Turf wars
Posted: February 26, 2011 Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: breast cancer, cancer battle, caring bridge, crazy, DIEP, hospital, mastectomy, new boobs, plastic surgery, Star Wars, surgery, turf wars, Vueve Cliquot 9 Comments
I wish I knew how to make this blog play music. I bet it can, since I’m pretty sure it’s smarter than I am, but I haven’t figured it out yet. I need a jazzy yet foreboding score to set the scene. Think Star Wars theme song combined with Indiana Jones theme Song with a little West Side Story mixed in.
I knew this was going to happen. I was partly dreading it, but a little curious too to see how it would play out. It played out, all right, and yesterday by 10:30 a.m. I was exhausted by it. Thanks to a beautiful bottle of Vueve Cliquot that Trevor presented at dinner last night, now I’m over it.
But it’s such a great story, I must share.
Those of you who’ve been along for the ride since this summer, when I was updating my trials & tribulations via Caring Bridge, know that I have an especially close relationship with my plastic surgeon. I’ve written a lot about the many ways I have tweaked him, and I hope to continue to do so here. In fact, I plan to. I will invent new ways to tweak him if they don’t present themselves organically, because I love him and really enjoy tweaking him. He likes it, too. Trevor and I used to joke while endlessly waiting for Dr S during my multiple hospitalizations last summer that I would write a screenplay when this was all over entitled “Waiting for Dr S.” The title will be “The Tweaking of Dr S.” He always showed up, and he always brought his A-game to my bedside. I love that man.
I had great and ambitious ideas about transferring all my Caring Bridge posts over to this new, improved blogsite but it hasn’t happened. Yet. So for now, if you’re interested in reading (or re-reading) about the tweaking of Dr S, I’ve copied & pasted one of my faves at the end of this post.
As I’ve said before, surgeons and bedside manner don’t always go together. No peas & carrots there.
Because I don’t have enough on my plate or on my mind in the last few days before the big surgery, I had to go see Dr. S one last time. Personally, I though we had covered everything, and whatever we missed I certainly had covered with Dr Spiegel. But Dr S insisted I come back, one last time, to be extra sure everything is covered. I asked a simple question. I just wanted to know how he and Dr Spiegel are dividing up the work involved in this long, complicated surgery. Seems simple, right?
A little background: once we decided on the type of reconstruction surgery, Dr S referred me to Dr Spiegel. (Correction: once the post-mastectomy infection ruled out the easier option of tissue expanders to implants as my reconstruction, the option with which I was left was DIEP. Nitpicky? Perhaps, but I like full disclosure.) I did not want to go see Dr Spiegel. Nothing personal, I had just had it up to here with doctor’s visits, and I didn’t want to add another doc into my personal rotation. I’m 100 percent satisfied with the care I get from Dr S, and don’t feel the need for another doc. I was still under the mistaken idea that I could pretend to be a normal person in the interregnum between healing from the infection and reconstruction. Wrong! There is no “normal” anymore, so no interregnum.
I didn’t want to do it, but I did, and I have to admit, I’m glad I did, and Dr S was right. Yes, I said it: Dr S was right.
When Dr Spiegel told me that she and her assistant usually do the DIEP procedure themselves, but that Dr S was welcome to be involved, I got nervous. He doesn’t like to “be involved,” he likes to be in control; that’s why he’s so incredibly good at what he does.
It sounded so simple coming out of her mouth: She and Jenn usually handle the procedure but if another plastic surgeon refers a patient and wants to “be involved,” he is welcome.
I guess I envisioned two teams working together toward a common goal. Teamwork! Division of labor! Cooperation!
No, instead it might be a little more animalistic than that. 

They are the dogs, and I am the soccer ball. Great.
Back to the simple question: Dr S didn’t quite answer me yesterday when I asked him exactly which part of the surgery he’ll be doing on Wednesday. See, Dr Spiegel may be a bit more experienced with microsurgery (the part of the DIEP procedure that involves harvesting blood vessels from my belly and reattaching them in my chest). This is presumably why he referred me to her. He is exceptionally good at the “artistic” side of plastic surgery, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he will do a phenomenal job.
To me, finding out which surgeon is doing which part of the surgery is a perfectly normal thing. If I hired two laborers to do work in my home, I would ask which one would be doing which part of the job.
Dr S understandably didn’t want to disclose too much, but my guess is that Dr Spiegel do the blood vessel part, and he would do the transferring of skin and sculpting that skin into a nice rack. He also said that any revision surgery and all my follow-up visits would be with him. Ok by me.
Pedey, aka Weasel Dog
Posted: February 24, 2011 Filed under: breast cancer, kids, pets | Tags: adoption, breast cancer, cancer battle, cancer diagnosis, Dana Jennings, dogs, family, hospital, infection, kids, mastectomy, New York Times, Petsmart, puppies 15 Comments
It’s been brought to my attention that I have written about Harry and Cinco the leopard gecko, but not Pedey, the other canine member of our household. Well, excuuuuuuse me.
