A nation grieves

Words fail me in light of the latest school shooting.Connecticut_School_Sh_inev_t607

Twenty precious children and 7 adults gunned down by a man with access to incredibly powerful weaponry defies logic. My brain understands the words involved in this story, but I struggle to process them.

The angel wings hanging from the elementary school sign crush me. The irony of the “Visitors Welcome” addendum to the school sign hurts my heart.

nytimes.com

nytimes.com

President Obama visited Newtown, Connecticut, last night and spoke to the grieving townspeople. It was his fourth time during his tenure to speak to a town ripped apart by gun violence. He came as our country’s Chief Executive, but also — and perhaps more importantly — as a father. He finished writing his speech on Air Force One as he made his approach into this small, close-knit Connecticut town. One of the things he said in his speech was “I am very mindful that mere words cannot match the depths of your sorrow, nor can they heal your wounded hearts.”

nytimes.com

nytimes.com

True, Mr President, so true.

Mere words are virtually powerless in the face of such an unimaginable tragedy, and yet we try.

ctpost.com

ctpost.com

Newtown Chief Medical Examiner H. Wayne Carver had the unthinkably horrific job of performing autopsies on the shooting victims, the majority of whom were just 6 and 7 years old.

ctpost.com

ctpost.com

Carver did not mince words about the abject horror of the wounds suffered by the gunman’s victims. He said that all of the victims were hit multiple times, some as many as 11 times; 2 children were shot at “extremely close range.” The victims suffered “devastating” wounds by a weapon that delivers bullets “designed in such a fashion (that) the energy is deposited in the tissue so the bullets stay in.” He added that he knows of no one who hunts with such a weapon because “the bullets are so fast that they break up and spray the targets with bits of lead.” The Bushmaster .223-caliber rifle unleashed on these sweet babies and the school employees is known for its easy handling and deadly accuracy.

Carver, whose wife is an infectious disease doctor, says he’s learned from her to look at issues in an “epidemiological sense.” I’ve spent a fair amount of time with a team of infectious disease doctors, thanks to a nasty post-mastectomy infection, so I completely understand what he means by this. He went on to say this: “Firearms are like any other pathogen,” he said. “The more bacteria in the water supply the more people get diarrhea. The more weapons in a society the more people get shot.”

Connecticut State Police Lt. Paul Vance said Sunday that the shooter used “multiple” 30-round rifle magazines in the attack. Scott Knight, former chairman of the International Chiefs of Police Firearms Committee, says of the Bushmaster, “The way it looks, the way it handles — it screams assault weapon.” He added that the gun’s practical application is little more than “a combat weapon.” The Bushmaster rifle was also used by the D.C.-area sniper who killed 10 people in 2002.

While I don’t want to lose sight of the tragedy by going off on a gun-control tangent, the issue can hardly be ignored. The issue is rife with complications, but at some point public safety must prevail, regardless of politics. With an estimated 300 million guns in the hands of U.S. citizens, it’s easy to say it’s too late, but the innocent children of Sandy Hook deserve better. While I personally support the wealth of freedoms we in this country enjoy, at some point we need to get real about the freedom to bear arms. I seriously doubt that the framers of the U.S. Constitution could have in their wildest dreams imagined modern-day weaponry and the undeniably mentally unstable people who use those weapons to mow down innocent people at gas stations, in movie theaters, and in schools and universities.

I imagine that our founding fathers would scoff at the people who cling to the Second Amendment as rationale for owning assault weapons. Read the exact text of the Second Amendment and explain to me how it applies to assault weapons. Please. “A well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.”

Much has been written in the last few days about that “well-regulated Militia,” and people continue to screech about their need to keep guns in order to ensure their personal safety. However, we are hardly at risk of being attacked by indigenous peoples upon whose territory we’ve infringed, nor are we forming a new government or breaking free of Great Britain. The attacks we are vulnerable to nowadays have nothing to do with a militia and everything to do with assault rifles and mental illness.

The way I interpret it, the point of the Second Amendment is to ensure security, not erode it. Allowing guns of all types to fall into the hands of anyone with money to buy them or happenstance of being in the presence of them, as was the case of the Newtown shooter, hardly seems to speak to security. While gun laws vary from state to state, the law in Connecticut prohibits anyone under the age of 21 from buying or carrying a gun. Yet the guy who opened fire on Sandy Hook Elementary School was 20 years old. The guns belonged to his mother, who is also now dead at the hands of this young man, and while her guns were purchased legally and registered, they were used to kill innocent people. How is it that her right to bear arms supersedes 20 children’s right to not be gunned down in school? How is it that the Second Amendment trumps the lives of the principal, school counselor, and teachers who died trying to shield and save their pupils? Why must our lives be marginalized by a “right” to protect oneself from a threat that may never materialize?

beingliberal.com

beingliberal.com

Unlike the words spoken by our President last night, my mere words cannot even begin to scratch the surface of what I want to say, and what needs to be said. So I will let the images do the talking.

dailymail.co.uk

dailymail.co.uk

A wreath containing the names of the victims reminds of us the proximity of this horrific tragedy to Christmas. I imagine presents for those 20 children, perhaps already wrapped and placed under the family’s tree, or perhaps hiding in the truck of Dad’s car or in the cool dark of the attic, waiting to be unveiled after the kids are asleep on Christmas Eve.

nytimes.com

nytimes.com

A woman grieves under a wall of candles, flowers, and stuffed animals while holiday lights twinkle in the nearby trees. To juxtapose the holiday festivities and the enormous loss of life is almost too much to bear.

nytimes.com

nytimes.com

Eric Mueller, a high school art teacher, created a memorial made from wooden angels. I wonder if he assigned the different hair colors based on photos of the victims.

googleimages.com

googleimages.com

Hordes of items placed at a memorial site. The legos in the front are simply heartbreaking.

cnn.com

cnn.com

A man played his violin as people approached the memorial site, his hand-lettered sign reading: “Our tears are on your shoulders, and are hands are in yours.”

nytimes.com

nytimes.com

Someone lovingly created a teddy-bear memorial, with each bear noting the name and age of the victims, then wrapped in plastic to sustain the wintry weather.

ctpost.com

ctpost.com

A young boy walks past a line of Christmas trees decorated for the victims.

cnn.com

cnn.com

The sight of brave and burly firefighters kneeling bare-headed and respectfully in front of the school sign is powerful, and one can only imagine what was going through the heads of these first-responders as they grappled with the unspeakable evil that permeated their town — the town they devote their lives to keeping safe.

