, and he spends the time necessary to check on the non-physical battlefield. Smart man. In this process, however, he might have bitten off more than he wanted to chew by asking me if I’m happy with my reconstruction. Cue the $100,000 question.

Do I think my surgeons did a good job with my newly reconstructed chest? Yes. A fantastic job. Does it look 1,000 times better than it did pre-reconstruction? Way. But am I happy? Not so much.

See, we had a conversation very similar to the one last week. And I pointed out to Dr D, as I have to other docs, that I am one of the uncommon BC patients who was happy with her body before cancer ignited a stinking bag of dog-doo on my front porch. Sure there were some things that I wanted to tweak, after having babies, nursing babies, and turning 40, but overall I was happy before. That makes it kinda hard to then be happy with the after side of  multiple surgeries and their far-reaching side-effects. I predicted that long after my “journey” is complete and I go back to my pre-cancer life, I will always see the scars instead of the progress. Not to be a Negative Nellie, mind you, but because I am very realistic. I know that the 17-inch scar on my belly will fade. In fact, it already has, and it started out looking way better than a lot of what I’ve seen in doing my research. I know that the “flaps” of skin used to create my breasts will settle into the landscape of my battle-scarred chest. I suspect that some day I will be more “me” and less “it” when it comes to thinking about how cancer has changed my body. But I’m not there yet, and Dr D listened and counseled me.

He gave me a very good piece of advice. So good that Amy jumped up and wrote it down on a piece of paper towel in the exam room. He said, “Focus your attention on the things you have achieved, because you have achieved a lot, but you still have a ways to go.”

He’s right, of course.

I just don’t tend to think that way. I’m way too busy thinking in the here & now (do I have enough bread to pack the kids’ lunches? Did I move the clothes from the washer to the dryer? It’s Mary’s birthday tomorrow; where’s the card I bought for her 4 months ago?). I need to stop a sec and shift from the here & now and the never-ending “to do” list and think for a moment about how far I’ve come and what I’ve achieved. My “journey” has been far from ordinary, routine. As my nurse-friend Laura says, “Everything that could go wrong did, and you were as far from a textbook case as could be.” True dat.

Two really great things came out of my appointment with Dr D, besides the pep talk and his blessing to have a drink. The first is the end of the Lupron shots. Hooray! I endured a year of that blasted drug, and am thrilled to say adios to it. The needle was huge, the drug was of the ilk that burns like fire upon entering the body, and the side-effects were hideous: hot flashes often enough to power a small city. Sweating more than Leon Lett after his infamous fumble against the Dolphins. Mood swings that make people run and hide from me. Joint pain that sometimes catches my breath. Decreased bone density that I can’t feel but fret about anyway. Bye-bye nastiness. Of course the flip side to being done with Lupron injections for hormone suppression means that I have to get serious about the oophorectomy.  Gotta get those ovaries removed for good. As much as hate the idea of yet another surgery and yet another recovery, I am of the “slash & burn” mentality when it comes to cancer. Get ’em out so they can’t cause any trouble.

Item #2 in the “this is really great department” was the very last port flush. Hooray! I’ve had my port for almost 18 months, and it has served me well. It’s made my life easier and saved my already-floppy veins from being blown out once and for all. It’s allowed me to endure so many needle sticks that a 20-gauger no longer makes my palms sweat. But I won’t miss it. I will happily bid adieu to the titanium disk sewn into my  jugular. I will not miss the monthly flushes with saline and Heparin. I will keep it, though, as a souvenir. As a reminder of all that I’ve achieved. Of all that I’ve endured. Of all the crap that was flung at me but how little of it stuck.

 

 

The reality of BC

Posted: October 11, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

No, I’m not talking about BC the comic strip; I wouldn’t waste my blogspace on that. I’m talking about the reality of breast cancer. The everyday effects of living with — and past — this damned disease. Case in point: I was dashing through the grocery store yesterday to grab a carton of milk (organic of course, because of all the hormones they inject into the poor cows to increase their production, and hormones scare me; and in a paper carton instead of a plastic jug because plastics now scare me, too. Thanks a lot, cancer, for turning me into a paranoid freak who can barely get through the grocery store. Oh, and the receipt now scares me, too, because the chemicals on that innocent-looking slip of paper can act like estrogen, which fueled my cancer. Then there’s the money to pay for the groceries: how dirty and/or chemical-laced is it???). It’s a wonder I can get out of the house.

Anyhoo, before the paranoia set in, I was assaulted by the plethora of pink products. They’re everywhere. Yes, I know it’s October, which means Breast Cancer Awareness Month. I should expect this, right? As I cut through the canned-goods to get to the milk, I see this:

Ah, yes. Pink-label soup. Fantastic. All that sodium doesn’t contribute to lymphedema, does it??

Right next to my organic, paper-enshrouded milk is of course the pink-a-palooza yogurt display.

Take a half step to the right and there’s the pink-ribbon-edition Milano cookies, to go with the milk.

In case you spill your milk, never fear: Brawny is in on the pinkwashing, too. 

