Patience, or lack thereof

Posted: January 25, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, drugs, infection | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

Tammy, my lymphedema specialist who I love and adore and
look forward to visiting, asked me a simple question yesterday:
When’s your reconstruction? I told her that the two surgeons’
offices (Dr S and Dr Spiegel) are supposed to be coordinating their
schedules and issuing a surgery date this week. I told her this
Monday afternoon, which for all intents & purposes, is this
week. In fact, this conversation took place in the afternoon of
this week, therefore in the far reaches of said time period. I
thought it was perfectly reasonable to expect to hear back from
those docs with my surgery date. After all, they’ve had since
Thursday to work on it. That’s plenty of time. Giddyup. She laughed
at me for being impatient. Good thing I love
and adore her, or else that might have made me mad. She’s gotten to
know me well in the last several months, and we’ve become friends.
She has educated me on the human lymph system and has schooled me
on how to (hopefully) continue unleashing a wicked forehand
(repeatedly, with great force, and multiple times a week) without
ending up looking like the “after” picture in the lymphedema
textbook. She knows I’ve been to a second surgeon and have decided
to venture forth toward yet another surgery, and I thought she knew
that I’m a very impatient patient. I don’t even know why the word
patient, meaning a person who requires medical
care, has be a homophone to the word meaning “the bearing of pain
or difficulty with calmness.” And I might even quibble with that: I
can bear pain & difficulty with calm, I just want to get
through it fast. Anyone who’s been a patient knows it’s hard to be
patient. If you haven’t learned this first-hand, trust me. I know
of which I speak. Lots has been written about patience. Everyone
from Shakespeare to Guns ‘N Roses has addresses this fragile human
condition. My favorite allusion by the Bard to the patience
principle is in Othello: “How poor are they that have not patience!
What wound did ever heal but by degrees?” I feel like Shakespeare
has been peeping in my windows again. I could show him color photos
of a wound healing by degree (but won’t gross y’all out by posting
them here). I have a bar graph, too, showing the wound dimensions
and how they changed, by degree. I’m serious about the photos and
graph. Alexandre Dumas, perhaps the most famous French writer of
the 19th century, knew enough about patience to utter this: “All
human wisdom is summed up in two words — wait and hope.” I’m good
with the latter, not so much with the former. And if it takes
patience to gain wisdom, forget it; I’m out. Not that I’m
particularly impulsive, but once I make a decision and set my
course of action, I’m ready to get to it. Now, not later. Leo
Tolstoy wrote that “the two most powerful warriors are patience and
time.” Egads, I’m double-hosed. We’ve all heard time & time
again that patience is a virtue. I don’t quibble with this ancient
wisdom, I just don’t happen to possess that virtue. I’m sure Dr S
is still laughing at me begging him to let me go home from the
hospital the day after my mastectomy. I was ready to get outta
there and get on with my life. Not so fast, lady. Ben Franklin
wrote that “He that can have patience can have what he wants.” I
always though he was kind of a smart-ass. And why can’t I have what
I want without being patient? Where’s the Burger King motto in all
this? I want to have it my way, and my way is now. Right now. St.
Augustine was probably very patient. He too linked patience to
wisdom: “Patience is the companion of wisdom.” Whatever. I
understand all these ancient guys speaking about patience: the
world moved at a much slower pace back then. They’d probably flip
their wigs if they knew of the modern world and all its speediness.
Imagine those guys seeing a bullet train, or the Autobahn, or even
Loop 610 in Houston, and not even at rush hour. What about a
conveyor belt flanked by factory workers, producing goods from
digital watches to cars in a hurry? Or drive-through food or pizza
delivery? I don’t think any of the pizza chains offers “30 minutes
or it’s free” anymore, but still, when I order a pizza online, Papa
John has it ready in 2 shakes of a lamb’s tail. (such a cute little
expression, right?) The point is that these esteemed writers,
thinkers, and movers & shakers can blab all they want about
being patient, and I will listen (impatiently) and consider what
they say (as I rush off to do the next thing on my list). But I
still want it my way, which is now. 

Is there a Hallmark card for that?

Posted: January 24, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

I ran into my OB-GYN yesterday. That’s always kind of weird. Remember when you were a kid, and you would see one of your teachers outside of school? Not in a Mary Kay Letourneau kind of way–that’s creepy–but maybe bump into them at a restaurant or the grocery store. It always struck me as strange to see them out & about in the real world, because they were so confined in my mind to the classroom.

It’s sort of the same thing running into one’s doctor out & about in the real world.

So there we were, playing tennis on a Sunday morning, and through the fence of the court I saw my OB-GYN walking toward the gym. I’ve seen her at the club before, sweating away on the step mill or the recumbent bike. We’ve exchanged pleasantries and then I’ve gone my way and left her to her workout.

But I haven’t seen her since she found the lump in my right breast in March that turned out to be malignant and led to me having a mastectomy and getting an infection and going through some crazy stuff on this “cancer journey” and changing my status from regular person to survivor. It was kind of important to me to say something to her.

But what to say?

What’s the right thing to say to the person who essentially introduces you to your cancer? Is there a Hallmark card for that? I’m guessing not.

