Saturday, September 12, 2009

Just Another Oncology Appointment

This coming Wednesday I’m going to see my wonderful oncologist, otherwise known as The White Russian, for my 6 month check up. I’m pretty sure I know how it will pan out. I’ll sit in the waiting room happily reading until the nurse calls my name. She and I will walk back to the nurse’s station while she blames me for the weight she’s gained because I happened to tell her about Hope’s Cookies and now she can’t ever drive by there without stopping. Then, just to be spiteful I’m sure, she’ll make ME stand on the scale (at which time I’ll tell her again that I’ll be a good 30 pounds less the next time she sees me) and drain a couple vials of blood from my arm.

Once I get to the examination room I’ll be depressed about the weight she just recorded for all of eternity and The White Russian will walk in, disturbing my lamentations, and say how great it is to see a healthy person. Then I’ll feel bad about my whining when I would take every single ounce and then some if it meant not having cancer anymore.

He will ask how my summer was and what my family did. I’ll tell him we drove to Arkansas for a week to visit friends and family and how we didn’t get to see half the people we would have liked to. Then I’ll tell him how I flew to Seattle the following week to spend some time in a beach house with four other women. We’ll also talk about the tight, tingling, almost painful pressure my left arm feels whenever I fly or even ride in the car for any length of time without any support and he’ll look for signs of lymphedema. Thankfully he won’t find any unusual swelling and I’ll be told to keep wearing the compression sleeve when I fly and hopefully we’ll dodge this particular bullet.

After that we’ll discuss the stiffness in my joints and other bodily aches and we’ll decide that since it’s not debilitating pain I’ll just remain on the Arimidex for another 15 months. This is when I’ll realize I’m only little more than a year out from my 5-year goal and that will make me happy.

Most likely The White Russian will order a bone density scan because the combination of no ovaries and the Arimidex make for early onset osteoporosis. He’ll also probably decide I should have a colonoscopy because I haven’t had one yet and colon cancer is somehow closely related to breast cancer. Not only that, but there is a history of colon cancer in my family.

We will also look at my blood work which will no doubt look good except for my white count and other immune system related values. They might be within normal limits, but I can tell you right now they’re going to be low. How do I know this? Well for one thing they’re always on the low side of normal. In the nearly four years I’ve been finished with chemo they have never gotten very far above the line. But I’ve also managed to wear myself down which always results in a thick and swollen tongue, my own personal telltale sign of a low WBC. When it’s really bad, like it was after my trip to Seattle, minor cuts and blisters won’t heal and I’ll get a funky feeling that I just can’t describe so I’m not even going to try.

Thrown in between all this clinical stuff he’ll ask about my kids. When I tell him Taylor is now a senior in high school he’ll ask about his desired major and college. He’ll also ask how Katie likes high school and what do I think about being on this end of parenting. The White Russian will tell me a little about his family and their summer and before I know it my visit will be over.

I’ll then get to Peggy’s desk and we’ll chat for a moment and schedule my next appointment for sometime around March or so. And while I’m so happy I don’t have to make weekly or even monthly visits to the oncologist anymore, I’ll be just the teensiest bit sad that I don’t get to see these people for another six months. But then I’ll stop at Starbuck’s on my way home for a Venti White Chocolate Mocha with whip (Weight Watcher’s points don’t count on oncology days) and all will be right with the world.

I do wish I hadn’t gained all this weight (which I blame all on the various treatments I’ve been through since diagnosis) and I would love it if my body would be more cooperative and less stiff and achy. I’m very conscious about the possibility of lymphedema and I’m a little angry about the whole osteoporosis thing. The thing that bothers me the most right now is the white counts and the swollen tongue. How weird is that? It’s always swollen, but it gets worse when I’m feeling bad or overly tired and it gets in the way when I’m trying to talk and I’m always biting the sides with my sharp carnivorous molars.

Nobody ever tells you about all the stuff you have to deal with AFTER treatment, even if you don’t have any more cancer. But I’ll take all of it just to get to my 5-year goal and hear those magic words, “No Evidence of Disease”. And as I'm driving home I'll start relaxing, even though I didn't realize just how tense I was. I always expect a good report, but somewhere in the far reaches of my mind I suppose I fear the worst.

Finally, I'll start thinking about those I know who don't get to hear those words that I'm sure to. The women who are dealing with a recurrence or a metastasis, those who seem to be losing their fight, and especially those we've had to say goodbye to. My joy at another good report will be dimmed by the sadness for those who are not as fortunate and I'll be reminded just how horrific cancer is.

And in six months I'll do it all again.

Cross-posted at Mothers With Cancer

Labels: blessings, cancer, Health, sadness

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Saturday, February 28, 2009

I'm Still Around

My poor mother had to call me today because I haven't been keeping up with my blog so she didn't know what was going on with me. Sadder words have never been typed! So I'm going to give you a bit of random...


We had Chinese food the other day and check out my fortune:



Todd was pretty smug when I read it to him because every time I complain about my weight or any other cruddy side effect of having cancer he says pretty much the same thing. This is the part where I usually say something flippant and roll my eyes, but Mothers with Cancer lost one of our own last night so I'm going to embrace these simple words and be grateful for what I have.



This upcoming Friday I am going to the spa with my friends; Kris, Laura and Sheri. Last year for each birthday we chipped in and bought a gift card for a one hour massage and we're finally getting around to cashing in on them. It's going to be exactly like Sex in the City, except there will be no sex going on and the spa is actually in a pretty rural, yet quaint, little town. But there will be four exceptionally beautiful and fashion savvy women. Really.

Laura made the reservations for us, but we each had to call in and give them our GC number. So I called and gave my number to the receptionist and then I took a deep breath and said, "I have a rather embarrassing question to ask you." She was very nice as I told her I had breast reconstruction a couple of years ago and am unable to lay on my stomach. My obvious concern was that I wouldn't be able to get the massage. After relaying the information to the massage therapist she came back and told me it wouldn't be a problem.

Here again I would like to complain about the inconvenience of cancer, but I remember Lisa and my fortune so I won't.


Sookie is much better. Poor, neglected dog.





Todd, on the other hand, is still sick. His fever broke a week ago and his doctor put him on a steroid dose pack to clear the chest congestion so he could breathe, but he's still under the weather. He's going back to the doctor on Monday and I just hope he doesn't have pneumonia because: A) He has another business trip next week and he gets to visit his brother's family; B) He's tired of feeling miserable; and C) I don't do well with sick people in my house.


We had a little taste of spring yesterday. It was delightful. First of all, I have instituted a new "below freezing" rule which says if it's not below freezing I'm not driving the kids to the bus stop. Now the bus stop is only a half a block away and it's not the walking in the cold weather I'm opposed to. It's them standing there for 20 minutes in the below freezing temps that I don't like. Let's face it - I'll always be a Southern California beach girl at heart. But yesterday morning it was around 38 - well above freezing.

And when I opened the back door to let Sookie out it smelled wondermus. I don't remember this smell in California, but you Southerners know exactly what I'm talking about. The smell of early spring. It's in my top ten favorite smells ever, maybe top five.