So is Viva. You’ve got a choice. There’s pink-bedecked TP, too, in case the dairy upsets your tummy. Or in case you’re in the midst of long-term antibiotic therapy for a post-mastectomy infection and feel like your gut has been attacked by a roto-tiller. Nausea and diarrhea from chemo? No problem. Quilted Northern has got your back (side).

If the paper towels can’t contain your spill, never fear: pink Swiffer is here. I know I feel better with a pink Swiffer in my house. If only I could have Swiffered the cancer right out of my chest. Or spiff up the scars left from the multiple surgeries required by said cancer.

And in case you didn’t get enough calories from the milk & cookies, there’s always chocolate:

Pick your poison. Literally.

I guess the candy makers don’t know (or don’t care) that the majority of women fighting breast cancer gain weight — I know, how whacked is that??

Need some pampering? How about some pretty pink nail polish? No harmful chemicals in that. OPI’s “Pink of Hearts” is pretty as a picture, and goes right along with the soft, feminine image we breast cancer girls want to project. 

Or, if you’re feeling feisty, try the OPI “Pink Shatter” limited-edition polish.

We’re gonna shatter cancer, one toenail at a time. But wait — don’t put that polish on your fingernails if you’re going in for yet another surgery from breast cancer. The anesthesiologist needs to monitor your nailbeds, and the pulse oximeter may go wonky.

Being surrounded by pink products everywhere is making me claustrophobic. While I’m glad that corporations donate money to “the cause,” I would like to get through the grocery store without being bombarded with reminders of  this dreaded disease. Just in case I wasn’t thinking of cancer at that very moment, BAM! there’s the shelf full of pink-ribbon dog food to remind me. On the off-chance that I was freed from the worry and strife of my cancer “journey” for two seconds, WHACK! there’s the special-edition Morton’s iodized salt to reignite my struggle. Maybe I was consumed with thoughts of the grocery list instead of wondering if the asymmetry of my newly constructed breasts was obvious to a random passerby. Too bad, because KABOOM! there’s the pink-ribbon Downy fabric softener to bring me back to the reality that is living with the messy aftereffects of breast cancer.

All this pinkwashing has jangled my nerves. Maybe I can relax with a glass of cheap wine or a malt beverage. 

They’re for the cure, right?

Forget the yogurt and the cleaning products. Where’s the pink-ribbon-wrapped bottle of xanax, to quell the anxieties associated with fighting a deadly disease? Where’s the pink iTunes gift card to buy some relaxing music when the fear of recurrence grips us?

What we really need to see for “breast cancer awareness” is this: My flat chest after a bilateral mastectomy at the ripe old age of 41.

What we really need to see for “breast cancer awareness” is the array of home-health-care products required by a post-mastectomy infection and the confusion and fear their presences brings into an otherwise peaceful household.

What we really need to see for “breast cancer awareness” is a post-mastectomy infection site, finally finally finally healing after 3 surgeries to excise dead tissue. 

What we really need to see for “breast cancer awareness” is a young woman strapped to a wound vac, to suck out all the toxins and poisons created by a cluster of bad luck in the OR.

What we really need to see for “breast cancer awareness” are photos of brave women who’ve undergone mastectomies yet still pose for portraits, like in the SCAR project.

photo by David Jay

What we really need to see for “breast cancer awareness” are blogs from women like Deborah Lattimore who write honestly and openly about breast cancer, and are brave enough to post pictures like this:

photo by deborah lattimore

What we really need to see for “breast cancer awareness” are women like my blogfriend at The Pink Birdie, who has no use for a prosthesis but bravely faces the world in her post-surgery state. Her post “Awareness on the Move” says it all. Read it, then you’ll know why we rant about pinkwashing, why the bevy of pink-ribbon-bedazzled consumer products upsets us.

What we really need to see for “breast cancer awareness” are instances of women living their lives post-surgery, post-cancer.

googleimages

What we really need to see for “breast cancer awareness” are images of women taking cancer by the balls and saying “Not me, not now.”

 

There. Now don’t you feel  more aware?

Amy’s take

Posted: October 10, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , | 7 Comments

Hi,

It’s Amy H this time.  Guest Blogger, yet again.

Now before you get all worried that something has struck Nancy down or she’s in a morphine haze, puking or both as is the usual case when I blog for her, let me tell you that she is doing just fine…thankyouverymuch!

I have the distinct and unique pleasure of accompanying Nancy on her visits to the famous (or infamous?) Dr. S.  Just very recently, one of “our” visits happened.  Nancy & I connected the day before just to handle logistics.  Here’s the texts so you know how we figure stuff out:

Me on the day before:  “S at 2right?  Lunch?”

Her: “Yes!!  What works for you?”

Me: “Amy p wants to do lunch. you want to pick me up at 1245 and go get that good salad at the brew house?”

Her: “Perfect. Amy P meeting us there?”

Me: “I’ll tell her to”

That’s the extent of our conversation until she rolled in at 12:45 to pick me up…..in the Fiat…just sayin’….but with no top down….I should have picked up on the mood….

Hey, how are you??

