Round and round

Posted: March 12, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, tennis | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

Sometimes I leave the doctor’s office in need of a drink, and sometimes I leave there in need of a nap. Sometimes, I leave there needing both.

Yesterday was one of those “both” kind of days. It was my first visit to his office since the big surgery, and when I walked in the door, his nurse gasped, I can’t believe how well you’re walking! I told her the same thing I told my tennis teammates when I went to watch their match Wednesday: it’s been more than a week since the surgery; I’m done.

If only.

I’m wardrobe-challenged again, like I was post-mastectomy. While it seems like an eternity ago that I was scrounging through my closet after the mastectomy to find something, anything, to wear, it’s all coming back to me now. How complacent, how cocky I have been in recent months, thinking I can just pull any old thing on and get out the door. Now it’s once again a carefully orchestrated project that involves lots of shuffling, digging, flipping, re-hanging, and cursing. This time, though, the challenge is because the remaining drains are at the super-long incision on my belly. One drain on each hip, like an unruly set of twins. I’m starting to despise those twins. I got a mild scolding from Jenn (Dr Spiegel’s PA) when I saw her Tuesday because I was wearing jeans, and they don’t want anything to rub on that gigantic tummy incision. I may just start wearing my pajamas everywhere until that bad boy heals. Or maybe I’ll wear whatever I want and send the same message that Shia LaBeouf sent. Seemed to work well for him.

The first thing the good doctor noticed when he graced my exam room was that I have several bruises on my leg. I got him good, though, by telling him they were from playing tennis. The look on his face was priceless. Oh how I wish I had a freeze frame of that look. That moment between what he thought (she’s been playing!) and reality (no way she could have played already, it’s only 10 days post-op) shines in my memory as one of my favorite moments.

Every visit to my doc’s office results in innumerable nuggets of wackiness. First runner-up for nugget of the day was when his nurse  said she thought my new chest looked really good. I said, yeah, if you’re into that sort of thing. What I meant was, if you’re into a mostly cleaned-up mess, a partially cleared train wreck, and that the docs did a great job with the concaved, ET-looking chest I ended up with after the infection. Compared to that fresh hell, the new, improved version is pretty amazing. And as a testament to the skill and artistry of the surgeons, yes, it’s great.

The highlight of yesterday’s visit came when the good doctor examined my tummy incision and took a look at my lower half. Remember how he thought I needed to gain a bunch of weight to provide the building material for the new girls? And how even after I gained several pounds, he was still convinced it wasn’t enough? Well now that the dye has been cast and the pounds that weren’t reallocated have stuck, he’s not happy with the extra bit that settled on my hips, and says, and I quote, “We need to suck that right out. We need to get rid of that. I’m going to suck that right out so it is gone.” I swear, There is no pleasing that man.

The Tennis Partner

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

After reading Cutting For Stone, I was hungry for more from author Abraham Verghese. Wow, was this a great book. Like some of my other all-time favorite reads, it took me a while to get into this one, but once I did, I was so well rewarded. I felt a little bereft when it ended, another sign of a great book. The characters were so richly drawn, they truly seemed like real people, and I was sad to think I wouldn’t know what happened to them for the rest of their “lives.”

I’m not crazy; this happens with good books, and I’ve heard other people say the same thing so I know I’m not crazy. At least not in this case.

I searched in vain for more books by Abraham Verghese and although he’s written prolifically for such esteemed magazines as The New Yorker and The Atlantic Monthly, he doesn’t have dozens of novels at the ready for voracious readers. He has written a book called The Tennis Partner, however, which I quickly scooped up on amazon.com. 

Verghese is an infectious disease doctor and has been a professor of medicine at Harvard and Stanford, in addition to being a bestselling author. The Tennis Partner tells the story of Verghese’s friendship in El Paso, TX, with David, a medical student who is a recovering drug addict. Their friendship grows amid a shared love for tennis, and they both find the game to be “an island of order in the midst of personal chaos;” in Verghese’s case, his crumbling marriage, and in David’s case, his drug addiction.

One of the things I love so much about Verghese’s writing is his innate ability to describe a scene in such a way that makes it familiar and easy to visualize. For instance, when writing about moving to El Paso, Verghese says “This is the great promise of moving: that if you fold your life into a U-Haul truck and put it on the road, you will be given a clean plate with which to approach the buffet.”

Beautiful prose. Simple and clean, yet so on-the-money descriptive.

It’s a great story, not just because of the tennis. Both men were struggling with different things in their lives, yet tennis became the equalizer. Verghese says, “In the way we controlled the movement of a yellow ball in space, we were imposing order on a world that was fickle and capricious. Each ball that we put into play, for as long as it went back and forth between us, felt like a charm to be added to a necklace full of spells, talismans, and fetishes, which one day add up to an Aaron’s rod, an Aladdin’s lamp, a magic carpet. Each time we played, this feeling of restoring order, of mastery, was awakened.”

I get that. Wow, do I get that. One of the reasons I wanted to get back to playing tennis as soon as I could post-mastectomy was to impose order on a disorderly life. And guess what? 9 days post-reconstruction, I already can’t wait to get out on the court and put this mess in order.

