Dad’s Day

Posted: June 19, 2011 | Author: pinkunderbelly | Filed under: baseball, breast cancer, kids | Tags: "You Are My Sunshine, baseball, Ellis Island, Father's Day, Greece, immigrants, missing mom | 8 Comments

I write a lot in this space about my sweet mama, and how much I miss her since cancer snatched her away in October 2006. I don’t write as much about my dad, and today, on Father’s Day, it’s high time I remedied that inequity.

My dad and I are a lot alike: opinionated, confident, and possessing a strong sense of right & wrong. He was the originator of the “it’s just what you do” idea. He lived it and preached it. One of his many sayings is “Good things happen to people who get up and go to work every day.” He instilled a rock-solid work ethic in my brother and me, and that is one of the many things for which I’m grateful to him.

It all started, I guess, when my dad’s dad, Elias “Louis” Katapodis, was born on July 20, 1893 in the village of Haradiatika, on the island of Levkas, in western Greece off the Ionian Sea. Life was hard, and Louie wanted more.

At age 21, Louie emigrated from Greece to the United States in pursuit of a better life. He and his brother John (for whom my brother is named) departed the port of Patras, Greece, on the passenger ship Patris and arrived at Ellis Island April 5, 1914. I have copies of their ship’s passenger list as well as Louie’s Petition for U.S. Citizenship, dated January 19, 1925. After landing at Ellis Island, Louie and Uncle John traveled to Iowa to work on the railroad, and Louie ended up in Sapulpa, Oklahoma, where he met Mona Mae. He married her and they and had 3 boys. My dad, Leon, was the middle child, on the far right.Louie was immensely proud of his U.S. citizenship, and apparently hung the framed document in his bedroom. He had just enough formal education to read the newspaper and pass the citizenship test, but he could never read cursive writing, and neither he nor Mona Mae ever learned to drive a car. Louie learned enough math to work a cash register, and worked hard. He had a reputation as a prankster and was always smiling.

Sadly, Louis died before I was born so I never met him but I’ve heard about what a great man he was. He came to the Unites States speaking little English and with very little money, but with hard work and determination–the typical immigrant story–he prospered. He raised his boys to love their family and their country, and he instilled the value of a good education. He taught my dad how important it is “to keep your nose clean” and he wasn’t talking about hygiene. My dad passed that lesson on to my brother and me, and I distinctly remember him talking about how his greatest fear as a child was that he would disappoint his dad. Me, too.

One of my great regrets is that circumstances never allowed me to meet Louie, my Papou, but I’ve been told my entire life that he would have loved me, and I’m sure the feeling would have been mutual.

My dad was a star athlete, excelling in both baseball and football. He passed that trait on to his grandkids, no doubt. In fact, my dad taught Payton to hit a pitched ball at age 2, and perhaps started Pay’s lifelong baseball love affair. Thanks to my dad’s genes and tutelage, Payton looked like this on the ball field, even at a young age.

My dad not only passed on the baseball legacy but also loves watching Payton’s games. He thinks nothing of traveling 525 miles one way to be in the stands for Pay’s Little League games and for Pay’s year-round team’s many tournaments. Last year, Dad traveled to watch Pay’s All Star team in the State Championship in Tyler, TX, cheering them on while I was stuck in yet another hospital room.

Watching Payton play baseball is one of my dad’s favorite things, followed closely by hanging out with his grandkids. He’s been there from Day One in each of his 4 grandkids’ lives, and in fact, on the day that Payton was born, Dad was visiting my nephew Andrew in Kansas. When he got the word that Pay was making his appearance into this world a few weeks early, he jumped in the car and high-tailed it across 3 states to meet his second grandson. When Macy was born, he kept Payton for us and when the coast was clear and she was safely delivered into the world, Dad brought Pay up to the hospital. I will never forget watching him standing over her incubator with a tear of joy rolling down his cheek. Wish I had a photo of that!

He never got tired of holding his grandbabies, and he’s logged a lot of hours chasing them around playgrounds, taking them to the zoo, and relishing their company.

I love how you can see Dad just over Andrew’s shoulder in the left corner of this photo. Three cousins having a snack while their Papou watches over them is pretty good stuff.

My parents loved their grandparent role immensely, and I know my dad is as sad as I am that YaYa didn’t get to see her grandkids grow up.

Dad has spent a lot of time hanging with my kids in the pool,

and he’s been around for the first day of school.

He was proud to be a featured guest for kindergarten read-aloud, and Macy was so happy to have him there.

Holidays are a special time for my dad, and he loves to have everyone gathered around a table laden with good food. That first Thanksgiving after my mom died was brutal, but even though it had only been a few weeks since he lost his beloved Bride, he insisted that the show must go on and he proudly presided from the head of the table. My mom would have liked that.

Every Christmas, the biggest and best gift comes from Papou, and he’s always there to gather up the trash, insert batteries into new toys, and open the wine and carve the roast beast.

My dad has taught me a lot of things over the years, from looking both ways before crossing the street to the satisfaction of a job well done. He’s been a guiding influence for my brother and me in how we raise our families. He set the example we follow in parenting: love your kids, teach them well, call them out on their wrongdoings, and have lots of fun. He used to give me his chewed piece of Juicy Fruit gum every evening when he got home from work. The germ-o-phobe I grew up to become would never chew someone else’s already-chewed gum, but as a kid I didn’t think twice about it, and it seemed like a special ritual between the two of us, one of many special things we shared. He sang “You Are My Sunshine” to me every night before bed as he tucked me in.

When my mom was diagnosed with cancer, he was by her side every step of the way. When it became evident that her cancer battle was one she would not win, he faced that cruel truth head-on; a great and important lesson for me and one that I would employ just a handful of years after her death. If it freaked out my dad to learn that his little girl also had cancer, he never let on. He simply told me that he had every confidence that I would map out a plan to deal with it and execute that plan. He has supported and encouraged me, never missing an opportunity to tell me how proud he is of how I’ve waged my battle, and reminding me that my mama would be proud, too.

While I no longer need my nightly song and tuck-in, I still love my daddy and feel so grateful to have him in my life.

Happy Father’s Day to all the daddies out there.

Shut up about the small stuff

Posted: May 31, 2011 | Author: pinkunderbelly | Filed under: breast cancer, kids | Tags: breast cancer, cancer battle, cancer diagnosis, Don't Sweat the Small Stuff, kids dealing with mom's cancer, post-mastectomy, psychological effects of cancer, PTSD, reconstruction, recovery, Richard Carlton, survivor | 7 Comments

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Remember the book Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff? I have a copy, somewhere. Or did at some point. I read it, too, thinking it would be good for someone like me: impatient, intolerant of idiots, and in turmoil over all that I couldn’t control.

The book was on the best-seller list for more than 2 years. Richard Carlson went on to write some 20 books in this series, from Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff in Love and Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff for Women. I think I had the original copy, and knowing me, might not have made it through the entire book. Too impatient for that.

I do recall a few ideas Carlson presented in the book, such as “live in the present” and “become more patient.” Not sure I managed either, since I’m always in a hurry, usually thinking about what needs to be done next, and am most definitely not patient. It’s hard to become “more” of something when you’re not really “any” of that thing.

“Life isn’t an emergency” is another one of Carlson’s anti-sweat-isms. I’m not even sure what that means, but I can tell you for certain that it does not apply to cancer patients. Life most certainly is an emergency when you’re dealing with diagnosis, research, treatment options, doctor’s visits, prescription drugs, mounting medical bills, surgery, hospitalizations, and the like.

Carlson also encouraged us to “get comfortable with the not knowing.” I feel pretty confident saying that this will never happen. Never. Ever. I most definitely will not get comfortable with not knowing what happens next, where this “journey” is going, or what the future holds. Hopefully Carlson took his own advice, as he died from “an illness” in 2006 at age 45. That’s 3 years older that I am now (well, I will be on Wednesday), and 45 is too young to die, IMHO.

I wonder if Carlson would have had the same attitude if he too had been facing cancer. Maybe he would have sweat for a little bit, then invoked his ant-sweat-isms to conquer all of the “small stuff” that invades ones life along with a diagnosis of cancer.

My blog friend Lauren wrote yet another stellar post about this very subject. Every time I read one of her blog posts, I’m hard-pressed to say which part I like most, which idea resonates the loudest, which anecdote finds me nodding my head in agreement, or which passage has the power to make me misty-eyed. This week, it’s this passage that stands out:

“There are no small things in cancer. There are no ridiculous things. People like to tell us not to sweat the small stuff, but there is no small stuff in cancer. There is no such thing as a small assault on our feelings/psyche. Sometimes, the tiniest pebble in our shoe is the one that will make us most weary; indeed, the smallest of stones can derail a train.”

I now feel as if I have permission to sweat the small stuff.

As if I needed anyone else’s permission.

A whole lot of the cancer thing is indeed big stuff. Not to imply that my “journey” is harder than anyone else’s, but I would respectfully submit that being young-ish with dependent kids at home makes for more sweat-worthy stuff along the way. Laura, another blog friend painted a vivid picture of battling cancer while raising young kids when she wondered how to hold back tears when her 6-year-old said, “I forget what you looked like before the cancer when you had long hair.” Tell me how to not sweat that. Please. It reminds me of my own struggle to remember what my mom looked like before cancer. I was 36 at the time. I still have to work to hear her real voice and not her “sick” voice, and I was a grown woman at the time of her battle. Laura also remarked upon the depression and guilt she felt as her 8-year-old son helped his little brother pack his lunch for school while she lay on the couch motionless. That makes me sweaty just reading about it.

Lauren also covered a topic in her post that I recently experienced myself. It involves Press ‘n Seal.

You know, the stuff in your kitchen that you use to cover food.

