Hooter Hotline #19 "The Frame Shoppe" Started March 8, 2010 / Finished April 5, 2010
It’s the day before my first chemo treatment and I’m thinking about how I’m going to handle this. A small part of me wants to whimper about voluntarily pumping poison into my body. I’m thinking about the impressive side effects of the drugs and admit to feeling dread about living with them for an extended period of time. I’m thinking that if I think about it anymore, I won’t look very brave in that ugly vinyl recliner tomorrow. After some moments of anxiety, I begin searching myself, and then it occurs to me that I do know a way to handle this. It dawns on me that I’ve been using a particular “system” for dealing with “nasty” stuff for many years. Remembering that I have a well-executed strategy brings a sense of relief. Now I know where to go. I just need to visit my “Frame Shoppe.” I’ve been going to the “Frame Shoppe” for decades. It is not a secret place. I’ve seen lots of folks there, friends, neighbors, church members, family, coworkers and famous people too. It’s never overcrowded however, so I want you know about it so it can be resource for you too.
This is no ordinary frame shop. It’s like a Beard’s Frame Shop. You choose the frame style, color, size and assemble it yourself. The difference lies in the unusual types of framing materials and the unique and personal frames that are created as a result. Unlike an average frame, each side of these frames is made with a different framing material. I have found the traditional four-sided frame meets my needs, but as a custom shop, some one needing a hexagon frame can build it too. That’s really the secret of this frame shop; anything is possible. You tailor the frame to meet the needs of your project (challenge/adversity/adventure).
Looking ahead to chemo makes me analyze my usual framing choices closely. It seems clear that I have a pattern of how I assemble a frame for lurking duty of an unpleasant nature. I tend to pick the same four sides in a particular order each time. By the time I’ve got it screwed together, I truly like the product and have confidence that it will work. The confidence that results from assembling my frame is the key to my success in handling the gnarly job ahead.
Side 1: Think rough, raw wood. If you run your fingers against the grain, you get splinters. This piece comes out of the “Accept & Embrace” collection. If you have a big challenge, the sooner you allow yourself to stop fighting the reality of it and go with the grain, the fewer splinters you’ll get. Celebrities have entourages and paparazzi that are with them 24/7, but I’ve decided I have a “posse.” In my mid-thirties, I had to accept that, due to degenerative joint disease in my foot and subsequent surgeries for bone-graft and fusion, I would always be dealing with daily pain. Vioxx was my wonder drug until they removed it from the market. Ibuprofen filled the gap until I discovered my hypertension (high blood pressure) and kidney issues in my forties which restricted me to Tylenol for daily pain control. The thought of Tylenol as my only form of pain control scared the pee out of me when, two years ago, I was told that the persistent pain in my right hip was due to osteoarthritis. The pain resulted from an 80% erosion of the cushion on the ball of my hip and I am in a holding pattern for a new hip. “Come back when you can’t take the pain any more and we’ll schedule your total hip,” the orthopedic surgeon said. Great. I had maligned Tylenol as effective pain control for as long as I can remember. It didn’t even touch menstrual cramps, and now it was all I had to manage a buffet of pain. Throw in two microdiscectomies on L5-S1, a pinch of salt (no, wait, don’t add the salt, bad for the blood pressure) and you have someone with “pain” as a permanent member of her posse.
Here’s the deal, once I put a halt to my own pity party and decided to accept pain on my posse, I worked with him to manage things on a daily basis. We’ve had to compromise together and I’ve become more responsible for my role in planning the management. Now I’m a very good girl about taking arthritis-strength Tylenol twice a day and to my amazement, it truly makes a difference. I KNOW when I’ve skipped a dose because a maintenance level of it is very effective for me. “Come on Pain, we’ve got to get up and get ready to host a family dinner this weekend. What’s the plan going to be?” One thing is for sure, gone are the days when I could sleep-in on the Saturday of the event, go do the mega-shopping at noon, start the prep-cooking around 3:00, make the house presentable in about an hour while moving at the speed of light, turn off the vacuum, light the candles and take a two minute shower 60 seconds before the doorbell rings. “Okay Pain, you’re right, let’s work on picking up the house a little bit each evening. I’ll do all shopping on Friday and make ahead what I can. I’ll do all the prep-cooking while sitting on that cool stool I bought for you that fits perfectly up against the pull-out cutting board. You were right about the stool, Pain. It really saves the hip from screaming. And yes, we’ll let the guests pitch-in on the kitchen clean-up after the dinner. That’s right, it was you that made me promise never to say, “Oh no, that’s not necessary…Please, leave it!” I hate to admit it Pain, but you taught me to stop being so prideful and just respond to offers of help with, “Oh that’s so nice of you. It would be wonderful. Thank you.”
I have made peace with Pain. He really drew the short straw when it comes to assignments in this fallen world. I think he might even be a bit relieved not to be the worst member of the posse now. With Cancer as the new guy, Pain thinks he looks kinder and gentler, a thousand points of light-ish. I have had to make peace with Cancer too. Once you have it, even if all the breast tissue is removed, you can still develop breast cancer in other tissues down the line. That alone was a bitter pill to swallow. The sooner I choked it down however, the sooner I could get back to the joy of life right now. By the way, a little red wine helps a bitter pill go down. I don’t know what Mary Poppins was talking about unless she was really referring to a liquefied and fermented spoonful of sugar.
Side 2: This piece is made out of sturdy, highly polished metal. All choices in the “Tuck & Lean” collection are made of this material. The strength and smooth finish of this side of the frame make it a standard choice for me. Once I accept the fact that I must accomplish something gritty, nasty and unpleasant, the next thing I do is get into my “tuck and lean” stance. Visualize a boxer, knees flexed, one foot forward, bobbing, chin tucked down, flexed arms and gloved hands ready to protect the head. Now, lean one shoulder forward “into the wind.” That is a stance which will withstand harsh blows and fierce winds. Picture yourself that way, leaning into your challenge and pushing through it, not letting it knock you down. It’s going to take every muscle in your body to pull it off. Hold your stance, stay flexed, bob and weave. Eventually the wind will die down and you will be on the other side.
There was a point in my first marriage when I knew I had to correct my mistake and leave. This realization has been one of the greatest sorrows and regrets of my life. I take full responsibility for putting myself (and everyone else involved) in a position that was destined to fail. Sure, I can give multiple valid explanations for getting married at age 21 to some one who was a safe “escape route” and who posed no threat in either realm of philandering or physical abuse. I cannot however, justify the ramifications that he, his family and my daughter had to live with when I “called the whole thing off" after ten years of marriage. I had full disclosure about the gravity of divorce. My mother had been married and divorced four times. My brother was around for three of those and my sisters and I lived through two. My mother’s personality disorder ensured that each divorce was especially traumatic and I swore I would never put a child of mine through it. I also wanted to live up to God’s sacred view of marriage and never be divorced to begin with. I struggled constantly with the selfish truth that I felt like a caged rabbit and might shrivel up and die if I were to stick it out until Emily was grown. I didn’t have the fortitude to do it. I am ashamed that my selfishness over-rode her need for peace and security. I wanted a true partner, not a platonic bond. I wanted to experience intimacy on all mental, emotional and physical planes. My “safe” choice had fallen short on all three levels and left me very hungry, starving. He was and is a good and sweet man. He had done nothing wrong. The things I complained about were just who he was and it was all there in plain view before I married him. In my naiveté, I was confident I could cheer lead him into positivity and that we would both grow-up together. I was wrong. We were simply a colossal mismatch. Despite years of soul-searching and counseling, I had to decide if it was time to fish or cut bait. It was time to fish and it terrified me. I still have the mental picture of myself standing at the threshold of an open door. All I could see on the other side of the door jam was pure darkness. I knew I had to take a first step, but there was only nothingness. I was afraid to step through the door. There was nothing to step onto. I had to do it. After three years of living an “upstairs-downstairs” relationship, I admitted that five-year-old Emily was already living in a broken home. It was time. I got into my “Tuck & Lean” position. I met with my boss and asked if I could get on the list for a fulltime dayshift position. This first concrete step was grounding, but I almost threw-up in her office. My husband was so proficient at denial that he never really knew what was going on until I took him to see a duplex near our house for him to rent. His simplicity made it very difficult to inflict these consequences on him but at the same time, it made the transition process uncharacteristically peaceful. I bore no malice against him. He was innocent. I wanted to treat him with respect and kindness. I will always love him as a brother and feel responsibility to him. My vows to him will always retain their meaning in an altered form. Because of his goodness, we shared the same divorce attorney, parented Emily with a united front and always worked together as a team. We even shared gas money the first couple years because we got paid on opposite Fridays. He has been a fabulous father to Emily and will go down in history as the best ex-husband on record. Many times I have thanked him for this and my heart is full of appreciation and respect for his generosity in setting me free. Of the few regrets I have in life, inflicting divorce pain on he and Emily, remains the greatest. It took about ten years for me to accept the forgiveness I had asked God for. I wasted a lot of time not understanding true grace, but I get it now. Grace is life-changing. If you want to know more about it, ask me.
Side 3: For this side, I always choose white painted wood with a dimpled pattern on it. The dimples resemble horseshoes and are all pointed in the same direction, up. I didn’t learn about the “Rest Step” collection until 1993 when Rog and I enrolled in Mazama Climb School. By the way, I highly recommend their training program to anyone. We had ample opportunity to learn and practice the “Rest Step” during our training hikes and four attempts to summit Mount Hood that spring. When you face a daunting snow slope, usually in the dark around midnight, it always begins with a first step. Don’t think about all 5,000 feet of climbing ahead, just point your headlamp down where you want to plant your first step. Pick up your knee, swing your boot into the yielding snow, step and sink into it. Raise your self up on that leg and swing your other boot into the snow a step above the first. Shift your weight to the new step, relax your leg muscles, pause a moment and repeat. The next time you look up, you are at the top of the Palmer Lift and you didn’t cheat by paying a Snowcat to take you. Envision yourself doing the “Rest Step” through you adversity. Slow and steady. It’s cold, dark, the wind is howling and ice is collecting on one side of your parka, but you are still making progress. You find your pace and settle in. You can do this as long as you have to. The “Rest Step” is how I’ve gotten through the deaths of my parents. Don’t try to avoid the bad weather. Put on your best REI gear (trust in the love and support of family, friends and God), expect to get stung on the cheek with icy rain, expect your toes to feel super cold, expect to be a little short of breath at higher elevations, expect that it is going to be a major inconvenience to take a pee when you have a climbing harness on over your wind pants and long johns, expect that some one clipped to your rope will have his crampon fall off at the most dangerous point of the climb and finally, expect that all of these expectations are TEMPORARY. LIVE ‘EM & LEAVE ‘EM! “Tuck & Lean” will help you get ‘er done and prevent you from having to carry unnecessary baggage into the future.
How will I manage at least 16 weeks of chemo? It’s such a long marathon. Do I have it in me to hold up well for that long? Yes, I can. I’ll expect hard times to happen, but I’ll keep slogging along, resting with each step and remember that time is marching with me. Eventually I will climb onto the summit of Mt. Chemo, pull out a Hefty garbage bag, plant my sweaty butt on it and glissade to the bottom, squealing “weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” all the way down.
The wild spring weather of 1993 finally relented and we scrambled onto the summit of Mt. Hood as the sun was rising on July fourth. Soft, peachy-pink light surrounded us and cast the mountain’s shadow on the cloud cover below. It was truly glorious.