One line in the book has really stuck with me, and I carry it with me in my game. David and Abraham are battling it out on the court, David being the more experienced and younger (read: more spry, less creaky, and speedier) player. He always manages to best Abraham, and after yet another victory explained his winning strategy. It’s very simple. “Remember, the one with the fewest errors wins.”

True, so true, and not just in tennis.

I love tennis, and I’m fascinated by how the human body works. I’ve written about this before, and now that my latest surgery is in the rear-view window, I’m again impressed with and amazed by how our bodies react and heal.

I’m also fascinated by doctors. Surgeons, especially. Not in the “reverence for the white coat” aspect of previous generations, nor because of the fact that they perform a very difficult job. There are lots of hard jobs out there, and I’m sure there are plenty of things other professions require that docs wouldn’t handle well.

It’s more a fascination with what makes them tick and how their minds work. I always want to ask my specialists, why did you choose oncology? why did you choose plastic surgery? I’m overly curious (some would say nosey) about the minutia of their jobs: how many patients call them after-hours? how long does it take to repay med school loans? what do you do to unwind and feel like a regular person? I mean, after say, a 7-hour surgery in which they restore order to a hellacious mess of a chest wall, do they wash up, drive home in traffic, pop a beer and veg out? Or do they refrain from drinking, even after a long day, because they can be called into surgery at any moment?

Verghese writes quite eloquently about the physician as a regular person and of medical humanism. He’s an old-fashioned doctor in a modern world, and he teaches new-fangled doctors his ritualistic bedside observations. He believes medicine is a passionate and romantic pursuit, not just a science.

Kinda reminds me of my own infectious disease doc telling me that in my case, because of the post-surgery infection, he was practicing the art more than the science of medicine.  A lovely thought after months of exams, tests, and hospitalizations that had left me feeling like a piece of meat. Not Grade A meat, either.

As I prepared for my most recent surgery, I remembered a lengthy but compelling passage from The Tennis Partner. Even though my pre-surgery to-do list was a mile long, I found myself flipping through the book to find this passage. I wanted to re-read it, as if absorbing these words into my brain would somehow transfer into the surgeons’ hands as they cut me open and tried to repair the damage that had been done. It took a few minutes, but I found it.

Verghese was treating a young woman in El Paso with mysterious symptoms and no clear diagnosis. He writes about how as he entered her hospital room,  he was looking for more than just physical manifestations of an illness:

“I was attentive to the aura of the room, vigilant for her icons — a doll, rabbit-ear slippers, a prayer card, her own nightgown. I inhaled discreetly so that her scents, all the eructations and effluvia that were hers, the redolence that night spell the name of the disease lurking below, could land on the free nerve endings of my olfactory nerve. Smells registered in a primitive part of the brain, the ancient limbic system. I liked to think that from there they echoed and led me to think “typhoid” or “rheumatic fever” without ever being able to explain why. If the diagnosis eluded us in the first few days, her chart would thicken as pages of computer printouts bearing witness to the blood urea, the serum creatinine, the liver enzymes, and other soundings accumulated. But no computer could make the mind-pictures I could form if given the right clues: a liver hobnailed by cirrhosis; a spleen swollen like a giant and angry thumb from mononucleosis; a smooth-walled cavity in the lung apex within which a fungus ball clatters like a bead in a baby’s rattle.”

I love the “eructations and effluvia” especially. That’s some good alliteration.

I also really identify with the patient, and know that I too have a chart that has thickened with computer print-outs and such. Not that it’s a contest, but I bet my chart is thicker than hers.

E Roosevelt said it best

Posted: March 10, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

“You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, ‘I lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.’ You must do the thing you think you cannot do.” — Eleanor Roosevelt

Well, I did indeed live through the horror (or horrors, if we’re counting the previous surgeries, procedures, and nastiness), so I guess I can indeed take the next thing that comes along.

That next thing better be something good.

It’s been a long road, and while a lot of people have even longer and more pot-hole-filled roads, I’m thinking only about mine right now. I’m still recovering and can be selfish like that. I won’t ride that wave too long, or play that card too often, but for today, I’m thinking about my road and no one else’s.

I really like the quote above from Eleanor Roosevelt, and thank Susan Christopherson for passing it along to me in the early days of my “cancer journey.” In those early days, I had no idea that the diagnosis and mastectomy were going to be the easy parts, that a nasty infection would make those previous experiences seem like a walk in through a rainbow-infused meadow with my pet unicorn. Ha!

Another quote of Ms Roosevelt’s that’s always been a favorite of mine is “A woman is like a tea bag. You never know how strong she is until she gets into hot water.” True dat.

I’ve had a lot of comments about my fearless attitude, and some people have kindly suggested that my sunny outlook has helped propel me through this “cancer journey” without much trouble. If you want to know how I do it, the answer is: I don’t know, it’s just what you do.

I grew up with the “it’s just what you do” principle, and maybe it’s like freckles or pigeon toes–you either got it or ya don’t. My parents did instill that principle, and they did a good job, so it took. I certainly don’t wake up every morning with cartoon birds singing out my window and little woodland creatures bringing me my robe & slippers (although that would be pretty cool). If they could bring me a skinny latte, that would be even better.