It was just nice to leave the house for some Homie Hang time and not have to bundle up like Randy in A Christmas Story. But guess what. We are now expected snow. Not just a little, either. Depending on who you listen to we could get up to 10 inches of snow between tomorrow night and Monday morning. Of course, I'll believe it when I see it.

I have mixed emotions here. On one hand, we've had a lot of snow events this year, but no measurable snow to speak of. It would be nice to have one good sledding snow. On the other hand I'm ready for spring. I'm ready to have the windows open and take the dog for walks without freezing.



There is much more random in my life, but this is all you get today. Who knows? Maybe I'll write more tomorrow!!

Labels: blessings, cancer, random, sick, Sookie, weather

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Friday, September 05, 2008

SU2C

Todd and I watched Stand Up 2 Cancer last night and I found it emotionally draining. Cancer statistics are staggering. Mind blowing. Unreal. In the United States alone 1500 people die from the disease each day. One person each minute. And yet the means to end this insidious illness are within our grasp. For the very first time I've started thinking I may see the cure in my lifetime.

Before I was diagnosed I wasn't afraid of cancer. It was something that happened to other people. I was young and healthy and there was no reason to think I would end up with it. But I did get it and a year later my mom got it. It changed the way I think and not necessarily for the better. My rose colored glasses shattered and no amount of duct tape will ever fix them.

If only we could find the cure. If we could stop cancer before it starts. If we could obliterate the disease and talk about it past tense like polio and yellow fever. Maybe then I wouldn't have this niggle of fear in the recesses of my heart. The fear that my daughter or my son or my husband or my sisters or my father, ad infinitum, will hear those same words I heard a little over three years ago.

The program last night was a lot of things - sad, moving, inspiring, exciting. The individual stories tugged on my heart, the stories of children with cancer tore at my soul. How incredible it would be to have a cure and make these stories a thing of the past.

I want a cure. I want it now. I don't want to have the nagging questions in the back of my mind. Will I get cancer again? Will my daughter or sisters end up with breast cancer? Has my family paid their cancer dues or will we have to ante up again? Geesh. Imagine a world where we don't have those kinds of worries. How awesome would that be?

Just like everything else, research isn't free. Which is the point of this particular organization. They talked about how the March of Dimes was started to fund polio research and find the cure. At that time the plea was for every person in the U.S. to send in one dime and that would be enough money for the research. And look what happened. Polio in America is a distant nightmare. This is the same thing.

Last night 100% of the donations went directly to cancer research. I'm not sure if that was just during that hour or if it continues even still, but if you'd like to make a donation you can click on the link above.

***

Some of you also read Michelle at My Semblance of Sanity. She has blogged a lot about a very special little boy named Julian Avery. Julian lost his fight with cancer in January. There was a part last night where Halle Berry, Casey Affleck, Jennifer Garner and Forrest Whitaker read a short piece about different cancer patients and their picture was shown on the screen behind them. All of a sudden there was Julian on the screen and Forrest Whitaker read a piece his mother, Mimi, had written. If it hadn't already been personal, it sure was after that. Not that I ever knew Julian or his family, but I'd been reading about him and everything he was going through and mourned the day I learned he passed away.

As sad as pediatric cancer is - and it's the saddest of all forms - there is hope. Hope for a cure. If you can't pay for a cure, you can at least pray for a cure.

Crossposted at Mothers With Cancer

Labels: cancer, Health, hope, prayer

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Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Hashimoto!! Gesundheit

Today was yet another doctor's appointment. This time it was with my new endocrinologist. Well, fairly new. This was my second appointment with her.

The reason I need an endocrinologist is because I have half a thyroid. When Todd and I had been married two years (I was 24) I saw the gynecologist for my annual checkup and he noticed a lump in my throat. (This is the part where people always say, “didn’t you tell him he was looking at the wrong end?") He mentioned a few things it could be, but the word that stuck out was “cancer”.

Todd’s parents were in town at the time because his grandfather had just passed away. Of cancer. His grandmother was dying. Of cancer. When the doctor mentioned the possibility of cancer it was all I heard. He set me up for some tests to determine whether the growth was benign or malignant.

I drove back to my house only to find Todd and his parents were at his grandparents’ house with the rest of the family. I tried to call him, but the line was busy. So I called my mom. My parents still lived in California at the time and were visiting my sister and her family in Oregon. I called my sister’s house and talked to my nephew when he answered the phone like there was nothing wrong. But as soon as I heard my mom’s voice I broke down. I couldn’t talk.

She asked several questions to which I managed a sobbing “no” in reply. Had Betty died, did something happen to Todd, were Todd and I in a fight. Finally I took a deep breath and told her I had a growth on my thyroid and the doctor mentioned it may be cancer.

Being the good mom she is my nerves were calmed in no time. So I hung up and tried calling out to the grandparents’ house again. This time I made it through and told Todd what the doctor had said. The family was so immersed in cancer at the time that it made him physically ill.

His mother called my doctor to get more information. Poor guy. He felt horrible when he heard what all we were going through at the time and how the mention of cancer – however remote the possibility – had frazzled me.

So began the myriad of tests to determine whether it was a benign goiter or a malignancy or something else. Each test came back inconclusive which meant another test and then another. I think I had at least four different tests. The morning we were getting ready for the last of them my father-in-law called to let us know his mother had passed away. I believe it was 11 days after her husband.

It was finally decided that I needed to have the right side of my thyroid removed and a biopsy performed. Thankfully the results were negative. It was just a plain old, run of the mill goiter.

For years I didn't have to take any medicine as the left side seemed to function just fine. Then one day while sitting at the counter at my folks' house (they had since moved to Arkansas) my mom commented on my swollen neck. I hadn't even noticed, but after she said that I realized I did have a bump to the left of center where my thyroid is.

My family quack doctor at that time said I'd have to have the other half removed without even running any tests and scheduled me to meet with a surgeon. Todd called my gynecologist and told him what was going on and he was not happy with my doctor. He sent me to his surgeon who ran some blood work and performed a sonogram. He decided I didn't need surgery, I needed an endocrinologist.

So we were referred to the Nutty Professor – the best endocrinologist to ever have walked the face of the earth (though I know Radioactive Girl will disagree with me). He diagnosed me with Hashimoto's Syndrome. My thyroid levels were all within normal limits, but my half a thyroid was working so hard to keep it that way it had become swollen. So now I take synthetic thyroid to keep my levels up without taxing the left side.

In addition to the Hashimoto's Syndrome I also have nodules, the largest of which is 1 cm. Some of them have a bit of calcification, but they've been that way for the last ten years. Still, given my history and the fact that breast cancer can spread to the thyroid, the doctor and I decided it would be a good idea to have a biopsy.

Is it just me, or does the thought of somebody jabbing a long needle into my neck sound icky?

Every time I have my thyroid levels checked I wish against wish and hope against hope they will be low, giving me a great excuse for not losing weight. Never, ever, ever has my wish or hope been granted. In an effort to combat my fatigue, however, she did increase my medication up to the next dosage today. Now I have visions of having all kinds of energy, living in a perfectly clean house, losing weight and realizing my dream of looking great in my swimsuit this coming summer.

