Life Is Too Short

I have a job.  When I am not working, I like to relax with my family, and do fun things.  I do not like to do the grocery shopping or clean the house(how in the heck does the toilet get that bad when there's only three people using it?).  I'll do those chores, but I will be almighty grumpy about having to do them.  Maybe at one point I was resigned to these activities, the scourge of housefraus. But not anymore. Cancer does help a person get their priorities straight.  So if I have the opportunity to send someone else, like Instacart, to the store for me?  I am hitting that button on my phone.  Life is too short, and if there's someone out there who is willing to brave the crowds for me and bring the groceries to my door, I am willing to pay them.  Yes, I spend a little more, but I would rather have more time to nap, crochet, have a family game night, or just about anything else. It's about convenience.

Life is too short.

There's several other activities that I think life is too short for.  As part of my more positive lifestyle, I am attempting to eliminate them.  For example, why do I need to feel guilty about eating that last piece of chocolate?  I know that we are supposed to share, but I determined that I really needed that piece of chocolate, and that was that.  What good does it do anyone, myself included, to feel guilty about that?  Especially when we all know that I would do it again in a heartbeat if I were presented with the same situation.  It's chocolate, and I am human.  No jury of my peers would find me guilty, so I am resolved to not feel guilty about it from henceforth.

Then there's holding a grudge. Injustices that we've collected over time from the people in our lives, that likely mean nothing to anyone else. Like that time so and so wore your favorite and most comfortable pair of jeans without permission, and she tore a hole in the seat, and you said that you would never forgive her as long as you lived.  Why was that crime particularly egregious?  What purpose does it serve to hold all these little grievances tightly?  If such things as grudges made your hair curly without the need of specialized hair devices, then I could understand maintaining a strong grip.  However, this is not the case. So if you're still angry about something someone said to you in third grade, I think that says more about you than the person you are angry at, don't you?  I am resolved to let go of my annoyance at that kid who ran over my foot in her wheelchair, even though I know she did it on purpose.  I resolve to let go of all of the petty.  Yes, I may struggle to keep my hands free of injustices against my person, but I feel that it is necessary for my own well-being.

Life is too short. What are some activities that you find to be burdensome?  Do share!

Putting Myself Out There, Part Two

I have been as chill as this dog!

On the last day at the plastic surgeon, they have you put on a pink graduation cap and gown.  They take your picture.  You've finished, you're done, life is good.  They also ask you if you would be willing to be a member of their club for former patients.  I said yes, because it was mainly email and therefore not too stressful.  However, I was recently asked if I wanted to be interviewed for a short film about my experiences, to help other women who are about to have reconstruction.

Help other women who are about to have reconstruction? 


The old me(before cancer) would have flat out said, "Nope, no thank you, not interested."   The very idea would have me running in the opposite direction, heading for a hiding place.  Meeting new people really makes me nervous. And to be interviewed on camera?   My anxiety makes me think that people are judging me, making fun of me, with a little paranoia thrown in, and I panic.  Intellectually, I know that I have absolutely NO reason to feel that way.  Emotionally is another story. I know that I'm not the only one out there who feels that way, but when I am in the midst of a panic attack, it sure seems that way.

But the NEW AND IMPROVED me(after cancer) has decided to stop saying "no" to things that scare me.  I said yes.  Then I obsessed 24/7 about all the "what ifs", and had to take a Xanax to calm down.  Actually, I did not do this for once!.  The old me so would have done that, but the new me?  I completely forgot about it, until I got another email asking me when I would be available.  My interview is scheduled for Monday afternoon.  I will try to answer the questions truthfully, without profanity.

I just want to be helpful, and maybe to give back a little of the wonderful support that I received. My experience is a path that many other women have traveled.  I am not unique. Cancer is such a horrific event, no matter what the outcome.  If I can help at least one woman feel a bit more in control of the chaos?  I am more than willing to put myself out there, even if it means doing something scary and terrifying like be on video. 

However, I draw the line at skydiving.  Hard pass.

Learning to Roll with the Punches

I got a phone call this week from some random guy named Roy or Ray. (I have trouble with other people's enunciation)  He left me a message "regarding your upcoming appointment."  Sometimes such a phone call means that a surgery has been scheduled or the doctor will be out of town.  A couple of years ago, it meant more bad news about my cancer, but those days were over.  When I finally had a moment to call back, Roy/Ray/whatever had bad news.  My oncologist had decided that he was done working with actual patients.  He was heading back to research, and leaving me, and many other patients, behind.  Too bad, too sad.  Pick up your chart and go home. Thank you and goodbye. 