While Press ‘n Seal has many domestic uses, it has a medical use too: covering one’s port while said port is slathered in numbing cream, before facing the 20-gauge needle used to puncture the skin and the port membrane to deliver drugs.

Last week I went for my regular port maintenance, in which I have to have the oncology nurses access the port (poke the big-ass needle through it) to flush it. This needs to be done every 4 to 6 weeks to avoid a blog clot. The port is tied into the jugular vein, remember, and I do not want to mess with that big dog.

Before my port maintenance, I use the numbing cream (when I remember) so the needle stick isn’t quite so traumatic. Needles have always been rather sweat-inducing for me. I don’t care what Richard Carlson would have told me, I have never liked needles and they’ve always given me that sweaty-palmed, slightly nauseated feeling.

The day of my most recent port maintenance, I was going from the gym to the oncologist’s office. I told my Runnin’ Buddy to remind me about halfway through to use the numbing cream. I was pretty proud of myself for remembering the cream and the Press ‘n Seal, along with a hypodermic needle from my stash at home and my teeny little vial of B12 that my sweet oncologist prescribed for me. I get a B12 shot once a month, and it was time. I figured since I’d be there, why not ask the oncology nurse to give me the jabful of B12?

Any shot at resuming normal life is gone, baby gone as soon as you realize you have prescription Lidocaine, B12, a needle, and Press ‘n Seal in your purse. Any attempt to seem like a normal person is duly shattered by that paraphernalia in one’s pocketbook.

So at the appointed time, I stood up against the wall of mirrors in the gym, pulled my shirt to the side and slapped a thick layer of cream on my port. Then I cut a small piece of Press ‘n Seal and covered the cream so it wouldn’t sploosh all over my shirt. While I finished my workout, the cream slid around a bit, and the Press ‘n Seal crinkled with each movement, and the curious onlookers were probably wondering what in the world they just witnessed.

Here’s what Lauren had to say about our ol’ friend Press ‘n Seal:

“In all my years of reading on PTSD and grief and trauma with breast cancer, not once have I seen a section on dealing with the emotional trauma of how dehumanizing it is to put Press N’ Seal on your body. Not once have I seen a section on how deeply humiliated you feel when you are made to walk half-naked through hallways on the way to an MRI, where then, in front of the room full of techs, you must disrobe and awkwardly lay on your stomach and hang your breasts through two holes in a plank. There is nothing in any book about how violating it feels having a breast written on in sharpie, and that the last time you see it in your life, it has a doctors intials on it. There is nothing in chapter 3 of any book that discusses the indignity of having our bodies being measured with trigonometry like a drafting project as we lay there naked, and get tattooed by nurses for radiation, especially when you are one who doesn’t like the thought of ink in your skin. There is nothing, nothing about the angst of a port sticking out of your body, or how impersonal it feels having your body lifted and shifted by nurses until you are lined up just right for radiation.”

I can’t speak to the parts about radiation, but on all the other stuff I say yep, that’s right. How strange it is when things like Press ‘n Seal on your body become part of your life. How sad when experiences like the ones Lauren describes become lasting memories, and not in the warm & fuzzy way. How terrible its is when you realize that there’s “nothing in any book about how to come to terms with the death of control over your body and life,” as Lauren so aptly puts it.

I’ve learned, just as Lauren and Laura and millions of other cancer patients have learned, that the small stuff becomes big stuff, and the death of control over our bodies and lives is just one of the many casualties in the “cancer journey.” The PTSD in one’s daily life also chips away at the idea of normalcy, signaling the death of innocence, the end of easy. It may or may not be well-documented, but it’s there. And as Lauren says, “Just because it is not said or written about, doesn’t make it less real. It does not make our feelings about many of these more ambiguous losses less valid, less deserving of mention. It does not make the trauma less valid, it does not make us whiners about small stuff.”

She notes that “we will suffer many more deaths on the cancer journey. Some by things taken from us, and some by things given/done to us. There will be a thousand deaths in cancer, and then a thousand more.”

And so I will indeed sweat the small stuff. Anytime I want.

Art with attitude

Posted: May 19, 2011 | Author: pinkunderbelly | Filed under: breast cancer, kids | Tags: closure, extreme couponing, funeral attire, glioblastoma, Greek Orthodox funeral, grief, hate cancer, missing mom, Navy Seals, Osama bin laden, psychological effect of cancer, snarky artwork, tiropitas | 4 Comments

I saw this artwork somewhere, don’t recall where, and its combative honesty spoke to me.

Big surprise.

As I prepared for Aunt Sophia’s funeral yesterday, thoughts of her sluiced through my brain, like the edge of the ocean lapping at my bare feet.

She would like this artwork.

I know, I know, artwork like this isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. I like it, but don’t want it plastered all over my house. I do have this in my bathroom, though:

I find it helpful as I go about my daily ablutions, especially on days like yesterday as I made myself presentable for an event I dreaded attending.

No one likes going to funerals. Well, if there are people who do, I don’t get it. There probably are people who like it. If there are “extreme couponers” willing to spend hours preparing for and doing their grocery shopping, I guess it’s possible that there are people who like going to funerals. Yes, I can see how some people need closure, one of the most overused words in the English language. Ok, I can see how some people find comfort in the ritual that envelopes saying that final good-bye to a loved one. I also can see how some people enjoy the socializing that occurs before and after, in which people from near and far come together for a sad and solemn occasion.

But wouldn’t it be nice if we were spending time, good quality time, with our loved one, instead of saying good-bye to them?

I definitely needed an extra surge of power to prepare for Sophia’s funeral. And if that surge comes from a snarky piece of art in my bathroom, I’ll take it. In addition to facing my own demons of funeral-memory-overload from my mom’s event in October 2005, I also had the momentous task of getting my dress-clothes-hating son kitted out in appropriate funeral attire. Not that this task was on par with the Navy Seals taking down Osama bin Laden, by any means, but it was complicated and fraught with peril.

There were multiple-stage negotiations, some of which turned hostile; trial runs and practice fittings; surveillance to be done, and more than one recon mission to procure the necessary supplies to make this task a success.

With supplies gathered from multiple trips between our house and Amy’s house and two trips to Target and with fittings complete despite tricky buttons, we were good to go. My boy had the dress clothes he needed for two occasions. Back-to-back dressing up was torture for him, but like any good soldier, he dug deep and found the resources to stay strong and carry on.

He noted that Aunt Sophia was one of the few people on this Earth for whom he would subject himself to the torture that is dressing up. Not once, but twice, and not spaced out over the passage of time but one day right after the other.

He didn’t want to, but he did it. When I commented that while I know he hates it, he actually looked quite nice, his reply was “Your opinion.”

Ooooooo-k.

Back away slowly from the crazy boy.

As we saw our relatives gathered at the funeral home and then again at the church, I murmured, “Don’t comment on his outfit. Pretend everything is normal.” His smartened-up look was duly noted but not commented upon, and peace was restored in our little kingdom.

The memorial service the night before the funeral was sad, very sad. But good. Lots of reminders from the priest to remember the good times, to not let our sadness override our happy memories. A whole lot of talk about Sophia being in a better place. While I can’t deny that her being free from the horrors of a brain tumor is a good thing, the “better place” idea is cold comfort to me.

I certainly don’t want her to still be here, suffering and unable to communicate, a prisoner in her uncooperative body. I most definitely don’t want her to be subjected to living a life devoid of independence, something so very important to her. I don’t even want her to have to live in a skilled nursing home instead of her own neat & tidy, cozy home that was so much a part of her.

What I want is for her to still be here, healthy and vibrant, with no trace of glioblastoma or any other disease. What I want is to be sitting at her kitchen table, watching her fold tiropitas as if it’s the easiest thing in the world (and knowing that I’ll be going home with some of those little yummies). What I want is to be in her pool, watching the delight on her face as she presents my kids with their own individual pool floats: a huge, inflated baseball glove for Payton and a hibiscus-flower decorated inner tube for Macy. What I want is to walk into her cool, dark garage, with the musty smell I remember from childhood, to grab a popsicle from the deep freeze. What I want is to be calling her on the phone to tell her we’re having a family party, after the kiddie party, for one of my kids’ birthdays, and to listen to hear volunteer to make the cake. What I want is to see her walk through my door and to hear her say, “Hi, Nance.”

What I want, I guess, is to stop time. To freeze our lively interaction. To halt the passage of time and the acquiring of diseases that rob us of our health, our independence, and our lifestyles.

And while I’m at it, I sure would like to have the same thing for my sweet mama. To have her sitting next to me at Sophia’s table, assuring me that folding the perfect tiropita is easy. Just pinch and seal and brush with melted butter, and the filling won’t leak out during baking. To have her in the pool with my kids and me, mediating their squabble over whose turn it is with the blue pool noodle. To be grabbing her a Diet Coke from the fridge in the musty garage. To hear her voice on the phone, even if it’s the 11th time she’s called me today. To know that she’ll be at the family after-party, scurrying around my kitchen and telling me how to do a task I’ve done a thousand times, but which she thinks still requires her expertise.

Is that really asking so much?

Apparently so.

I get by with a little help from my friends

Posted: May 17, 2011 | Author: pinkunderbelly | Filed under: breast cancer, food, kids | Tags: Ashton Kucher, Bill Murray, breast cancer, cancer diagnosis, Chevy Chase, family, fighting with kids over what to wear, Gap Kids, J Crew, J Crew kids, kids, kids' clothes, Photoshop, Sophia Katopodis | 6 Comments

My friend Amy Hoover, who you “know” from the blog, is a great cook (she’s from Louisiana, after all), and she fed my dad when he was here for The Big Dig. When he told her that I ususally put some leftovers in the freezer for him along the way so I can send him home w a care package, guess what she did? Brought leftovers, which are in the freezer for him as we speak. Homemade spaghetti sauce, crawfish etouffe, Cajun chowder and who knows what else await Dad in the freezer, and he’ll live off her goodwill for quite some time. Good friend.

