Heading to Napa
Posted: April 8, 2011 Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: breast cancer, cancer battle, good friends, infectious disease, napa valley, San Francisco, sunny California 1 CommentThe party into the night was pretty tame last night. If you ask Trevor, the tameness (not lameness, but restraint) was because of the utter lack of tequila. I’d say it’s also because of the fact that we are pacing ourselves in this long, luxurious bath in all things grape. We’ve got a lotta wine to drink, and the day is young.
We said adios to San Fran after a scrumptious breakfast at Pat’s Place, a short walk from our hotel in the brisk, sunny California morning. A crepe filled with mushrooms, avocado and cheese alongside a perfectly foam-sculpted cappuccino laid the right base for the wine-consumption that is to come.
Now, lest you think it’s all about catching a buzz and staying sloppy all weekend, let me remind you that this trip isn’t just about the cheap high. It’s a celebration. Of Yvonne’s 40 years of good living. Of good friends reconnecting, new and old. Of time away from work and home (and darling children). Of carefully-laid and at-long-last executed plans.
And of me finally getting out from under the overreaching arch of cancer and infection, to remember for more than a moment that before the #%*¥ hit the fan, I used to have a life that was full of sunshine, laugher, love, and friends.
It’s so good to be back.
My apologies
Posted: April 7, 2011 Filed under: Uncategorized 1 Comment…for the typos and redundant use of “amazing” in the last post. No, I’m not drunk (yet); the edit function on the cranky iPad is terrible. I’ll try and commandeer someone’s laptop for future posts from the road.
I <3 SF
Posted: April 7, 2011 Filed under: Uncategorized 4 CommentsHowdy from the Bay City. We arrived safe & sound and in fine shape after our First Class upgrade & Vueve Cliquot in the lounge. The flight was blessedly uneventful, even with a bloody Mary. Grabbed a cab to the hotel in Fisherman’s Wharf, expecting to dump our bags but were able to check in. After a quick pit stop we hit the streets for a brick 1.5-mile walk in the 50-degree, breezy weather to the best lunch ever. Or at least in a really long time.
Major shout-out to Jill & Keith for recommending Tadich Grill, home of the best cioppino (tomato-laden fish stew). I make a version of cioppino that’s pretty darn delish, but NOTHING compared to the bowl of underwater delights served up at Tadich. Huge shrimp, tiny shrimp, crab meat, crab claws, clams, mussels, and chunks of whitefish in the most amazing broth ever. A hunk of amazing sourdough and some outstanding brewed iced tea (the tea was worthy of you, Amy Hoover, and your discerning palate) added to the culinary heaven. I have photos but am having trouble getting the cranky iPad to upload them, and I’ve got wine to drink so can’t waste any more time fooling with it. I’ll get back to it, though.
Tomorrow is a big day
Posted: April 6, 2011 Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: birthday celebration, breast cancer, cancer battle, champagne, Domaine Carneros, get-away, infectious disease, IV antibiotics, mastectomy, Napa, Pesu, post-mastectomy, recovery, vacation, wine, wine country, wineries 7 CommentsI’ve learned the hard way from all this stupid cancer business that every day truly is a gift, as hokey as it sounds, and that life is short, as cliched as that sounds, and that you gotta grab each day and milk it for all it’s worth (I think I just made that one up).
It’s pretty easy to get bogged down in these crazy-busy lives of ours, which by the way, are supposed to be made easier and more relaxing with all the time- and labour-saving devices we have, yet it seems that everyone is still rushed off their feet every single day. Which kinda makes it hard to unwrap the gift that is each day and to savor the little things that form a meaningful amalgamation of life as we know it. I know my to-do list is always a mile long, and some days I have to rewrite chores on the new list, since they didn’t get done on their appointed day.
My to-do list is again long today as I prepare to go out of town for the weekend.
Yes, you read that right: I’m leaving town.
Finally.