Pedey, oh Pedey. I don’t even know where to start.
He’s a cutie, for sure. We weren’t planning on getting a puppy, not really. Not that day, anyway. IMHO, any day is a good day to bring home a new puppy, but not everyone subscribes to that point of view, so you gotta tread lightly.
Flashback to May 3, 2008. It was Payton’s 9th birthday. I went to Petsmart to pick up something for Harry and the Houston Humane Society was there with the mobile adoptions. I figured I’d scritch a few pups, get a dose of puppy breath, tickle a few fat bellies, and move on. Then I saw this: 
Oh. My. Gosh. I was smitten. That face! Those floppy ears! The speckled feet! The fat belly! The little white blaze down his nose! 
Did I mention that it was Payton’s actual birthday? 
And that I now really, really, really wanted a puppy?
And that I really, really, really wanted this puppy?
Long story short, Payton fell in love with Pedey (his mama taught him well), and we had to have him. Trevor, being the good sport that he always is, gave in, even though we already had one dog too many for him. Payton and I reasoned that Harry needed a dog, and since it was almost summer, the kids could help take care of this puppy.
Welcome to the family, little guy.
I think you’re going to like it here. We have a mentor for you named Harry. He’ll show you the ropes. He makes the mean face sometimes, especially when he has a chewie, but just ignore him.
We’ve got a best friend lined up already (Snoopy), a pool should you become a water dog, lots of toys & treats, and unlimited belly rubs.
It took us a while to come up with the right name for the new guy.
Since he was officially Payton’s dog, Payton got to have the final say. And he decided on Pedey, after his favorite Red Sox player, Dustin Pedroia. The dog is nothing like his namesake: he’s cowardly, lazy, and clumsy with a ball. But the name stuck.
He settled right into our life and weaseled his way into my heart. Let me state for the record that I’ve never had a small dog, and I’ll admit, I’ve never quite understood the appeal. Now before you carry-dog lovers out there go ballistic and send me death threats, let me be clear: I don’t dislike carry dogs or their owners. I’ve just never understood the benefits. 
Now I get it.
He was of course the cutest puppy ever. (I can say that because Maddy, the best dog in the universe, has gone on to her Great Reward, and because we adopted Harry at age 2 and never knew him as a puppy.)
He likes to snuggle more than rough-house. He would rather sleep than do just about anything else (preferably in my lap). 
We call him The King of Comfort, because he always manages to find the most comfy spot available. 



If he’s not fast asleep in a prime spot, he’s camped out under my desk chair. 
Sometimes his legs or tail peek out from underneath the chair, and sometimes he’s completely hidden and I forget he’s there until I scooch the chair back and accidentally scare him half to death.
Sometimes he gets in the chair, right behind me. When he was tiny, it worked out just fine. But now he’s a little too big for that, but he still tries it sometimes. 
He still manages to fit. Mostly.
He likes to make a nest when he finds a comfy spot for sleeping. He will either wedge himself tight in between pillows & cushions, or get himself wrapped up in blankets & comforters. He will also stay in bed until he’s good and ready to get up, instead of leaping up the instant my feet hit the floor, like Harry does.
We don’t know what kind of dog he is, besides lazy & shiftless. Beagle, maybe? He has short, coarse hair; very different from the labs’ hair I’m used to. He has a very wrinkly brow and often looks quite contemplative. It’s mostly for show, though, because he sure doesn’t seem very smart. 
He’s not all that well-trained, either, because he was so cute we were always holding him instead of schooling him to sit and stay. 
He never did learn to love to swim, like the other dogs do. He doesn’t really even like for his feet to get wet, hence the need to be in my lap as often as possible.
Dana Jennings, a wonderful writer for the New York Times said, “Good dogs – and most dogs are good dogs – are canine candles that briefly blaze and shine, illuminating our lives.” I’ve had 4 dogs in my adult life: Maddy, the best dog ever in the history of all dogs. So good, I still get teary when I think of her, several years after her death (and y’all know I’m not much of a crier). So good that the urn of her ashes is on a side table in my bedroom, her name engraved in a simple, beautiful script, the urn way too small to contain all the love and memories she provided. Then there was Lucy, who we got to keep Maddy company. Her canine candle was pretty dim, and there is no urn for her. Then came Harry, and now Pedey. A short but very full doggie history.
Pedey was so happy this past summer, when I was convalescing from surgery and multiple hospitalizations. I don’t usually lay around much, but I had to then. And he loved it. He was always right by my side or in my lap, sleeping away. We joked that we should have snuck him into the hospital, so he could have slept on my bed with me there.
Well, Pedey, rest up; in a few days, I’ll have some more down-time. Are you ready?
