Just another day in paradise

Posted: March 22, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: baseball, breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , | 8 Comments

To me, paradise looks something like this: 

Insert a comfy chaise lounge and a pitcher of perfectly mixed margaritas or a bottle of Vueve Cliquot, and I’m good. Add a compelling novel I’m really good.

I can’t conjure up a photo that shows the opposite of my version of paradise, but whatever it is, I’m smack-dab in the middle. Instead of sitting beachside on the chaise, staring out at a peaceful blue sea and feeling the warm rays of the sun on my skin, I’m still in my jammies, back in bed, feeling rotten with no end in sight. Not complaining, just explaining.

This is the portion of the program in which I make a quick mental run-down of all the things that are going right these days. The list is shorter than I’d like, but my expectations are high, and it’s good to have a little perspective.

Sadly, once my blessings have been counted and perspective delivered, the realization of my situation sinks in. Sure, it’s one more week of convalescence out of my entire life. One week isn’t much, right? But the days are long, and the frustrations grow with all the things I still can’t do. Add to that the fact that I still have the drains, when I really, really, really thought I’d get at least one of them pulled yesterday, and I’m blue. Knowing that I will have the drains for yet another week makes me bluer still.

It’s my own damn fault for setting the bar so high, for having the audacity to expect to be nearly well by the 3rd week. I was fully prepared to dedicate two full weeks to feeling crummy, walking hunched-over, aching all over, and feeling like a full-blown invalid. I could give up my independence and my car keys for two weeks, no problem. Those expectations were reasonable. The DIEP surgery was intense, but I was ok with that.

But then I snuck my Super Girl cape on over my hospital gown. After the agony of getting in and out of bed the first few times passed, I spread that cape across my shoulders and pulled it tight around the 17-inch-long scar on my belly (yes, I measured it and no I’m not exaggerating it. Those of you who have seen it know. And I apologize if your retinas were burned by the reality of my gutting).

My cape and I powered through the requisite hospital stay, and I got home a few days early. Once home, the progress rolled on and I was on the mend. This was do-able. This wasn’t so bad. Recovery was within my grasp. Every day got a little bit better, and I began to think the worst of it was behind me.

I packed up my cape, thinking I no longer needed superpowers and that I could return to “normal.”

Super Girl is not known for her brains.

That fast-tracked recovery came to a screeching halt with the appearance of the divot in the newly created right breast. This was troublesome because it was in the same spot as the post-mastectomy infection, aka my arch nemesis, mycobacterium fortuitum. Oh how I despise that bacteria. The only good thing about it has been the education it has forced me to undergo, and the addition of words like nosocomial and gram-positive will surely help my Scrabble game. The divot was followed by a fever, then hardening in the previously soft newly created right breast, and rounded out by some intense pain in the area around the remaining right drain.

In other words, paradise lost.

It has been widely reported that I’m a very impatient patient. These reports are true. I’m no good at convalescing and have no patience for the slow pace and endless days of non-productivity. The list of things I’m not getting done is long, very long. I try not to think about the process of digging out from under this period of doing nothing; that’s way too depressing. I don’t even look at the calendar anymore because there’s nothing on it but doctor’s appointments, and I don’t need the reminder of all the things I’m missing. My tennis team and Payton’s Little League team both forge on through their seasons without me. I haven’t seen a baseball game yet, and even though my poor boy is wearing the dreaded Yankees uniform this season, I’d still like to see him take the field, step up to the plate, and grace my favorite spectator sport with his presence. I would really like to be just another parent at just another game, bum aching from the metal bleachers. I miss the sights and sounds of the ballpark, and in my current state, there’s no telling when I’ll make it there. Opening Day ceremonies are Saturday, and my little boy gets to march with his All Star team from this past summer, with their Sectional and District champion banners. I missed the entire summer of baseball because of the post-mastectomy infection, and here we are in the midst of another season, and I’m still on the DL.

One step forward, two steps back.

Maybe I’d better unpack that cape. I think I’m going to need it. 

Update on the jerk

Posted: March 21, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Amy says I need to post an update, and she’s always right, so here I am. Saw Dr Spiegel this a.m. and she’s not overly concerned with the fever, the firmness, the divot or the discomfort down my right side from the faulty drain. The right drain does indeed seem to be faulty, and she supports the unpopular (with me, anyway) opinion that the left drain is compensating for the right. Both drains are staying at least another week. Boo hiss. I wanted to start crying right then & there, but I’m way too proud for that.