This was a complete shock.

My oncologist, who I'd been seeing since December of 2014, was dumping me.  I was angry, stunned, and hurt. All that time and effort that I'd put into training that man so he understood my crazy, and he was leaving me.  As an Army brat, I got dumped often, the cost of moving so often.  It wasn't anyone's fault, but once you were no longer around, kids forgot about you.   They just stopped writing, or answering my calls, or being around when I visited.  As someone who had trouble making friends in the first place, this hurt.  I didn't understand. 

But a doctor is different, one might say.  A relationship with a doctor is a business relationship.  Surely those don't count?  Such silliness.  Patient-doctor relationships have a monetary component, true.  However, there is very definitely a relationship, at least to me.  I've had the same dentist since I was twelve. I have been seeing the same Ob-Gyn since 1987. I've been seeing my Primary Care doctor since the 90s.  He gets a copy of every report generated by all of my other doctors, and he actually reads them.  I certainly wouldn't get such attention from a Doc-in-the-Box, and that is why I call it a relationship.   I panicked, but then I handled it.  This wasn't my first rodeo, after all.  I called my Primary Care Doctor's office, and left a message.  He called me later that day.

"I'm freaking out," I told him about the phone call.

"Oh no!" my doctor said, in his usual cheerful voice. "No wonder you're freaking out."  

"Do you know any oncologists?"

In my mind was a completely ridiculous idea that all physicians knew each other, but I was freaking out, remember?  Fortunately, my doctor did indeed know an oncologist.  He gave me the number.   I told him that I felt better, which made him feel better.  Good relationships are like that. 

Time to roll with the punches.  I called and made an appointment with the new oncologist the very next day.  Next week I will continue my cancer journey with someone new.  I will attempt to be patient with him, since he won't have any idea about my general crazy. 

Wish me luck!

Cancer Is Very Much A Battle

When I read that John McCain has brain cancer, I was upset.  I don't always agree with the guy, but he's a true war hero.  As a military brat, I respect that.  The news of the cancer hit Americans hard, and thousands of well wishes came pouring in.

And then came the poop on the party.  Several opinion columns hit the internet, taking umbrage with some of the well-wishers. I felt my face getting red while I scrolled down. President Obama's tweet, and other people were in error, and should not say what they did.  Their crime?  Discussing cancer as if it were a battle, or a war, or a fight. It is wrong, these columnists said. 

I disagree.  Cancer is very much a battle.

When a person gets a diagnosis of cancer, the very first thing they have to do is decide whether to fight.  There is the enormous decision to do whatever it takes, to try any treatment, take any pill.  To fight.  The first step in reaching any goal is to decide to get there.

Cancer is very much a battle.  There are strategy sessions with an oncologist, to locate the cancer and determine a course of action. There is arguing with insurance providers about coverage, and human resources about FMLA. There is tearing a stitch at the hospital because the stupid nurse won't come and help you sit up when your back hurts, and you are too darn stubborn to wait.  There's lots of hand to hand combat with needles, IV bags, scalpels, and radiation machines. There is the fight to get out of bed the day after chemotherapy, because your very bones hurt.  There is the struggle to eat, when sores have popped up in your throat.  There is the battle to keep a cheerful look on your face, so your son won't get upset. 

Some people who are diagnosed with cancer decide not to fight.  They don't want to deal with all those small battles, because they add up to a mountain of exhaustion. They would rather live out the rest of their days without all that fuss .  My dad has told me multiple times that if his cancer comes back, he is not going to do chemo.  He's an old soldier who no longer wants to fight.  I hate that, but  I will do my best to give it to him.

Cancer is very much a battle to me.  It is a way to reframe my situation in a manner that wasn't as scary, since I grew up fighting everything. It is positive to strive for what you want, no matter the issue.  "Fight 'Em 'Til You Can't" was my motto, even though most people would have no idea that I even know who Anthrax is.  I was okay with people encouraging me to fight, to battle, to war with my own genetic mutation.  It's the framing of the problem into tangible milestones. First surgery, then chemo, then radiation, then reconstruction.  Considering cancer a battle focuses your resources and galvanizes your courage. 