When I realized I would need dress clothes for Payton for Sophia’s funeral (he wears NOTHING but t-shirts & Nike shorts), Amy, who has 3 boys, brought over a pile of clothes — several dress shirts, 2 suits, dress pants, a bag of ties & 3 pairs of dress shoes.

Ties and belts, too. Those Hoover boys are some sharp-dressed fellas.

Having a kid who is so averse to dress clothes seems like something out of a movie — a bad movie, probably one starring Chevy Chase or Bill Murray in their heydays, or maybe Ashton Kucher nowadays. Somebody sweet but bumbling, clueless as to why societal conventions like dress clothes should matter in the real world.

I’m long since over the wish that my little man would dress better. He is who he is, and one of the best things we can do as parents is recognize our kids’ innate beings and help that version flourish, rather than imposing our ideal on them.

Do I think P would make a great Gap Kids model? Uh, yeah. In fact, when he was teeny, people commented on how he should be on TV or in a magazine. I assumed they meant because he was so cute and preppy, and not because he would grow up to star in a movie about a sweet but bumbling guy with no fashion sense whatsoever.

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J Crew would work, too. I can picture him in Crew threads for sure.

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He could totally pull off the Gap or J Crew look. But pulling off the look would of course require him to actually wear the clothes. And therein lies the rub.

There was a brief period of time in which I could dictate what Payton wore.

He was downright stylish for a very short time. Not sure I can say the same about my hair and goofy Christmas sweater. Wish I knew how to use Photoshop.

For a while, I could even get him to wear thematic outfits, like this get-up for a friend’s Western-themed birthday party.

Then came the cars & trucks look. Every shirt featured something with wheels. He looked pretty good, I must say.

He rocked the Hawaiian shirt look quite nicely, too.

The last time he wore khakis and a polo might have been at his Uncle Aaron’s wedding. I was pregnant with Macy, and P was young enough to not care what he was wearing, as long as he could run and jump and stir up trouble.

By the time Trevor graduated from business school, Payton was wising up about his wardrobe and started asserting independence. This non-baseball-themed t-shirt was a big compromise for him on this special occasion. Everyone else was all decked out in Sunday best. Including Payton. Because this little boy was discovering that a t-shirt and shorts were plenty fancy for him.

Big sigh.

I am 100 percent sure that Aunt Sophia would not care one bit what Payton wears to her funeral services. In fact, I can almost hear her now telling me to leave the boy alone and let him be. Let him wear what he wants to wear; dress clothes don’t matter; and get him a snack–that boy looks famished. Yes, I can hear it now.

Thea Sophia

Posted: May 15, 2011 | Author: pinkunderbelly | Filed under: breast cancer, cancer fatigue, food, kids | Tags: avgolemono, children and grief, chocolate cake, funeral, glioblastoma, homemade cakes, James Coney Island, Kahlil Gibran, loss and grieving, The Prophet, tiropitas | 30 Comments

I can’t believe she’s gone. Even though I knew it was coming, my brain doesn’t want to process it, and my heart sure doesn’t want to accept any more bad news.

My Aunt Sophia died early this morning.

My heart hurts. A world in which Sophia Hontasis Katopodis doesn’t exist is just wrong. Just plain wrong.

Cancer claims another victim. This time it was a Stage IV glioblastoma. Man, I’m so sick of cancer.

Sophia was an incredible woman. The best Greek cook ever. Entertaining was her forte, and she did it up right, every time. She loved having her family gathered around the table for a feast, and every meal was indeed a feast. From the elaborate holiday meals to burgers by the pool, the bounty of Sophia overflowed.

I spent many hours in and around her pool, and when it was time to congregate around one of her two round umbrella tables to eat, it was always good. Not just ok but really good. She was famous for saying, “Come on over to swim. We’ll just have hot dogs.” Those who knew Sophia know that “just” was never part of her culinary plan. “Just hot dogs” meant steamed buns, homemade chili, shredded cheese, diced onion, and homemade ketchup for crying out loud! Good luck finding a better hot dog than hers. Not even at James Coney Island, a Houston institution. Fellow Greeks Tom & James Papadakis started that institution in 1923, and Sophia started her own version in her own home. While she didn’t churn out 30,000 dogs a day like the Papadakis brothers, she knew how to feed her friends & family better than anyone I’ve ever known.

To say that Sophia was a good cook is akin to saying that birds are good at flying. It was so much a part of her, of who she was and the things that were most important to her. Her husband, my Uncle Bill, could never match her in the cooking skills, but he was a great host, and so they made a fantastic pair. Uncle Bill could not rest until his guests had something to eat and/or drink.

Everyone in the neighborhood knew Sophia, and she continued to add new friends to her already-bulging group, well into her 80s. One of her neighbors befriended an Irish guy from work named Mickey. Mickey and his wife Jean would come to Houston a couple times a year, and they got to know Sophia. Mickey & Jean brought their kids to Houston, and of course Sophia had a pool party and laid out a fantastic meal. My kids had a blast getting to know Ian and Aoibhinn. Leave it to Sophia to have friends around the globe who loved hanging out in her backyard.
One of the most amazing things about Sophia was a decision she made a long, long time ago. Uncle Bill was married to a woman named Ann, who was much beloved by everyone. This was before my time, so I never knew Ann, but have heard this story many, many times and continue to be blown away by it.

Ann & Sophia were best friends. Young Greek women who walked the fine line between preserving the way of life brought over from the old country while assimilating to the American way. Ann and Bill had 4 kids, 2 boys and 2 girls, and were happily raising a family together. Tragedy struck, as it is wont to do, when Ann contracted an illness that proved to be uncurable. The story I’ve always heard was that it was Mediterranean anemia, and in the early 1950s medical care was not what it is today, and Ann knew she was not going to survive her illness.

Sophia was unmarried, and Ann asked her best friend if she would please marry Bill and raise her children after she died.

And that’s just what Sophia did.

She took on 4 kids ranging in age from teenager to preschooler, and she became their mama. She and Bill were married 40-some years when he died 11 years ago. A fiercely independent widow, she missed her husband but lived her life to the fullest. She treasured her family, and being surrounded by her kids and her grandkids was one of her greatest joys.

Sophia was the kind of mama who cooked from scratch, ran a ship-shape house, and sewed her daughters’ wedding dresses. She was amazing.

When my own sweet mama joined the Katapodis family, Sophia took the non-Greek under her wing and taught her some things, including the art of Greek cooking. That my mom, a “white woman,” (aka non-Greek) mastered that art and was every bit as good as the ladies from the old country was a huge source of pride. For everyone involved.

One of the best things Sophia taught my mom to make is tiropitas. The recipe itself is quite simple, but the filling and folding of the buttery, flaky triangles is something that requires patience and practice. My mom exercised both, and her tiropitas were every bit as good as Sophia’s. My dear aunt would make a batch, put them in a big tupperware in the freezer, and give them to me to have on hand for dinner parties or casual entertaining. What a gold mine I had, tucked away in the freezer. Knowing that I could pull out a few or several dozen, put them on a cookie sheet and bake at 350 for 15 minutes was something that filled my soul.

Another one of Sophia’s specialties is Avgolemono, which is Greek chicken soup. I was raised on this soup, and hers was terrific. In Greek, “ovgo” means egg, and “lemono” means lemon, so you can guess where this is going. Instead of a bland-ish chicken soup with noodles, Avgolemono is thick and lemony and full of rice or broken spaghetti. Sophia made me several pots of it when I was recovering from my mastectomy, and because she knew I didn’t eat meat, she’d put the chicken on the side, just in case I changed my mind.

Sophia was suspicious of anyone not eating meat, and one of my favorite Sophia stories concerns just that. We were going to her house one time for dinner, and while discussing the details on the phone she said she was making pork loin or whatever, and realized that I wouldn’t eat it. She said, “Oh, yeah, you don’t eat meat. I’ll make you some chicken.” I said, “Uh, chicken is meat.” Her reply? “No it isn’t, it’s a bird.”

She was also suspicious of sunscreen, and I think she thought it was a made-up product. She’d been out in the sun by her pool in Houston for 40 years, and never used sunscreen. She also had the most beautiful skin. Period. No lines, no wrinkles. No fair.

I learned to swim in her pool when I was tiny. She taught all the kids in our family to swim. She loved the pool and was in it all the time. All the kids loved her pool, because it was huge and it had a diving board. One of the family stories often repeated is the one about me crawling on the diving board as a wee child, before Sophia taught me to swim. In typical me fashion, I got too close to the edge–I pushed the envelope even then, before I knew what it meant to do that. I fell in the deep end, and my brother John jumped in and saved me. Good times, good times.

Sophia loved my kids a lot, and was always doing something sweet for them. She and Macy had a mail correspondence for a while, mailing things back and forth. When it started, Macy was 3 and her mail consisted of scribbles on a piece of paper. Sophia was always getting stickers and note pads in the mail from charities she supported, and she loved to pass the “junk” as she called it onto Macy. In fact, Macy has a whole drawer in her desk full of Sophia’s “junk” and she treasures it. Every time we saw Sophia, she had a bag of “junk” for Macy.

Occasions like Halloween and Valentine’s Day were another opportunity for Sophia to stay connected with Payton and Macy. She always sent a card to them for these lesser holidays, along with a $5 bill.

She gave great gifts, and my kids always looked forward to opening their birthday or Christmas gifts from Aunt Sophia. I don’t remember exactly what this gift was, but as evidenced by the look on Pay’s face, his Aunt Sophia scored.What I love about this photo is not the intake of breath by Macy as she prepared to blow out her birthday candles, but the pair of hands on the right. Sophia’s hands. She had a font-row seat to Macy’s birthday fun.

