Front-page news

Posted: February 9, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, drugs, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

An article on the front page of the Houston Chronicle today says that big changes are in store for the breast surgery required for cancer treatment. A new study from our own local attraction, M.D. Anderson, found that women with early stage breast cancer don’t need to have their lymph nodes removed, even if the nodes are cancerous.

This is big news. Breast surgeons are calling it “practice-changing” and proof of the old adage that “less is more.” Dr Kelly Hunt, surgery professor at Anderson, says, “The study shows that we don’t have to take out huge swaths of tissue, that we can avoid aggressive surgery without any effect on outcome.” Personally, I’m a fan of anything that avoids removing huge swaths of tissue. Ick. Ugh. Yuck. Been there, done that. More than once.

This new study pokes holes in the century-old belief that a surgeon’s job was to cut out every bit of the cancer, and found that removing the lymph nodes didn’t give women any benefit over radiation and drug therapy alone. The prevailing science has been that removing lymph nodes helps prevent the cancer from spreading and/or recurring.

Removing the lymph nodes from the armpit area is a hot mess waiting to happen. You’ve got the cosmetic issue of ending up with a concaved surface. You’ve got the potential for infection (ahem). You’ve got the risk of lymphedema, which is painful swelling in the arm that cannot be cured. Anyone who has ever seen a photo of a limb swollen to multiple times its normal size because of lymphedema knows to fear this condition. I’ve met several breast cancer survivors on the tennis court since I returned to the game post-mastectomy and post-infection, and more than one of them played with a compression sleeve (a form-fitting garment that goes from wrist to shoulder) to stave off lymphedema. Tammy, my dear lymphedema specialist, made me take one of those bloody things home to keep in my drawer, “just in case,” because the really stinky thing about lymphedema — aside from the fact that there’s no cure — is that it can come on at any time. Women have gotten it years after a mastectomy, with no prior symptoms.

If you want all the nitty-gritty details of the study, you can read the New York Times article, which goes into a little more detail than the Chronicle’s story. The Chronicle does get credit for providing more info about Anderson’s role in the study. We like to root for the local team. Seems 100 of the 891 patients in this study were from Anderson, and the researchers originally planned to expand the study to include 1,900 women, but shut down the study before that happened because the results were so overwhelmingly conclusive.

I like overwhelmingly conclusive results. You don’t find a lot of them in medicine. I’ve learned that the hard way in my “cancer journey.” I’m a black & white, just-the-facts-ma’am kind of girl, and I found myself smacking my head against a wall more than once in pursuit of a concrete, yes-or-no type answer. In medicine, precious few of those exist. I suspect that’s why it’s referred to as “practicing” medicine.

In fact, Dr Grimes, my infectious disease doctor, has spoken of practicing the art of medicine as much as the science of medicine. I really like the way that sounds, as if it’s so very civilized and full of aesthetic value. In reality, it’s a balancing act of drug therapy vs side effects; of benefit vs cost; of how far can we push the body yet still maintain the integral strength necessary to fight the disease.

In other words, there is no overwhelmingly conclusive answer. And sometimes the doctors don’t know themselves what the right answer is. That’s why it’s so nice when a study comes along that says, yes, for sure this is the right thing to do.

I’m super happy about this big news. I hope it lives up to its potential to make life easier for the 200,000 women a year diagnosed with this breast cancer. And I really hope that it’s just a teaser of what big breakthroughs in breast cancer research are yet to come.

Shameless plug

Posted: February 6, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | 3 Comments

Is it a shameless plug if it doesn’t benefit me personally? Is it even a plug? Or shameless? These are the questions that fill up my brain and try and distract me from the task at hand, which is to get out the vote.

Meet Alexis. Or at least meet three-quarters of her face. Yes, her eyes really are that blue. No, she doesn’t wear colored contacts. She’s 16 and entered in a contest to win scholarship money for college. She wants to go to TCU and the tuition is quite dear, as our British friends would say.