Check this out…
Posted: February 23, 2011 Filed under: Uncategorized Leave a commentI’m honored to be featured as a guest blogger on a fantastic blog called Journeying Beyond Breast Cancer, put together by a survivor-turned advocate named Marie who amazes me with the depth and breadth of her breast cancer and wellness education.
The post Marie so kindly featured of mine is one I wrote a while back, when one of my closest friends was also diagnosed with breast cancer. If you’ve already read it, move on. If not, have at it.
And check out some of the other info on Marie’s blog as well.
Click here to head straight to the blog.
The to-do lists
Posted: February 23, 2011 Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: breast cancer, cancer diagnosis, gold medal, hospital, mastectomy, microsurgery, nesting, new boobs, tennis, to-do list 4 Comments
The title says lists, plural, because I’m a realist and have never figured out how to willfully deceive myself. Other people I have no problem willfully deceiving, but myself, not so much. I have a list of what I want to get done, and another for what I will probably get done.
The countdown is on to my surgery. Yikes. One week from today, I will be at the hospital. Yikes. Reconstruction is a much-anticipated thing for most breast cancer patients. It means getting your body back (in a new, sometimes improved form). It is voluntary and scheduled whereas a mastectomy is required and imminent. It is symbolic of having made it, having endured, having gotten through the worst part. It is also scary, for sure. I don’t recall being scared before the mastectomy in May. Maybe I was, but have blocked it out. Now that I’ve seen photos of other mastectomies and have a better understanding of how the procedure is actually performed I certainly could be scared, but being scared after the fact isn’t very effective.
I’m guessing I don’t recall being scared about that surgery because things moved very fast (3 weeks from diagnosis to being wheeled into the OR); I was wrapping my head around the fact that I had been diagnosed with cancer at the tender age of 40 and with two young kids at home; and there were a ton of things to do to prepare.
Not just the battery of tests, but the nesting. That nesting really should be an Olympic sport. I know I’d have to beat out some OCD pregnant women, but I think I could bring home the gold. 
I’m not nesting this time around. I’d maybe only get the bronze. And it would probably be a bit of a pity vote. I just haven’t been putting in enough time flitting around the house, cleaning out closets, organizing the pantry and re-folding every blanket in the linen closet.
Since becoming a repeat customer at the hospital, I know what’s in store form me next week: the scratchy sheets, the one-size-fits-someone-giant gowns, the smell, the noise, the yucky food, the parade of nurses in & out of the room, the abundance of tape stuck to my body, the JP drains, the pain, the nausea, the lack of peace & quiet.
Ok, maybe I’m not scared but annoyed. I’m not so good at sitting still and being dependent. And I have a lot of that coming up. So I distract myself by making to-do lists. It makes me feel better. There’s something very satisfying about setting goals and crossing things off the list.
Things I want to accomplish before surgery:
(insert long list here)
Things I will actually get done: play a lot of tennis.
Now that’s a good list.
It’s not about the chest, stupid
Posted: February 22, 2011 Filed under: breast cancer, cancer fatigue | Tags: After Five Years, blog, blood test, breast cancer, cancer diagnosis, cancer stress, etsy, fear, Gary Larson, mammogram, PTSD, The Far Side, Twizzlers 4 Comments
Ugh, yet another reminder that my brain is filled to the brim with cancer ca-ca. I mentioned a few examples of the ca-ca recently, and here I am once again, consumed with it. The latest: while browsing on etsy, I came across a “store” called ETC Chest. My first thought was, hmmm, wonder what kind of breast cancer stuff they have in that “store.” Guess what kind of breast cancer stuff they have? NONE.
ETC Chest stands for “Embroidered Treasures and Crafts” Chests. It has nothing, nada, zilch to do with the human chest, flat or reconstructed.
Well, duh.
Reminds me of my second-favorite Far Side cartoon:
And because you’re probably curious, my all-time favorite Far Side cartoon is:
Thank you, Gary Larson.
This little exercise in idiocracy (I think I just made that word up; I like it. No, wait there was a movie by that title. Never mind.) reminds me of how pervasive the cancer fatigue can be. Lots has been written about how a cancer diagnosis wrecks your life, and even when the cancer is vanquished and you end up with the best-case outcome, it’s always there. The fear, the weariness, the unseen scars.
My blog friend Lauren writes an incredibly eloquent blog called After Five Years. I highly recommend you check it out if you’re curious about what it’s like to live with cancer. She recently wrote a post about going back for a mammogram and it so perfectly captured the fear, the anxiety, the all-around shittiness of living with cancer. I held my breath throughout the entire post, then was gasping and sputtering and although it was only 9:30 a.m., felt like I needed a nap.