I suppose there are two ways to face a horrifying situation: head-on, like Ms. Roosevelt suggests, or with your head buried in the sand. I’m a head-on kind of girl, and the head-in-the-sand approach has never worked for me. I kinda admire the people who can do that, though, because it seems a lot easier. But here’s the thing: no matter how you face a scary situation, it’s still scary.

Cancer didn’t make me brave. I don’t think it’s a gift (as I’ve written about before, and will continue to rant about at any given time, so get used to it!). Good things can come from a bad situation, but the bad situation does not magically become a good thing.

The truth of the matter is that cancer sucks. Whether it’s an early diagnosis and best-case outcome or late-stage and aggressive, it just sucks. There are untold ways in which it sucks. And there are innumerable ways in which it affects your life and body. For me the scariest and suckiest thing about cancer is that once you have it, you can do everything right and face everything head-on with no guarantee that it will all work out ok. That’s just not right. Our society is based on the idea that if you work hard, you will propser. The American Dream, right? Well, cancer doesn’t subscribe to that idea. It’s random, and vicious, and unfair.

But guess what? We don’t have to fear it. Yes, it is one of the worst things that can happen. Being diagnosed (with no family history) at a (relatively) young age was a serious sucker-punch. My world has been topsy-turvy for the last 10 months. But as my sweet friend and survivor sister Jenny reminds me, it’s temporary. In fact, she was kind enough to make me a poster right before my reconstruction last week to reiterate that idea. I wanted to take it to the hospital with me, but the extreme heat of the ICU room would have melted the glue dots and cute sparkly stickers. 

Jenny has reminded me from day one of my “cancer journey” that it is temporary, which means I can endure it. I can get through it. Some days I’ve questioned that, and Jenny has texted me a simple message: it’s temporary. Knowing that removes some of the fear and shifts that balance of power from cancer back to me, where it belongs.

1 week ago today…

Posted: March 9, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, drugs, food, infection, Surgery | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 11 Comments

I was out cold in the OR, having unspeakably nasty things done to my body to restore the damage wreaked by the post-mastectomy infection. Whew!

The first couple of days of week 1 are pretty hazy, thanks to my BFF morphine. Love that stuff. But my BFF knows its proper place, and we have short but infrequent get-togethers. This time around, my BFF gave me a terrible headache, which was quite rude, so I bid adieu to the pain pump as fast as I could.

Let’s start from the beginning. Or as much of it as I can remember. Readers, feel free to chime in when you notice I’ve left something out. We got to the Medical Center on time (6 a.m.) and I got right into my pre-surgery room. My beautiful gown and compression stockings were waiting for me, but I waited until the very last minute to don them. After some precursory steps, like accessing my port for the administration of the really gooood drugs, a gaggle of white coats entered the room.

Dr Spiegel led the way, with her PA Jenn next, followed by their resident, Dr McNight, then my favorite plastic surgeon. He was the only guy in the room. Yahoo, girl power! He had a cool wooden box in his hand and when I asked if it was a present for me he gave me one of his looks. Someday he’ll appreciate my humor. Inside the box was not a present, but his loupes, which sadly he didn’t offer to model. I’d love to see him in a pair of goofy glasses.

Dr Spiegel and Jenn started marking my belly and I’m so mad I didn’t think to take a photo because it was cool. They used a blue sharpie for arteries, a red sharpie for blood vessels, and a black sharpie for incision lines. Lots of arrows and lines later, there was a roadmap of sorts. Very cool. At one point, Dr Spiegel wasn’t happy with an incision mark so she had Dr McNight scrub it off my belly with alcohol and re-do it with the black marker.

After that it was time to head to the OR, and they must have given me a cocktail in the pre-surgery room, because I don’t recall anything after the sharpie party. When I woke up, some 8 hours later, I felt pretty good…but it was because I was wrapped in the loving embrace of some big-time anesthesia. Dr Ashmore, my hand-picked anesthesiologist, did a fantastic job of putting me to sleep, and more importantly, waking me back up. It was good and restful.

I’m not too sure about whether I was in a recovery room or went straight to the ICU, but once I got to ICU I recall that it was HOT. And I’m a Texas girl, so I know about some heat. The docs had warned me that the room would be warm, to help my newly transplanted blood vessels learn to regulate themselves in their new northern home. But wow, was it hot. Between the high temp, the two heaters, and the squeezing of the compression hose, I was roasting. I tried to be nice about it, and I think I only lost it once, when I begged one of the ICU nurses, probably Carol, to please please please just crack the door and let some AC in. Just for a second. She declined my request.

I spent the night in ICU, but thankfully the flaps, aka former belly skin & fat that were magically transformed into breasts, behaved and there was no drama (other than me begging Carol to crack the door, turn down one heater, turn up the thermostat or bring me a gallon-sized frozen margarita). The flaps had to be checked every hour, yes every hour, with a hand-held doppler. There were (until yesterday) some wires stitched on top of my chest that somehow transmitted audible sound of the blood rushing through my newly transplanted blood vessels through the doppler. It sounded a lot like a fetal heart monitor. And we heard it a lot. My flaps were cooperative, and the nurses were able to hear the blood rushing almost instantly after putting the doppler onto my chest. One nurse told me that sometimes it took 20 minutes to find the sound. I started to panic after a few seconds of not hearing it, so can’t imagine the size margarita I would need if it took 20 minutes to register.