She did culture the drain fluid and is looking for answers to my conundrum. She suspects a pseudomona and we hope to know for sure soon. She dug around on my new right breast A LOT (and I do mean dug, as in with a sharp object in hand), looking for fluid to collect and culture. No fluid to be found, even after she opened up the suture line AND tried to aspirate with a very long needle.

No fluid is good news but the very long needle was bad. I told the doc it would be a good day for a Xanax but I didn’t have one on me, not even in my “bag of tricks” as Amy calls it. No, since I’m still carting around these dumb drains, I have my little bitty sling bag for a purse instead of my real purse, which happens to be fully stocked. Grr.

Dr Spiegel suggested I pop into the office of Dr Grimes, my infectious disease guru, since he’s in the same building. He was at another hospital but we talked to his nurse Rhonda. She took a lot of notes and said she’ll get in touch with him and they will get back to me today sometime. Absent the pathology report, we’re in a holding pattern. Dr Spiegel and I talked about Vanocmycin, the wonder antibiotic that has worked so well on me in the past. Problem is, it needs to be administered via IV, either in the hospital or through home health, and Dr Spiegel doesn’t think that’s necessary just yet. She did suggest adding a vanco-like oral drug to my current antibiotics, but Dr Grimes’s nurse Rhonda didn’t think that was a good idea. She said it wouldn’t add more protection and would make me feel sick. Guess we need to wait and see what we’re dealing with.

So the good news is this: I didn’t get admitted to the hospital. The lack of fluid means the infection, if it’s there, hasn’t set up shop to the extent that it had last time. It’s possible that the pseudomona is preying on my already-fragile but on-the-mend body and causing some havoc with the drain sites but not revving up the original mycobacterium. Those are all good.

I’m also healed up really well, considering what a heinous surgery it was. So healed, in fact, that Dr Spiegel couldn’t pry the suture line apart (hence the big needle). She and Nurse Sonia both seemed unusually pleased at how well I’m healing. So why do I feel so crappy?

 

 

Jerk

Posted: March 21, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, cancer fatigue | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

There once was a post about gratitude. About feeling it and showing it to someone who had done something that changed my life. About how I struggled to say thank you for helping me, for making things better. About how I wished there was a Hallmark card that says, “Hey, thanks a lot for saving my life.” Absent such a card, I don’t think I effectively conveyed that sentiment, but I tried, and as we all know, it’s the thought that counts.

This post is not about gratitude. It’s not about feeling or showing thankfulness. It’s about a whole ‘nother set of feelings, and there most definitely is not a Hallmark card for them. It’s about feeling betrayed and scared and frustrated and hopeless. And helpless. Lots of helplessness in there. Sounds like a great basis for a Lifetime movie, right?

I’m feeling all of these nasty things, and more. In addition to the emotional stew, I’m also feeling sick to my stomach. For real. As in, any second I may barf. Now, that particular sensation is one I’m very familiar with, and no, not because of all the heavy drinking I’ve done in my lifetime (close, but not quite). It’s because of the dynamic duo of oral antibiotics I’ve been taking for 221 days. Two hundred and twenty-one days. CCXXI days. So let’s just say I’m used to the all-day morning sickness, the pukey-all-the-time drudge that is life on long-term, hard-core abx.

Add to the stew and the roiling stomach the sleepless night that now has me feeling like a zombie on a bad day after a monstrously long night of searching for solace but finding none. That feeling of bone-weariness coupled with worry so palpable you can smell it. And taste it. Which does not mix well with the roiling stomach.

If I weren’t so tired and puny and upset, I would be mad. Really mad. But I’m not. It would be very easy to be defeated, to give up and stop fighting. To roll over and concede. That is very tempting right now. And I’m not one with a lot of willpower. Brute force, yes, but willpower not so much.

I don’t do any of those things well: the giving up, the acquiescing, the rolling over or the conceding. I’m not super competitive, at least not against others, but I really stink at those things. I have no desire to keep up with the Joneses or be the leader of the pack. I don’t need the latest and greatest gadget, the biggest house, the newest car. I like nice things, but they don’t drive me. I have a lot of pride, and it’s hard for me to say things like “you win” and “I was wrong” and “I thought I could do this but I can’t.” I’m much better at writing those ideas than expressing them out loud. Hence this blog.

