Summertime, and the living is easy. Sam Cooke said it, well, sang it actually, a long time ago. The fish were jumpin’ and the cotton was high. The girl he was singing to had a daddy who was rich and a mama who was good-looking. All was right in Sam’s world.
Well, the living is easy all right. No alarms waking me up before I’m ready, no lunches to pack. Payton’s lunch is easy: sandwich, bag of baked chips, string cheese, Rice Krispie treat, and a drink. No lunch box, no ice pack — he’s too cool for that. Macy, on the other hand, is quite particular about her lunch, requiring 5 different things, some of which must be washed & chopped and placed into small tupperware. She does at least take the same thing every single day, much like her mama did as a schoolgirl. I had a homemade egg salad sandwich on wheat bread every day of my schoolgirl life, and didn’t care one lick that the other kids thought the egg salad looked gross and the brown bread looked weird. They could have their stick-to-the-roof-of-your-mouth Wonder bread PB&J any day. I was perfectly happy with my gross-looking egg salad on weird-looking bread.
So no lunches to pack, yea. No mountain of school paperwork to wade through, only to find that other than glancing at the grades at the top of the completed work, there’s not a single thing in that mountain that really matters. No racing the clock to get out of bed, gobble down breakfast, get dressed, and get out the door. No meanie mom enforcing a highly unpopular bedtime so the little darlings don’t act like feral hogs in the a.m. Last but not least, no school projects. Oh, how I despise the projects. After 18 years of living with the original slacker student, who did minimal work and gasp! even skipped school projects altogether yet made good grades and somehow managed to become a contributing & successful member of society, my opinion on school projects has definitely changed. Changed to hatred, that is. They’re messy, time-consuming, inane, and require ME to go to Hobby Lobby AND help with said project when I could be playing tennis.
Ok, rant is over.
I certainly hope I didn’t offend any teachers out there. If I did, please direct your hate mail to my husband, the original slacker student. It may take him a few days to reply, because he’s busy running a software company. I’m not sure he could have risen to such heights and attained 2 graduate degrees without that pivotal diorama he made in 3rd grade at Jenks Elementary.
Ok, now my rant is over.
So we are blessedly free of the strict schedule imposed by the Fort Bend Independent School District, and most thankfully free of the blasted school projects. We can go where we want to go when we want to go there, stay up late, and eat lunch when we please. All that sounds great, right?
Except for one tiny detail: I don’t do well with unstructured time. Remember me, the busy-body? I don’t blossom with a lot of downtime. It’s day 3 of summer, and I’m already feeling a little itchy, a little twitchy. As much as I dislike the hustle & bustle of the imposed school schedule, it does keep us on track. And I like that. I need that. I would have been great in the army.
Lots of people enjoy their downtime and get into being lazy. For me, laziness makes me feel icky. I really like having a to-do list every day and relish the feeling of being productive. Some people were laughing at me that on the first day of summer, I cleaned out the garage, did 4 loads of laundry, vacuumed the entire downstairs, and bagged up discarded clothes for donation. Before lunchtime.
Now that my kids are a little older and a bit more independent, summer isn’t as stressful because I can still get my stuff done without having to watch them every second. The ever-present possibility of a toddler finger in a light switch cramps my style and interferes with me crossing things off my to-do list. With the luxury of semi-independent children, I’m trying to relax more this summer. That, and the burning desire to suck every drop of summer this year, since last summer was such a bust.
Last summer, I was not only recovering from a bilateral mastectomy but also playing hostess with the mostess to a nasty, long-staying bacteria that exploded into a messy, hard-t0-diagnose-and-even-harder-to-eradicate infection. I spent some extra time in the hospital, multiple times and multiple hospitals, and had a few extra surgeries. I weathered the ups & downs of being an impatient patient, and learned the hard, hard lesson that no matter how nicely I treat my body, it can and will betray me. As my sweet mama would have said, “That is rude, crude, and socially unacceptable.”
Last summer I missed out on a lot, thanks to Mr. Mycobacterium. This summer is going to be different. I’m going to spend some idle time, and hopefully learn to like it. I’m going to float in the pool with my kids and my crazy dog, and not worry about the laundry piling up or the dishwasher needing to be emptied. I’m going to teach my kids to cook, and not stress over the messy kitchen. I’m going to drag them away from the TV and computer games and into the museum district, and not get discouraged when they complain about how boring it is.
However unstructured this summer is, it’s gonna be great. Summertime and the living is easy.
Today’s the day, people.
I’m paying a call on my true love. Nope, this isn’t a tell-all expose a la Arnold Schwarzenegger.
I’ve been cleared by my favorite doc to start playing again. To ease back into it and with specific instructions to stop in my tracks if I feel even a tiny pull in my 17-inch-long belly incision. That super-long, super-bad incision is healing up quite nicely, and it’s my job to guard it and baby it.
When I got the green light from my favorite surgeon, I asked his nurse to please put a note in my file and have him sign it to that effect. A permission slip of sorts, so that when I see him again in a couple of weeks and mention tennis, he doesn’t forget he’d given me the go-ahead. The last thing that man and I need is another argument. Although, it has been a while since we had one….
With the tennis ban being lifted, I realized that I haven’t so much as picked up a racquet since The Big Dig, nearly 3 months ago. In fact, I had to dig around in the garage for my tennis bag. Sadly, it had been consigned to the garage instead of riding shotgun like normal, and it hung on a hook, quite forlornly, I might add, all this time. Over the course of almost 3 months, things like stadium seats and insulated cooler bags were hung in front of my beloved bag, and it took on the role of wallflower instead of constant companion. I had to take my racquet out, just for a sec, and hold it in my hand. Just like old times.
Today’s return isn’t full of the fanfare the met my return to the court last fall, after finally triumphing over the God-awful post-mastectomy infection and all its myriad complications. You loyal readers know the story so I won’t bore you with the details yet again, but suffice to say that the bilateral mastectomy would have been enough, but the nosocomial infection that required 3 more surgeries, nearly a month in the hospital, and endless antibiotics was really enough.
No fanfare, because while returning to tennis after the mastectomy and infection mess was a lot, but it’s easy compared to recovering from the DIEP surgery. Good thing today is just a 1-hour drill, which is the perfect venue for me to see if I remember how to swing that racquet. I’m not giddy with excitement like I was last fall, because the cautious side of me is bracing for disappointment. For this return to not quite work out for me. Although I’ve been cleared, there’s no guarantee that my body is on the same schedule as my heart & mind, and I may well be met with resistance from the battle-weary bod.
See, this is one of the unseen side effects of a cancer diagnosis. Even after getting through all the hard stuff–comprehending the devastating news of diagnosis, all the gut-wrenching decisions, the surgeries & hospitalizations, the never-ending antibiotics & their grueling side effects, the cornucopia of doctors’ appointments, the worry & fear & fatigue–I’m still shell-shocked enough to automatically look for disaster. Although the 267 days of oral antibiotics worked and my infection is cured, there’s still a little part of me that assumes the worst. I can’t even remember the last time my skin opened up to let infected fluid escape, yet I still think I feel it a couple of times a week. It’s PTSD for patients.
So my job today is to say screw the PTSD. Can the shell-shocked tendencies. Bust right through the doubt. Ignore the niggling little voice that asks if I’m sure I want to do this.
Hell yes, I want to do this. More than anything else, tennis to mean means I’ve healed. More than being able to go about my busy little life, more than getting back into the gym, more than being able to lift my arms enough and twist my core enough to dress myself. Tennis means I did it. It’s over.
My friend who also battled the breast cancer beast has dusted off her racquet and returned to the game we both love. While I’m unhappy with the unfinished parts of my reconstruction and she’s unhappy with her not-yet-grown-back-in hair, we’re getting back in the game.
I’m going to take the advice of tennis legend Billie Jean King in my post-cancer tennis strategy:
“Ladies, here’s a hint. If you’re up against a girl with big boobs, bring her to the net and make her hit backhand volleys. That’s the hardest shot for the well-endowed.”
My friend and I are both differently-endowed than we were before breast cancer came to call, but we survived that unwelcome visit and are ready to tear it up on the court. Even if we both get our asses handed to us in match play, I suspect we’ll both be smiling. Happy to be there, happy to have a racquet in hand, happy to be alive.
Y’all know I’m a milestone-observing kind of girl. I’ve written about my cancer-versary, about a revelation, about week-old recollections after The Big Dig, aka my reconstruction, and returning to the tennis court after a long absence full of longing.
I’ve written about the anniversary of my sweet mama leaving this earth. That was early on in my blogging, and I hadn’t mastered the art of inserting photos. The photos of her are woefully displayed, and in my free time (!) I need to go back and fix them. She deserves better.
I’ve also observed the end of the worst year of my life. “Don’t let the door hit ya” was my message to 2010 as it went out like a lion. A mean, underfed, on-the-hunt-for-victims lion. Almost halfway through 2011 and I’m happy to say it’s turning out to be a much better year. Course, we didn’t have far to go to make it better than its predecessor.
Back to the current milestone. One year ago today, I said bye-bye to my breasts and was the lucky recipient of a flat–but cancer-free–chest. This was me, this time last year. On this very day (although it wasn’t a Friday, it was May 13th. Having a bilateral mastectomy on Friday the 13th would be cruel).
Trevor snapped this photo of me waiting for my surgery, in the holding pen before moving to a pre-op room. My brain was swirling with lots of thoughts, too many thoughts, and I was likely firing off a quick email to our BFF Ed with some last-minute kid-wrangling instructions. Notice the pink notebook in my bag: my cancer book, full of pathology reports, doctors’ notes, research, and bills. Bills, bills, and more bills. I think the current estimate of the cost of my last year medically is in the range of $260,000. And we’re not done spending yet.