Labels: cancer, medical

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Sunday, July 08, 2007

Just Hangin' Out

It's Sunday afternoon and the family is at church. They went to the late service; stayed for a VBS meeting and will just end up staying for youth group. I don't mind and am enjoying the solitude.

I flipped open my bible to wherever it would go this morning and it took me to Nehemiah. When I think of Old Testament books I like I usually come up with Psalms, Esther, Song of Solomon (I'm guessing this is where my love of romance novels came from), Jeremiah -- but not Nehemiah. I think I may add it to my list.

Now before you non-religious people run away screaming for fear of a sermon, don't worry. I don't preach. I just found this interesting.

Nehemiah goes to Jerusalem to rebuild the great wall and all the gates after it had been destroyed 100 years earlier. Chapter three is a listing of who did what and I found it fascinating. I mean, think about it. This happened somewhere around 2500 years ago and we have a complete list of who did what to the wall.

It lists which family worked on which gate and what they did and for some reason it just really impressed me. My favorite thing about this chapter, though, is that it only mentions so and so and his sons, so and so and his sons, etc. But verse 12 says Shallum and his daughters repaired their section. GIRL POWER!! LOL

This isn't the first or second or probably third time I've read Nehemiah, but it's the first time it really caught my attention. And that's my "Interesting Bible Facts" for the day. Or week. Possibly month. Maybe even year.

***

Yesterday Todd took me for my first outing to Target. It was nice. I made off with new jammie bottoms, a book, toenail polish and some great exercise. We walked around the perimeter once and had to stop in the garden department so I could sit for a little bit. When we got home I hit the hay and slept like a rock for about two hours. It was great!

***

When we walked past the maternity section I looked at the clothes and had the same thought I always do. If only they'd put the belly panel on the back of the jeans to accommodate my large rear. I'm thinking with the current fashions of tunics and baby dolls, etc., the shirt would come down past the comfy stretchy part anyway. I may have to look into this. It could be the next big thing. Pun intended!!

***

My recovery still continues to move along nicely. I am totally stunned at how little pain there is and how well I'm getting around. All without the aid of my adored Percocet. (I'm sure you all think I'm a prescription drug addict by now, but I promise I'm not. I haven't had a Percocet since Friday!) Bending down to pick stuff up is a bit much and I have weight restrictions so I can't be doing laundry or vacuuming. Darn. But I really don't feel like I just had surgery a week ago. This one was so much easier than the reconstruction!

I am being plagued with thrush again, however. That has got to be one of the nastiest things of all times. I'm lucky in that I don't have pain with mine, but it is aggravating. And gross. It took me a good six months or so after my last chemo treatment before it was completely gone. Or so I thought. Now it looks as though it's back again and it's a bugger to get rid of all the way. But seeing as how this is my last real medical issue (power of positive thinking) I should start rebuilding the immune system that's been trying to get strong for the last year and a half. Then I'll be able to fight off this disgusting yeast infection and I won't have a fuzzy swollen tongue ever again. At least that's my plan.

***

My last musing for the day is my diet. Or nutritious eating. I'm continuing on Weight Watchers and even declined offers for food while I'm recuperating because I NEED TO LOSE WEIGHT! When Katie and I were in New York City we ate dinner at the Hard Rock Cafe and they took our picture. I bought it so we'd have a picture together for our trip, but I hate it. I'm huge!

So instead of making excuses like I always do -- you know the kind. I've just had major surgery and I deserve to eat three scoops of ice cream or That shot hurt so I think I'll get the biggest White Chocolate Mocha with as much fat as possible to make me feel better. -- I'm counting my points. I was sort of hoping the combination of ovaries, cervix and uterus would be about 10 pounds, but apparently it wasn't. So tomorrow I'll see if I've managed to lose any weight, even though my exercise has been curtailed again.

Labels: cancer, exercise, food, God, medical, random, reconstruction, weight management

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Wednesday, July 04, 2007

Surgery Went Swimmingly...

...and I didn't say anything embarrassing on drugs or off. A first for me, I'm pretty sure.

The trip to the hospital was a bit ominous in that we followed a hearse nearly all the way there. I didn't say anything about it, but when we turned into the parking lot and the hearse went straight Todd said, "Whew!" For some reason that totally cracked me up.

Everything leading up to surgery was totally unblogworthy so I won't bore you with the details. The operation went well, everything came out as it was supposed to, nothing looked suspicious. I spent more time in recovery than I did in surgery simply because the hospital was crowded and there wasn't an available bed. Seems like poor planning to me, but what do I know?

I did appreciate their narcotic protocol. A steady stream through my IV AND a pump for a little extra dose when I felt the need.

It's funny what you notice when you're medicated. Before being taken into the operating room I had a great view of the pre-op nurse's office. There were medical books upon medical books and in the midst of those was an InStyle Weddings coffee table book. When I was settled in my room after surgery I kept thinking of Sunsilk (hair products) commercials. That baffled me because I don't use Sunsilk and I couldn't imagine why those ads should be stuck in my head. It finally hit me. The white board on the wall in front of my bed had a list of care providers: Nurse, Tech, Assistant, etc. After these the name of the person on shift would be written in so we would always know who was who. There was a frame around the white board and covered the "T" in the word "Therapy", leaving only "Herapy". So yeah. That's where the Sunsilk commercial came in.

Because the hospital was so crowded I ended up sharing a room with another patient. As I mentioned in the previous post, I've had several surgeries. I think this is the first time I ever had a roommate.

Very sadly, she was an elderly lady who suffered from vertigo, delusions, disorientation and pain in her legs and arm. She cried and moaned and called out and wept. It was very agitating and very sad. I felt so helpless. She finally fell asleep at night and I very soon followed suit, only to be shocked awake by her hollering for her mommy to help her. She was falling. "Please help me, mommy! I'm going to fall!" I hit the call button so they could come wake her up. It was so sad. She did that a couple times and then one time she woke up, crying, clearly distressed and wanting to know where she was. "You're in the hospital, Honey. You're okay. The nurse is coming," I told her as I was pushing the button again.

I was totally conflicted. I felt so bad for her and wished I could do something for her, but there was nothing I could do. I did spend a lot of time praying for her. I was also a bit angry that they put me in with her. I was a surgical patient and should not have been in with such a distressing patient. On the other hand, I think there were a couple times when my voice calmed her until the nurses could get there. They told her countless times how to press the button if she needed them. I could hear her on the other side of the curtain clicking something, but the nurse light never would come on. So I spent half my time hitting my button for her. The nurses would come in and ask me what I needed and I'd just point to the curtain.

It was one of the saddest things I've ever seen. I suppose one benefit to it was that it forced me to take a lot more walks yesterday than I would have otherwise. Since I did so well - getting up so much and with a minimum of pain - I was given the option of staying one more night or being released after only one night. Seeing as how my one night was less than restful I opted to come home.