After an unfortunate series of non-starters all summer, in which no less than 3 much-anticipated trips erupted in a giant puff of post-mastectomy-infection-tinged smoke, I’m finally going on a trip. First it was the Duke girls’ trip to Tahoe. Gone. Then it was the All Star state baseball championship. Adios. And finally, the annual trek to Boston and Salisbury Beach. See ya. Missing one trip was a hard pill to swallow; missing 3 was just plain cruel. No way around the choking down of that horse pill.
But now, there’s Napa.
My beacon of hope in a long, barren season of maladies. Could it be that the end to that dreadful season truly is in sight? I’m starting to believe that it is so. There is a part of me, a teensy part, that still fears a blow-up. But just a teensy part. Or a woonty part, as our friends at Salisbury Beach say. The rest of me is full-steam ahead, preparing for one fabulous weekend full of bottled poetry.
Last time I was in Napa, I was pregnant with Payton, who will be 12 (gulp!) next month. Talk about needing a do-over. And what better reason for a do-over than a BFF’s birthday bash and a celebration of her “40 years of good living,” as the invitation states. I’m in. For celebrating my BFF, for getting a change of scenery, and for relishing this life of mine. 
This “cancer journey” has turned out to be a bit more complicated than I thought. I’m still a destination girl rather than a journey girl, and I don’t think that’s going to change.
But starting tomorrow, if only for the celebratory weekend, I’m going to savor every bit of the destination.
Even if my titanium port-a-cath sets off the security alarms and I ended up getting frisked.
Even if traffic is heavy and the plane is late.
Even if I’m stuck sitting next to a mouth-breather on the plane (no, I’m not talking about Trevor).
Even if the weather turns yucky.
Even if the ever-present antibiotics have killed off some of my wine-savoring tastebuds.
I’m going to suck up every ounce of enjoyment from a trip that has been much anticipated, meticulously planned, and a very long time in coming.
Our first stop in Napa is Domaine Carneros, maker of one of my favorite champagnes.
I may just skip all the other wineries and stay right there.
I’m no cliffhanger
Posted: April 5, 2011 Filed under: breast cancer, cancer fatigue 3 CommentsBefore I get into the heavy stuff, here’s some eye candy. No, it’s not a picture of Jacoby Ellsbury, my favorite baseball player and not-so-secret crush. It’s a photo of my TOMS shoes that I blogged about yesterday.
I received more than one request to showcase the shoes here. I aim to please, people. You make a request, I will consider it. Didn’t say I’ll make it happen, but I will consider it. I chose the TOMS natural canvas classic AND the canvas wedge. Love them both.
A girl needs options, and a girl coming off a nasty battle against not only cancer but also a nosocomial infection or two needs multiple options, i.e., lots of shoes. If there were a TOMS store in my neighborhood, I’d be standing outside it now in my jammies, nose pressed against the glass waiting for it to open. But I digress.
And I lie: I am putting in a photo of Ells. Because it would be wrong to mention eye candy and not put him in here. You’re welcome.
Ok, back to business. Although it’s hard to concentrate with Ells on the screen. All right, focus, focus.
I read a lot about cancer. Not just breast cancer, either — I’m an equal-opportunity reader on this weighty subject. Hate it, but am drawn to it and have a yearning to find out as much as I possibly can about this insidious killer. I’m an info-junkie when it comes to my cancer: I want to know all the gory details. The not knowing is way worse for me, because it allows my crazy imagination to have free reign and imagine all sorts of scenarios, none of them good. Reading about cancer can be overwhelming, frustrating, depressing, thought-provoking, and rage-inducing, much like the “cancer journey” itself.
I learned early on (although my “cancer journey” is short compared to a lot of people’s) that reading about people who died from cancer is to be avoided. Stay away from the unhappy endings! After watching that very thing happen to my sweet, irreplaceable mama, I need no further education on the topic. Not that I’m closing my eyes to the reality, because believe me, the one thing you think about a lot when diagnosed at age 40 is death. It’s a sobering fact that you hope to live more years beating the disease than you had lived before being diagnosed with it.