After she wrote my orders for the mammogram in March, the scenario could have had 2 different outcomes: either the mammo comes back clear and she sees me at next year’s well-woman exam; or the mammo comes back scary and she refers me to a specialist.

I’ve had a mammo every year for the last 5 years, a bit ahead of the recommended guidelines. Not because I like tests or crave extra attention, but because my mom died of a reproductive cancer, so my OB-GYN, who is married to an MD Anderson oncologist, has always been  especially pro-active with me. To me, that’s a sign of a competent person: I didn’t have to say, hey since my mom died of uterine cancer, what extra steps do I need to take to ensure my health? I never had to ask because she was on top of it. 

Thank goodness she was.

When my mammo came back scary, she called and told me and referred me to Dr Dempsey for a biopsy. I love her for that, because Dr Dempsey was the exact-right, totally perfect surgeon for me.

From there, Dr Dempsey referred me to Dr S for plastics and Dr Darcourt for oncology, and my OB-GYN was out of the loop. She called me a couple of times after she got the pathology report from the biopsy to check on me and see if there was anything I needed, but I was knee-deep in researching this beast, having tests run, scheduling all my appointments and keeping my regular life going that I never called her back. Then the infection took hold, post-surgery, and my life was topsy-turvy, to say the least.

I did sit down after all the brouhaha to write her a note to say thank you for finding the lump and saving my life.  That’s just the way my mama raised me, to write a thank you note to someone who had extended you a kindness or given you a gift. I especially like the gift part, but the kindness part is good too. 

This one was a strange note to write, though, and I found myself at a loss for words. That doesn’t happen to me very often.  I don’t remember what I wrote but probably scratched out something along the lines of “thank you for finding the lump that saved my life.” Whatever the words were, they were a feeble attempt to convey a mountain of gratitude and I sure wish I had had just the right words to let her know that she really and truly has made a difference in my life. 

So when I saw her from the tennis court yesterday, I didn’t even think about it, I just hollered her name and ran toward her. We were right in the middle of  a game and not at a good stopping point, but this was important, so I didn’t care, and neither did my tennis friends.

She asked how I was and I told her the truth: I’m good.

I’m good.

There wasn’t much to say after that; we had covered the important stuff.

She said she was really glad to see me, and to see me playing tennis especially. I said, me too. I thought I would want to say so much more, but we really had covered the important stuff.

GG in Houston

Posted: January 22, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, kids | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

In this photo provided by the office of Rep Gabrielle Giffords, Giffords' husband, Mark Kelly, stands with his wife as she looks from her bed at the Santa Catalina Mountains while on an outdoor deck at University Medical Center in Tucson, Ariz., Thursday, Jan. 20, 2011.Rep. Gabrielle Giffords (D-AZ) left the University Medical Center in Tucson to come to our fair city. Welcome, Gabby! She checked into the esteemed TIRR (The Institute for Rehabilitation and Research) Memorial Hermann Rehabilitation Hospital in Houston’s Medical Center.

I say this like I know her or anything beyond what’s being reported in the mainstream media, and I do not. So don’t go asking me for personal details or to get you an autograph or anything. After my trip down there Thursday, I don’t have any plans to trek to the med center again, and besides that poor woman needs some privacy. She’s likely to be very tired after her trip from AZ to TX.

In the photo above, which was kindly provided by Giffords’s office, her husband, Mark Kelly, is by her side as she enjoys the beautiful scenery of the Santa Catalina Mountains while on an outdoor deck at the Tucson hospital on Thursday. Not that I’m complaining, but no one ever wheeled me outside in my bed in my multiple hospital stays this summer. But that’s ok, because really, who wants to be outside in Houston in the summer? And there aren’t any mountains to gaze upon anyway. After the terrible ordeal she went through, I’m glad Giffords got to go outside, after more than 2 weeks in a hospital room. She earned that trip, plus a whole lot more.

In case you’ve been living under a rock and haven’t heard, Giffords was critically injured at an event she was holding in Tucson on January 8th. She was going about her business, doing her job as a public servant and was shot by an idiot-jerk-birdbrain-fool-imbecile-jackass-whackjob whose name I won’t mention because he and his ilk don’t deserve one more second in the spotlight.

That idiot-jerk-birdbrain-fool-imbecile-jackass-whackjob killed 6 people and injured another 13, including Giffords. The fact that one of the 6 people killed was a 9-year-old girl named Christina-Taylor Green makes me so mad I can’t even express the right words here. My fingers are flying across the keyboard, yet nothing of sense materializes, because how can we make sense of something so horrendous, so tragic, and so unnecessary?

This darling girl, who is the same age as my own darling girl, sounds like she was a fantastic addition to the human race. She had recently been elected to her 3rd-grade student council, and was at the “Congress on Your Corner”event at the local grocery store in Tucson, hoping to get up close & personal with her congresswoman.

Her mama says she can’t even put into words the depths of their grief, and the horror of “being robbed of our beautiful little princess.”

Christina-Taylor was the only girl on her Little League baseball team. We’ve had a girl on Payton’s baseball team a few times, and it really livens up the game. I’m a big fan of girl power in any form, and seeing a girl on a team with all boys does my heart proud. Little League and the world in general suffers a big loss with Christina-Taylor’s death.