John McCain is a former soldier, he has a history of attacking all of the obstacles in his long life with the gusto we expect from him. It is likely that he might therefore see his situation as a fight. People who know him, like President Obama, are speaking encouragement to him in his language. That is okay, no matter what anyone says And losing the fight with cancer does not make you any less than you were.  Are all those soldiers who have died in battle over the years are no less significant for losing their battle.  It seems wrong for anyone to judge.   It's ridiculous to get so upset about the vocabulary of cancer!  I guess some people have to whine about something.  Remember that at the heart of all these encouraging statements is love and support, no matter what path a person takes. 

Respect that.  

Getting Used To Not Having Cancer

The other day, as I was sitting in my office writing a report, I glanced at my calendar, and had a minor panic attack.  It was 3:25, and I was supposed to be at my oncologist's office by 3:30.  I had forgotten all about my appointment!  As I dropped everything and raced over there, I thought about how, for the last two years, doctor's appointments were pretty much all I thought about.  They were written in red pen on my calendar, and circled, and highlighted, months in advance.  There was a list, in my head, as well:

Surgery?  Check.
Chemotherapy?  Check.
Radiation? Check.
Reconstruction? Check.
Chemically induced menopause?  Check.
Random Spaz-out?  Double check.

I arrived at the oncologist's office with the realization that I was now more focused on being healthy than on my illnesses. It seemed as though all I ever thought about, for ages, was doctor appointments, surgery appointments.  Anxiety about surgeries.  Anxiety about chemotherapy.  Anxiety about surgical recovery.  Anxiety about just about everything medical that a person can think of.

After two years, I am feeling healthy enough that I remembered more about my son's soccer practices than which doctor I needed to see and when.  With a reference to Ferris Bueller, such a momentous change in perspective, and I almost missed it.  But that's pretty darn wonderful, isn't it?  I'd rather be focused on what's happening around me than doctor's appointments. 

Who wouldn't?

Today It's My Birthday...

...Cue the Beatles song.

Last year I turned 50.  The big 5-0.  A big milestone, to be celebrated with much ado.  Unfortunately, I was still undergoing chemotherapy last year.  I was exhausted, had sores in my mouth and throat, and couldn't taste anything.  So my birthday came and went with minimal fuss. I wasn't happy about it, but what could I do?

This year, I feel much, much better. 

No reason for the picture, I just like it.

In the past, I haven't been lucky with birthday parties.  Summer birthday celebrations usually end up not happening, even for children who look forward to birthdays all year.  People are off on vacations or just don't want to bother thinking of anyone but their own family.  I stopped bothering after awhile, and started treating my birthday as just another day.  It's harder to be disappointed when you have no expectations. 

But this was my fiftieth.  Nobody else might care, but I did.  So I decided to do something. 

I'm celebrating my fiftieth.  A belated birthday, to be sure, but I'm doing it.  I called up a local restaurant, reserved the patio, and sent out an open invitation on the Book of Face.  I ordered a cake from a local bakery.  This afternoon, I will show up for my party.  I'm going to celebrate surviving another year, celebrate being healthy, celebrate being alive.  If anyone else other than my family shows up, I will be happy about it.  If it's just us, that's okay, too. 

More cake for me.  

Sometimes You Just Can't Fight

These days, I read or hear of people requesting prayers for other people going through cancer, like I once was.  Since I'm proof that positive thoughts are helpful, I am happy to oblige.  But occasionally I'll see requests to tell a dying person to "keep fighting".   It bothers me, to see that demand out there.  I want to find the person who made that statement, and holler at them. They don't understand.

Their loved one has been fighting, dammit.

I haven't met a single person out there who, when initially diagnosed with cancer, didn't want to fight.  Everybody wants to fight. I wanted to fight. Every single mother looks at her children and wants to fight.  Men hold their spouse's hand and vow to fight.  We all sit down with our doctors, plan out our attack.  No matter the disease, we all start out with our fists raised, ready to battle.  We're focused on the goal, the prize of a healthy life shimmering in the distance.

And then...well, things just don't work out the way they're expected to.

Surgery doesn't work. Chemo is ineffective.  Relapses occur.  These huge bumps in the road wear us all down over time, and sometimes, it is just more than a body can deal with.  Sometimes a person with an illness just can't fight anymore.   Telling someone who is dying, who knows that they are dying, to "keep fighting", as if all it takes is sheer will?  It's just cruel.  Bodies are decimated, unrecognizable but for the spirit still flickering within. They've already given every single ounce of strength.  Even if they still want to fight, they just can't, not anymore.  They are just tired, they are in pain, and they want it to stop.