As I struggle to process all the feelings coming at me this morning, and fighting through the fog that fills my brain and slows down my body, and going through the motions of the early-morning routine, one thought sticks out and gathers my attention: everything was going so well; at the start of week 3, I should be able to do more, to reclaim more. And the fact that I can’t makes me heartsick and nauseated and wish I could curl up in a little ball until it passes. I want my mama, but she’s gone, and I can’t conjure her up right now. I’m stretching and reaching to remember her voice, but all I’m hearing is static.

I’ve probably mentioned before that I’m driven. I like results and achievements and progress. I make a to-do list every day and attack it. I believe wholeheartedly in the principle of do the work first then with whatever time is left, play. I don’t idle well and have a hard time doing nothing. I need goals and milestones.

I should be reaching a milestone as I enter week 3 of recovery from a major surgery. Some progress has indeed been made: improved range of motion, increased mobility, and less pain. What I shouldn’t be encountering is a set-back. At the risk of sounding a little whiney, haven’t I had enough set-backs?

Something is going on with the right side of my body, and I don’t like it. I’m mad at my body. It has betrayed me, and it’s frustrating me and worst of all, it’s scaring me. The drain on my right hip hasn’t been working well since I got home from the hospital. It has leaked and collected considerably less fluid than its counterpart on the left. A theory was floated that the disparity between the two drains’ fluid collection could be because righty isn’t pulling its weight so lefty is taking up the slack. I like the other theory better: that lefty is threaded deeper into my body, which allows it to pull more, and righty is doing exactly what it needs to be doing for its location.

Regardless of theory, the fact is something isn’t right, both with the drain and the newly created breast. The right one had a divot on Thursday, that was deemed by the authority figures to be no big deal, part of the process. But now the skin all around the divot in an ever-widening area is hard. And sore. To the point that taking a deep breath is uncomfortable.

This is the thing about recovery that is so treacherous. It’s unpredictable and anything can happen. Things can be going well by all accounts and suddenly, out of nowhere, there’s a problem. One minute you blow a tire, and the next you’re careening over the cliff.

I hate careening.

If I could send a Hallmark card to my body, to express my current mix of emotions, it would be simple. Not a lot of words are necessary to say, you betrayed me. It would look like this:

$82,996.75 later…

Posted: March 18, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, Surgery | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | 11 Comments

According to the latest hospital bill, that’s how much my reconstruction cost. Well, at least phase 1 of reconstruction. More phases to come, but let’s not even think about that now; I would hate to stroke out this close to happy hour on the last Friday of spring break.

Here’s the breakdown, in case you’re curious; please note the absence of any fees for the surgeons. I can’t even begin to imagine how massive those costs are, so let’s say for now that the Drs S did an amazing job and I couldn’t put a price on their services if I tried.

ICU Surgical: $9,312.00

Radiology (don’t recall any of that; must have been asleep): $359.00

Medical Surgical Supplies (nice & vague, huh?): $18,117.00

Laboratory: $12,785.00

Pharmacy: $4,306.50

OR Services: $22,550.50

Anesthesia: $9,220.25

Intermediate Care: $2,586.00

Respiratory Services: $147.50

Pathology Lab: $3,607.00

And finally, the most puzzling charge of all:

Patient Convenience: $5.50

WTH?? If anyone knows what “patient convenience” is, and why it costs $5.50, please do tell. I can assure you there were precious few things about that procedure that were actually convenient.

I would have expected my pharmacy fee to be much higher. Maybe as a repeat customer, I get a discount on morphine.

Mr Yeats

Posted: March 17, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: kids, literature | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

I love me some William Butler Yeats, and what better day than St Paddy’s Day to read a little verse by Ireland’s best? If you’re not familiar with Mr Yeats, today is your lucky day. Keep reading; below are my two all-time favorite poems of his. I love, love, love them both. If you don’t have any Yeats in your collection, click here and order some today. I know, I’m bossy but really it’s for your own good and you will probably thank me later.

But first, a little background info: Yeats was born June 13, 1865 (a fellow Gemini, and likely half-crazy like the rest of us twins). His dad was a painter, and Yeats was schooled in art but much preferred poetry, and broke with family tradition to pursue his craft. I’m glad he did. He was quite a handsome guy, but wasn’t especially lucky in love. While hard to live that way, I suppose it provided much fodder for his written word. This is my favorite photo of him because of the messy hair and trendy glasses; he could totally pull that look off today, as we speak. I’m not so sure about the Colonel Sanders suit, though. That’s taking it a bit far.