“HORRIBLE!!!!” and then Nancy launches into a tirade that you won’t believe about her morning.  I won’t go into details, but let’s just say that things didn’t work out the way they played out in Nancy’s head for that morning, and not because she had unrealistic expectations. THEN she gets a text meant to alert her to some bad business. It was a nudge of sorts, to ask “have you checked this out?”…. again, not going into details except to say that there was a certain “liberty” taken which shouldn’t have been taken….and it affected Nancy….  Let me add that it’s just one of those “times” for Nancy.  And I don’t mean “time of the month,” just one of those times where there seems to be no one who understands the “journey” that Nancy has been on.  She feels alone.  So, the little, everyday, bad times are just the tip of the iceberg.  And then her frustrations with the cancer “journey” make themselves known through the everyday occurrences of her life.  She does such a great job holding things together and then some everyday, seemingly miniscule inconvenience is like the prick of a pin on a balloon.  Just so you know, it’s not an overreaction, mind you, because each of these events is definitely cause for frustration, it’s just that these frustrations allow her the liberty to vent when she typically holds it together.  Does that make sense?

So, we meet Amy P. at lunch.  Anything to drink?

Nancy, “I’ll have a beer.”

Well, alrighty then, twist my arm, I wouldn’t want you to drink a beer all by your lonesome at lunch time.

Hey, we’re sort of in a hurry so we are going to order, too.

Nancy says, “I’m not hungry, I’m just going to go with my beer.”

Amy & I echo, “What? We could have cancelled lunch if you  had already eaten….”

Nancy emphatically replies, “NO!! I need this but I’m just not hungry!”  We had a great girls’ lunch — talking about things, some everyday, some not so everyday.  Most people would look at our easy banter from afar and not realize that at times we were discussing surgery, doctors, treatments at other times carpool, dinner prep AND Nancy’s horrible morning.

We say adios to Amy P. then we head over to see good ole Dr. S!  We are greeted, as usual by Marcy & Brenda, Dr. S’s employees who have become our friends over the past year or so.  Brenda is ready for us to come back to the exam room and calls “Mrs. Hicks?” with a casual smile and ushers us out of the waiting area.  Brenda only uses formalities when other patients are in the waiting room.

Nancy always scoffs at this address when Brenda does that saying, “Puh lease, Brenda, really? It’s Nancy!”

I point out, “Nancy, you know she only does that when there are other patients waiting. Brenda needs to keep up the professional appearances!” (As an aside to the Dr. S. camp blog readers, Brenda is always professional, as is Marcy.  It’s just nice knowing that there’s a familiarity that allows them to give Nancy the comfort of addressing her by her first name.)

Brenda hands Nancy the not-so-customary white paper gown.  What happened to the fancy blue paper gowns?  Things are slightly amiss.  Brenda turns to leave with a chuckle and a twinkle in her eye, knowing Nancy well and her need for the familiar in this still unfamiliar medical world.

Marcy walks in, really to say, “Hi” but with Nancy’s thick file in her arms as the excuse to peek in. “Hey, how are you?” We all exchange pleasantries that seem simple on appearance but truly are fraught with more meaning.  We’ve shared more than the burden of Nancy’s “cancer journey,” and the four of us relish these stolen moments to catch up on each other’s lives outside of Dr. S’s presence and all under pretext of the “patient’s visit.”  I write this so you know how most of the office visits to Nancy’s caregivers go.  They become her friends.  They are the fabric of her life now, too.  Not just mere staff.  She’s concerned about them, bakes cookies for them, inquires about their families, knows their birthdays.

In strides the good Dr. S.  “Hi, Nancy!  How are you?” he asks with a big smile. This is the 4th visit in a row that it is apparent he is in a VERY good mood!  Nancy has barely had time to let us get her into the paper gown–opening to the front.  Marcy quick steps back to the front desk and Brenda steps out of the way in the exam room. Good, he’s on time and we won’t be late for carpool.  He knows how much she hates to wait, and I certainly am glad we didn’t have to resort to slipping a note under the other exam-room door to tell him to hurry up, as we have been known to do.

Nancy replies to his greeting, “I am having a TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, NO GOOD, VERY BAD DAY.”  (She really didn’t say that but he got the point.)

“Why, Naancee?  Why are you having a bad day?” (sorry, not sure how to put his accent in there.)

I intercept this one, “Well, such and such happened and then something else.”  I actually used the actual incidences.

Then Nancy interjected, “About that something else……” as she discussed in more detail the latest angst of the day.  It was a bad day, mind you.

Dr. S slipped into exam mode, eyeing Nancy’s reconstructed body with a critical gaze.  I am amazed at how Nancy’s body continues to heal.  It’s been 2 weeks since I’ve last seen her in all her glory and the “17 inch scar–and I’ve measured it!” looks like the crease that your underwear would make on your tummy if it was too tight.  Really amazing.

Dr. S. steps back, looks at this, palpates that, getting a figure on how he’s going to finish the masterpiece.  He mumbles to himself and has me hold a hand mirror so Nancy can peer at his intended adjustments. She didn’t even want to look, but we made her.

As an aside, he mentions that he has had “two messages from us.  One from you.” Indicating me. “And one from her.”Indicating Nancy.

“When did I message you?”

“You know, you were going to meet me in Denver!”

