Update 3

Posted: March 2, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, Surgery | Tags: , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

As of about 2 pm central, they have finished one side and starting the other. I’m guessing another 2 to 3 hours to finish.

Surgery update

Posted: March 2, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

All – thanks for checking on Nancy. She was just wheeled off into the OR, I expect to have an update every few hours. She will be in surgery until late this afternoon and will stay the night in ICU. I’m not sure if she can have visitors other than me today.

She was in very good spirits, when they put the compression hose on her she asked for fishnet if they had it. OK actually that was me, but she is relaxed and ready to get this done. Dr. Spiegel told her the pain level from this won’t be too bad but she did pledge to load her up with the morphine (Nancy’s fave) the first two days.  Nancy is in very good hands.

Away we go…

Posted: March 2, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: baseball, breast cancer, food, kids | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Of course I’m up early on my big surgery day…you didn’t think I would actually sleep until the alarm went off, throw on some clothes and jump in the car when I could post one last time, did you?

It’s 4:15 a.m. and we’re set to leave the house for the med center at 5:30 for my 6 a.m. arrival. I sure hope that when we pull up, Dr S and Dr Spiegel aren’t fighting it out about who gets to do which part of the surgery and who’s in charge of follow-up care. Of course they wouldn’t be, and I’m 100 percent sure that every aspect of this procedure has been planned, checked, and double-checked to ensure excellence will result.

The last few days have been a whirlwind, with last-minute preparations and socializing. Yesterday afternoon and evening, my phones both rang off the hook, with calls and texts full of good wishes and genuine love. Several people have asked if I can feel the love, and the answer is YES! And THANK YOU! A huge part of why I am going into this big ol’ surgery with such peace is knowing that my posse has got my back. I appreciate each and every one of you. If you happen to come to the hospital for a visit and see me wretching uncontrollably, don’t worry: I didn’t have too much champagne or margartitas. Coming out of the anesthesia tends to make me barfy. Don’t panic. It’ll pass. Last time around I puked in front of lots of visitors; the kids in the room thought it was neat.

Yesterday was another perfect day: my last tennis drill with my team was spectacular. Mid-seventies and sunny with just enough warmth to get a sweat going, and birds singing like crazy because it feels like springtime. I made some good shots and thoroughly enjoyed my teammates’ company. Love those girls.

Loved them extra hard after this: 

Surprise champagne in the back of Julie’s SUV after drill. We tailgated in high style. It was such a fun treat, and I adore you girls for having such a brilliant idea and for sending me off in the most perfect way. I will be counting down the days until I can get back on the court with you.  Meanwhile, Go Alley Cats! Beat Westheimer Indoors today. Hit it where they ain’t!

The rest of the day yesterday was fantastic. Busy, but fantastic. My dad arrived, and  he took Macy to the pet store to buy the daily allotment of crickets for Cincko. That little gecko is on a major growing tear and has been eating at least 12 crickets every day. My dad will be interrim assistant zookeeper while I’m out of commission, so Macy broke him in with on-the-job training right away.
We had our belated birthday dinner for Dad, after a bottle of Vueve Cliquot (yes, I know I had champagne twice yesterday; at the tennis courts and at dinner. Why do you think it was such a great day??). Our Tuesday night tradition of watching “The Biggest Loser” was fun, as always, and there’s something especially satisfying about watching that show after a most delicious dinner.

It was all going swimmingly until Macy‘s bedtime, when I went to tuck  her in and she started crying. The big, rolling tears that linger and pool in the eye before breaking free and trailing down her face. Her ginormous eyelashes were soaked and matted, and the look of utter desolation on her face made my heart crack right in two. She was trying to be brave, but that well of genuine emotion that makes her the astoundingly compassionate little girl she is came gushing out when it was time for her to tell me good-bye. She was trying to be brave, but struggling. We talked for a long time about how mommies always come back, and even when they’re away for a while, they carry their kiddos in their hearts. I told her about my favorite e.e. cummings poem, i carry your heart with me, and how the words can certainly apply to anyone you love, whether a pet or a friend or the most amazing little girl ever. We talked about how she wouldn’t get to talk to me today, but tomorrow I expected a phone call as soon as she got home from school, so she can tell me all about her day. She cheered up a little bit when I told her that I need her to be in charge around here, and help my dad find the jelly in the door of the refrigerator, stay on schedule when driving the carpool, etc. She is on the job. She sent me off with Baby Snoopy, one of her most prized stuffed animals, to take along with me for company. She’s thoughtful like that.