I’m not much of a romantic, and am not very sentimental either (but not quite cold and heartless), but the sweetness of “When You Are Old” gets me every time. I suspect he wrote it about his true love, Maude Gonne (who, by the way, was not his wife; he asked several times but she refused, and they both married other people). The theme of unrequited love is there, among the deep shadows of her eyes and her “changing face.” Now that I too am an old lady with under-eye shadows and a changing (i.e., not so youthful) face, the message of this poem is even more powerful.

The first time I read “The Stolen Child,” I had to sit down and take it all in. It still has that effect on me. I’m already sitting, so I’m good now, but it does move me. I didn’t have kids at the time, was a carefree college girl, and motherhood seemed a very distant destination on that particular world tour. Now that motherhood is my permanent stop, the imagery of the child being lured away “to the waters and the wild, with a faery hand in hand” seems scary and cruel, yet still magical and tempting in its prose. It reminds me a bit of the children’s classic Where the Wild Things Are, by Maurice Sendak, whose brilliance is not something I can do justice to in this space, so I will defer (for now). Again, if you’re not familiar with Where the Wild Things Are, click here and order it today.  And so before I get sidetracked and start rambling about how much I love all things Sendak, “Let the wild rumpus start!”

WHEN YOU ARE OLD
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

THE STOLEN CHILD
Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we’ve hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you
can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you
can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,.
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To to waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For to world’s more full of weeping than you
can understand.

 

Away with us he’s going,
The solemn-eyed:
He’ll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
For be comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
from a world more full of weeping than you.

It’s never over

Posted: March 16, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

If it’s not over until the fat lady sings, I would like to know what time she’s scheduled to take the stage. What’s that — there is no schedule? The fat lady sings when she’s good & ready and not one minute before? She is a diva.

The idea of all of “this” being over is a recurring one. By “this” of course I mean cancer and all its dangling, hangey-on-y ways of lingering and permeating myriads aspects of life. I was reminded of this (because cancer and its many tentacles are never far from my mind), while reading one of my new blog friend’s blogs. His wife just had a mastectomy in northern California, and he posted on his blog to tell all of her friends & followers that the surgery was over. He actually used the phrase “it’s all over” and then chuckled at and corrected himself, knowing full good and well that they have miles to go before they sleep, as Robert Frost so eloquently wrote in “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.”

Oh, how I love that poem. Robert Frost was a total stud. The imagery he creates, seemingly effortlessly, resonates to this day. I’m totally in love with the image in my head of his horse, which he carefully crafts with such an economy of words. I can see his horse’s big, gentle eyes, beseeching his master and wondering what in tarnation the pair of them are doing hanging out in the woods on a cold, dark night. I can almost hear his harness bells’ jingle, and I’m swooning over the phrase “easy wind and downy flake.” Love it.

While some first-rate poetry is a nice distraction, the subject remains. The idea of “being done,” or “it being over,” doesn’t really apply to cancer. As I pondered Paul’s blog post I realized this truism, and even though I’m a rookie in the “cancer journey” I’ve learned a lot and I know this to be true: it’s never over.

Here’s the thing: the “cancer journey” is long. It used to be the road less traveled, to quote Mr Frost again, yet nowadays is more and more common. Too common, as every day the numbers of people diagnosed continue to grow. For breast cancer alone, the chances of getting it have risen from 1 in 20 in 1964 to 1 in 8 today. In less than 50 years, our chances of contracting this damned disease have leapfrogged considerably. Which means more and more people will find themselves on a “cancer journey,” and I wouldn’t be surprised if those numbers continue rising.

Another things I’ve learned on my “cancer journey” is that someone keeps moving the finish line. I’ve only been at this for 10 months, yet have seen my finish line recede, sidewind, and fade into the distance. It starts even before diagnosis, with the testing that’s done to determine if we do indeed have a problem. Get through those tests, which in my case were a mammogram, an ultrasound or two, and a couple of biopsies. Then there’s the actual diagnosis, and getting through that becomes an emotional obstacle course. Following the diagnosis are lots of research, soul-searching, and decisions. But even when those are through, the real work is only just beginning. After the big decisions come still more testing (MRI, CT scan, PET scan, blood work, another biopsy), and that’s just to get to the point of having surgery. Get through surgery, then through recovery, and just when I think I may be getting “there” I realize that even after recovery, I gotta learn about re-living, which is kinda different when “normal” has flown the coop and there’s a new status quo involved. You might think that finding the new normal would be the end, but guess what? now there’s the maintenance and screening. If you’re the kind of person who makes a list and takes the necessary steps to reach the conclusion, you’re screwed, because there is no end. I can’t even see the goalposts anymore.