We need to respect that.  We need to accept that.  This is not the time to demand that a person keep fighting, no matter how much we need it.  It might be the most difficult thing we ever do, keeping our thoughts to ourselves.  We want to keep our loved ones with us, encircled in our arms, for as long as we can.

This isn't about you.

This is the time to stop thinking of your own needs, your own wants.  Your loved one is tired, exhausted, worn away.  They are also terrified. A long time ago, when a person died, they were buried with various treasures, gifts to take into the afterlife.  Our compassion, our courage, our strength?

These are our gifts. 

100 Word Challenge: Weather

We welcome the springtime weather in Texas, as the storms wash away the allergens and dust that usually plague us all.  As we got ready for bed on this particular night, the storm arrived, right on time, with something extra.

Hail.

Every bang and thump sounded as if it would soon be landing on the carpet of our bedroom. I worried about the entire roof collapsing from the impacts.

Our life has been like that, these past two years. Cancer dropped heavily into our lives, and I worried that everything would collapse.

I'm still standing, and so is our roof.




Go visit Tara at the Thin Spiral Notebook to read other writer's entries for the 100 Word Challenge!

I Was Just Sick

Yesterday I stopped at a fast food place and grabbed a wrap for dinner, something I thought would be healthy for me.  I was wrong.  By bedtime, my tummy was not happy.  I tried to sleep, but the rumbling and grumbling was keeping me awake. 

Then came nausea. And the barfing.

Around three in the morning, I finally remembered that I still had a ton of nausea medication in my medicine cabinet.  Maybe that would let me sleep, I thought.  I have no sick leave left, so no matter what, I would have to go to work.

As I was trying to tear the stupid foil pack open so I could take my zofran, it hit me.  I was sick.  Just a simple case of food poisoning.  I was just plain sick. 

For the last two years, everything that has happened to me has been about cancer.  All of my surgeries?  Cancer. Fingernails popping off?  Cancer.  Sores in my throat?  Cancer.  Everything about my health for too long has been about those stupid cancer cells. You get so zeroed in on that one aspect of your health, it ends up being your sole focus. Everything, even a hangnail, becomes about cancer. Nothing else registers until the danger has passed. This is the first time in two years that I have been sick that didn't have a single thing to do with cancer. 

Yeah, I know.  Only I could come up with something positive about barfing at three in the morning.  But it made the barfing a little more bearable. I went into work stocked with crackers and plenty of water, but that was okay.

I was just sick. 

Is This Personal?

My husband and I went to a restaurant down the street this past weekend.  The place was a bit busy for a Saturday afternoon, but not especially so.  We were seated, given our menus, and the hostess brought our drinks to the table.  Larry and I perused our menus while we waited for the waitress to take our order. 

We watched the waitress go to every other table.  She skipped ours.  We waited.  Fifteen minutes later, we were still waiting.  I've been in food service, I understand how crazy things can get sometimes. But fifteen minutes?   I finally got up and approached the waitress. 

"Excuse me, but we've been waiting for over fifteen minutes for you to take our order,"  I wasn't rude; I spoke calmly. 

"Oh, I'm so sorry! Let me take your order right now!"  The waitress appeared to be appropriately apologetic, and she followed me back to our table and took our order.  Our food came out quickly compared to our wait to order.  We dug in, but first, I asked for mayo. 

"Sure, I'll be right back with that," The waitress walked away from our table.  I watched her walk around to other tables. I watched her cleaning tables.  I did not watch her get any mayo, because she did not. 

This was starting to feel personal. 

Another waitress finally showed up, and I snagged her.  This waitress, older and wiser, immediately went and got the mayo for me, which was fine.  What wasn't fine was that this waitress proceeded to make excuses for the other one.  I didn't care if she was having a bad day; I just wanted my mayo. 
Finally the meal was over, and we waited for the waitress to bring our bill.  And waited.  And waited.

Yep. Personal.  Maybe I looked like her worst enemy from high school?  Did Larry look like her ex-boyfriend? 

I finally got up and went to the cash register, where the manager made the mistake of asking me how everything was.  I told her.  I wasn't angry, just befuddled by our treatment. I was used to people treating me nicely because I had cancer.  Apparently our waitress makes a habit of this particular behavior; the manager sighed heavily and lowered our bill to ten dollars. 

Okay, not so personal. 