Sophia loved to bake, and she made my kids an Easter cake each year. Being the thoughtful and overachieving person she was, she would make individual cakes.The decorations were always on the fancy side, and the cakes were always scrumptious.Nice smile, Pay. I’m guessing he was impatient to dig into that fantasticly-yummy-looking cake.After the Easter cakes were consumed, there would be an egg hunt, and Sophia bought the good candy. No jelly beans for her; she favored chocolate. And lots of it. Same for Halloween. She made individual goodie bags full of the good candy for the trick-or-treaters who rang her doorbell. Lucky kids.

My kids weren’t the only ones who loved her cakes. One year Payton requested her special chocolate cake (with tons of chocolate frosting) for his birthday, and our friends Laura and Russ celebrated with us. Russ fell head-over-heels for Sophia’s cake, and when his own birthday rolled around, he requested a chocolate cake from Sophia. Of course Sophia was happy to oblige.

Sophia was so generous. One time at her house, Macy mentioned that she liked a particular plant in Sophia’s yard. She insisted on giving Macy a cutting,and it wasn’t a small clipping. When we lived in Austin, before either Payton or Macy was born, she sent me several Hefty bags full of plants that had been dug up at her house. She knew that our new house in Austin had a huge yard, and instead of throwing the Monkey grass out, she passed it on to me. She did the same with her blue plumbago once we moved into our current house.

Glioblastoma is a particularly nasty form of cancer, and it just makes me sick that this is what Sophia got. It’s the most aggressive form of brain cancer, which is bad enough, and it’s very difficult to treat, for several reasons: it’s resistant to conventional therapies, the brain can be damaged by conventional therapies, the brain has limited capacity to repair itself, and it’s difficult for drugs to cross the blood-brain barrier and get to the tumor.

As if that’s not shitty enough, glioblastoma also affects the part of the brain that makes us who we are as individuals. Thus, when glioblastoma invades, its victim’s personality changes, and the person becomes quiet and no longer reacts as she has in the past. For someone like Sophia, who was very opinionated and passionate, this is a crying shame. Being in her presence without her talking, smiling, or asking questions was a hard thing to stomach. Our frontal lobes control so much, yet are the most vulnerable. Most of the TBIs involve damage to the frontal lobes. The fact that the frontal lobes make up so much of who we are as individuals, when something goes wonky with them, the result is overwhelmingly bad. I’ll never forget Sophia weeping at my mom’s funeral, 5 years ago. Just as many people will be doing for her on Tuesday. Reminds me of one of my favorite quotes from Kahlil Gibran. I received a copy of his book The Prophet when my mom died, and it took me a long time to get to the point in which I was ready to read it. I’m so glad I did, though, because his words bring comfort in times of great sorrow:

“When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.”

Thea Sophia, you are indeed a delight, and will remain so forever in my heart. While I’m glad that your suffering is over, I know that mine is just beginning. We’ll never forget you.

One year ago today

Posted: May 13, 2011 | Author: pinkunderbelly | Filed under: breast cancer, drugs, food, infection, kids, pets, Surgery, tennis | Tags: Bactrim, blog, breast cancer, cancer battle, cancer diagnosis, champagne, coconut cream pie, DIEP, dogs, family, hospital, Houston, infection, infectious disease, IV antibiotics, kids, kids dealing with mom's cancer, lymphedema, mastectomy, Methodist Hospital, microsurgery, minocycline, Moet, mycobacterium, nausea, new boobs, plastic surgeon, plastic surgery, post-mastectomy, reconstruction, recovery, stress, surgery, survivor, tennis | 12 Comments

Y’all know I’m a milestone-observing kind of girl. I’ve written about my cancer-versary, about a revelation, about week-old recollections after The Big Dig, aka my reconstruction, and returning to the tennis court after a long absence full of longing.

I’ve written about the anniversary of my sweet mama leaving this earth. That was early on in my blogging, and I hadn’t mastered the art of inserting photos. The photos of her are woefully displayed, and in my free time (!) I need to go back and fix them. She deserves better.

I’ve also observed the end of the worst year of my life. “Don’t let the door hit ya” was my message to 2010 as it went out like a lion. A mean, underfed, on-the-hunt-for-victims lion. Almost halfway through 2011 and I’m happy to say it’s turning out to be a much better year. Course, we didn’t have far to go to make it better than its predecessor.

Back to the current milestone. One year ago today, I said bye-bye to my breasts and was the lucky recipient of a flat–but cancer-free–chest. This was me, this time last year. On this very day (although it wasn’t a Friday, it was May 13th. Having a bilateral mastectomy on Friday the 13th would be cruel).

Trevor snapped this photo of me waiting for my surgery, in the holding pen before moving to a pre-op room. My brain was swirling with lots of thoughts, too many thoughts, and I was likely firing off a quick email to our BFF Ed with some last-minute kid-wrangling instructions. Notice the pink notebook in my bag: my cancer book, full of pathology reports, doctors’ notes, research, and bills. Bills, bills, and more bills. I think the current estimate of the cost of my last year medically is in the range of $260,000. And we’re not done spending yet.

One year ago today, I wish we’d thought to take a close-up shot of my chest instead of the deep wrinkle snaking across my forehead. My chest would never be the same, and would become a major battleground–and that was after the mastectomy. If I’d seen that pic before going under, I would have asked Dr Dempsey, breast surgeon extraordinnaire, to give me some Botox while she was in there. Yikes.

I didn’t know what to expect from the surgery, other than the basics. With subsequent surgeries, I’ve learned that actual procedures are available for viewing on youtube and I’ve watched a few. Gross. But amazing.

All I knew, really, was that I had breast cancer and I wanted it gone. I could have had a lumpectomy, but chose the slash-and-burn option instead. I’m not a half-measure kind of girl, and the idea of just taking a part of the infected breast instead of the whole thing wasn’t anything I ever seriously entertained. Slash-and-burn meant taking both breasts, even though the cancer was only detected in the right one. Only. Ha! Good thing I lost the pair, because the post-mastectomy pathology showed the left one had some problems, too. If you can call an area 5 cm in diameter full of cancerous junk a problem. I can, and I did. Little did I know then, one year ago today, that pretty much anything that could go wrong with my post-surgery self would go wrong. As my nurse practitioner friend Laura says, “Your case certainly has not been textbook.” Truer words were never spoken, but we didn’t know that one year ago today.

Because there were only 3 weeks between my diagnosis and the mastectomy, and because most of that time was consumed with tests, tests, and more tests, there wasn’t a lot of time for freaking out or being scared or crying about my fate. Not that I would have done any of those things anyway. There was a problem, and we were going to fix it. ‘Nuff said. I had a great team–breast surgeon, plastic surgeon, and oncologist– and was in a nationally ranked and highly acclaimed hospital. Course, I’d end up adding a kick-ass infectious disease team, home-health care nurse, a beloved lymphedema specialist, and wound specialists to my team before it was all said & done.

Dr Grimes, my hero

Tammy Sweed, I adore you!

The week before surgery, Payton turned 11

and Macy & I pampered ourselves with a Chinese foot massage.

I squeezed in as much time as I could with my girls

I didn’t know it would be a while before I did anything like this with my favorite girl.

Going into surgery one year ago today, I had no idea that I’d end up spending nearly a month more in the hospital and undergo 3 more surgeries; minor surgeries compared with the mastectomy, and of course reconstruction was way off in the distance, with even more days in the hospital. I had no idea how much I’d miss my kids while hospitalized

and my dogs (and their friends).

I had no idea how many times I’d need the special parking place.

I had no idea how much infinite kindness my friends would bestow upon me. We were on the receiving end of many, many meals delivered to our house, a kindness for which I’m so grateful. The rides to & from my kids’ activities helped more than I could ever guess. The sleepovers and outings that my mommy friends provided kept my kids’ life normal when everything else around them was off-the-charts abnormal.

My cousin Teri’s hubby Tom made me more than one coconut cream pie. I ate a lot of this

but not nearly enough of this

Keith’s crab towers were chock-full of healing properties.

As was this:

Yes, lots of champagne eased the way from being an average, suburban at-home mom to becoming a statistic. From regular woman to cancer vixen. From got-it-together overachiever to at the beast’s mercy. And my bubbly companion continues to ease the way, from cancer victim to cancer survivor. Cheers to that.

A week after surgery, I began to feel a bit more human and was blown away by my little girl wearing a pink ribbon on her shirt–all her idea, BTW–to school every day.

I was not enjoying the amount of time spent doing this:

although Pedey enjoyed every lazy minute of my recouperating.

Seeing me in jammies all the time gave Macy an idea: she could raid my jammie drawer and wear them herself.

I’m not sure I ever got that pair back from her.

I certainly have learned a lot over the last year. Things I never knew I would have to learn, like the difference between invasive ductal carcinoma and in situ carcinomas. Like how a tumor is graded to determine the stage of the cancer. Like cure rate statistics and recurrence stats. Like how fine a line there is between the science of medicine and the art of medicine. Like how fighting a wily infection could be even worse than fighting cancer.

The crash course in all things infection-related was a big education. A very big, most unwanted education. My biggest lesson in this arena is how many unknowns exist. I wanted to know when, where, how, and why I got this infection. No one knows for sure. I wanted to know why it took so long to diagnose it, and why so many drugs have to be involved. I learned that my oncologist could have me all my drugs delivered to my doorstep via UPS. I learned to love vanocmycin and to depend on probiotics. I learned to eat breakfast as soon as I got up, hungry or not, because I needed to time the antibiotics right so they hit an empty stomach. I learned that morning sickness-style nausea doesn’t go away as the morning changes to afternoon and then to evening. I learned that there was nothing, not one single thing, I could put in my stomach to ease that awful nausea. I learned that washing those drugs down with alcohol doesn’t make me feel worse; that in fact it made me feel a whole lot better. I learned to develop a schedule and a rhythm to taking my antibiotics every 12 hours for 267 days.