Payton was busy, busy ignoring a math project that’s due Thursday, so he didn’t have much to say in the way of good-bye. Not surprisingly, as he is a man of few words. He too has instructions to call me Thursday with a full report on his first Little League game of the season. I need to see how long it takes him to “lose” his Yankees hat and replace it with a Red Sox version. It’s hard enough on him to have his mom in the hospital, but to have to don the dreaded Yankees uniform too? Poor guy.

I’ll leave you with the “before” photos. Don’t worry, I won’t publish the “after” photos —  you may just have to see them in person.

This is one of my favorite tennis tops. I have it in at least 3 colors, maybe more. Wear it all the time, hence the funky tan lines. Every time I wear it, I notice how seriously flat my chest is. Maybe because of the “V” neck of the shirt, I don’t know. I’ve had this uber-flat chest since May 13 and am quite used to it. In fact, if not for the mess left by the post-mastectomy infection, I could have envisioned not doing reconstruction at all, or waiting a lot longer. But, the mess must be cleaned up, so away we go. And yes, my chest really is that flat in person…until tomorrow!

Leavin’ on a jet plane

Posted: March 1, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, drugs, food, infection, kids, tennis | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 20 Comments

I’m not really leaving on a plane and my bag isn’t packed yet, but as I ready myself, my home, my kids, & my life for the next round of surgery, I find the lyrics to that song running through my head. Peter, Paul & Mary; Janis Joplin; and John Denver all recorded versions of this sappy little love song, with its catchy yet insidious chorus that will get stuck in your head for half the day if you’re not careful. It’s meant to be an ode for lovers, and I’m usually immune to sappy stuff and odes, but with the big surgery rapidly approaching, I must be going soft because this goofy tune is reminding me how hard it is to leave my family, endure a nasty procedure, and be cooped up in a hospital room. I am a terrible patient. No truer words have been written.

I have written a lot about what a terrible patient I am. Not that I won’t do what needs to be done to get to where I need to be in this “cancer journey” but that I hate every minute of it. I’ve also written my fair amount of scathing posts lately about stupid things people say, so I won’t go there now, but suffice to say if you were planning on telling me that at least I’ll be getting some rest, or to enjoy being waited on, you can skip it. I don’t like to rest and I really don’t like having someone wait on me. As a determined two-year-old might say, “Me do it.”

As terrible as I am as a patient, though, I’m ready. I’m at the point in which I’ve prepared all I can, and whatever doesn’t get done will just have to wait. I’ve been a busy little bee lately, feathering my nest and gearing up for what I know will be a hideously gross surgery followed by a long recovery. This process is akin to getting ready for vacation: at first the list of things to do seems miles long, then time ticks on and the list is whittled, and then you become exhausted from and sick to death of all the prep and can’t wait to just get going. While I’m not exactly going on vacation (!), I am done with all the prep and ready to just get going.

I still haven’t watched the video consultation that explains and illustrates the surgery I’m having tomorrow. Maybe I’ll just use my imagination. You know it’s a big deal with you get 12 pages of pre-op instructions, followed by a 3-page alphabetized list of medicines to avoid.

One of my instructions is to shower with Hibiclens, an antimicrobial wash, for 3 days prior to surgery. No problem. You know what a germaphobe I am. Some of the other text from the informed consent section of the paperwork made me laugh out loud, especially the parts about who’s not really a good candidate for this surgery: women who require more complex breast reconstruction (what’s more complex than this surgery??). Women who are good candidates are those who have inadequate chest wall tissue (me); those who have concerns about breast implants or tissue expanders (I wasn’t too concerned but my body apparently is); and those who may have contracted a post-surgical infection. Yep, that’s me.