The ICU room had a wall of windows with mini blinds, and the nurse was right outside the door at a desk looking into my room if not attending to her one other patient. Some people might think that would make you feel very safe and catered to, but it made it hard to sneak anything by her because she was always watching. If she wasn’t watching, somebody else was walking by. It was a constant parade of doctors, residents, nurses, PCAs and other people peeping into my room.

I got released from ICU after some really delicious jello and a contraband peanut butter & jelly sandwich (liquid diet…pffft) into a regular room on the 8th floor of Dunn Tower. Lovely view out the window of the heart of the Texas Medical Center, and more importantly, no heaters. It wasn’t exactly chilly in the new room, but so much better than the ICU room. Nevertheless, I did beg to have the tight, scratchy, hot compression stockings removed. Those nurses were not swayed by my shameless begging.

Apparently the docs were pretty pleased with their handiwork, and if you missed Trevor’s and Amy’s guest blogs while I was too loopy to post, go back and take a peek. Long story short, the flaps were cooperating, the morphine headache abated, some regular food arrived, and life rolled on. At some point they moved the flap checks to every two hours instead of hourly, which was mighty nice. It’s amazing how your perspective changes in a situation like that. After umpteen hours with no food, a simple PB&J was a delicacy. After being awake most of the night, a short cat-nap seemed a decadent luxury.

I’m sure I said some goofy stuff and probably offended someone at some point with my off-color humor. Apparently I channeled my mom, too, telling my friend Laura who works at Methodist and who visited me several times a day, “Thanks for dropping by.” Every time she came by. I was just being mannerly and didn’t realize I’d seen her a few hours previous.

There are conflicting reports on how the turf war between the Drs S played out. All parties are being quite cagey on the details of who did what part of the surgery, and like a good murder mystery, we may never know who real killer was. I have my suspicion, but even asking point-blank hasn’t garnered an answer, so we may have to label that information “permanently classified.”

I did get to skate out of the hospital a few days ahead of schedule, and even though I received impeccable care, I couldn’t wait to get out of there. Coming home is always sweet, but never as sweet as when I’m leaving a hospital room.

I have more mobility than I did after the mastectomy, but not as much as I’d like. The first few times I had to get up without using my arms but relying on my legs and abs, the hip-to-hip incision on my tummy protested mightily. But it got better every time, and now I do it almost without thinking about it. Almost. I still can’t walk completely upright because the incision is still very tight, but I’m not quite the Quasimodo I was in the hospital. I get a bit straighter every day.

I came home with 6 JP drains this time, and had to upgrade my VB sling bag to a bigger VB bag that could accommodate the drain party. I knew from last time around that 4 drains fit nicely, with a little extra room for my Blistex, some folding money, and a teeny ziplock bag of pills, should they be necessary. Six drains would have burst my handy little bag right open. Wonder how many drains this lady is toting in her VB bags?

I had my first real shower today, not counting the seated variety the hospital offers. Again, it’s the little things we take for granted. I’m down to just 2 drains and back to my sling bag, thanks to Jenn removing the 4 drains up top yesterday. She gave me a good report; everything looks good and is healing nicely. 

While I feel a whole lot better and am ready to get back to normal, my handlers think one week post-op is a bit premature to jump right back into the day-in, day-out routine. I am trying to take it easy. I’m resigned to the fact that I’m back to one outing a day for a while, and sadly, a doctor’s appointment counts as an outing. Yesterday I had a small entourage escort me to see Jenn, and we had a bite of lunch (sans margaritas) beforehand. The handlers insisted on snapping a photo of this maiden voyage, and there was some talk of me earning a margarita for every device I had removed at the subsequent appointment. Between the two doppler wires and the 4 JP drains, somebody owes me 6 margaritas. No salt.

Although I complain about going to the med center, there’s always something interesting to see along the way. Getting out of the suburbs is a good thing, and there’s a whole ‘nother way of life in this big city of ours. Last time I was at the med center for some testing, I saw this car and had to take a picture, to show Macy. I knew this car would appeal to her:

She loved the polka dots and said she’d like to have that car, then she saw the back and said forget it. Fickle.

Yesterday on the way home from the med center, I saw this:

and had to snap a picture. Yes, it is a zebra car, complete with a long tail. Gotta love the big city.

Happy Fat Tuesday!

Posted: March 8, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, food | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | 10 Comments

Well, lately every day had been fat whatever-day around here in the Weight Gain 4000 pursuit of more belly fat for the docs to use to build my new boobs, so today being the official Fat Tuesday finds me in healthful not gorgeful mode. My effort in the last few months to gain a few lbs so the Drs S had plenty to work with was a huge (pun intended) success. I need to write a thank you letter to Shock Top beer, as the deliciously craveable wheat beer helped me reach my fat-ass goals. And now I’ve got a flatter tummy but fatter ass, for sure, but the beer is delicious enough to say who cares? If I drink enough of them, I don’t even care about my backside. And really, who’s going to be looking at the backside when there’s now actually something to look at on the front side? After 10 months of nothing but flatness from clavicle to belly button, there’s now something to actually look at on the front side. So there.