One year ago today, I wish we’d thought to take a close-up shot of my chest instead of the deep wrinkle snaking across my forehead. My chest would never be the same, and would become a major battleground–and that was after the mastectomy. If I’d seen that pic before going under, I would have asked Dr Dempsey, breast surgeon extraordinnaire, to give me some Botox while she was in there. Yikes.
I didn’t know what to expect from the surgery, other than the basics. With subsequent surgeries, I’ve learned that actual procedures are available for viewing on youtube and I’ve watched a few. Gross. But amazing.
All I knew, really, was that I had breast cancer and I wanted it gone. I could have had a lumpectomy, but chose the slash-and-burn option instead. I’m not a half-measure kind of girl, and the idea of just taking a part of the infected breast instead of the whole thing wasn’t anything I ever seriously entertained. Slash-and-burn meant taking both breasts, even though the cancer was only detected in the right one. Only. Ha! Good thing I lost the pair, because the post-mastectomy pathology showed the left one had some problems, too. If you can call an area 5 cm in diameter full of cancerous junk a problem. I can, and I did. Little did I know then, one year ago today, that pretty much anything that could go wrong with my post-surgery self would go wrong. As my nurse practitioner friend Laura says, “Your case certainly has not been textbook.” Truer words were never spoken, but we didn’t know that one year ago today.
Because there were only 3 weeks between my diagnosis and the mastectomy, and because most of that time was consumed with tests, tests, and more tests, there wasn’t a lot of time for freaking out or being scared or crying about my fate. Not that I would have done any of those things anyway. There was a problem, and we were going to fix it. ‘Nuff said. I had a great team–breast surgeon, plastic surgeon, and oncologist– and was in a nationally ranked and highly acclaimed hospital. Course, I’d end up adding a kick-ass infectious disease team, home-health care nurse, a beloved lymphedema specialist, and wound specialists to my team before it was all said & done.
and Macy & I pampered ourselves with a Chinese foot massage.
I squeezed in as much time as I could with my girls
Going into surgery one year ago today, I had no idea that I’d end up spending nearly a month more in the hospital and undergo 3 more surgeries; minor surgeries compared with the mastectomy, and of course reconstruction was way off in the distance, with even more days in the hospital. I had no idea how much I’d miss my kids while hospitalized
I had no idea how much infinite kindness my friends would bestow upon me. We were on the receiving end of many, many meals delivered to our house, a kindness for which I’m so grateful. The rides to & from my kids’ activities helped more than I could ever guess. The sleepovers and outings that my mommy friends provided kept my kids’ life normal when everything else around them was off-the-charts abnormal.
Keith’s crab towers were chock-full of healing properties.
Yes, lots of champagne eased the way from being an average, suburban at-home mom to becoming a statistic. From regular woman to cancer vixen. From got-it-together overachiever to at the beast’s mercy. And my bubbly companion continues to ease the way, from cancer victim to cancer survivor. Cheers to that.
although Pedey enjoyed every lazy minute of my recouperating.
I’m not sure I ever got that pair back from her.
I certainly have learned a lot over the last year. Things I never knew I would have to learn, like the difference between invasive ductal carcinoma and in situ carcinomas. Like how a tumor is graded to determine the stage of the cancer. Like cure rate statistics and recurrence stats. Like how fine a line there is between the science of medicine and the art of medicine. Like how fighting a wily infection could be even worse than fighting cancer.
The crash course in all things infection-related was a big education. A very big, most unwanted education. My biggest lesson in this arena is how many unknowns exist. I wanted to know when, where, how, and why I got this infection. No one knows for sure. I wanted to know why it took so long to diagnose it, and why so many drugs have to be involved. I learned that my oncologist could have me all my drugs delivered to my doorstep via UPS. I learned to love vanocmycin and to depend on probiotics. I learned to eat breakfast as soon as I got up, hungry or not, because I needed to time the antibiotics right so they hit an empty stomach. I learned that morning sickness-style nausea doesn’t go away as the morning changes to afternoon and then to evening. I learned that there was nothing, not one single thing, I could put in my stomach to ease that awful nausea. I learned that washing those drugs down with alcohol doesn’t make me feel worse; that in fact it made me feel a whole lot better. I learned to develop a schedule and a rhythm to taking my antibiotics every 12 hours for 267 days.
I learned that “We’re discontinuing the antibiotics” are the sweetest words I’ve heard in a long time. I’ve learned about the complete and utter relief of dumping my remaining oral abx out, because I don’t need them anymore.
That’s the tip of the iceburg, or what my friend Michele would call “a booger’s worth” of the practical things I’ve learned. The topical aspects of changing one’s status from normal person to cancer patient. Then there’s the other side of it.
There’s the stuff I’ve learned in the last year about the unquantifiable side of a serious illness. The depth of inner strength required to get through something like this. The well of emotion that accompanies the clinical stuff. The patience and fortitude I didn’t know I had (although I’m still working on the patience part). The measure of gratitude toward the people who’ve helped along the way. The unbridled joy of making new friends in the midst of a shitty situation. The passion for writing, long dormant in the day-to-day of child-rearing, and the love of blogging. The understanding that my doctors are just regular people under those scrubs & white coats, and while they’re full of knowledge, there’s a whole ‘nother side of unknown things for which they make an educated guess and hope for the best. And, I have to admit, how much fun I’ve had getting to know these people in the white coats.
While being diagnosed with breast cancer at age 40 certainly does suck, I’m lucky that I made the decision one year ago to not let that diagnosis define me or impede me living my life. There certainly were times in which I was miserable from surgery and infection, and down in the dumps about my limited capabilities during recovery. There were also times over the last year in which I thought for a second I can’t take any more–not one drop more of bad luck, rotten news, and beastly complications. But those times didn’t last long and they did not prevail. Cancer did not prevail. Not over me. No way. Nuh uh. That’s perhaps the most important thing I learned over the last year.
Y’all are in for a treat today. Sit down, grab a beverage, put your phone on vibrate for this, because you’ll want to read this uninterrupted. My friend David has created a marvelous original piece just for Underbelly readers. He’s enormously talented with the prose and the pen, and as if the story itself isn’t enough, the illustrations are fabulous. I think it’s terrific, and it’s a perfect recap of my cancer-versary, which I feel compelled to continue celebrating. I favor the total birthday week, so likewise I may have a cancer-versary festival for as many days as my liver can stand. IMHO, now is always the right time to pop open some bubbly (I like later, too).
Those of you who have followed my story over the last year, with all its ups & downs, will know of my special relationship with my plastic surgeon. He and I have really gotten to know each other well during my “cancer journey,” and while I tease him sometimes (and drive him crazy all of the time), I have enormous respect for him and his amazing craft. We have a closer-than-normal bond because of the post-op care I’ve needed, and he’s been there for me every step of the way: entertaining me, enlightening me, engaging me, but in the end, taking phenomenal care of me. I trust him with my body and with my life. His work is simply stunning, and I’ve seen firsthand how he can transform a cancer-ravaged, wrecked body into not just a vessel for our souls but also a work of art.
So, in honour of my favorite doctor, I give you…
The Wubbulous Dr. S
And of all plastic surgeons, I’m strictly the best.
I see your mastectomy’s left you flat-chested,
Well, my reconstructions have never been bested!
If it’s hooters you want, then it’s hooters I’ve got.
I’ll shape up your shape till you’re hotter than hot.
You want to be buxom, then buxom you’ll be—
and you’ll be the envy of all that you see!
How can I do this? I’ll try to explain,
But it may be too much for your non-Doctor’s brain.
For, once I unveil this special contraption,
You’ll be quite amazed—it’s a natural reaction.
Behold! I give you the Balloon-Boob-U-Latron,
Which will stack up your rack to the stars and beyond!
And with this little dial on the side, I can choose
Whether you will get Double-D’s or…W’s.
So step right on up and I’ll rev up the engine.
By week after next, you’ll get LOTS of attention.”
“It sounds,” I replied, “Just too good to be true,
And besides, I don’t want DD or W.
I’m happy with simply a B or a C.”
“Nonsense.” He retorted, “Just listen to me.
As I said, I’m a DOCTOR. I’m SMARTER than you.
I’ve got major degrees coming out the wazoo.
You just sit back and whistle, while I do my stuff.
I’m starting the engine. You’ve said quite enough.”
And he chose Double-J on that knob on the side.
And I sat there and whistled. That’s all I could do.
But then two hours later he said, “We are through.
Behold! They’re magnificent!” Then I looked down.
“I don’t see a difference.” I said with a frown.
“Of course not.” He said, “For your eyes are untrained,
But I am a DOCTOR. I’m quite largely-brained.
They’re just getting started. You’ll see. They will GROW.
Trust me. I’m the best—Dr. S—and I KNOW.”
I went home, kissed my kids, then I laid down to rest,
And when I woke up, I saw shape in my chest.
Not much, I admit, but the doctor was right.
They were growing. And kept growing all through the night.
I woke up next morning, completely in shock.
I couldn’t believe it and, quick, called the doc.
“Dr. S,” I said, “Now for the shocker of shockers.
Something,” I shouted, “is wrong with my knockers.
The one on the left’s growing stronger than strong,
But the one on the RIGHT is decidedly WRONG.”
“Hmmm. You’d better come in,” Dr. S said. “I’m fairly
Sure something has happened that happens quite rarely.”
When he saw me, he flinched. I was very lopsided.
“You have an infection,” the doctor confided.
“A mycobacterium. That is my hunch,
And my LARGE doctor’s brain knows these things by the BUNCH.
I know just what to do. There’s no need to debate it.
The one on the left…we’ll just have to deflate it.
And we have other options to give you new breasts,
But I am a DOCTOR, and doctors run TESTS.
I’ll get back to you shortly. Just wait and you’ll see.
Meanwhile, I’ll send you to deflating room B.”