One of the more pleasing aspects of the stay was in the middle of the night - when things were quiet next door - I heard Brahms' Lullaby. I was a little, um, what's the word... oh yeah. Drugged. But I remember hearing it, smiling and thinking, Isn't it nice that they play such sweet music so we'll be lulled to sleep? After it stopped it started up again. So nice...

Yesterday I found out I was on the same floor as the maternity ward and every time a baby is born they play Lullaby and Goodnight. Twins had been born in the middle of the night - delivered by my very own doctor. Labor and Delivery was pretty busy yesterday as Todd and I counted at least three lullabies. And everyone would stop, smile and say, "Awwww."

Because of the busy business of babies, I wasn't discharged until a little after 6:00. We got home around 7:00 and I ensconced myself in Todd's chair. Though he's now saying it's no longer his chair. I spilt coffee on the arm the other day and he thinks that was me christening it like a yacht. In fact, at some point in the near future you all may be treated to a guest blog - no doubt about the injustice of how I've weaseled my way into his chair and taken over.

I'm amazed at the little amount of pain I've had. As much as I like to talk about my admiration and esteem of controlled substances, I haven't had to take a pill since this morning. I'm really stunned. Pleased, but stunned.

I am having some skin issues, however. I blistered from the tape - something I'd never done before until these past six months. The seams from my gown and now underwear seem to be causing some hefty irritations as well. Though they seem to be a little better even today so I wonder if it doesn't have something to do with the anesthesia. I see the dermatology specialist in two weeks so if I'm still dealing with this stuff we'll see what he recommends.

I do want to thank you all for the overwhelming comments on my last post. I should clarify that right now I'm okay with not jumping. At this moment I'm perfectly happy sitting on the side and watching. Not so much the other day, obviously.

Most of the time I'm okay with my lot. I still know all this is temporary. It's just taking a lot longer than I thought it would. I'm pretty laid back and it usually takes a lot to ruffle my feathers. But sometimes I find myself full of frustration and sadness and all kinds of emotions. I let them out (as in the case of Sunday's post) and then I'm good to go for a while.

I know what you're thinking. It's the Percocet talking. Not so. Maybe I'll write my next post under the influence. That might be kind of fun!

Labels: cancer, medical

Mused by Jenster :: 10:18 AM :: 22 People musing:

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Sunday, July 01, 2007

Gypped

I know I was supposed to post pictures and tell you all about the trip to New York City, but that's going to have to wait. Tomorrow is my surgery and I feel compelled to write what's on my mind.

Maybe I’ve just forgotten the emotions and anxiety before surgery – and I’ve had plenty to be considered a veteran. The listing of my past surgical history always takes up more room then the medical forms allow for. But for some reason I am much more agitated today than I think I’ve ever been before a surgery. Except for maybe my mastectomy while there was still a chance I didn’t have cancer.

I’m fairly certain one of the reasons for my apprehension is the skin issues I still have. My rashes seem to be fairly well under control, but a new one popped up just yesterday. And as for the blisters, I don’t know what to think. Every time I think they’re going away I find another one or two and we still don’t have a definitive diagnosis.

And all this started with my reconstruction surgery in December. So I can’t help but worry this surgery will just start something new. Then again maybe all my skin issues are strangely related to my ovaries and once they're removed from my body my rashes and blisters will miraculously disappear. A girl can hope.

Another emotion I’m feeling right now is anger. I’m furious that I’ve been put in this position because of a stupid mass of mutant cells that decided to take up residence in my left breast. Those cells have turned the lives of myself and my family upside down. Even after all this time we’re still “suffering” the effects. Breast cancer has become an epidemic so I’m hardly alone. It makes me mad for all the women and men who have to deal with this disease.

I also feel as though I’ve been gypped. Like the little girl I was who would let most everyone have their way while I stood back and waited patiently for my turn. I’ve been waiting for my turn for two years now.

When I had surgery and then went through chemo I knew my “baggage” was temporary. The hair was going to grow back. The blood counts would come back up. My energy would be restored. I’d lose the weight I’d gained. My family would be reunited. My breast would be reconstructed.

Once the house in Arkansas sold and the kids and I made our move to Pennsylvania I thought reconstruction would be the end of my road. Before my diagnosis I liked taking a bath in fragrant bubbles and slathering delicious smelling lotion all over. I liked wearing something special for Todd and I liked what happened when I did. That was just one aspect I wanted back after the reconstruction.

Between surgery and treatment, the effort of gussying up alone was too much. Then when I was feeling better I still had the image issues. A woman can feel only so sexy when she has only one breast. That is to say not at all – at least in my case.

So I thought once the reconstruction was over I’d have a better self image. I’d lose the weight I’d gained and I’d get back my regular life. Todd and I would get back the intimacy we’d been forced to forfeit. I was looking forward to buying new clothes. Clothes that would flatter my new figure. Maybe a couple new nightgowns and a sexy, but modest sun dress to wear on our date in Hawaii.

Instead I ended up with at least three different skin issues and severe bleeding problems. Tomorrow I’ll go in and get the bleeding problems taken care of. Then I’ll have several more weeks of recovery, but I do know I’ll feel better when all is said and done.

That leaves me with the skin problems. I know that they will eventually go away as well and maybe THEN I can get back to the business of being normal. Well, my new normal. But normal nonetheless.

So I’m still the kid holding the rope while everyone else gets a turn to jump. I want to jump so badly, but I’m trying to be patient and wait my turn. Even though it seems to me a couple of the kids have had two turns already.

It sounds so silly as I read it, but that’s the truth of it. What probably sounds even sillier is that, while I hate what we’ve been through, I don’t think I would change it. I’ve seen God work in my life and the lives of my husband and children in ways I never would have imagined. And honestly, if any of this has brought even a little bit of glory to God, then it’s worth it. When I put it that way, it all doesn’t seem so very bad.

I'll be back in a few days to tell you surgery went swimmingly and I didn't say anything embarrassing while on drugs. Or off drugs. I hope it won't be a lie.

Labels: cancer, family, God, love, medical, reconstruction

Mused by Jenster :: 4:46 PM :: 28 People musing:

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Thursday, June 14, 2007

Dreams and a White Russian

Last night I dreamt Will Farrell was dressed up as Elton John at a costume party and when I showed up without a costume I said I was Kiki Dee so I wouldn't get in trouble. Unfortunately Will Farrell heard me and said I had to come sing "Don't Go Breaking My Heart" with him. I agreed, but kept finding things I had to do first to avoid getting on the stage in front of all the people. Thankfully I woke up before I had to sing.

Why? This dream is more insane than the Oprah dream. Or at least as insane. Zeek - would you like to interpret this one??

****

I had my regular checkup with the White Russian today. It was nice to go in for something other than a problem. Their computers were down and it had the entire office in turmoil. I usually go straight to an exam room, but today I had to go back to the chemo room. It's the first time I've been to the chemo room at this oncologist's office and it gave me a moment's pause.