Lauren is a lot farther along in the “cancer journey” than I am, and in fact I can’t even comprehend getting a mammogram right now. Of course, having no breasts, it would be a physical impossibility, but still. I’m not yet to the point of having the routine scans that every cancer survivor endures at regular intervals. The stress and anxiety of knowing that there’s a (hopfully) comprehensive sweep through your body to sniff out errant cells is all-encompassing. I can imagine people all over the world watching the calendar, knowing that an appointment is upcoming. The anxiety of waiting for the appointment time to approach is nothing compared to the feelings that course through one’s body during the actual scans (or blood tests, as the case may be), and even that is a drop in the bucket compared to the sheer terror of waiting for the results. Talk about PTSD. It’s a wonder each and every cancer survivor isn’t a raging alcoholic. Or seriously addicted to Twizzlers.
I can see myself going down either path, maybe both. And I’m just getting started on this “cancer journey.”
Life goes on for survivors. That’s a beautiful thing, and it becomes all the more precious when a serious illness rudely interrupts your life. But it’s not easy. Cancer is a sneaky beast. It invades your body, and even when it’s caught early, small, and contained, it has a unique ability to rattle your cage, big time.
Happy Presidents’ Day
Posted: February 21, 2011 Filed under: breast cancer, food | Tags: Betty Ford, Boston, breast cancer awareness, Central High School, cherry blossoms, copyediting, Duke, first ladies, golf, honorary degree, ice cream, Lady Bird, Meidcare, presidential facts, presidential pets, presidential trivia, presidents, Presidents Day, Sandra Day O'Connor, Susan Komen 3 CommentsThe kids were scheduled to be out of school today to celebrate Presidents’ Day. Not sure how exactly to celebrate this day, because it seems an obscure holiday marked mainly by furniture sales. But it is a day for celebration, if not for the presidents than for the fact that school is indeed in session (sorry, teachers). Because of our recent snow day on a day during which there was no actual snow, we have to make up the holiday. My kids were royally bummed about this. Macy circumvented it all by waking up yesterday with a sore throat and a nasty cough; remnants of last week’s strep throat, I suppose. So she’s home after all, and Payton is ticked but working hard to be a good sport.
I’m embarrassed to say I don’t know much about our presidents. I’m particularly ill-educated about the early guys. My kids make up for it, though, and can help get me out of a jam if I need info on the founding fathers.
Payton & Macy are particularly well-versed on the leaders of the free world, past and present-day. Why? Because they’re above-average in every way, like all the kids who live in our suburban bubble, of course. No, really, because of this:
The presidential placemat.
We have one for the flags of the world, too. It’s not quite as valuable as the presidential one, but does come in handy during the Olympics when an athlete is identified by a tiny icon showing his/her country’s flag. Payton gets them every time. 
It hasn’t been used in a while because the kids have progressed, slightly, in their table manners and no longer need plastic sheeting and a power washer after every meal. But it looks like the flags placemat got put away before being sufficiently scrubbed and sanitized. Gross.
To distract my germophobe self from all the petrified crud living on that plastic, let’s get back to the presidents.
For my edification and your entertainment, I’ve listed a fact or two about our presidents. Some you may know, probably from watching “Cash Cab” which is where I find the most useful information these days.
George Washington: was the only prez to be unanimously elected. Upon his election, he only had one tooth. For real. His many dentures were made from human teeth, animal teeth, ivory and even lead, but not wood.
John Adams: our longest-living president. He died at age 90, damn near 91. He missed it by 118 days.
Thomas Jefferson: TJ gets a lot of press, but I wonder how many people know this: he wrote his own epitath and designed his own tombstone, but neither contained a reference to him having been a president.
James Madison: shortest president, at 5 foot 4. Also the lightest, at just 100 pounds. Teeny little thing. Tallest president? See Abe Lincoln. Heaviest: William Taft.
James Monroe: his daughter was the first White House bride, and he was the first US Senator to be elected president.
John Quincy Adams:
swam nude every day in the Potomac River. Can you imagine present-day presidents doing that?? Where was the National Enquirer when we needed it? And aren’t you right now picturing this guy in the buff? Thought so. Of course he accomplished a lot of great things, and perhaps is our most pedigreed president, but now every time I hear his name, I’m going to think about him jumping in the Potomac in all his glory.
Andrew Jackson: had a great head of hair. Suffered a bullet wound near his heart in a duel at age 39 and carried that bullet until his death. Upon election, he granted government jobs to some 2,000 of his supporters and established the so-called “kitchen cabinet” of advisors. He was the first, and probably last, president to run a debt-free administration.
Martin Van Buren: first president to be born in the United States. He and his wife still spoke Dutch at home. Tried unsuccessfully to gain re-election 3 times, then gave up. Probably for the best.
William Henry Harrison: catchy name, and perhaps the only president for whom all 3 names are popular modern-day baby names. Sadly, was the first president to die while in office. He served just 30 days because of a nasty pneumonia. Glad there’s now a vaccine for that.