So my boob was deflated, and so was my mood,
And the next time I saw Dr. S, I was rude.
“Look here, Dr. S,” I said. “I mean no trouble,
But I live inside of the SUGAR LAND Bubble.
I know you’re a DOCTOR, but I say, what of it?
You can take your Balloon-Boob-U-Latron and just shove it!”
“Tut, tut,” Dr. S said. “I expected as much.
A Sugar Land patient needs a delicate touch.
I’ve run many tests on your bodice, you see,
And the answer’s so clear for a Doctor like me.
What you need is a TRAM FLAP procedure! I know,
Because I am a DOCTOR, so on with the show!
Since you’re a non-Doctor, I’ll lend you a hand:
TRAM FLAP stands for ‘Tit Repositioning And
Moving Fat Like A Puzzle’, which quite simply means
That you’ll have to gain weight. So, goodbye, skinny jeans!
You must grow a big belly to give me the fat
That I’ll move to your boobies, to make them un-flat.
So go forth and EAT! Eat ice cream! Drink shakes!
Gobble bon bons and beignets and beezlenut cakes!
Grow the fat for new hooters. Get busy. Get LARGE.
(The fat on your ass you can keep, at no charge.)
And because I’m a DOCTOR, I must prescribe PILLS!
Pills for THIS and for THAT and for medical bills.
The mycobacterium must go away,
So you must take these pills twenty-four hours a day.
AND because this procedure is tricky as treacle,
I’ll need an assistant. Please, meet Dr. Spiegel.”
Then in walked a woman so lithe and so smart
That I almost felt jealousy deep in my heart.
So, now I had Drs. S1 and S2,
One doc for each boob. What the sam hell to do?
And as soon as I met with S1 and S2,
It became quite apparent (as things often do)
That a struggle for power was starting to brew
About which doc was MY doc,
And who was the MAIN doc,
And who would I see when this process was through?
So for weeks I ate pastries, popped pills, and drank shakes
(And martinis and beers because that’s what it takes)
Till I had so much weight in my belly and butt
That I bore a resemblance to Jabba the Hutt.
At my next appointment, they pinched, poked, and prodded,
And at last both my doctors stepped back and they nodded.
“You’re simply ENORMOUS,” said Dr. S1.
“As big as a WHALE! What good work you have done.”
Then Dr. S2 added, “Yes, I agree.
There’s plenty of fat here. Just leave it to me!”
“Excuse ME?” shot S1, “But I won’t stand for that.
YOU can assist ME, while I move her fat,
For I am a DOCTOR…”
“Oh yeah? So am I.”
And in the stunned silence, they stood. Eye to eye.
But I finally spoke up and I said, “Ugh! For shizzle!
Yes, I KNOW you’re both doctors. I KNOW you’re both wise
But it’s MY reconstruction, so shut up, you guys.
Dr. S1, you have cosmetic vision,
So, you’ll do the OUTSIDE stuff. That’s MY decision.
Dr. S2, you’re as detailed as hell,
So you’ll move my fat, and blood vessels as well.”
Then they stared at me—stunned—like the strangest of fish,
And then Dr. S1 said, “If that’s what you wish,
I will finish the outside. But YOU, Dr. Spiegel
Must make room for ME and my extra-large ego.”
“All right,” said the slightly dejected S2,
“When I am all through, I’ll give over to you.”
“And she’ll be MY patient,” shot Dr. S1,
“She’ll be mine, mine, mine, MINE, from the moment we’re done.”
“Time’s a-wastin’. Let’s do it. Get going, you guys.”
So they wheeled me to surgery, both did their jobs,
And when we came out, I had spanking new yobs!
“Well, what do you think?” asked S1 and S2.
I replied, “I’m just glad that this whole thing is through.
I have boobs, and that’s fine, but I was fine before,
I just want my LIFE back. There’s so much, MUCH more.
I want to be free, be a mom, be a wife,
Write an end to this chapter of my so-called life.”
And what happened next? Well in Who-ville they say
That the doctors’ small hearts grew THREE sizes that day.
My story had touched them. It lifted the fog
Of their arrogance—and gave me stuff for my blog.
So, thanks to the doctors—their wisdom and skills,
Their sense of perfection, and even their pills.
I’m alive. I am whole. Though my journey’s not finished,
To say that a lot has happened in the last year is an utter waste of words. I’m not sure there are words to convey how much has happened in the last year; if there are, they are reserved for better writers than I.
Being diagnosed with cancer at age 40 is a shock. Duh. It’s scary and unexpected and unnerving. Double duh. 40 is when we hit our stride. For me, it meant my kids were old enough to not need constant supervision but to still need my guidance. I’d recently discovered tennis, the new love of my life, and had time and freedom to play often. I had a tight circle of friends who knew who they are and where they want to go. I was very comfortable with the direction of my life and the steps I was taking to make it the very best it could be.
Then came cancer.
That vicious beast had already stolen my sweet mama from me, when she was only 67. I was 36 and finding my own way as a mother, and needed her input and presence. But more importantly, I needed her friendship. She and I never had the contentious relationship that a lot of mothers & daughters have. We always liked each other. Maybe because we were a bit opposite: she was yielding and I was (am) opinionated. But maybe we just got lucky, and had that special relationship that some fates bestow upon some people but not others. The reason for our good relationship is immaterial; the fact was, we treasured each other, and losing her was the worst thing to ever happen to me.
Until April 27, 2010.
My guardian angels were asleep at the wheel.
I’d been getting baseline mammograms since my mom died, since hers was a reproductive cancer and that put me at a slightly greater risk. More so, though, was my OB-GYN’s diligence. Her husband is an oncologist at MD Anderson, so she’s super-tuned to cancer and its sneaky ways of getting its foot inside the door. She saved my life. Pure and simple. And monumental.
When the news came on this day last year, I listened to everything Dr Dempsey told me about my cancer, as Boss Lady Staci dutifully took notes in Trevor’s stead as he hustled home from a business trip. I held it together until the end, when she asked if I had any more questions and I had one: how do I tell my kids?
They’d watched their YaYa die from cancer, and while only 6 and 3 years old, those memories are powerful. They wanted a lot of assurance that my cancer was different in every way from YaYa’s and that it was not going to kill me, too.
One week after my diagnosis, Payton turned 11. I was gearing up for a double mastectomy, but wasn’t going to neglect his celebration, because if we can’t celebrate life and its happy moments, then cancer might as well come and get us all. We had the usual birthday breakfast on the personalized birthday plates, just as we had every year. As I placed his feast in front of him, I muttered my birthday wish, which was to make sure I was around to place that personalized plate in front of him on May 3rd for many years to come. My firstborn isn’t going to celebrate his birthday without his mama if I have anything to say about it.
The day before my mastectomy, Macy and I met Jeffrey, the orphaned mockingbird rescued by Amy Hoover’s family. We’d been hearing about this little guy, and my animal-loving girl needed to see him for herself. I had a million things to do to prepare for not only surgery but also weeks of dependency, but we made time to meet Jeffrey, and I’m so glad we did.
Two weeks later, I turned 41. I celebrated in typical fashion, with a girlfriends’ lunch and champagne that night. White cake and bubbly are two of my favorite things, and they just say “party” to me. I didn’t feel great, but I was determined to greet the next year in my life with a glass in my hand and a smile on my face. Being surrounded by my best girls during the day and my family in the evening reminded me that life goes on and that while my recovery was hard, it was do-able, so take that, cancer.
A few days before my birthday, I strapped on as much determination as I could muster and took Macy to see Taylor Swift at the Toyota Center with her best bud, Ella, and my partner in crime, Jill. I was so afraid of being jostled by the crowd, as I was still pretty sore and healing was far from complete. But I wanted to be there and be a part of that big event, and to prove to myself that life doesn’t stop for cancer. I’d lost my breasts but not my drive. The glowsticks burned brightly as the music thumped, and I sat next to my favorite girl and soaked it all up. Every last drop.
Good thing I did, because my healing and happiness were short-lived.
Just as I felt like I was really recovering from the mastectomy, the nosocomial infection entered my life. A curveball? And how.
Hospitalized for 9 days, pumped full of antibiotics, right tissue expander removed and left expander drained, my life took a decidedly unpleasant turn. It took 6 weeks to diagnose the mycobacterium, and nearly a month total of days spent in the hospital. That first 9-day stay was the longest of my hospitalizations, but also the scariest because the infection was hiding under the tissue expander, hard to diagnose but making me really, really sick. A month after the 9-day stay, I was back in the joint. Out for 3 days and back for 5 more days. Then, out for 2 weeks and back in for 3 days. A seemingly never-ending cycle. Each time I had to go back in, Macy would hand me Froggy, her most beloved of all her “crew” of stuffed animals. He’s been with her since she was a tiny baby and has enjoyed favored status among the masses of other stuffed animals. He’s been in her bed every night and has gone on every trip she’s taken, and she gave him to me to take on each trip to the hospital. He had a bath in hot, bleachy water with an extra rinse every time he came home to her.
She also gave me Baby Snoopy, another coveted member of the “crew,” and my heart swells at the idea of my baby girl’s thoughtfulness. Though she hated to see me go back to the hospital, she knew her “crew” would comfort me in her absence.