The literature then goes on to explain that infection is very unusual after surgery. Yeah, maybe for some people. And that patients must inform the doctor if she has any other infections, “such as ingrown toenail, insect bite or urinary infection.” A bug bite? Really??Oh, mercy, if only it were that simple. How I would love to say I have an ingrown toenail instead of a mycobacterium fortuitum.

There’s also a lot of scolding in the section on bleeding: “Increased activity too soon after surgery can lead to increased change of bleeding and additional surgery. It is important to follow all postoperative instructions and limit exercise and strenuous activity for the instructed time.” Yeah, yeah. Blah, blah, blah.

Yesterday was a near-perfect day: I had a few hours at home to get things in order, then on to Beauty Envy to get the hot new shellac manicure. It’s supposed to last a couple or three weeks without chipping; we shall see. I’m not going to be doing any manual labor anytime soon, so the prognosis is good. Got my toes done, too, which is always nice. Even though my toenails are short as can be, they still take a mighty beating from tennis, but they are pink and shiny now. After the nails extravaganza, it was off to lunch to enjoy the sunshine and margaritas in the company of some first-rate girlfriends–a trifecta for sure. You can have your acai berries and super elixirs; for me, there’s nothing more fortifying than the sun on my face and a drink in my hand with my friends.

Today will be equally good with my last tennis drill of the season, then lunch with whichever members of the team are game for a little noontime tippling. I also gotta make a quick belated birthday meal for my dad, who recently turned 75 but looks a decade younger, easily (I’m hoping it’s genetic, but not very optimistic). I’m whipping up pastichio (Greek lasagna) and a pineapple upside-down cake, two of his favorites. He’ll be ferrying the kids to and fro and keeping up with Macy’s near-constant stream of chatter, so he’ll need a good meal. 

Speaking of Macy, she’s at it again: leaving me a note to find when I least expect it but am most likely to need a little pick-me-up. She’s a little apprehensive about me going back for more surgery, but the long summer of me and revolving hospital door must have toughened her up because instead of being sad she’s curious (which hospital? how long will you be there? can we come visit?) and stoic.

She needs a little work on the spelling (I assume that “Your asomest chid” means “Your awesome-est child”) and “Hopefuley” she will keep writing without regard for menial details like spelling. Most important is the message: if Macy says this is my last surgery, then I can go into it with a clear mind and a happy heart.

Apropos

Posted: February 28, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, drugs, infection | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

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.

Cha-ching.

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.

As if.

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.

There is no free lunch, dammit

Posted: February 25, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 18 Comments

Some things just go together like peas & carrots, as Forrest Gump would say. Like idiot people & dumb comments. I’m still scratching my head about this one, but am putting it behind me and moving on. I’m trying, people, really trying, to smile sweetly and listen open-mindedly, but I don’t think I can stand it any longer. Do I really have to listen to one more person tell me how lucky I am to be getting “a free tummy tuck?” Reconstruction is serious business, people, and while I’m all for finding some good in a difficult situation, I AM NOT GETTING A FREE TUMMY TUCK. Yes, I realize I was shouting, and I apologize.

First of all, it’s not free. It comes with a whole slew of costs. While I may not be paying cash out of pocket, there are costs. Boy howdy are there costs. Any economist will tell you that even if something appears to be free, there is always a cost to the person or to society as a whole. I know this because I almost failed Economics in college and had sticky notes with econ principles taped all over my apartment that semester. (My near-failing grade had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the class was taught by a wickedly cute TA who made it hard to concentrate. Yes, we flirted, then I was stupid enough to assert that I needed to earn my grade in the class and not coast on his goodwill and the fact that we drank beer together a few times at a seedy bar. True story. So stupid. The assertion, not the flirting.)