nytimes.com

nytimes.com

Across town, firefighters draped a fire truck in black.

nytimes.com

nytimes.com

Tracy Kirk lit a candle for each victim.

ctpost.com

ctpost.com

I tried to do the same at my house Friday night but it didn’t look quite as nice as hers. It was windy and the candles didn’t want to stay lit. 556733_10200220937513052_1703948180_n

Another view of those angel wings.ctpost.com

A woman hugs her daughter on the church steps in Newtown.cnn.com

People around the world shared our sorrow. Here, people in Bangalore, India, pay their respects.

cnn.com

cnn.com

A woman lays flowers at a memorial site on Copacabana Beach in Rio.

ctpost.com

ctpost.com

Hometown hero JJ Watt displayed a personal homage in the Texans’ game against the Colts yesterday.121216051425-04-newtown-reax-1216-horizontal-gallery

And the victims.

Sandy Hook Elementary School Principal Dawn Hochsprung, 47, was described by ABC News as “a 5-foot-2-inch raging bull lifesaver.” She confronted the gunman head-on in her attempt to stop him.

rex/rex

rex/rex

School psychologist Mary Sherlach, 56, also hurled herself at the gunman in an attempt to keep her students safe. She and Hochsprung are believed to be the first victims at the school.

abcnews.com

abcnews.com

First-grade teacher Victoria Soto, 27, is described as a hero who died shielding her students from the gunman.

people.com

people.com

Anne Marie Murphy, 52, was a special education teacher at Sandy Hook who is described as artistic, fun-loving, witty, and hardworking.

legacy.com

legacy.com

Rachel D’Avino, 29, was a behavioral therapist who worked with autistic kids. Her fiancée was planning to propose to her on Christmas Eve.

nydailynews.com

nydailynews.com

Lauren Rousseau, 30, had just been hired at Sandy Hook last month. She was substituting for a teacher out on maternity leave.

legacy.com

legacy.com

And the children.

Charlotte Bacon, 6, begged her mother to let her wear the new dress and pink boots that were supposed to be for Christmas. Her mother acquiesced, and it was the last outfit her young daughter would ever pick out for herself. Charlotte’s family described her thus: “She was going to go some places in this world” “This little girl could light up the room for anyone.”

legacy.com

legacy.com

Daniel Barden, 7, was a fireball who had recently lost his two front teeth. The youngest of three children, his family described him as a constant source of laughter and joy.

google.com

google.com

Olivia Engel, 6, was the teacher’s pet, the line leader. Her uncle said that on Friday she was simply excited to go to school and return home and make a gingerbread house. “Her only crime,” he said, “is being a wiggly, smiley 6-year-old.”

legacy.com

legacy.com

Josephine Gay, 7, just celebrated her birthday last Tuesday, according to the Hartford Courant. In a Wall Street Journal article, she is said to have loved riding her bike and setting up a lemonade stand in her neighborhood. Her favorite color was purple.

legacy.com

legacy.com

Dylan Hockley, 6, loved video games, jumping on a trampoline, watching movies and eating garlic bread. He had dimples, blue eyes and “the most mischievous little grin,” according to his grandmother. His family moved to Connecticut from England and chose Newtown because its schools has exemplary academic ratings.

bostonherald.com

bostonherald.com

Madeleine Hsu, 6. No photo available. A neighbor told the Wall Street Journal that the little girl was known as Maddy and always wore flowery dresses.

Catherine Hubbard, 6, was the daughter of Jennifer and Matthew Hubbard. The family released a statement thanking everyone for their love and prayers.

abcnews.com

abcnews.com

Chase Kowalski, 7, completed his first triathlon last year. He also loved baseball, Cub Scouts, and the kids’ workshops at Home Depot. His parents said “We are thankful to the Lord for giving us seven years with our beautiful loving son. It is with heavy hearts that we return him.”

legacy.com

legacy.com

Jesse Lewis, 6, had hot chocolate with his favorite breakfast sandwich — sausage, egg and cheese — at the neighborhood deli before going to school Friday morning, according to the Wall Street Journal. He loved animals and was learning to ride a horse.

wsj.com

wsj.com

Ana Marquez-Green, 6, is described as “beautiful and vibrant.” Her grandmother told the Associated Press that the family moved to Connecticut just two months ago and were drawn to Sandy Hook’s reputation.

9news.com

9news.com

James Mattioli, 6, is described by a neighbor as having “a 1,000-watt smile.”

9news.com

9news.com

Grace McDonnell, 7, was the ultimate girly-girl who loved playing dress-up, wearing jewelry, and all things pink.

legacy.com

legacy.com

Emilie Parker, 6, was the oldest of 3 girls. Her family also recently moved to Newtown where her dad works as a physician’s assistant. He says his oldest daughter was”kind and sunny-natured, the type of person who could just light up a room.” She was, he said, “an incredible person, and I am so blessed to be her dad.”

9news.com

9news.com

Jack Pinto, 6, loved football, loved the NY Giants, and loved Victor Cruz most of all. Cruz spoke to Jack’s family who said they were considering burying their son in a #80 jersey to reflect his love of Cruz. The wide receiver wrote a message to Jack on his cleats.

wsj.com

wsj.com

googleimages.com

googleimages.com

Noah Pozner, 6, “had a huge heart and he was so much fun, a little bit rambunctious, lots of spirit,” according to his aunt. “He was a gorgeous, gorgeous boy and he could really get what he wanted just by batting those long eyelashes and looking at you with those big blue eyes. You really couldn’t say no to him,” she said. Noah leaves behind a twin sister.

legacy.com

legacy.com

Caroline Previdi, 6, was reportedly always smiling and earned the nickname “Silly Caroline.” A neighbor remembers how “Silly Caroline” intervened when her son was nervous about starting kindergarten and sat with him on the bus to help calm his nerves.

legacy.com

legacy.com

Jessica Rekos, 6, loved anything relating to horses. She’d asked Santa for a new cowgirl hat and boots this year, and her parents had promised to get her a horse when she turned 10. Her mom’s words: “Jessica was our first born. She started our family, and she was our rock,” her family said in a statement. “She had an answer for everything, she didn’t miss a trick, and she outsmarted us every time. We called her our little CEO for the way she carefully thought out and planned everything. We cannot imagine our life without her.”