I’ve learned this much on my “cancer journey.” I’m trying to stop looking for the finish line, to avoid squinting for the goalposts, somewhere off in the distance. Since it’s never truly over, I’m gonna just keep on truckin.’

Drains, drains go away

Posted: March 15, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | 3 Comments

My formerly favorite PA Jenn did not remove my last 2 drains today.

😦

I didn’t expect her to, because they’re still pumping out enough fluid to warrant a longer stay. But I still wanted her to. I kinda wish she’d have said, yeah the volume is high but let me wave my magic wand and fix that.

No wand today.

She also said I need one more week of taking it easy, of trying not to lift my arms, and I’m still banned from chores. While most people would love a doctor’s note to get out of doing chores, that’s not how I roll.

So I’m still grounded, and drain #3 and #6 remain, attached at the hip (literally), keeping me tethered and wardrobe-challenged, but free of complications like seromas. Guess I can’t complain too much.

Jenn did remove the stitches from my belly button, which is a relief. Not because they hurt, but they were long enough to poke through my shirt, which was kind of creepy. Everything else appears to be healing nicely, so the drains will keep draining, and I’ll keep exercising my patience. Like Dory from Finding Nemo says, Just keep swimming, just keep swimming.

Milestones

Posted: March 15, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

I just realized that Sunday was 10 months exactly since my mastectomy. And tomorrow will be 2 weeks exactly since reconstruction. I’m trying hard not to think about the fact that exactly 3 weeks after the mastectomy came the infection, which landed me back in the hospital just as I was getting my life back, and ended up costing me 23 days of incarceration (hospitalization); 3 vacations (Duke girls’ trip to Lake Tahoe, to Tyler for Payton’s All Star team’s state championship, and our annual visit to Boston and Salisbury Beach); 3 more surgeries; 10 days of twice-daily IV antibiotic infusions at home; and introduction to and hatred of Sucky, the wound vacuum. All in one summer. I’m sure that nasty infection cost me more that what’s listed, but those are the highlights.

I’m trying, really trying, not to think that a catastrophe is coming. I’m trying not to wait for the other shoe to drop, for the bottom to fall out, and the walls to cave in on this recovery. It’s a fragile peace. Very fragile.

Two mantras run through my head: It’s Temporary, and Don’t Borrow Trouble.

The first comes from Jenny, my survivor-sister mentor who has walked this walk, and then some. Her kids were 7, 5, and 1 year old when she was diagnosed, and like me, her case was anything but textbook. Hers was way worse than mine, and we veterans do like to compare and contrast. But she not only survived, she thrived, and she’s a shining example for me every single day. Now that I’m getting closer to being “done” with this “cancer journey” I appreciate her example even more, because she’s my tour guide for L.A.C.: Life After Cancer.

The second mantra comes from guest blogger and night nurse Amy Hoover, and along with her charging me $10 for being difficult, she reminds me to avoid looking for the bogeyman. Ignore him, assume he’s moved on. I suspect all survivors have a little bit of pessimism in them, no matter how chipper they seem. Yes, I’m glad to have been one of the lucky ones, who found it early and can bask in the security of single-digit recurrence rates. And yes, I do try to look on the bright side, count my blessings, and walk on the sunny side of the street (as my mama used to say). In general, my side is blindingly bright, my blessings are innumerable, and I need SPF 70 for the powerful rays on my side of the street. But the thoughts are still there. Sometimes.

Sometimes thoughts of “what if?” fight their way to the surface and take giant gulps of pessimistic-filled air. Those gulps sustain those thoughts as they traverse my grey matter and circumvent the rational side of my brain that tells them to hush up, quiet down, and go away. The rational side of my brain fusses at those thoughts to beat it, get outta town, and quit plaguing me with doubt, worry, and fear. And usually, it works.

But sometimes, instead of celebrating the milestones and thinking about how far I’ve come, those thoughts prevail. Instead of holding my head high even though my back still isn’t completely straight from the giant incision on my belly, I cower a little. Just a little, because I absolutely despise cowering. But sometimes my irrational brain takes over and reminds me that there are no guarantees in life, and there certainly is no travel insurance on this “cancer journey.” I’m the poster child, after all, for doing everything right lifestyle-wise yet still being crapped upon by the giant cancer bird in the sky.

