Fun with t-shirts

Posted: February 3, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

I’ve been wearing this shirt to the gym (thanks, Jodie!) and always get comments on it. Positive comments that is. At first I was self-conscious about wearing it, then I said to hell with that, I’ve been through a lot so I’m going to wear it proudly. Kinda the flat-chested girl’s version of  “If ya got it, flaunt it.” I’ve no longer got “it” or “them,” as the case may be, but I can certainly flaunt my survivor self.

It’s a good thing the shirt explains everything, though, because when I first started back at the gym after a long absence (thank you, mycobacterium, you SOB), one of the other regulars there asked our trainer what was wrong with me, because something looked different but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

Hmmmm, I wonder what it could be? Maybe the total absence of breasts? Maybe the evidence of rib cage poking through where normally there would be a little padding? Or my inability to extend my right arm fully (I miss you, lymph nodes)?

Well, thanks to the shirt, no one needs to wonder. It’s cleared up and we can move on…to the next shirt.

I can’t wait to wear this one (thanks, Kayte!), right after I get reconstructed. 

Wonder if they’ll let me wear this in the hospital, instead of a scratchy gown.

Now that I have a surgery date…

Posted: February 2, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, drugs, infection | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Now that I have a surgery date, if you feel compelled to join the Greek chorus that’s asking if I really want to have the surgery, don’t.

Just don’t.  

I don’t want to hear it.

I don’t need to hear it. 

Isn’t the fact that I have a surgery date evidence enough of my decision to go forward?

If I didn’t want to have the surgery, would I really have a date? Would I be putting myself through the mental anguish that accompanies such a decision and the days that stretch on between said date and today?

Sometimes I hate people. 

Mainly those who say stupid things, but Sarah Palin & “President” Mubarak are on my list too. If you like either of these idiots, you may want to unsubscribe from this blog, because I will most likely rip on them and their idiot-ness a lot, esp when I’m in a foul mood like I am now. And if ripping on dumbasses makes me feel better, then Katy bar the door because I’m gonna do it. 

So there.

And don’t tell me that people mean well, and sometimes they just don’t know what to say. They can suck it. If it’s that hard to come up with something not stupid to say, then perhaps they should zip it.

But back to the surgery. Reconstruction is a big step. It’s a scary step. It’s a horrifying assault on my already-beleaguered body. If things were different, I wouldn’t be in a hurry to do it. By “things” and “different” I mean the path of destruction left by the blasted mycobacterium.

I hate that myco almost as much as I hate Sarah Palin. Sheesh, just typing her name makes me mad.

Ok, reigning it in.

That darn mycobacterium wrecked things up good. If it was just a question of having a flat chest, I’d be in no hurry for reconstruction. I kinda like my flat chest. It’s simple. It’s low-maintenance. I never have to wonder if people are paying attention to what I’m saying, because they’re certainly not distracted by cleavage (there is none). But thanks to the infection and subsequent tissue excision (gross, I know), it’s a mess that’s gotta be fixed.

And thanks to the infection, I can’t just pop in the implants and go along my merry way. I remember being asked as a kid if I had to do everything the hard way (I was a little stubborn back then). The answer is yes. Yes, I do.

I do not like surgery. Or hospitals. Or hospital gowns. Or hospital linens (scratchy, so scratchy). Or hospital food. Or the hospital smell. Or needles. Or being an invalid. Or depending on other people. Or waiting on other people to show up and do what they need to do so I can get outta there.

I do like the drugs, though.

But not enough to rush into a big, long, complicated surgery. So while I don’t actually want to have this surgery, I need to, to clean up the leftover infection mess. It’s going to be hard, and the recovery will be long. I won’t see a tennis court for several months. I will once again be at the mercy of other people’s kindness. But I need to do it, so I will. And I will leave you with another mantra from my childhood: If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. Thank you, Thumper. Preach it, little rabbit. 

And if you can’t follow Thumper’s advice, and still feel compelled to tell me how dangerous this surgery is, or how complicated, or ask me to think about how it might affect my kids, or any other stupid thing that flies out of people’s mouths, then consider this: 

Introducing the New Dr S

Posted: January 20, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

There’s a new Dr S in my life. I’m happy to introduce Dr Aldona Spiegel. 