9news.com

9news.com

Avielle Richman, 6, also loved horses, and her riding instructor said she would giggle every time her horse trotted.

legacy.com

legacy.com

Benjamin Wheeler, 6, is described as an “irrepressibly bright and spirited boy whose love of fun and excitement at the wonders of life and the world could rarely be contained.” Ben was a fan of the Beatles. He loved lighthouses and the No. 7 train to Sunnyside, Queens.

wsj.com

wsj.com

Allison Wyatt, 6. No photo, no information available.

Lasting words from Nelson Mandela:

liberalandproudofit

liberalandproudofit


12.12.12

I’m big on signs. Not the roadside kind, but the superstitious kind. I like to ascribe meaning to things that are probably mere coincidence. That said, when I was awakened in the wee hours this morning by the Weasel Dog, I didn’t immediately think about the fact that today was 12/12/12. WebImg_12_12_12_I got out of bed, let the weasel outside, then quickly shooed him back inside when he started barking his fool head off. He slunk back inside and promptly hopped back into bed and made himself a cozy nest out of the covers, most of which should have been on my side of the bed. With scant covers and a fully-awake brain, I lay there, sleepless and running through the kind of thoughts my mind prefers in the middle of the night: did I remember to buy bread for my boy’s lunch? why is the tire pressure indicator light still on in my car? how many days do I have to mail packages before the real Christmas rush? and of course, the back-by-popular-demand recurring thoughts of recurrence. Some 37 minutes later, no closer to sleep despite employing the Ujjayi breath control I’ve learned in yoga class, I looked at the clock: 3:33 a.m. on 12/12/12.

Cool.

Surely there’s something auspicious about this. Surely this is a harbinger of good things to come, instead of simply yet another insomnia-fueled night.

At some point, I drifted back to sleep. That point was precariously close to the time in which I was due to wake, no doubt. When I awoke, rather than feeling like I was dragging ass, I felt buoyed by the potential in this day. I went about my usual business (packing lunch, tidying up, ferrying a not-so-thrilled middle schooler to school) and went about my usual day: some sick cardio designed to burn enough calories to provide a guilt-free happy hour, then a more-intense-than-expected yoga class, followed by errands and more tidying before heading for a visit to my orthopedic surgeon to check on my newly repaired knee, then driving both kids’ carpools, bookended by a trip to Walgreens for the never-ending prescription refills and a quick trip to the monogram place to pick up our little piggie‘s new Christmas stocking. Once home, I wrapped a few Christmas gifts and assembled the piles for mailing, found boxes suitable for shipping, packed those boxes and taped them shut. In the midst of all this productivity, I realized something important.

Nothing amazing happened at any point during this day.

Not one single out-of-this-world event took place in my life today.

It was all business as usual.

So much for being awake to witness 3:33 a.m. on 12/12/12.


Tattoos gone bad

My favorite girl has odd taste in TV shows. She’s a big fan of reality shows, and at first I mistakenly thought that the people on most of these shows are such idiots there’s no way that’s reality. Then I came to my senses.

Her latest reality show craving is for “Ink Masters” on Spike TV. It’s a competition among tattoo artists, and as you might expect, there’s plenty of tattoos, drama, and cussing. Why my 10-year-old is drawn to this is a mystery to me.

While home sick with a fever, sore throat, and congestion, my favorite girl was bundled up in my bed with Vicks Vapo-rub on her chest and a mug of hot tea on the nightstand. She happened upon a new tattoo show called “Tattoo Nightmares.” The premise is simple: people who have a bad tattoo come to the “Tattoo Nightmares” gurus who transform their unfortunate ink into something respectable, lovable, or maybe just bearable. The casting call for this show reads like this:

“Crazy ex-relationships, drunken dares and college nights, there are many instances where a decision made can haunt you for the rest of your life, especially if it is made permanent in ink. High school sweetheart not so sweet anymore? Sick of your husband, Steve, asking you who “John” was? Flash art lost its flare? Wish it were still the days when tribal tattoos were cool? Did you find out what that Japanese symbol on your shoulder actually means? Tramp stamp tattoo not fit the prude you? You lived the memory, you loved the ink and now it has lost its luster.Do you or someone you know have a great story as to why you want to cover up your ink? Doron Ofir Casting is looking for people who made a mistake in ink and want the chance to re-do their tattoo. Tattoo Nightmares – Waking up from 1 terrible tattoo at a time!”

I prefer my girl’s synopsis of the show: “These are some of the best tattoo artists in the country, so if your tattoo is ugly or really messed up, of course you’ll go to them.”

Of course.

Some of the bad ink that tattoo masters Big Gus, Tommy, and Jasmine have fixed include a giant pot leaf on a guy’s wrist that was (gasp!) impeding his job search and a guy who got his son’s initials scratched onto his chest while in prison, but there was a little mix-up — as there often is with prison tattoos — and the initials were transposed. I guess once the guy got out of the big house, his kid didn’t appreciate seeing his initials scrambled on dear old dad’s chest.

It’s estimated that 40 million Americans have at least one tat, so it’s not surprising that some of that ink would stink. The fix-it masters on “Tattoo Nightmares” claim they can transform an ink disaster-piece into a masterpiece. They needed to call on every ounce of their creative genius to help a girl named Erica out of her tattoo nightmare. She walked in with this:s-TATTOO-NIGHTMARE-DRUGS-121016-large640

and told a sad tale of woe about meeting a guy in a liquor store and admiring his tattoos. Apparently he offered to tattoo her, and she happily chose the Los Angeles skyline. Once her new BFF began etching the tattoo on her belly, she realized his pupils were huge and he was acting erratic. She concluded that he was on drugs and was freehanding the fine art she expected from him. She began to regret her decision to have a total stranger perform some ink art on her. I never saw that one coming.

Erica was rather emphatic about how much she hated her tattoo, which “looked like it was drawn by a child,” and she implored the “Tattoo Nightmare” experts to help her because, and I quote, “This tattoo really affects my self-esteem.” She went on to explain that she doesn’t like showing her stomach because of the terrible tattoo, and asked the experts if they have any idea how hard it is to find a cute one-piece swimsuit.

That is a problem.