Gross picture, yes, but I did make it smaller so you don’t have to see it in all its glory. Apologies to Christy, who hates this kind of stuff, and Julie: you’d better start skimming because this is the icky part. The aftermath of the mycobacterium is unpleasant, for sure. And this is not the worst shot there is; this shot was taken after much healing had occurred, believe it or not. The wound left behind by the infection was 5.6 cm long, 3 cm wide and 2 cm deep. That dang bug wreaked a lot of havoc on my already-ravaged right chest wall, and it killed what little bit of healthy tissue was left after Dr Dempsey scooped most of it out to rid the cancer. It’s an insidious bug that is hard to treat. It’s not drug-resistant, like MRSA, but it is very slow-growing and so it responds slowly to antibiotics. Hence the long, long, looooooooong course of oral abx and the multiple rounds of IV antibiotics, at home and in the hospital. I still have this collection on my kitchen counter, to take twice a day, but luckily haven’t needed the IV version since the last go-round in March. No idea when I’ll get off the oral abx, but sweet Dr Grimes, my infectious disease doc, has told me that he has patients who are on abx therapy for years. Years. Plural. Egads.
Trevor and I became fluent in home health care and learned how to administer the vancomycin and cefapim all by ourselves. The learning curve wasn’t steep, and the whole process was very systematic. My home health nurse, Chona, was as kind and competent as could be, but the gravitas of my situation was clear.While I dreaded it and resented the 3 hours it took twice a day to infuse, I counted my blessings and reminded myself that it could be worse: I could be getting those drugs via IV in the hospital. Again. Which is why I smiled for the camera, tethered yet again but happy to be at home, with Snoopy to keep me and my IV pole company. And yes, that is a glass of wine on the table next to me. It was a dark period in my life, people; don’t judge.
This is what Sucky’s appendage looked like strapped to my body, so it could suck out the gunk and speed the healing from this curveball. The size of the plastic sheeting and the tape required to keep the Sucky train rolling was big enough to give me the vapors, and my poor skin is shuddering at the memories right now. And isn’t everyone thankful that I didn’t have a better camera than the one on my iPhone? Imagine how gruesome the photos would be! Oh, the horror.
The amount of supplies needed to deal with that wound was staggering. The home health stuff was delivered in big boxes, which cluttered up my office and dining room for a day or two before I said enough! and organized everything to minimize its presence. Out of sight, out of mind (sort of). I pared it down as much as I could.
I became proficient at prettying up the ugly truth of cancer treatment, and its equally- ugly friend,infection aftermath, fared the same. I may not have had control over the mutating cells in my body or the nasty bug that invited itself in post-mastectomy, but I sure could dictate how my surroundings would look during the after-party.
The amount of supplies needed for this fragile existence was great, and so was my need for comfort. That I found comfort in bubbly and coconut cream pie should come as no surprise to anyone who knows me. I may have been down and out, with cancer and infection taking their pounds of flesh (literally), but I was powered by Piper and pie.
The summer wore on and I barely saw the sun. And only then, through the window; I didn’t get out much. Between the hospital stays, feeling puny, IV drugs, and being on guard against germs, I missed out on a lot.
I did make it to Macy’s 2nd grade last-day-of-school festivities. She had something funny to say when it was her turn to take the podium, and although I don’t recall what it was, I’m glad I was able to be there to see her in action. I also dragged my sorry carcass to Payton’s 5th grade farewell. My friends in high places in the school volunteering world pulled some strings and had a reserved seat for me, along with a parking cone to save a parking place for Mary, who carted me there and back. My baby was moving on to middle school, and I was moving slowly–very slowly–toward recovery, from cancer and infection.
Right before school ended, Payton was honored with a spot on the All Star team. This boy lives & breathes baseball, and has from his earliest days, so this is a big deal.
The team went from District to Sectionals to State (or maybe Sectionals to District to State), and I made it to 1 game. Being in the hospital while my favorite player did that thing he does best was hard on this mama. His team had a lot of heart, in addition to some mad skills, and they were kind enough to play in my honor for the duration of their run toward State champs. I’ve never been more honored and humbled as when he came home from practice the night before the first tournament (District? Sectionals?) with a pair of pink sweatbands on his wrist. Learning that the entire team was wearing the pink, for me, moved me, and like the Grinch, my heart swelled to maybe a normal size.
I’ll be forever indebted to all the other All Star moms who cheered for my boy and provided yard signs, pool parties, custom shirts, and child-wrangling assistance in my absence, at our home field and on the road. Missing the games was hard, but knowing that my circle of baseball moms had my back made it bearable. And having my signed photo of the boys in red (with a dash of pink) brightened my hospital room and my spirits. That frame now sits on my dresser, and every day when I see it I remember not only the special summer of baseball success but also the pure hearts of the families on that team who helped my own family in our time of need.
Good things can come from a bad situation. There is hope inside a diagnosis. You get a measure of the depth of people’s kindness, which comes out in lots of ways. Like custom cupcakes. I liked that one a lot, and so did my kids.
Like a card signed by the staff at PF Chang’s during a celebratory lunch. Our waiter knew we were celebrating some good news in the cancer battle and took it upon himself to have his co-workers celebrate along with us. I said it then, and I’ll say it again: Eat at Chang’s!
My friend Paula from Duke ran in the Salt Lake City Race for the Cure in my honor and sent me her bib from the race. At that point, I was a long way from even considering doing a 5K, so it did my heart good to know she was out there, pounding the pavement among an army of pink and thinking of me.
One weekend in between hospital stays, Macy and I snuck away to Galveston with Christy and her daughter Alexis, for a much-needed break from illness, wound care, and calamities. Macy caught a huge fish off the dock, and seeing her proud smile made the trip even better. There’s something magical about the sunset off the water, and I savored the splendor.
Once word got out that the puppy-sitting business was up & running, we got to keep Pepper for several days. My kids loved having her to snuggle with on the couch, and I relished the idea that the hard times were morphing into better times.
School started, much to my children’s chagrin, and Payton went off to middle school while Macy began 3rd grade. A few days after school started, I was fresh out of the hospital, she and I rocked out at the Jack Johnson concert in the Woodlands. Because I had been hospitalized, again, so recently, my attending the show wasn’t a sure thing. I still had the dressing on my port-a-cath and wasn’t feeling great. What is a sure thing, however, is that I’m as stubborn as cancer is shitty, so I made it to the show.
August and September were spent recuperating, and at the end of September I hobbled myself on down to Tootsies, a chichi clothing store in the high-rent district that was outfitting survivor models for the Couture for the Cause fashion show. I’d only been out of the hospital for a month, but I had committed to doing the show and I made good on my word. Scared breathless and unsure of myself are not states in which I commonly find myself, but the fashion show landed me smack dab in the middle of “What in the world am I doing?” territory. I wasn’t wild about the dresses I wore, but my shoes were a-maz-ing and the experience is one I truly will never forget. Oh, and we raised almost $100K for the cause.
October signaled the return of some normalcy. I was able to put together something I’d daydreamed about a lot in the hospital: the First Annual Pink Party. I wanted to gather my circle of girls who had seen me and my family through the roughest part of the “cancer journey” to show my thanks and spend some non-sick time together. With the pink theme, yummy food (if I do say so myself), and plentiful drink, it was a smash success.
We seemed to have the infection under control and the antibiotics were doing their job, and after a much longer-than-anticipated hiatus, I was back on the tennis court. My sweet tennis friends gave me a little trophy that says “Winner,” and it’s the best trophy I’ve ever won.
This little trophy soon had a friend, though, after Boss Lady and I won the Witches’ Open at the end of October. Being back on the court with my tennis friends was so great. Tennis is very good therapy.
As if that day wasn’t fun enough, that night was the Maroon 5 concert in the Woodlands. Tennis, then dinner and the show was a balm for my battered soul. We ate & drank then sang along with Adam for an unforgettable night.
Before too long, fall was upon us (or what passes for fall in Houston), and we readied ourselves for the holidays. Thanksgiving was spent with Team Cremer, with everyone contributing something to the feast. The kids worked off their meal with the traditional post-turkey swim. We had a lot for which to give thanks.
Christmas and the New Year came and went, and before I knew it was time to start making preparations for reconstruction. The Big Dig was a big step, and I had hoped it would signal the end to my “cancer journey” and allow me to put all that hardship behind me. Adding another doctor, and another Dr S, to my cast of characters could only mean one thing: I was going in for a very big surgery.
The DIEP procedure is amazing and hard, in a lot of ways: time consuming, intricate, detailed, and not infallible. Babying the newly transplanted skin, tissues, and blood vessels was hard work, and the crack team at Methodist in the med center did an outstanding job.
It was a hard 3 days, no lie, but at least I was going home. One thing I would miss from the hospital was the morphine. Oh, how I love that stuff. I guess a lot of people do, too, because they guard it closely and I got a laugh from the ping-pong-paddle-key used to replenish my supply. Kinda reminded me of a gas station restroom key.
One thing I would not miss from the hospital was this chair.
This was the chair in ICU that I had to hoist myself into, after hoisting myself and my 17-inch-long abdominal incision out of bed. Again, it’s a good thing I’m so stubborn, because it would have been easy to roll over, say this is too hard, too painful, too much. But by golly I was going to get out of that bed and into that chair no matter what, and with my morphine pump in hand, I did just that. I don’t think I cussed too much, either.
Recovery from The Big Dig is ongoing, and they say it will take a while longer. I’m not the most patient person, and I’m ready to have everything back to normal. Of course I know there’s a new normal, and it progresses at its own pace, not mine. It’s been a long, tough “journey,”and it seemed that everything that could go wrong did go wrong, for a while.
But a lot of good things have happened, too. I started blogging, for one, with Pedey at my side or in my chair, or both; who knew so many people were interested in my little “cancer journey?” It’s humbling and rewarding to see my “readership” grow, and I am immensely grateful for all the love and support that’s come my way. Someday I may have no cancer-related news to share. How weird will that be? I imagine I’ll find something to talk about in this space, nonetheless.
I will have more stories to share about my adventures with Dr S. There are a couple of revisions that he needs to make to his palette that is my newly constructed chest, and while we argue about the timeframe for that, it will likely provide blog fodder and laughs along the way.
And like the butterfly bush in my backyard that was uprooted and tossed around by high winds recently, I weathered the storm. I’m setting my roots and hoping that the winds that blow my way in future are calmer.