John Tyler: Harry S Truman’s great-uncle. He was disowned by his own party (the Whigs) because they didn’t like his financial policies.
James K. Polk: graduate of UNC. Survived a gallstone operation at age 17 with no anesthesia. Ugh.
Zachary Taylor: served in the army for 40 years and never voted before becoming president at age 62. Kept his army horse, Whitey, on the White House lawn, and tourists would pluck a hair from Whitey’s tail as a souvenir. Ouch!
Millard Fillmore: installed the first library, kitchen stove and bathtub in the White House. Refused an honorary degree from Oxford University because he was unable to read Latin and felt like a sham accepting a degree he couldn’t read.
Franklin Pierce: Installed central heating in the White House. Well, probably didn’t do it himself but had it done. He affirmed rather than swore his oath of office, for religious reasons. Gave his inaugural address from memory, without the aid of even one note card. Impressive.
James Buchanan: the only bachelor to ever occupy the White House. His niece, Harriet, took responsibility for the White House hostessing duties.
Abe Licoln: considered by historians to be our greatest prez, followed by G. Washington. Was not just the greatest, but also the first to wear a beard and the only president to hold a patent (for a boat-lifting device).
Andrew Johnson: was the youngest prez to be married, at age 18 to Eliza, aged 16. Was buried beneath a willow tree he planted himself that came from a shoot of a tree at Napoleon’s tomb. Try getting that through customs these days. He was also wasted at his inauguration as Lincoln’s VP, but had a good reason: he was sick with typhoid and self-medicating with booze.
Ulysses Grant: smoked 20 cigars a day (and died of throat cancer. Hmmmm.). Although he witnessed some of the bloodiest battles in history, he was grossed out by the sight of animal blood and couldn’t eat a rare steak. My kind of guy.
Rutherford Hayes: his wife was known as “Lemonade Lucy” because she refused to serve alcohol in the White House. He kept his campaign promise to only run for one term, and I’m sure the subsequent visitors to the White House weren’t nearly as thirsty as those who came during his term.
James Garfield: our first left-handed president who died from a blood infection caused by repeated probing for an assassin’s bullet. Oh, I how I hate infections.
Chester Arthur: His wife Ellen died before he took office so his sister Mary assumed hostessing duties. He was a night owl, enjoyed night clubs and entertained like a rock star. My favorite quote of his: “I am a president of the United States states but what I do in my private life is my own damn business.” Amen, brother.
Grover Cleveland: only prez elected to two non-consecutive terms. He served as the 22nd and the 24th president.
Benjamin Harrison: quite the windbag. He made 140 different speeches in 30 days, and I don’t think he had a staff of speechwriters. He was also the second prez to become widowed.
William McKinley: was in terrible physical shape. So bad that his doctors believe that if he’d been fitter, he would have survived the assassination. Let that be a lesson to you, people.
Teddy Roosevelt: a great man, but an attention whore. He was known to want to be the bride at every wedding and the corpse at every funeral. Strange.
William Taft: lots to say about this guy. He was the only one (so far) to serve as both president and Chief Justice. He created the tradition of the prez throwing out the first pitch of the baseball season (and some of his followers needed to work on their windups to avoid looking like pansies).
His wife planted the first cherry trees that now adorn the Washington, D.C. landscape and look so gorgeous in the spring. He was by far our fattest president, weighing well over 300 pounds. He got stuck in the White House bathtub the first time he used it and had to order a new one, after a crew of embarrassed staffers wrestled him out of the too-small one.
Woodrow Wilson: an avid golfer, he refused to let the D.C. winters stop him from playing his sport and used black golf balls in the snow. Clever. His second wife, Edith, was distantly related to Pochahontas.
Warren Harding: one of the meanest looking presidents, IMHO. Both of his parents were doctors yet still gave him the middle name “Gamaliel.” Odd. He was the first newspaper publisher to be elected president and was known to be patient with the press, offering lengthy press conferences.
Liked burlesque shows and snuck off to them as prez. His great-grandmother was black. He was pretty stern looking, but I like this photo of him and his dog. In fact, I may have to also do a post on presidential pets.
Calvin Coolidge: punched the Boston mayor in the eye while he himself was governor. Nice. Required 9 hours of sleep and a 2- to 4-hour nap every day. How the hell did he get anything done?
Herbert Hoover: was the youngest member of Standford’s graduating class. He and Thomas Edison were named the two greatest engineers by Columbia University. A social butterfly, for the first three years of his tenure in the White House he dined alone just three times. He was the first prez to donate his salary to charity. He was also one of the most honored presidents, with 84 honorary degrees, 78 medals and keys to numerous cities.
Franklin Roosevelt: elected an unprecedented 4 times. Was the first prez to be shown on TV. Claims to have been related by blood or marriage to 11 former presidents.