Some say being diagnosed early is a good thing, as we tend to be healthier and better able to tolerate the twists & turns, the challenges and set-backs that cancer throws our way. Some say that diagnosis at a young age means being better able to handle the tolls the disease takes on your body. Both of which can be true, but they are countered by the fact that most of us in the “young cancer club” have young kids at home, maybe even more on the way, and parenting during cancer presents its own land mines.
I will never forget my fearful yet brave 10-year-old boy asking me repeatedly if I’m sure I wasn’t going to die from breast cancer. Similarly, I will never stop being totally pissed off at cancer for creating the situation in which that question had reason to come out of my boy’s mouth. Stupid cancer.
Of all the things I have read about cancer, Dana Jennings’s column is one of the best. Jennings writes a phenomenal column for the New York Times about his “journey” with prostate cancer. I’m not sure how much longer you can access it online for free, since the NYT is going to start charging for online subscriptions, shame on them, but I will likely reference and quote him in future because he’s a writer who inspires me and because his “cancer journey” had a happy ending.
He wrote something recently about a quintessential cancer patient experience: being in the waiting room, filled with other people, at the oncologist’s office. People not on a “cancer journey” likely don’t give this a moment’s thought; why should they? An oncologist’s office is something you pass on the way to your kid’s orthodontist’s office, right? Why would you think about what goes on in there, or the people contained therein?
After reading Dana Jennings’s observation, you may well think about what goes on in there, and about the people contained therein. I know I do, and I’m one of them. I’m the one being overly nice to the receptionist and office manager, willing them to see me as a person not just a patient. I’m not above bribing them with treats so that in future, if I need a last-minute appointment or other favor that only those in their position can grant, they may be more inclined to grant it. I’m the one stretching out the day so I can get to the oncologist’s office at the last possible minute, in order to put it off as long as possible without being late. I’m the one not making eye contact with other patients, because I don’t want to hear anyone else’s sob story. There’s simply no room in my heart or my psyche for any more worry, misfortune, or bad news. I may indeed be what Jennings refers to as “a human question mark,” but I refuse to be a cliffhanger.
“But in the waiting rooms of oncology — diagnosticians and surgeons, chemotherapy and radiation — almost no one speaks in a normal conversational voice except for the employees. In those rooms, we all know that none of us managed to catch that last plane out.
We patients, often frayed and afraid, glance at one another, sometimes nodding, sometimes not. I like to nod and look my fellow patients in the eye because, for a moment, it frees me from the overactive prison of my own mind. But I also understand those who don’t want to. They’re afraid to look into another face and see their own staring back.
A sense of exhaustion hangs in the air, and it’s not unusual for the healthy spouses to look more inconsolable than the patients. We’re all tired of the tests and the questions, tired of the fear and the rage, tired of our insurance companies, tired of the cancer-focused magazines and pamphlets that we just don’t have the patience for anymore. We are sick of being human question marks.
In those rooms, we are, all of us, on dark journeys, each one of us bearing a crucial tale to tell. But we are also feeling poignantly mortal, and we’re not up to telling each other our stories right then and right there. When it comes to the stories of our lives, we know that we have become cliffhangers.” — Dana Jennings
Retail therapy
Posted: April 4, 2011 Filed under: Uncategorized 13 CommentsThe addition of a third antibiotic is taking its toll. I feel icky, really icky. Just 3 more days of Cubicin via IV, and I am seriously counting the days. Swallowing my old friends bactrim & minocycline twice a day every day for the foreseeable future is easy compared to the Cubicin. It’s not as bad as the Biaxin was; holy Toledo that stuff was wicked bad. Not only did my tummy suffer its wrath, it messed with my mind, too, and I’m halfway submerged in the crazy pond as it is. Pretty sad when I rank antibiotics the way most people rank the Sweet 16 teams. Wonder what an abx bracket would look like. I don’t even want to know.
I’m finding solace in things like homemade chicken & dumplings, sans chicken (thank you, Staci!) and a gigantic foil pan of homemade macaroni & cheese (thank you, Leanne!). Between the abdominal swelling from the Big Dig and the constant influx of simple carbs, I don’t have a thing to wear. But given the choice between barfing and shopping, I went shopping.