Side 4: This side must have a bold design. The “Confidence” collection has a plethora of choices. This piece reminds me that I can do, will do, and have done in the past, what needs to be done. Once you’ve framed how you will handle the project at hand, move forward in confidence that you can do it.
I actually had to be reminded of this by my pastor when he came over to pray with us a week before Chemo started. I mentioned that getting through the surgeries had been no big deal to me. They were relatively short-term things to deal with. Looking forward to chemo, I didn’t have anxiety about future hair loss, but I was worried about managing such a long-term and oppressive process. I didn’t trust myself to do all the right things for such an extended period of time. If I can’t seem to floss my teeth, drink eight glasses of water a day or exercise on a regular basis, how on God’s green earth, would I be able to do all the right things (enough water, fruits and vegetables EVERY DAY) to manage chemo and my daily life. It was daunting. I asked him to pray that I would have the sustained discipline needed to do it. My wellbeing and life depended upon it. If my wellbeing was maintained, there would be fewer complications and it would be easier on my husband and son. If I took good care of myself, I could continue to add value at work, repaying the kindness, tolerance and trust of my employer. Being a slacker simply wasn’t an option.
He read Psalm 57 to us; vs1-3: “Have mercy on me, O God, have mercy on me, for in you my soul takes refuge. I will take refuge in the shadow of your wings until the disaster has passed. I cry out to God Most High, to God who fulfills his purpose for me. He sends from heaven and saves me…God sends his love and his faithfulness.” When he prayed, he prayed for God to give me “confidence” in his love, care and presence. He used the “C” word five times in his prayer. When he finished, I said, “Okay, I get it! I need to have confidence!” His prayer was an important reminder to me of how much confidence I can have when I remember to whom I am connected. I’m not doing this on my own power, Thank God. I had anxiety only when I had forgotten that.
That same week, a dear woman, Sue M., from my previous church called to see how I was doing and what she could do for me. I knew her to be a woman of prayer, some one whose faith was very alive. I told her about my self-doubt and historic lack of discipline, right down to not flossing regularly (it really matters during chemo because the environment of your mouth changes). She committed to pray for me and I had 100% confidence in her. Aside from being a wonderful Christian mentor, she is also a nurse, a mom (wish she’d been mine) and she knows me really well. I’ll never be able to sort out what portions of whose prayers accomplished what, but six weeks into chemo, I can tell you I’ve eaten conscientiously, drunk appropriate amounts of water (stopped drinking diet soda) and believe it or not, FLOSSED REGULARLY! The biggest surprise is that it hasn’t been that hard to do it! I am so grateful the pastor reminded me of the confidence God’s presence in my life brings and for the devoted prayers of those who support me. Now, I am approaching chemo boldly, armed with godly confidence. If you are having hard times, don’t forget what a tremendous resource it is to tap into a pastor (whether he knows you or not) or a well-seasoned Christian. A cup of cool water waits for you on the edge of the well.
The Matting: It is the finishing touch. After the sides of the frame have been chosen and screwed together with prayer, it’s time to pick a mat color that goes with your project. My plan is to mat chemo by choosing really bad-ass heros for each session. I’ve made a list of choices: Rambo, Dirty Hairy, US Navy Seals, US Army Green Berets, 9-11 NYC Firefighters, US Marine Corps Forces Special Operations Command, US Air Force “Top Gun” Fighter Pilots and the Los Angeles Police Department SWAT Team. I am aware that these are a far cry from the gentle Pac Man imagery suggested to me by a well-meaning friend, but pardon my French, I want the shit kicked out of every cancer cell. That being said, I arrived at my first chemo appointment wearing the “power colors” red and black. My nurse asked me if I was anxious about getting chemo and I just smiled back, “Not at all. Today, Rambo is going into my veins and will be shooting up the bad guys.” I started singing, “Duh, du, du, du, duh, du, du, duuuuuuuuuuuuh,” but Rog interrupted and said, “No, Babe, that’s the theme to Rocky.” “Oh,” I said, “You’re right, Yo, Adriamycin!”
Monday, April 5, 2010
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Finding Chemo
Hooter Hotline #18 "Finding Chemo" March 7, 2010
As you may recall in Hooter Hotlines #14 & #15, the day I learned I needed to have chemotherapy was not one of the highpoints of this adventure. I was having a lot of physical pain from fluid engorgement under the mastectomy incisions and I had to accept that I was not able to dodge the chemo bullet. The fast track to chemo was in high gear and it included a chemo class at 0900 the next morning. I took pain pills before I went to sleep that night. It had been such a draining and uncomfortable day that I fell into a deep and restful sleep. Rog was still taking John to school in the mornings, so I did not set my alarm. I heard the boys rustling around in the morning while I lay cozily in the place between REM and wakefulness, that peculiar state of consciousness where one can manipulate one’s dreams. The house became blissfully quiet when I heard the door close and the deadbolt turn. At that point, I chose REM over wakefulness and drifted back to sleep, completely amnesic of the fact that I had chemo class that morning. Perhaps I really did need the extra sleep or it was just a bit of narcotic hangover, but somebody was looking out for me at 0840 when I suddenly awoke for no apparent reason. Sometimes guardian angels can’t be subtle, especially when assigned to a DORK. I looked at the clock and my tardiness for class fully registered. I popped out of bed like a gymnast (not really), pulled on a pair of pants, a shirt (no bra, saved 60 seconds there), slip-on shoes and ran out the door. I didn’t brush my teeth or comb my hair. My braid was now two days and nights old and had a rather furry aura about it….kind of like a braid "Pigpen" from the Peanuts cartoon would have if he were a girl. I illegally called Rog on my cell phone while driving to let him know I was on my way, but would be late. I continued to break the law on my way to Tualatin. If 65 mph (which really translates to 70 mph) is okay after West Linn, it ought to be okay about 3 miles before West Linn, right? Fortunately, I did not receive a speeding ticket on my way there. Imagine handing Rog a $200.00 ticket to pay in addition to the daily bills for my three surgeries and numerous diagnostics. I don’t think my guardian angel supports unlawful activity, in fact, I’ll bet it’s in the G.A. contract, but on this day, the officers on duty urgently set down their radar guns to scratch a profound itch between their shoulder blades just as I sped by.
I arrived at chemo class and dropped into the chair next to Rog as if I had been swept in on a big gust of wind. I was welcomed and was relieved to see that I hadn't’ missed anything except introductions. I took in my surroundings. Three other couples were in class with us. We were the youngest couple by far in the small conference room. I was now fully awake and ready to learn. Rosemary, an oncology nurse with 30 years of experience was teaching the class. She had a wonderful way about her. She was relaxed, spoke knowledgeably and delivered the information in a way that was actually encouraging and had us chuckling off and on. Considering the subject matter, that is talent and skill mixed together into a tasty, nourishing casserole. I was grateful I would have access to her through this process and was especially delighted to be given yet another three-ring binder, this one dedicated to chemo information. It included Rosemary’s thorough PowerPoint presentation, wig/headwear resources, nutritional and fluid requirements, a guide for what to do the day before treatment, the day of treatment, 3 to 4 days after treatment, and most importantly, the "Cannon Ball Recipe" for chemo constipation. Anyone who really knows me, knows I can’t do any kind of project without creating a binder for it. I also have a weakness for plastic sheet protectors. Nothing irks me more than notebook dividers that are not wide enough to accommodate them. Yes, I have had counseling in the past, but thankfully, it never tampered with this sweet obsession. Yet another silver lining with cancer, three outstanding and organized binders are now in my possession. I am living proof that goose bumps of delight release endorphins. During the class, I took copious notes in my new binder (shiver) and absorbed everything I could. The gentlemen in the class all had different kinds of cancer. Our instructor spoke to each of us round the table about how our specific chemo concoctions would effect us. By the end of class, I was so armed with information, tips and strategies, that I actually felt empowered. This class gave me hope that I could minimize the "yuck factor" of chemo. There was stuff I could do. I was not going to be a complete victim in the hands of chemo. After our instruction, we visited the chemo room in the clinic. It was about the size of three large family rooms. Banks of windows allowed natural light to flood the area. The room was divided into several groupings of industrial recliner chairs (even uglier than my husbands blue velour LazyBoy). There was a relaxed atmosphere in the room. Some patients sat listening to music with earphones, others read and some just reclined, resting. One man let us take a close look at his port-a-cath access. Some had a companion sitting by them and others were alone. Several nurses cruised amongst the patients and a baseline of congenial conversation could be heard throughout the room. It didn’t look that bad. I thought to myself, "I can do this. I can do this well. Let’s get ‘er done."
The first step in starting chemo is getting an echocardiogram. This is essential for folks getting Adriamycin (the red chemo drug). It is toxic to heart muscle cells and one is limited to a specific quantity of the drug over a lifetime. The echo makes sure your heart function is adequate and able to tolerate the red devil. My first four treatments would by a combination of Adriamycin and Cytoxin. Word on the street is that this combo is rather unpleasant, but the last four treatments would be with a different drug, Taxol, usually less harsh and yet another silver lining. Adriamycin has an interesting history. It is an antitumor antibiotic made from Streptomyces peucetius, a species of soil fungus that produces a red pigment. In the 1950’s, an Italian research company isolated the bacterium in the soil surrounding a 13th century octagonal castle, Castel del Monte. French researchers made the same discovery at about the same time. In an absolutely generous (keeping an eye on "the big picture") and diplomatic (non-territorial) gesture, the two teams named the new compound together. I just love it. I would like to have been there to plant big wet kisses on all of them. They came up with "daunorubicin" which, when broken down, refers to a pre-Roman tribe, "Dauni," who occupied Italy in the area streptomyces was isolated and the French word for ruby, "Rubis," referring to its red color. By 1967, this compound was found to be fatally toxic to the heart and work began to create a new strain via mutating the original. Their success gave birth to Adriamycin. The new strain was named for the Adriatic Sea, which is near the castle (southeast coast of Italy above the "boot heel"). I love that they continued to incorporate historical relevance with the scientific name! If I ever get a chance to go to Italy, I’d like to visit the castle, drop down, roll around in the dirt and take a dust bath for good measure.
"Castel del Monte or Castle of the Mount is a medieval castle located on a small hill near Bari in the Apulia region of southeast Italy. The castle was built by the Holy Roman Emperor Frederic II between 1240 and 1250 and was used as a hunting lodge. Later the castle was turned into a prison and served also as a refuge during a plague." Source: Castlexplorer.org
Being discovered next to a medieval castle is awfully cool all by itself, but knowing how Adriamycin works is equally exciting. The ruby juice binds to DNA of rapidly multiplying cells by squeezing between base pairs (intercalation) of the DNA strand. Once in place, it inhibits an important enzyme needed for transcription of DNA. Imagine you are sitting on park bench just inches away from someone you have a crush on. Out of the blue, a gorgeous model walks over to the bench and squishes herself between the two of you. Yep, it's all over now. Adriamycin is the gorgeous model. The result is an unwinding of the DNA with the result being an inability to replicate. Wow! When I’m not feeling so hot on chemo, it will be nice to know what’s going on inside and cheer on the process.
My treatment plan combines Adriamycin with Cytoxin for the first four sessions. Cytoxin also effects cell DNA, but has a different approach. The liver breaks Cytoxin down into two chemicals, which slow the growth of cancer cells by interfering with DNA actions. The combo is sort of a "one-two punch" to the bad guys. As the referee in this match, I’ll catch a few punches in the process (hair loss and immune system suppression), but that’s only temporary. The worthless, unraveled DNA of the cancer cells takes a permanent hit. Buuuuuuubye!