I learned that “We’re discontinuing the antibiotics” are the sweetest words I’ve heard in a long time. I’ve learned about the complete and utter relief of dumping my remaining oral abx out, because I don’t need them anymore.

That’s the tip of the iceburg, or what my friend Michele would call “a booger’s worth” of the practical things I’ve learned. The topical aspects of changing one’s status from normal person to cancer patient. Then there’s the other side of it.

There’s the stuff I’ve learned in the last year about the unquantifiable side of a serious illness. The depth of inner strength required to get through something like this. The well of emotion that accompanies the clinical stuff. The patience and fortitude I didn’t know I had (although I’m still working on the patience part). The measure of gratitude toward the people who’ve helped along the way. The unbridled joy of making new friends in the midst of a shitty situation. The passion for writing, long dormant in the day-to-day of child-rearing, and the love of blogging. The understanding that my doctors are just regular people under those scrubs & white coats, and while they’re full of knowledge, there’s a whole ‘nother side of unknown things for which they make an educated guess and hope for the best. And, I have to admit, how much fun I’ve had getting to know these people in the white coats.

While being diagnosed with breast cancer at age 40 certainly does suck, I’m lucky that I made the decision one year ago to not let that diagnosis define me or impede me living my life. There certainly were times in which I was miserable from surgery and infection, and down in the dumps about my limited capabilities during recovery. There were also times over the last year in which I thought for a second I can’t take any more–not one drop more of bad luck, rotten news, and beastly complications. But those times didn’t last long and they did not prevail. Cancer did not prevail. Not over me. No way. Nuh uh. That’s perhaps the most important thing I learned over the last year.

I hate Mother’s Day

Posted: May 10, 2011 | Author: pinkunderbelly | Filed under: breast cancer, kids | Tags: after5years.com, cafepress.com, cancer battle, carcinista.com, Dana Farber, funny t-shirts, hating Mother's Day, infection, invasive ductal carcinoma, Journeying Beyond Breast Cancer, lettersinheaven.com, loss, missing mom, mom died from cancer, mycobacterium, Nancy's Point, post-mastectomy, Rumi | 8 Comments

I wasn’t going to blog about this, because I don’t want to sound like a broken record about how much I miss my mom. That’s a worn-out, overplayed, scratchy, non-Top-40 hit, for sure. It’s a sad song about gut-wrenching loss and about life going on despite the hole in my heart. You know that one person you always want to invite to the party, because they can talk to anyone, they bring a light & an energy into the room, and they become the most fun person there, regardless of the guest list?And because they come early to help set up, bring food, and stay late to clean up? That was her.

So I wasn’t going to write about her this year on my most-dreaded holiday. But then I remembered that blogging isn’t exactly a customer-service driven business. At least my little blog isn’t. It’s neither a business nor does it have customers. It’s my blog and I can write what I want to. So there. If I want to bitch & moan about missing my mom and hating Mother’s Day, I can and by golly I will.

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For the first year since my mom died, I wasn’t dreading Mother’s Day as much as I usually do. Usually, I feel a terrible tug between wanting to savor my kids and their homemade, heartfelt gifts yet feeling more inclined toward wishing the day would just end already. I despise the advertising blitz that leads up to Mother’s Day and think genuinely unkind thoughts about the merchants that hawk their wares in an effort to extract the maximum dollar amount from adult children filled with guilt about not doing enough to honor Mom. I’m usually envious of my friends who have to juggle their mom’s wishes for the day with their own. Even thought my day can be whatever I want it to be with no juggling required, I never feel that excitement that comes from being treasured, being pampered. The day always, always, always ends in crushing disappointment.

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But this year, I had resolved to do better. I was going to be better. I read several blogs written by members of the pink-ribbon sisterhood who also lost their sweet mamas to cancer. My blog buddy Lauren’s Mother’s Day entry in particular spoke to me. Her blog has led the way and shed much light for me as she is four years ahead of me in the “cancer journey” and the happily-ever-after life of a survivor with no mom of her own and 2 kids to raise. Reading this first thing on Mother’s Day this year reaffirmed my goal (stupid as it was) to enjoy the day. This line especially made me want to make it a good day:

“I am so thankful that I had her for a mom, however short a time it was. For how she loved and nurtured me to the tips of my toes, and for whose warmth I still feel surround me, especially when it is dark and it seems everyone else is gone.”

Yes, I still feel my mama’s warmth surround me, especially during the really rough times. Thanks, Lauren, for the reality check; you know I needed that, girl.

My decision to make it a good day, despite the hole in my heart, was affirmed by the supremely wonderful and true friends I have who know it’s a shitty day for me that never fails to disappoint. No less than 11 friends texted me Sunday morning, some to say “have a great day, I love you” and some to say “I know this is a hard day and I’m thinking of you,” and a few to remind me how lucky I am to be here, after waging an uncertain battle against not 1 but 2 vicious beasts. And a couple tried to make me cry (which is not easy to do) by telling me that my mom is proud of me and is thanking God, in person, for my triumph over cancer and mycobacterium.

Another blogger friend, also named Nancy, wrote poignantly about spending Mother’s Day without Mother. Like me, she spent last Mother’s Day trying to pretend everything was normal while staring down an uncertain future filled with tests, scans, surgery, and pathology reports. She writes:

“Even now, she would know things to say to make me feel better. She would be calling to see how I am doing. She would feel my pain and understand my fears, even if she had not had breast cancer herself. My mother would have understood about the ache I sometimes felt deep within and about the terror of facing life without breasts, or hair, or worse. She would have understood what it felt like to be a woman living on the edge unable to stop thoughts about dying from simmering during the wee hours of the night. She would have understood why I cried sometimes without even knowing the reason for my tears. She would not have cared if I was irritable, blotchy-faced or just plain unpleasant to be around. She would not have thought such things were even odd. She would have loved me and understood because that’s what mothers do.”

Yes, indeed that is what mothers do.

Marie writes a super-informative blog called Journeying Beyond Breast Cancer. Her mum is still on this Earth, but suffering from dementia, so Marie understands how hard Mother’s Day is. Her beautifully written entryabout the painful topic resonated with me and reminded me that our mums don’t have to be gone to leave us feeling empty. Marie’s quoting of Persian poet Rumi made me smile: “Wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving.”

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I’m trying, Rumi, I’m really trying.

Another blog I love, “dear mom can you get letters in heaven?” is written by a young woman who lost her mom to ovarian cancer. Her take on Mother’s Day is so sweet and so heartfelt that it’s almost painful to read, but her outlook save it from being too sad to bear. Like me, she usually hates every minute of Mother’s Day, but this year came to the realization that her mom is happy, and that sustains her. Sami writes something that I feel so deeply, and I’m grateful to her for putting it into words. The weird dichotomy of feeling grateful to have had an awesome mom while still feeling so very, very sad that she’s gone:

“It’s just so bittersweet. I feel lucky to have known you, and I always will, but there’s that part of me that will just remain sad. I’m sad that I will never buy you another sappy Mother’s Day card or cheesy gift; I’m sad that I will slowly forget exactly how your voice sounded; I’m sad that you never got the chance to be one of those cool moms on Facebook, or own an iPhone, or watch the season finale of Survivor (and the new season too– you would love it!)”

I too fear that I will forget the sound of my mom’s voice. It’s easy to recall her “sick voice” and the way she sounded while being ravaged by uterine cancer, but I really have to work hard to remember her regular voice. And that’s a shame because she had a great, big laugh that made the world a better place, just by hearing it. I love but also hate that Sami mourns her mom missing out on Facebook, an iPhone, and Survivor. I could make a long list of similar, everyday things that I hate having my mom miss out on.

One last blog round-up, and this one breaks my heart into a million pieces. It’s the Carcinista, a blogger I just recently “met” and got to know via our blogs. She was smart and snarky and brutally honest about how she felt going through the ups & downs of ovarian cancer. All the things I aspire to be in my little blog, she was. And I say “was” because smart, snarky, honest Sarah died last week after deciding to stop her treatment.

carcinista.com

She chose quality time with her husband and 2 boys over the certainty of feeling awful and the uncertainty of whether treatment was working, and I admire her for that terribly difficult decision. Even toward the end, when she saw the writing on the wall, she didn’t lose her sense of humor, and she faced the most-unhappy ending with courage and her trademark mission to “wear something cute and make each day count.” She referred to Dana Farber as The Cancer Factory, and I remember laughing out loud at her recounting a terrible visit to TCF in which she was so sick she vomited up her blueberry yogurt, but said “I’m pleased to notice that I’ve not only managed to keep fuchsia barf off floor and out of hair but also off pristine white tee-shirt. Rockstar.” RIP, Sarah. Your humor and balls-out approach to cancer will be greatly missed.

This year, I tried. I tried to not hate Mother’s Day. I tried to enjoy it, for my sake, my mom’s sake, my kids’ sake. We spent a nice day by the pool with lots of champagne and yummy food, in the presence of 2 of my dearest friends, 2 of my all-time favorite people. I had such high hopes, such great expectations. But in the end, I should have just given up and worn this t-shirt:

cafepress.com

A blow-out end to my cancer-versary

Posted: May 2, 2011 | Author: pinkunderbelly | Filed under: breast cancer, kids | Tags: DD coffee, Dunkin Donuts, missing mom, NYFD, Osama bin laden, pancreatic cancer, President Obama, sonogram, terrorist attacks, World Trade Center, yellow lab | 3 Comments

It has been suggested by the author of this little beauty that I orchestrated the death of Osama bin Laden as a bookend to my cancer-versary celebration. He suggested that while I am “a bad-ass bitch” and have kicked cancer to the curb, this may be taking the celebration too far.