Yes, I know the continuation of the Napa series is overdue, and I’m going to get to it today, I promise. I used to live & breathe by deadlines, but now that I’m “retired” from the publishing business and don’t really give a hoot about anything else except what’s in the forefront of my brain at this very moment, I can casually toss aside a deadline, even a self-imposed one. I do need to work on crafting shorter sentences, though. Mercy. You’d think I was getting paid by the word for that one.
‘Tis true I needed to think about how to best convey the utter perfection of our second day in Napa, and these things cannot be rushed, not even by me; these things take time. In this case, almost a week. This time last week, we were sleeping peacefully in San Francisco, with the entire Napa weekend spread out before us like the best buffet ever. I need to do that scene justice, and doing justice takes time. Maybe you’ll get lucky and I’ll post twice today.
I had every intention of writing that update last night, but I must admit I didn’t feel all that great. Again, me & my stupid assumptions. Because it has been 6 weeks since The Big Dig, I stupidly assumed that on day 42 post-op I would magically be back to normal. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha. No, I’m not playing tennis, and I’ve been instructed by both doctors and my trainer to avoid any exercise that utilitzes my core for another 6 weeks. So my atrophying muscles and I will dejectedly comply (at least for now). In case you’re wondering, like I was, why the kibosh on using my core, it has to do with the risk of opening up that 17-inch-long abdominal incision (low); the skin becoming hyphertrophic (medium), and widening that 17-inch-long incision (high). I’d say that damn incision is quite big enough, and the last thing I need is to be widening it, no matter how much I hate being on the DL.
So, I’m back to reality after a most wonderful trip, I can’t exercise, I’m still struggling with post-op fatigue, and the operated-upon areas still bark at me more than I’d like. But alas, I have my doc to brighten my days and lift my spirits. I’m luckier than a dog with 2 tails because I got to see him not once but twice this week. One for an official check-up and again by chance.
My check-up was Wednesday. It’s always an adventure going to see him. He wanted to see for his own eyes that I survived the trip to Napa, and his first question was, “Did you get drunk?” Yes, all day every day. I told him that if I can’t start exercising yet, then we need to speed up the timeframe for fixing the “dog ears.”
These lovely little things are the globs of fat sitting on my hips that he said we need to “suck right out.” I agree. Dog ears are folds or the bunching-up of the tissues at the border at which the “corrected” tissue meets the “uncorrected” tissue post-surgically. So in my case, on either end of the 17-inch-long abdominal incision, or right on my hips. The main way to minimize dog ears is by making an incision longer, but in my case, my docs were dedicated to keeping the scar as small as possible, and making it longer would have entailed wrapping it around my hips onto my back, which aesthetically isn’t a good option. In a traditional tummy tuck, there’s more wiggle room for scar length, but in my case they were harvesting skin & fat from which to build my new boobs. So, I have dog ears on my hips. Not a real big deal, other than the superficial issue.
I would like to get it corrected sooner rather than later, so my doc and I are negotiating. He wants to wait 6 months from the date of reconstruction, but I think 3 months is ample time for healing. He is not swayed by my complaint that I have to go all summer long with extra fat on my hips. After some back-and-forth, we finally agreed on 5 months, but I’ll keep pushing.
The most entertaining thing about Wednesday’s visit came when I asked my doc if he knew another plastic surgeon, let’s call her Dr X. One of my friends is considering a “mommy make-over” with Dr X, and I wanted to see if me mentioning another surgeon caused him to get his hackles up. Ding! ding! ding! He wanted to know why I would possibly be asking about another doctor, as we all know he is The Best Surgeon In The World. For real. When I told him the real reason I was inquiring about Dr X, he got all googly-eyed at the idea of doing a “fun” procedure, as he described the “mommy make-over” and said that sure would be nice, and he asked me (tongue in cheek) to please try to “bring more fun” next time I come see him. After several deeps breaths to settle myself, I offered to bring a pinata to my next appointment. With a very big stick. We all got a big hee-ha out of that. I’m going to have to make a quick trip to the border, to get a real Mexican pinata, like the one we got for Macy’s 4th birthday. Look at the size of that thing! Now I just need to find a really big stick….
Before I start ranting again about how not fun all this has been F O R H I M!!, let’s move on. The other interesting thing that occurred in our tete-a-tete was him telling me about the tummy tuck he did that morning that looked fantastic. Better than mine?I asked? Oh, yes–much better, he said. No dog ears, I asked? Oh, no, he replied, certainly not. Big sigh. Well, at least he’s off to a conference in New Orleans about fat transfer, so he can have the latest & greatest technique when it comes to sucking the giant dog ears off my hips and giving me a fighting chance of fitting into my clothes again sometime in the near future. Meanwhile, I’m thinking of officially changing my ethnicity to Basset Hound.
Dr S’s sweet nurse Brenda was sick, sick, sick with a sinus infection and looked like she felt beyond miserable. I told her she needed some homemade soup, and if that didn’t cure her, forget about it. So yesterday I took her some soup. Lo and behold, there’s Dr S. I told him I thought he was going out of town. He told me he is indeed but he has to see patients first, he has to work, he can’t just fly off to Napa like me, and oh how he wished he had my life. Hahahahahahahahahahaha. So funny. He looked quite stylish in his jeans and lime green shirt under his white coat, tanned and ready to take on the world, one fat glob at a time.
I mentioned that I happened to exchange some emails with Jenn, Dr Spiegel’s PA, and she happened to mention that they typically do revision surgeries 4 months after reconstruction. Just coincidence, that conversation, seriously. Yeah.
He told me no, absolutely not, he was putting his foot down in the sand. I asked if he was also drawing a line in the sand, and he said if I want my revision in 4 months, I can go to Dr Spiegel.
We also re-hashed a couple of long-dead conversations about subjects on which he was right and I was wrong, and we were done with the latest round of verbal sparring. He was going to check on a patient in the hospital adjacent to his office, and I was going to visit with Brenda and Marcie a bit. Next thing I know, he’s telling me to come on, and he’s waiting by the elevator for me. Now that’s some good service. Him waiting for me to finish my chat with his ladies, so that we could ride down in the elevator together–nice. And, as I recall, last time he asked me to pull down my pants so he could take a gander at my dog ears, he did say please. Quietly and under his breath, but still. We’re making progress. What a great day.
In the elevator, I took the opportunity to tell him ever so sweetly that I think it’s not so nice for him to tell me about surgeries performed on other patients who end up with a better result than me. I can’t remember if he laughed at me or promised to do better in the future, but I’m think it was the latter.
Oh, I love that man. He gives me blog fodder for days.
I just got back from the infectious disease doctor’s office and wow, what a visit. What a day. There’s not enough champagne in the world to soothe this jangled mess of nerves. I don’t know where to start, so buckle up and bear with me.
It started with a phone call this morning from Rhonda from the infectious disease team’s office. She said hang tight, they weren’t going to start any new antibiotics until Wednesday when I have an office visit scheduled. I registered my discomfort with waiting 5 days, and hung up wondering what to do next about a 2nd opinion, when Dr Grimes called me back himself to explain.
It was a bit of a misunderstanding: he didn’t realize I was having symptoms in the newly created breast, which is the site of the original infection (the dreaded mycobacterium, which has waaaaaaaay overstayed its welcome). Once he realized we weren’t talking about a problem with the drain site from the belly incision, he got busy and ordered IV antibiotics and said come in today and start the first infusion in my office.
But first, I saw my plastic surgeon for my weekly post-op visit. He was in an effusively good mood, and entered the room smiling from ear to ear. He was at least 30 minutes late, and came in fully loaded: the first thing he said was, “I’m making up for the fact that last week you were late.”
Uh, yeah, I was 5 minutes late. I said as much, and he started to say something along the lines of it’s ok for him to be 6 times as late because he’s the doctor and I’m the lowly patient, but I cut him off and said, You are NOT that much more important than me, so zip it.
He did. I filled him in on the infection scenario and he had some things to say. He’s persnickety, and I love it. From his standpoint, things look good physically and he’s not super concerned about the new infection but was in agreement with Dr Spiegel that a visit to the ID docs was necessary. He said he wanted to talk to both Dr Spiegel and Dr Grimes today to make sure they’re all on the same page.
So off I went to the med center, again. The one time I don’t have any of my handlers present was, natch, the one time I needed them. More on that shortly.
Dr Grimes, who I adore for his problem-solving skills, rejiggered his schedule to see me so he could get the full story and examine me. Since they worked me in, I was in the secondary infusion room, which is little more than a broom closet. There are 2 recliners and 2 IV poles, a desk & computer and mini-fridge (which had nothing of interest in it, and yes I checked). There were 2 nurses in this tiny space and they and Dr G were stepping all over each other while I was comfy in my recliner. But without a beverage equal to the stress of my day. This room is so crowded that if both recliners were reclined, the people sitting in them (across from each other) would be tangled up. Oh, how I hate small spaces and crowded rooms.
Dr G needed to take a look at the original infection site, now home of the newly created right breast. The older of the 2 nurses, who is mid-50s and easily 100 lbs overweight, said, Oh aren’t you lucky to have gotten new boobs.
That would be my patience coming to a grinding halt.
I said, yeah, that’s what everyone says, which sounds great, but they look like this: and I took off my shirt.
What I see as scar-ridden and jam-packed with misfortune and hardship and pain, medical professionals tend to see as pretty amazing. And yes, going from a completely flat, sunken, and concaved on the right side to two round and realistic breasts is pretty amazing. But I don’t want to hear the “yea, new boobs” line ever again.
The older nurse actually said, in front of Dr G, “Well, at least they’re perky. Mine haven’t been perky in a long time.”