I sure hope that poor Erica is lucky enough to dodge the bullet that hits nearly 300,000 women in the United States every year. If she feels bad about her body after a bad tattoo, can you imagine how she’d feel after undergoing a lumpectomy that left her breasts uneven and lumpy? Or a single mastectomy that resulted in that cursed asymmetry and the super challenge of finding bras and clothes that camouflage the difference? Or God forbid she undergoes a bilateral mastectomy, with or without reconstruction, and has to deal with the myriad fallout from that cluster-bomb.

I’m sure glad that girl got her tattoo fixed tattoo-nightmares-spike-tv-showso she can finally feel good about herself again. Thank heavens she doesn’t have to worry about that mess anymore. I bet she never did find a cute one-piece swimsuit.


Oh, happy day!

IMG_3906After stressing about the big bill and nearly coming to blows with the patient “advocate” provided by my insurance company, I found this in my mailbox.

Note the statement balance, aka amount I owe.

Thank you to my sweet surgeon for saying “bah humbug” to the out-of-network status my insurance company conferred upon his surgical center. I love that man.

And many thanks to my sweet readers who expressed umbrage on my behalf.

Whew!


PSA, from me to you. You’re welcome.

From time to time, I like to provide a public service announcement for the greater good. In other words, I learn the hard way — the expensive way — and share my lesson in hopes that some diligent reader out there in the blog-o-sphere heeds my words and avoids the painful/stressful/costly conundrums in which I tend to find myself.

Today’s PSA does not concern courteous driving (although perhaps it should, based on the overwhelming number of idiot drivers I’m surrounded by every time I venture out of my house). Today’s PSA will not address healthy living or how to fortify your liver for maximum alcohol consumption. Today’s PSA won’t even mention Pinktober, pinkwashing, or how misguided The Susan G Komen for the Cure organization has become. Today’s PSA doesn’t have anything to do with our little piggie (pity that, as she is infinitely entertaining).

Today’s PSA is all about how your health insurance company can — and likely will — try to screw you with the whole in-network/out-of-network debacle. i-534ec9e4fe422e37f2c7b9b58810e809-operation%20game

I recently had a surgery that, lo and behold, had absolutely nothing to do with breast cancer or breast reconstruction or breast reconstruction revision. How refreshing! I did my due diligence in researching a specialist who was the right guy for the job. I asked before I even made the appointment if he accepted my insurance. I provided all the nitty-gritty details insurance details before I saw the doc (ID number, group number, 800 number for claims). The benefits coordinator at the surgeon’s office reviewed everything on her checklist and assured me that we were good to go.

I saw the doc, he confirmed that the surgery was medically necessary and with just cause, and we scheduled a date. I paid my co-pay for the office visit and filled out all the paperwork, including multiple recitations of the insurance company details. I paid for my portion of the surgery well in advance. I followed all the rules (so I thought), and like a veteran soldier readying for battle, I eschewed any aspirin or blood-thinning products that can promote bleeding during surgery; I drank plenty of water the day before surgery to aid the anesthesiologist in finding a good, plump vein; I ate a healthy meal that would hopefully see me through being NPO the night before surgery; I washed the area to be sliced & diced with Hibiclens in my paranoid ritual of warding away any bacteria that might host a party in my surgerized body; I procured prescriptions in advance for the 2 antibiotics that are forever a part of my arsenal since that pesky post-mastectomy infection; I showed up before the crack of dawn on surgery day with an empty stomach and a powerful ache for my usual cup of coffee. I know the drill; been there, done that, multiple times. I got this.

Surgery was uneventful, recovery was long for my impatient self, but there were no complications.

Until I got a bill from the surgery center for more than $20,000.

20,000 clams for a surgery that was on the up-and-up and had been cleared for take-off well in advance.

Say what?

After suffering a minor heart attack, I called the surgery center and was told to take it up with my insurance company. I called my insurance company and was told to talk to the doctor’s office. I called the doctor’s office and was told to retrace my steps and start over with the surgery center. Egads.

After spinning my wheels and listening to untold atrocious Muzak songs while on hold for what seemed like forever, I remembered that my insurance company provides a patient advocate service. I’d used this service with my previous insurance company and was forever grateful for my advocate, a former RN, who checked in on me post-mastectomy and throughout the course of the year-long infection battle. She intervened when the insurance company said it didn’t want to pay for the $5,000 Oncotype test, which dissects my particular cancer to determine the best way to treat it and determine how likely it is to recur. She helped me navigate the pages upon pages of medical bills that weighed down my mailbox in the early stage of my cancer “journey.” She was very helpful.

The new insurance company could take a lesson from her. Their patient “advocate” department sucks. I can barely stand to use the word advocate in relation to them (hence the quotation marks).

The first “advocate” I dealt with on this issue did some research and determined that the surgery center my in-network doctor used is out-of-network. So my surgeon is in-network but the surgery center is not.

Huh??

Oh, and by the way, it’s my responsibility to check to be sure the surgery center is in-network.

Again I say Huh??

After all the checking and double-checking and verifying and pre-qualifying and certifying, I’m supposed to ask about the surgery center? How in the world would I even know to ask about this? What fresh hell is this?

Oh, yes indeedy, the “advocate” told me, I should have checked on that. And I should have known to check on that by reading the Standard Plan Description, a bazillion-page online document that details the ins and outs of my coverage.

While I’m grateful for the coverage I do have, I’m pretty sure my insurance company hates people like me who ring up millions of dollars in expenses for a disease they did nothing to cause and for which they actively tried to prevent. I imagine my file has a big red X on it to denote all the trouble I’ve caused and money the company has had to spend on my behalf. I’m guessing that when I call the insurance company with a question, the phone has a special ring, sorta like the Bat-phone, to alert the poor sap who answers it that I’m a raucous troublemaker who is bleeding their employer dry.

I get it. I’m not the ideal customer. But expecting me to verify that the surgery center is in-network is absurd. I don’t care what the bazillion-page online document says. If the doc is in-network and no one raises a red flag about the surgery center, then I assume I’m all clear.

A $20K bill and an instant heart attack are rather the antithesis of all clear.

And that, dear readers, is why I’m here today — to lead by example, to inform by the hard lessons learned. The word to the wise, learned expo-facto, is this: even if your doc is in-network, the surgery center may not be. Even if the doctor’s office staff have dotted every i and crossed every t, it may not be enough. Your insurance company my turn on you like a hungry dog on an alley chicken-bone and try to chew you up and spit you out. Consider yourself forewarned.

 

 


Live to 100? No thanks!