She’s purty.

And smart.

She’s younger than me and has 3 kids, ages 6, 2 and an infant. She’s tall, slender and blonde. And she’s a renowned surgeon. If I didn’t like her so much, I might hate her a little.

But she’s gonna build my new boobs, so I love her.

We had a fantastic consultation today. Every aspect of her office, from the atmosphere to the staff, is first-rate. Beautiful waiting area, pleasant receptionist, warm & friendly nurses, a big Mac (computer, not burger) in the exam rooms, a fantastic physician’s assistant, a comprehensive bound photo book of before & after pictures of her patients, and of course the lovely doctor herself.

According to her website, “Her goal is to provide not only the most advanced breast restoration procedures, but also a caring and supportive environment—allowing each woman to complete a successful rehabilitation from her breast cancer battle.”

I like that. I’m especially intrigued by the idea of rehab from my battle. Sounds good.

How about this: “Dr. Spiegel is committed to providing superior, patient-focused care and preparing the next generation of surgeons to meet the highest standards of excellence. This vision combines a dedication to advanced research, exceptional education, and the development of new, less invasive treatments and procedures.”

Great!

She trained in general surgery at Johns Hopkins Hospital and did her fellowship in reconstructive microsurgery and specialization in plastic surgery at Baylor College of Medicine where she was served as Assistant Professor of Plastic Surgery. Dr. Spiegel has trained with leading reconstructive surgeons around the world, developing and improving upon techniques to help minimize the aftereffects of breast cancer on a woman’s body.

This just keeps getting better and better!

Here’s where we get into the medical mumbo-jumbo: “Dr. Spiegel’s clinical expertise is in advanced breast reconstruction techniques and microsurgery, particularly in the area of surgical reconstruction with reinnervated autologous muscle-preserving perforator flaps, including the DIEP Flap, SIEA Flap, SGAP Flap, TUG Flap, and the TAP flap. Dr. Spiegel also specializes in Lymphedema Procedures, advanced Implant and Latissmus reconstruction, and has pioneered Sensory Innervation procedures which have the ability to reestablish sensation to the breast resulting in the most complete form of breast restoration. In addition, she is interested in all aspects of aesthetic surgery and is committed to women’s health issues in plastic surgery.”

Sweet. She is the total package.

The only complaint I have is with the panties. 

They were made of paper. And small. Really small. I spent a few seconds staring at them before thinking, one size does not fit all.

Egads. Cue the humiliation. Again.

Luckily, I’ve been humiliated in a doctor’s office before, so I’m ready for it and ok with it. I slipped on my pretty blue paper panties and the matching blue paper gown and prepared to meet my new savior, Dr Spiegel. I’m so glad I’m past caring about meeting a beautiful and successful doctor while wearing the most unflattering paper garments ever.

She answered all my questions, most importantly the one about weight gain. I’m good, I’m fat enough and don’t need to gain any more.

Whew, that’s a relief. I was getting pretty tired of drinking beer & eating chips. Now that I’ve bulked up, I am free to return to my normal, healthy eating. She said she would prefer to have a bit more building material, but she can work with what I’ve got, so I don’t have to worry about applying for a new zip code for all the junk in my trunk.

Now that’s a relief.

She’s planning my reconstruction, and it’s going to be pretty great. I’m actually starting to envision an end to this long, bumpy road. As much as I detest the idea of another hospital stay and recovery, I’m looking forward to closing the book on this chapter of my life. It’s such a cliche, but it’s true. Reconstruction is a big, scary step. I totally understand why some women never do it. And if not for the infection and the mess it left behind, I wouldn’t be in any hurry to do it myself.

But the infection did leave a nasty mess, and it continues to wreak havoc, and the best way to end that madness is to excise the tissue (again), and replace it with new tissue and a new blood supply.

It means a long surgery, a night in the ICU, and several additional nights in a regular room. Ugh, yuck, and ick. But, it will all be worth it when it’s done and I can say I’m truly on the other side of this wretched business.