“Huh?”  Come to find out our good doctor has misinterpreted his messages.  Nancy and I are planning to attend one of his local conferences on the fat transfer process and he thought I was meeting him at his recent Denver conference.  Yeah, right.  I’m a stay at home mom.  I don’t have the time or the budget to be hopping around attending the fat transfer conferences of fancy schmancy plastic surgeons outside of the Houston area!  And besides, I’d only texted him that one time when he was in New Orleans and I had a restaurant recommendation for him–which he took my advice on, I might add….

He quickly changes gears, “So, Nancy, you know…about this bad day….”  He then goes in, and with the gentleness of a long-time friend, conveys to Nancy what I’ve long known are his feelings. “You know, I could not have done the work I’ve done, if you were the type of patient who didn’t do her work.  I have been able to stand by you KNOWING that you were going to do your homework and do what I asked you to when it comes down to what matters.  You have allowed me to do my best. You know, Nancy, this day is just a bad spot, and that situation is just a situation.  If you allow it to control you then you have ultimately lost control and that’s not the Nancy I know.”  He went on to wax philosophical about a situation with a former patient and also his insight on the infection that Nancy had.  But ultimately it was the highest compliment that he could have ever paid her.  I was struck by his gentleness, sincerity, kindness and, dare I say it? Love.

In the midst of this conversation he had been commenting on her skin and I agreed with his assessment.  Dr. S doesn’t think he’s going to have to cut  and stitch an area on her revision because Nancy’s skin is so resilient.  He will just make some adjustments internally and that’s it, no cuts necessary.  Her skin will adapt.  Nancy will adapt.

I look back and Nancy’s eyes give her feelings away.  All the talk about how good the newly constructed chest looks was too much. It was the tipping point in this already-terrible day. ‘YOUJUSTDONTUNDERSTAND!!!!’ these eyes are shouting, and nearly overflowing with the tears that are threatening. “That’s easy for you to say with you both sitting over there without all of THIS going on!”  indicating her body. She actually verbalizes this. It’s a statement and a challenge. She adds that if the shoe were on the other foot, and she was looking at Dr S’s masterpiece-quality work on someone else’s body — anybody’s body but hers — she too would say it looks great. But it’s her body, not someone else’s. And no matter how good the masterpiece is, it’s never going to be the same. She has had ENOUGH of this day!  I know enough to steer Dr. S’s attention from her so she can blink her tears away without him seeing her angst.

He finishes the conversation with another compliment about her resilience and strength and then tops it off with a decision on a final revision date.  Oh Happy Day!  A FINAL revision date!  Did he say final??

We wrap up the visit with some yada yada yada and signatures over surgery paperwork, scheduling our next visit—Marcy kindly penciling us in so we can make it out again next time for carpool.  Marcy confiding to us in a whisper after we inquired about her. Nancy making some smarty pants remark about how she’ll cry in front of Dr. S over her dead body.  I called her on that one, “Oh yeah?  You nearly did it today!”

“Could you tell?” she quickly inquired with concern.

“I could….but not him.”

On the way home I could not even convey to Nancy how she is so right.  We aren’t in her place.  We truly DON’T understand–even those of you on your own “cancer journey” can’t really understand her unique “journey.” I hate that she feels so alone at times, probably most of the time. But we are here.  Trevor, her kids, you, me, all of us.  Even Dr. S.  And we all love her.

Facing the facts

Posted: October 9, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , , | 12 Comments

I get a daily email with a breast cancer truth every day. Daily. Every day. Like when someone says 8 a.m. in the morning — daily every day. Today’s truth was about the rate of mortality being higher for African American women. I’m not African American, but I read the details anyway, because anything having to do with breast cancer has to do with me.

The emails come from the National Breast Cancer Coalition, and there are some interesting facts. Well, interesting to someone whose life has been affected by breast cancer. I’m unfortunately in that camp. Boo. I don’t want to be in that camp, but I can’t unring that bell. No one asked me what I want, sadly. Once you’re diagnosed, no matter how much you fight it or try to ignore it or don’t want it, you’re in that camp. So ya gotta deal with it, and one of the ways I’ve dealt with it is to immerse myself in fact, figures, and information. Not saying that’s the right way for everyone, because I know some people like to stick their head in the sand. I’m not judging the ostriches, just saying that they do in fact exist.

googleimages.com

Because I’m not an ostrich, and I feel the more info I have the better armed I am, I like all the facts, figures, and information. Even the scary parts. I tell my doctors all the time, just give me the info, including the ugly stuff. I can handle the hard truths, I just need to know that I’m dealing with. I do much better having the information. Like the statistic that says 65 percent of those diagnosed with breast cancer will have a recurrence. It’s scary, but I like knowing it. I need to know it. For me, the unknown is much scarier. The permutations my wild imagination comes up with are way scarier than the actual facts.

I fully expect a recurrence.

Not because I’m looking for the Grim Reaper or because I’m negative — neither of which is true — but because I’m realistic. Being diagnosed at age 40 with what was for me my second cancer (melanoma was the first), I fully expect to have to face this beast again.