And now, a couple words need to be said about the closing act: Taxol, the drug of choice for the last four chemo sessions. It has an intriguing history too. In 1958, the National Cancer Institute commissioned the US Department of Agriculture to collect samples of more than 30,000 plants in order to test for anticancer properties. Arthur Barclay collected 15 lbs. of twigs, needles and bark from Pacific Yew tress near Mt. St. Helens. The good news was that the bark turned out to contain antitumor properties. The bad new was that the bark of a 40-ft., 200-year-old Yew tree only contained a half-gram of Taxol. Environmentalists weren’t happy. Fortunately, another researcher, Robert A. Holton, developed a process to convert a related compound in Yew needles into Taxol. Thank goodness! Taxol attacks the cytoskeleton of rapidly dividing cells. It’s the "Terminator" because it prevents restructuring of the cytoskeleton, which is necessary for rapid cell growth. Preventing restructuring induces programmed cell death…cell suicide. I like the sound of that! Good cells are also subject to its effects, but rapidly dividing cancer cells are much more susceptible to its wrath. I can live with that. (Source: medic8.com)
The last step in preparing for chemo is having a port implanted into a large vein in my chest. The catheter is tunneled under the skin to prevent the tip from shifting out the vein. The purple port at the end of the catheter is placed just beneath the skin a few inches south of my right collarbone. For sterility sake and pain control, it is inserted under sedation in the operating room. Great, my fourth trip to Good Sam’s Short Stay Unit. Another day of lost work. Another day I have to ask Rog to drop me off, take John to school and pick me up later. "Stop whining and make the best of it," I nag myself.
I know the drill by now. Arrive two hours before the scheduled procedure. Bring only your driver’s license, insurance card and knitting. Bring your patience and a sense of humor for all the waiting around. Strip down, all the way down, put on the gown, but don’t tie it in back. I even hook up my own compression leggings. Go through all the same questions about allergies, removable body parts and spiritual preferences. Sign the permit, get the IV started and go potty. The autograph of the surgeon on your insertion site and the appearance of the OR nurse mark progress towards the goal. Make small talk with the housekeeper and tell her how she is outworking all the staff. Bide your time, knit, observe, wait. Then the anesthesiologist, Dr. R. Ford comes round your curtain. And just like shaking hot sauce on your eggs, he immediately spices things up. We hit it off instantly and begin yucking it up and trading one-liners. This is great! Suddenly I don’t feel like I’m here for mundane port placement. This is as fun as going out to happy hour with good friends! It sure felt good to laugh. And to top it all off, I knew this guy was going to give me the best nap of my life and I was right. So, it was a really great day and experience after all. It was a far cry from my pre-op experience with the mastectomies. I’ll cover that another time.
Getting chemo every other Friday means that if uninterrupted, my last treatment will be the first Friday in June. By mid-June, my hair can start growing again. Toxins will be gone from my weary body and there will be cause for celebrating the termination of my 120-day (minimum) chemo odyssey. Odysseus met many obstacles, sabotage and heartache in Homer’s epic Greek poem. He had to contend with bickering gods, a Cyclopes, a medusa and sly sirens to name a few of his woes and foes. My adversaries and side trips may look a bit different than his, but I will move forward with confidence in my caregivers, my support system and my loving God to help me do my part in making all of these efforts successful.
"…let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us." Hebrews 12:1 (NIV)
As you may recall in Hooter Hotlines #14 & #15, the day I learned I needed to have chemotherapy was not one of the highpoints of this adventure. I was having a lot of physical pain from fluid engorgement under the mastectomy incisions and I had to accept that I was not able to dodge the chemo bullet. The fast track to chemo was in high gear and it included a chemo class at 0900 the next morning. I took pain pills before I went to sleep that night. It had been such a draining and uncomfortable day that I fell into a deep and restful sleep. Rog was still taking John to school in the mornings, so I did not set my alarm. I heard the boys rustling around in the morning while I lay cozily in the place between REM and wakefulness, that peculiar state of consciousness where one can manipulate one’s dreams. The house became blissfully quiet when I heard the door close and the deadbolt turn. At that point, I chose REM over wakefulness and drifted back to sleep, completely amnesic of the fact that I had chemo class that morning. Perhaps I really did need the extra sleep or it was just a bit of narcotic hangover, but somebody was looking out for me at 0840 when I suddenly awoke for no apparent reason. Sometimes guardian angels can’t be subtle, especially when assigned to a DORK. I looked at the clock and my tardiness for class fully registered. I popped out of bed like a gymnast (not really), pulled on a pair of pants, a shirt (no bra, saved 60 seconds there), slip-on shoes and ran out the door. I didn’t brush my teeth or comb my hair. My braid was now two days and nights old and had a rather furry aura about it….kind of like a braid "Pigpen" from the Peanuts cartoon would have if he were a girl. I illegally called Rog on my cell phone while driving to let him know I was on my way, but would be late. I continued to break the law on my way to Tualatin. If 65 mph (which really translates to 70 mph) is okay after West Linn, it ought to be okay about 3 miles before West Linn, right? Fortunately, I did not receive a speeding ticket on my way there. Imagine handing Rog a $200.00 ticket to pay in addition to the daily bills for my three surgeries and numerous diagnostics. I don’t think my guardian angel supports unlawful activity, in fact, I’ll bet it’s in the G.A. contract, but on this day, the officers on duty urgently set down their radar guns to scratch a profound itch between their shoulder blades just as I sped by.
I arrived at chemo class and dropped into the chair next to Rog as if I had been swept in on a big gust of wind. I was welcomed and was relieved to see that I hadn't’ missed anything except introductions. I took in my surroundings. Three other couples were in class with us. We were the youngest couple by far in the small conference room. I was now fully awake and ready to learn. Rosemary, an oncology nurse with 30 years of experience was teaching the class. She had a wonderful way about her. She was relaxed, spoke knowledgeably and delivered the information in a way that was actually encouraging and had us chuckling off and on. Considering the subject matter, that is talent and skill mixed together into a tasty, nourishing casserole. I was grateful I would have access to her through this process and was especially delighted to be given yet another three-ring binder, this one dedicated to chemo information. It included Rosemary’s thorough PowerPoint presentation, wig/headwear resources, nutritional and fluid requirements, a guide for what to do the day before treatment, the day of treatment, 3 to 4 days after treatment, and most importantly, the "Cannon Ball Recipe" for chemo constipation. Anyone who really knows me, knows I can’t do any kind of project without creating a binder for it. I also have a weakness for plastic sheet protectors. Nothing irks me more than notebook dividers that are not wide enough to accommodate them. Yes, I have had counseling in the past, but thankfully, it never tampered with this sweet obsession. Yet another silver lining with cancer, three outstanding and organized binders are now in my possession. I am living proof that goose bumps of delight release endorphins. During the class, I took copious notes in my new binder (shiver) and absorbed everything I could. The gentlemen in the class all had different kinds of cancer. Our instructor spoke to each of us round the table about how our specific chemo concoctions would effect us. By the end of class, I was so armed with information, tips and strategies, that I actually felt empowered. This class gave me hope that I could minimize the "yuck factor" of chemo. There was stuff I could do. I was not going to be a complete victim in the hands of chemo. After our instruction, we visited the chemo room in the clinic. It was about the size of three large family rooms. Banks of windows allowed natural light to flood the area. The room was divided into several groupings of industrial recliner chairs (even uglier than my husbands blue velour LazyBoy). There was a relaxed atmosphere in the room. Some patients sat listening to music with earphones, others read and some just reclined, resting. One man let us take a close look at his port-a-cath access. Some had a companion sitting by them and others were alone. Several nurses cruised amongst the patients and a baseline of congenial conversation could be heard throughout the room. It didn’t look that bad. I thought to myself, "I can do this. I can do this well. Let’s get ‘er done."
The first step in starting chemo is getting an echocardiogram. This is essential for folks getting Adriamycin (the red chemo drug). It is toxic to heart muscle cells and one is limited to a specific quantity of the drug over a lifetime. The echo makes sure your heart function is adequate and able to tolerate the red devil. My first four treatments would by a combination of Adriamycin and Cytoxin. Word on the street is that this combo is rather unpleasant, but the last four treatments would be with a different drug, Taxol, usually less harsh and yet another silver lining. Adriamycin has an interesting history. It is an antitumor antibiotic made from Streptomyces peucetius, a species of soil fungus that produces a red pigment. In the 1950’s, an Italian research company isolated the bacterium in the soil surrounding a 13th century octagonal castle, Castel del Monte. French researchers made the same discovery at about the same time. In an absolutely generous (keeping an eye on "the big picture") and diplomatic (non-territorial) gesture, the two teams named the new compound together. I just love it. I would like to have been there to plant big wet kisses on all of them. They came up with "daunorubicin" which, when broken down, refers to a pre-Roman tribe, "Dauni," who occupied Italy in the area streptomyces was isolated and the French word for ruby, "Rubis," referring to its red color. By 1967, this compound was found to be fatally toxic to the heart and work began to create a new strain via mutating the original. Their success gave birth to Adriamycin. The new strain was named for the Adriatic Sea, which is near the castle (southeast coast of Italy above the "boot heel"). I love that they continued to incorporate historical relevance with the scientific name! If I ever get a chance to go to Italy, I’d like to visit the castle, drop down, roll around in the dirt and take a dust bath for good measure.
"Castel del Monte or Castle of the Mount is a medieval castle located on a small hill near Bari in the Apulia region of southeast Italy. The castle was built by the Holy Roman Emperor Frederic II between 1240 and 1250 and was used as a hunting lodge. Later the castle was turned into a prison and served also as a refuge during a plague." Source: Castlexplorer.org
Being discovered next to a medieval castle is awfully cool all by itself, but knowing how Adriamycin works is equally exciting. The ruby juice binds to DNA of rapidly multiplying cells by squeezing between base pairs (intercalation) of the DNA strand. Once in place, it inhibits an important enzyme needed for transcription of DNA. Imagine you are sitting on park bench just inches away from someone you have a crush on. Out of the blue, a gorgeous model walks over to the bench and squishes herself between the two of you. Yep, it's all over now. Adriamycin is the gorgeous model. The result is an unwinding of the DNA with the result being an inability to replicate. Wow! When I’m not feeling so hot on chemo, it will be nice to know what’s going on inside and cheer on the process.
My treatment plan combines Adriamycin with Cytoxin for the first four sessions. Cytoxin also effects cell DNA, but has a different approach. The liver breaks Cytoxin down into two chemicals, which slow the growth of cancer cells by interfering with DNA actions. The combo is sort of a "one-two punch" to the bad guys. As the referee in this match, I’ll catch a few punches in the process (hair loss and immune system suppression), but that’s only temporary. The worthless, unraveled DNA of the cancer cells takes a permanent hit. Buuuuuuubye!