Harry Truman: Lots of good stuff about him professionally, but here’s something you may not know: his mom was a Confederate sympathizer and refused to sleep in Lincoln’s bed during a White House visit. He was the first prez to use air travel across the country. To recognize his contribution to the health care system, President Johnson presented Mr. and Mrs. Truman with the very first Medicare cards. The “S” that serves as his middle initial isn’t short for anything, so if you see Harry S. Truman, with a period after the “S” you know it’s wrong. An old copyediting pet peeve of mine.
Dwight Eishenhower: Payton’s favorite president. In fact, when P was chosen to portray President George Bush in his first grade program, he was ticked that he couldn’t be Ike. I guess Ike wasn’t current enough to make the program. He is known for ordering the integration of Central High School in Little Rock in 1957. Good man. He was the last prez born in the 19th century and the first prez to be a licensed pilot. He served in both World Wars and was an excellent cook. This photo, by the way, is one of the few in existence that show Payton wearing long pants. Take a good look, people, because it is a rare sighting.
John Kennedy: youngest prez elected (43) and youngest prez to die (46). Was the only prez to serve in the Navy and to appoint a sibling to a cabinet position. Had he not been so young and handsome, his wife may well have eclipsed him in notoriety and popularity, not unlike Charles and Diana. Jackie O was the first lady most outspoken about disliking the term “first lady.”
Lyndon Johnson: I gotta like him because he’s a Texan, but he seemed like a jerk. I do like his War on Poverty (at least in theory), and his civil rights reforms. He was the first prez to reject his official portrait, saying it was the ugliest thing he ever saw. His wife wins the prize for first lady with the best name. Although Lady Bird wasn’t her real name (it was Claudia), a wet nurse or nanny or someone proclaimed she was pretty as a lady bird, and the name stuck. Charming.
Richard Nixon: graduated from Duke, so he can’t be all bad.
Gerald Ford: he was born Leslie Lynch King, Jr, but I’m not sure how he came to be known as Gerald Ford. Need to check up on that, but this post is already stretching on and on. Plus, I need to save room for this: he and Betty were both models before they were married, and he campaigned for Congress on their wedding day. She was a patient woman. Or maybe that’s why she needed to drink. Both of the assassination attempts against him were committed by women.
Women today owe Betty a big debt of gratitude as she was a big player in removing the stigma from a breast cancer diagnosis. Here she is with her hubby after her mastectomy, reading a card signed by 100 members of Congress. She was diagnosed in 1978 (when I was 9 years old, same age as my daughter now), at age 56 and was very publicly and bravely faced a mastectomy. She became a beacon of hope to lots of women, including Susan Komen, who died from the disease in 1980 at age 36. Komen did say “If Mrs. Ford can admit she has breast cancer and tell the world she intends to fight it, then so can I.”
Jimmy Carter: first prez born in a hospital (as opposed to at home, I presume), and the first to be sworn in using his nickname, “Jimmy” instead of his given name, James.
Ronald Reagan: was our oldest president, leaving office at age 77. He was also the first prez to have been divorced. During his tenure, our first female justice of the Supreme Court, Sandra Day O’Connor, was appointed by a landslide 91-8 vote.
George Bush: Bush is reportedly related to Benedict Arnold, Marilyn Monroe, Winston Churchill, and Presidents Franklin Pierce, Abraham Lincoln, Theodore Roosevelt and Gerald Ford. Weird. Bush became the first vice president ever to serve as acting president when Reagan underwent surgery for three hours in 1985. Good thing he’s the only VP to serve as acting pres, since it was such a short time frame, he might easily have become the second person to hold that honor. He’s also the second man in US Presidential history whose son became President. In 1992, while at a formal dinner in Japan, Bush became ill and vomited on the prime minister of Japan, then fainted. Oh the horror.
Bill Clinton: childhood nickname was “Bubba.” Nuff said.
George W. Bush: press nickname was “Shrub.” Nuff said.
Barack Obama: first president to openly claim he doesn’t like ice cream as a result of working at an ice cream shop as a teen. Then how do you explain this: 
Or this: 

I could continue, but I think it’s impolite to embarrass the president. Most of them do that just fine without any help, actually.
Happy Presidents’ Day, everyone!
Power of the people (and by “people” I mean “women”)
Posted: February 20, 2011 Filed under: Uncategorized 10 CommentsAnother new study about women undergoing care for their breasts shows we’re still not quite getting it right. A New York Times article by Denise Grady published 2/18/11 is so well-written I would love to just reprint it here and be done for the day. But then I wouldn’t be able to pick and choose the parts of the study, and the article, that interest me the most and blab about them here, and it is all about me, right? Or should be. But it’s not. It’s about the 1.6 women who undergo a breast biopsy every year in this country.