With both the melanoma and the breast cancer, I got off easy, relatively speaking. The post-mastectomy infection gave me a run for my  money, but the cancers were easy to treat; the surgeries were awful but temporary. Man, that infection was a bitch. Who’d have thought it would be worse than the cancer and subsequent treatment? But it was.

But back to recurrence.

I fully expect it.

In fact, I recently mentioned that among a small group of my besties and was met with utter silence. Not one person piped up to say, “Nah — you’re crazy. You beat it and you’re done. Nothing to worry about.”

googleimages.com

Chirp, chirp, chirp went the crickets in the abysmal silence of no one sticking up in disagreement with recurrence.

I’m no fool. I know that having one cancer puts a person at a much higher risk of contracting another type of cancer (exhibit A: melanoma >> breast cancer). I expect that it’s coming. At some point, at some time, it’s coming. I can do the math and know that I will spend more years fighting cancer than I’ve been alive. That’s one of the many things that just plain sucks about being diagnosed young. Or young-ish, in my case. Yes, there are tons of people who are much younger than I was at the time of diagnosis. Hell, some of them are even kids. Little bitty kids, fighting a big, nasty disease. Plenty of people are young, not young-ish, at the time of diagnosis. And they will spend even more years than I fighting the disease.

Suck.

I had a fancy test shortly after my diagnosis, to identify the characteristics and risk factors of my cancer. The Oncotype gave very specific and very personalized information about my cancer. The test looks at a group of genes (21 genes total: 16 cancer genes and 5 control genes) to see what their activity level is. This test provides additional information — beyond the usual standard measurements such as tumor size, grade, and whether lymph nodes are involved — to give each woman a score that correlates to how likely it is that her cancer will return. The idea is to help make decisions on cancer treatment (chemo? no chemo? if so, what type and for how long?). Very useful information. Expensive (nearly $5,000) but useful.

oncotypedx.com

My risk factor for recurrence of this same cancer, according to the Oncotype, was low. Really low. Single-digits low. But that’s little consolation to me. It’s nice to see that low number on the report, but I’m no fool. I know how haywire cancer cells can be, and how one cancer cell is all it takes to wreak havoc in one’s body.

I think it’s safe to say that most people who have stared down cancer think about recurrence. I remember wondering how in the sam hell I would ever get through what was the worst thing in my life, and once I was through it, thinking how nice it would be to consider myself done, but no, there’s the thought of recurrence. I think about it every day. Even after everything I’ve been through.

Every single day.

The current pinkwashing that permeates every October gives the impression that once you fight your cancer battle, you’re done. It’s a glamorous, sexy disease, wrapped in blush highlights and tied in with lots of fun products, all wrapped up in a cute pink ribbon. Sure, you may lose your breasts and your hair, and you will most likely gain lots of weight from the hormone therapy necessary to fight this bastard. You may lose any shot at positive self-esteem and a happy body image, and your life will never be the same. You may well make yourself crazy with the wardrobe challenges involved in dressing around a mastectomy and reconstruction, and you may well be bankrupted from the surgeries and treatments (even with good insurance), but once you’ve slayed that beast, you’re done.

Right?

If only.

Pink party!

Posted: October 8, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

The only thing missing from this party was my cancer.

HA!

It was a great party (especially since the cancer — and its nasty friend mycobacterium — were nowhere to be found). Last year I had one foot in the grave and had a very small party to thank my friends who’d helped me in ways large and small through the most difficult experience I’d endured. The ways in which they helped were as varied as they are: a math teacher, a PE teacher, a realtor, a crude oil buyer, a builder’s sales &  marketing guru, a former hair stylist, a psychotherapist, a transplant nurse, a budding photographer, an HVAC business owner, a surgeon-wrangler, and several kick-ass SAHMs.

1st annual Pink Party! girls

This year, the infection is gone, the antibiotics are history, and the party is on, baby! The rules were the same this year: wear pink, eat, and drink. And celebrate life. Really celebrate life.

Last year, I felt pretty rotten, and wasn’t much in a party mood. It had been a long, miserable summer, and the misery dragged into the fall (or what passes for fall in south Texas). Who would have thought that facing cancer and having a bilateral mastectomy would be the “easy” part compared to the post-surgery infection? Now I know that the battlefield is treacherous, and the presence and comfort of good friends go a long way.

Things were certainly much brighter this year.

I’d had a bad week, though, leading up to this year’s Pink Party. A really bad week. The last few days were emotionally charged, big time. Drama on the tennis court, histrionics from a stranger blogger, and mean girls at play in my social circle sucked up more time and energy than I realized. Factor in an early-dismissal day from school on Thursday, and this party girl was running behind schedule.

Frazzled and scrambling (and more than a little pissed off at all the drama), I got my party prep done by the skin of my teeth. A custom piece of artwork rolled out the pink carpet for my guests (thanks, David!).

The well-dressed flamingo started happy hour before the guests donned my door. 

Some pink bling for the front door, and the entrance is all set. 

Don’t forget to read the plant tag!

Having a party gave me the motivation I needed to revive my sagging, heat-stroked flowerpots, too. We need some mulch, but there was no time for that. Get the plants in the pots and move on. The ladies will be here soon! I’m oh so grateful to my superstar gardener. Thank you, Eduardo!