And now, a couple words need to be said about the closing act: Taxol, the drug of choice for the last four chemo sessions. It has an intriguing history too. In 1958, the National Cancer Institute commissioned the US Department of Agriculture to collect samples of more than 30,000 plants in order to test for anticancer properties. Arthur Barclay collected 15 lbs. of twigs, needles and bark from Pacific Yew tress near Mt. St. Helens. The good news was that the bark turned out to contain antitumor properties. The bad new was that the bark of a 40-ft., 200-year-old Yew tree only contained a half-gram of Taxol. Environmentalists weren’t happy. Fortunately, another researcher, Robert A. Holton, developed a process to convert a related compound in Yew needles into Taxol. Thank goodness! Taxol attacks the cytoskeleton of rapidly dividing cells. It’s the "Terminator" because it prevents restructuring of the cytoskeleton, which is necessary for rapid cell growth. Preventing restructuring induces programmed cell death…cell suicide. I like the sound of that! Good cells are also subject to its effects, but rapidly dividing cancer cells are much more susceptible to its wrath. I can live with that. (Source: medic8.com)
The last step in preparing for chemo is having a port implanted into a large vein in my chest. The catheter is tunneled under the skin to prevent the tip from shifting out the vein. The purple port at the end of the catheter is placed just beneath the skin a few inches south of my right collarbone. For sterility sake and pain control, it is inserted under sedation in the operating room. Great, my fourth trip to Good Sam’s Short Stay Unit. Another day of lost work. Another day I have to ask Rog to drop me off, take John to school and pick me up later. "Stop whining and make the best of it," I nag myself.
"Power Port"
I know the drill by now. Arrive two hours before the scheduled procedure. Bring only your driver’s license, insurance card and knitting. Bring your patience and a sense of humor for all the waiting around. Strip down, all the way down, put on the gown, but don’t tie it in back. I even hook up my own compression leggings. Go through all the same questions about allergies, removable body parts and spiritual preferences. Sign the permit, get the IV started and go potty. The autograph of the surgeon on your insertion site and the appearance of the OR nurse mark progress towards the goal. Make small talk with the housekeeper and tell her how she is outworking all the staff. Bide your time, knit, observe, wait. Then the anesthesiologist, Dr. R. Ford comes round your curtain. And just like shaking hot sauce on your eggs, he immediately spices things up. We hit it off instantly and begin yucking it up and trading one-liners. This is great! Suddenly I don’t feel like I’m here for mundane port placement. This is as fun as going out to happy hour with good friends! It sure felt good to laugh. And to top it all off, I knew this guy was going to give me the best nap of my life and I was right. So, it was a really great day and experience after all. It was a far cry from my pre-op experience with the mastectomies. I’ll cover that another time.
Getting chemo every other Friday means that if uninterrupted, my last treatment will be the first Friday in June. By mid-June, my hair can start growing again. Toxins will be gone from my weary body and there will be cause for celebrating the termination of my 120-day (minimum) chemo odyssey. Odysseus met many obstacles, sabotage and heartache in Homer’s epic Greek poem. He had to contend with bickering gods, a Cyclopes, a medusa and sly sirens to name a few of his woes and foes. My adversaries and side trips may look a bit different than his, but I will move forward with confidence in my caregivers, my support system and my loving God to help me do my part in making all of these efforts successful.
"…let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us." Hebrews 12:1 (NIV)
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Name the Drain Contest Photos
Hooter Hotline # 17 Drain Name Contest Photos
Here they are! You've been asking for them and waiting very paitiently. All fourteen are winners and will receive an Alpaca item. Thanks for helping me have a diversion!
"Donald and Daisy DUCT" Submitted by Bethany B.
"Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid"
Submitted by Tanisha P.
"Ginger & Maryanne"
Submitted by Julie O.
"George Burns & Gracie Allen"
Submitted by Sally L.
Marie & Pierre Currie; She was a 1911 Nobel Prize winner in Chemistry
for discovery of Radium which she holds in her hand.
Pierre is pictured with Polonium.
Submitted by Jan F.
"Laverne & Shirley" They are pictured with
their famous Yiddish-American
hopscotch chant.
Submitted by Connie K.
"Flotsam" & "Jetsam" Evil Eels of movie fame.
Flotsam means debris from a shipwreck,
Jetsam means debris jettisoned from a ship.
Submitted by Nancy H.
"Yin" & "Yang" Taoist symbol visualizing primordial
male and female energies whose interplay gives birth
to the manifest world.
Submitted by Janet M.
"Morrison" & "Alder"
(Portland one-way streets)
Submitted by Joanie L.
"Bonnie & Clyde" Submitted by Cheryl B.
Hi Jen,
I am surprized to find myself thinking up names for JP's -- amazing what influence YOU have on people!! Anyway, I am currently liking Bonnie & Clyde. My reasoning is: they were a couple of criminals, so you won't mind snuffing them out when they have finished serving their useful purpose. I had a little trouble with the "useful" purpose part of the real B & C but, then, I realized they served the purpose of providing Americans with a distraction from the miseries of the depression and JP's do have a useful purpose, even though they worry you. I did give some thought to Hoot & Holler, Hoot having such a close relationship to hooter and holler being something you might want to do in response to surgery and this whole process. I'll keep thinking about this. If I come up with something more creative and/or appropriate, I'll let you know.
Cheryl
"Hoops & YoYo"
(Crazy-funny Hallmark E-card characters)
Submitted by Dr. R. Stafford
"Thelma & Louise"
Submitted by Julie O. & Shari H.
"Suez & Panama"
Submitted by Emily B.
Grand Prize Winner: "Harry & Tom"
(Tunnel names from "The Great Escape")
Submitted by Ron S.
Thank you for your fun submissions. Let me know which photo is your favorite.
Here they are! You've been asking for them and waiting very paitiently. All fourteen are winners and will receive an Alpaca item. Thanks for helping me have a diversion!
"Donald and Daisy DUCT" Submitted by Bethany B.
"Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid"
Submitted by Tanisha P.
"Ginger & Maryanne"
Submitted by Julie O.
"George Burns & Gracie Allen"
Submitted by Sally L.
Marie & Pierre Currie; She was a 1911 Nobel Prize winner in Chemistry
for discovery of Radium which she holds in her hand.
Pierre is pictured with Polonium.
Submitted by Jan F.
"Laverne & Shirley" They are pictured with
their famous Yiddish-American
hopscotch chant.
Submitted by Connie K.
"Flotsam" & "Jetsam" Evil Eels of movie fame.
Flotsam means debris from a shipwreck,
Jetsam means debris jettisoned from a ship.
Submitted by Nancy H.
"Yin" & "Yang" Taoist symbol visualizing primordial
male and female energies whose interplay gives birth
to the manifest world.
Submitted by Janet M.
"Morrison" & "Alder"
(Portland one-way streets)
Submitted by Joanie L.
"Bonnie & Clyde" Submitted by Cheryl B.
Hi Jen,
I am surprized to find myself thinking up names for JP's -- amazing what influence YOU have on people!! Anyway, I am currently liking Bonnie & Clyde. My reasoning is: they were a couple of criminals, so you won't mind snuffing them out when they have finished serving their useful purpose. I had a little trouble with the "useful" purpose part of the real B & C but, then, I realized they served the purpose of providing Americans with a distraction from the miseries of the depression and JP's do have a useful purpose, even though they worry you. I did give some thought to Hoot & Holler, Hoot having such a close relationship to hooter and holler being something you might want to do in response to surgery and this whole process. I'll keep thinking about this. If I come up with something more creative and/or appropriate, I'll let you know.
Cheryl
"Hoops & YoYo"
(Crazy-funny Hallmark E-card characters)
Submitted by Dr. R. Stafford
"Thelma & Louise"
Submitted by Julie O. & Shari H.
"Suez & Panama"
Submitted by Emily B.
Grand Prize Winner: "Harry & Tom"
(Tunnel names from "The Great Escape")
Submitted by Ron S.
Thank you for your fun submissions. Let me know which photo is your favorite.
The "Name the Drain Contest" has made the whole experience, well.....less draining....
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Hairy Fodder and the Chin of Secrets
Hooter Hotline #16: "Hairy Fodder and The Chin of Secrets"
February 18, 2010
I can’t believe I just caught myself plucking stray eyebrow hairs! Less than two weeks from chemo, it seems like a moot point to be removing hair that will soon turn Kamikaze! I suppose there is some vanity in not wanting to look like the GEICO Caveman up to the first infusion, but it would have been interesting to see my maximal Neanderthal look just for curiosity’s sake. A deep inner-chick fear is to be stranded on an island or live as a primitive native without a pair of tweezers. I know how bad the outcome is after 8 days of rustic camping and upon returning home, I’ve been stunned by the random and rapid growth of facial hair. Good Heavens, if I had remained tweezerless another day, some one might have offered me gender reassignment surgery, STAT! I can’t imagine going a month on "Survivor" without some kind of follicular management. In fact, I was part of a three-way pact with two ICU nurses who mentored me right out of nursing school. At a quiet point in our swing shift, we would take extra measures to improve the hygiene and general appearance of unconscious ventilated patients. I won't mention the part about black heads the size of peas on men's backs, but I will admit to being a conspirator in debearding lovely Grandmas that just couldn't do it themselves. As we worked covertly on these ICU makeovers, we promised eachother the same treatment if we were ever in a hospital bed, chin up at eye level for all to see. Blondes simply can’t understand a brunette’s anxiety about this. As a perimenopausal woman, I hate to admit that what looks like acne on my chin is actually the eruption of old growth timber, the kind my husband shaves off every day. I’m getting older and have sprouted some grays on my head, but chin hairs, neon markers of my diminishing estrogen, never emerge in a discrete pale color. No, no, no, they are dark as licorice, which in contrast to my fair skin, allows them to impose maximum embarrassment and irritation. Yep, that’s just what a menopausal woman needs. Add to that leaky sneezes, exacerbated PMS symptoms, body parts yielding to gravity and a general "take less crap" attitude and you’ve got a real "life of the party" on your hands. There are days when I’d like to divorce myself. These realizations only make me feel more compassionate towards Rog for abiding with me. Usually, this gratitude makes me more forgiving when he snores or crunches corn chips with his mouth open. So, if you ever see me running my fingertips back and forth across my chin, I’m not working on my pose as "The Thinker," but I am desperately searching for slightest indication that a new piece of rebar is beginning to poke its head out. In fact, I think I’ll stop by the store and buy a pair of tweezers for my purse. The ones on my little pocket knife are worthless.
I believe with all my heart that man/woman was designed and created by God and not the result of multiple favorable mutations over millennia. I say that with a certainty in my osteoarthritic bones that silences the comparison of my eyebrow hair to Homo erectus. In my anatomy and physiology classes, this struck me very deeply. I was amazed by the back-up systems built into the electrical circuitry of the heart. If "A" failed, it would default to a rate set by "B." If "B" failed, the heart still had plan "C," which was just enough heart rate to buy time for a temporary pacemaker. Remember the "Kreb’s Cycle" and the "Clotting Cascade," my friends? Obviously God is a chemist with obsessive compulsive disorder…I guess perfection comes with being Holy. Let’s not forget microbiology…man, I loved that class. I grew some of the coolest stuff in auger, not just in Petri dishes, but in auger test-tubes too. A soil sample by my front door produced the most beautiful (in a full HAZMAT suit kind of way) inverted conical tree-shaped growth. Don’t even get me started on pathophysiology, pharmacology and chemistry. Have you ever thought about the atomic structure of our atmosphere and fact that we enjoy 21% oxygen where ever we go (unless you are free diver or a high altitude climber)? And honestly, how can one look into the night sky and not acknowledge that something bigger than a "mistake" or "luck" hung each planet in perfect position to maintain the necessary tension for proper temperature and tide regulating orbits? I’m not talking about just one planet, but our entire solar system as well as the universe. That’s just the physical world. Human intellect, emotion, intuition and spirituality also leave me in awe. At this point in my life, each of these has been highlighted and my awareness more acute. I can’t be sure, but I’m betting that most iguanas are not on a prayer chain. I haven’t heard of koala’s creating chemical compounds to fight disease. And the martin I saw at Three Creeks Lake, running through the forest with a plump ground squirrel in his mouth, never uttered the Johnny Appleseed prayer before supping. The love, affection and palpable prayer support I’ve received since November is mind-boggling and oh so divinely human. God made us as well as our attributes. Being connected to Him brings the greatest joy and peace. Being connected to others created by Him and who love Him is like 50 cherries and ten cans of whipped cream on the sundae. He promised in the Old Testament that if we seek Him, He will find us. Jesus said in the New Testament that He stands at the door of our heart and knocks. Doesn’t it blow your mind that Holiness, Divinity and Redemption seek us? They wait patiently too. Despite being omnipresent, omniscient and omnipotent, God does not force Himself on us. He badly wants to gather all His children into His Heavenly Father arms so that He can shower us with his love, peace, strength and forgiveness, but never would do so uninvited. Go ahead and take a minute to let your finite mind wrap around that.