I don't know how well I can explain this, but I'll give it the old college try. It's been my experience that oncology doctors and technicians and nurses are among the nicest people on the planet. When I was going through chemotherapy I had to go in to the office every week for blood work and received chemo every three weeks. While I wasn't thrilled to have several gallons of what was comparable to fertilizer pumped through my veins, I did enjoy the people there. They were cheerful and compassionate and a fun group. Today I remembered just how much I enjoyed them and it made me a little melancholy.

But I got over it quick. I was given a great report and don't have to show up for another three months. My blood counts were all great. Both my rashes and blisters are clearing and I'm starting to feel almost normal again. I think, anyway. I'm not sure. It's been so long since I've felt normal I could be far from it. But whatever. I feel way better than I have for a long time.

Father's Day was the day we were to leave for Hawaii. Instead we'll be in the Poconos. Tomorrow we're taking the trailer up to the mountains for a much needed family get away. Even though I'm feeling much better and my skin seems to be clearing up, I'm glad we postponed Hawaii. I still don't know how my skin is going to react to suntan lotion, sunshine and bug spray. Guess we'll find out this weekend.

After the last six months we've had we're all looking forward to this weekend. We need some time away from phones and T.V.s (though we have a small one - lol) and just connect as a family. I'm planning on getting a book or two read, also.

This will probably be my last post until next week. At that time I'll have glorious pictures to share. Or at least a story or two. And I apologize for not being a very good bloggerfriend. I sort of freak out when things don't go according to my "schedule" and nothing's gone according to my schedule these last two weeks. So I've been to visit all of you, but I haven't been leaving comments because I've been too frazzled. I'm sure you'll be sorry when I come back from camping all refreshed and revived and have lots to say to your posts.

Labels: blog, cancer, family, fun, medical, nostalgia

Mused by Jenster :: 7:08 PM :: 13 People musing:

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Friday, June 01, 2007

The Notorious Port

Two years ago today I had a subclavical port installed (I sound like a car) so I could receive chemotherapy without compromising the veins in my arm. I had a love/hate relationship with this little thing. I hated it until I had to have a treatment. Then I LOVED it!

I thought I would share with you what I wrote about that day. Can I just say drugs and my mouth don't mix? I have no need of pharmaceutical agents to make me say stupid things.

***

Our new insurance went into effect on Wednesday, June 1st, the same day I was scheduled to have outpatient surgery for a mediport placement. As we sat in the posh waiting room I noticed that this particular surgical office also did breast augmentation. How ironic.

The nurse called me back and asked me her list of questions as we walked to my pre-op room, one of which was had I had my tubes tied or a hysterectomy. I told her no, to which she replied they would need a urine sample. "Heaven forbid I'm pregnant, too," I said with a laugh.

She handed me my lovely gown with instructions on how to wear the current fashion and left to check my sample. Upon her return she informed me the news was good. No pregnancy. I explained to her it would be difficult to explain a pregnancy to my vascectomied husband who lived in another state.

It was then time to take my vitals. As I sat back in the reclined bed with nothing on other than my gown, she looked at me and asked which side I had the mastectomy on. That hurt a little because, well, couldn't she tell? But I let it pass and told her.

Pretty soon the anesthesiologist came in and asked me the same question. I looked down at my chest and could see the left was slightly flatter than the right. But instead of the comment I was thinking I just said, "The left."

He then asked me what I liked to be called when being woken. I thought this was a strange question and wondered if it was to check my mental faculties. I simply told him I liked to be called something nice. So he looked at my chart and asked if "Jennifer" would be alright.

Hm. Let me think about it. I suppose, if you can't come up with something better. Again, instead of saying what I was thinking I agreed that "Jennifer" was as good a name as any to call me whilst waking me up.

After that the doctor showed up. I'm sure by now you can guess what question he asked me. I don't think it was completely out of his mouth before I snapped, "The left! I had my left breast removed! Can nobody tell?" Thankfully they had started the IV so I could blame my outburst on drugs.

Todd came back and I complained to him how nobody seemed to notice that I actually had a right breast. I knew I was small busted to begin with, but this had gotten ridiculous. Luckily for him it wasn't very long before they took me back and I was mercifully taken to my unconscious happy place.

The next thing I remember was waking up. -- Before I go any further, I want you to remember two things. One, I found out in the waiting room this surgical clinic did breast augmentation; and two, the anesthesiologist asking me what name I liked to be called. With that in mind you'll understand why I said the next two things upon waking. Or thought them very loudly.

"I don't suppose they made a mistake and gave me some nice boobs instead of a port," and, "I think I might like to be called Roxanne." These statements were met with laughter, leading me to think they were spoken out loud.

While most people who know me would argue this point, I don’t usually think things without a reason. Roxanne, for example, didn't just come out of nowhere. It's Terri's middle name and one I've always liked. I also thought that Roxanne would be a great name for a well-endowed woman.

But, as luck would have it, I was still missing a left breast, my right breast was unchanged and I now sported a cool valve a few inches above said right breast.

Labels: anniversaries, cancer, medical

Mused by Jenster :: 8:34 AM :: 28 People musing:

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Wednesday, May 30, 2007

It All Makes Sense Now

While at the grocery store this morning I saw a woman wearing a pink bandanna on her head and a pink breast cancer bracelet on her wrist. I was drawn to her - being of the same sisterhood and all - but I debated whether or not I should say anything. Then I remembered when I was obviously going through treatment and how it made me feel when women would come up to me and tell me it would get better.

So I walked up to her and said, "Excuse me. Are you a breast cancer patient?" She said she was and when I told her I went through what she's going through two years ago she lit up. She grabbed my hand and looked me over and said, "Oh. You look wonderful!" Instead of my usual, "Oh, please. I need to lose about 50 pounds and I feel like I look much older than I am," I just said thank you.

We chatted a little bit about chemotherapy and what her side effects have been. After a few more treatments she'll start radiation, though she wants a break in between so she can enjoy the beach just a little this summer. In her words, "Even if I can just feel the sand between my toes and smell the salty air. I don't need to get a tan."

We said the usual, "nice talking with you," thing you say when you've been chatting with a complete stranger. And then she grabbed my hand again and said, "Thank you so much for talking to me. I've been feeling discouraged and you were just the encouragement I needed." I patted her hand and told her it was my pleasure.

And as I walked away I realized this is what it's all about. I'm not going to touch the masses. But because of my experiences I'm going to make a difference - even a teeny tiny one - to a select few women over the course of my life. And there are a select few women who have and will make a difference for me.

Labels: cancer, pay it forward

Mused by Jenster :: 12:54 PM :: 23 People musing:

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Saturday, May 19, 2007

Petri Dish Additives

I now have two more things to add to my ever-growing list of physical complaints. I have developed patches of itchy rashes in various places on my body and I started another bleeding episode. Seriously. I couldn't make this up if I wanted to. Which I don't.

I'm not feeling particularly brave or strong or humorous right now. I'm just feeling tired and discouraged and sorry for myself. Each malady by itself is not such a big deal, but the sum of the individual problems is miserable.

The new rash is probably a reaction to all the medicines I'm on. If that's the case then when I finish the medicines the rash will clear up. So that's not such a big deal.