Stay tuned.

This caught my eye

Posted: January 17, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

I was flipping through a magazine at my Aunt Sophia’s house last night and an ad for Crystal Light caught my eye. I like Crystal Light, especially the orange and the pink lemonade. I don’t drink a lot of it, though, because I’ve always assumed that it’s full of chemicals, and someone in my shoes needs to avoid all those multi-syllabic chemical compounds found on ingredients lists.

But if I am going to splurge on something chemical-y, Crystal Light is top of my list. Even more so now that I saw this ad. 

What first caught my eye was the communicated bliss of the woman drinking from the lemonade fountain, and my first thought was how much I’d love to have a champagne fountain like that. Mmmmm.

My bliss would be endless. Limitless. Bottomless, as all good champagne fountains should be.

I also noticed the woman’s dress. I never really liked yellow, but it was my mom’s favorite color, and now that she’s gone, yellow reminds me of her. Very fitting, as she was a sunny, warm kind of person.

So this ad is pleasing to me for several reasons, but the most important one is something you may not have even noticed. Or maybe you did. It took me a sec, but once I noticed it I had to look closer to see if what I thought I was seeing was really there.

Or not there, as the case may be.   Look closer: 

Notice anything about her chest? Like the fact that it’s flat? Really flat.

I like this gal, a lot.

And I really like a company that is bold enough to feature an ad showing a woman with a flat chest. A really flat chest. Like mine.

I’m guessing the woman in the ad didn’t come by her flat chest in the same manner I did, i.e., I bet she didn’t have a double mastectomy. Mainly because mastectomied women aren’t in real high demand for ad campaigns. But maybe Crystal Light is changing that. Slowly but surely chipping away at societal ideals of what a model looks like.

Real-life women come in all shapes & sizes. It sure was nice to see a woman in an ad who does, too. I think I’ll go whip up a big pitcher of Crystal Light.

Need more Mix-a-Lot

Posted: January 15, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , | 6 Comments

Did you see the headline? “Study: When it comes to pay, size matters.”

Get your mind out of the gutter, it’s not talking about what you think it is. Pervert.

Thin women and muscular males make more money. Experts say it, so it must be true.

Here’s the lead (as a former journalist, I love a good lead, so indulge me here):
“It’s an endless cultural lesson that’s been drilled into our heads since we were tots, watching cartoons such as The Flintstones and playing with Ken & Barbie dolls: If you’re a woman, you should be extremely thin; if you’re a man, you should grow up big and strong.”

My only beef with the lead is that last sentence: if you’re a man, you should grow up.  Technically, if you’re a man you are already grown up, but that’s nitpicky. ‘Course, I used to be a copy editor, so nitpicking was my job. And I was pretty good at it. Eleven years later and a million figurative miles from the job, I still can’t read something without noticing errors in grammar, syntax, style or connotation. Don’t be paranoid; I don’t hold it against ya if you slip up now and then.

But I digress.

The study, “When It Comes to Pay, Do the Thin Win? The Effect of Weight on Pay for Men and Women” was published in the Journal of Applied Psychology last year. Catchy title.

The study found that workers’ girth directly affected their paychecks. Thin women are paid more than their average-size peers, while heavier women make less. Skinny men (not a good thing, like it is for women), on the other hand, make less than men of average weight.

So not only is the body image thing whacked in general, it’s a completely unfair double standard: what works for a female works against a male. Regardless of your actual capabilities or who you are as a person–or any of the things that might matter on the job–you’re judged, and compensated, according to your size.

And people think we’re the most civilized country in the world?

I’ve been thinking about the weight issue a lot since I was given doctor’s orders to gain it. And when I say thinking about it a lot, I mean at least 100 times a day. I am, after all, an American woman who’s been bombarded with mainstream media and fashion industry ideals.

I don’t watch a lot of TV, read many fashion mags, or formulate my self-worth on an equation put forth by total strangers who have a vested interest in my insecurity. I was blessed with a lot of things, and inherent self-worth is top of the list, for sure. After reading about this study, that trait is all the more valuable.