Mamakat: What I Learned in February

February First found me at one of the many hospitals in the San Antonio area, prepping for major surgery.  This would be one more step on my journey through cancer, a second mastectomy, along with breast reconstruction.  I stayed in the hospital for FIVE days, and have spent the rest of February, and part of March, recuperating.  Along the way, I've learned several very valuable life lessons.   Here are just a few:

1. Private hospital rooms are great, unless you have to sit up and can't reach the call button.  For my last mastectomy, I was placed in a semi-private room with a woman who never. Stopped. Talking.  That was awful, and I was happy to learn that I would have a private room.  I was stuck like a turtle on my back for two days.  The only thing I was able to do was sit up, and I needed a nurse to help move the bed. Except that the nurses placed the call button...in an alternate universe.  I guess they thought that I would be so doped up I wouldn't notice.   I finally resorted to yelling really loud, until some random hospital employee came in and showed me where the call button was.   

2. My plastic surgeon does not clone his PAs.   Every morning in the hospital, I would start off my day with a physician's assistant arriving to check my sutures.  They were all lovely women, with long brown hair, and I thought they were all the same person, because, pain meds do that. You hit that button and everything is foggy.  Each one would introduce herself to me, and it didn't matter one bit.  I called them all Grace.  I don't even know if any of these PAs were actually named Grace.  I hope their feelings weren't hurt.   

3.  I cannot sleep on my back without medical intervention.  In the hospital, I had IV pain meds, which knocked me right out. I was a turtle on my back, with not much else to do but sleep.  But once I got home and was off the IV, sleep didn't really happen.  Oh, I would doze for a couple of minutes, but then my brain would start telling me that there was a zombie/serial killer/monster standing over me, and it was all over.  The day that the doctor said that I could start sleeping on my side?  Heaven!  Sleeping is good again. 

4.  My husband really loves me.  He's been by my side throughout my cancer diagnosis, through chemotherapy, radiation, etc.  He came every single day to the hospital to keep me company, after he dropped off our son at school.  But he's gone above and beyond.  Part of my abdominal incision tore, and so basically, I have a hole in my belly.  A hole that has to be packed with gauze twice a day.  Since I can't pack the wound myself, the job has fallen to him.  He's done a great job. It's one thing to say that you love someone when everything is wonderful.  It's another thing entirely to be there when the poop hits the fan like a cancer diagnosis.  He's the real hero in this story.   




Go check out Kat over at Mama's Losin' It!  The prompt I chose was:  1. Something you learned in February.

Microstories: Have a Nice Day

Deserted school parking lot,
In my car
Alone,

Afraid of
The far away voice.
  
"You have cancer,"
Said the physician.

Words enunciated casually.
Routine.

I heard nothing,
roaring beasts
devouring my courage,
until the end of his call.

"Have a nice day."

Just a Few Snips Here and There...

Since I've been home from the hospital, I've done a lot of sitting.  And quite a bit of lying about.  I feel lazy, but that's what the doctor's orders were before I was discharged.  Sit, rest, no lifting, no housework, no shenanigans.

No housework?  Hey, I could get used to that.  For a while, anyway. 

I started off with four drains.  Drains, for the uninitiated, are tubes that carry stuff that's in your body, out a tube and into a bulb.  And when I say stuff, think gross things that you really don't want to think about.  Yep.  Those had to be emptied twice a day, the amount recorded carefully.  Once they fall below 30cc for multiple days in a row, they can be removed.  Until then, they are annoying.  I had two drains on my upper body and two on my abdomen.  If I tried to put a shirt on, there were unsightly bulges in weird places.  And forget about real pants.  I've been wearing warm up pants, for the elastic waist.  I was happy to get the top two drains removed relatively quickly, but my abdominal drains were not cooperating. 

Finally one of those pesky drains met the criteria for removal. I got an appointment for the afternoon. I got my sister in law to drive me to the doctor's office, where the nurse met me. I expected to be in and out in less than fifteen minutes, since all that was needed was to cut the stitches keeping the drain in and pullllll that tube right out. (yes, it feels very weird)   The nurse removed the binder around my abdomen and looked at the incision. 

And frowned. 

I could see her frowning in the huge mirror that was right in front of me, because plastic surgeons love mirrors.  She picked up her scissors and tweezers and began snipping scar tissue from different parts of the incision.  The nurse explained that she was cutting out the dead tissue to allow for the incision to heal better.  Not knowing anything at all about plastic surgery, I didn't argue.  I couldn't feel anything except a slight pull here and there, thankfully.  I wouldn't have been so calm, otherwise. 

Snip, snip. 

Snip, snip.  

Snip, snip.  