The bleeding is unexpected but not a horrible thing, either. I'm scheduled for a D&C and endometrial ablation at the end of the month so this won't happen again. I was just kind of hoping this wouldn't happen again before then.

I know this is understated, but cancer sucks. Each and every problem I've had in the last two years is a direct result from having cancer. The rashes and blisters and thrush are all because of what chemotherapy did to me. And the bleeding is from the medicine I'm taking to prevent a recurrence.

Don't get me wrong. I'm very thankful I live at a time when there are these medical resources available to me. And what I'm "suffering" is nothing compared to what a lot of people are going through. I would endure this every day for the rest of my life if it meant I wouldn't have to watch my children become gravely ill or injured or worse.

Even so, I just want to be normal. I want a normal day where I do normal chores and plant flowers and run errands without a thought. I want to be a mom to my kids and a wife to my husband. I want to congregate at the corner with the other neighborhood moms to discuss Desperate Housewives and swap recipes. I want to go more than 15 minutes without itching, tingling, burning, hurting and be conscious all at the same time.

I know eventually this will all clear up and I can go about the business of living. Optimist me says it will be within the next week or two. Pessimist me says it's already been five months of one thing or another, what makes me think it's going to end any time soon.

Instead of giving all my cares and fears and sadness to God today I've held on to them to aid me in my pity party. I guess that's pretty stupid after all the comfort and strength and peace I've received from Him. I know firsthand how gracious He is and yet I chose to just be sad and miserable today. Thankfully His mercies are new every morning and tomorrow is a new day.

Whew. While writing my thoughts and feelings is therapeutic, it does NOT make for entertaining blogstuff. I promise not to post anything in this frame of mind for a long time to come.

Labels: cancer, God, medical

Mused by Jenster :: 6:54 PM :: 19 People musing:

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Thursday, May 03, 2007

I'm a Survivor!!

I am officially a two year breast cancer survivor today. Last year on this day I received a bouquet of one pink and eleven red roses from Todd and the infamous "uniboob cake" from two friends, Amy and Lisa.

This year to celebrate I'll be receiving a Venti White Chocolate Mocha from the lady behind the counter at Starbucks. I'll have to pay her for it, but I don't mind. It's my thought that counts.

**ADDENDUM**

I just got a call from Todd (11:00) and he's coming home from work to spend the day with me to celebrate the anniversary. So now HE gets to pay the nice lady at Starbucks, making it seem more like a gift for me.

Given my recent trips down memory lane, I'm sure it's no surprise to any of you that I've posted about the day of my surgery. A few readers have griped about the lack of **Kleenex Warning** so I will tell you now to read at your own risk. I don't think a tissue will be required, but I'm trying to cover my bases.

***

Early in the morning of May 3, 2005, Todd and I headed off to the hospital. My sister, Terri, was waiting for us at the entrance to the admissions waiting room and when we walked in my friends Beth and Rhonda were there. By the time they called to take me up to surgery there were ten of us and we kept getting into trouble. The poor little old volunteer lady kept getting on to us for being disruptive.

Finally the pre-op nurse came to get me and I felt just like J Lo before a performance. The nurse was the stage manager telling me what was going to happen; Todd was my personal assistant, carrying my bag; and the other eight people were my posse. My entourage and I followed the nurse to the next floor where she very patiently waited while I gave everyone a hug and some reassurance before heading back to pre-op.

Todd and I let the nurse lead us to the staging area where she asked me when the last time I ate or drank was. The words just split out in a rush. “I had two glasses of wine last night to help me relax but then I read I wasn’t supposed to have any alcohol 24 hours before or after surgery so I then drank 40 ounces of water in less than 20 minutes! Did I totally ruin everything?”

This she found highly amusing. “It’s hard to be relaxed when you’re spending the entire night in the bathroom, isn't it?”

This place really knew how to throw a party. After changing into the height of hospital fashion, the nurse brought me some Reglan and a Valium. Todd asked if he could have some as well but she just laughed him off, though she did admit family members should be given something as well. I considered offering him mine because I knew before long I would be blissfully unaware of anything. But I was stingy and kept it all for myself.

After the IV was placed she gave me Versed and I got that old Ramones song I Want to be Sedated stuck in my head. According to Todd – and I’m not sure I believe him – I was singing the song as they wheeled me to the OR.

---

At this point in my story I was peacefully slumbering so let’s visit the waiting room, shall we? By this time there were about 15 people out there, including my mother-in-law who had brought an XXL bag of peanut M&Ms for me, but my peeps couldn’t hold back. In fact, when we were in the admissions waiting room they had been accusing me of being a lousy hostess as I had no snacks of any kind for my soiree. So they all ate MY M&Ms in MY honor and decided it was MY hips that would show their indulgence. I’m guessing there was a collective sigh of relief from the other patrons of the waiting room when this particular gang left.

When Dr. Abraham was finished in the operating room she went to the waiting room to talk to Todd. She told him everything went well, it was definitely cancer, but she felt confident it was all removed. The sentinel lymph node and four axillary lymph nodes were tested in the operating room and appeared to be cancer free. The breast tissue and the nodes would be sent to pathology for more sensitive testing, however. Not precisely what we wanted to hear, but the best prognosis in a bad situation, nonetheless.

---

While I thoroughly enjoy the feeling of going under, I’m not so keen on the return to consciousness. At the very first instant of awareness I just want to go back to my happy place. Unfortunately the recovery room Nazis, I mean nurses, won’t let you sink back down into oblivion.

Struggling to surface from my drug-induced haze, I could hear someone talking to me as if they were on the other side of a long tunnel. She kept calling my name and asking how I felt. I’m sure I kept telling her I was fine, but she didn’t seem to hear me. Finally after what seemed like forever I managed to open my eyes and mumble somewhat coherently.

I had gone into surgery that morning fairly certain I had a malignancy, but not one hundred percent sold. There was a still that small part of me that was hoping for the best. My answer came in the form of the nurse patting my arm and saying sympathetically, “You’re going to be just fine, Honey.” It may have been that I had prepared myself for the worst, though I suspect it was more due to the physical, mental and emotional numbness from the anesthesia. I merely smiled and croaked, “I know.”

As it turned out, there were cancer cells found in two of the five lymph nodes which required eight chemotherapy treatments instead of four. Having a breast removed turned out to be the easiest part of this whole ordeal. Probably because of the amazing variety and copious amounts of drugs they gave me.

Some days it seem like it was another life time ago and other days it seems like it was just yesterday. Regardless, I'm thankful both my mother and I can wear the title "Survivor" (she's a one-year survivor) and plan on doing so for a very long time to come.

Labels: anniversaries, blog, cancer, medical

Mused by Jenster :: 8:02 AM :: 27 People musing:

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Friday, April 27, 2007

April 27, 2005 - The Diagnosis

The sun rose as usual in Benton, Arkansas, on Wednesday, April 27, 2005. The birds sang, the dogs barked, all over the world people went about their business like any other day.

Todd had accepted his new position in Pennsylvania and given his three week notice just days before. We were preoccupied with list upon list of what needed to be done around the house before it would be ready to show. It was our main topic of conversation.