I get a handy-dandy email in my inbox every day from Oprah’s magazine. I like her magazine and always find something useful, whether a book review or an article about a do-gooder in some random far-flung part of the world. Because Oprah is queen of the world and can cover whatever stories or topics she chooses, you never see ridiculous headlines or teasers on the cover of her magazine, like what we see on so many magazines. Sometimes I’m downright embarrassed by them while waiting in line at the grocery store: do we need to know that Hilary is cheating on Bill with a lesbian lover? Do you really want to guess which celeb’s backside is completely covered in cellulite but only partially covered by a yellow bikini? I’m never embarrassed by the cover of O Magazine.

So today’s email had Dr Oz’s tips on 10 things you can do to live to 100 — or beyond.

Egads.

I’m all for healthy living, but I most definitely do not want to live to be 100 — or beyond. I’m exhausted just thinking about that. Perhaps living to 100 — or beyond — but never growing old, feeble, and/or dependent on others wouldn’t be too bad, but given my not one, but two bouts with cancer, coupled with my degenerating joints, I’m guessing that won’t be in the cards for me. If I live to be 100 — or beyond — but my knees won’t bend and I’m stuck in a wheelchair, or even worse in bed, relying on others to care for me, I’m going to be hopping mad. Not that I have a death wish, but I am realistic. The average age of women diagnosed with breast cancer is 61; I was 20 years ahead of  the curve. While strides have been made in treatment, and while my personal recurrence rate was predicted to be low, I don’t know that I can rationally expect to live another 57 years — or beyond.

Maybe I’m taking Dr Oz too literally. Does he really think that by following his 10 tips, we can live to be 100? I dunno, but here are his suggestions.

1. Eat red foods. The examples he give are beets, which relax blood vessels, and red cabbage, which protects against cancer. I love, love, love beets, so perhaps my blood vessels are relaxed. However, I clearly did not eat enough red cabbage, as it most definitely did not protect me from cancer.

2. Drink a cup of black tea. It’s supposed to boost survival rates of those who suffer a heart attack by 28 percent. Ok, I admit that stats like these confuse me. Does this mean that black-tea drinkers who have a heart attack are 28 percent more likely to not die from the heart attack, or 28 percent les likely to have a heart attack in the first place? I’m confused, but I do drink a lot of iced tea, so hopefully I’m covered either way.

3. Dial one phone number from memory every day. Not using speed dial or your cell phone’s memory exercises the brain’s “chunking” ability. By grouping info into chunks, you can keep your brain active and alert. I think working a crossword puzzle does the same thing, but don’t quote me on that.

4. Use the first stall in a public restroom. Ok, I do this whenever I am stuck and must use a public restroom, although I avoid public restrooms at all cost. Being the good germophobe that I am, I already knew this trick. See, most people seek privacy in a public restroom, so they tend to use the farthest stalls. More use equals more bacteria, which freaks me out. Now I’m wishing I hadn’t shared this tip, though, as I predict a rush on my preferred first stall.  Some days I wonder how I’m able to leave the house at all.

5. Take the stairs, two at a time. We all know that taking the stairs instead of the elevator is preferable for good health, but Dr Oz says take that a step further — literally — and take two stairs at a time. Easy for him to say, with his long legs. I’ll try it, even though my legs aren’t long, but I’ll probably have to use the handrail, which I’m pretty sure is covered in germs. Never mind.

6. Stretch after you shower. Stretching is good. Tight muscles and tendons are bad (says the girl who hates to stretch). Once your muscles are good and heated from the shower, it’s easier to stretch them, and stretching promotes good posture and helps decrease muscle soreness from taking the stairs two in one go.

7. Hold your breath. Dr Oz touts this as a mini workout for your lungs, and something that can be done anytime, anywhere. He recommends holding your breath for 10 seconds, then blowing it out through pursed lips, which activates all the little nooks & crannies in our lungs. I tend to hold my breath while using a public restroom, so as long as I blow it out through pursed lips, I guess I’m good.

8. Do the reverse warrior. Dr Oz does a lot of yoga, and if he says the reverse warrior is the most important pose, I believe him. Click here to see how to do it. This pose strengthens the legs, increases flexibility in the spine, and stretches the hips, inner thighs, and groin. Get to it, y’all.

9. Chew your food 20 times. Grandma said it first, but Dr Oz tells us why: not only does it slow us down and helps us avoid eating like a pack of wild animals, it can decrease our risk of diabetes. Horking down food too fast leads to overeating, which can lead to obesity, which can lead to diabetes. Dr Oz says if you don’t want to count out how many times you chew, get into the habit of putting your fork down in between bites.

10. Cut your cravings in half. Instead of trying to deny your cravings, Dr Oz recommends giving in to them, but only by half. So instead of gobbling down a bag of potato chips, eat half the bag. Instead of devouring the carton of ice cream, just eat half of it. Actually, the example he gave was a cookie. One cookie. Which he wants you to break in half. So I’m guessing he would counsel me to go ahead and pour myself a glass of champagne, but to only drink half of it. Yet another reason to not live to be 100 — or beyond. I want the whole glass!


Trapping the jumping beans

“Sometimes I have to let go and mother myself, kiss the hurts away. Tell myself that sometimes bad things just happen. But writing about it helps a lot, it scrapes it out of the dark corner, holds it up to the light and somehow heals the wound. It borders on miraculous.”

I have no idea who wrote these words. If any of y’all know, will you tell me? This quote spoke to me, though, at some point, because I wrote it down, and today as I cleared off my desk I found it. Scrawled on a scrap of paper and placed in my “I’ll get to this later” pile, the quote has lingered, waiting for me to get to it. How very patient.

I’m pretty sure I didn’t write it (although I wish I had). Perhaps it spoke to me because of the idea of having to mother myself. Being a motherless daughter, I don’t often think about mothering myself, and yet I do. Making myself go to bed when instead I want to stay up all night reading my current favorite book. Being diligent about pulling that load of shirts out of the dryer and hanging them up instead of letting them sit indefinitely in a wrinkled heap. Wiping up the spills on the stove top now, not later, before they’ve hardened into an indeterminate glob of laminated goo.

In the early days of navigating life without my sweet mama, I actively avoided any mothering that might come my way. That hole in my heart was too new, too raw to allow anyone else to even attempt to approximate any of the things my mom did. Seven years later, I still eschew any overt mothering. Somewhere along the way, though, I must have started mothering myself a bit. I certainly don’t hold out any hope that the hurts can really be kissed away, although I do tell myself often that bad things just happen. Telling myself that doesn’t help my innate desire to question, to wonder about the reason, or to pick things apart in a futile effort to figure them out. Sometimes it just is.