Let’s back up a minute. That’s 1.6 million mothers, wives, sisters, aunts, grandmas, cousins, friends, and neighbors. That’s probably someone you know and love. Or at least see at the grocery store or at a family reunion.
Of the 1.6 million women undergoing biopsies, 261,000 will receive the earth-shattering, life-altering news that they have breast cancer. Of those 261,000 cancers, 207,000 will be the invasive kind and another 54,000 have DCIS (ductal carcinoma in situ), which means the cancer is contained and has not traveled to other tissue.
One thing the article didn’t tell me is how many of the 261,000 women have both invasive and DCIS, like me? Overachiever that I am, I had both kinds. I always did like two different flavors of ice cream on my cone as a kid, but really this is taking the “variety is the spice of life” idea too far.
What’s important about the new study, by Dr Stephen R Grobmeyer, director of the breast cancer program at the University of Florida? That far too many women are undergoing surgical biopsies instead of needle biopsies (and yes, that is a gigantic needle Dr Grobmeyer is holding in the picture at left). He and his colleagues studied 172,342 breast biopsies and found that 30 percent of these biopsies are surgical when they should be needle. The going rate should be 10 percent surgical, according to the established medical guidelines.
While the 172,342 biopsies studied all took place in Florida, the expectation is that the rest of the country is similarly over-performing the surgical biopsies, which translates to unnecessary pain & suffering (and potential complications) for the women, as well as major expense. And we all know what a mess that creates.
Why are so many docs performing the more extensive, more expensive, more invasive procedure? We don’t know. The study doesn’t know. The docs who studied this issue have a theory, but they don’t like to talk about it.
Money.
They don’t want to rat out their fellow surgeons, but there is a suspicion (and also a possibility) that some docs perform surgical biopsies, even when a needle biopsy would do, because they make more money. I’m not trying to write an expose here; it’s a fact. The surgeons have a choice: refer their patient to a radiologist or do a surgical biopsy. If they choose the former, they lose the biopsy fee. Here are the numbers: hospitals charge $5-6K for a needle biopsy, but double that for a surgical biopsy. Doctors’ fees follow similar lines: $750-1,500 for a needle biopsy, and $1,500-2,500 for a surgical biopsy.
Dr Melvin Silverstein is a breast cancer surgeon in North Beach, CA, who spoke out in the Times article about the money. He said some of the surgical biopsies were performed by surgeons who didn’t want to lose the biopsy fees by referring their patients to a radiologist. “I hate to even say that, but I don’t know how else to explain these numbers,” says Dr Silverstein.
Dr Elisa Port of Mount Sinai Medical Center in Manhattan says “I see it all the time. People are causing harm and should be held accountable.” By “harm” I assume she means surgical vs needle and by “people” I assume she means surgeons. Dr Susan Boolbol published a 2009 study on this issue as well. As for the idea that money is behind the procedures, she says “A huge part of me doesn’t want to believe it’s true.” But what about the other part?
If it’s not money motivating them, what about ego? I’ve dealt with a couple of surgeons myself. Not from North Beach or Mount Sinai, but I think it’s safe to assume that most surgeons, regardless of who they are or where they live, have a healthy ego. You can’t do what they do without feeling mighty confident about your ability and your judgement.
Think about it: when you have a condition that requires surgery, the person performing that surgery not only attempts to fix the problem, but also holds your life in their hands. Literally. Once they cut you open and handle the contents under your skin, they are holding your life. Knowing that you can do that, and then executing that successfully, feeds the ego.
So isn’t it possible that the surgeons who are performing surgical biopsies when needle biopsies would do aren’t money-grubbing, but egotistical? Is it possible that they truly believe they can tackle that problem, and do it better than anyone else? That certainly is the attitude I want my surgeons to have. I want them to believe so fervently that they’d come to blows in the OR over who is most qualified to perform my surgery.
How’s that for an image? A gaggle of scrubbed-up, gowned & masked surgeons going at it over who gets to slice & dice. Times like this make me wish I could draw cartoons. That would be a good one.
Seems there is more than money involved in the biopsy issue. Whether surgeons order a surgical or a needle biopsy also depends on the type of surgeon, and I’m not talking orthopedic vs plastic. Among breast surgeons at Beth Israel in Manhattan, those employed by the hospital and involved in teaching fell under the 10 percent guideline. Those in private practice had a 35 percent rate of surgical biopsy. And the rate of surgical biopsies was even higher for general surgeons, not breast surgeons (37 percent). Because all the docs earn a biopsy fee, they all are chasing the same carrot.