I was a little miffed this particular morning because I had to stop my cleaning/ purging/spiffing-up momentum for a mammogram and a doctor’s appointment. Not that getting a mammogram was any big deal. I’d had lumps before and had been squished twice already. They were always the same thing – benign, fibrocystic lumps.

This lump was a little different, though. The small mass was just left of the nipple of my left breast and was pulling the areola in on that side. The effect was what I like to call “Marty Feldman Syndrome” or MFS. You know, one eye focused straight ahead while the other strayed off in an entirely different direction. Still, I only figured this had more to do with where the lump was and less to do with what it was.

What had me concerned was the fact my gynecologist was sending me to a “breast specialist” after the mammogram. He’d never done that before. In fact he’d never really been worried before, but this time he was obviously disturbed by the MFS. So I requested prayers from some friends and asked Todd to go with me.

The mammogram went as usual. I let the very nice technician manhandle my chest and tug on me just so there would be enough to cram in the cold contraption. I tried hard not to laugh when she said the ridiculous words, "Hold your breath and don't move." Really. Where am I going to go?

After the usual mammogram was the usual ultrasound. After the usual ultrasound was the usual quick consultation with the radiologist. This time, however, he said there was a bit of a chance of malignancy. About 20% from what he could see from the films. He was certain the specialist would want to schedule a needle biopsy. Bah! That meant there was an 80% chance of it being benign.

Films in hand, we headed to the breast specialist, more commonly referred to as the surgical oncologist. But I preferred the former title. Not quite as scary.

Todd and I sat in the cold, sterile room – he in the chair and me on the exam table in my lovely gown, feet dangling like a child - totally ignoring the huge elephant while we prioritized our ever-growing To Do list. The doctor came in with the films, clipped them onto the view box and introduced herself. She said the mass looked suspicious and a needle biopsy would be in order.

At this point I was more exasperated than anything. All I could think of was what a terrible inconvenience this was. I knew it couldn’t be cancer because I had no doubt God wanted us in Pennsylvania. He had been very persistent in this regard. And if He wanted us to move he wouldn’t give me cancer. Right?

“Here’s the deal,” I said. I told her about Todd’s impending move in just a few weeks and how the kids and I would be following as soon as the house was sold. If she gave the lump a 20% chance of malignancy as the radiologist did then I’d do the needle biopsy because I knew it would prove benign. So after explaining our situation I asked what her opinion was.

It was in that moment I realized she had been easing us into the reality of what we were dealing with. Her demeanor changed from professional courtesy to one of blunt frankness. “I’ve seen thousands of films and judging from this starburst pattern radiating away from the tumor, I would give this a 95% probability of malignancy.”

I’m not sure if I made a sound, but I felt as though I’d been hit in the stomach, the wind completely knocked out of me. Deep down I’d known this was different than the lumps I’d had before, but the shock was a physical blow. I was almost afraid to look at Todd and when I did I knew he’d been slammed by the same force. The doctor handed me a box of Kleenex and left us to gather our thoughts.

Not speaking, we clung to each other and wept. I was only 39. Our children were 10 and 13. We were supposed to be moving. Suddenly nothing made sense.

When she came back into the room I told her I didn’t want to waste time with a needle biopsy. That would just delay everything another week at least and time was of the essence here. I wanted to get this mess taken care of so I could get on with my life.

She agreed a needle biopsy would be nearly useless and before we left I was scheduled for a surgical biopsy and potential mastectomy the following week. Todd and I walked to the car in a mute daze, still reeling from the news. He finally broke the silence when he said he was going to try to get his Little Rock job back. I persuaded him not to do anything yet. At least not until we had stopped spinning and could think rationally.

As we drove home I looked at him and said, “There is a silver lining to this very dark cloud.” He looked at me, clearly unconvinced. “I’m serious. I can think of several benefits. First of all, the chemo will be a harsh, yet effective weight loss program and I won’t have to shave anymore. And I’ll have all the time in the world to read all those books in the office.”

He still didn’t seem to be on board until I hit him with the clincher. “And,” I said, going in for the kill, “insurance will actually pay for me to get a set of new, improved, perky boobs!” Yeah. That got his attention.

The rest of the day was a bit of a blur, though it seemed to drag out forever. Under normal circumstances my first phone call would have been to my mother. She and my dad, however, were on vacation in California with no way for me to get a hold of them. So instead I called my hairdresser and went in for a hair cut. Can you say “denial”? Or maybe it was just shock.

My parents were scheduled to call us two days later and I was struggling with what to tell them. I was afraid they would cut their vacation short just to come home and be there when I had the surgery. I really didn’t want them to do that. Instead my father happened to call this particular day about another matter. Dad’s not much of a talker and I was thankful it was him because I was pretty sure the subject of my mammogram wouldn’t come up. We were just about to hang up when I heard my mom in the background saying, “Ask her how her appointment went.” *sigh* I just said, “Not good. I’m having surgery on Tuesday,” and that was that.

Later when my mom called and mentioned they should change their tickets and come home I was able to convince her not to. I knew I was going to need them a whole lot more when I started treatment. Besides, Todd’s parents were in town to help and my sister, Terri, was coming to help, too.

We had already told the kids I had a lump and the doctor wanted me to have a mammogram to make sure it wasn’t something bad. Of course I had to explain what that was, to which Taylor asked, “Will they pop back into place when it’s over?” That’s what happens when you encourage your children to ask questions. They do.

So that afternoon we told them the breast doctor didn’t like what she saw and I would be having surgery the following week. I don’t think we actually said the word “cancer” in this particular conversation. We figured the fact I was going to have surgery was enough for them to deal with. Besides, there was still that 5% chance it was benign.

There were several people who knew I was going in for a mammogram and I sent them a global email with the results of the day’s events. In the message I said we probably wouldn’t be answering the phone that day. By that night, however, I had spoken to the majority of them. What was funny – and truly made us laugh – was that I was the one comforting friends and family.

After the phone calls stopped and the kids had gone to bed, we laid in our own bed holding hands and talking. Despite the events of the day there was a feeling of peace. There were still so many unknowns, but, as I’ve said many times before, we knew God was in control. And that knowledge is the best source of comfort there is.

Labels: cancer, God

Mused by Jenster :: 7:03 AM :: 20 People musing:

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Wednesday, April 25, 2007

My New Normal

I'm not sure if it's because I'm at the anniversary of my diagnosis and surgery, but I've been rather contemplative. Usually I'm pretty shallow, but lately I've been thinking deep thoughts. A lot of work for a simple, superficial gal such as myself.

I've been struggling lately with what has become my new normal. My fight has been accepting who I am now while desperately wanting things to be like they were before I was diagnosed.

Two years ago I foolishly thought once my treatment was over and once we got settled as a family again and once I had reconstruction, everything would go back to the way it had been. I had heard from more experienced women that things are never the same, but I guess I didn't believe it. I am just now coming to the realization that it's true.