Flowers on the outside, flowers on the inside.

Pink gerbera daisies and blush baby carnations on the kitchen table…

…and pink roses on the side table. Halloween decor mingled with all things pink is kinda weird, but the eyeball candle reminded me of the mycobacterium that disrupted my life so mightily and completely last year, and it provided a nice dose of reality to my pink plans.

Macy added the chalkboard sign…

…and Christy provided the other sign. Love it!True, so true! Pink’s not about Komen at my house, it’s about the party!

Once the feather boa goes up on the chandelier, it’s time to start the party!

And a close-up of the Hope angle floating just under the boa.

Her message was echoed by the sign on top of the fridge.

Another boas and some sparkly butterflies over the kitchen table.The paper lanterns were new this year.  Next year, we’ll light them.

I’m just sick that I didn’t take any pictures of the food this year. Once my girls started arriving and the drinks started flowing, I completely forgot. Let’s rewind to last year’s food and pretend. 

The menu was pretty similar this year: mostly pink foods. Salad with roasted beets, peel & eat shrimp, smoked salmon with capers, hot crab dip, strawberries & raspberries, and pink-ribbon sugar cookies with pink frosting. Oh, and the Corn Thing. Can’t have a party without the Corn Thing. It’s not pink, but it’s on the menu anyway. 

The corn thing (in the mostly empty dish) is always the first thing to go.

The other thing I completely forgot to do this year was give a toast. I wrote a few words about each party guest and had planned to tap my glass to shush the scintillating conversations and deliver the toast. Completely forgot.

Could this have had something to do with it?

Maybe.

A little.

We had a most excellent bartender.

Ok, girls, here ya go:

Amy H: you have led by example and taught me how to give from the heart, and to give what people truly need. You always seem to know just the right thing to say, like the dog whisperer, only for people. No one can wrangle Dr S like you!

Amy P: the abundance of food you delivered to my doorstep sustained both my body and my soul. Knowing that a good meal was right around the corner was such a relief, and it allowed my addled brain to focus on things like wounds and puss. Your nursing expertise was a huge help as well, and I’m grateful for the late-night house calls.

Christy: you went from “my babysitter’s mom” to “my friend” in one giant leap. You walk the walk and are the epitome of “it’s just what you do” and are the one person who cusses as much as I do. I appreciate so much your unflinching honesty and your endless compassion, to people and animals. My life is so much better with you in it.

Claudine: Through your diagnosis, I have come to understand the overwhelming desire to try and ease the patient’s burden. I’m honored to be in the trenches with you.

Jenny: you’re the trail-blazer and my mentor in all things survivor. You lifted me up each time you sent me a card and each time you reminded me that “this is temporary.” You have provided a stellar example of how to live a rich and full life after cancer. Can’t wait to be celebrating my 12 years of survivorship, like you, my friend! And many more.

Jill: you have a knack for making all the right gestures and for making all the right things happen. Whether sharing a meal or raising a glass, time spent with you is always a rich reward.

Julie: my wacky friend, I love knowing that no joke is too raunchy, no comment too catty to utter in front of you. What freedom to be exactly who I am — the good, bad and the ugly — with you and know that you love me just for being Nancy K.

Laura: no one else can talk me into giving up so many hugs. Each time you took time out of your insanely busy schedule to check on me, I was reminded of what a loyal and special friend you are. And a special thanks for all the electronic medical advice you provide…whether via text or email, I know you’ll send me the right answer.

Mary: you make it seem so simple to give freely and unconditionally, and every time I’ve asked you for something, you’ve not only said yes, but you’ve agreed with a huge heart. To know that you have my back, whether for carpool or child-care, is such a comfort.

Melanie: you reached out and seized upon my hair emergency. Offering to take care of my hair at home while I was healing is something I’ll never forget. By figuring out exactly what I needed, you taught me that accepting help from others isn’t just ok, it’s pretty great and mutually beneficial.

Melissa: When we first met, when P and H were in kindergarten, I knew I wanted to be your friend. Your wit and style were (and still are) so appealing, and I enjoy every minute I spend with you. You’re a pretty kick-ass lizard-sitter, too!

Michelle: My champagne sister! What a beautiful thing to find someone who is always looking for a reason to pop that cork. Not only do I love drinking bubbly with you, I also really like to stand next to you. Dynamite truly does come in small packages, my friend.

Nicole: your carefree spirit reminds me how vital it is to enjoy life and to not sweat the small stuff. My type-A self basks in your laissez-faire attitude and I aspire to live life with gusto, just like you.

Sharon: your visits were always perfectly timed: just when I needed a pick-me-up, you would appear on my doorstep. I’ve learned a lot from you, in Chinatown and on the tennis court.

Staci: from Day 1, you kept me grounded. I knew that if I needed to go off the rails, you’d get me back on track and charm everyone we met along the way. You taught me how to grease the wheels and to take time to talk, really talk, to the people who come into our lives. And somehow, all these years later, you & I always have something to talk about.