Urban dictionary defines “retail therapy” as the act of shopping as an outlet (pun intended?) for frustration and a reliever of stress. It’s also crucial when you have nothing that fits, despite your own mistaken impression that the ridiculously complicated surgery would actually improve your shape. Retail therapy is scientifically proven to cure what ails you. Imelda Marcos said it best: “Win or lose, we go shopping after the election.” Marcos’s kryptonite was new shoes. It’s estimated that she left behind 2,700 pairs of shoes when she fled Malacanang Palace in the mid-80s and felt the combined judgement of the world coming down on her. That’s a lotta shoes.
Well, I like shoes too, and while I certainly don’t have 2,700 pairs, I did need one more pair of cute but comfy shoes for strolling the wineries in Napa this weekend. Enter TOMS Shoes, and their awesome “One for One” campaign. You’ve heard about it: for every pair of TOMS shoes sold, TOMS donates a pair of shoes to a needy child.
It all started 5 years ago when a big-hearted and entrepreneurial guy named Blake Mycoskie noticed that kids in Argentina didn’t have shoes. Blake started the TOMS company, and quickly returned to Argentina with 10,000 pairs of shoes. As of last September, the company has donated more than 1 million pairs to kids all over the world. As you can see from the pics on TOMS website, there are now lots of happy kids looking quite stylish in their TOMS shoes. A million pairs of shoes. That makes Mrs. Marcos look like a bit of an amateur.
My question, of course, was why did a guy named Blake name his company TOMS? Who is Tom?
Here’s your trivia lesson for the day: there is no Tom. Blake is Tom. But not in an alias way; TOMS stands for the Shoes for Tomorrow Project. No, it’s not an acronym, that would be the STP, which I think is a motor oil. And sounds way too close to STD. Not a good marketing idea.
So Blake came up with the Shoes for Tomorrow Project, but discovered that the name was too long to fit on the label and the shoeboxes. He shortened it to Shoes for Tomorrow, but still had too many letters, so he went with the derivative TOMS. The end.
Disclaimer: this is not a paid endorsement for TOMS. I wish. But then that would negate the feel-good effect of getting a pair of shoes I love while also helping out a child who has no shoes. I bought my TOMS fair & square, and while I have no intention of turning this blog into the Home Shopping Network, it’s nice to have something to talk about besides cancer for a change. 
30-day shred
Posted: April 3, 2011 Filed under: Uncategorized 8 Comments
There are lots of subjects packaged under the guise of “change your life in 30 days.” Think about it: you can train your dog in 30 days, tighten your tush in 30 days, reclaim your financial well-being in 30 days, clean up your unhealthy diet in 30 days. You can even lay off drinking alcohol for 30 days, although I don’t recommend it. Some days, that’s all I have to look forward to (the drinking, not the laying off of it).
It’s been 30 days since my reconstruction surgery, aka the Big Dig. I’ve had some inquiries regarding my health, happiness, and healing at this stage, and here’s the deal: I’m certainly a lot better than I was at say, 2 weeks post-op, but sadly, am not completely healed yet.
I know, I know, what kind of eejit would expect to be healed from such a major excavation after a mere 30 days? Uh, that would be me.
To me, the impatient patient, 30 days is a long time. I really thought that at this point, I’d be back to normal and if not scaling the heights I am used to, getting close. Instead, I’m still creeping along, more clunker than speed racer. 
Can you tell I have yet to master the art of enjoying the journey and not the destination? I’m working on it.
After a month of convalescing, I can stand up straight most of the time, instead of walking hunched over. The incision on my belly is still pretty tight, which is normal since the Drs S gutted me.
The skin glue used to close the incisions is mostly off the belly but still stubbornly hanging on the newly formed breasts. That glue really works. I give it a 10 out of 10 for stickiness. I’m at the stage now where I can start gently removing it with baby oil but have to resist the urge to peel it off like a bad sunburn; don’t want to peel off the healthy skin cells in the process, as tempting as it may be.
The beauty of the skin glue, in addition to holding everything together and helping negate the need for external stitches, is that while it’s on, it’s thick and crusted with blood.
