Cranky, irritable, and just plain bitchy
Posted: March 13, 2011 Filed under: breast cancer, cancer fatigue | Tags: bad day, bitchy, blog, bloody mary, breast cancer, cancer battle, cancer diagnosis, champagne, crazy, hospital, infection, intense emotions, invitation-only blog, mastectomy, microsurgery, mood swings, plastic surgery, post-mastectomy, post-op, privacy, reconstruction, recovery, Shock Top, stress, vodka tonic 13 CommentsThat’s how I feel today. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
If you’re not in the mood to read something scathing, if you’re feeling a little frail today, or simply don’t like bitchin’ & moanin’ then I suggest you move on, because I have a powerful need to get it out. Bleeeeeeeeeeeeeh.
Don’t know what set this off, and in my current state of utter bitchiness, I don’t really care. I’m just feeling pissy. Been fighting it since I woke up this morning, and am only 4 hours into it, so it’s gonna be a long day. I’m not too proud to call for help in the way of a bloody mary followed by a bottle of champagne followed by a Shock Top or two followed by an extra-tall vodka tonic with extra lime. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know that alcohol isn’t the answer, and in many cases actually makes the problem worse, but today I don’t really care, and if you want to lecture me about the dangers of overindulging or how alcohol consumption is tied to increased rates of cancer recurrence, don’t bother. I already know that. But some days it just doesn’t matter.
Today is definitely one of those days.
The straw involved in this particular breaking of camels’ backs came when I decided to spend a little time mindlessly surfing the blog-o-sphere this a.m. in search of humor, inspiration, and distraction from my wickedly bad mood. There are a lot of good blogs out there, and if I ever get out of this funk, I plan to create a blogroll on my blog’s homepage, to share some of the greatness I’ve found. And I will do that. Y’all know me, once I set my mind to something, I do it. ‘Nuff said. But for now, I am waylayed, stymied, stopped in my tracks in my pursuit of a mood-elevating stint on the ‘Net.
Why? Because in the span of 10 minutes I came across 2 blogs that tell me I have to be invited to read before I can even click one single time to see if it’s a blog that appeals to me. WTH??? I have to be invited to access a blog I don’t even know if I’m going to like, much less return to or perhaps follow regularly? WTH???
Ok, on a normal day (whatever the hell that is), I might come across an “invitation only” blog and think, hmmm, that’s interesting, I wonder why it’s configured that way? I’m pretty new to the blogging world, and there’s a lot I don’t know about the wide and wonderful world of blogs. On a normal day, I might wonder: Is this invitation-only blog’s readership so huge that they have to separate the wheat from the chaff? Does the blog’s author feel particularly strong about privacy, as opposed to airing her dirty laundry, the way I do in my little blog? Is she just snotty and isolating in general but in particular toward other BC survivors who are trying to muddle along in this wretched “cancer journey” and seeking solace or answers from those sister souls who’ve been there before?
Maybe that blog author is just a bitch.
This blog author certainly is bitch-y. But I don’t think I’m a bitch. Maybe I am, but today, who cares? I don’t really think that other blog author is, either, although I can’t say for sure since her stupid blog is by invitation only. Screw her, I don’t want to read her stupid blog anyway. I’m gonna pack up my flaming bad mood and leave her holier-than-thou protected blogsite. Bitch.
The post-op instructions that I brought home from the hospital mention something about mood swings and periods of intense emotions. Apparently it’s all part of the “cancer journey” and in particular, the recovery from the major surgery required to try and put the pieces back together after a firestorm of mutated cells banded together to create some bastard tumors that burst through my milk ducts and invaded my system. Rude.
Maybe this is the mood-swing-and-intense-emotion portion of my recovery. Maybe this is the culmination of the hormone frenzy that goes on in my tired, taxed, put-upon body every single day, and today the frenzy got the best of me. Maybe this is totally normal for those of us in the midst of a “cancer journey.” Maybe this is just an ordinary, run-of-the-mill bad day.