So you would think that gaining some weight for a good reason (“I need more building material, lady” is what I keep hearing from Dr S every time we talk about reconstruction), would sit well with me. After all, I’m pretty secure with myself and don’t really care what other people think. I’m also smart enough to realize that Vera Wang and Zac Posen want women to be rail-thin because it makes their jobs easier. Hanging a frock on a beanpole is similar to hanging it on a hanger, without those nasty curves and cursed soft angles to get in the way of how the frock lays on the body.

And reading the study with the catchy title shouldn’t bug me, either, because I’m not in the workforce and don’t have a paycheck, so me and my bulges are not under the microscope. (Yes, technically that should read “my bulges and I” but it didn’t sound quite as catchy, and I am a self-assured copy editor who can bend the rules when necessary to turn a more liltingly lyrical phrase.)

But the weight gain and the study do bug me. For different reasons, but bug nonetheless. The weight gain bugs me because I don’t like the way it feels. It slows me down and gets in my way, two things for which I have zero patience. (Notice my intentional effort to avoid ending that sentence with a preposition, people. Old copy editors never die, they just keep nitpicking.) The results found by the study bug me because, #1 it’s stupid, #2 it’s shallow and #3 it’s meaningless to judge someone’s worth by their waist size. Or their muscle mass. Or whether their abs are categorized by a six-pack or a pony keg.

And yet it does matter. People have distinct subconscious reactions to body types, according to the study. Get this: “For a man, skinny says less-than-manly and gay, two qualities that clash with our Americanized version of a leader: tall, strong and emotionally unmoved. For women, an ultra-thin figure simply says success and makes for an attractive corporate image.”

So if you’re a guy and you’re skinny, people assume you’re wimpy and gay. And if you’re an emaciated gal, you’re a corporate tool. These female tools earn an average of $16,000 more a year than their plumper peers. But the wage disparity again works in men’s favor, as thin men make just $8,000 less than their ripped co-workers.

I’m still stuck on the subconscious opinion of guys: skinny means wimpy and gay. That’s harsh. And the Americanized vision of a leader being emotionally unmoved scares me. Does that mean unmoved in the face of communism or Hallmark commercials? Is a little emotion really such a bad thing?

This is why we need more Sir Mix-a-Lot. He likes big butts and he cannot lie.

I heard his song on the radio yesterday and found myself laughing out loud. Especially at the part that rags on Cosmopolitan magazine:

“So Cosmo says you’re fat, well I ain’t down with that. To the beanpole dames in the            magazines, you ain’t it, Miss Thing!”

He goes on to say, “Give me a sister, I can’t resist her. Red beans & rice didn’t miss her.”

Now there’s a lyric that paints a picture. Love it.

Mix-a-Lot for President!

A tale of 2 notes

Posted: January 14, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, kids | Tags: , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

As I was going through photos yesterday to make the Macy retrospective, I found 2 notes that she has written me. One from several years ago, the other from last night or this morning, sneakily taped to my computer where she knew I would find it.

But before I get to that, I must share this:

At our house, we have always made a big deal out of birthdays, and after coming head-to-head with the cancer beast, they’re even more of a big deal.

It starts with frantic prep on my part, and while I’m not a procrastinator, I seem to be leaving more and more to the latter minutes these days. I’ve never been a “seat of my pants” kind of girl, and this existence troubles me. But time marches on, birthdays don’t wait, and expectations are high.

The kids get a special breakfast on their special day, eaten on their special plates. As the Church Lady from vintage Saturday Night Live would say, “Isn’t that special?”

Don’t barf yet, it’s not all Martha Stewart here. The muffins were from a mix (although I did add fresh blueberries and a dusting of cinnamon sugar on top. Take that, Martha!)

Along with the special breakfast, the birthday boy/girl gets to choose dinner. As much as I complain about my kids not eating my home cooking (what in tarnation is wrong with them??? There’s never been a plate of liver & onions in front of them, so I don’t know why they balk), I  must be doing something right because Macy wanted dinner at home.

I was really hoping for Benihana.

But no, she wanted a home-cooked meal of…potatoes. All potatoes, all the time.