Writing about the things, whether the bad things or the confounding things, does help. Perhaps that’s the line that most spoke to me in the above quote. Perhaps that’s the reason I jotted the quote on a scrap of paper and put it in the pile on my desk. I’m a big believer in writing as healing, which I why I sit in front of my computer, keyboard clacking away as the words fill the screen. For me, just getting the words out of my head and the thoughts onto the screen is therapeutic.

Writing about the good stuff and the funny stuff is important, but writing about the bad stuff is even more so. Like the mothering I inevitably do for myself, writing about the bad stuff helps make it better. Somehow it purges the toxic stuff from my soul and helps filter the insomnia-inducing worries that blanket me after the lights go out and the house is quiet. No matter how much distance I try to put between myself and the cancer “experience,” those worries return. Sometimes it’s the fleeting thoughts before a routine oncology visit, and sometimes it’s a more concrete feeling. Sometimes it’s a visceral assault, like the smell of the hospital that fills my senses when I’m just visiting. Sometimes it’s a random trigger that takes me back to the heat of the battle. Regardless of the form or the impetus, the worries remain. Hence the need to write. Hence the need to read the stories of others who have walked this path. Ray Bradbury explained it perfectly:

“If you stuff yourself full of poems, essays, plays, stories, novels, films, comic strips, magazines, and music, you automatically explode every morning like Old Faithful. I have never had a dry spell in my life, mainly because I feed myself well, to the point of bursting. I wake early and hear my morning voices leaping around in my head like jumping beans. I get out of bed to trap them before they escape.”

Knowing that I can drown out the insomnia-inducing worries with the “morning voices” is sublime. It borders on miraculous.

 


I’m thankful for…

…all the usual suspects — loving family, great and true friends, a happy home, abundant sunshine, a fridge full of good things to drink.

But today I’m extra thankful for an endocrinologist who emails her newest, worried patient after the close of business the day before Thanksgiving to say, “I know you’re awaiting your biopsy results, and I know you don’t want to have to wait out the holiday weekend.”

That, my friends, is quality health care.

And the result from the needle IN MY NECK is good. Very good. The biopsy is negative.

I’m thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving, y’all.


There’s a zombie on my lawn

Much has been written, in this space and in that of countless other blogs, about the far-reaching fear of metastases. Once cancer comes to town, no matter how small the tumor or early-stage the disease, the fear of recurrence prevails. Forever. Or until it actually happens. Kinda like in the traditional wedding vows: until death do you part.

When cancer returns, you go directly to Stage IV. Don’t pass go, don’t collect $200. No matter how “good” your cancer was initially, regardless of you doing your due diligence and “catching it early,” once it returns, you. are. screwed.

I think about this. A lot. Way more than I’d like to think about it. Maybe it’s just my personality. I don’t think I’m a gloom & doom kind of girl, but my mind goes to recurrence all the time. Perhaps it’s a natural by-product of having watched my sweet mama die a nasty death from an even nastier disease. Cancer, no matter what kind, no matter what stage, is nasty, and once it infiltrates your life, it’s always lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce upon your body or mind, or both.

Cheery thoughts as we head into the Thanksgiving holiday, I know.

My recurrence fears roared to life this week. I should have been relishing the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday, my favorite holiday because it encompasses all the food & fun and none of the stress of gifts. Instead I was enduring a crash-course in thyroid issues, and in the process of seeking a second and then a third opinion for my hypothyroid, I found myself back in the ultrasound department at my favorite local hospital. My new endocrine doc ordered an ultrasound so we could have a little look-see into what is causing my thyroid to limp along like an aging marathoner at mile 25. Good thing she did: there’s some sort of party going on in my thyroid, with lots of guests: the loudest, pushiest of these guests is a 1 cm nodule on the left side of my thyroid. The size itself is not terribly worrying but its mere presence is, and especially the presence of  the “debris” it brought to the party. Debris is definitely not a good thing when it comes to nodules. At best, it raises a red flag. At worst, it can be indicative of cancer.

The thyroid gland is one of those myriad body parts for which you may not even know exactly what it does until it stops doing what it’s supposed to do. If you fall into that camp but are now curious, read this. I never thought too much about it myself, being preoccupied with my more ill-behaving body parts. What I know now is that my thyroid is lazy and shiftless. Well, maybe not shiftless; I threw that in there out of frustration. But lazy, yes. It’s an underachiever in the tradition of the slackers who populated Austin, TX, in the mid-90s, scooping ice cream at Amy’s or building delicious sub sandwiches at Thundercloud instead of  working a traditional desk job. Like the scoopers and sandwich artists, my thyroid is covered in tattoos, likes to sleep until 2 pm, and is slowly working on breaking through into the upper echelon of the indie music scene. What I want from my thyroid is not a 6-inch-long braided goatee and a knitted-in-a-Guatamalan village skull-cap but a three-piece suit and shiny shoes with a briefcase stuffed with pie charts, spreadsheets, and proposals.

We always want what we don’t have.

Because my slacker thyroid is sporting a nodule where a nodule should not be, and because I’ve got a dual-cancer-surviving history under my belt, my endocrinologist ordered a thyroid biopsy. It’s unlikely that breast cancer would metastasize to the thyroid, but …. She was kind enough to tell me that it’s not a pleasant procedure, but nothing I and a xanax can’t handle. Thank the pharmaceutical gods for xanax.

So basically a thyroid biopsy is just as you might envision: a fine-gauged needle stuck in your neck to suck out the cells and some of the debris that fill the nodule.

Yes, you read that right — a needle in the neck.

After changing into a gown and filling out the consent forms (yes, I understand what they’re about to do to me. Yes I agree to have a needle stuck in my neck. Yes, I know how an ultrasound works. Yes, I get that some of the ultrasound gel may stick to my hair. Yes, I absolve the radiologist from any responsibility for honest mistakes. Yes, I will donate my unused cells and debris to research. Yes, yes, and yes, just get it over with), it was showtime.