This “free” tummy tuck comes with a hip-t0-hip scar; 6 Jackson-Pratt drains, 5 nights in the hospital; 4 weeks of sleeping upright and in a chair; not being able to raise my arms for a week; a ban on lifting anything heavier than 5 lbs for a month; and no workouts for 6 weeks. Oh, and if you’re wondering how soon I will be able to get back out on the tennis court…don’t. Don’t wonder, don’t bring it up, don’t ask. Don’t even think about it. Don’t even speculate. Got it?

Can we talk about opportunity cost? Please, let’s talk about anything other than how long I’ll be on the DL for tennis. While I’m not paying actual money for this surgery, there’s plenty of opportunity cost, which means that to get one thing that we want, we usually have to give up another thing that we want. This is the idea behind the “no free lunch” adage. We could delve into economic efficiency, utilization of resources, societal costs, and other economic principles, but we don’t need to because (a) they’re pretty boring; (b) I never really learned them that well in the first place because of the prof crush & beer; and (c) all we really need to know is there’s no free lunch. Plus, I think I burned the textbook after that class was over. Bad, really bad.

Yes, I will come out of this surgery with a flatter stomach (something I could easily get from more time in the gym, BTW). And, as my cousin Susie said, I’ll be waking up to a nice present (new boobs). Both are true. But they’re not free. I reminded her, and will remind everyone who will listen, that I was pretty happy the way I was.

I don’t know where this place is or who these people are, but after all this talk of economics and surgery stuff, I want to go there. I might even stand in line for an “extreme” margarita. Don’t know what that entails, but I know I want one. Or two. Maybe I can even get a free lunch.

The Big Dig

Posted: February 18, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, infection | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 39 Comments

Yesterday was yet another trip to the medical center, for one last pre-op visit to Dr Spiegel before reconstruction. I really need to think of a catchy title for the surgery, something like Boston’s big construction project, the Big Dig. Come to think of it, there are some similarities between the Big Dig and my surgery: both relate to the Central Artery and Tunneling (in fact, the official name of the Big Dig is the CA/T Project). Both are complicated, involve lots of people, and take a mighty long time to complete. But unlike the Big Dig, which replaced the 6-lane elevated Central Artery (I-93) with  a 3.5-mile long underground tunnel, my surgery won’t cost $22 billion. Hopefully. My insurance company, which has been mighty nice so far, might just stroke out about that figure. 

The Big Dig sounded like a great idea and was intended to be a tremendous boon to an already kick-ass city. But mismanagement, scandal, and skyrocketing costs quickly dominated headlines, and my second-favorite city had a big mess on its hands. Congressman Barney Frank quipped, “Wouldn’t it be cheaper to raise the city than depress the artery?”

Say what you will about Barney, but that’s a good line.

But back to the update on the doctor visit. This was Trevor’s day to meet the lovely Dr Spiegel, her ultra-energetic PA, Jen, and her trusty nurse Sonia. My friend Laura, who is a nurse practitioner in the liver transplant unit at Methodist, met us there, too. Dr Spiegel wanted to brief my caregivers on what to expect post-surgery, and Laura kindly offered to help out. In her white coat and super-stylish glasses, she brought a nice element of professional gravitas to the occasion. She told Dr Spiegel that she’s done some match-making for me and picked out an anesthesiologist she likes and trusts, and Dr Spiegel agrees that Dr Ashmore is the guy for me. Laura and Sonia recognized each other right away, then she and Jen hugged and high-fived, happy to be collaborating on my case. It’s good to have connections.

The visit itself was pretty uneventful. I like uneventful at the doctor’s office. Dr Spiegel  went over a few basics with us but since we were pretty much up to speed on everything, there weren’t any new developments. I’m finished with all the pre-op testing (bloodwork, blood donation, x-rays, EKG, CT-scan), and just need to watch the video consultation on Dr Spiegel’s website to get a more detailed overview of the procedure. I’m not saying I’m scared to do that, but after watching a video on youtube of an actual surgery, on an actual person, I’m not in a big hurry. Ick.