She’s funny and loyal and responsible. She coaches little kids’ swim team and basketball teams. She babysits and never loses her patience. She genuinely likes little kids. She thinks it would be cool to counsel people in drug or alcohol rehab (hmmmm, she may be seeing me in her future!).

She loves animals. A lot. She got a bunny named Henry for Christmas. Adopted him from the SPCA (yes! They do have bunnies there), because while she wanted a bunny, she also wanted to be responsible and do the right thing and make a difference, and all that. She assumes full responsibility for him: feeds him, cuddles him, cleans up his messes, and spends her babysitting money on timothy hay and chew toys.

So do me a favor and vote for her. She’s funny, responsible, caring, forward-thinking, and kind. How many teenagers do you know who fit that description? Hopefully lots. Being the silly girl that I am, I believe that good things happen to deserving people. Don’t you?

Vote for Alexis!

Office supplies

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

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

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

I also liked the wide variety of ink pens.

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

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

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

Crazy lady on aisle 3

Posted: January 6, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

I went into Randalls yesterday, a grocery store at which I rarely shop, and came across the strangest, angriest, kookiest lady I’ve ever seen.  I’m still wondering if this really happened, or was a crazy-train dream.

Here’s how it went down: I was behind Ms. Crazy in the checkout line. Her roast or whatever cut of red meat had dripped bloody juice all over the floor where I needed to walk, and was also all over the conveyer belt of the checkout area. I didn’t say anything even though, as a non-meat-eater I was sicked out big time.

Ms. Crazy noticed it on the conveyer belt and griped at the sweet elderly cashier to clean it up. Hearing how she talked to this service provider was the first clue that Ms. Crazy is, well, crazy.

When Pat the sweet elderly cashier rang up Ms. Crazy’s assorted box of individually wrapped cookies, Ms. Crazy complained in a loud & ugly way that the store flyer advertises that product for $2.99 but it rang up for $3.99. Ok, mistakes happen, and I’m pretty sure sweet Pat isn’t the one responsible for programming the sale prices into the cash register, so back off Crazy Lady.

Pat consulted the flyer and found that yes, that product is on sale but Ms. Crazy got the wrong variety or wrong size or something. Ms. Crazy’s response was to bark at Thomas, the bag boy, to go get her the right kind of cookies.

Yes, ma’am.

He came back with what he thought was the right variety, but it wasn’t the assorted box, it was all Chips Ahoy, and Ms. Crazy and her family need the variety and excitement that only Chips Ahoy, Nutter Butter, AND Mini Oreos can bring. Did I say they need the variety? Pardon me, they deserve it. She didn’t say that, but I could totally tell that’s the kind of person she is.

So Ms. Crazy sent poor Thomas back to the cookie aisle to do her bidding. While he was gone, she looked at me, waiting ever so patiently behind her hot mess self. I was making an effort to be patient, for once, and didn’t huff or look at my watch or otherwise complain. But when Ms. Crazy rolled her eyes at me, as if to suggest the Randalls employees were disappointing her high expectation of — and God-given right to — exemplary service, my patience quickly evaporated.

That was when Ms. Crazy noticed the bloody juice all over the floor. She asked me, Is that blood? I said, I don’t think it’s blood but juice from the meat you’re buying. Again, I didn’t say one word about how disgusting that is, or what a potential health hazard it is, or inquire about her feelings toward the innocent cow that gave its life to appear in her shopping cart or lecture her in any way about all manner of evil represented by that styrofoam tray full of flesh & muscle.

Not one word.

Fat lot of good all my restraint did me.

When Thomas had yet to appear with the holy grail of cookies, I jokingly told Ms. Crazy that I would give her a dollar if it would help speed up her checkout. She didn’t think I was one bit funny, and told me to, and I quote, “Shut the F*%# up.”

Yes, you read that right. She told me to shut up AND used the F word. In the grocery store.

Wow.

That is some serious insanity.

I was stunned, for sure. I kept my cool and told her that she had no right to speak to me, or anyone else, like that. She replied in a nasty sneering way, “Oh  no! Did I offend you? I doubt it.”