We had mashed (yukon golds), twice baked (russets with sour cream, cheddar & chives), and potato salad (more yukon golds). And roasted broccoli. 

Yes, she loves potatoes. And yes, she would be perfect for the potato commissioner job they’re trying to fill in Idaho. But for now, she’s at my kitchen table, eating her fill in potatoes. Bless her carby little heart.

(And yes, that is her gum on the plate. Gross, but so Macy.)

Here’s the reigning potato queen, and yes that’s a can of Coke at her side. My mother is spitting nails right now, if they have nails and one can still spit in Heaven. That was never allowed at her table, but times have changed, and we weren’t having birthday cake, by order of the birthday girl. I guess no one has figured out how to bake a cake from potatoes yet, or else we would have had that. Maybe two. With potato frosting.

So this brings us to the notes. I found this one when I was looking at all the vintage Macy stuff and am kicking myself for not recording the date and her age. Based on the writing and spelling, I suspect preschool (I need to learn how the archaeologists figure out hieroglyphics; that would help).  

Allow me to translate: Dear Mom, I hope your life is good. Love, Macy

If that doesn’t warm your heart, there’s no hope for you and you’re completely on your own here.

For the second note, I don’t think I need to translate. Her handwriting is marginally better, and Dan Quayle would approve her spelling.

My guardian angels

Posted: January 12, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

One of the things I inherited from my mom was several Willow Tree angels. She wasn’t much of a collector, but friends had given these little angels to her over the course of her cancer battle.

You’re probably familiar with these little creatures. They look like they’re made of wood, but it’s probably some synthetic material instead (they are made in China, after all). They’re simple and heartfelt, and each one has a theme. Apparently you can get a Willow Tree angel for all manner of life events, from birthdays to anniversaries to new babies.

There are also symbolic Willow Tree angels, and people tend to give them based on this. For example, the ones my mom had received were Angel of the Heart, Angel of Hope, and Guardian Angel.

I’ve had them on one of the shelves in my kitchen over the desk, next to a stack of cookbooks. Several times I’ve almost knocked them over while reaching for a cookbook, and every time I remind myself to be careful and not go crashing around like a bull in a china shop, or like an overworked housewife around a bunch of fragile angel figurines. At least one of these angels has taken a tumble over the years and needed to go to Ed’s repair shop, where he has a vast assortment of glue and both the time and the patience to fix a broken wing.

Imagine my horror when I once again reached for a cookbook in a big hurry and knocked 3 of the 4 angels clean off the shelf. Before I could even react, there was a tumble of bodies and a heads, literally, were rolling across my kitchen desk. 

It looked like an angel crime scene.

I’m rather superstitious, although I don’t like to admit it but now it’s out there. There’s a black cat that I see in the parking lot of the club a lot, and twice I’ve reversed my route to avoid driving by it. The other day I spilled some salt while refilling the shaker and threw it over my left shoulder, instead of scooping it off the counter and throwing it in the sink. You will never, ever, ever catch me walking under a ladder. No way. Not even on a dare. A few weeks ago while driving down Austin Parkway, I saw about 10 vultures stretched across the street, feasting on something. The sight of all those ghastly birds freaked me out and made me wonder, if crossing a black cat is bad luck, what in the world would happen to the poor soul who crossed all those vultures? You’d have thought the Grim Reaper was sitting on my doorstep, awaiting my arrival. Thankfully those birds were on the other side of the divided road, so I didn’t have to turn around and find another route home.

So when the angles came tumbling off the shelf, I panicked. It took me a few minutes to find all the pieces, and sadly I still can’t find one head. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of my dogs found it and thought it was a tasty treat. Hope the paint is lead-free.

I can almost hear my mom tsk-tsking me from the Great Beyond, shaking her head and wondering why her wild-child daughter is always in such a hurry, or why that girl never learned to take better care of her things, or why she insisted on hopping on top of the desk to reach the cookbooks, instead of going to get the step-stool.