An hour later, the nurse finally snipped the last bit of dead tissue.  Unfortunately, now I had a hole in my belly, an open wound. I've never had an open wound before.  I would have to pack the wound twice a day, I was told, to allow for optimal healing.  Packing the wound means placing wet gauze directly into the wound.  I looked at the ugly opening as the nurse put some gauze into my belly.  Followed by more gauze.  Then more.  How deep did that wound extend?  I had to stop looking in the mirror, because I found myself feeling a bit nauseated.  

"The doctor will clean all this up when he sees you next time in July," the nurse told me. Yay.  I was given a prescription for saline and gauze and sent to the nearest pharmacy. 

I have to go back and do it all again next Monday. 

Pre-Surgery Jitters

I am an anxious kind of person.  Over the course of an average day, I worry over hundreds of ultimately meaningless things.  Is my shirt on right or is it inside out?  Do my shoes match?  Did I remember my lunch?  What if there's a fire drill and it's raining and I forget my umbrella in my office? Such things run in the background of my head all the time, and I've learned to ignore most of the commentary.

And then I got cancer.  It seemed as though the litany of stuff to worry about had had the volume turned up to 11 in my brain.  Even after all the radiation and chemotherapy, even after the last PET scan indicated that I was cancer free, it continued, and it's been more difficult to tune out.  For example, I am getting rheumatoid arthritis in the fingers of my hand.  Typical of people my age, that things like joints start to deteriorate. Not a big deal.  Yet when I noticed that the index finger on my left hand was swollen, my instinctive reaction was to think it was cancer.  It took me two days to talk myself from the ledge of that particular cognitive process.

I don't say these things out loud, I just turn them over in my head until I can fashion some sense from them.  There's just been so much emotional turmoil over the past two years that my anxiety level has just not been prepared for.  I hope that everything calms down soon, because I'm starting to get annoyed with myself.   

In the meantime, while you read this, I'm going to be in surgery having another mastectomy and breast reconstruction.  I am very nervous about what is going to happen and how things are going to be once I wake up.  You would think that I would be used to surgeries by now.  You would be wrong.

Every time, I am terrified.  And yet, that's the path I have chosen.  Why?  To get healthy.  For that little boy that lives with me, who is counting on me to be around for awhile.  For my husband, who is my rock.  For lots of reasons, even for myself.  If I focus on that, maybe I won't be so scared.

Keep sending positive thoughts, and I'll be back when I can.  

My Blog Is A First Grader

I realized a few weeks ago that I've been blogging for six years. It's my anniversary! Woo hoo!  *opens champagne*  I can't actually drink any alcohol for the next month or so, but it's not very dramatic to raise a glass of water for a toast.

When I started blogging six years ago, it was a way for me to write about my son, so I could remember things he did over the years.  Then I remembered how much I loved writing, and blogging became a way for me to be creative.  But my blog has become a bit more to me.

Ever since I was diagnosed with breast cancer, my blog has taken on a a bit of a therapeutic bent.  I've wanted to share my story, partly out of a need to let others going through cancer know that they are not alone, and partly to keep my own spirits up.  A blog is not a journal, and having to focus my thoughts into cohesive sentences for an audience has helped push my writing forward at a time when I might have otherwise fallen into a deep funk.  That's been an awesome side effect of having a blog.

It's sort of like my blog was my other "baby", and I've watched it grow from an infant to a healthy six year old, ready to head off to first grade.  Only this particular first grader doesn't need any vaccines and didn't have to go through potty training. 

It's been an interesting six years of growing and expanding and learning for me.  My reason for starting my blog is now eight.  I blinked and now, he is reading over my shoulder while I write.  He's also started critiquing my blog offerings, which I'm not too sure that I like. I suppose that it is only fair, since he features prominently.  He'll be a surly teenager before I know it!  

And Then I Tooted

Last week found me heading over to the nearest radiology center to have a chest CT scan.  I didn't want to have a CT scan, as claustrophobic as I am. However, the chest x-ray required before my surgery next week showed a "density", and the surgeon wanted to make sure that I hadn't accidentally inhaled a chicken bone in my post chemo eating.  Preparing for this surgery has required EKGs, blood draws, and x-rays--way more than I had with my initial diagnosis.  

I filled out the paperwork asking if I am, or might be, pregnant for the 433rd time in the last three years.  Then I waited for someone to call my name.  The lady lead me to a dressing room and asked me to change into a gown.  Unfortunately they only had an extra large gown.  It took me five minutes to figure out how to tie it.  Then it was time for the insertion of the IV, through which the special contrast dye would be administered. 