Again, that sound you heard was my fuse erupting and the final straw shattering into a million pieces. I’d trade perky boobs for my old life in a heartbeat. One thing I’ve learned in all this mess: boobs are overrated. Especially the ones that try to kill ya.
I kept my composure, and so did Dr G, because I suppose she was trying to be positive, and Lord knows that’s a tall order in my situation. So, long story short, Dr G ordered yet another culture and said to get started with the infusion.
I’ve had vancomycin a lot. As in, in each of my hospitalizations, and at home. I’m tight with the vanco. Because I still have my port, it’s easy to administer the IV antibiotics, which is good because via IV is the only way to get vanco. It’s a wonder drug that in the past has worked for me, and worked fast.
Can you guess where this is going?
Because my body can’t do anything the easy way, or without complications, or absent drama these days, I had a reaction to the vanco. My old friend coursed through my bloodstream faster than it ever had in the past, and my body said, whoa, slow down this is creepy and we need to take things down a notch.
And by take things down a notch, I mean I started itching like crazy, felt like I had bugs crawling, in my hair, felt my skin burning, and my hands swelled up.
I’m not allergic to anything, and I’ve never been stung by a bee. Before breast cancer and infections entered my life, I had a pretty strong constitution and a cast-iron stomach. Now, however, I’m reduced to an itchy, burning, swollen, bug-infested mess.
I was about 40 minutes into the hour-long infusion at this point, so the nurses paged Dr G from his hospital rounds and he said finish the dose but administer some Benadryl and then start a second, replacement antibiotic, Cubicin. It’s new, similar to my old-friend-but-now-enemy vanco, and supposedly less likely to cause a reaction.
I need a lot more things like Cubicin in my life. The only drawback to it is that it takes about half an hour for the in-house pharmacist to mix up because it’s a giant molecule that takes a while to dissolve. So I had to wait. In the tiny little room. With both nurses, plus another patient who had joined us. He got hooked up to whatever drugs he needs (I tried to read the bag hanging from his IV pole but couldn’t), and promptly went to sleep. And snored through everything. Man, he looked peaceful.
The Benadryl made me kinda sleepy, but I only took half of what they offered because well, I knew it would make me sleepy, and I had driven myself there and had to get myself home. With my hands so swollen I literally couldn’t make a fist.
Luckily, the reaction didn’t progress beyond the itching, burning, swelling and buggyness, and the Cubicin infused without incident. Finally, something goes right today! And of course, now I know why they wanted the first infusion to take place in the office. Being the impatient old pro with home-health issues, I had lobbied to just run over to my oncologist’s office around the corner to have my port accessed, then have the antibiotic delivered to my house and get cracking. Luckily, Dr G is a lot smarter than I am.
So with the second drug infused safely, I was free to go but first had to go drop off the sample of the drain fluid at the lab. Now, “at the lab” at Methodist in the med center means in a different building and a long walk. Half outta my head on Benadryl and still swollen to the point of really wondering if I could get my credit card out of my sling bag to pay the valet, I left Dr G’s office.
With a good-sized box of drugs and supplies to haul with me.
Yep, they sent me home with a party favor: a box full of Cubicin, saline syringes and heparin flushes. I got to carry the box, and my lab specimen, across the Methodist campus.
Did I mention that this is the one appointment I attended unaccompanied? Rotten luck, that. Not only did I have to operate the giant sausages that were my fingers, I had to find my way with my Benadryl-addled brain limping along.
I went to the place I thought I was supposed to go, and tried to leave my lab specimen with a receptionist. She smiled broadly and did a fantastic job of disguising her disgust as I handed her a pee cup full of drain fluid. Kind soul that she is, she redirected me and sent me on my way to the lab, not the registration desk.
Trekked my way to the lab and found it with no wrong turns (hallelujah! this piece of junk day is turning around!) only to find that I was expected to fill out a form and list all the particulars of my insurance card. Which I did not have.
I explained as nicely as I could (which I admit, wasn’t very nice), that I’ve spent more than two weeks hospitalized in the Methodist system, both at the med center and in Sugar Land, and see no less than 4 doctors who are affiliated with said system, and if she can’t find me in the system then she could take the lab specimen and shove it.
Not really, at least not the “shove it” part but I was tempted. I told her I didn’t have my insurance card because I was still attached to my surgical drains and can’t carry my normal purse, blah blah blah. She said whatever, crazy lady; just fill out as much as you can and be gone.
And that’s exactly what I did.
And I managed to find my way back to the other building, to the valet. But on the way, as I was calculating the best way to make these giant fingers work to open my sling bag, I realized I didn’t have a valet ticket. The little blue slip that the valet always hands me in exchange for my wheels. Never got one.
Or did I? Just because I don’t have it doesn’t mean I never got it, and my mind was clicking along frantically trying to remember if I got the blue slip. I really didn’t think so, but clearly after the day I’ve had, I can’t be trusted and need adult supervision.
I remembered something odd about dropping my car with the valet: he asked how long I would be and if I wanted him to park it close. I said, probably 3 hours and I don’t care where you park it, whatever is easiest for you. That’s an odd thing because the valet usually doesn’t say much but hands over the blue slip. So I hauled myself and my box o’ goodies to the cashier to confess that I don’t have a ticket and was about to launch into a rousing speech of, I don’t care how much it costs to get my car out of hock, I just wanna go home and I wanna go now. I was a little worked up. Thankfully, the speech wasn’t necessary, and when I told the cashier my tale of woe, i.e., that I never got a ticket, she simply said, go on outside.
I guess sometimes the valets give ya a freebie. But then I’m left with the quandry of not exactly remembering which valet took my car without giving me a ticket, and not knowing for sure if he was giving me a freebie or if he forgot or I lost it or what. And the bigger question was: how do I let them know that I have no ticket, haven’t paid, but still need my car?
Again, I needed my handlers. In the worst way.
After a few minutes, the valet that I suspected was the one but I wasn’t 100 percent sure motioned to me and asked if I was ready for my car. Um, sure, yeah, that would be why I’m standing in the valet pick-up/loading zone area. He said navy Tahoe, right? I said yep, and he fetched my car, which sure enough he had parked close, as in right around the bend–not on the roof, or across the street, or wherever they usually park. He is officially my new favorite, and I’m very glad that when confronted with the choice between a single $1 bill and a $5 bill, I gave him the 5 for a tip. Still made out like a bandit since I didn’t have to pay for the parking at all. And it’s a small miracle that my over-inflated fingers were able to work at all, but thank goodness they did so that nice man could get his tip.
The ending to the whole saga came once I was in my car and on the road home, finally. Still a little itchy, really sleepy, way exhausted, fingers at least 5 times their normal size, but on the road home. The phone rang, and it was my plastic surgeon’s nurse, calling to tell me that he talked to Dr Spiegel and they both agreed that it was ok for me to go ahead and get the IV infusion from Dr Grimes.
Uh-oh. Were they expecting me to wait and get their permission or blessing on that? I had no idea. Good thing they were all on the same page.
Hi Pink Underbellyers,
This is Kayte VanScoy posting under Trevor’s PU log in. I wonder if Nancy’s ever given a thought to the fact that her blog is peee-yewwwwwww. For sure, the “Cancer Journey” (cue the violins) has been, so why not.
I’m in town imposing on the unending hospitality of the Hickses. I’ve known Trevor, Nancy, and Ed, because, let’s face it, Ed is part of this constellation too, since 1997 or so when we were all friends through the Austin Chronicle–Holt, Rinehart axis in Austin’s writing and editorial community. Eventually, Ed moved in and became my roommate, and that’s how I get so lucky to be able to pretend that I’m family around here. The truth is, we lost touch when I moved to New York to become rich and famous (I’m still waiting). But enough about me. Seriously. Enough about me already this week. (At first I wrote “weekend,” but then I realized that other people are working as I type this; it just always seems like the weekend around here.)
Hanging out with Nancy and Trevor and their kids and Ed and the dogs and Amy Hoover, too, who is a force of nature, makes it seem like life, no matter what comes, is just one pool party away from working out for the best. Look, PU-ers, I’m not going to lie. This has been a really rough couple of days for me. I didn’t exactly plan it that way, but I brought some heartbreak to Houston with me. Because, you know, it’s always all about me. Right? Does someone have a surgery to recover from around here? Is someone dealing with their wife and mother being not at 100%, when she’s usually at 150%? Apparently, I don’t care. Me me me. Sob sob sob.
Nancy makes it seem like my troubles are as big as anyone’s, including hers. And then…. I go to her appointment with Dr. S today.
Now, I’ll just stop here and say that when Nancy and Trevor and I reconnected on Facebook, we had been out of touch for many years. They had moved to NC and back, had another baby, and moved away and back to the Houston area. We had only been blissfully (for me, anyway) back in touch for a few weeks when Nancy got her diagnosis.
You never know how you’re going to react to something, but for me Nancy’s illness has made me realize how much I value my friends, how life is short, how old we really all are now… really, lots of really profound stuff. Maybe it’s been like that for you, too. It makes you think and try to see if you can pull something better up out of the middle of yourself. Those are always good challenges to have… right? I guess so. Whatever. Life.
Anyway, I offered to “help” Nancy and basically invited myself to town. So far, my “help” has looked like me staying out till 5am with other people, waking the whole house up, napping, hungover, through the day, then drinking champagne in her hot tub. You’re welcome! No, really, it’s nothing. I’ll try to do the dishes tonight… ? I guess I’m just not one of those “helping” people.
Now. Amy Hoover. That’s another story. Let me tell you… that’s a whoooole other story. Talk about Wonder Woman. I would give anything to have a heart big enough to contain other people’s needs. I’m happy to meet someone so competent, focused, giving, and living in love. Reminds me what is possible when we ask more of ourselves.