Maybe it’s all of the above. One thing I do know for sure is that I am sick, really sick, supremely sick of all of this. I’m not a good patient on a good day, and I’m a hellabad patient on a bad day. Oh how I am sick of all this. Sick of the pain, yet leery of the pain meds. Sick of the drains yet aware of their necessity. Sick of the right drain leaking yet too pissed off to attend to it. Sick of the pile of dirty clothes with patches of bloody spots from the damn drain leaking, yet not at all motivated to start the laundry. Sick of the fact that I need to start the laundry, yet still haven’t been cleared to do any chores. Sick of chores needing to be done while I’m not cleared to do them, yet unwilling to seek help. Sick of having to think so hard about what to wear because of incisions and drains, yet unwilling to stay in my jammies another day. Sick of how hard it currently is to do the basic everyday things (like washing my face), yet not satisfied with the “it’s temporary” mantra that usually calms me. Sick of wondering if raising my arm high enough to reach a glass is the motion that will tear the micro-stitches and disrupt the healing of the micro-surgery, yet thirsty enough to reach anyway. Sick of worrying if I’m doing too much or being too still, yet too lazy to find the answer. And I’m sick–really sick–of sleeping on my back. I’m a side-sleeper but I have to sleep on my back, yet again, because I can’t lay on my incisions. Dammit to hell, I can’t even get comfortable at bedtime.
I’m 11 days into this recovery, and while my rational self knows that 11 days isn’t long enough to heal, I’m impatient and fidgety and ready to move on. But then I realize that when it comes to moving on, I don’t really know what that means. Baby steps aren’t my style. I’m more apt to pitch headlong and headstrong into something and just get ‘er done. Only, in this case, I don’t know how to get ‘er done. Have no clue. I’ve been on this “cancer journey” so long that I don’t exactly remember how to get ‘er done. Don’t even know what it is I’m supposed to be getting done.
All I know is that I’m cranky, irritable, and just plain bitchy today.
It’s not about the chest, stupid
Posted: February 22, 2011 Filed under: breast cancer, cancer fatigue | Tags: After Five Years, blog, blood test, breast cancer, cancer diagnosis, cancer stress, etsy, fear, Gary Larson, mammogram, PTSD, The Far Side, Twizzlers 4 Comments
Ugh, yet another reminder that my brain is filled to the brim with cancer ca-ca. I mentioned a few examples of the ca-ca recently, and here I am once again, consumed with it. The latest: while browsing on etsy, I came across a “store” called ETC Chest. My first thought was, hmmm, wonder what kind of breast cancer stuff they have in that “store.” Guess what kind of breast cancer stuff they have? NONE.
ETC Chest stands for “Embroidered Treasures and Crafts” Chests. It has nothing, nada, zilch to do with the human chest, flat or reconstructed.
Well, duh.
Reminds me of my second-favorite Far Side cartoon:
And because you’re probably curious, my all-time favorite Far Side cartoon is:
Thank you, Gary Larson.
This little exercise in idiocracy (I think I just made that word up; I like it. No, wait there was a movie by that title. Never mind.) reminds me of how pervasive the cancer fatigue can be. Lots has been written about how a cancer diagnosis wrecks your life, and even when the cancer is vanquished and you end up with the best-case outcome, it’s always there. The fear, the weariness, the unseen scars.
My blog friend Lauren writes an incredibly eloquent blog called After Five Years. I highly recommend you check it out if you’re curious about what it’s like to live with cancer. She recently wrote a post about going back for a mammogram and it so perfectly captured the fear, the anxiety, the all-around shittiness of living with cancer. I held my breath throughout the entire post, then was gasping and sputtering and although it was only 9:30 a.m., felt like I needed a nap.
Lauren is a lot farther along in the “cancer journey” than I am, and in fact I can’t even comprehend getting a mammogram right now. Of course, having no breasts, it would be a physical impossibility, but still. I’m not yet to the point of having the routine scans that every cancer survivor endures at regular intervals. The stress and anxiety of knowing that there’s a (hopfully) comprehensive sweep through your body to sniff out errant cells is all-encompassing. I can imagine people all over the world watching the calendar, knowing that an appointment is upcoming. The anxiety of waiting for the appointment time to approach is nothing compared to the feelings that course through one’s body during the actual scans (or blood tests, as the case may be), and even that is a drop in the bucket compared to the sheer terror of waiting for the results. Talk about PTSD. It’s a wonder each and every cancer survivor isn’t a raging alcoholic. Or seriously addicted to Twizzlers.