If I had used slowed down, been more careful and used the step-stool, I likely would have been able to avoid the gruesome angel carnage. But I probably wouldn’t have even taken notice of the little angels. I certainly wouldn’t have noticed that the one remaining angel, pictured at the top of this post, is named the Angel of Healing. But I will stop and savor the fact that out of my mom’s angels, that’s the one I need the most.

A weighty issue

Posted: January 9, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, food | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 10 Comments

I received a serious assignment from my doc. Now don’t laugh when I tell you this, because it’s not funny, and don’t say “lucky you” because I’m not so lucky. It’s serious.

He wants me to gain weight. A lot of it. So he can build my new boobs. 

We’ve had this conversation a couple of times and I’ve stuck my fingers in my ears and said “la la la, I can’t hear you” because I didn’t want to do this. I’ve spent most of my life beyond the age of about 15 trying not to gain weight. When you’re five-foot-nothing, there aren’t a lot of places to hide the extra pounds, and I personally don’t like the way my body feels with a lot of extra weight on my frame. I’ve never been a skinny chick and don’t aspire to be, but don’t want to be mistaken for a contestant on The Biggest Loser, either.

I worked hard to prep my body before and after my mastectomy, to gain as much muscle strength and cardio conditioning while fueling myself with a good diet. I also played as much tennis as humanly possible in the weeks leading up to surgery. It all paid off, too, with a shorter surgery, no need for Alloderm (cadaver tissue used to connect and close mastectomied chests), and a pretty easy recovery. Because I was in good shape, I was up and out of the hospital bed the day after surgery, trolling the halls. When I got home, I had a decent amount of independence because I didn’t need much physical assistance. That was, and is, important to me. So the idea of turning into a big blobby girl, even temporarily, scares me.

The first few times Dr S brought it up, he warned me that I didn’t have enough belly fat to build the new girls. At that point, reconstruction seemed so far away that I didn’t pay much attention. But the last 2 times I’ve seen him, he’s been more stern about it. I hate it when he gets stern with me.

When I saw him a couple of weeks before Christmas, I told him I’d been drinking a few beers for the first time in 15 years, and I wasn’t playing much tennis because of a recurring foot injury. That was about as much as I was willing to commit to his “living large” plan. I did the usual indulging over the holidays, but I also went to the gym.

So when I saw him the other day, instead of shrinking from his “examine the fat” game as I have in the past, I told him I’d been working on a big project — a BIG project — and showed him my newly rounded belly. I was sitting on the exam table so my belly even hung over a little bit. I thought it was quite impressive, as it’s the biggest it’s ever been without a fetus inside of it.

He was not impressed. Not even a little bit.

He told me to pull my jeans down a little and gave me the pinch test, then had me bend over to see how far it hangs. So much fun. I live for that game.

Then he made a very stern face and said it’s not enough. It’s still not enough. It’s enough for one side, but not both. And maybe not even enough for one. Since I have impossibly high standards and insist on a matched set, that’s a problem.

Dr Sternface says I’m not really even a candidate for the DIEP flap procedure, but since I have no other options, we have to try and make it work. I was thinking about this later and wondered, if I’m not a candidate but don’t have any other choices (i.e., tissue expanders to implants), what’s a girl to do?

Eat, girl, eat. And then eat some more. Then have a beer. Followed by a milkshake.

People make fun of me for being a healthy eater. I genuinely like oatmeal with blueberries. I love salad. Not being a carnivore eliminates a lot of the unhealthier options for me, and I like it that way. I’m not super picky but I don’t like drive-through food in general, and I don’t get the “all you can eat” places at all. I’m not a big junk-food junkie, and usually whatever I cook is way better than that stuff anyway. Not being conceited, just stating a fact.

I’m not doing a very good job with my assignment. Yesterday I had half a bagel with a piece of melted provolone and a handful of blueberries. It felt pretty indulgent to me. Lunch was two pieces of leftover pizza, with an orange. Cheese & crackers for a snack before we played tennis, then dinner after with the tennis gang at a BBQ place. I had pinto beans with pickles, coleslaw, green beans, some mac & cheese and a few fries. Oh, and a roll. Wish I’d thought to put butter on it. Melanie told me that I wasn’t going to get the job done eating all those vegetables and suggested I get a milkshake. Every day.