She came from a baseball-loving family. Her grandpa, Dallas Green, managed the Phillies. Her daddy John supervises the group that scouts new talent for the Dodgers. I bet that little girl was fun to watch on the field. And I just hate that she’ll never again don her uniform and step up to the plate.

What a waste.

While this post started out as a welcome to Giffords to Houston, it’s taken another form and morphed into a memorial, if you will, to Christina-Taylor. She sounds like someone Macy would hang with, who I would enjoy having in our home.

I’m going to make y’all suffer through the wrenching story told by Christina-Taylor’s friend and neighbor, Susan Hileman, who took Christina-Taylor to the event that ended her young life.

This 58-year-old didn’t have any grandchildren yet and befriended Christina-Taylor. They hung out, played Pickup Sticks, and did the kind of things that my cousins do with my daughter. (Christina-Taylor cheated at Pickup Sticks, by the way, according to Hileman, which is another touching yet heartbreaking insight into this multi-faceted little girl.) They went to the zoo together, and if there was a movie Hileman wanted to see, she’d ask Christina-Taylor, “If I buy the popcorn, will you keep me company?” Sounds like what my dad says to Macy as they plan their movie dates.

As Hileman picked Christina-Taylor up for the “Congress on Your Corner” event, she asked Christina-Taylor’s mom, “Does she really want to do this with me? Is there something else she would rather be doing?” Roxanna Green replied, “Any place she goes with you, she’s happy.”

As they drove to the event, the two friends talked about what they might ask Giffords. Once they arrived and parked, Christina-Taylor asked Hileman if she had the keys. Apparently that was her job, because Hileman sometimes forgot and left her keys in the car.

Hileman had planned to take Christina-Taylor to lunch and to get their nails done after meeting Giffords, and would have her home in 3 or 4 hours. But that plan changed drastically and irrevocably.

I’m struck by how many times I’ve turned my children over to a friend or relative for an outing, much anticipated by both parties. I send them off without a second thought on my part or a backward glance on theirs. These connections, these events, these outings are what join us together as friends & family, and what weaves together the warm & fuzzy fabric of our existence.

Instead of an enjoyable and enlightening outing, Hileman and her young companion entered Hell. They were next in line to meet Giffords, and Hileman was telling Christina-Taylor that she could be the next Gabrielle Giffords, when gunshots rang out.

Hileman instinctively threw her body in front of Christina-Taylor’s to shield her from danger and was shot in the thigh, belly, and chest. She remembers seeing a hole in her new skinny jeans, but can’t remember any pain.

She does remember falling to the ground with Christina-Taylor, looking into the wounded girl’s eyes. Hileman had been shot and was bleeding, but was only concerned for Christina-Taylor. “Don’t you leave me, Christina-Taylor. Don’t you die on me,” she said as the two friends clung to each other.  A woman who arrived on the scene to help reportedly applied pressure to Christina-Taylor’s wound and asked, “Who was with this girl? Who is this girl?” Hileman answered, “She is my responsibility.”

Nine-year-olds don’t carry ID. So nobody but Hileman knew who Christina-Taylor was, and in the chaos of the crime scene, imagine the frantic moments before Hileman spoke up and claimed Christina-Taylor. That sweet girl was Hileman’s responsibility, and a big part of her world.

And now the rest of the world does indeed know who Christina-Taylor Green was. Sadly, it’s too late.

PTSD

Posted: January 21, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, cancer fatigue, drugs, infection | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 14 Comments

While brushing my teeth and inspecting the bevy of brown spots on my face (thanks, crazy hormones), I noticed something that made my heart pound, my stomach drop, and my blood run cold. 

Not to be overly dramatic here, but I was scared. Only for a second, but really and truly scared.

I saw a small dark spot on my jammies top, right near my personal “ground zero” or also known as my right chest wall, site and host of the Mycobacterium Olympics 2010.

My first, terrifying thought was that fluid had leaked from my skin at the site and soaked a spot on my shirt.

Not a good thought.

Turns out it was a small piece of fuzz from a red blanket, but it was in just the right location and was just enough darker than the pink jammie top to look like a wet spot.

It’s been 5 months since my last hospitalization for this wretched infection, yet it still has the power to scare the tar out of me and render me speechless, breathless & frantic for a moment at any given time. There has been (knock wood) absolutely no sign of said infection for those 5 glorious months, but it still freaks me out.

I’ve joked before about having PTSD — post-traumatic stress disorder. Now I’m thinking it’s no joke. Then I see this article, from the Telegraph online. Kismet? You betcha.

The article starts with a catchy lead (y’all know I’m a sucker for a good lead): “The debilitating disorder is often characterised by agitation, anxiety, depression, nightmares, flashbacks, and mood swings. It is more often associated with soldiers returning from battlefields who have been shell-shocked by their experiences.” 

Ok, I admit when I read it, I thought “flashbacks” meant “hot flashes” for some reason. Perhaps because I was suffering from one (hot flash, not flashback) at the moment I read that sentence, and my brain went a little wonky from it.