Oh, if only I had that kind of power. Oh, the things I could do. And really, who’s to say how much is too much when it comes to celebrating? I was going to write about our trip to the Museum of Fine Arts to see the National Gallery’s Impressionist exhibit yesterday, but this is way more important. Art can wait; the idea of me having that kind of power is intoxicating!

Although I don’t actually have the power to hunt down and kill the mastermind behind our national tragedy, the idea does appeal, and believe me, I have a lot of pent-up energy from my “cancer journey” and would have loved the chance to spew all that on Mr. Pure Evil. Well, it does at least give me an excuse to take a leisurely stroll down memory lane, to the days after September 11, 2001, and the events that changed the world. I’m glad that President Obama finally has some good news to report.

I can imagine him practically sprinting down this lofty hall of the White House to the press corps, ready to shout the news from the rooftops, but being bound by presidential decorum.

Many things changed when bin Laden brought his personal brand of evil to US shores. The idea that the most powerful nation in the world was not immune to an attack by a crazy man with far-reaching power and an army of jihadists was foreign to us before September 11, 2001. Our sense of security was shaken, and air travel would never be the same.

I imagine everyone has a “where were you on September 11th?” story, much like recollections of where one was when JFK was assassinated. For me, I was chasing a wildly headstrong toddler around and expecting a second bundle of wildness.

Here I am with Wild Thing #1 in my arms and Wild Thing #2 in my belly at the Sesame Street exhibit at the Houston Children’s Museum. Yes, I notice that the 2-year-old child is almost half as long as me. That 2-year-old is fixin’ to turn 12 and can look me in the eye without a step-stool. But this is what he looked like in the days of the terrorist attack on these United States.

Wild Thing #2 turned out to be even wilder than her predecessor, and has shaken things up to a degree not even I, with my wild imagination, could have predicted. We should have known we were in for a wild ride with her, when she caused some much upheaval from the git-go. Her time in utero was not uneventful, and when she deemed it time to come into this world, she did it with a bit of an explosion. And that’s all I’m going to say about that. With her chubby cheeks and impish grin, she fooled us into thinking we were in control.

On the day before the terrorist attacks, I had a sonogram to get a glimpse into Macy’s world. She afforded the ultrasound technicians some beautiful pictures of her swimming around in her own private pool. We didn’t want to know her gender before she was born, preferring to be surprised like we were with Payton. There are so few great surprises in life anymore, and to us, the idea of being able to tell our friends, families, and loved ones “IT’S A BOY!” or “IT’S A GIRL!” was pretty special.

We wanted to have that chance again the second time around, and told the technician and the doctor emphatically that we absolutely, positively did not want to know this baby’s gender.

Sure, no problem, they said, and proceeded on with the sonogram, talking in code to describe what they were seeing without giving it all away.

Everything was working beautifully, until they slipped, and ruined the surprise.

I thought this was the worst thing ever! The end of the world! These idiots had ruined my surprise!

I cried my eyes out that afternoon, and while I knew I was fortunate to have a healthy baby growing inside of me, I was inconsolable about having my surprise jerked away from me. The pity party was in full swing, and all the pregnancy hormones associated with Wild Thing #2 raged on through that evening.

I went to bed on September 10th with eyes swollen from crying, and awoke to the news that terrorists had attacked the World Trade Center. My pity party came to a screeching halt.

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In the days that followed the attacks I was tense and restless. Rumors abounded of more attacks, and of Houston being a target because of its energy industry. I was glued to the news and gobbled up every human interest story that came my way. Three days after the attacks, in the midst of so many thousands of lost lives, we suffered another loss as Big Ed, the patriarch of our close family friends, succumbed to the ravages of pancreatic cancer.

The two events will forever be intertwined in my heart and mind. The images of September 11th are burned into our nation’s collective conscience, and the despair of cancer claiming yet another one of the good guys brought my aching heart even more sorrow. US flags flew from buildings, homes, firetrucks, even baby strollers. Patriotism had a renewed vigor, and our nation pledged to never forget the victims and the heroes of 9/11/02. Our smaller circle raised a toast to Big Ed and vowed to remember him always. If he hadn’t been stopped by cancer, I could imagine him packing all his tools and a thermos of Dunkin Donuts coffee into his pickup truck, and driving from Massachussets to New York City to lend a hand. That’s the kind of guy he was, and like the victims of the terrorist attacks, he is sorely missed, all these years later.

It took nearly a decade, but the great karma wheel finally caught up with Osama bin Laden. A lot has changed, in the world and in my own little corner of the universe, since the terrorists came to town. My firstborn continued his wildness, but eventually settled down into a quiet, baseball-loving kid. My second child was born, and the chaos that is Macy still ensues. We moved from Sugar Land to Durham, NC, for a 2-year stint. My sweet mama joined Big Ed in becoming yet another victim of the vicious beast we know as cancer. Maddy, the best dog in the world, thumped her old, white tail, winked at me one last time, then left me forever. My own home was dive-bombed by cancer, and my life and that of my family changed forever. While my “cancer journey” has a happier ending than my mom’s and Big Ed’s, it’s left me shaken and uneasy, constantly searching the sky for approaching planes.

I shudder to think at the number of lives lost and the huge amount of money spent on this war on terror, so for today, I will celebrate the triumph of good vs evil.

Wedding day thoughts

Posted: April 29, 2011 | Author: pinkunderbelly | Filed under: food, kids | Tags: Charles & Diana, Jacoby Ellsbury, Kate and William, missing mom, Prince Harry, Red Sox, royal wedding, Sports Center | 3 Comments

I’m not posting any pics of newlyweds William and Kate, because I’m having a little watch party for the recorded royal wedding tomorrow morning. Really, it’s a chance to drink champagne and eat scones, and I never turn down the chance to celebrate.

I’m really not all that into the royal wedding, so I’m a little sheepish about having a watch party; however, if I’m going to do it, I’m gonna do it right, and I don’t want to see any pictures of any of the festivities before my little watch party.

Apparently this requires me to stay inside my house with the blinds drawn and the computer, TV, and radio switched off.

Went to the gym first thing this morning, to un-do some of the damage I’m going to do this weekend (I’m still celebrating my cancer-versary, after all). All the ladies in the gym were talking about royal wedding this and beautiful gown that. I told LeRoy I was having a little watch party and didn’t want to see any of the footage until then. First he grilled me about what I would be eating and drinking at the party, then he said, “Good luck — there are 3 TVs upstairs and you’ll be in front of them, on the elliptical machine, for 20 minutes.”

I reminded him that I’m as stubborn as a wild hog and if I say I’m not going to see any royal wedding footage until tomorrow, then you can take that to the bank. Yes, there are indeed 3 TVs upstairs, and they were tuned to CNN, ESPN, and whatever channel airs Regis & Kelly’s show. Two of the three were showing royal wedding footage (good old reliable “Sports Center” had NFL draft junk and baseball highlights). Thank you, “Sports Center!”

Although, I do have a bone to pick with SC, which plays on a seemingly constant loop at my house, thanks to the 11-year-old boy who resides with me. In this morning’s baseball footage, which I saw once at home and once at the gym, they dutifully covered the Red Sox’s 6-2 pounding of the Orioles, but they lost a golden opportunity and made the pitiful decision to show Adrian Gonzalez instead of Jacoby Ellsbury.

redsox.com

WTH??

The baseball highlights are brief, and photo opps are precious. Nothing against A-Gon; he’s a stand-up player who’s a lot of fun to watch. But really?? Showing him instead of my boy crush, Ells? Terrible TV journalism.

Ells had a great game and is on a hot streak: last night he had 3 hits, as he had done the night before, and was the hero with a bases-loaded single up the middle to score 2 runs. Ells is 6-for-10 the last two games, and I predict even more great things for him.

Since Ells was robbed–along with the women of America–here’s the Ells shot for the day. I could post more, but I’ll be good.

You’re welcome, ladies.

I’ll be writing a scathing complaint to SC after I finish this post.

Back to the royal wedding.

I managed to not see any footage, a victory that matters to no one, but there it is nonetheless. I did get to thinking, though, about the other royal wedding in my lifetime, that of Charles and Diana.

They tied the royal knot in July of 1981, and I had just turned 12. My family had recently traveled to London, and there was quite a lot of hub-bub about the grand event, and being an impressionable young girl, I thought the whole thing was very exciting. My mom and I got up at the crack of dawn to watch it live, London time, and I feel like a bit of loser for having my watch party the day after, but who the hell wants to come over at 3 in the morning? Even for champagne.

Charles and Diana’s wedding seemed to be a fairy tale, with the grandeur of the monarchy and all the pomp & circumstance that goes along with it. They were elegant and lovely, although my mom couldn’t understand why her wedding dress was so wrinkled! I didn’t notice that, but did wonder if the fashion-forward Di ever looked back and regretted her hairstyle on that momentous day. I know I regretted mine.

Sadly, their fairy tale didn’t have a happy ending. Even though Di carried out her princessy duties with great elan, she never quite fit in with the other royals, including her husband. Her death in a car wreck in August 1997, at the age of 36, was tragic. Just tragic. That she was so young, and was just starting to find some happiness, and that she had two young boys who were the light of her life, is just so very tragic. But as we all know, tragedy knows no bounds and strikes randomly.