Today we played 3 sets of tennis and I was hungry. We splurged on brunch at the club, which for me meant mixed fruit, cheese & crackers, salad with lots of blue cheese dressing, and some tuna. Mimosas, of course. Then some pasta with artichoke hearts, mushrooms & sundried tomatoes. Then a few bites of seafood ettouffee. And a sliver of key lime pie and a chocolate-dipped strawberry.

I feel kinda sick.

My doc keeps saying he just hates the idea of me going through this giant surgery and hard recovery and not being satisfied with the results. I keep telling him that any change over the status quo will be an improvement, and I’m ok being average. At least in this one category. He doesn’t seem to believe me, even though we’ve had the same conversation repeatedly.

He wants me to go see the other surgeon who will help him with my case. I’ll have to see what she thinks about the bulk-up plan. Meanwhile, I need to think of a new t-shirt slogan. Something like the “baby” with an arrow pointing at the pregnant belly t-shirt, only a different kind of “under construction.” Any ideas?

Healer

Posted: January 7, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, literature | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

The body is a miracle, the way it heals. A factory of survival and self-repair.  As soon as flesh is cut, cells spontaneously begin to divide and knit themselves into a protective scar. A million new organic bonds bridge the broken space, with no judgment passed on the method of injury.

Wow. That’s pretty prose.  I wish I had written it.

I’d love to claim it as my own, but that would be wrong, and Lord knows I need the great karma wheel to turn my way. I can’t afford to tempt the gods of fate, as they seem to like toying with me.

Carol Cassella wrote that prose. If you’re a fiction fan and don’t know her work, I encourage you to get her books sooner rather than later. Whether you run to the bookstore or download onto your e-reader, get on it. You won’t be sorry. She’s an anesthesiologist-turned-author whose first book, Oxygen, is one of my all-time favorites. Her second book, Healer, wasn’t quite as good but I gobbled it up in hopes that it would be.  I liked her right off the bat, because she’s a Texas native and a Duke graduate. A girl after my own heart. She’s also the mother of two sets of twins (!) and how she got anything done, much less wrote 2 bestsellers, is a mystery to me.

I read Healer this summer, while I was trying to heal. I was struck by the passage above, and loved how dramatically it introduces the book. From the very first sentence, I was hooked. While I certainly didn’t set out to turn this blog into a space for book reviews, sometimes things happen that way, and I’m an equal-opportunity blogger, so there we are.

As a physician, Cassella understands the intricacies and magic of the human body. As an author, she’s able to capture that and express it so that someone like me, an impatient patient, can read it and say, yeah, that’s right–the body is a miracle!

I needed that reminder. I was so focused on wanting my healing to occur faster, I didn’t realize that the fact that it was happening at all was amazing.

Equally amazing is the education this experience (e.g., the “cancer journey”) has provided. I’ve learned a bunch of lessons I never wanted to learn, such as how utterly unfair life can be. I’ve acquired skills I never thought I could and hope to never have to use again. Anything involving packing a wound or administering IV drugs at home falls into that category.

I’ve certainly learned a new vocabulary. Not just the new definition of “normal,” either. Things like nosocomial (originating in a hospital, as in a nosocomial infection). Like debridement (removal of foreign material or dead tissue from a wound in order to promote healing). Like aromatase inhibitors (drugs like Tamoxifen that lower estrogen levels in the body by blocking aromatase, an enzyme that converts other hormones into estrogen). Like oophorectomy (surgical removal of the ovaries).

I’ve learned how to get a good night’s sleep in a noisy hospital. I’ve learned the difference between DCIS (ductal carcinoma in situ) and invasive breast cancer, and that they’re both plenty scary.  I’ve learned that an injection can leave a bruise for close to 3 months. I’ve learned that the practice of medicine is both a science and an art. And I’ve completely forgotten what it feels like to wear a bra.

Crazy lady on aisle 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, ma’am.

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

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

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

Not one word.

Fat lot of good all my restraint did me.

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

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

Wow.

That is some serious insanity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And people say nothing exciting ever happens in the suburbs.

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