Ok. Right. I’m not even sure how to respond to that, so I took a step back and said, ok, back off, I was just joking anyway. She yelled something about how Randalls needs to fix the computer and correct the price right because what’s going to happen when the next person comes along and has the same problem? I told her I’m not real concerned about the next person, because hopefully by then I’ll be home and have my groceries unloaded and be on to the next task.

Well, Ms. Crazy didn’t like my answer one bit. Not one bit. She screeched at me (yes, she really screeched), “You’re in your Sugar Land bubble and just want everyone to hurry up, get out of your way because you’re next.”

I’ve often joked about the Sugar Land bubble, where all the kids are above-average thinkers, the moms all have perfect figures and keep a perfect house, the dads all have high-paying jobs and coach Little League and everyone drives a gas-guzzling SUV. God Bless Sugar Land.

But I’ve never suggested that the “Sugar Land bubble” entitles me to preferential treatment.  So there, Crazy Lady.

After she screeched at me, I held up my hands as if to say, Ok, whatever, and to signal my official disengagement. Thomas had returned with the offending cookies by this time, and it was time for Ms. Crazy to pay for her cartload of processed, trans-fat-laden crap. And she didn’t even have her credit card out, ready to swipe.

I swear, some people. Sure lady, hold up the entire line so you can get your cookies and be unprepared to transact business. Egads.

But that’s not all — when Ms. Crazy finally got around to digging her credit card out of her wallet, she suggested my shopping cart was in her way. And she said, “Move your cart or I will move it for you.” Wow, again. I asked her if she was threatening me, and she said it sure sounded like it. So I decided to treat her like the child whose behavior she was modeling and said, “As soon as you ask nicely, I will happily move my cart.”

Ms. Crazy clearly doesn’t like people who establish boundaries. She told me to move my f-ing cart and then she shoved the cart a little bit. Pathetic.

I really wondered about the right parting shot. I chose to let it lie and didn’t say anything, but I kinda wish I would have told her how sad it must be to be her. Or that it’s not nice to talk to people that way. Or that there’s lots of good mental help available, even without comprehensive insurance.

After she left, Pat the cashier apologized to me, and Thomas said the Ms. Crazy comes in there all the time and is always like that. I joked to them both that if she was waiting for me in the parking lot, I was going to call the police. They took me seriously, though, and Pat made sure I had my cell phone and asked Thomas to walk me to my car!

And people say nothing exciting ever happens in the suburbs.

Cheers to 2011

Posted: January 3, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

“The Old Year has gone.  Let the dead past bury its own dead.  The New Year has taken possession of the clock of time.  All hail the duties and possibilities of the coming twelve months!” ~Edward Payson Powell

I have to admit, I didn’t know who Mr. Powell is, but I sure like his sentiment. About the New Year. About the past being just that — the past. About the ripe possibilities contained in a brand new year.

(BTW, Powell was a journalist and author in the late 1800s and early 1900s who died at age 83 while on a fishing trip with his daughter.)

Every January, the dawn of a new year is exciting and full of potential. Many people make (and quickly break!) resolutions in an effort to shrug off bad habits and assume good ones. Personally, I abstain from resolutions. I’m more of list-maker and goal-setter year-round. Not that there aren’t things I’d like to improve upon, for schizzle. But I’m wise enough in my advancing age to know that a promise made at the tail-end of one year for sweeping change in the next is an unrealistic proposition.

January is one of my favorite months, as it signals the end of the hectic holiday season– which typically is not my favorite time of year– and it ushers in the celebration of the entrance of Macy into the world. (I feel the same way about May, and the celebration of all things Payton.) 

This year, this fresh new year, of all years, I’m not looking for sweeping change. The last 6 months notwithstanding, I have to say my life is pretty sweet. And even when I factor in the calamity that ensued since May, I would have to give myself an above-average grade in coping, managing, and reinventing.