You know me, though, and I’m not about to let some giant bird or some niggling thoughts stop me from living my life. And living it out loud. Today I will celebrate being a 10-month survivor.

I’m over it

Posted: March 14, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, kids, pets | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Yesterday was a bad day, but just for about half of the day. I was in a wicked bad mood, the cause of which remains unknown but the remedy of which is no surprise: a stiff drink in the company of good friends. I got some talking therapy from several sources, and with the assistance of some Stoli and tonic, all was right in my world once again.

It’s a good thing, because guest blogger and night nurse Amy H was going to charge me cash money for my bad mood. You may recall her referring to her $10 surcharge while sitting with me in the ICU last week. It was the day after my big surgery and she was subjected to my ranting about the extreme heat and pounding headache. I ran up a tab that day, and added to it yesterday. She kindly reminded me that it’s ok to crash around in a foul mood for a little while, but then get over it and get on with it, and she sent me a picture of her policy, in writing, that hangs in her kitchen.

Point taken.

Today is going to be a good day. It will, it will, it will.

It’s gloomy outside with thunder threatening, but the birds are still singing and congregating around Macy’s feeder in one of the trees in our front yard. It’s spring break in these parts, so my offspring are fanning out in search of entertainment and a respite from the rigors of 3rd and 6th grades. Macy, the little zookeeper, is going to day camp at the Lone Star Pet Lodge, which Trevor refers to as the Last Resort Pet Resort in a funny malapropism.

Macy will be tending to the animals whose owners checked them into the resort while they’re off on spring break adventures. We’re not sure exactly what her duties will be, but it sounds like an ingenious plan on the kennel owners’ part to both extort child labor and turn a profit. We pay them for our kid to do their work. How crazy is that? Crazier still is that I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Macy came home a part-owner of that place. She was definitely in her element when we walked in; we were greeted by a miniature Yorkie at the reception desk, and for the first time ever, Macy didn’t hesitate when walking into a camp. She didn’t hesitate, and she didn’t look back to tell me good-bye. Yep, she’s in her element.

Payton’s spring break adventure is of the roadtrip variety. My firstborn has a taste for the great outdoors and a longing to see some of our fine national parks. Sadly, he missed the great cosmic birth-order assignment that might have landed him in a camping and hunting type family, and ended up with a less-rustic and more beach-oriented family. Lucky for him, there’s Ed, our nature-loving BFF. He’s a fan of the roadtrip and is well-versed in all things national park, so he and Payton hatched a plan to drive to Carlsbad Caverns in the neighboring state of New Mexico. Payton and Ed will be on the road all day today en route to their base camp in Van Horn, TX, which is about 10 hours from here but close enough to Carlsbad to visit the caves. Payton is looking forward to the “guy’s trip,” seeing the sites and splendor of West Texas, exploring Carlsbad’s 117 caves, and consuming more junk food than his mama allows. With him gone, I don’t know what I’ll do without my daily infusion of Sports Center, but I’ll try to muddle through. My prediction: since Macy has exclusive rights to the TV, there will be a Wizards of Waverly Place marathon going on when she’s not at camp.

It’s definitely going to be a good day.

Cranky, irritable, and just plain bitchy

Posted: March 13, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, cancer fatigue | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 13 Comments

That’s how I feel today. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

If you’re not in the mood to read something scathing, if you’re feeling a little frail today, or simply don’t like bitchin’ & moanin’ then I suggest you move on, because I have a powerful need to get it out. Bleeeeeeeeeeeeeh.

Don’t know what set this off, and in my current state of utter bitchiness, I don’t really care. I’m just feeling pissy. Been fighting it since I woke up this morning, and am only 4 hours into it, so it’s gonna be a long day. I’m not too proud to call for help in the way of a bloody mary followed by a bottle of champagne followed by a Shock Top or two followed by an extra-tall vodka tonic with extra lime. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know that alcohol isn’t the answer, and in many cases actually makes the problem worse, but today I don’t really care, and if you want to lecture me about the dangers of overindulging or how alcohol consumption is tied to increased rates of cancer recurrence, don’t bother. I already know that. But some days it just doesn’t matter.

Today is definitely one of those days.