All right. I’ll get to it now. Here’s the story part of the blog: so, here we go… me, Nancy, and Amy, off to Dr. S’s for Nancy’s seeming daily appointment.
Okay… hi again. I saved this yesterday evening so that we could all sit by the pool and talk and eat and visit. This scene is pretty good, you guys. Pooltastic.
Now. Getting back to Nancy, her appointment(s), and Dr. S: Listen, if you have not been so privileged as to be invited into the presence of Dr. S, please endeavor to procure an audience with His High Holiness, the Plastic Surgeon’s Plastic Surgeon. And, you know, no joke, the man is more than skilled. He is more than artful. He is OBSESSED. He is the Picasso of the female form. Which is also another way of saying: Nancy looks amazing. She is in very good—and very specific—hands.
Now that’s just the intro. That’s the nice way of easing you into the jarring reality of Nancy’s daily life. When I was here last summer, Nancy was still battling her infection and still coping with an unreconstructed, post-surgical mastectomy site. I can’t really describe what it was like to see the Amazing and Beautiful Nancy in so much pain. It wasn’t comfortable to see. And then she invited me into her bedroom—with Amy Hoover—to observe the changing out of her wound dressing and, I don’t know what you call it but for lack of a better term, wound stuffing. The generosity of this invitation… I cannot overstate it. It was deeply moving, as much as it was unsettling. She even, and seemingly without thinking about it, invited in my friend Sarah, whom she had never even met, to watch the procedure. I don’t know why she did, but of course I was curious. I didn’t know that Sarah would want to but (and her dad is also a plastic surgeon, so perhaps it’s just a natural, genetic inclination) of course she was curious too. I realized, then, that Nancy was so much more than my old, smart, sweet, sassy, challenging, gorgeous friend from Austin. She is someone who does not see her body as only her own. She is so generous that she understands that to share her journey with me and with Sarah (and with all of you through this blog) is to expand and extend the boundaries of those who are ready to cope with their own cancers or the cancers of their friends, to grow the pool of people who will have a driving need to see research and fundraising get pushed to their limits as fast as possible. Although this journey, and her body, are certainly her own, Nancy is strong enough inside of herself to not feel stingy about her experience. I know that I could never offer as much to the world and she simply floors me. I am in awe of her and forever in her debt for inviting me in. My world is permanently changed.
Which brings us, finally, to the examination chamber of the ebullient Dr. S. His examination table more throne than bed, a leather club chair for me to lounge in, a rolling stool for Amy, and Nancy perched at the ready for what she calls, not unfittingly, The Dr. S Show. And in he comes, fanfare root-a-tooting, a fit and attractive man with dark skin, of some Middle Eastern or Asian descent. But who has time to ask after such trivialities as background? He blazes in and begins the performance, and Nancy—the Judy to his Punch, the Lucy to his Desi, the cream to his coffee—giving it back every step of the way.
First, down come the clothes and there is Nancy’s body in its glory, stripped to the hips. Now, I’m not a prudish sort, but from the unconcerned way in which she peeled off her kit you’d think her profession involved a pole or the transportation of chicken wings from kitchen to salivating male maws. I guess she’s used to it. She didn’t seem impressed. He, on the other hand, lit up. Not in a yucky way, but in the way of an artist unveiling his greatest work of art—behold, Nancy!
Like the cartoon painter, holding out his thumb to measure his progress, he stood back to take her in, stepped forward to touch, prod, palpate, and even just to elucidate. It was the longest, by far, that I’ve ever been in a room with a half-naked person and three dressed people having a conversation as if, you know, it just happened every single day of our lives like that. Of course, I was the only one there for whom it doesn’t. So, I mostly kept my big mouth shut and tried to take it all in.
First, there was the issue at hand. The Soup du Jour was the “divot,” as Nancy had come to call a thumbprint-sized indentation of her upper-right, newly reconstructed breast that had just drooped into existence in the past 24 hours, along with some new and concerning pain. This was the exact site of the infection that had so bedeviled her and she was worried it was all coming back.
Right off the bat, with the most self-assured manner imaginable (imagine Justin Timberlake meets Arnold Schwarzenegger with just a soupcon of Karl Lagerfeld), Dr S announces that this is nothing to worry about, there is no infection present, and that everything looks amazing. This indentation can be filled with injected fat, or they could go back in and fix it in another surgery.
Is he serious? Another surgery. He’s blasé. She is too. The explanation for it, he says, is simple. One of her ribs had to be carved out to allow a blood vessel to pass through, to supply her new tissue. I shudder at the carving motion he makes in his finger, showing how the rib was sliced into with a crescent moon. Again, this registers almost zero with Nancy & Amy and I keep my yapper zipped.
Now, in a regular doctor’s visit, Nancy would cover up as soon as possible, he would busy himself with scribbling something and mumble his way out of the room. You know how it goes. Right away, however, and Nancy seems to understand his need to do this, he begins to survey “the field,” as it were. Nancy has a hip-to-hip incision with two drains on either end. This is where The Dr. S’es harvested the fat she had so obligingly grown for them to build her new breasts.
He sways over to the paper towel roll on the wall, whips out a square of paper, takes out a Sharpie and begins to diagram the procedure. Nancy is rapt and I figure she knows what he’s talking about. Later, we both confirm that we were lost in all the medical jargon. I’m confident that Dr. S has no idea what’s going on with his audience and is even less interested. He continues on, diagramming, explaining, gesticulating. Finally he announces, “Now I do not even give this lecture to other surgeons!” Nancy, Amy, and I break out in a round of (bewildered) applause.
Unfortunately for Nancy and, one would think, the future of all mankind (given the intensity of his passion around it), two weeks post-surgery Nancy still hasn’t lost every single nubbin of extra fat globules from her hips beyond the incision. This cannot stand!
I can fix this! he quips, gesturing dismissively to the offending blobs. “We call these dog ears.” I put this in quotes so that you will understand that Yes, He Actually Said That. Nancy is NAKED, SCARRED, RECOVERING… but, dog ears. THIS is our priority. My mouth snapped open and didn’t close for several minutes. He wasn’t done. And this, he sweeps his hand up her side a bit–not touching her, but seemingly carving into her–“You have no waist.” Again, Yes. He Said That Too.
I don’t even think I had time to be shocked. Or… you know it was just one of those situations, like walking into a market in Marrakesh, where you just have to let it all wash over you and vow to try to remember all the sights and sounds later.
Of course, Nancy is still Nancy, folks. If anything This Cancer Journey (insert Lifetime movie music here) has only hewn her into more of what she always was—a tough cookie, and sweet to boot. I can’t remember exactly what she said, but it was something along the lines of, “Hold up there, buddy!” Amy, Nancy’s constant, devoted, caring, and almost superhumanly nurturing medi-buddy, also reacted. They’re used to this type of onslaught of useful (no infection) and uncalled for (dog ears? really, dude?) information spilling forth at a clip.
“I have a waist! What are you talking about?”
“Because I gave you one, you see. You didn’t have one before.”
Now look. Women argue with men. Wives argue with husbands. Friends argue with friends. But until you’ve witnessed the debate of a beautiful and self-possessed naked woman and the plastic surgeon who feels more of a right to claim her beauty for himself than her husband, herself, and, as far as I could tell, even God Almighty could take credit for, then you have been spared the edges of a couple of very sharp dueling scalpels, let me assure you.
Give and get, back and forth, round and round they go. He asserting, she parrying, she wryly pointing out his clear social deficits, he roundly ignoring these helpful hints by turning, again and again, to the centrality of his craft. Indeed, isn’t that why we’re all here? Because Nancy is the canvas and he its master?
But. No. No, indeed. Because Nancy is no kind of plastic surgery bunny. She is a survivor. A WARRIOR, really. I’m not really a pink ribbon type. I’m one of those people who says things like, “Where’s my Fun Run?” and other such obnoxious, self-centered garbage. I enjoy provoking and being contrary and I do not enjoy, any more than Nancy does, coddling and cooing over every emotional need. But Nancy? She is something else. She has kicked cancer, infection, and reconstruction in its big fat fanny.
Before you know it (and not before I’ve snapped a series of pretty hilarious and totally covert photos of Dr. S on my iPhone), we’re wrapping up the burlesque portion of the program and transitioning into the grotesque. We troop into his office–he seems completely informal and unconcerned about this invasion of his personal space, basically totally unlike every other fancy pants specialist I’ve ever been around–to behold his treasure trove of photos of Nancy’s progress over time. At first I think there is some point to this, that it is part of a regular office visit and part of Nancy’s treatment. As he clicks through the photos and he points and she points and he asserts and she parries I realize, oh, no, I see. This is all just part of the performance art piece known as Nancy Visits Dr. S Again that they both, clearly, enjoy and thrive upon. They bring out the best in each other, and this is the best of the best, folks. Gladiator Wars.
Does she have a waist? There it is! she points. Uch, he scoffs. Me, mouth agape, hanging back. This goes on a really long time. Her breasts used to be “boxy” and now they are so much better. Eventually he will build her a nipple, its color to be added by tattoo. He goes out onto the Internet to show us how natural this result can look on other finished reconstructed patients of other doctors who, I guess, probably similarly after their Cancer Journeys, found themselves more interested in opening minds and hearts than covering up. Bless them and their candor. My heart peels open. My mind rewires.
The body is not the vessel; it is less, even, than that. It is just the sack of skin we carry around our hearts in, the perch for our big juicy brains, the tentacles we reach out to each other with. We can do with it what we will, as it will try to do back to us. It is a battle of the wills between the spirit and the cell, between love and pain, between courage and flesh.