But here’s the important part: a new study (I also love new studies) has found that women diagnosed with breast cancer have an effect similar to PTSD. Researchers site the effect of diagnosis combined with all the unknowns (surgery? chemo? recurrence? etc) equaling a good chance of developing PTSD. They studied 331 women in a Greek hospital and found that 45 percent showed signs of PTSD. What they did not disclose, however, is how they came up with 331 as their sample size. Inquiring minds would like to know. That seems like an odd number to me, no pun intended. The findings were presented at the Impakt Breast Cancer Conference in Brussels. Now not only do I wonder about the 331 women, but also who in their right mind would spell the name of their conference incorrectly? Impakt? Really? Or is that how “Impact” is spelled in Brussels? Why doesn’t the article tell me these things???

Last year there was a similar study done on the possibility of PTSD in heart attack victims. Seems 1 in 6 heart attackers (16 percent of those studied) suffered from PTSD, while some 18 percent of them exhibited symptoms.

Those kinds of statistics confuse me. Does it mean that 16 percent of the total group studied had full-blown PTSD, while another 18 percent of the same group just had some symptoms? Regardless of the answer to that question, it’s interesting (to me, anyway) that the percentage of breast cancer patients suffering PTSD was so much higher than the percentage of heart attackers who suffered.

Anyhoo…

I’m not a researcher and am not involved in any groundbreaking studies, but I’d guess it’s not just breast cancer that renders its victims full of PTSD. What’s really scary is that women still show signs of  PTSD even if their “cancer journey” is complete, with successful treatment and remission of the dreaded disease.

Uh oh. So it’s not enough to accept the diagnosis, endure the surgeries and/or treatments, decide on reconstruction, and monitor our health ad nauseum. We also have to slay the disease, but live with the resulting monkey on our back.

Suck.

They also found that women still suffered PTSD and had a poorer quality of life three years after diagnosis and treatment.

Double suck.

I’m imagining fast-forwarding to 2013, when let’s assume for the sake of this argument my infection is a thing of the past and I’m cruising through life with new girls. Euphemistically speaking; I’m not ditching all my friends and finding new ones. I like ’em all too much to ditch ’em.

Let’s imagine that my “cancer journey” is complete in 2013, except I still take my daily Tamoxifen and see my oncologist every 3 months and get body scans quarterly. I am, for the most part, done. But I’m still going to have PTSD? And a crappier quality of life?

The researchers, from the Panteion University of Athens, warn that doctors should watch out for the signs of the condition when they are treating patients with breast cancer. Those Greek people are smart, gorgeous, and all-around awesome, and everyone on Earth would be wise to listen to and emulate them.

They warn: “Knowing that breast cancer patients are susceptible to PTSD, it might be necessary for the field of medicine to create a plan in assisting cancer patients that takes into account the entire spectrum of a patient’s experience with the illness.”

Emma Pennery, from the  British charity Breast Cancer Care, said: “The principle that women, and men, will have an ongoing risk of anxiety and depression following a diagnosis of breast cancer is well known, and there is a range of national guidance in the UK which covers the role of health care professionals in providing ongoing emotional support to patients. ”

I’m curious about that “range of national guidance” and wonder if it will make it across the pond. I certainly haven’t gotten any national guidance in all this. That said, if some form of it came my way, I’d probably scoff at the bloated, partisan jibber-jabber as something dressed up to look valuable but in reality is just an oily politician’s idea of pandering to me and those in my shoes.

But that’s probably just the PTSD talking.

Introducing the New Dr S

Posted: January 20, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

There’s a new Dr S in my life. I’m happy to introduce Dr Aldona Spiegel. 

She’s purty.

And smart.

She’s younger than me and has 3 kids, ages 6, 2 and an infant. She’s tall, slender and blonde. And she’s a renowned surgeon. If I didn’t like her so much, I might hate her a little.

But she’s gonna build my new boobs, so I love her.

We had a fantastic consultation today. Every aspect of her office, from the atmosphere to the staff, is first-rate. Beautiful waiting area, pleasant receptionist, warm & friendly nurses, a big Mac (computer, not burger) in the exam rooms, a fantastic physician’s assistant, a comprehensive bound photo book of before & after pictures of her patients, and of course the lovely doctor herself.

According to her website, “Her goal is to provide not only the most advanced breast restoration procedures, but also a caring and supportive environment—allowing each woman to complete a successful rehabilitation from her breast cancer battle.”

I like that. I’m especially intrigued by the idea of rehab from my battle. Sounds good.

How about this: “Dr. Spiegel is committed to providing superior, patient-focused care and preparing the next generation of surgeons to meet the highest standards of excellence. This vision combines a dedication to advanced research, exceptional education, and the development of new, less invasive treatments and procedures.”

Great!

She trained in general surgery at Johns Hopkins Hospital and did her fellowship in reconstructive microsurgery and specialization in plastic surgery at Baylor College of Medicine where she was served as Assistant Professor of Plastic Surgery. Dr. Spiegel has trained with leading reconstructive surgeons around the world, developing and improving upon techniques to help minimize the aftereffects of breast cancer on a woman’s body.

This just keeps getting better and better!