The one topic we did need to cover, though, was the infection. I wanted to bring it up in a way that seemed breezy and conversational, as opposed to, “How the sam hell are you going to keep this bloody nightmare from recurring, lady?” I was pretty sure that wouldn’t go over too well.

I’m not the most diplomatic person, and I tend to say what I really think, even if it’s not pretty or may be hard to hear. It’s a blessing and a curse. Believe it or not, I actually do put a lot of thought into what I say and how I say things, but because I’m pretty direct, sometimes things come out a bit, um, harsher than I intend.

Sorta like, “Are you outta your mind??? You’re not really going to wear that are you?” or “Clearly that person has neither friends nor a mirror; why else would one go out in public looking like that???” as opposed to “Have you thought about what to wear?” Those kinds of niceties take a bit of work on my part. My instinct is to just blurt out whatever needs to be said, and let the chips fall where they may. We’re all grown-ups, right?

Right. Except I really don’t want to tick off the nice lady with the very sharp scalpels. That would be bad. So I fumbled around and probably sounded idiotic by saying, Um, so, uh, like, how worried do we need to be about the um, you know, infection? You know, like, um, during the uh, reconstruction?

She smiled knowingly, and if she’d been sitting closer might have patted my hand and said, there there.  She reminded me that my case isn’t exactly normal, and I tried not to tell her that “normal” is pejorative and listened to what she had to say.

She has a plan, of course, and it sounds like a good one. Usually, in cases of infection, she would wait to do reconstruction, to be sure the infection is truly gone. But in my case, which again is not normal, we need to get in there sooner rather than later and clean up the mess,  i.e., excise the damaged tissue and replace it with some new, fresh meat. And by meat I mean my own flesh. Fresh flesh. Yum.

The plan is to work on the infected side last, and she promised to take her time and wash it all out thoroughly with 6 liters of antibacterial solution. That’s way more than usual. She’ll have separate fields of instruments, and once the instruments touch the infected area, they’ll be classified as contaminated. Remember the scene in the movie ET at the end, when the little guy was dying, and the family home was a warren of plastic sheeting populated by feds in Haz-mat gear? I’m having visions of the Haz-mat suits. But hopefully no aliens. Although I do kinda like the polka-dotted kiddie pools in this scene.

So we’re on track, on schedule, and presumably ready to go. She estimates the surgery will last 8 hours, not 12-15 like I’d originally heard. Of course, we won’t know what we’re dealing with until she actually gets in there and starts cutting and scraping away, but I’m going to be optimistic.

Meanwhile, I’ll be thinking of a name for my own personal Big Dig (if you have ideas, send them em!), and can’t wait to post before and after pictures like this:

Except, I won’t make you look at the before pics, because they’re pretty gross, and that would just be mean.

Can somebody please shut off my brain?

Posted: February 17, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, kids | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

For the last several nights I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night with questions to ask Dr Spiegel today about my upcoming reconstruction. I like how “upcoming reconstruction” sounds so formal and important, and perhaps a teeny bit ostentatious. As opposed to the reality of a terrifying, bloody mess. But I didn’t have it together enough to put a pad & pen by the bed to actually write the questions down, and now I can’t think of them (anyone have any suggestions? Lemme know. I know there’s stuff I’m supposed to be asking her about but can’t for the life of me find that stuff).

My brain must be working overtime, especially at night, when it should be resting and refueling so it’s ready to assist me with my two most basic tasks: impressing Payton with my trivia knowledge while we watch “Cash Cab,” and helping me answer questions from Macy like, “If a banana is a fruit, where are its seeds?”

I hate those kinds of questions. I really should know the answer. It’s there somewhere, deep in the recesses of my brain, but it’s buried by all this cancer ca-ca. If my brain were being depicted by a pie chart, there would be normal-sized pieces of pie for the kids, the home front, our schedules, tennis, world peace, and such. Then there would be a gigantic piece for cancer ca-ca. 