Nancy is winning this battle and now that I have seen just how gracefully, and forcefully, and what the anatomy of her support system is like, I know how. I have limitations in life, I think. Somehow I would like to be part of this world that Nancy supports and that supports her back, but so far I’m not sure I’m equal to it. I’m a writer, a feeler, and kind of a weirdo. I don’t know how much I have to add. I don’t really do dishes or make beds—-I will, but you have to remind me every time. I don’t “take care of things,” so how can I “take care” of Nancy? Maybe you feel similarly confused about how to play a role in Nancy’s recovery process.
What I learned this weekend, though, is that Nancy takes care of her own dang self and thank you very much. But, she doesn’t mind a little company along the way.
She wants to express her thanks for all the love, support and well wishes. She is still awake but in a bit of pain. They are not fooling around with it at least and they just upped her clicker along with a nice big slug of morphine. I’m going home once she is asleep.
The results do look fantastic, I can see why the Dr S’s were so proud. We have some tough days ahead while she recovers but everything looks great so far.
She does have limited mobility with her arms so you will likely be stuck with my dry updates for another day or two. Hopefully Nancy will bring her inimitable style back to this space real soon.
Two pieces of news today, all contained in one handy-dandy post. First, this comic made me laugh, even though it’s not applicable to me since I need both sides. Luckily, I don’t have to save up for one or both sides. Thanks to the Women’s Health and Cancer Rights Act of 1998, it’s covered.
So for those litigious souls out there who’ve pestered me to “make sure the doctor/hospital/insurance company/orderly/mammogram technician/parking booth attendant/janitor pays to clean up the mess that infection caused,” you can rest assured that I’m getting what’s owed me, so to speak.
Yes, people have actually said that to me. That I need to make sure somebody else pays for what happened to me.
If only it were that easy. Or if only I were that shallow, or had the energy to try and create a lawsuit, then all my troubles would be over.
I don’t hold anyone responsible for the post-surgery infection any more than I hold the sun responsible for rising each day. Some things just happen. Yes, I know there’s a scientific reason for the sun rising, something to do with the pull of the tides or the rotation of the Earth or some such phenomenon. But that’s not nearly as interesting or titillating as ambulance-chasing lawyers drumming up skeevy lawsuits.
If not for the Women’s Health and Cancer Rights Act, I’d be calling Jim Adler, the “Texas Hammer” real soon. The “tough, smart lawyer.” I bet he could get me top-dollar for my medical misfortune. But I’ll leave him alone for now and let him focus on the important cases, like the nasty 18-wheeler wrecks in the middle of the night.
Thanks to the WHCRA, a federal law says my insurance company has to pay for my reconstruction. The law refers to “mastectomy-related services,” which sounds a lot more exciting than it really is. Wonder if I can campaign to make mani-pedis part of the “mastectomy-related services.”
I first heard about the WHCRA while reading Promise Me, by Nancy Brinker. She’s Susan G. Komen’s little sister, who made the promise to her dying sister in 1981 that launched the global breast cancer awareness movement.
Thankfully, “breast cancer” is now a household term instead of a shameful secret, as it was in the past, and health insurance companies can’t deny the coverage required to fix the problems that breast cancer surgeries and treatment create. I could fill this entire screen with facts & figures, befores and afters, thens and nows, of breast cancer. But instead I’m thinking about the WHCRA.
Because of the WHCRA, I don’t have to worry about whether I can afford to clean up the mess that breast cancer (and its bad-news friend, the post-surgical infection) created. I don’t have to make a t-shirt that says “Will Work for Boobs” or wash dishes at Dr S’s house in exchange for my surgery. As if being diagnosed, going through surgery and dealing with the infection weren’t enough. I’m so glad I don’t have to sing for my supper as well.
The second piece of news is pretty important. Maybe not as important as the WHCRA, but only because that affects a whole lot of women, and this bit of news affects me and me only.
Today, Monday, February 28, 2011 is my 200th day of oral antibiotics.
Yes, you read that right: I have been on oral antibiotics, twice a day every day, for the last 200 days. Bactrim and Minocycline, also known as “these damn drugs,” have been my constant companions for 200 straight days.
I’m not great at math and am too old to waste time trying to get better at things that are useless, and for me, trying to get better at math is useless. It’s just not going to happen. I know I should believe I can fly, touch the sky, be whatever I want to be or some other such drivel as churned out by Mariah Carey and the like, but I don’t believe I can get better at math, and frankly, I really don’t want to get better at it. I’d much rather spend my limited time and energy on other stuff, like playing as much tennis as humanly possible.
But if I were better at math, I would be able to say what percentage of an entire year I’ve already spent on oral antibiotics. Oh, never mind; who cares. Let’s just suffice to say that 200 days is a really, really long time, and if you think otherwise, I don’t want to talk to you. Ever. Or at least until I get off these damn drugs.
If you want to know why I’ve been suffering this cruel & unusual punishment for so long, read this. I just can’t explain it again; I’m too exhausted from trying to do that math and figure the ratio of time spend on these damn drugs verses time not spent on them. Well, here’s the Cliffs Notes version of the story: I got an infection from the tissue expander on the right side after my bilateral mastectomy on May 13, 2010. The infection was (is?) tricky and was hard to diagnose, but we finally learned, in mid-August that it was a mycobacterium fortuitum, which is a wily little bugger that is insidious and hard to kill. The most powerful weapon against this bug is two different antibiotics taken twice a day for a very long time. Like forever.
200 days is a blip in the universe of long-term drug therapy. Every time I feel sorry for myself for still having to take these damn drugs, I remember my infectious disease docs chuckling softly and shaking their heads at my pitiful temper tantrum and infantile whining about why I still need to be on these damn drugs. They tsk-tsk me and handle me with the kid gloves I require of them, then sweetly remind me that many of their patients are on antibiotics for 2 years. 2 years. I’m no math genius, but I’m pretty sure that’s longer than 200 days.
Ok, so a little perspective is good, but still, I feel the need to mark the 200th day of twice-daily drug therapy. Judge me if you must, but consider this: there’s more to taking these damn drugs all this time than meets the eye. Think of the numerous trips to Walgreens to pick up said drugs, along with the other prescriptions I have to take, and the fact that none of them start on the same day, so one of them always needs to be refilled. Thank heavens my sweet oncologist added me to his personal pharmacist’s home delivery service, and now the FedEx man brings these damn drugs right to my front door, all at once. I’m sure they miss me at Walgreens.
There’s the sheer volume of pills I’ve swallowed. Twice a day every day for 200 days is a lot of pills. Again, I’m no math genius, but wow that’s a lot of pills.
There’s also the stress of remembering to take these damn drugs twice a day every day. It’s such a habit for me now that it will seem strange to not be doing it, when that day comes. Strange, but wonderful, too. I can’t wait. Actually, I can’t even think about it because I don’t want to consider how many days I will have been on these damn drugs by that time. But you know I’m going to be counting, right?
And then there’s the issue of what foods don’t mix with these damn drugs. Can’t eat dairy products for an hour before or two hours after I take these damn drugs, because dairy can inhibit the drugs’ absorption. If I’m going to go to the trouble to take these damn drugs, I certainly want them to get into my system and fight that mycobacterium.
And last but not least, there is the scorched earth tendency of the antibiotics to kill the good bacterium in my tummy, along with the bad bacteria elsewhere. I’ve gotten used to the near-constant morning sickness that comes with 200 days of these damn drugs, but I still dislike it. A lot. When the extreme nausea comes to call, no matter what I eat or don’t eat, whether an hour before or two hours after, I feel rotten. And don’t tell me your hard-luck story of how you had morning sickness every single day of your pregnancy, because at the end of that pregnancy, you got the best prize ever: a baby. Well, depends on the baby, I guess; some of them aren’t such prizes in the early days. Maybe the best prize ever is a puppy. To some people.
So by golly, I’m gonna celebrate having made it through 200 days of these damn drugs.
We highlight a president’s first 100 days in office, with either a favorable or scathing review of the job he’s done thus far. If our country can create a tradition based on a mere 3 months, I am well within my rights to celebrate having survived 200 days of these damn drugs. And since we all know it’s 200 days and counting, with nary an end in sight, I certainly will celebrate this milestone. Right now. Today.
I don’t know if it’s a nationwide tradition, but at my kids’ elementary school, they celebrate the 50th and the 100th days of school. Kindergarten especially makes a big deal out of these milestones, as well they should. Macy invited me to come to one of these celebrations and even talked me into wearing matching poodle skirts for the ’50s theme. And celebrate we did! A lot of those little kindergartners probably don’t know from one day to the next whether they’ll make it in the dog-eat-dog world of all-day school. No naps, no crying allowed, curriculum requirements that increase every year; it’s a jungle in there. That’s why they make a point to celebrate the milestones along the way, like the 50th and the 100th day. Why isn’t there a celebration for the 200th day of school, like there is for my 200th day of these damn drugs? Because the kids only go to school 180 days total each school year. So I’ve been on these damn drugs longer than the number of school days in an entire calendar year. Egads.
Ya know how we just watched the Super Bowl a few weeks ago? On February 6, to be exact. Well, on July 20th of last year, the media outlets that handle the infamous Super Bowl advertising spots were counting down 200 days until the big game. So in July, they’re thinking about selling ads during the Super Bowl, which won’t be played until February. End of July to first of February. 200 days. Curiously enough, on July 20th of last year, when the media hawkers began the countdown, I was in the hospital, for the second time post-mastectomy, with the infection.
Another significant stretch of 200 consecutive days of anything is the so-called 200 Days of Dread: a period from the spring of 1942 to November 3, 1942 in which Germany’s Afrika Korps under General Rommel marched toward the Suez Canal and Palestine, causing Jewish people there considerable and understandable stress. Not to minimize the significance of this event in World History, but yes, I’ve been on these damn drugs as long as the Afrika Korps threatened the Palestinian Jews.
And guess what? I haven’t missed a single dose of these damn drugs in all of the 200 days. Not one dose. Surely there’s a trophy for that.