I can see myself going down either path, maybe both. And I’m just getting started on this “cancer journey.”
Life goes on for survivors. That’s a beautiful thing, and it becomes all the more precious when a serious illness rudely interrupts your life. But it’s not easy. Cancer is a sneaky beast. It invades your body, and even when it’s caught early, small, and contained, it has a unique ability to rattle your cage, big time.
PTSD
Posted: January 21, 2011 Filed under: breast cancer, cancer fatigue, drugs, infection | Tags: breast cancer, Greece, infection, mastectomy, politicians, PTSD, recovery, soldiers, stress, tamoxifen, war 14 CommentsWhile 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.
Dear Santa,
Posted: December 22, 2010 Filed under: breast cancer, cancer fatigue, drugs, food, infection, kids | Tags: Bactrim, baseball, Biaxin, bloodwork, bone scan, BRAC, breast cancer, cancer diagnosis, Cefapime, champagne, Christmas, Christmas list, Cipro, collection agency, CT scan, dogs, ER positive, flat chest, genomic testing, good girl, health insurance, HER2 negative, home health, hospital, Houston, infection, infectious disease, injections, IV antibiotics, kids, L-Dex, lymph nodes, mastectomy, minocycline, MRI, PET scan, plastic surgery, post-mastectomy, PR positive, Santa, survivor, tamoxifen, Vancomycin, wound care, wound vac, x-ray, Zyvox 4 Comments
I’ve been a pretty good girl this year. I’ve smiled at fussy babies in checkout lines at HEB. I did my time at the grade-school class parties (not my scene, to say the least). I called the collection agency back — yes, I really did — when they left me a message saying I owed money on a past-due hospital bill that my insurance company says has been paid. I donated nearly-new clothes & home goods to charities multiple times. I helped out with the school fundraiser, even though I really, really, didn’t want to. I’ve said please and thank you and bring my own bags. I was a big girl and good sport about all the trips and baseball games I missed this past summer.
And while we’re on the topic of this past summer, dear Santa, do ya remember all the hell I went through? It all started on April 27, 2010, when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Talk about an “aha” moment. The timeline quickly unfolded like this: the rest of April and first part of May were consumed with tests, tests, and more tests: BRAC analysis, CT scans, x-rays, PET scan, bone scans and MRI. In case that’s not enough acronyms for ya, there was also the L-Dex and then the genomic typing of ER/PR positive and HER2 negative. More injections and blood draws than my poor left arm’s veins could keep up with (literally; there’s a permanent knot in the big vein). Countless appointments with the breast surgeon (Dr Dempsey, who is on the “nice” list) and plastic surgeon (Dr S, who may be on the naughty list), and 3 different oncologists.
Meanwhile, there was research to be done and crushing decisions to be made as I prepared for surgery. The phrase “life and death” took on a whole new meaning, sweet Santa. There’s a strange juxtaposition between packing school lunches and signing field trip permission slips while also filling out my medical directive and living will. I learned pretty fast how to act normal when everything around me had been turned upside down. I think, dear Santa, I also did a pretty good job of adjusting and adapting to the new normal. I think, fat man, I’m still doing a damn fine job of that. One quick look at my profile tells you that there most definitely is a new normal around here.
Santa baby, I was a good girl after the double mastectomy and the lymph node removal that left me battle-scarred and weary. I was an especially good girl in the face of the plethora of prescription drugs I could have used & abused. I was a diligent girl when it came to choosing green drink over Diet Coke, all-natural hormone-free yogurt over Blue Bell.
Santa, I was a brave and good girl when the nasty infection set up shop in my still-raw chest wall. I endured the 103-degree fevers, 22 days in the hospital, multiple tissue excisions and untold poking & prodding without much complaint. I missed the comforts of home, my dogs & my kids more than words can say, but I only cried twice. And even then, it was when no one else was around to see.
We don’t even need to recount the 18 days during which I was attached to the wound vac 24-7. I would really like, dear Santa, to permanently erase that memory from my grey matter, por favor. But I would like to remind you that I was a trouper during the home health days, and all those hours that were consumed with wound care and the administration of IV antibiotics. And while I’m at it, can I get a little shout-out for not killing Dr S, even though he probably deserved it?