I hate that the cancer ca-ca takes up such a big piece of the pie. I like pie. But I don’t like this pie.  If only the pie chart were about pie, instead of all that other stuff. That would be a really good pie chart.

My Uncle Wilford (my mom’s older brother) used to say he liked two kinds of pie: hot and cold. Me too. And I hope Uncle Wilford is having a piece of both right now, at a beautifully set table on a puffy white cloud with his two sisters, my mom and Aunt Margie, sitting beside him. All the pie they can eat. And no pizza. Uncle Wilford said he didn’t like pizza because he was older than it. Funny guy. Miss him.

But back to the cancer ca-ca. It fills my brain stealthily, easily, and constantly. I’m usually pretty organized, but it infiltrates. I tend to keep a good handle on the various comings & goings of the members of this family, and rarely do I drop any of the balls I juggle on any given day. Not bragging, just saying. I’m usually up to whatever this life of mine throws at me.  But I’ve been dropping balls lately, and I don’t like it.

Macy was invited to a birthday party recently, and I forgot to add it to the calendar, and she missed the party. Oops. Then I looked right at the calendar to assess the day’s tasks but still forgot to take Payton to his weekly hitting lesson. Drat. Then there was the test I forgot to make sure Macy studied for, and she got a bad grade. She typically doesn’t get bad grades, so it was upsetting for her. Her teacher sent home the study sheet for the re-take, which Macy dutifully put on the fridge with a magnet. I saw it there but it never even registered in my brain, so we didn’t work on it. At all. And then, the re-take was upon us. Macy remembered as we were walking out the door to go to school. Damn, damn, damn. I dropped another ball. I was tempted to advise her to just tell her teacher it’s my fault, and that I’m too busy with all this cancer ca-ca. But I didn’t. I hung my head for a minute, cursed myself out under my breath, kicked a stray tennis ball on the garage floor, then reminded myself that it’s one test in the 3rd grade. Well, technically two tests, since she failed the first one and had to re-take it, but again, let’s stay on point here and recognize that it’s no big deal. I wrote her teacher and note and fessed up, told her it was my fault and that she & I both know that if it were solely up to Macy, she would have aced that test. Her teacher wrote back and said pfffft, don’t even worry about it; as you can tell from the attached progress report, one test isn’t going to bog her down. She will survive, and so will I.

Thank you, Mrs. Motal.

From the time I wrapped my head around this wretched diagnosis, I’ve been determined to do all that I can to ensure that cancer doesn’t become me, doesn’t define me, doesn’t defeat me. Cancer may win a skirmish here and there and may make me feel really crummy; it may open the door for a nasty infection that brought on another epic battle; it may deposit more grey hairs and new wrinkles; and it may cause me to miss a thing or two on the master schedule. Cancer will most certainly cause me some sleepless nights. But cancer will not defeat me. 

Update on my guardian angels

Posted: February 7, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Remember these three lovely ladies? If not, read this. I wrote about my guardian angels and their unfortunate accident in which they flew off the shelf and crashed onto the floor.

They’ve been repaired and restored to their shelf in the kitchen, where they can watch over my family and me. I think they’re recovered from their trauma, but are likely wary of another episode and probably watch over me with a worried eye, thinking, “There she goes, crashing around the kitchen again like a crazy person. It’s only a matter of time before she bustles over here to grab a cookbook off our shelf, and down we go, smashed into bits on the hard porcelain tile.”

Or something along those lines. I have no idea what Willow Tree angels’ conversations actually sound like, but that’s how I imagine this one. 

All three angels went to Ed’s magical workshop for repairs. They may want to ask about a frequent customer card, as they’ve been there before, and will probably end up there again. His rates are very reasonable, he does outstanding work, and he always manages to work in the casualties resulting from my carelessness.