Here’s where we get into the medical mumbo-jumbo: “Dr. Spiegel’s clinical expertise is in advanced breast reconstruction techniques and microsurgery, particularly in the area of surgical reconstruction with reinnervated autologous muscle-preserving perforator flaps, including the DIEP Flap, SIEA Flap, SGAP Flap, TUG Flap, and the TAP flap. Dr. Spiegel also specializes in Lymphedema Procedures, advanced Implant and Latissmus reconstruction, and has pioneered Sensory Innervation procedures which have the ability to reestablish sensation to the breast resulting in the most complete form of breast restoration. In addition, she is interested in all aspects of aesthetic surgery and is committed to women’s health issues in plastic surgery.”

Sweet. She is the total package.

The only complaint I have is with the panties. 

They were made of paper. And small. Really small. I spent a few seconds staring at them before thinking, one size does not fit all.

Egads. Cue the humiliation. Again.

Luckily, I’ve been humiliated in a doctor’s office before, so I’m ready for it and ok with it. I slipped on my pretty blue paper panties and the matching blue paper gown and prepared to meet my new savior, Dr Spiegel. I’m so glad I’m past caring about meeting a beautiful and successful doctor while wearing the most unflattering paper garments ever.

She answered all my questions, most importantly the one about weight gain. I’m good, I’m fat enough and don’t need to gain any more.

Whew, that’s a relief. I was getting pretty tired of drinking beer & eating chips. Now that I’ve bulked up, I am free to return to my normal, healthy eating. She said she would prefer to have a bit more building material, but she can work with what I’ve got, so I don’t have to worry about applying for a new zip code for all the junk in my trunk.

Now that’s a relief.

She’s planning my reconstruction, and it’s going to be pretty great. I’m actually starting to envision an end to this long, bumpy road. As much as I detest the idea of another hospital stay and recovery, I’m looking forward to closing the book on this chapter of my life. It’s such a cliche, but it’s true. Reconstruction is a big, scary step. I totally understand why some women never do it. And if not for the infection and the mess it left behind, I wouldn’t be in any hurry to do it myself.

But the infection did leave a nasty mess, and it continues to wreak havoc, and the best way to end that madness is to excise the tissue (again), and replace it with new tissue and a new blood supply.

It means a long surgery, a night in the ICU, and several additional nights in a regular room. Ugh, yuck, and ick. But, it will all be worth it when it’s done and I can say I’m truly on the other side of this wretched business.

Stay tuned.

drugs, drugs, and more drugs

Posted: January 20, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, drugs | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

So my doc asked me the other day if I’m still taking my antibiotics.

Really?

Did those words really come out of his mouth? Why, I oughtta…

Yes, I’m overly sensitive about this issue, because I hate the antibiotics so much. Love that they’re killing the infection, but hate them nonetheless.

Yes, I am still taking my antibiotics. Twice a day, every day. With no end in sight. I haven’t missed a dose, I say proudly, although no one seems to think this is a worthy feat. Sometimes people need a quick left jab, right to the kisser.

Not that I’m complaining. Really, I’m not. I’m glad that I have these drugs in my life. Who knows where I’d be (or whether I’d be here at all) without them. I’ve been on some form of antibiotics since May 13, with just one week off.

There was the precautionary IV dose during and after the mastectomy. Then an oral course at home for the first 10 days out of the hospital. Once I started feeling better, an additional course seemed superfluous. Wasn’t I healing like a rock star, even ahead of schedule in my typical impatient, over-achieving way?

Uh, yeah. So much for that.

Infection: enter stage right and become the star of the show.

Damned mycobaterium has become the bane of my existence. I hate it like I hate Sarah Palin. I wish she would have gotten the myco instead of me. Surely she could have picked it up in one of those mountain streams she claims to ford as she’s impaling innocent salmon. I’d like to see her be all cocky and try to “reload” in the midst of the myco.

But again, I digress.

That happens a lot.

I can’t blame it on “chemo brain,” but I’m going to blame it on “abx brain.” Surely the continual supply of Bactrim and Minocycline in my body all day every day for the last 169 days qualifies me for that small disability.

Yes, that’s right, I counted the days. I like to know just exactly how long I’ve been taking these two drugs, twice a day every day. I also take a dose of Florastor probiotic twice a day every day. The few times I’ve been lazy or resistant to shoving yet another pill down my throat and skipped it, I’ve been sorry. I owe a big debt of gratitude to Susan C. for recommending the Florastor, and if you’re they type who gets an upset tummy while on your week’s worth of Amoxicillin, you should take it too. I typically have a cast-iron stomach, but the 169 days of oral drugs combined with the myriad variations in the hospital, then shaken not stirred with the little bits of good drugs (e.g., Vicodin) thrown in for grins has given rise to a need for Florastor. 

Here’s the cast of characters now: the blushing beauty in the bi-colored pink is Minocycline. It’s a member of the tetracycline family, which a lot of people–mostly teens, I guess–take for acne. In fact, one of the many Walgreens pharmacists I’ve gotten to know asked me if I take it for acne. I chuckled and said no, why? And she said, “because your skin is really clear, so I thought it must be working.”  I may suffer from hot flashes, mood swings and brittle hair but by golly my skin is clear. I like that pharmacist a lot.