Anyhoo, back to Fat Tuesday. I don’t know much about it beyond it being a great day to overindulge in food & drink (a wonderful pasttime, I must say), and prepare for the much less fun but symbolic Lenten season. I did not know that “Mardi Gras” is French for “Fat Tuesday,” but if you think about foie gras it makes sense. Kind of. Or as much sense as anything French actually makes, but that’s just my opinion. Actually, thinking about foie gras makes this vegetarian girl kinda nauseated, so let’s move on. And you can thank me for not linking the PETA video of how the ducks get fat enough to make the foie gras. Eek. Let’s move on, shall we?

For our own Fat Tuesday, we have a king cake, complements of Christy (thanks, friend!). There’s something irresistible about the festive colored sugar on the frosting, and I can see why it’s a staple of Mardi Gras celebrations. We were lucky enough to have a homemade version in the Cremers’ kitchen a while back, and wow, was it good.

As if the king cake weren’t enough, we also have a very special treat this Fat Tuesday.

Locals readers, I know you recognize this box….

And you know that only good things come out of a Maureen’s Bakery box. Really good things.

If you live anywhere in the Sugar Land vicinity and have not been to Maureen’s, please for the love of all things sugar-loaded and frosting-drenched, get in your car and go now. Don’t even finish reading this post; you can get back to it once you have some deliciousness in your hands. Crumbs on the keyboard are a natural state, so get there and get yourself some Maureen’s.

The frosted sugar cookies at Maureen’s are one of my all-time favorite things ever in the world. Right up there with world peace and golden retriever puppies. Love them. Don’t indulge very often, though; maybe once every 3 years, because I do sincerely fear a diabetic coma. Maureen’s website doesn’t even mention the sugar cookies, nor does it feature a photo, because the place might seriously be mobbed and people could get hurt. So if you readers take my advice and drop everything to go there now for a cookie, please, use your manners. Don’t push & shove. Wait your turn and if the cookies are all gone by the time you get to the front of the line, then you have my permission to chase someone down in the parking lot and club them over the head and take their cookies. But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.

The other thing that Maureen’s makes that will make you think you’ve died and gone to heaven is petit fours. Oh mercy, are they good.  “Club someone over the head” good. Boss Lady Staci was kind enough to bring the coveted white box into my house yesterday, and I can’t stop thinking about the contents. There were 6, even though the photo only shows 4. Don’t do the math. Really, it’s best for everyone if you don’t.

If I ever had to choose between a Maureen’s sugar cookie and petit four, I would be in a serious quandry or, as my mom used to say, “a world of hurt.” I guess I’d do what I do when confronted with the choice of Maureen’s petit fours in chocolate or vanilla. Normally, I am not a chocolate cake kind of girl. Don’t know why, because I like chocolate in other forms, but not cake. However, after being schooled by Jill Cremer in the fine art of Maureen’s petit fours, I realize that not only do I like that chocolate cake, I don’t have to choose between chocolate and vanilla: I have both.

See, there’s this magical process called division. Non-math people like me tend to shy away from those kinds of processes, but I must admit, these processes can come in handy. Like when you want a little bit of chocolate and a little bit of vanilla. You take a knife and cut one of each of those delicious petit fours in half, and eat half of the chocolate and half of the vanilla. Or half of the vanilla and half of the chocolate. Either way. Just don’t be tempted to shove the entire half in your mouth at once. These are to be savored. Coming from a “hurry up, I wanted it yesterday” kind of girl, you know it’s true.

So Staci brings some of each kind of petit four (thanks, girl!) yesterday, and it was like a little ray of sunshine in a partly-cloudy day. One of the great things about having longtime friends is that they know what you really like, and they know just when you really need a dose of that something. I’ve been so fortunate to have an abundance of great friends by my side in this “cancer journey” and sometimes it’s an embarrassment of riches, but one I’m happy to have.

Now here’s the funny part: Trevor and Macy were talking about the oh-so-delicious petit fours this morning, and he said something about how he hopes there’s a vanilla one left when he gets home from work. I suggested, in my bossy yet worldly about all things petit-four related way, that he set one aside in a Tupperware right then & there and hide it somewhere good, to ensure that it will be available when he wants it. That’s what I would do if I were in his situation.

Macy jumped right in and waved her index finger around, saying, “You think that’s how petit fours work? I’ll tell you how it works: I get them all.”

See why I have to hide things?

Seriously???

Posted: March 7, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, Surgery | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Got this letter in the mail while I was in the hospital for the Big Dig, aka reconstruction. I don’t even know what to say.

And that doesn’t happen very often.

As you lovely readers know, I usually have a lot to say, about a variety of topics, and one of my favorite things about blogging is being able to blab away about whatever tickles my fancy at the moment. Sometimes silly, sometimes ticked off royally, sometimes serious, but rarely speechless.

When I saw yet another envelope from the Methodist Hospital, I didn’t think much about it because I get a lot of mail from that fine place. Between the bilateral mastectomy and the post-mastectomy infection, I’ve spent a lot of time at Methodist, both in Sugar Land and at the Medical Center. Getting mail from Methodist is nothing unusual. (If you click on the Sugar Land link above, you’ll see a pic of several doctors on the Methodist SL home page. The dark-headed one on the far right is my oncologist, Doogie Howser. Yes, he is that young, and yes he is that cute in real life.)

But this letter is definitely unusual.