When you're diagnosed with cancer you think about the big things. Will the surgery get all the cancer? Will the chemo make me sick? Will it do any good? Will I get to watch my kids grow up? But you don't think about the vast number of other changes your body and mind will go through. They don't seem important at the time. And I guess when pitted against the ultimate scare of death, they're not. But when you've made it through surgery and treatment and everything is looking good, you start waiting for all those other changes to get back to normal.

Maybe the weight will eventually come off. Maybe the blisters will eventually go away. Maybe the hypersensitive skin will eventually toughen up. Maybe I'll eventually feel like a 41-year-old instead of someone much older. And the other changes, the ones that are too personal to write about on a blog, maybe some of them will go back to the way it was. But some of the changes are permanent and there's not a thing I can do about it.

I think I'm finally getting to the place where I can stop mourning the loss of who I was and accept who I am. For me this is a spiritual journey and only by the grace of God will I be content with my situation.

When I was diagnosed there were those who said God had given me cancer for a reason and there were those who said God had allowed the cancer for a reason. Whichever is true, the fact remains that He has been in control of this from the very beginning. I've been through the fire and dross has melted away, but I find I'm still not nearly as shiny as I could be. So I'm learning to embrace my new normal because it's another chance at refinement, bringing me that much closer to being pure gold.

Labels: cancer, God

Mused by Jenster :: 8:50 AM :: 13 People musing:

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Saturday, March 24, 2007

It Keeps Getting in My Way

A mastectomy is an amputation plain and simple. An appendage, if you will, has been removed from the body. Obviously it's not as traumatic or life altering as the loss of a limb, something you rely on to perform every day tasks. I don't know of many women who use their breasts to perform every day tasks. At least not personally.

One does have to learn to adjust, however. Some of the more chesty women I know who had one breast removed had balance problems at first. Their center of gravity seemed to be skewed directly proportionate to the size of the breast removed. I was not what you would call a buxom woman to begin with so I never had the problem of veering off to the side while trying to walk a straight line. Well, not because of that, anyway.

I noticed it when I reached across my body with my left arm but that eventually became "normal". Nowhere did I noticed the loss more acutely than when I was trying to sleep. I'm a tummy sleeper and I had to learn to hold the pillow just the right way so I wouldn't roll to the left. As with all things, I finally adapted and it became second nature.

Now that I've had the reconstruction I find myself having to "reach around" my left breast which seems so funny to me. My pre-BC boobs very seldom ever got in my way. But last night was the first time since the surgery that I decided to try sleeping on my tummy. It didn't last long at all. I'm back to square one and am going to have to retrain myself again.

On A More Serious Note

I know you all have heard about Elizabeth Edwards' metastasis to her bones. No matter how good a prognosis a breast cancer patient has (or any cancer, for that matter) there's always the fear of spread lurking in the deepest recesses of your mind.

I have a particular mechanism that is both beneficial and detrimental to me. I push unpleasantness so far back that sometimes I don't even realize it's there. It has served me well over the years and helped me to deal with things rationally and straight on. But holding big, scary things in means they're just going to grow until they break out eventually.

I broke like a water main when the Edwards made their announcement Thursday. I desperately hurt for both of them, their worst fears being realized. And I cried for me and every other woman I know - and those I don't - who have been cursed with the disease. So many strides have been made in breast cancer treatment, but there's still not a cure and that's a scary thought.

Several people have said they need to quit the campaigning and focus on their family. That is certainly what I would want to do in the same situation. But we all deal with things so differently and it could very well be that keeping her focus on something other than her disease will be just what she needs. Not that focusing on her family isn't a good thing - it's vital. But focusing solely on the family only brings your own mortality closer to the surface.

Regardless of personal or political beliefs the Edwards deserve our thoughts, our prayers and our admiration. They are both a good example of strength in the face of adversity.

Labels: cancer, reconstruction

Mused by Jenster :: 9:31 AM :: 17 People musing:

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Monday, March 19, 2007

Long Beach

I’ve been feeling rather nostalgic lately so you can expect to read about some defining moments of my life over the next few months. I’m not so sure today’s post actually counts as a defining moment, but the memory signifies a major turning point in my life.

Two years ago at this time Todd and I were in Long Beach, California. He had a conference there and I tagged along as I often did with his business trips. Todd had flown to Chicago the previous Sunday, taking with him only a carry on bag for his one day meeting on Monday. The plan was I’d bring the rest of his clothes with me since I’d be needing the big suitcase anyway. Our flights met in Salt Lake City Tuesday and then we flew to Long Beach together.

It wasn’t until we got to the hotel that I realized I had completely forgotten all his clothes – the business clothes he was going to need for three days of meetings. I don’t know why I laugh in these situations, knowing he’s going to be less than pleased. But I do, and I did, and the more I laughed I think the angrier he got, which only made me laugh harder. So we walked for literally miles, looking for some type of clothing store. The only one we found was a West Coast Chopper’s store and he didn’t think leather pants would be appropriate. Turns out if we’d only turned right at the corner we would have run into all kinds of shops within a block of the hotel. It all turned out fine and he ended up with some nice new clothes. So I think I actually did him a favor.

Thursday was St. Patrick’s Day and we took my very Irish friend, Sheila, out to dinner and had a wonderful time. Friday evening we had dinner with other friends, John and Cathy, laughed until we cried, walked around Long Beach and saw one of the dumbest movies I think I’ve ever seen (Constantine). Saturday was another day of hanging out with John and Cathy and their three beautiful girls and Sunday we flew back home.

It was a great trip, a carefree time, and the memory will forever be precious to me. We had no idea that the following week would set things in motion that would drastically change our lives. Two life-altering events that were completely separate yet have become one experience to my mind.

It’s hard for me to describe the feeling of frenzy that happened after that. It was like being caught in a whirlwind and before we could jump out and calm down we were picked up by a devastating tornado, spinning us in two different directions.

Week 1 – Todd is given the opportunity to interview with a similar-type company near Valley Forge, Pennsylvania.

Week 2 – Todd interviews with the company in Valley Forge, Pennsylvania.

Week 3 – Todd and I both fly to Pennsylvania to get an idea of whether or not we’d even want to move there.

Week 4 – I have my yearly gynecological appointment and a lump in my left breast that needs checking.

Week 5 – Todd accepts the new job and resigns the old job.

Week 5 – I’m diagnosed with breast cancer.

Week 6 – I have a left mastectomy.

Week 8 – Todd moves to Pennsylvania.

Week 10 – I start chemotherapy.

Our trip to Long Beach had absolutely nothing to do with these things, but in my mind I view it as the last page in an easy and nearly perfect chapter of our lives. Sort of that last deep breath before you plunge into the frigid water, but at least then you know what you’re about to get yourself into.

There were times when I thought we were spinning out of control, and I suppose we were. But that was okay because even then we knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that God WAS in control. And I see our little getaway to Long Beach – visiting with good friends we don’t see often; several hours of responsibility-free solitude to read; time to reconnect as a husband and wife, not a mom and dad – as a gift. Like a last little vacation before starting a new and grueling job. And THAT’S why the memory of such a seemingly insignificant trip means so much to me.

Labels: cancer, moving, nostalgia

Mused by Jenster :: 8:53 AM :: 12 People musing:

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