I’ve been trying to be very vigilant about taking my meds properly, rather than tossing them back and washing them down with a flute of champagne. Or two. Or three. Hypothetically speaking, that is. I’d never do that for real.

I’ve even read the literature that comes with the drugs from the pharmacy. Talk about a giant mess of C.Y.A. Take this little gem for the Minocycline: “Take this medicine with a full glass (8 oz/240 ml) of water” (not champagne?). I like the idea of 240 ml of bubbly. “DO NOT LIE DOWN for 30 minutes after taking this medicine.”

Well, I admit it’s been a while since I’ve read this info. Like 169 days, probably. And in my “abx brain” haze, I didn’t remember the DO NOT LIE DOWN part. Every night, I mean every single night, I gulp down the drugs with a sip or two of water, which is by my bedside, then I promptly LIE DOWN AND GO TO SLEEP. Oops. If my failure to NOT LIE DOWN means the Minocycline isn’t working, I’m going to be really mad.

This part of the Minocycline’s instructions is particularly vexing: “DO NOT TAKE THIS MEDICINE with food or milk unless otherwise directed. This medicine is sometimes taken with food or milk, however, certain medicines, food and milk may bind with Minocycline, preventing its full absorption.”

What’s a girl to do — take it with food or milk, or not? I don’t like instructions that include “sometimes.” I prefer black & white directions.

Here’s one part of the Minocycline instructions I can willfully and completely ignore, though: “THIS MEDICINE IS EXCRETED IN BREAST MILK. DO NOT BREAST-FEED while taking this medicine.” Ok, I won’t. I promise.

After you’ve finished laughing uproariously, as I did when I read this, let’s move on to the second antibiotic, Bactrim. This big guy is a member of the sulfameth family. Sadly it has none of the desirable characteristics of meth-derived drugs like increased energy, decreased appetite, effortless weight loss and eternal youth. 

It’s just a big, nasty, chalky pill.

Here’s a handy little graphic to show you just how big and just how nasty it is.

Twice a day, every day. For 169 days and counting.

It’s not without its humor, though. An excerpt from Bactrim’s monograph made me laugh again: “DO NOT STOP OR START any medicine without doctor or pharmacist approval. Inform your doctor of any other medical conditions including liver or kidney problems, blood problems, asthma, HIV, allergies, pregnancy or breast-feeding.”

Those last two made me chuckle, and I felt safe in crossing those off my list of things to worry about. Onward.

Bactrim, too, is picky about how you take it, and the monograph advises taking it not only with a full glass (8 oz) of water, but to also drink several additional glasses of water daily. No indication of how many ounces those glasses should be, though, and not a mention of milliliters to be found. Curious. I’m just glad it doesn’t yell at me to AVOID TAKING THIS MEDICINE WITH A FLUTE OF CHAMPAGNE. That would be depressing.

Here’s the best part of the nitty-gritty details of Bactrim, and I quote, “LONG-TERM OR REPEATED USE of this medicine may cause a second infection.”

Pardon me?

Did that really mention a second infection?

Excuse me while I go get some champagne.

Move over, cupcake

Posted: January 19, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, food | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

So the latest food trend is (drumroll please). . . pie.

There’s a lady in Houston named Bella-Katherine Curtis who believes that nothing says love quite like a pie. The smell of a peach pie hot from the oven, made by mom’s or grandma’s hands, is a little slice of heaven, she said.

“There’s a joy knowing that someone made it just for you; someone loved you enough to make it,” said Curtis, owner of My Dee Dee’s Pie Shoppe. “It’s special. That’s what pies do. Cake is good but there’s something very special about pies.”

She’s right. And it’s about time pies got their day in the spotlight. Any monkey can make a cake from a mix and slap some canned frosting on it, but a homemade pie is special. Yes, you certainly can buy a crust and dump a can of gelatinous filling in it and call it done, but that’s not a real pie.

I grew up on homemade pie, and anyone who’s read this blog has heard me wax poetic about how great my mom’s pies were. Her coconut cream pie is the ultimate comfort food for me. Good day? Have some CC pie. Bad day? A piece of CC pie will make it better. Promotion? You earned a piece of CC pie. Car wreck? CC pie will help. 

Barb’s coconut cream pie was the real deal. Homemade crust (duh), made with flour, crisco, salt, and ice water. That woman could whip up and roll out a delicious pie crust faster than I could find the recipe in my cookbook.

The edges were always perfectly fluted, too. She said it was simple: just pinch the edge of the crust between your forefinger and thumb and presto! perfectly fluted.

I have perfectly good thumbs & forefingers, and I can certainly pinch crust between them, but mine never, ever looked like hers.

She made a lot of pies. Anytime she hosted a dinner party (which was often), the dessert would be pie. Anytime she went to a potluck, she’d bring a pie. Usually two. Any family gathering featured, you guessed it, Barb’s pie.

She gave me several pie-making lessons, and I did not excel. She would tell me to handle the dough lightly; too much or too firm and the crust wouldn’t be light & flaky. Frankly, I’d settle for light or flaky, without aspiring to both.