Oh Santa, I do crave some credit for all the antibiotics I’ve endured — and continue to endure. From the Vancomycin to Cefapim, from the Cipro to the Zyvox, from the Biaxin to the Bactrim and Minocycline. Those last two will be part of my daily routine for a few months yet, but I’m already looking forward to the day in which I don’t have them on my kitchen counter anymore.
So Santa, how about we make a deal? I’ll set out all the milk & cookies you want in exchange for one little thing. All I want for Christmas is to have it easy for awhile.
It certainly does…
Posted: November 17, 2010 Filed under: breast cancer, cancer fatigue | Tags: breast cancer, bumper sticker, cancer battle, cancer diagnosis, cancer sucks, champagne, existential, recovery, survivor, the Gap, the mall 2 Comments
Saw this coming out of the Gap last night and was compelled to stop in my tracks and take a picture — even though the owner of the car was standing right there looking at me like I was a wack-o. I’m pretty sure she didn’t want to get started on a conversation with me, of all people, on the myriad ways in which cancer does indeed suck. We might still be there, standing in the parking lot of First Colony Mall, me a bit winded but still mighty revved up, her wondering what on earth she possibly could have done to deserve this and desperately trying to think of an excuse to get the hay outta dodge.
But I digress. The topic today is how many ways cancer sucks. There’s the obvious: it kills people. There’s the more subtle: it may not kill ya, but it’s serious. There’s the financial: it’s expensive. There’s the practical: it’s time-consuming and draining. There’s the physical: it’s far-reaching in its ways to mess your body up (and it causes me to end a sentence with a preposition, something I am loathe to do). There’s the existential: what is the meaning of this? There’s the guilt: Why me? (or why me, and not someone else who’s really pretty bitchy?) There’s the sad: it’s just sad. There’s the depressing: it’s hard to stay cheery in the face of all this. There’s the hopelessness: you can do everything right and still get burned.
And that’s just what I came up with real quick off the top of my head, but I think I’m on to something.
cancer fatigue
Posted: November 8, 2010 Filed under: cancer fatigue | Tags: breast cancer, cancer battle, cancer diagnosis, cancer fatigue, mastectomy, port, post-mastectomy, surgery, tennis 1 Comment
I got a new jacket for tennis, since it’s getting chilly around here in between hot flashes. I noticed this tag on the jacket and am a bit freaked out that my first thought was that this jacket had some kind of special feature for my port. So sad. Even after I read the “access for embroidery” words on the tag, my brain was still trying to figure out what this had to do with my port: is there a special pocket for my port, like how some workout clothes have a teeny pocket for an iPod? How cool is that? But weird, too, since I can’t exactly take my port off and zip it into a pocket — it’s sewn into a vein!
Uh, not cool. It’s sad. Way sad that my brain is so conditioned to think about all things cancer-related that this is where it goes. Boo! Upon further contemplation, I realized this pocket is a shortcut for an embroiderer, to make it easier for them to stitch a logo or something on the jacket. It has nothing to do with my port. Sheesh.
On a happier note, I experienced something pretty great today: I took my friend to her doctors’ appointments. It was not only nice to spend the day together but also fan-freakin-tastic to be just the driver and moral support and not the patient. I’ve spent a lot of time in doctors’ offices lately, and while I still have my share of appointments on the horizon, I’m ecstatic that I’ve reached the point of being able to give back to my friends, who have given so freely & generously their love, presents, support, presents, meals, presents, rides, presents, child care, and presents.
supplies
Posted: November 3, 2010 Filed under: breast cancer, cancer fatigue, drugs, infection | Tags: antimicrobial, blog, breast cancer, cancer battle, cancer diagnosis, curse words, good health, home health care, infection, medical supplies, stress, wound care, wound vacuum 5 Comments
I was just wondering what I could blog about, since it’s been a while since I’ve posted anything. Now that my life is more or less back to normal, there’s just not as much fodder for posts. This is a good thing, because it means my health isn’t full of breaking-news updates, but a bad thing because I really like writing and many of you kind souls have said you really like reading my posts. So I was pondering this while doing something seemingly insignificant but actually quite momentous over the weekend. I put away all my medical supplies.