This angel sustained the most extensive yet least noticeable damage. She pretty much snapped in half, suffering internal injuries but held it together cosmetically. You can see that she now has a long scar all the way across her middle, which is prescient as that’s what I too will have after reconstruction, since they’re gonna cut me hip-to-hip to harvest the skin & flesh to rebuild me up top. Ick. I wish I could manage as serene an expression as this Angel of the Heart in the face of my trauma, injuries, and recovery.

The Angel of Hope needed limb restoration, but thankfully she managed to escape the accident with her right arm intact, since it holds her lantern that she uses to watch over her careless charges. A single amputee is bad enough; a double would have been really tragic. She also lost part of her ponytail, but as we all know, hair loss is temporary, and hers did magically grow back at the workshop, and her scars are barely noticeable.

Sustaining the most overall damage was the Guardian Angel and her young companion. The decapitation was especially devastating, and sadly his head was never found. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Harry the eating machine found it and devoured it before he realized it wasn’t actually food. She also lost her head, but I found it and it, along with her hand, were restored to their previous state.

Thanks to everyone who wrote, called, or emailed with concern and support about these lovely ladies. Let’s hope they stay in one piece for a while.

A month of soup

Posted: February 5, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: food | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | 13 Comments

With it being so bitter cold in my neck of the woods, I want soup. And a can of Campbells just won’t do. I was raised on homemade soup, and when the weather turns or a nasty cold invades my system or a surgery is imminent, homemade soup is what I crave. I toyed with the idea of making a different soup every day for a month, but that may be the cold weather talking (seriously, 27 degrees in Houston?? Egads). Then I realized that I don’t even have a month between now and my reconstruction, and once I have the surgery, it’ll be quite a while before I’m able to cook again.

When I am able to cook again, I’ll be making soup. The weather will have warmed up by then; in fact, we may even be trending toward summer. But I’ll still want homemade soup. It must be genetic. My mom made soup. Well, actually she made everything, but soup for sure. She had many specialities, but her broccoli soup was my favorite. I’m not a big fan of broccoli (I eat it because it’s good for me and packed with important things like cartenoids, vitamin C, calcium, beta-carotene, lutein, and phytochemicals); but I love my mom’s broccoli soup. She knew the recipe by heart, but I have to look it up. Luckily for me, the cookbook falls open to the broccoli soup page every time. 

When I was a kid, my mom helped run a cooking school with a friend of hers, Mary Gubser. Mary is a bread and soup guru. She wrote a few cookbooks and taught cooking classes out of her home for suburban women who wanted to learn how to put a yummy and nutritious meal on the table.

I remember one time I was probably younger than Macy, and I was sick on a cooking school day. My mom bundled me up with a bag full of activities (no PSPs or iTouches back then) and took me with her. I settled on Miss Mary’s couch and listened to the women chattering as they went through the lesson: herbed vegetable soup and meunster cheese bread. My mom brought me a piece of baguette, warm from the oven, with real butter, and it remains to this day one of the best things I’ve ever tasted.

Maybe that’s why I love food so much: because memories of meals are so interwoven with memories of my mom. Food is such a powerful force, and it does way more than provide fuel for our bodies and sustain us through the day.

Soup has always been comfort food for me. You can have your mashed potatoes & gravy, your mac & cheese, your pot roast. I’ll take soup. But it’s gotta be homemade.

I got the love of soup from my mom, and Payton & Macy got it from me. In fact, Macy takes a thermos of homemade chicken noodle soup in her lunch every day. She’s vegetarian, but some things, like my chicken noodle soup and PF Chang’s honey-seared chicken, don’t count as meat in her mind.

Every week, I make a big pot of chicken noodle soup. For me, there is security in routine. Making soup for my kids every week is a ritual, and when chopping onions, celery, and carrots, I fall into an easy rhythm. Sauteeing the veggies in glistening green olive oil and with a few garlic cloves fills the kitchen with a smell of innate goodness that fills me up. Anyone can open a can of Campbells, but making what I consider real soup is a different thing entirely. It’s a labor of love, which I hope fuels and sustains my kids and weaves a delicate yet tangible ribbon of connection between them and me.

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