A side note here is required, to address the patient’s role in all of this. I don’t want to dog the patient, because I am one, but I also would wonder about any woman who agrees to have a general surgeon do a breast biopsy. If a mammogram comes back funny and the OB-GYN recommends a biopsy, I sure hope the OB-GYN would refer to or the patient would demand a breast surgeon. And I also would hope that the OB-GYN and the breast surgeon would discuss the pros & cons of different biopsy types before rushing a woman into the OR. At the risk of sounding like Forest Gump’s friend Bubba discussing types of shrimp, there are several choices among needle biopsies: fine-needle aspiration, core-needle aspiration, stereotactic, and vacuum-assisted core needle. More than you wanted to know? Perhaps, but a useful point in the patient’s role.
I’d like to think that education is another reason for the high rate of surgical biopsies. And I mean by the patient and the doctor.
A surgical biopsy requires at least a 1-inch incision, then stitches of course to close that incision. The incision and stitches lead to a scar, not to mention pain and downtime, and introduce the possibility of infection. Yes, it always comes back to the infection with me. It would for you, too, if you’d ever gotten within spitting distance of a mycobacterium. Blech. Plus, if that surgical biopsy comes back with malignant results, we’re now talking about two surgeries instead of one.
So we’ve got money, ego, and education as reasons this is happening. Regardless of reason, what is the answer? Dr Silverstein has an idea. He says one way to stop excessive surgical biopsies is to ban them. Unless they are truly necessary and a needle can’t do the job, make them against the rules. And his hospital has done just that. “We made a rule,” he said. “If it can be done with a needle, it has to be. We embarrass you if you do an open (surgical) biospy. We bring you before a tumor board to explain.”
Ooooh. I’d love to be a fly on the wall. Seeing a bunch of surgeons embarrassing each other? And there’s not a reality show for that?
Dr Silverstein went on to say that when he lectures other docs and asks for a show of hands as to how many audience members perform surgical biopsies, no one raises his/her hand. “Nobody will admit it,” he says. Personally, I imagine him smirking a bit when he said that. That’s why he takes his message to the streets, to educate the docs and in turn hopefully educate the patients. He’s discovered that it’s more effective to go straight to the patients, though. He and his colleagues say that any woman who’s told she needs a surgical biopsy should question the doc and consider getting a second opinion.
Dr Silverstein believes in the power of the people. In this case, the power of the women. I like that. A lot. He says, “Who just overthrew Mubarak? The people. This is exactly the same thing.”
Can I get that overnighted, please?
Posted: February 19, 2011 Filed under: baseball, breast cancer | Tags: Alex Rodriguez, baseball, breast cancer, cancer battle, DIEP, funny t-shirts, Jacoby Ellsbury, JD Drew, needlepoint, NESN, new boobs, plastic surgery, recovery, Red Sox 9 CommentsI like funny t-shirts. I like snarky, funny t-shirts even better. Or is it redundant to say “snarky” and “funny?” Are there people who don’t think snarky is funny? If so, I have no use for them. Trevor’s grandma, Petie, had a cute little needlepoint pillow on her couch in the sitting room of her Salisbury, North Carolina, home that says “If you don’t have anything nice to say, come sit by me.” I’ve always ascribed to that point of view.
I don’t have a picture of Petie’s pillow, but found this one by using the Google. Now I’m wondering why in the world I don’t own one of these pillows? It would make me smile every time I spied it. It’s the little things, people.
While looking for an image of that cute little pillow, I found this: 
For those of you who are uninitiated into all things Red Sox, that foxy number 46 is my boy crush, Jacoby Ellsbury.
He now wears number 2 on his jersey, though looks no less foxy. That’s JD Drew crouched next to him, close enough to whisper in Ell’s ear (lucky bastard). I’m sure they were discussing some serious strategy, or maybe making fun of Dora (aka Alex Rodriguez) who is such a tool and deserves to be made fun of at every possible opportunity.
But I digress.
Here’s the real reason for today’s post (although it could easily become all about Ells. Last season was a long, dry boring one for me because Ells was hurt. Not just hurt, but rehabbing in Arizona, so not even in the dugout and available for close-ups or slow pans by the ever competent NESN camera guys. It was a long season indeed. But Ells is back and ready for action and hopefully lots of on-screen time.)
But seriously, back to the real reason for today’s post.
Look what I found.
Just what I’ve been looking for.
But wow, what bad luck to have found it so close to the Resurrection, instead of during the long months of walking around with a chest flat enough to play quarters on, with no explanation. Ok, that is some seriously bad sentence construction, but you get the drift. I’ve had a freakishly flat chest for a long time, and have longed for a shirt that tells the world that change is underfoot. Or, undershirt, as the case may be. I got that chance with my “cupcakes” shirt,
but I can’t very well wear that every day. I hate doing laundry, and wearing my cupcakes shirt every day would require a lot more of that chore.
So I probably need the “under construction” shirt, too. Although, can someone please explain to me why the shirt is modeled by a guy???
Now that is just weird.
But I still want the shirt. Wonder how fast I can get it?