Not to toot my own horn, but I think I handled it all just fine. There was a decent amount of bloodshed, but all of it was mine and I didn’t cause it to happen to anyone else (namely Dr S, who could have suffered at my hands more than once!), so that’s a good start. I made some new friends, always a good thing, and learned an entirely new vocabulary. I like to think I passed the “Eleanor Roosevelt test” in which a woman is like a tea bag: you never know how strong she is until she gets into hot water.

So I won’t make any resolutions for this newly minted year. I will resolve, however, to keep on keeping on. To not let the turkeys get me down. To keep on truckin’. To mind the gap. To live free or die. To do unto others. To keep calm and carry on.

And my new favorite platitude: 

Good ol’ Dr S

Posted: November 14, 2010 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

It’s been too long since I’ve posted a good story about Dr S, my most-favorite and much-abused plastic surgeon who saw me through the worst of the infection(s) this past summer and with whom I have an ongoing love-hate relationship. I love to needle him, and he hates to see my name on his clinic schedule!

I saw him Friday for a check-up (I love the way “check-up” sounds so simple & innocent, and misleadingly free of scary stuff like tumors and fat necrosis and scar tissue and reconstruction). He’s usually pretty prompt, and out of the many, many office visits I’ve had with him, I really haven’t had to wait too long for him. The few times it has happened, though, it has made me mad and I let him know it. I understand that delays happen, and the doctor isn’t always in control of the schedule, but I’m just an impatient person and it annoys me. My bad.

Friday was no exception. After waiting nearly an hour in the waiting area (so aptly named, that place), I waited some more in the exam room. I’ve explained before that although I am “just” an at-home mom, my time is still valuable, and I prefer him to keep some other patient waiting and get to me first. Not that I want some other patient to have to wait longer than me, but really once you’ve been diagnosed and gone through a nasty surgery and then the whole infection scene and multiple hospitalizations, well, ok maybe I do want someone else to have to wait longer. Surely all of that mess garners some sort of street cred or extra credit or something that allows me to go to the front of the line. But no. Like so many things related to cancer and subsequent recovery, there’s no easy way, no priority boarding, no free ride.

So after an hour of waiting on Friday, Amy and I were joking, as we’ve done before, about the many ways we could get his attention. We can usually hear his voice through the exam room walls and can gauge if he’s wrapping things up with the previous patient (although sadly, we can’t make out all the words and so can’t really get a sense of what they’re discussing, and y’all know how nosey I am; being able to properly eavesdrop would pass the time quite nicely). We’ve considered texting him from the waiting area and the exam room (yes, I do have his cell number), or knocking on the walls and hollering, Hurry it up in there, we’ve got to get back to Sugar Land for carpool!

Well on Friday we hatched a new plan and decided to write him a note and slip it under the door. We ripped the paper covering from the exam table and scribbled, You’ve got 5 minutes. Then we stuck it under the door.

Ballsy? Perhaps. Rude? A little. Effective? Most definitely. He burst through the exam room door post haste, note in hand and grinning wildly. He needed a little shake-up to his day. He muttered something about how he’s never in all his years had a patient give him so much grief. I replied that I’ve never in all my years liked waiting, something I’ve been imminently clear about from day one with him. Y’all may recall from my previous blog on Caring Bridge that I told Dr S at our first consultation, shortly after my diagnosis, that I know full well and good that he has other patients; I’m not his only patient, but I expect to be his number-one priority. I was kidding then, but oh how eerily prescient that little wisecrack turned out to be. Six months later–and today is exactly six months since my mastectomy–that man is still not rid of me.

Here’s the really funny part, though — he actually tried to blame his lack of punctuality on Daylight Savings. He said his schedule has been messed up since the time change, and I guess what we’re supposed to infer from that is that it’s not his fault. Time change, huh? It must have been pretty clear by the look on my face that I wasn’t buying that, because he asked me why I was looking at him as if he were FOC. I wasn’t familiar with that acronym so he said what about FOS? That one I know, and told him that I did indeed think he was FOS. Totally FOS. Since we “fall back” with the time change, he should have been an hour early!

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