Okay, enough theology for now, I have more "hairy" stories for you! With chemo just a "hair’s breath" away, I have a few "silver linings" to point out. First of all, I will be so grateful not to be growing underarm hair. Since the mastectomies, I have a weird type of numbness in the armpits radiating down the underside of my arms to about mid-deltoid. It gives me the heebie geebies to touch it. It is all I can do to rub the area with a soapy wash cloth in the shower. The thought of running a razor over it actually produces a cold shiver. What’s a girl to do? You’ve got to do something when you still smell "pitted out" after a shower. Originally, I told Rog that I was going to "go European" for a while, but eventually I couldn’t stand myself and I was forced to rake a razor over the offending area. I am proof that shutting your eyes as tight as you possibly can while holding your breath and clenching your teeth, provides just enough courage to accomplish necessary tasks. Granted, shaving with one’s eyes shut isn’t especially smart, but I got through it sans bloodletting. Fine, I did it, but if you think I’m going to push a solid antiperspirant stick around the area, you’ve got another thing coming. I know, I will go to the store and see if they still carry Ozone depleting aerosol deodorant. Safeway, save me! Okay, hygiene aisle, start at the top shelf and scan left to right. Now work your way down the shelves one by one. There’s enough deodorant here for an entire infantry unit. Aaaaaaah, it’s not looking good. Oh, please, please be here. Look, there it is, two glorious, 1970’s style cans on the bottom shelf! Thank you, manufacturers of SURE! You’ve made my day! And to be truthful, made the day of all those around me! I hope that none of you are ever in the position to be so delighted by a can of spray-on deodorant. It’s okay for you to resent that I won’t have to shave ANYTHING for at least four months, I can take it. In addition to that, I will be able to laude over you the fact that I get to experience a "Brazilian Wax" with out the pain of the wax! I don’t even have to be embarrassed to try it because it’s chemo dress code! OOOOOO, la la!
Last Saturday was the day for Locks of Love to harvest my "horse tail." My sister Gayle (a.k.a. The Laundry Fairy) and my adorable niece, Amelia, came along on the Beauty School adventure. Heather was my beautician and she gave me a wonderful cut. She was so thorough and methodical; I know she will be successful when she graduates. Much hubbub ensued when I asked to have the remaining hair dyed "Breast Cancer Pink" with light and dark pink highlights. Multiple instructors weighed in on possible color potions. A plan to create a "mistake on purpose" was the final consensus and the stinky process began. Three-and-a-half hours and four copies of PEOPLE Magazine later, I was reborn with what I have named the "Bing Cherry Bob!" Heather was very worried I might not like the result, but I reassured her that even if I didn’t like it, it was going to fall out in four to five weeks anyway! "You’re so easy going!" she said in total ignorance of my true nature. "I wanted something wild, wacky and fun," I explained, "and you’ve done it! Good job!" Before I left the beauty school, I handed Heather a letter I had written to the child receiving the wig made from my donation. Heather placed these thoughts and wishes in the bag of hair:
Dear "Locks of Love" Kid,
Today is a very big day for me and YOU are the reason!
I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately.
Even though we have never met each other, we have some important things in common. Besides being two wonderful human beings, you and I have cancer. We both have hair loss because of the medicine we must take to get well. And I bet we both don’t want to look bald and goofy all the time either.
We are also very different. Right now I think the biggest difference is that you are a kid and I’m going to be 50 years old in May. Because I am so much older, I’ve had time to do some pretty cool things. Many of the coolest things I’ve done have happened while growing this hair for you. Years before I knew I had cancer, I decided I would grow my hair so that a terrific kid like you could have it some day. When my hair is hanging free, it goes all the way to my tailbone! Now, I’m giving it to you before my cancer can get it! Score one for us! Hey Cancer, you LOSE this round! Nah, nah, nah, nah, naaaaah, nah!
I’m sending you happy and adventurous hair. I hope it will encourage you and make you feel good. Your new hair loves to be outside in the fresh air. This hair loves hiking and climbed a mountain in 2003. This hair loves to grow vegetables in the garden. This hair loves animals and raises 15 alpacas (who also have great hair called fiber), 2 llamas, 3 furry, mouse-chasing cats and one bunny that looks like an Oreo cookie. This hair loves to have fun with family and friends and is especially happy when it is caught up in a big hug. This hair loves to laugh and make silly jokes. This hair loves God and knows that God loves the persons he gave it to, you and me. This hair is tough and brave like you are already. This hair loves to see beautiful places and recently went to seven National Parks in Southern Utah. This hair loves to explore the world and take photographs. While growing for you it’s been to Mexico, Puerto Rico, The Dominican Republic and Alaska (it’s Birth State). This hair loves to get smokey from sitting around a campfire. This hair loves to sing off key and be read to. This hair loves old movies. This hair loves the Pacific Ocean and recently caught a bunch of silver salmon. This hair loves to make chocolate chip pancakes for her kids and gourmet food for her husband.
Now, this hair loves you. I will be praying for a long happy life filled with things for you to discover and love. Stay strong my young friend. Use everything you have in your tough little body to fight, fight, fight. Life is so good and there is so much ahead of you to make you glad you fought so hard. Go put on your gorgeous hair, live boldly and always be a blessing to those around you. I will forever be connected to you in my heart and prayers.
All my love and best wishes for you and your family,
Jennifer Stafford
Oregon City, OR
Heather’s work on my hair has created quite a stir. Even the ladies at church on Sunday couldn’t stop touching it and staring in amazement. One even asked me where I got my wig! They never expected to see me in short hair let alone a zany color like this. The fun continued on Tuesday, my first day back to work. The Bing Cherry Bob was a great distraction from my hooterless chest. I’d rather talk about donating to Locks of Love than talk about buying an abdominal binder to help compress the sweet potato-sized fluid collection under my left incision and subsequent attempts to aspirate it. More smiles than usual spread on faces wherever I went, myself included. Mission accomplished, Heather!
February 18, 2010
I can’t believe I just caught myself plucking stray eyebrow hairs! Less than two weeks from chemo, it seems like a moot point to be removing hair that will soon turn Kamikaze! I suppose there is some vanity in not wanting to look like the GEICO Caveman up to the first infusion, but it would have been interesting to see my maximal Neanderthal look just for curiosity’s sake. A deep inner-chick fear is to be stranded on an island or live as a primitive native without a pair of tweezers. I know how bad the outcome is after 8 days of rustic camping and upon returning home, I’ve been stunned by the random and rapid growth of facial hair. Good Heavens, if I had remained tweezerless another day, some one might have offered me gender reassignment surgery, STAT! I can’t imagine going a month on "Survivor" without some kind of follicular management. In fact, I was part of a three-way pact with two ICU nurses who mentored me right out of nursing school. At a quiet point in our swing shift, we would take extra measures to improve the hygiene and general appearance of unconscious ventilated patients. I won't mention the part about black heads the size of peas on men's backs, but I will admit to being a conspirator in debearding lovely Grandmas that just couldn't do it themselves. As we worked covertly on these ICU makeovers, we promised eachother the same treatment if we were ever in a hospital bed, chin up at eye level for all to see. Blondes simply can’t understand a brunette’s anxiety about this. As a perimenopausal woman, I hate to admit that what looks like acne on my chin is actually the eruption of old growth timber, the kind my husband shaves off every day. I’m getting older and have sprouted some grays on my head, but chin hairs, neon markers of my diminishing estrogen, never emerge in a discrete pale color. No, no, no, they are dark as licorice, which in contrast to my fair skin, allows them to impose maximum embarrassment and irritation. Yep, that’s just what a menopausal woman needs. Add to that leaky sneezes, exacerbated PMS symptoms, body parts yielding to gravity and a general "take less crap" attitude and you’ve got a real "life of the party" on your hands. There are days when I’d like to divorce myself. These realizations only make me feel more compassionate towards Rog for abiding with me. Usually, this gratitude makes me more forgiving when he snores or crunches corn chips with his mouth open. So, if you ever see me running my fingertips back and forth across my chin, I’m not working on my pose as "The Thinker," but I am desperately searching for slightest indication that a new piece of rebar is beginning to poke its head out. In fact, I think I’ll stop by the store and buy a pair of tweezers for my purse. The ones on my little pocket knife are worthless.
I believe with all my heart that man/woman was designed and created by God and not the result of multiple favorable mutations over millennia. I say that with a certainty in my osteoarthritic bones that silences the comparison of my eyebrow hair to Homo erectus. In my anatomy and physiology classes, this struck me very deeply. I was amazed by the back-up systems built into the electrical circuitry of the heart. If "A" failed, it would default to a rate set by "B." If "B" failed, the heart still had plan "C," which was just enough heart rate to buy time for a temporary pacemaker. Remember the "Kreb’s Cycle" and the "Clotting Cascade," my friends? Obviously God is a chemist with obsessive compulsive disorder…I guess perfection comes with being Holy. Let’s not forget microbiology…man, I loved that class. I grew some of the coolest stuff in auger, not just in Petri dishes, but in auger test-tubes too. A soil sample by my front door produced the most beautiful (in a full HAZMAT suit kind of way) inverted conical tree-shaped growth. Don’t even get me started on pathophysiology, pharmacology and chemistry. Have you ever thought about the atomic structure of our atmosphere and fact that we enjoy 21% oxygen where ever we go (unless you are free diver or a high altitude climber)? And honestly, how can one look into the night sky and not acknowledge that something bigger than a "mistake" or "luck" hung each planet in perfect position to maintain the necessary tension for proper temperature and tide regulating orbits? I’m not talking about just one planet, but our entire solar system as well as the universe. That’s just the physical world. Human intellect, emotion, intuition and spirituality also leave me in awe. At this point in my life, each of these has been highlighted and my awareness more acute. I can’t be sure, but I’m betting that most iguanas are not on a prayer chain. I haven’t heard of koala’s creating chemical compounds to fight disease. And the martin I saw at Three Creeks Lake, running through the forest with a plump ground squirrel in his mouth, never uttered the Johnny Appleseed prayer before supping. The love, affection and palpable prayer support I’ve received since November is mind-boggling and oh so divinely human. God made us as well as our attributes. Being connected to Him brings the greatest joy and peace. Being connected to others created by Him and who love Him is like 50 cherries and ten cans of whipped cream on the sundae. He promised in the Old Testament that if we seek Him, He will find us. Jesus said in the New Testament that He stands at the door of our heart and knocks. Doesn’t it blow your mind that Holiness, Divinity and Redemption seek us? They wait patiently too. Despite being omnipresent, omniscient and omnipotent, God does not force Himself on us. He badly wants to gather all His children into His Heavenly Father arms so that He can shower us with his love, peace, strength and forgiveness, but never would do so uninvited. Go ahead and take a minute to let your finite mind wrap around that.