The room was freezing, as rooms in which horrific procedures occur tend to be. Esther, the sweet Nigerian nurse, gave me a warmed blanket, asked if I’ve had a thyroid biopsy before, and remarked on how calm I was (again, many thanks to the creators of xanax). She distracted me from the many sharp objects being placed on the metal bedside tray by chattering about her one-year-old’s upcoming birthday party with an “elegant princess” theme. She raved about the radiologist who would be sticking that needle into my neck and said he’s a sweetie, just a sweet, sweet, sweetie pie. Good information to have about the person who will be sticking a needle IN MY NECK.

In walks Dr Sweet-Sweet-Sweetie Pie to explain to procedure and to apologize for the unnatural position in which he needed me to prop my head so that he’d have full access to my neck when it came time to stick that needle in there. No prob, Dr Sweetie. Really, it’s all good.

He explained that he’d be giving me a shot of lidocaine, again IN MY NECK, to numb the area for when he would stick the real needle IN MY NECK. He said the lidocaine shot would feel like a bee sting (IN MY NECK). I can’t vouch for the validity of that, as I’ve never been stung by a bee (true story), but I hope like hell that when and if I ever am stung by a bee, it’s not IN MY NECK.

After he explained the part about the needles, he said he’d squirt the gunk he extracts onto 3 slides for a cytologist to look at under a microscope. The cytologist was in the next room, waiting for the gunky slides, so it’s all quite efficient. If on the off-chance — and it is an off-chance — the cytologist doesn’t think there’s enough gunk on the slides, Dr Sweetie Pie will plunge another needle IN MY NECK and extract more gunk. But, Dr Sweetie reiterated, that’s on the off-chance, and the vast majority of times it only takes one plunge of the needle to get enough gunk.

He took a peek with the ultrasound wand to what lies beneath and quickly located the offending nodule. “There it is, for all the world to see” was what he said about that nodule. Once the lidocaine had gone to work, he told me to hold my breath and he stuck the needle IN MY NECK. And left it there. And wiggled it around in circles to extract the cells and debris. Gross.

While I couldn’t feel outright pain, there certainly was pressure, and there was enough feeling to know that the needle was not only still IN MY NECK but also moving around. “Creepy” does not even begin to cover it. I tried going to my happy place, which I’ll be honest, is a HUGE room full of bottles of Veuve Cliquot accessible by me and only me. I tried to summon the sound of the cork popping. I tried to imagine the gentle upward swim of those tiny bubbles in my favorite glass. I tried to console myself with promises of a bottomless glass just as soon as I got home.

Instead, all I could think was that there’s a needle IN MY NECK.

This took me back to the recent days in which my kids were obsessed with Plants vs Zombies, and the theme song that rang out incessantly from the computer: There’s a zombie on your lawn. Instead, in place of zombies and lawns it was needles and my neck. Gross.

The needle-in-the-neck part seemed to go on forever, but in reality lasted just a few minutes. Out comes the needle, and Dr Sweetie Pie fills the slides with my neck gunk then whisks them next door for the cytologist to view. I lay there and thought about zombies and needles and bubbly. After a brief respite, Esther the nurse and the radiology tech whose name I didn’t catch came back into the room and started bustling around. Neither made eye contact with me, which is a dead give-away to bad news. If ever you find yourself in an exam room or a procedure room or an operating room and the medical personnel don’t make eye contact, brace yourself because bad news is a-coming.

Sure enough, in comes Dr Sweetie to say that the cytologist didn’t think there was enough gunk and he needed to go back in and get some more.

Really??

Really??

Dadgummit, just once I’d love to be the normal one. The one who’s not the exception to the rule. The one who is just like everyone else. The one who skirts complications with nary a backward glance. Apparently that’s not to be; there’s something about complications and me that just go together.

In he went with another needle IN MY NECK to get more gunk. More digging in a circular pattern to extract maximum gunkiness. I didn’t have the nerve to ask if um, there’s ever a need for a third pass. I did ask what happens to the patients who pass out from this procedure. Dr Sweetie laughed and said it’s actually a bit easier, and they’re already lying down so there’s no real risk. Again, I give thanks for xanax.

The second look from the cytologist was satisfactory, so Esther wiped the ultrasound goo off me, applied pressure to the puncture wound IN MY NECK, and applied an industrial band-aid. I was free to go.

I changed out of the gown and into my clothes without even looking to see if my hair was sticking up or to determine how red my neck was from that harrowing experience. I high-tailed it outta there and into the waiting area, where my trusty sherpa Amy and the Hubs waited. Neither seemed too squeamish by my description of the needles — plural — IN MY NECK. Like me, they’ve been through a lot and are a bit hardened to even the most atrocious medical procedure.

We paid for parking, navigated the hospital-to-parking-garage elevator system, and soon were on the road for home with time to spare before school carpool. I spent the rest of the day with an icebag on my neck and a cold beverage in my hand. The worst part is over, but now the waiting begins to see what the gunk reveals. Like a fortune told from tea leaves in the bottom of a china cup, my neck gunk has a story to tell. Fingers crossed that it’s a good story, a happy story, a for-once-just-once-in-my-life-for-the-love-of-all-things-holy an uncomplicated story.

While I wait, I’m sporting a pretty bad-ass-looking mark on my neck that could very well have come from a vampire. Maybe a creepy but kinda hot vampire who would do himself a favor by ditching that milquetoast and hanging out with a chica who can easily withstand a good jab to the neck. 

 

 

 

 


Medical musings

If not for the priceless blog fodder, I’d be pretty steamed after my visit to my dermatologist yesterday. I’m ever so grateful for my sense of humor, especially after last week’s doctor’s appointment on a day that went from bad to worse to are you freakin’ kidding me??

My dermatologist is lucky I have this little blog as my outlet for all the things I’m compelled to rant about, to rail against, to bitch & moan about in general.

A little background: she’s a fantastic doctor. She embodies many of the traits I’ve come to appreciate and insist upon while spending time in an exam room. She’s punctual, no-nonsense, very thorough, and more than ready with the prescription pad. Her office is staffed by all women, with nary a male doc in sight, which thrills me to my feminist bones.

She is, however, not going to win a prize for compassionate bedside manner. She is not the most compassionate doctor I’ve ever met, and this was on full display yesterday.

Perhaps it’s my bad for scheduling a first-thing-Monday-morning appointment. Maybe she had not had her RDA of caffeine. It’s possible that her personality pills had yet to kick in at that early hour. Whatever the reason, she didn’t waste any time with pleasantries. I’m cool with that, and as much as I enjoy having a comfy relationship with my health-care practitioners (especially those who see me naked), I’m good with the all-business appointment that gets me out of there and on with my life.