In her absence, I have tried to take over the pie-making. While I wouldn’t say it’s been an epic fail, it’s not been overwhelmingly successful, either. One Christmas Eve I attempted the old standard cherry pie. The crust was fussy that day, and the filling overflowed in the oven, so the finished product looked as if I’d dropped it from a tall building. If I hadn’t been so busy crying and cussing, I would have taken a picture, which I could then post here so everyone could laugh at me and that pitiful pie.

Curtis opened her pie shop in October 1992, rolling out 29 pies on her first day in business. Guess what? she sold them all. Today she’s known as “The Pie Lady.” My mom is smiling about that right now.

Anyone who knows anything about pie knows it’s all about the crust. Curtis says that crust is literally the pie’s foundation. Good pie bakers know that without a good crust, pie is a waste of calories.

“When you bake a pie you have to make a crust and take care of it,” said Curtis whose crust is her mother’s recipe. “Then, of course, you have a filling. There are many steps to pie, and it can make a big mess in the kitchen. It’s a lot more challenging than making a cake. It takes more work. But it’s worth it. A pie says more.”

She’s right. A pie does say more. It says, eat me now!!

But Curtis worries that old-fashioned pie baking might become a lost art. “In another generation it might be totally lost,” she said. “There are so few people out there who make scratch pies.”

I’m trying, Ms. Curtis, I’m trying.

Read about how much better she is than I at making pies here: http://www.chron.com/disp/story.mpl/life/food/7386674.html

Office supplies

Posted: January 18, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

I’ve been trying to figure out how to print out all my old Caring Bridge journal entries without actually having to use my own ink cartridge. The one thing I really miss about having an office job is the access to free supplies. I’m no cheapskate (just ask poor Trevor how good I am at spending money), but there are certain things on which I just don’t like to spend money. Ink cartridges for sure. It used to be pajamas, too. Hated to spend money on those, but since I had to spend so much time in them in the recent past, I’m over it.

When I worked for a living, as opposed to working for my family and for society in general (via raising two upstanding citizens who will hopefully become productive members of said society), there were some perks. The bi-monthly paycheck was one. Since I was in the publishing industry, every time we came out with a new book that I had worked on, my name was listed in the “credits.” Not as exciting as seeing one’s name on the silver screen, but worth something nonetheless.

I also liked the wide variety of ink pens.

I’m a bit of a stationery connoisseur, and love the feel of good heavy cardstock, the look of watermarked paper, and the ease of a good ink pen. When I was editing by hand (I’m assuming it’s all done on computer these days, and boy howdy are my tired old eyes and I glad I’m not staring at a screen all day trying to fix somebody’s dangling participle), I used a red ink pen made by Flair. Haven’t seen one like it in a lot of years, not even at Office Max. Maybe they determined the red dye in the ink was a carcinogen. Maybe I have a lawsuit in the works.

More likely, the Flair pen went out of fashion, replaced by some fancy-pants quick-clicking pen filled with recycled organic range-free food dye. I still miss it. And like my favorite lip balm (Blistex Herbal Answer in the light green, .15 oz tube, comes in the yellow box with daisies on the front and contains aloe, avocado, chamomile, shea butter & jojoba, SPF 15), if I ever see it, I buy in bulk. All those people who go on Survivor and get to take one personal item (or at least they used to: I haven’t seen the show in years) may take a family photo or their Bible. I would take my Blistex.

But back to the lack of free office supplies. I’m too cheap to spend my husband’s hard-earned money on ink cartridges, so I’m not going to print my Caring Bridge journal for posterity. Maybe this blog will go viral one day and I’ll be sponsored by HP and get free ink for life. Or maybe I’ll just keep blabbing away into the ether, regardless of who’s reading.

This caught my eye

Posted: January 17, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

I was flipping through a magazine at my Aunt Sophia’s house last night and an ad for Crystal Light caught my eye. I like Crystal Light, especially the orange and the pink lemonade. I don’t drink a lot of it, though, because I’ve always assumed that it’s full of chemicals, and someone in my shoes needs to avoid all those multi-syllabic chemical compounds found on ingredients lists.

But if I am going to splurge on something chemical-y, Crystal Light is top of my list. Even more so now that I saw this ad. 

What first caught my eye was the communicated bliss of the woman drinking from the lemonade fountain, and my first thought was how much I’d love to have a champagne fountain like that. Mmmmm.

My bliss would be endless. Limitless. Bottomless, as all good champagne fountains should be.

I also noticed the woman’s dress. I never really liked yellow, but it was my mom’s favorite color, and now that she’s gone, yellow reminds me of her. Very fitting, as she was a sunny, warm kind of person.

So this ad is pleasing to me for several reasons, but the most important one is something you may not have even noticed. Or maybe you did. It took me a sec, but once I noticed it I had to look closer to see if what I thought I was seeing was really there.

Or not there, as the case may be.   Look closer: 

Notice anything about her chest? Like the fact that it’s flat? Really flat.

I like this gal, a lot.

And I really like a company that is bold enough to feature an ad showing a woman with a flat chest. A really flat chest. Like mine.

I’m guessing the woman in the ad didn’t come by her flat chest in the same manner I did, i.e., I bet she didn’t have a double mastectomy. Mainly because mastectomied women aren’t in real high demand for ad campaigns. But maybe Crystal Light is changing that. Slowly but surely chipping away at societal ideals of what a model looks like.