Okay, enough theology for now, I have more "hairy" stories for you! With chemo just a "hair’s breath" away, I have a few "silver linings" to point out. First of all, I will be so grateful not to be growing underarm hair. Since the mastectomies, I have a weird type of numbness in the armpits radiating down the underside of my arms to about mid-deltoid. It gives me the heebie geebies to touch it. It is all I can do to rub the area with a soapy wash cloth in the shower. The thought of running a razor over it actually produces a cold shiver. What’s a girl to do? You’ve got to do something when you still smell "pitted out" after a shower. Originally, I told Rog that I was going to "go European" for a while, but eventually I couldn’t stand myself and I was forced to rake a razor over the offending area. I am proof that shutting your eyes as tight as you possibly can while holding your breath and clenching your teeth, provides just enough courage to accomplish necessary tasks. Granted, shaving with one’s eyes shut isn’t especially smart, but I got through it sans bloodletting. Fine, I did it, but if you think I’m going to push a solid antiperspirant stick around the area, you’ve got another thing coming. I know, I will go to the store and see if they still carry Ozone depleting aerosol deodorant. Safeway, save me! Okay, hygiene aisle, start at the top shelf and scan left to right. Now work your way down the shelves one by one. There’s enough deodorant here for an entire infantry unit. Aaaaaaah, it’s not looking good. Oh, please, please be here. Look, there it is, two glorious, 1970’s style cans on the bottom shelf! Thank you, manufacturers of SURE! You’ve made my day! And to be truthful, made the day of all those around me! I hope that none of you are ever in the position to be so delighted by a can of spray-on deodorant. It’s okay for you to resent that I won’t have to shave ANYTHING for at least four months, I can take it. In addition to that, I will be able to laude over you the fact that I get to experience a "Brazilian Wax" with out the pain of the wax! I don’t even have to be embarrassed to try it because it’s chemo dress code! OOOOOO, la la!
Last Saturday was the day for Locks of Love to harvest my "horse tail." My sister Gayle (a.k.a. The Laundry Fairy) and my adorable niece, Amelia, came along on the Beauty School adventure. Heather was my beautician and she gave me a wonderful cut. She was so thorough and methodical; I know she will be successful when she graduates. Much hubbub ensued when I asked to have the remaining hair dyed "Breast Cancer Pink" with light and dark pink highlights. Multiple instructors weighed in on possible color potions. A plan to create a "mistake on purpose" was the final consensus and the stinky process began. Three-and-a-half hours and four copies of PEOPLE Magazine later, I was reborn with what I have named the "Bing Cherry Bob!" Heather was very worried I might not like the result, but I reassured her that even if I didn’t like it, it was going to fall out in four to five weeks anyway! "You’re so easy going!" she said in total ignorance of my true nature. "I wanted something wild, wacky and fun," I explained, "and you’ve done it! Good job!" Before I left the beauty school, I handed Heather a letter I had written to the child receiving the wig made from my donation. Heather placed these thoughts and wishes in the bag of hair:
Dear "Locks of Love" Kid,
Today is a very big day for me and YOU are the reason!
I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately.
Even though we have never met each other, we have some important things in common. Besides being two wonderful human beings, you and I have cancer. We both have hair loss because of the medicine we must take to get well. And I bet we both don’t want to look bald and goofy all the time either.
We are also very different. Right now I think the biggest difference is that you are a kid and I’m going to be 50 years old in May. Because I am so much older, I’ve had time to do some pretty cool things. Many of the coolest things I’ve done have happened while growing this hair for you. Years before I knew I had cancer, I decided I would grow my hair so that a terrific kid like you could have it some day. When my hair is hanging free, it goes all the way to my tailbone! Now, I’m giving it to you before my cancer can get it! Score one for us! Hey Cancer, you LOSE this round! Nah, nah, nah, nah, naaaaah, nah!
I’m sending you happy and adventurous hair. I hope it will encourage you and make you feel good. Your new hair loves to be outside in the fresh air. This hair loves hiking and climbed a mountain in 2003. This hair loves to grow vegetables in the garden. This hair loves animals and raises 15 alpacas (who also have great hair called fiber), 2 llamas, 3 furry, mouse-chasing cats and one bunny that looks like an Oreo cookie. This hair loves to have fun with family and friends and is especially happy when it is caught up in a big hug. This hair loves to laugh and make silly jokes. This hair loves God and knows that God loves the persons he gave it to, you and me. This hair is tough and brave like you are already. This hair loves to see beautiful places and recently went to seven National Parks in Southern Utah. This hair loves to explore the world and take photographs. While growing for you it’s been to Mexico, Puerto Rico, The Dominican Republic and Alaska (it’s Birth State). This hair loves to get smokey from sitting around a campfire. This hair loves to sing off key and be read to. This hair loves old movies. This hair loves the Pacific Ocean and recently caught a bunch of silver salmon. This hair loves to make chocolate chip pancakes for her kids and gourmet food for her husband.
Now, this hair loves you. I will be praying for a long happy life filled with things for you to discover and love. Stay strong my young friend. Use everything you have in your tough little body to fight, fight, fight. Life is so good and there is so much ahead of you to make you glad you fought so hard. Go put on your gorgeous hair, live boldly and always be a blessing to those around you. I will forever be connected to you in my heart and prayers.
All my love and best wishes for you and your family,
Jennifer Stafford
Oregon City, OR
Heather’s work on my hair has created quite a stir. Even the ladies at church on Sunday couldn’t stop touching it and staring in amazement. One even asked me where I got my wig! They never expected to see me in short hair let alone a zany color like this. The fun continued on Tuesday, my first day back to work. The Bing Cherry Bob was a great distraction from my hooterless chest. I’d rather talk about donating to Locks of Love than talk about buying an abdominal binder to help compress the sweet potato-sized fluid collection under my left incision and subsequent attempts to aspirate it. More smiles than usual spread on faces wherever I went, myself included. Mission accomplished, Heather!
Besides countless smiles and shocked recognitions, Tuesday was a hug fest. The right shoulder of my black blouse bore the cosmetic evidence of many embraces. Several huggers in succession noticed it, tried to brush it off and then left their own traces of kindness. I work with an incredibly giving and loving staff at LMPMC. Twenty years in the same "work family" yields many different types of relationships. When disease enters the picture, these relationships can change. Casual relationships can develop quickly into intimate ones. Strained relationships suddenly develop memory loss of the strain’s origin. New relationships blossom as people relate their own experiences or concerns for loved ones with disease. I have not been blind to the fact that some of the people who’ve been so kind to me are people I’ve "pissed off" in the past. Differences of opinion and terse words (arguments) however, are often trumped by disease. I’d like to blame committee work of any kind for being problematic, but I know that I can be, have been and likely will be, hard to work with at times. Lingering angst evaporates when, in compassion, my counterpart approaches me, looking me in the eye as her own eyes begin to well. She wraps her arms around me and whispers in my ear, "Oh, I’m so sorry you have to go through this. My sister had breast cancer too." The mutual squeeze that follows indicates that we’ve just arrived on a new, higher plane of existence. What a beautiful mingling of things divine and human when we give the best of ourselves to each other.
I still chuckle when I remember the first time Alice saw me once the breast cancer diagnosis was public info. We have always been polar opposites when it comes to politics and religion. Still, I liked to be playful with her about the issues, elections and society in general. She would be playful in return, but I knew that behind it, she probably thought I was conservative beyond hope and would not be her first choice as a companion on a deserted island. So, it sort of jolted me when I stepped out of the staff lounge into the hallway one day as she was headed to CT scan with an ICU patient. Our eyes met, I started to say, "Hi!" but never got it out because, at the sight of me, she dropped her head and started shaking it slowly, side to side. In a mournful tone she said, "Ah, Jeeeeeeeeezus, Jennifer. I’m sorry." She really meant it. It didn’t matter who we’d voted for in the presidential election. It didn’t matter that I did not believe global warming was caused primarily by humans. Her genuine concern for me was not discounted by differing beliefs of any kind. I was truly touched by her expression of concern and it will always ring in my ears.
On the other hand, one of the CNAs, upon seeing me under the same circumstances of new info, ran up to me, threw her arms around me and with a huge bear hug that squeezed all the breath out of me, exuberantly exclaimed, "Oh, I just wanted you to know that I love you and you’re one of my favorite people I’ve ever worked with!" "You’re so sweet," I said regaining my breath and balance, "but I’m not dead yet!"
These are the people I work with. They are also the people that decorated my office with a handmade and signed "Welcome Back" poster that served as a backdrop for a large basket filled with flowers and pink breast cancer gear. The thoughtful organizers even straightened my perpetually messy desk and provided a cute dish for the many paperclips that were swimming around my keyboard. Even my echo cardiographer from Friday’s test, Michaella, delivered a beautiful ID badge lanyard she’d made. These folks have brought meals and lightened spirits when they ventured out "in the sticks" for a visit. In an especially generous expression of their care and concern, they pitched in on housekeeping services for me. Five sessions of four hours each have been a tremendous help and an extremely valuable gift. I have never had a housekeeper before, but I have suddenly forgotten any reasons I ever had against it! It doesn’t stop there either. Rog came home from work one day with a gallon Ziploc bag full of savory spaghetti sauce chock full of Italian sausage, a box of noodles and prepared garlic bread. Janice, the wife of his buddy at work had done this out of the blue. And how about my neighbor, Joanie, doing all our farm chores for over a week after the big surgery? She has her own menagerie to care for, but doing double duty for some one else’s sake is just her way. My cup of gratitude is spilling over as if a faucet is turned on full blast. The sum of these actions has both flattened me in humility and raised me up to heights worth experiencing cancer for. I am not kidding. The view from where I sit is kind of like Christmas. For crying out loud, we squeeze an entire tree into our homes. If that didn’t crowd things enough, we unpack myriads of holiday decorations which, when still in boxes, fill a guest bedroom. Yet when we look around the house during the month of December, we don’t see clutter. All we see are the pretty decorations and the twinkling lights. You are my twinkling lights and my favorite ornaments. You are the nativity snow globe I adore. You are the Hershey Kiss Advent calendar my kids made years ago. That’s what I see in the midst of my surgeries and will see during chemo. My eyes are not focused on the clutter of cancer. How could they be? You haven’t given them a chance.
I still chuckle when I remember the first time Alice saw me once the breast cancer diagnosis was public info. We have always been polar opposites when it comes to politics and religion. Still, I liked to be playful with her about the issues, elections and society in general. She would be playful in return, but I knew that behind it, she probably thought I was conservative beyond hope and would not be her first choice as a companion on a deserted island. So, it sort of jolted me when I stepped out of the staff lounge into the hallway one day as she was headed to CT scan with an ICU patient. Our eyes met, I started to say, "Hi!" but never got it out because, at the sight of me, she dropped her head and started shaking it slowly, side to side. In a mournful tone she said, "Ah, Jeeeeeeeeezus, Jennifer. I’m sorry." She really meant it. It didn’t matter who we’d voted for in the presidential election. It didn’t matter that I did not believe global warming was caused primarily by humans. Her genuine concern for me was not discounted by differing beliefs of any kind. I was truly touched by her expression of concern and it will always ring in my ears.