The straw involved in this particular breaking of camels’ backs came when I decided to spend a little time mindlessly surfing the blog-o-sphere this a.m. in search of humor, inspiration, and distraction from my wickedly bad mood. There are a lot of good blogs out there, and if I ever get out of this funk, I plan to create a blogroll on my blog’s homepage, to share some of the greatness I’ve found. And I will do that. Y’all know me, once I set my mind to something, I do it. ‘Nuff said. But for now, I am waylayed, stymied, stopped in my tracks in my pursuit of a mood-elevating stint on the ‘Net.

Why? Because in the span of 10 minutes I came across 2 blogs that tell me I have to be invited to read before I can even click one single time to see if it’s a blog that appeals to me. WTH??? I have to be invited to access a blog I don’t even know if I’m going to like, much less return to or perhaps follow regularly? WTH???

Ok, on a normal day (whatever the hell that is), I might come across an “invitation only” blog and think, hmmm, that’s interesting, I wonder why it’s configured that way? I’m pretty new to the blogging world, and there’s a lot I don’t know about the wide and wonderful world of blogs. On a normal day, I might wonder: Is this invitation-only blog’s readership so huge that they have to separate the wheat from the chaff? Does the blog’s author feel particularly strong about privacy, as opposed to airing her dirty laundry, the way I do in my little blog? Is she just snotty and isolating in general but in particular toward other BC survivors who are trying to muddle along in this wretched “cancer journey” and seeking solace or answers from those sister souls who’ve been there before?

Maybe that blog author is just a bitch.

This blog author certainly is bitch-y. But I don’t think I’m a bitch. Maybe I am, but today, who cares? I don’t really think that other blog author is, either, although I can’t say for sure since her stupid blog is by invitation only. Screw her, I don’t want to read her stupid blog anyway. I’m gonna pack up my flaming bad mood and leave her holier-than-thou protected blogsite. Bitch.

The post-op instructions that I brought home from the hospital mention something about mood swings and periods of intense emotions. Apparently it’s all part of the “cancer journey” and in particular, the recovery from the major surgery required to try and put the pieces back together after a firestorm of mutated cells banded together to create some bastard tumors that burst through my milk ducts and invaded my system. Rude.

Maybe this is the mood-swing-and-intense-emotion portion of my recovery. Maybe this is the culmination of the hormone frenzy that goes on in my tired, taxed, put-upon body every single day, and today the frenzy got the best of me. Maybe this is totally normal for those of us in the midst of a “cancer journey.” Maybe this is just an ordinary, run-of-the-mill bad day.

Maybe it’s all of the above. One thing I do know for sure is that I am sick, really sick, supremely sick of all of this. I’m not a good patient on a good day, and I’m a hellabad patient on a bad day. Oh how I am sick of all this. Sick of the pain, yet leery of the pain meds. Sick of the drains yet aware of their necessity. Sick of the right drain leaking yet too pissed off to attend to it. Sick of the pile of dirty clothes with patches of bloody spots from the damn drain leaking, yet not at all motivated to start the laundry. Sick of the fact that I need to start the laundry, yet still haven’t been cleared to do any chores. Sick of chores needing to be done while I’m not cleared to do them, yet unwilling to seek help. Sick of having to think so hard about what to wear because of incisions and drains, yet unwilling to stay in my jammies another day. Sick of how hard it currently is to do the basic everyday things (like washing my face), yet not satisfied with the “it’s temporary” mantra that usually calms me. Sick of wondering if raising my arm high enough to reach a glass is the motion that will tear the micro-stitches and disrupt the healing of the micro-surgery, yet thirsty enough to reach anyway. Sick of worrying if I’m doing too much or being too still, yet too lazy to find the answer. And I’m sick–really sick–of sleeping on my back. I’m a side-sleeper but I have to sleep on my back, yet again, because I can’t lay on my incisions. Dammit to hell, I can’t even get comfortable at bedtime.

I’m 11 days into this recovery, and while my rational self knows that 11 days isn’t long enough to heal, I’m impatient and fidgety and ready to move on. But then I realize that when it comes to moving on, I don’t really know what that means. Baby steps aren’t my style. I’m more apt to pitch headlong and headstrong into something and just get ‘er done. Only, in this case, I don’t know how to get ‘er done. Have no clue. I’ve been on this “cancer journey” so long that I don’t exactly remember how to get ‘er done. Don’t even know what it is I’m supposed to be getting done.

All I know is that I’m cranky, irritable, and just plain bitchy today.

← Older Entries
Newer Entries →