Yvonne: as my in-house counsel, you remind me regularly that it’s ok to feel what I feel and think what I think. You bring a calming presence to my calamitous life, and your good sense and fun-loving ways always make me smile. Just when I am feeling adrift, you call saying “I miss you!” and that makes my heart happy.

I’m already looking forward to the 3rd annual Pink Party, and I’m smiling really big at the idea of us still gathering every year in October when we’re old and grey. Hopefully by then, breast cancer will be a thing of the past — but the party will go on!

Blogging is the last thing I should be doing right now…

Posted: October 7, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , | 10 Comments

But in between tennis drill and the next chore on the list, I stopped by the mailbox. Haven’t been all week, and the box was crammed full. There’s the usual overload of flyers and junk mail, then a box from Amazon containing the book Payton has been waiting for, and way in the back of the box, a lovely surprise for me. 

I love getting surprises in the mail. 

I’m especially in love with the “Air Mail” sticker. Something about that “Par avion” seems so exotic and speaks of faraway lands interspersing with the everyday aspects of my home life.

Even the return address sticker is beautiful and exotic.The package was so pretty I waited a while to open it. And y’all know I hate waiting. 

The “Petit Paquet” label was so cute and charming that it deserved its own photo. Thank you, Maria, for such a lovely surprise in my mailbox.

After a sufficient waiting period (5 minutes or so, which is a long time for someone as impatient as me), I tore into the package. What a cute little box I found inside. 

I would have been perfectly happy to have a “build your own rocking rabbit” but what was inside the cute little box was even better.

It’s the artwork I ordered from Maria Pace-Wynters.

Oh. My.

It’s even more beautiful in person, and her blogsite blows me away every time I look at it.

I had to just stand there and stare at the cellophane-wrapped pieces for a minute.

And then I tore into them.

Couldn’t get them open fast enough, so I could behold their beauty and revel in the explosion of color.

I came across Maria’s artwork randomly, as I searched google images for an adornment for this post, a while back.

I promptly fell in love with her art. The colors. The composition. The little girls. The foliage. The dreamy quality. I could go on and on, but I’m gonna let the art speak for itself.

The smile on this little girl’s face is such a good antidote to the doldrums, the bad days, the things that go bump in the night. I sure wish I’d been gazing upon that face Wednesday after my terrible, horrible, really bad, no-good day (more on that later, once the stink of that day is fully gone and I can write about it without cussing too much).

Macy picked this one out, for her new room. Well, it’s the same room but we are going to re-do it. Give it a makeover because she refers to it as her nursery. Now that she’s all grown up and doesn’t need lilac walls and a lime-green ceiling, she’s trending toward a bolder wall color, like the vibrant blue of the birds in this pieces. She also really loved the “body art” (yes, she used that term, and she knows who Kat Von D is, so I’m scared, really scared). Nothing against Kat or the inked population, just seems a little freaky for my girl to be so well-versed at such a young age. 

I really did have every intention of putting this print on Macy’s wall, once we lose the baby paint and get the big-girl stuff on, but then I noticed how lovely it looks against the goldenrod paint of my dining room.

Oh, and it looks even better against the fireweed paint in my kitchen.

Come to think of it, they all look great in the kitchen.

I love how the girl’s red hair is set off by the red paint.

Oh, hers too!

But wait, they look pretty great against the olive green of my office, too.

I think I’m gonna need some more artwork.

 

 

RIP, Steve

Posted: October 6, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: cancer fatigue | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

The world has suffered a huge loss today. Not because he was famous, or rich, or any of those externalities. But because he was a game-changer. Steve Jobs set out to change the world, and he did just that. In ways big and small, he did just that.

Not only did he bring to the general public some of the most useful products of my generation (iPhone, iPod, etc), he encouraged a nation of people to be better. At whatever they do. He gave commencement addresses that inspired me, and I’ve never been in his audience. Speaking at Stanford to the class of 2005, he said:

“Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking. Don’t settle. As with all matters of the heart, you’ll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don’t settle.”

And don’t sit still — he wasn’t a fan of resting on one’s laurels (and if anyone could have rested, it would be him). But that shows just how special he was, that he wasn’t satisfied with having done enough, he wanted to do more. On the news one night in May 2006 he said, “I think if you do something and it turns out pretty good, then you should go do something else wonderful, not dwell on it for too long. Just figure out what’s next.”

Sadly, there is no “what’s next” for Jobs, but his legacy will live on.

To say that he was a visionary seems trite, insufficient, but it’s true. I love that he knew what the public wanted, in terms of Apple products, so well but wasn’t cocky or full of self-importance. This quote in BusinessWeek in May 1998 sums it up: “It’s really hard to design products by focus groups. A lot of times, people don’t know what they want until you show it to them.” True, so true. If someone had described the iPhone to me before I had one in my hand, I wouldn’t have gotten it.

I’m not a gadget-y person. I don’t like stopping long enough to learn how to use something but prefer to dive in and figure it out as I go about my busy day. I’m not a reader of manuals, but that’s the beauty of the Apple products, and of Jobs’s insight into product design: you don’t have to figure it out because the device figures it out for you. Jobs truly understood how to show us what we want and need, without it being about him, about Apple, about financial success. He seemed to really care about doing great things. Way back in 1993, when I was a newlywed without a cell phone, an iPod, or an iPad, Jobs told the Wall Street Journal: “Being the richest man in the cemetery doesn’t matter to me … Going to bed at night saying we’ve done something wonderful … that’s what matters to me.”