Now I’m not dogging Methodist. I’ve had most excellent care there on all of my visits, and I don’t for one second take for granted the supreme luxury of having such esteemed medical care right around the corner (Sugar Land) and a short hop down the toll road (Med Center). I know that people come from far and wide to seek care at the places that are easy drives for me. So let’s be clear that I’m not dogging Methodist.

One of my favorite things about Methodist SL is this:

Love that. Hell yes, I should get special parking, right up front, at the breast center. Even though until just a few days ago I had no breasts, I still liked the special treatment that Methodist SL affords its breast care patients. Wish the grocery stores and Target would follow suit.

But back to the letter.

I know, I know it’s a terrible picture. The iPhone camera stinks, but it’s convenient, and let’s remember, people, that I am 5 days post-op here, with 6 JP drains sprouting from my body, and today was my first day without any pain pills, so keep your comments about the shoddy photography to yourself. This is not a photography blog, after all. I probably shouldn’t even be typing yet, but I’m dedicated to bringing severe belly laughs to you, my lovely readers, so you’re welcome. 

Since it’s such a shoddy photograph, let me reiterate the juicy parts: The Methodist Sugar Land Hospital Breast Center’s records indicate that based on my US mammo f/U uni performed on March 22, 2010, it is time to schedule a routine screening mammogram.

Oh, you mean the mammogram last March that set off the chain of events, preceded by my annual well-woman exam, that led to me being diagnosed with breast cancer at age 40? That mammogram?

The letter goes on to tell me that I need to be aware that many breast cancers do not produce symptoms. That “early detection requires a combination of monthly breast self-exams, yearly physical exams, and periodic mammography according to your age and physician’s recommendations.”

And that I should contact Methodist Sugar Land Hospital Breast Center at 1-800-HOW-STUPID-IS-THIS to make an appointment, and they thank me for my cooperation.

Wow.

The irony is stifling.

On one hand, it’s nice that the MSLHBC is so on top of things as to remind its patients that it’s time to come in for the good old smoosh & squeeze. Lots of women need reminders, and the hospital certainly should not be tasked with knowing I don’t happen to be one of those women.

On the other hand, it’s pretty hilarious and utterly ridiculous. And scary, too; don’t forget scary: the idea of anyone touching my newly sculpted chest, much less putting it through the greatest flat iron ever, makes me very, very afraid.

Thank you, Methodist, for the reminder. I will get right on it.

Uplift

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

I received a wonderful book from a total stranger after my mastectomy called Uplift by Barbara Delinsky. Wow, how many different ideas can one girl cram into a single sentence? There’s 7 right there.

The book is a compilation of survivor stories from members of the pink ribbon club around the country. Delinksy, a BC survivor herself, wrote the book she wished she’d had while dealing with her mom’s death from BC and her own BC battle.

Her mom was diagnosed with BC in the late 1940s, when a diagnosis was the same as a death sentence. Barbara was 6 years old when her mom was diagnosed, and 8 when her mom died of this wretched disease. I was 36 when my mom died, and it was by far the worst thing that’s ever happened, the hardest thing I’ve ever endured. Fighting cancer is a piece of cake compared to missing my mom. That said, I can’t even imagine how devastating that loss would be to a young child. While I miss my mom every day and get royally ticked at the fact that she and my kids are both missing out on each other’s company, I’m grateful to have had her for 36 years instead of just 8.

The BC battle has changed significantly since Delinksy’s mother was diagnosed and perished. She says that although she was 8 when her mom died, she was in her teens before she learned that her mom had breast cancer, and it was years before her dad could say cancer, and even longer before he could say breast.

One of the women featured in Uplift, Elinor Farber, lost her mom to BC, too, and said when her mom was diagnosed 45 years ago, there were no mammograms, and mastectomies were just short of a butchering. Farber reports that her mom lived more than 30 years after her surgery, but never once spoke of her condition. “Mom endured everything without the support of friends and neighbors, who were not told. My sister and I were both told of my mom’s condition in hushed tones, and we were sworn to secrecy.”

We’ve come a long way.

I for one know with absolute certainty that this “cancer journey” would be hell without the support of friends & neighbors. I said it all summer and I’ll say it again: It truly does take a village, and I’ve got the best village around.

The 5th anniversary edition of Uplift, which is the one I received, features a foreward by Delinsky and some follow-up information on some of the survivors whose stories were featured in previous editions of the book.

Uplift is said to contain all the helpful advice that only the women who have already been there can give, and it’s true. The book is divided into chapters according to category, like radiation, so it’s easy to pick & choose, read a little on exactly what you’re looking for and skip what doesn’t apply to you. I especially liked that last part. I’m always in a hurry and have a lot to do every day, so I don’t want to waste time flipping through a book to find the information I’m looking for. I didn’t need to read the chapter on dealing with cancer and the workplace, for instance. My workplace is in my home, and there was no “boss” to tell the terrible news when I was diagnosed, because that boss is me. There were no co-workers to talk to and sucker into taking over my job while I was out on medical leave because, well, I run a one-woman shop here. No co-workers. And no suckering either because I have the kinds of friends who just show up to take over my “job.” These kick-ass friends stepped in and vacuumed my house, walked my dogs, brought food (delicious food), hauled my kids to school & activities, folded my laundry, dropped off & picked up prescriptions, and drove me to & from the doctor’s office. Sometimes margaritas and champagne were involved, but that was purely medicinal, of course.