On the other hand, one of the CNAs, upon seeing me under the same circumstances of new info, ran up to me, threw her arms around me and with a huge bear hug that squeezed all the breath out of me, exuberantly exclaimed, "Oh, I just wanted you to know that I love you and you’re one of my favorite people I’ve ever worked with!" "You’re so sweet," I said regaining my breath and balance, "but I’m not dead yet!"
These are the people I work with. They are also the people that decorated my office with a handmade and signed "Welcome Back" poster that served as a backdrop for a large basket filled with flowers and pink breast cancer gear. The thoughtful organizers even straightened my perpetually messy desk and provided a cute dish for the many paperclips that were swimming around my keyboard. Even my echo cardiographer from Friday’s test, Michaella, delivered a beautiful ID badge lanyard she’d made. These folks have brought meals and lightened spirits when they ventured out "in the sticks" for a visit. In an especially generous expression of their care and concern, they pitched in on housekeeping services for me. Five sessions of four hours each have been a tremendous help and an extremely valuable gift. I have never had a housekeeper before, but I have suddenly forgotten any reasons I ever had against it! It doesn’t stop there either. Rog came home from work one day with a gallon Ziploc bag full of savory spaghetti sauce chock full of Italian sausage, a box of noodles and prepared garlic bread. Janice, the wife of his buddy at work had done this out of the blue. And how about my neighbor, Joanie, doing all our farm chores for over a week after the big surgery? She has her own menagerie to care for, but doing double duty for some one else’s sake is just her way. My cup of gratitude is spilling over as if a faucet is turned on full blast. The sum of these actions has both flattened me in humility and raised me up to heights worth experiencing cancer for. I am not kidding. The view from where I sit is kind of like Christmas. For crying out loud, we squeeze an entire tree into our homes. If that didn’t crowd things enough, we unpack myriads of holiday decorations which, when still in boxes, fill a guest bedroom. Yet when we look around the house during the month of December, we don’t see clutter. All we see are the pretty decorations and the twinkling lights. You are my twinkling lights and my favorite ornaments. You are the nativity snow globe I adore. You are the Hershey Kiss Advent calendar my kids made years ago. That’s what I see in the midst of my surgeries and will see during chemo. My eyes are not focused on the clutter of cancer. How could they be? You haven’t given them a chance.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Oncology
Hooter Hotline #15: Oncology
February 10, 2010
“Oncologist? Isn’t that some one who is an expert at being on-call?” My husband thinks he is being so clever to say this whenever he hears the term. I always roll my eyes and groan in response because he expects me to, but the truth is I am usually the one guilty of most bad puns. It’s my philosophy that one must risk many bad puns to eventually stumble upon a truly great one. The pun muscle must be kept in shape for brilliance to reveal itself when the perfect setup comes along. It’s very satisfying when the potential great pun is pitched and you smack that ball square on, zinging it into homerun territory. I’ve had a few moments like that in my time and it is so sweet.
While waiting for my first appointment with the oncologist back in November, I noticed that this waiting room was not like other doctor’s waiting rooms. This assembly of patients does not come for sports physicals, vaccinations or sinus infections. They come for a different set of shots and infusions. They come to see how their blood counts are holding. They come to be reassured that even though their counts are below normal, they can still get by. They come hoping to hear words like “remission,” “shrinking” and “We don’t need to see you again for a year.” These differences create a palpably different vibe in the air. There is a measured, restrained tension on many of the faces. It is surreal to think that this is MY waiting room now.
I scan the room to keep my mind occupied and I notice one face that doesn’t have “the tension.” She possesses such naturally merry features that she could be Mrs. Claus. Pink round cheeks, grandmotherly plumpness and her sweet, perpetual smile make me think that she might have freshly baked cookies in her purse. I would guess her age to be around seventy. She waits calmly with her wool coat buttoned her ankles crossed and a relaxed grip on her handbag. The most striking thing I notice is her bright red wig against her fair complexion. I think to myself, “If I ever have to lose my hair, I’m going to have some fun with wigs and hats too.”
My attention shifts to a frail woman wearing a turban who is being led to an exam room. She is very gaunt and moves delicately. Her frame is just a whisper. I imagine how much weight she must have lost. I wonder if it hurts when she walks. There’s no way to tell if she’s winning or losing the battle. My eyes wander again and they fall on my cheery lady. She still wears her peaceful closed-mouth smile. It seems like we’re waiting a long time for my appointment. I find myself checking on the cheery lady frequently. I’m sure that I gravitate towards her because of the expression on her face. I’d like to tell her how impressed I am that she is always smiling. I’d like to tell her that I want to pray for her and that I hope she does well. I have enough time to decide that I really will do this. Then her name is called. She rises and walks in front of me. I pop out of my chair and slide in beside her. “Pardon me, Ma’am,” I begin, “I just had to say that I noticed what a lovely smile you had and that it was encouraging to me.” “Oh, how nice!” she said. “Do you like my new red hair?” she asked. “Yes, yes I do. It’s gorgeous,” I replied. We were both moving fairly quickly to keep pace with the assistant leading her to her appointment. I touched her arm and said, “Can I give you a hug?” She smiled widely and we stopped momentarily for the connective embrace. “Thank you,” she said. “Keep smiling. I’ll pray for you. Get well,” I called softly after her, standing still while she continued ahead. Yes, this was a different sort of waiting room. Everyone in it likely needed hugs and extra prayers. If you ever run out of things to pray for, just spend 30 minutes in an oncology office, but don't forget to bring your smile.
It turns out that my first appointment with Dr. Olson was worth the wait. I strongly recommend that anyone facing breast cancer and the many options of treatment, schedule this appointment before making any surgical decisions. I believe surgeons and OB/GYNs should make this recommendation at the time a patient is informed of a positive cancer diagnosis. Several important things come from taking the time to do this. The patient gets the undivided attention of the oncologist for an extended amount of time at the initial consultation. Dr. Olson’s practice holds these consultations at the larger Rose Quarter office where they have a special room designed just for this purpose. It looks like a miniature living room with homey decor and soft lighting. Patients meet a nurse navigator who presents them with an extremely thorough resource notebook. Simply holding this notebook in my hands made me feel better. It has dividers already labeled for patients to organize test results, sections on decision-making processes, explanations of vocabulary and procedures etc. One of the most thoughtful touches was the business card holder page placed in the front. The oncologist and nurse navigator cards were already loaded as well as “Breast Friends” and there was room to add my own cards for the breast surgeon, plastic surgeon, radiation oncologist and more. I grab that notebook every time I need to make a call.
The breast surgeon explains the details of where the cancer is and what type it is. The patient will get a cancer primer from the breast surgeon complete with nifty, personalized diagrams. Dr. Wheeler made some memorable analogies during her teaching session with us that were entertaining as well. For example, Ductal Cancer In-Situ is when you leave the teenage girls alone at home for the evening. Infiltrative Ductal Cancer is when those same teenagers decide to have a party, invite boys and break open the liquor cabinet. The breast surgeon will also explain choices of treatment and share a lot of statistics. Meeting with oncology several days later allows questions to spawn from absorbing the first round of data. It was reassuring to hear the oncologist use the same basic statistics in describing the situation. It helps to know that everybody is singing the same song. This meeting is a great time to ask the questions you didn’t know you had when you met with the breast surgeon. Having my husband with me for the consultation relieved me of having to regurgitate tremendous amounts of information as well as explain it to him later. He was also free to ask any questions or seek clarification if he needed to.
That being said, today’s appointment would be my third visit with Dr. Olson. No longer a “Poster Child” for lumpectomy, we came to hear if Chemo would be required. I have learned that every doctor has his or her own style of conducting an appointment. Dr. Olson’s is to launch into an explanatory set-up of the data he is about to divulge. He doesn’t start with, “Your Oncotype-DX is ____ and this is what that means.” Instead he takes us down a familiar path with a set of bar graphs he’s used previously to describe risk of recurrence. This time however, he’s updated it with new information from the recent pathology reports. At the end of his spiel, he tells me my statistical risk that breast cancer will reoccur in some distant region like the liver, brain or bone. All the while the Oncotype-DX printout is on top of the pile of papers he walked in with. These papers are setting in front of the computer that he is using to show us the updated graph. I have to resist the urge to speak through clenched teeth, begging him to QUICKLY get to the point. Eventually he does and in classic Stafford fashion, the $3,000.000 test yields my risk as “intermediate” which is the same result as his bar graph. Well, there’s a chunk of change wasted. When all is said and done, Chemo is the prudent choice. It’s what he would recommend for his wife if she were in my position. I didn’t even have to ask the question. He just offered it up assuming it was coming. “How do you feel about that? Are you okay with this?” he asks. Emotionally weak from my drain issues, arm pain and new loss of hope to avoid chemo, I answered in a quaky voice, eyes brimming with tears,
“I just have to be okay with it. To live is good and I want to do everything I can to perpetuate that. The chains are on the bus and we’re headed up the mountain.”
After we concluded our appointment, we were ushered to the scheduler’s area. It’s no coincidence that she has a box of tissues next to the lame dish of hard candy. I knew I was in trouble when the first thing she did was offer me a pocket calendar the size of my own day-planner. Within a few minutes I was scheduled out to April for chemo sessions every other Friday, Neulasta injections every other Monday, lab draws, a cardiac echocardiogram and the essential Porta-Cath placement. While I was scribbling these life-saving dates down in my new book, my vision diminished to the equivalent of looking through a fish bowl. I couldn’t believe what I was writing down. I used to work 12 hours shifts every other weekend and those weren’t always fun, but they looked good now compared to my new weekend plans. I dabbed away the colossal silent tears and pressed on. The scheduler, Janice had such a gentle way about her. I knew she understood what she was laying out for me. I knew from her tone of voice that she wished she didn’t have to do it.
Chemo is slated to start February 26, 2010. Chemo Class was slated for the very next morning at 9:00 AM.
February 10, 2010
“Oncologist? Isn’t that some one who is an expert at being on-call?” My husband thinks he is being so clever to say this whenever he hears the term. I always roll my eyes and groan in response because he expects me to, but the truth is I am usually the one guilty of most bad puns. It’s my philosophy that one must risk many bad puns to eventually stumble upon a truly great one. The pun muscle must be kept in shape for brilliance to reveal itself when the perfect setup comes along. It’s very satisfying when the potential great pun is pitched and you smack that ball square on, zinging it into homerun territory. I’ve had a few moments like that in my time and it is so sweet.
While waiting for my first appointment with the oncologist back in November, I noticed that this waiting room was not like other doctor’s waiting rooms. This assembly of patients does not come for sports physicals, vaccinations or sinus infections. They come for a different set of shots and infusions. They come to see how their blood counts are holding. They come to be reassured that even though their counts are below normal, they can still get by. They come hoping to hear words like “remission,” “shrinking” and “We don’t need to see you again for a year.” These differences create a palpably different vibe in the air. There is a measured, restrained tension on many of the faces. It is surreal to think that this is MY waiting room now.
I scan the room to keep my mind occupied and I notice one face that doesn’t have “the tension.” She possesses such naturally merry features that she could be Mrs. Claus. Pink round cheeks, grandmotherly plumpness and her sweet, perpetual smile make me think that she might have freshly baked cookies in her purse. I would guess her age to be around seventy. She waits calmly with her wool coat buttoned her ankles crossed and a relaxed grip on her handbag. The most striking thing I notice is her bright red wig against her fair complexion. I think to myself, “If I ever have to lose my hair, I’m going to have some fun with wigs and hats too.”