How is this a positive thing, you may ask? Because at first glance, it looks awful and gives the impression that the scars will be thick as railroad tracks, raised and purple. But once it sloughs off, the scar underneath is actually thin and pink, with the potential for fading away into near non-existence at some distant date, instead of looking like Frankenstein’s forehead for all eternity. There’s hope after all.
I’m still pretty sore, especially around my sternum. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Dr S stood on my sternum to get the best angle for reconstructing. I still get insanely tired from minimal effort. About 3:00 every afternoon, I’m ready for a little rest, much like an overstimulated toddler. But instead of having played in the sandbox and thrown Goldfish crackers on the floor all day, I’ve been concentrating on healing.
My tummy is still quite swollen, and it’s numb, too, but not the good kind of numb as in can’t feel anything unpleasant (hello, novocaine!) but more the strangely unpleasant phantom numbness, in which I can feel stuff but it doesn’t feel normal. I imagine it’s similar to the feeling after having had a c-section. Since my babies came out the other way (or, I “barfed them out,” according to Macy), I don’t know but am guessing. It distresses me to no end to know that this won’t go away for months. Here I am, finally ready to reclaim my body, yet my clothes still don’t fit because I’m swollen and puffy. Not complaining, just sayin’.
Bathing is still a bit of a hassle since my port-a-cath is accessed. That means the needle stays in, through my skin and into the port, so I can administer the IV antibiotics for a few more days (4 more days, but who’s counting?). The needle needs to exist in a sterile field, and getting it wet is a no-no. The needle is covered with a dressing that is not watertight. I’ve gotten pretty good at the spit bath, and can see a day in the near future in which getting in the shower means just that: getting in, without worrying about anything other than getting clean. It’s the little things, people.
I don’t have full range of motion back, so reaching for a coffee mug on the 2nd shelf or a shirt from the top rod in the closet still smarts a little. Getting better all the time, but respecting the need to not push it. I have no trouble moving my glass from table to mouth, though, so I’m good. I plan to be moving my glass like that a lot next week in Napa. A lot.
Playin’ the cancer card
Posted: April 1, 2011 Filed under: breast cancer, drugs | Tags: allergist, breast cancer, cancer battle, cancer card, Flonase, infection, reconstruction, recovery, seasonal allergies 5 CommentsNot because I’m so virtuous, because the truth is, I’d sell my soul to get back to my normal life. Too bad nobody’s buying.
Today I played the cancer card. And I’m not sorry.
My allergists’ office called. The one doctor’s office I don’t hear from on a weekly basis, at the least. The nurse said they can’t call in a refill for my Flonase because I’m “way overdue for a follow-up visit.”
I haven’t had any respiratory problems–that may be the only thing I haven’t had problems with, and my sinuses seem to be the only body part not felled by infections, yes, plural infections. I didn’t think it necessary to go for a follow-up visit.
I’ve also been a little busy.
I told the nurse that I’ve been a little busy. I was nice about it, despite a childish but pressing desire to blister her ears with the entire, complicated, curse-word-filled story.
But I did not. That, people, is what is known as self-control. I don’t exert it all that often, so pardon my need to point it out when the planets are aligned and it does happen.
I simply told the nurse that I’ve been preoccupied with breast cancer, multiple surgeries, infection, and full-time, long-term healing. Long, drawn-out pause. Cue the crickets chirping.
She didn’t say anything, so I wrapped up the already-dead conversation by telling her to please pass along the message that if the doctor still needed to see me, in order to refill a benign prescription for a preventative steroid nasal spray, I would indeed drag my pathetic, battered, scarred, fused, and infused carcass to the office and wait ever-so-patiently for the all-mighty doctor to fill out a perfunctory slip of paper.
The nurse said she would call me back.
I said, thank you ever so much, and please, have a nice day.
Guess what? The prescription is approved, filled, and awaiting pick-up.
As Kenny Rogers so eloquently put it, “You gotta know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em.” You also gotta know when to play that cancer card.









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