Uplift shows the world how real women who’ve been diagnosed with breast cancer have faced their fears, survived their illness, and bravely gotten on with life and love, career and family. And because she’s filthy rich from all her best-sellers, she’s able to donate all of the proceeds of this wonderful book to BC research. So if you know a woman who’s been diagnosed, go buy her this book. If she already has it, buy it anyway for her to give to her doctor, to put in the waiting room.

I received my copy in the mail from one of Trevor’s dad’s colleagues, a woman I’ve never met but who was kind enough to think of me and pass along this super-useful book. I’ve since bought it for my friend who’s going through the “cancer journey” and passed the link on to a new friend, Paul, whose wife has just been diagnosed.

Paul writes a blog about Bonnie’s “cancer journey” and has mentioned Uplift in his blog a couple of times. He recently posted this about Delinsky. Seems he emailed her to tell her how much he and Bonnie are enjoying the book, and he was tickled when she emailed him back with a very nice note. Go read his blog; it’s good. Plenty of BC blogs written by the women in the trenches (me! me!), but I haven’t seen any written by the men who walk that “journey” alongside these women. I love that Paul writes so openly and eloquently about Bonnie’s “journey” while still seeming so calm and steady. No rants from his blog; ya gotta come back here for that. He pens some original poetry (short and topical), and writes often about wine. Two of my favorite subjects, poetry and wine.

Delinsky  must be pretty busy with her correspondence, because she responded to me, too. In the back of the book, she asks for survivor stories, and once I was able to haul my carcass to the computer after all the mess I was involved in this summer, I emailed her a few tidbits from my “cancer journey.” Then I promptly forgot all about it.

Imagine my surprise when I got this in the mail shortly after submitting my little stories:

A signed letter from Barbara Delinsky herself. Wow!

How cool is that?

I don’t remember exactly what I wrote to her, since I was probably in a vicodin-induced fog at that point, so I scrounged around on the ol’ hard drive to see if I could find the original document. I found it, but rather than bore y’all with it right now, I’m going to save it for the next edition of Uplift. When my name and story appears in print, I’ll let ya know.

Ok, that’s kind of mean, and I for one hate surprises and having to wait to get to the good stuff, so I’ll give you a sneak peek. Some of you may remember this story from my Caring Bridge page. I guarantee it will make you laugh. If it doesn’t, there is something seriously wrong with you.

For the “What was…what did…what is…?” category for which Delinsky solicited stories, I offered this:

The funniest thing that happened to me during all this was a conversation with my 8-year-old daughter, Macy, 2 weeks after my bilateral mastectomy. We were walking to my son’s baseball game and, while she knew I’d had surgery for breast cancer, I don’t think she ever connected breast cancer and mastectomy with losing my breasts. As we were walking she asked if something happened to my chi-chi’s. I said, “Yes, they cut them off. That’s what the surgery was for.” She said, “Well, are they going to fix them? Because they’re not looking so good!” I laughed about that for a week.

That was at the end of May, and I’m still laughing about it.


Back in the saddle

Posted: March 6, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, Surgery | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

Well, sort of. I’m sitting at my computer but feel pretty fuzzy-headed. At this time on a Sunday morning, I would normally be on the tennis court, earning my beers after 3 sets, but there’s a new normal nowadays, and tennis will have to wait.

I figured I’d better get back to blogging before my guest bloggers took over permanently, making me a redundancy. Big thanks to Trevor and Amy for filling in for me while I was unable to think straight or type coherently.

My handlers have established some boundaries for me, which I apparently need. Visiting hours today are 2 to 4 pm, and tomorrow from noon to 1 pm. Bring a brown bag and visit awhile, but don’t get your feelings hurt if you get kicked out. My handlers are determined to make sure I don’t overdo it; I have no idea why they think I need that.

It’s pretty great to be home, and while the nursing care at Methodist was the best I’ve ever had, nothing compares to home sweet home. No one woke me up last night to check the new skin or peek at the incisions or take my temp and blood pressure. I’m pretty mobile but still walk all hunched over. I think Amy compared me to Quasimodo. I’d agree with that characterization, but must note that I don’t have a hump on my back!  

Dr Spiegel said not to push myself to straighten up; the incision on my belly is pretty tight, and if I try to straighten up I run the risk of tearing the incision. I also need to be careful to limit my arm movement and not raise my arms above my head, because the microsurgery requires such tiny stitches that they’re easily ripped.

It sure would be nice to have a non-complicated recovery this time around. Fingers crossed.

Last night was a Good, Good Night….and it was the LAST night…in the hospital

Posted: March 5, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Amy here.

Nancy is a changed woman!  As I type this she is walking around the room brushing her teeth.  Wow!  What a difference a good night’s rest and a little bit of activity can do!  We settled in for the night around 10 PM and she had the Norco to keep a handle on any pain. She had her “flap checks” every two hours and didn’t even need the Ambien, Ativan or the Flexeril!  I think she had peace of mind just knowing they were there at the ready.