She seemed to be a fun-loving mom who wanted her boys to be noble but also real. Now that I’m a mother, I know how hard it is to raise kids, period, much less royal ones. I’ve known plenty of kids who were royal pains, my own included, but these boys seem to be the real deal. They seem to know how to be serious about their official family duties but also lead full and individualized lives.

Of course, all this got me thinking about William on his wedding day, and how very much he must be missing his mama, despite all the excitement and the festivities. I’ve heard it said that William’s new wife shares some of Diana’s traits, and I hope that her legacy lives on through this young couple.

Marriage is hard, plain and simple. It requires hard work, even when one’s spouse is easy-going and fun-loving, like mine is. Carrying out one’s marriage under the microscope and in the spotlight must be even harder, as the world saw with Charles and Diana. I hope the newlyweds have an easier time, and I hope Kate learned from Diana’s example about how to remain true to yourself while fulfilling your obligations.

I’ll never forget watching Diana’s funeral, and seeing the millions of people lining the streets. Emotions were raw as a nation, and perhaps the entire world, mourned the loss of “the People’s Princess.”

Watching those teenage boys, one of whom was about my own boy’s age now, walking along the procession route for their mama’s funeral is one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen. The grace and maturity William and Harry displayed is a testament to the woman who raised them.

They had to have been so shocked, so sad, and so bereft, yet they knew the eyes of the world were upon them, and like their mama had done so many times, they bucked up and got on with it, fulfilling their duty like the princes they are.

The most indelible image of that day, for me, is this one.

The letter from William and Harry inscribed “Mummy” that rode atop the carriage that carried her coffin to Westminster Abbey.

Nosey-Rosey that I am, I would LOVE to know what those sweet boys wrote to their mama. Of course, I wouldn’t really intrude on such a sacred thing as that, but I am curious. I wrote a letter to my mom, to go in her coffin. Don’t recall one thing I said in that letter, but I hope I expressed the huge love, endless gratitude, utter grief, and bottomless loss I felt in that moment. Words are insufficient when it comes to expressing the most delicate yet most cardinal feelings.

And that, my friends, is why we need champagne. Lots and lots of champagne.

It’s my cancer-versary

Posted: April 27, 2011 | Author: pinkunderbelly | Filed under: breast cancer, cancer fatigue, drugs, food, infection, kids, Surgery | Tags: baseball, breast cancer, cancer battle, cancer diagnosis, champagne, Couture for the Cause, DIEP, family, home health care, hospital, Houston, ICU, infection, infectious disease, IV antibiotics, kids, kids and cancer, life after cancer, Little League, loss, mastectomy, MD Anderson, Methodist Hospital, microsurgery, mockingbird, Mom, morphine, new boobs, plastic surgeon, plastic surgery, post-mastectomy, Race for the Cure, reconstruction, recovery, stress, surgery, survivor, Taylor Swift, tennis, the Big Dig, Tootsies Houston, Vancomycin, Willow Tree angels, wound care, wound vacuum | 20 Comments

One year ago today the bottom fell out of my carefully-ordered life when I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

To say that a lot has happened in the last year is an utter waste of words. I’m not sure there are words to convey how much has happened in the last year; if there are, they are reserved for better writers than I.

Being diagnosed with cancer at age 40 is a shock. Duh. It’s scary and unexpected and unnerving. Double duh. 40 is when we hit our stride. For me, it meant my kids were old enough to not need constant supervision but to still need my guidance. I’d recently discovered tennis, the new love of my life, and had time and freedom to play often. I had a tight circle of friends who knew who they are and where they want to go. I was very comfortable with the direction of my life and the steps I was taking to make it the very best it could be.

Then came cancer.

That vicious beast had already stolen my sweet mama from me, when she was only 67. I was 36 and finding my own way as a mother, and needed her input and presence. But more importantly, I needed her friendship. She and I never had the contentious relationship that a lot of mothers & daughters have. We always liked each other. Maybe because we were a bit opposite: she was yielding and I was (am) opinionated. But maybe we just got lucky, and had that special relationship that some fates bestow upon some people but not others. The reason for our good relationship is immaterial; the fact was, we treasured each other, and losing her was the worst thing to ever happen to me.

Until April 27, 2010.

My guardian angels were asleep at the wheel.

I’d been getting baseline mammograms since my mom died, since hers was a reproductive cancer and that put me at a slightly greater risk. More so, though, was my OB-GYN’s diligence. Her husband is an oncologist at MD Anderson, so she’s super-tuned to cancer and its sneaky ways of getting its foot inside the door. She saved my life. Pure and simple. And monumental.

When the news came on this day last year, I listened to everything Dr Dempsey told me about my cancer, as Boss Lady Staci dutifully took notes in Trevor’s stead as he hustled home from a business trip. I held it together until the end, when she asked if I had any more questions and I had one: how do I tell my kids?

They’d watched their YaYa die from cancer, and while only 6 and 3 years old, those memories are powerful. They wanted a lot of assurance that my cancer was different in every way from YaYa’s and that it was not going to kill me, too.

One week after my diagnosis, Payton turned 11. I was gearing up for a double mastectomy, but wasn’t going to neglect his celebration, because if we can’t celebrate life and its happy moments, then cancer might as well come and get us all. We had the usual birthday breakfast on the personalized birthday plates, just as we had every year. As I placed his feast in front of him, I muttered my birthday wish, which was to make sure I was around to place that personalized plate in front of him on May 3rd for many years to come. My firstborn isn’t going to celebrate his birthday without his mama if I have anything to say about it.

The day before my mastectomy, Macy and I met Jeffrey, the orphaned mockingbird rescued by Amy Hoover’s family. We’d been hearing about this little guy, and my animal-loving girl needed to see him for herself. I had a million things to do to prepare for not only surgery but also weeks of dependency, but we made time to meet Jeffrey, and I’m so glad we did.

Mastectomy day, I was up bright & early and ready to get the show on the road. Here I am at the hospital waiting to get de-cancer-fied.

Two weeks later, I turned 41. I celebrated in typical fashion, with a girlfriends’ lunch and champagne that night. White cake and bubbly are two of my favorite things, and they just say “party” to me. I didn’t feel great, but I was determined to greet the next year in my life with a glass in my hand and a smile on my face. Being surrounded by my best girls during the day and my family in the evening reminded me that life goes on and that while my recovery was hard, it was do-able, so take that, cancer.

A few days before my birthday, I strapped on as much determination as I could muster and took Macy to see Taylor Swift at the Toyota Center with her best bud, Ella, and my partner in crime, Jill. I was so afraid of being jostled by the crowd, as I was still pretty sore and healing was far from complete. But I wanted to be there and be a part of that big event, and to prove to myself that life doesn’t stop for cancer. I’d lost my breasts but not my drive. The glowsticks burned brightly as the music thumped, and I sat next to my favorite girl and soaked it all up. Every last drop.

Good thing I did, because my healing and happiness were short-lived.

Macy had just posted this on her chalkboard, and for all we knew, the worst was behind us and it could only improve from there. Hahahahahahahahahahahaha.

Just as I felt like I was really recovering from the mastectomy, the nosocomial infection entered my life. A curveball? And how.

Hospitalized for 9 days, pumped full of antibiotics, right tissue expander removed and left expander drained, my life took a decidedly unpleasant turn. It took 6 weeks to diagnose the mycobacterium, and nearly a month total of days spent in the hospital. That first 9-day stay was the longest of my hospitalizations, but also the scariest because the infection was hiding under the tissue expander, hard to diagnose but making me really, really sick. A month after the 9-day stay, I was back in the joint. Out for 3 days and back for 5 more days. Then, out for 2 weeks and back in for 3 days. A seemingly never-ending cycle. Each time I had to go back in, Macy would hand me Froggy, her most beloved of all her “crew” of stuffed animals. He’s been with her since she was a tiny baby and has enjoyed favored status among the masses of other stuffed animals. He’s been in her bed every night and has gone on every trip she’s taken, and she gave him to me to take on each trip to the hospital. He had a bath in hot, bleachy water with an extra rinse every time he came home to her.

She also gave me Baby Snoopy, another coveted member of the “crew,” and my heart swells at the idea of my baby girl’s thoughtfulness. Though she hated to see me go back to the hospital, she knew her “crew” would comfort me in her absence.

Gross picture, yes, but I did make it smaller so you don’t have to see it in all its glory. Apologies to Christy, who hates this kind of stuff, and Julie: you’d better start skimming because this is the icky part. The aftermath of the mycobacterium is unpleasant, for sure. And this is not the worst shot there is; this shot was taken after much healing had occurred, believe it or not. The wound left behind by the infection was 5.6 cm long, 3 cm wide and 2 cm deep. That dang bug wreaked a lot of havoc on my already-ravaged right chest wall, and it killed what little bit of healthy tissue was left after Dr Dempsey scooped most of it out to rid the cancer. It’s an insidious bug that is hard to treat. It’s not drug-resistant, like MRSA, but it is very slow-growing and so it responds slowly to antibiotics. Hence the long, long, looooooooong course of oral abx and the multiple rounds of IV antibiotics, at home and in the hospital. I still have this collection on my kitchen counter, to take twice a day, but luckily haven’t needed the IV version since the last go-round in March. No idea when I’ll get off the oral abx, but sweet Dr Grimes, my infectious disease doc, has told me that he has patients who are on abx therapy for years. Years. Plural. Egads.

Trevor and I became fluent in home health care and learned how to administer the vancomycin and cefapim all by ourselves. The learning curve wasn’t steep, and the whole process was very systematic. My home health nurse, Chona, was as kind and competent as could be, but the gravitas of my situation was clear.While I dreaded it and resented the 3 hours it took twice a day to infuse, I counted my blessings and reminded myself that it could be worse: I could be getting those drugs via IV in the hospital. Again. Which is why I smiled for the camera, tethered yet again but happy to be at home, with Snoopy to keep me and my IV pole company. And yes, that is a glass of wine on the table next to me. It was a dark period in my life, people; don’t judge.