I was escorted to the CT room by a lovely lady who was very cheerful and energetic.  She helped me up onto the table, chattering about what she was going to do and what was going to happen.  I was initially monosyllabic in my responses; I was focusing on my anxiety.  I remember the technician saying something about the dye making me feel as though I had to pee, and then I was heading toward the machine. 

Fortunately for my claustrophobia, the scan was only of my chest area, so my head never went into the danger zone.  I was so relieved that I was finished that I started talking to the tech about my doctor's edict regarding caffeine.  She commiserated with me as she removed the needle from my arm.  I continued talking as she came over to my side and gripped my arm to help me up.  I clenched my abdominal muscles and sat up.

And then I tooted. 

Little kids have an advantage over adults.  Their bodily functions are considered cute.  When a two year old passes gas, everyone giggles and coos over them.  I'm fifty, and that is well beyond the "farts are cute" stage.  I froze at the sound, appalled. 

"I'm so sorry!"  I said to the nice technician, who probably hears lots of toots over the course of her job. It's likely one of the side effects of the dye.  She didn't even blink as she finished helping me up and opened the door.  I was still horrified, but I managed to find my way back to the dressing room and change.  I texted my husband, hoping for some sympathy. 

"I tooted when they were helping me up after the CT scan. I can never go back there."

And Larry, my supportive and loving husband, texted back:

"LOL!!! Instead of giving a hoot, you gave a toot!" 

He's lucky he was in another town, or I might have punched him for that. 

The Caffeine Separation

I am cancer free at the moment.  I still have at least two more surgeries in store, at least this year.  In the next two weeks I head for the hospital once again.  I'll be having another mastectomy, and reconstruction of both breasts using some of my tummy flab.  I'll be hospitalized for FIVE days, which is something I'm still getting my brain around.  I'm a terrible patient.

As if that weren't bad enough, they informed me today that I cannot have any caffeine for the next five weeks.  The nurse explained why in great detail. I could see her mouth moving.  I have no idea what she said. My brain was having a tiny meltdown. 

WHAT?!!!  I NEED MY COFFEE!!!!  NOOOOOOOOO!!!!

The rest of the visit was a blur, and I was glad that Larry was with me, since I was not in any condition to drive.  We drove over to the hospital so they could draw blood, etc., in preparation for the surgery.  Larry was asking me questions about the visit, but I was stuck.

NOOOOOOOOO!!!!

I have a very consistent routine.  I get out of bed, turn off the alarm, go down the stairs and TURN ON THE COFFEE POT.  Then I get a cup and wait for enough magical goodness to drip into the pot for my first, and only cup of coffee.   I sit in the quiet before the rest of the house wakes up and sip my drink of caffeine, and then I start my day. 

Now that small joy is gone.  The quiet moment will still be there, but it won't be the same with a glass of water.   What's more, caffeine withdrawal will put me in a grumpy mood, and nobody needs to deal with the fallout from that.  I may as well put up orange cones around my desk.  

I need to keep track of the end result.  It's just a temporary separation.  I can go back to my normal routine after five weeks. It's easy to get caught up in these little bumps in the road on the way to healthy.  I should be used to the bumps, right?  I should just roll over them without batting an eye after all this time.  It's just that throughout my cancer treatments, I've tried to have as normal a life as possible, and my daily cup of coffee was part of that. 

*sigh*

If I Got A Tattoo...

It used to be that tattoos were rare.  They were secreted away underneath clothing, and not a soul knew they were there, at least out in public.  Many servicemen got tattoos while overseas, and it was a reminder of a different time, but not much else.  Women with tattoos were considered loose women, so very definitely they were covered up.  Nowadays you are more likely to meet someone with tattoos than without.  Where there used to be a stigma, tattoos are no big deal.

I've always played a "what if" game, thinking about what sorts of tattoos I would get if I wanted.  Tattoos are permanent, for the most part.  I wanted to make sure that I really, really liked the art work before I went to the trouble of paying someone to stab me multiple times with needle ink.  I thought about an ouroboros, the snake eating its tail.   I thought about a picture I saw in one of Elton John's more popular albums from the 1970s.  The daydreams were pleasant, but not much came of them beyond the dreaming.  I'm not the sort of person to just get drunk and end up in a tattoo parlor at two in the morning.  As much of a committment-phobe as I am, I just couldn't see spending the cash.  Well, the needle thing was kind of a deal breaker, too.  Part of my reluctance to get a tattoo in the first place might also stem from not knowing how I will feel after the tattoo is finished.  Buyer's remorse doesn't count after this sort of transaction, and even if you have the receipt, you probably aren't getting a refund.