My most favorite thing about Steve Jobs was his attitude toward the innovators all around us. You don’t have to be CEO of one of the most successful companies in the world to be an innovator and affect change in your life, and Jobs spread that message far and wide. I happen to live with a 9-year-old who follows the Jobs model. While I admit I’ve often thought if she were more like other little girls, it sure would make my life easier, but that’s short-sighted and temporary. Yes, buying a Disney Princess costume would be much easier than figuring out how to bring Domo to life, but that’s not her. And I’m glad.  Just like it’s not her to choose a “normal” job to research and present to her class in a career day speech. While the other kids see themselves becoming nurses, MLB players, dancers, and electrical engineers, my little innovator chose the lead singer for KISS.  In all seriousness. It never even occurred to her that this is wacky or unusual or “out there” because that’s how she rolls. She wasn’t looking for giggles or shock value; in fact, she probably wouldn’t care if others thought it weird or unusual or shocking that she wants to be the lead singer for KISS. She can’t sing, but that doesn’t stop her from thinking this way. It was hard to keep a straight face as she practiced her speech in her jammies the night before delivering it, as I marveled at her “outside of the box” self.

I think Steve Jobs would have approved. I think he and my girl would have liked each other. I can see them hanging out, talking about crazy stuff like a tiny device that can hold all your music, so you can listen anywhere as you do whatever you want. Like a home computer with a processor half the size of a shoebox but with plenty of computing power. Like a computer application that allows you to make and edit home movies good enough to be shown on the big screen. Like a fully functioning personal computer you can carry in your pocket. Like a Japanese anime character costume that weighed 20 pounds, was covered in industrial-strength carpet, and induced heat strokes in small trick-or-treaters but was so kick-ass, so rockin that it inspired people to hand out extra candy, to give a big handful of the good stuff as a means of awarding extra credit for creativity.

Sadly, my girl will never meet Steve Jobs. Not because he’s rich & famous and we’re ordinary people. Not because he lives all the way across the country. But because he’s dead. Because cancer stole him from us at age 56. I’m so sick of cancer. I’m sick of it in my own life and those of my friends in the blogosphere. I’m sick of it in the lives of the rich & famous whose deaths from it become magnified on TV, on the Web, and in magazines. I’m sick of it in my own family, where it stole my sweet mama and two of my favorite aunts (happy birthday, Thea Sophia; you may be gone but I still remember October 6th. Miss you).

And Steve Jobs, I miss you too. Thanks for changing my world, and for making it ok for people like my little girl to be different. May she follow your lead and change the world in her own way. I will share your quote about the crazy ones with her as she grows up and (hopefully) remains a square peg. RIP, Steve.

“Here’s to the crazy ones, the misfits, the rebels, the troublemakers, the round pegs in the square holes…the ones who see things differently — they’re not fond of rules. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them, but the only thing you can’t do is ignore them because they change things. They push the human race forward, and while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius, because the ones who are crazy enough to think that they can change the world, are the ones who do.”

businessinsider.com


Marquee madness

Posted: October 5, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , | 14 Comments

I was having lunch with the girls and could barely concentrate on the conversation. I’d chosen a seat that looked straight out the window, in direct line of the restaurant’s marquee. Big whoop, right? You read the marquee in 3/4ths of a second and your brain moves right back to the conversation. 

Uh, not so much.

Not for me.

See, I used to be an editor. My eyes are specially trained to spot mistakes — in type, on marquees, in people. I can’t turn it off; it’s like my superpower except not as useful as being able to say, leap tall buildings in a single bound.

Once I find a mistake, I’m like a dog with a bone. It bugs me –a lot–if the mistake goes uncorrected.

Of course I had to tell the waiter, and he looked at me like, “So?” To say that he was unconcerned with the marquee containing a spelling mistake would be quite the understatement.

So I did what I had to do — called in the manager.

He was a teeny bit more concerned than the waiter, but only because he wanted me to shut up and leave him alone. Clearly. But I told him that it was bad press to have a marquee mistake, and that it connoted sloppiness that just might permeate his entire operation. His ears pricked up a bit at that, but I’m not sure if it was the message or the overload of syllables that got his attention.

He tried to tell me that they were out of “E’s” and I told him that’s no excuse. Flip over a 3 to create one. Or, even better, delete the “D” and the question mark and go from an interrogative to a declarative sentence.

I ended the grammar lesson by telling him to get the ladder, man!

And he did.

Guess this guy drew the short straw and has to climb the ladder. Or maybe he won and gets to get out of the greasy kitchen and breathe some fresh air. While the boss man breathes down his neck, that is.

He’s on a very important mission (but he probably doesn’t know it). Actually, it’s a double mission: correct the error and shut the bossy lady up. 

What’s next, boss?

Boss man has the offending “D” in his hand, so now ladder boy needs to lose the question mark.

And away it goes….

All done and back to the greasy kitchen. School’s out.

That’s SO much better!

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