There’s been quite a collection on my bathroom counter since August. Way back in late July & early August, while I had home health care for the IV antibiotics, I amassed a huge pile of supplies. Everything from wound vac stuff (remember Sucky?) to heparin flushes to alcohol wipes to gauze pads. And a bunch of other stuff in between. I hated every piece of medical paraphernalia from the moment it entered my home. I know I should be grateful for it all, and for the comprehensive health insurance that paid for everything. And I am. I truly am grateful, and think a lot about how much more stressful this whole mess would be without insurance. But I still hated all the supplies.
I hated the supplies because they reminded me, in a very tangible way, of how perilous my health was. No one ever talked out loud about how dangerous this infection business really is, but you’d have to be be pretty dense to not get it. I certainly didn’t need a reminder to know that my situation was serious — I lived it every second of every day. Even now, 2-plus months after all that mess, it still scares me, just a little bit. I still look over my shoulder and don’t entirely trust the good health I’ve been enjoying lately.
So this weekend I got cocky and decided it was time to pack away the supplies. I no longer needed the saline and gauze to clean a wound, or the antimicrobial silver dressing to put inside the wound, or the antibiotic cream and tape. My skin can finally breathe now that it’s not encased in plastic dressing and tape. I’ve been lax in taking my temperature every day, and only do it every other day. I still have the syringes and teeny little vials of B12 liquid that gets injected in my arm once a month. And I still have a stash of pain pills, which I don’t need but I like knowing they’re around, just in case. But for the last several weeks, I haven’t needed to get into those supplies.
Once that nasty wound finally healed, there was little need for the plethora of stuff, but I was so used to having it on my bathroom counter, it all really seemed to belong there. It became a fixture, I suppose. Until this weekend. When I got cocky, again. Last time I got cocky, I decided I didn’t need the probiotic anymore, even though I’m still on two antibiotics twice a day. That lasted exactly 2 days. But several weeks had passed without incident, so I guess I got bold and decided it was time for the supplies to go.
Silly, silly girl. When will I ever learn? I’d been feeling not quite right for the last several days. Nothing I can really pinpoint, but something seemed off. So when I saw Dr S today he immediately noticed a reddish-purpleish spot on my right side that seemed pretty puffy. I think his exact words were, What the hell is that??? Never a good sign. So he poked around for several tense minutes and sure enough that spot felt different than the surrounding tissue. He squished it pretty good and said there’s fluid in there.
I won’t repeat the litany of curse words that went through my head at that exact moment, but suffice to say it would make a former Marine or tattoo artist or school lunch lady proud. That was some professional cussing going on in my head. The quality of the cussing almost distracted me from the inevitable: Dr S moved away from the exam table (which is like a second home to me) and headed for his supplies. He never says much but we’ve been down this road before, or as Payton’s speech teacher Ms. Pointer would say, this is not our first rodeo.
No, sadly, Dr S and I have been rodeoing together long enough that I know that when he heads for the supplies, he is going to come back with a sharp object in his hand and a very determined set to his jaw. He did not disappoint me.
He sliced me right open, and sure enough the fluid came rushing out. Not as dramatic as the “black gold, Texas tea” segment on the opening scene of The Beverly Hillbillies but it did bring that little blast from the past to mind.
Long story short, we don’t know what’s going on. It’s probably nothing serious (repeat that phrase 1,000 times for good measure). He cultured it, so maybe we’ll know something by the end of this week. Or maybe not, because one thing I’ve learned in this long, rotten education is that you don’t always get an answer right away, and you don’t always get the answer you want. Fingers crossed that we’re not talking about an infection here. I shudder to think about the prospect of another infection, or a variation on the one I already had, especially since I’ve been on 2 oral antibiotics for something like 12 weeks. Yes, you read that right: 12 weeks. Nearly 100 days of twice-daily abx. If I’m not covered then I may just have to give up, tell the bacteria to come & get me. Have at it.
I’m not ready to start waving the white flag just yet. But I will get the supplies out of the bathroom closet and put them back on the counter, where they belong. At least for now.
The Pink Underbelly 