And then I found this somewhere.  Probably on the internet.  It's a phoenix.  I love the elegant lines, seemingly random.  I identify with the phoenix, a mythical creature who dies, bursts into flames, and rises out of the ashes newborn.  Not that I've died and come back, but I have survived a number of adverse situations. I'm still kicking, even after all this cancer fun.  I just can't seem to decide where I should put this beauty.  On my arm?  My back?  How big or small?  More daydreams for now. I am going to be getting at least two tattoos this year.  After my reconstruction and mastectomy is done, the plastic surgery people will be tattooing nipples on my new breasts.  I will see how I handle getting those.  If I can handle those, this tattoo may be in my future.

Unless something better comes along.

I've Been Downhearted

I've been in a funk lately.  It's expected, since it's December, and I always get down at this time of the year.  It's mostly seasonal, with a little anxiety and grief thrown in for good measure. There's so much pressure to be "merry", and I just can't keep up with it.  I'm an introvert who needs to recharge her social battery much more often these days.  There's also an unspoken feeling that I am suddenly supposed to become this housewife extraordinaire, who can whip up forty dozen cookies while simultaneously filling out Christmas cards.  The people around me seem to have purchased and wrapped all their presents. They've planned their holidays out well in advance. 

We haven't even put up the tree. 

And of course I'm worried about money.  Cancer doesn't just eat up parts of your life and leave.  It also hits you in the bank account.  I have good health insurance, but there are still co-pays and deductibles and I don't even know what else yet, because I'm still getting bills in the mail.  I even got a bill from the robot assistant that did my hysterectomy. And I've still got at least two more surgeries coming up in 2016.  I'm not a person who normally worries about money, so this is a new experience.  All the "what ifs" pile on top of me, and it gets difficult to breathe.

So I've been down, and of course I've wanted to write about being down.  When I've sat down in front of the screen to type, however, no words were there.  I finally gave up and decided to let everything stew for a bit, which is why I haven't been around lately.  I just needed a break to reboot.

And then some of my friends started a Go Fund Me page, which made me cry, because I'm not used to people doing nice things for me.  Everyone has been so wonderful during this whole ordeal, sending me encouragement, hugs, and even chocolate.  Living in the moment sometimes means pulling yourself out of the darkness.  Sometimes I get so focused on being sad that I miss some good things, but my friends gave me a boost this time.  I know I'll be my usual happy self very soon. 

And I am grateful. 

Another Good Thing About Cancer

Women, traditionally, have body image issues.  I'm no different.  I've struggled over the years to like my body, to embrace it, just like most women.  I've felt out of place next to prettier women, and felt old next to younger ones.  I don't think that I'm any better or worse than them, but sometimes I have felt out of place over the years. We all do.  I've never obsessed over my weight to the point that I starved myself or developed an eating disorder, but I've despaired over swimsuit shopping just like the rest of my gender.

As all this cancer stuff has washed over me this past year, my view of my body has changed yet again.  Now, when I look into the mirror, there's a long scar across half of my chest. There's a scar from the drain, and the mediport. They've been there long enough that I don't really even register them.  They've become part of me.  They're my visible sign that I can deal with just about anything short of a zombie apocalypse and come out on the other side.  How cool is that?  Over the last year I've been more concerned about the roundness of my head with and without hair, for some reason, and whether I look more like a Conehead or Vincent D'Onofrio. 

Maybe it would be different if I were younger.  Perhaps I would feel horrible about how I look, and despair of ever looking like myself again.  But I'm not younger.  I've decided that I'm okay with looking like Vincent D'Onofrio, if that's what it takes.  Or a Conehead, for that matter.  I never looked like a Victoria's Secret model, and I don't expect to be wheeled out of surgery looking like one.  All this that I've been going through is about my health and not much else.

The real reason that I'm having reconstructive surgery is more about my clothes fitting than beauty.  I hate shopping for new clothes.  Well, also, I really dislike it when my fake boob doesn't stay where it is supposed to be.   But it's not because I have a need to look a certain way.  I'm over that now, and I feel pretty good about that.  I don't think about how I will look when all this is over, because instead of worrying about my outside, I know who I am on the inside. 

I'm a survivor.