I sat on the paper-covered exam table in my thin paper gown precariously close to shivering — yes, people, a temperature of 52 degrees in South Texas does count as c-o-l-d, and I’m aware of the fact that 52 degrees could be considered a heat wave in some parts of the country at this time of year. I was awaiting my doctor to come in and do my annual mole check. Because I had melanoma several years ago, I take my mole checks very seriously, and as much as I hate stripping down to have every inch of my flesh examined, it’s a necessary evil and one I never skip out on.

My melanoma showed up on the inside of my right foot, on perhaps the one and only body part without any excess flesh. A number of specialists were consulted on how best to excise the infested tissue in such a delicate area. Opening the area and excising the melanoma weren’t the problem, but closing the incision was. Little did I know that that experience would be the first of many “think of the most complicated scenario” scenarios in which I would find myself. Post-mastectomy mycobacterium, anyone? In case you’re wondering, the solution to the flesh-less foot melanoma was Mohs surgery in which the surgeon used a zig-zag shaped incision to allow him to close that incision with limited flesh upon which to draw together. I have a now-faded zig-zag scar that predates Harry Potter’s lightning bolt on his forehead. I had a lightning bolt scar before lightning bolt scars were cool.

Anyhoo, back to my terse and not-so-warm-and-fuzzy dermatologist. The first thing she said when she walked into the exam room was, “What are you doing about your rosacea?”

Um, I didn’t know I had rosacea. My face gets red when I exercise and when it’s cold outside — and again, 52 degrees does count as cold — but I certainly have never had the bright red spots that I associate with rosacea. Great, now I’m feeling self-conscious.

I asked her what she thinks I should do about my rosacea (and I want extra credit for not asking it in a smart-assy way; I mean, she is the doctor, after all). She shrugged and said there aren’t any creams on the market that really help, although there are a couple in FDA testing that should be available in a few years. Meanwhile, she thinks I should go for several laser treatments, which start at $600. Out of pocket, I’m sure. She suggested that I figure out what my triggers are and avoid them. Since she didn’t go into any detail on the common triggers, I looked them up myself and found that they include stress (not gonna get away from that one anytime soon), spicy food (I do like my jalapenos and Frank’s Hot Sauce; I put that beep on everything!), hot beverages (I’m a two-cup-a-day coffee girl), sun exposure (did I mention I live in South Texas?), exertion in hot weather (again, South Texas), oral antibiotics (so I’m guessing that 267 days of two different oral abx would factor in here), and drumroll please…the last trigger for rosacea is…alcoholic beverages.

Ok, I’m out. I’ll just have to figure out a way to live with my extra-rosy cheeks because every item on the list is a factor, but the last one is a deal-breaker.

Moving along, she examined me and made notes of the normal-looking moles scattered here & there on my body. Because of being inducted into the pink ribbon club, I’ve spent plenty of time mostly naked in doctors’ offices. I’ve had my flesh poked & prodded and examined quite intently enough times that I don’t even think twice about it; in fact, I got so used to the weekly follow-up exams after the mastectomy, the multiple surgeries to rid my chest wall of the mycobacterium, and then the Big Dig reconstruction that it seemed weird to not take off my clothes at the doctor’s office.

However, none of my previous time spent in my birthday suit with a doctor prepared me for her question: Why did you have a mastectomy?

Ummmmm, because I had breast cancer?

Why else do women undergo such a physically and emotionally taxing surgery? What kind of question is that???

I wondered for a sec if I’d heard her right, then answered “Ummmmm, because I had breast cancer.”

She then wanted to know why I had a bilateral mastectomy; was the cancer in both breasts? I replied no, at least not that was detected by the multiple mammograms, bone scan, or PET scan, but that was the right decision for me. Once I heard I had breast cancer, I took a slash-and-burn approach. Good thing, too, because my post-mastectomy pathology showed a large and scary smattering of micro-mets that were likely just waiting to organize into a full-blown tumor, with a bonus of Paget Disease to boot.

She complimented my reconstruction and said it looks good, that they see a lot of it, and mine is better than most. I replied that I was very fortunate to have such skilled surgeons, yadda yadda. It never seems like the right time to mention that while my surgeons did an incredible job with my reconstruction (especially considering how wrecked my right chest wall was after the infection), it’s still reconstruction, and I was perfectly happy with my breast before I had to have them chopped off and rebuilt using another body part. It never seems appropriate to talk about how the reconstruction restored some mass to my previously scooped-out chest, but it’s not the same and will never be the same as it was before. I never feel as if the conversation will meander toward the topic of how no matter how skillful the reconstruction, there’s no way to escape the constant and visual reminder that I had cancer. I’ve yet to find a way to say that the myth of getting new boobs after breast cancer is just that, a myth. Yes, they’re new, but they’re not really boobs. I can’t ever figure out how to say that while I’m very grateful to have had access to the best docs in one of the best medical facilities in the world, and yet my reconstruction still leaves me feeling less viable. It’s certainly not considered polite chit-chat to recount how grueling the DIEP surgery is, how precarious the transplanted blood vessels are, how unbearably uncomfortable it was to be in the ICU with heaters blowing to warm those blood vessels, or how the stress of flap-failure can bring on some serious PTSD.

All that from a sincere compliment about my reconstruction. Sheesh, what a head case I’ve become.

Just as I was talking myself down from the myriad ledges my brain landed on and working hard to get back to the present moment, which was a simple mole check, my dermatologist asked another question: Where did they get the flap from for my DIEP? From my belly, I replied, and braced myself for the inevitable comment about how nice it must be to get a “free” tummy tuck. Before she could utter that platitude, I launched into a distrationary tale about how I had to gain weight to create enough belly fat to make a good flap; ha ha ha, I said, it was so funny that I had plenty of fat in my hips & thighs but not in my belly. As I lay on my belly and she examined my back, she asked why they didn’t take it from my back (because apparently there was plenty available, and she was staring right at it). Well, because I didn’t want to lose my tennis serve, I said, resisting the urge to ask for a mirror so I could see just how fat my back is.

The coup de grace, though, came when she said how lots of people probably envied me having to gain weight for the surgery, and then delivered the final crushing blow to my already-battered ego by saying, I guess you’re still working on losing that weight, huh?

Yep. Still working on it.

And I’ll keep working on it. Right after I find a new dermatologist.

I wonder if this guy is still in practice.