Around 6 AM, Nancy was ready to get moving, and get moving she did!  She is able to get out of bed with little assistance (and that’s because the staff insists on that little bit!). She’s taken a long walk in the hospital corridors, had her breakfast and is preferring the chair over the bed.  I would say she is in a chipper mood.

Dr. Spiegel showed up around 7:15 to talk to Nancy about discharge.  Nancy had one main thing to keep her here and one main thing that made her want to go home.  She definitely wanted to go home because that signaled the end of the compression hose wearing!  On the other hand, she knows that she’s a busy body and it is much easier at the hospital to maintain a low profile, resting as needed and staying inactive.  Dr. Spiegel asked what she was planning to do at home and we talked all that through.  So now Nancy wants you to know, “I’m throwing these dumb hose in the trash!”  Yep, homeward bound!  There was even talk about these crazy contraptions that Dr. Spiegel says you wear around your chest called a “bra.”  Nancy didn’t know what in the world she was talking about!

She has one more dose of IV Vancomycin (1.5 hour infusion) so that is what is keeping her from packing out just yet.  She is extremely grateful for the great care that she has received at Methodist Med Center.  We both agree that this is the quietest hospital room that she’s had so far–and she was even right across from the nurses’ station!

Speaking of home.  Trevor and Nancy would like to respectfully request that today and tomorrow morning be a “hospital day” at home.  One of her main concerns about not going home just yet was that she would be tempted to generally NOT get the rest that she would at the hospital, even with those blasted “flap checks” every two hours!  That said, if you are thinking about stopping by for a visit, Nancy would like to post “visiting hours” for tomorrow afternoon, Sunday 3/6 from 2PM to 4PM.  Please feel free to stop by during those times, and even if she tries to get you to stay past 4PM, please don’t listen to her!  We all know she’s a social gal and would love to “take some tea on the veranda” for much longer than is good for her recovery process.

Her plan after discharge is to take it easy, rest often, and walk hunched over at least for 2 weeks.  She will followup with Jennifer in Dr. Spiegel’s office next week and Dr. Spiegel feels that she will unload the majority, if not all, of her drains and wires.

Here’s to a speedy recovery for Nancy.  Thanks to Nancy for allowing me to be her guest blogger and for the added privilege of being able to assist her at the hospital. It has been my great pleasure.

Her nurse is here with the Vancomycin now….

Rejuvenated?? Notsomuch!

Posted: March 4, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, Surgery | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

“It’s been a LOOOOONNNNNNGGGGGG day!”  Those are Nancy’s words but this is Amy typing once again.

Nancy had a crazy morning…..  Laura checked in; Dr. Spiegel’s resident, Dr McKnight checked in; Jennifer the PA checked in; then all three of the plastic surgery team (Dr. Spiegel, Jennifer and Dr. McKnight) popped in again. Trevor got here bearing gifts: peanut butter and toast–the only thing that has seemed appetizing and would you believe they don’t have that in the hospital cafeteria?  Christie came by, too.

But wait, before she had her IV discontinued and got that “Take a Shower. Take a Hike” show on the road, she still had one last infusion of the IV antibiotic, Vancomycin. That took 2 hours so Nancy was able to sit in the chair and enjoy the smoothie that Christie brought.  Mr. Morphine Pump and the rest of his crew are yet again dust in the wind. Nancy is free of anything that follows her on a pole.  She does have 6 drains and 2 doppler wires, plus her central line access port, so she’s still got a little gear.

It was nearly 11 before there was serious movement to the shower.  Well, all I have good to say about that shower is that Nancy is clean.  One word I could use to describe how Nancy tolerated the event was that she was speechless.  So, suffice it to say that the stomach pain reached out and grabbed hold of her with a lot of help from her shower assistant. It took a while but she was able to settle down from that episode (thank you, Ativan) and caught her breath. We then enticed her with a hummus sandwich from the cafeteria downstairs.  She wolfed that sandwich down and then had a bit of a siesta.  Thank Goodness!  By that time she had recovered enough to find her voice and exclaim, “That’s not happening again!  I’m clean enough!” Nancy had a little more to say about the shower, not so much the shower itself, but the way she felt manhandled by one of the helpers. Let’s just say it was rough going and it took a while for her to recover.

Nancy & I rested for some of the afternoon while Trevor took care of some work on his laptop.

Her infectious disease doctor also showed up and was happy to report that all her lab cultures have so far showed nothing…..but they will keep an eye on them for quite some time since it was such a slow growing bacterium.

So, Nancy has at this point taken 2 hikes and her one and ONLY shower and has had 2 sessions of chair time today.  She is moving well, although a bit stiff and hunched over.  The name Quasimodo does come to mind.   She is sitting in the chair waiting on her dinner that Trevor is going downstairs to fetch. After she eats she will settle in for the night.  She has commented that she can’t believe she’s napping so much, but GOOD NIGHT she hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in 3 days! She’ll end her evening with a dispensing of Norco, Ativan, Ambien and Flexeril. Not all at the same time, mind you–a staggered dispensing, but I think she’ll be able to sleep better tonight with this drug regimen and also since her “flap checks” (that’s what the hospital crew calls them) are now every 2 hours.

More updates in the morning.

Oh, the doctors will assess discharge in the morning with Nancy’s input and go from there.  I think the thought is that she wants to see how she feels in the morning.

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