Remember Sucky, the wound vac? This photo is harder for me to look at than the one of the wound. Oh, how I hated Sucky. Necessary, yes, but hateful. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.

This is what Sucky’s appendage looked like strapped to my body, so it could suck out the gunk and speed the healing from this curveball. The size of the plastic sheeting and the tape required to keep the Sucky train rolling was big enough to give me the vapors, and my poor skin is shuddering at the memories right now. And isn’t everyone thankful that I didn’t have a better camera than the one on my iPhone? Imagine how gruesome the photos would be! Oh, the horror.

The amount of supplies needed to deal with that wound was staggering. The home health stuff was delivered in big boxes, which cluttered up my office and dining room for a day or two before I said enough! and organized everything to minimize its presence. Out of sight, out of mind (sort of). I pared it down as much as I could.

I became proficient at prettying up the ugly truth of cancer treatment, and its equally- ugly friend,infection aftermath, fared the same. I may not have had control over the mutating cells in my body or the nasty bug that invited itself in post-mastectomy, but I sure could dictate how my surroundings would look during the after-party.

The amount of supplies needed for this fragile existence was great, and so was my need for comfort. That I found comfort in bubbly and coconut cream pie should come as no surprise to anyone who knows me. I may have been down and out, with cancer and infection taking their pounds of flesh (literally), but I was powered by Piper and pie.

The summer wore on and I barely saw the sun. And only then, through the window; I didn’t get out much. Between the hospital stays, feeling puny, IV drugs, and being on guard against germs, I missed out on a lot.

I did make it to Macy’s 2nd grade last-day-of-school festivities. She had something funny to say when it was her turn to take the podium, and although I don’t recall what it was, I’m glad I was able to be there to see her in action. I also dragged my sorry carcass to Payton’s 5th grade farewell. My friends in high places in the school volunteering world pulled some strings and had a reserved seat for me, along with a parking cone to save a parking place for Mary, who carted me there and back. My baby was moving on to middle school, and I was moving slowly–very slowly–toward recovery, from cancer and infection.

Right before school ended, Payton was honored with a spot on the All Star team. This boy lives & breathes baseball, and has from his earliest days, so this is a big deal.

The team went from District to Sectionals to State (or maybe Sectionals to District to State), and I made it to 1 game. Being in the hospital while my favorite player did that thing he does best was hard on this mama. His team had a lot of heart, in addition to some mad skills, and they were kind enough to play in my honor for the duration of their run toward State champs. I’ve never been more honored and humbled as when he came home from practice the night before the first tournament (District? Sectionals?) with a pair of pink sweatbands on his wrist. Learning that the entire team was wearing the pink, for me, moved me, and like the Grinch, my heart swelled to maybe a normal size.

I’ll be forever indebted to all the other All Star moms who cheered for my boy and provided yard signs, pool parties, custom shirts, and child-wrangling assistance in my absence, at our home field and on the road. Missing the games was hard, but knowing that my circle of baseball moms had my back made it bearable. And having my signed photo of the boys in red (with a dash of pink) brightened my hospital room and my spirits. That frame now sits on my dresser, and every day when I see it I remember not only the special summer of baseball success but also the pure hearts of the families on that team who helped my own family in our time of need.

Good things can come from a bad situation. There is hope inside a diagnosis. You get a measure of the depth of people’s kindness, which comes out in lots of ways. Like custom cupcakes. I liked that one a lot, and so did my kids.

Like a card signed by the staff at PF Chang’s during a celebratory lunch. Our waiter knew we were celebrating some good news in the cancer battle and took it upon himself to have his co-workers celebrate along with us. I said it then, and I’ll say it again: Eat at Chang’s!

My friend Paula from Duke ran in the Salt Lake City Race for the Cure in my honor and sent me her bib from the race. At that point, I was a long way from even considering doing a 5K, so it did my heart good to know she was out there, pounding the pavement among an army of pink and thinking of me.

One weekend in between hospital stays, Macy and I snuck away to Galveston with Christy and her daughter Alexis, for a much-needed break from illness, wound care, and calamities. Macy caught a huge fish off the dock, and seeing her proud smile made the trip even better. There’s something magical about the sunset off the water, and I savored the splendor.

Before the summer was over, we had the chance to puppy-sit this little beauty a couple of times. If puppy kisses can’t cure me, I don’t know what can!

Once word got out that the puppy-sitting business was up & running, we got to keep Pepper for several days. My kids loved having her to snuggle with on the couch, and I relished the idea that the hard times were morphing into better times.

School started, much to my children’s chagrin, and Payton went off to middle school while Macy began 3rd grade. A few days after school started, I was fresh out of the hospital, she and I rocked out at the Jack Johnson concert in the Woodlands. Because I had been hospitalized, again, so recently, my attending the show wasn’t a sure thing. I still had the dressing on my port-a-cath and wasn’t feeling great. What is a sure thing, however, is that I’m as stubborn as cancer is shitty, so I made it to the show.

August and September were spent recuperating, and at the end of September I hobbled myself on down to Tootsies, a chichi clothing store in the high-rent district that was outfitting survivor models for the Couture for the Cause fashion show. I’d only been out of the hospital for a month, but I had committed to doing the show and I made good on my word. Scared breathless and unsure of myself are not states in which I commonly find myself, but the fashion show landed me smack dab in the middle of “What in the world am I doing?” territory. I wasn’t wild about the dresses I wore, but my shoes were a-maz-ing and the experience is one I truly will never forget. Oh, and we raised almost $100K for the cause.

October signaled the return of some normalcy. I was able to put together something I’d daydreamed about a lot in the hospital: the First Annual Pink Party. I wanted to gather my circle of girls who had seen me and my family through the roughest part of the “cancer journey” to show my thanks and spend some non-sick time together. With the pink theme, yummy food (if I do say so myself), and plentiful drink, it was a smash success.

We seemed to have the infection under control and the antibiotics were doing their job, and after a much longer-than-anticipated hiatus, I was back on the tennis court. My sweet tennis friends gave me a little trophy that says “Winner,” and it’s the best trophy I’ve ever won.

This little trophy soon had a friend, though, after Boss Lady and I won the Witches’ Open at the end of October. Being back on the court with my tennis friends was so great. Tennis is very good therapy.

As if that day wasn’t fun enough, that night was the Maroon 5 concert in the Woodlands. Tennis, then dinner and the show was a balm for my battered soul. We ate & drank then sang along with Adam for an unforgettable night.

Before too long, fall was upon us (or what passes for fall in Houston), and we readied ourselves for the holidays. Thanksgiving was spent with Team Cremer, with everyone contributing something to the feast. The kids worked off their meal with the traditional post-turkey swim. We had a lot for which to give thanks.

Christmas and the New Year came and went, and before I knew it was time to start making preparations for reconstruction. The Big Dig was a big step, and I had hoped it would signal the end to my “cancer journey” and allow me to put all that hardship behind me. Adding another doctor, and another Dr S, to my cast of characters could only mean one thing: I was going in for a very big surgery.

The DIEP procedure is amazing and hard, in a lot of ways: time consuming, intricate, detailed, and not infallible. Babying the newly transplanted skin, tissues, and blood vessels was hard work, and the crack team at Methodist in the med center did an outstanding job.

This is what I looked like before The Big Dig:

and this is what I looked like 3 days later, leaving the hospital:

It was a hard 3 days, no lie, but at least I was going home. One thing I would miss from the hospital was the morphine. Oh, how I love that stuff. I guess a lot of people do, too, because they guard it closely and I got a laugh from the ping-pong-paddle-key used to replenish my supply. Kinda reminded me of a gas station restroom key.

One thing I would not miss from the hospital was this chair.

This was the chair in ICU that I had to hoist myself into, after hoisting myself and my 17-inch-long abdominal incision out of bed. Again, it’s a good thing I’m so stubborn, because it would have been easy to roll over, say this is too hard, too painful, too much. But by golly I was going to get out of that bed and into that chair no matter what, and with my morphine pump in hand, I did just that. I don’t think I cussed too much, either.

Recovery from The Big Dig is ongoing, and they say it will take a while longer. I’m not the most patient person, and I’m ready to have everything back to normal. Of course I know there’s a new normal, and it progresses at its own pace, not mine. It’s been a long, tough “journey,”and it seemed that everything that could go wrong did go wrong, for a while.

But a lot of good things have happened, too. I started blogging, for one, with Pedey at my side or in my chair, or both; who knew so many people were interested in my little “cancer journey?” It’s humbling and rewarding to see my “readership” grow, and I am immensely grateful for all the love and support that’s come my way. Someday I may have no cancer-related news to share. How weird will that be? I imagine I’ll find something to talk about in this space, nonetheless.

I will have more stories to share about my adventures with Dr S. There are a couple of revisions that he needs to make to his palette that is my newly constructed chest, and while we argue about the timeframe for that, it will likely provide blog fodder and laughs along the way.

One year ago, life took a decidedly unpleasant turn. Cancer entered my life like an afternoon storm along the Gulf Coast.

And like the butterfly bush in my backyard that was uprooted and tossed around by high winds recently, I weathered the storm. I’m setting my roots and hoping that the winds that blow my way in future are calmer.

Like the pillow on my bed says, I am a survivor.

The Pink Underbelly

A day in the life of a sassy Texas girl dealing with breast cancer and its messy aftermath

Dad’s Day

Shut up about the small stuff

Art with attitude

I get by with a little help from my friends

Thea Sophia

One year ago today

I hate Mother’s Day

A blow-out end to my cancer-versary

Wedding day thoughts

It’s my cancer-versary

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