Real-life women come in all shapes & sizes. It sure was nice to see a woman in an ad who does, too. I think I’ll go whip up a big pitcher of Crystal Light.

Need more Mix-a-Lot

Posted: January 15, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , | 6 Comments

Did you see the headline? “Study: When it comes to pay, size matters.”

Get your mind out of the gutter, it’s not talking about what you think it is. Pervert.

Thin women and muscular males make more money. Experts say it, so it must be true.

Here’s the lead (as a former journalist, I love a good lead, so indulge me here):
“It’s an endless cultural lesson that’s been drilled into our heads since we were tots, watching cartoons such as The Flintstones and playing with Ken & Barbie dolls: If you’re a woman, you should be extremely thin; if you’re a man, you should grow up big and strong.”

My only beef with the lead is that last sentence: if you’re a man, you should grow up.  Technically, if you’re a man you are already grown up, but that’s nitpicky. ‘Course, I used to be a copy editor, so nitpicking was my job. And I was pretty good at it. Eleven years later and a million figurative miles from the job, I still can’t read something without noticing errors in grammar, syntax, style or connotation. Don’t be paranoid; I don’t hold it against ya if you slip up now and then.

But I digress.

The study, “When It Comes to Pay, Do the Thin Win? The Effect of Weight on Pay for Men and Women” was published in the Journal of Applied Psychology last year. Catchy title.

The study found that workers’ girth directly affected their paychecks. Thin women are paid more than their average-size peers, while heavier women make less. Skinny men (not a good thing, like it is for women), on the other hand, make less than men of average weight.

So not only is the body image thing whacked in general, it’s a completely unfair double standard: what works for a female works against a male. Regardless of your actual capabilities or who you are as a person–or any of the things that might matter on the job–you’re judged, and compensated, according to your size.

And people think we’re the most civilized country in the world?

I’ve been thinking about the weight issue a lot since I was given doctor’s orders to gain it. And when I say thinking about it a lot, I mean at least 100 times a day. I am, after all, an American woman who’s been bombarded with mainstream media and fashion industry ideals.

I don’t watch a lot of TV, read many fashion mags, or formulate my self-worth on an equation put forth by total strangers who have a vested interest in my insecurity. I was blessed with a lot of things, and inherent self-worth is top of the list, for sure. After reading about this study, that trait is all the more valuable.

So you would think that gaining some weight for a good reason (“I need more building material, lady” is what I keep hearing from Dr S every time we talk about reconstruction), would sit well with me. After all, I’m pretty secure with myself and don’t really care what other people think. I’m also smart enough to realize that Vera Wang and Zac Posen want women to be rail-thin because it makes their jobs easier. Hanging a frock on a beanpole is similar to hanging it on a hanger, without those nasty curves and cursed soft angles to get in the way of how the frock lays on the body.

And reading the study with the catchy title shouldn’t bug me, either, because I’m not in the workforce and don’t have a paycheck, so me and my bulges are not under the microscope. (Yes, technically that should read “my bulges and I” but it didn’t sound quite as catchy, and I am a self-assured copy editor who can bend the rules when necessary to turn a more liltingly lyrical phrase.)

But the weight gain and the study do bug me. For different reasons, but bug nonetheless. The weight gain bugs me because I don’t like the way it feels. It slows me down and gets in my way, two things for which I have zero patience. (Notice my intentional effort to avoid ending that sentence with a preposition, people. Old copy editors never die, they just keep nitpicking.) The results found by the study bug me because, #1 it’s stupid, #2 it’s shallow and #3 it’s meaningless to judge someone’s worth by their waist size. Or their muscle mass. Or whether their abs are categorized by a six-pack or a pony keg.

And yet it does matter. People have distinct subconscious reactions to body types, according to the study. Get this: “For a man, skinny says less-than-manly and gay, two qualities that clash with our Americanized version of a leader: tall, strong and emotionally unmoved. For women, an ultra-thin figure simply says success and makes for an attractive corporate image.”

So if you’re a guy and you’re skinny, people assume you’re wimpy and gay. And if you’re an emaciated gal, you’re a corporate tool. These female tools earn an average of $16,000 more a year than their plumper peers. But the wage disparity again works in men’s favor, as thin men make just $8,000 less than their ripped co-workers.

I’m still stuck on the subconscious opinion of guys: skinny means wimpy and gay. That’s harsh. And the Americanized vision of a leader being emotionally unmoved scares me. Does that mean unmoved in the face of communism or Hallmark commercials? Is a little emotion really such a bad thing?

This is why we need more Sir Mix-a-Lot. He likes big butts and he cannot lie.

I heard his song on the radio yesterday and found myself laughing out loud. Especially at the part that rags on Cosmopolitan magazine:

“So Cosmo says you’re fat, well I ain’t down with that. To the beanpole dames in the            magazines, you ain’t it, Miss Thing!”

He goes on to say, “Give me a sister, I can’t resist her. Red beans & rice didn’t miss her.”

Now there’s a lyric that paints a picture. Love it.

Mix-a-Lot for President!

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