My attention shifts to a frail woman wearing a turban who is being led to an exam room. She is very gaunt and moves delicately. Her frame is just a whisper. I imagine how much weight she must have lost. I wonder if it hurts when she walks. There’s no way to tell if she’s winning or losing the battle. My eyes wander again and they fall on my cheery lady. She still wears her peaceful closed-mouth smile. It seems like we’re waiting a long time for my appointment. I find myself checking on the cheery lady frequently. I’m sure that I gravitate towards her because of the expression on her face. I’d like to tell her how impressed I am that she is always smiling. I’d like to tell her that I want to pray for her and that I hope she does well. I have enough time to decide that I really will do this. Then her name is called. She rises and walks in front of me. I pop out of my chair and slide in beside her. “Pardon me, Ma’am,” I begin, “I just had to say that I noticed what a lovely smile you had and that it was encouraging to me.” “Oh, how nice!” she said. “Do you like my new red hair?” she asked. “Yes, yes I do. It’s gorgeous,” I replied. We were both moving fairly quickly to keep pace with the assistant leading her to her appointment. I touched her arm and said, “Can I give you a hug?” She smiled widely and we stopped momentarily for the connective embrace. “Thank you,” she said. “Keep smiling. I’ll pray for you. Get well,” I called softly after her, standing still while she continued ahead. Yes, this was a different sort of waiting room. Everyone in it likely needed hugs and extra prayers. If you ever run out of things to pray for, just spend 30 minutes in an oncology office, but don't forget to bring your smile.
It turns out that my first appointment with Dr. Olson was worth the wait. I strongly recommend that anyone facing breast cancer and the many options of treatment, schedule this appointment before making any surgical decisions. I believe surgeons and OB/GYNs should make this recommendation at the time a patient is informed of a positive cancer diagnosis. Several important things come from taking the time to do this. The patient gets the undivided attention of the oncologist for an extended amount of time at the initial consultation. Dr. Olson’s practice holds these consultations at the larger Rose Quarter office where they have a special room designed just for this purpose. It looks like a miniature living room with homey decor and soft lighting. Patients meet a nurse navigator who presents them with an extremely thorough resource notebook. Simply holding this notebook in my hands made me feel better. It has dividers already labeled for patients to organize test results, sections on decision-making processes, explanations of vocabulary and procedures etc. One of the most thoughtful touches was the business card holder page placed in the front. The oncologist and nurse navigator cards were already loaded as well as “Breast Friends” and there was room to add my own cards for the breast surgeon, plastic surgeon, radiation oncologist and more. I grab that notebook every time I need to make a call.
The breast surgeon explains the details of where the cancer is and what type it is. The patient will get a cancer primer from the breast surgeon complete with nifty, personalized diagrams. Dr. Wheeler made some memorable analogies during her teaching session with us that were entertaining as well. For example, Ductal Cancer In-Situ is when you leave the teenage girls alone at home for the evening. Infiltrative Ductal Cancer is when those same teenagers decide to have a party, invite boys and break open the liquor cabinet. The breast surgeon will also explain choices of treatment and share a lot of statistics. Meeting with oncology several days later allows questions to spawn from absorbing the first round of data. It was reassuring to hear the oncologist use the same basic statistics in describing the situation. It helps to know that everybody is singing the same song. This meeting is a great time to ask the questions you didn’t know you had when you met with the breast surgeon. Having my husband with me for the consultation relieved me of having to regurgitate tremendous amounts of information as well as explain it to him later. He was also free to ask any questions or seek clarification if he needed to.
That being said, today’s appointment would be my third visit with Dr. Olson. No longer a “Poster Child” for lumpectomy, we came to hear if Chemo would be required. I have learned that every doctor has his or her own style of conducting an appointment. Dr. Olson’s is to launch into an explanatory set-up of the data he is about to divulge. He doesn’t start with, “Your Oncotype-DX is ____ and this is what that means.” Instead he takes us down a familiar path with a set of bar graphs he’s used previously to describe risk of recurrence. This time however, he’s updated it with new information from the recent pathology reports. At the end of his spiel, he tells me my statistical risk that breast cancer will reoccur in some distant region like the liver, brain or bone. All the while the Oncotype-DX printout is on top of the pile of papers he walked in with. These papers are setting in front of the computer that he is using to show us the updated graph. I have to resist the urge to speak through clenched teeth, begging him to QUICKLY get to the point. Eventually he does and in classic Stafford fashion, the $3,000.000 test yields my risk as “intermediate” which is the same result as his bar graph. Well, there’s a chunk of change wasted. When all is said and done, Chemo is the prudent choice. It’s what he would recommend for his wife if she were in my position. I didn’t even have to ask the question. He just offered it up assuming it was coming. “How do you feel about that? Are you okay with this?” he asks. Emotionally weak from my drain issues, arm pain and new loss of hope to avoid chemo, I answered in a quaky voice, eyes brimming with tears,
“I just have to be okay with it. To live is good and I want to do everything I can to perpetuate that. The chains are on the bus and we’re headed up the mountain.”
After we concluded our appointment, we were ushered to the scheduler’s area. It’s no coincidence that she has a box of tissues next to the lame dish of hard candy. I knew I was in trouble when the first thing she did was offer me a pocket calendar the size of my own day-planner. Within a few minutes I was scheduled out to April for chemo sessions every other Friday, Neulasta injections every other Monday, lab draws, a cardiac echocardiogram and the essential Porta-Cath placement. While I was scribbling these life-saving dates down in my new book, my vision diminished to the equivalent of looking through a fish bowl. I couldn’t believe what I was writing down. I used to work 12 hours shifts every other weekend and those weren’t always fun, but they looked good now compared to my new weekend plans. I dabbed away the colossal silent tears and pressed on. The scheduler, Janice had such a gentle way about her. I knew she understood what she was laying out for me. I knew from her tone of voice that she wished she didn’t have to do it.
Chemo is slated to start February 26, 2010. Chemo Class was slated for the very next morning at 9:00 AM.
Drain, Drain, Drain....Drain the Pooools!
Hooter Hotline #14: Drain, Drain, Drain…..Drain the Pooooools
February 10, 2010
I was absolutely thrilled to have my twin drains out last Thursday. I acted like a kid on Christmas morning. As I left the surgeon’s office, I began singing, “Drain Free” (to the tune of “Born Free”). I wore a cheesy grin all day. The drains had been voyeurs of my life for too long. I’ll happily admit right now, that copulation is possible with them in place. Ladies, remember that our men don’t see things the way we do. I’m not saying that drains are as sexy as a black garter, just that they are virtually invisible to men…perhaps in the same way a messy garage is invisible…
Drains are high maintenance when it comes to taking a shower. To start with, it means pinning them on the corners of a washcloth I’ve hung around my neck. Split drain dressings and tape have to come off the insertion sites, which means wrestling sticky tape, drain tubing and gauze in a place that’s hard to see. The multiple dressing changes have left tender skin and a tremendous amount of scummy tape residue. After showering, I set the drains on the counter and try to dry myself without them slipping off and yanking on the stitches. The drains have a pretty short leash. Then each site needs to be redressed before I can pull on my underwear, again without pulling the drains off the counter. Redressing the drain sites is a form of gymnastics for this less-than-youthful body. I have to “Do the Twist” to each side while looking down, accurately aiming the new gauze and tape so that it will be on the site, but not on the incision. Trying to accomplish this in a foggy, post-shower mirror usually created some muscular complaints from my neck and back. On to getting dressed and finding the right place to pin drains on the shirt de jour. That is an art in itself. I’ve worn shirts where I repositioned the drains and safety pins at least eight times to find the “sweet spot.” A couple times I thought of just pinning them were my boobs had been. They would have made very youthful and pert protuberances that might have fooled some one. I suppose putting a clean shirt on first and pinning the drains on before my round of “Underwear Tai Chi” would have been a smarter strategy, but for 49 years, I’ve always put my underwear on first after a shower! It only occurred to me NOW that I could have done it differently. Remember that I am a dork. The process is not awful, just a hassle and it has made me late to appointments. It’s reminds me of when I had a new baby and I underestimated how long it would take both me and the baby to be ready to go anywhere. The good news is that when you have cancer, neither the surgeon nor her office staff “climb on you” because you are ten to fifteen minutes late. Phew! Drainless however, I have no excuses.
It’s true, I have complained about the drains a lot. I feared infection that never happened. I became testy after three weeks of drain omnipresence. I griped when the drain tubing repeatedly caught on the edge of the pullout cutting board. I fumed when one of the stoppers popped open and leaked serous fluid all over my cozy fleece pants imitating incontinence. I resented losing sleep due to necessary awareness of positioning them as I turned over in bed. Yep, I’ve really indulged in whining about them. So, it may come as a shock to you that I wish I had my left drain back. That’s right, I’m pining after it like I did after my first boyfriend, Mike. He left me to go back to his previous girlfriend after our “Puppy Love” summer just as our senior year began. Even though he was a trumpet player and therefore a great kisser, I wasn’t willing to “give up the goods” and simply put, she was. Oh, how he broke my heart. Like all first “loves,” I thought I might physically die! I can’t tell you how “gross” (to use the slang of my generation) it was to have both of them in my Speech Class after that. I had good reason to sit in the front of the class in order to avoid their PDA. Even so, I longed to have him back, sort of, in a seventeen-year-old’s kind of way. Now it’s about the same for my left drain and it serves me right for all my sniveling.
The drains had established some pretty nice tunnels during their inhabitance. In fact, I continued to drain fluid from the sites until Sunday. I’d like to know who told the little Dutch Boy to put his finger in my drain dike because they have “some ‘splaining to do!” Pressure began building as the fluid recollected with no where to go. I felt achy allover and my previous superstar left arm was too sore and swollen to lift more than 30 degrees. I tried and tried to express the fluid down the tunnel, but nothing budged. I had to take a couple pain pills to even go to sleep. On Monday morning I was in Dr. Wheeler’s office at 9:30 AM, slightly less chipper than I had been on Thursday. There would be no singing of movie themes on this visit. A long sterile Q-Tip opened the floodgates and blessed relief flowed. I thought she might do a needle aspiration of the fluid, but she said there was more risk of infection with that versus reestablishing patency of the drain tunnel. Go figure. She placed an occlusive dressing over the drain site while holding pressure on the breast area to prevent air from entering the space through the drain tunnel. Hopefully, this will send a message to the body that it needn’t make so much fluid because the space wasn’t as big as it seemed. Then she wrapped me in a couple wide Ace wraps for compression. Things were much better. They needed to be. We had an appointment with the oncologist at 4:40 that afternoon. Finally, we would get the results of the Oncotype-DX test that would predict my probable chance of breast cancer recurrence. This is the piece of info we’ve been waiting for to determine if Chemo is part of my therapy plan.
Early in the cancer journey, when I was still a “Poster Child” for lumpectomy, both surgeon and oncologist thought it was possible that I might dodge the Chemo bullet. When the path report came back from the third surgery with clear margins for the first time, I remained hopeful that Chemo might not be necessary. There was one surprising find from the bilateral mastectomy pathology however, a third cancer was found. This time it was lobular cancer. Good heavens, I have got to stop overachieving!!! While it is not good that I hosted a veritable buffet of breast cancer, it did reassure us that “whacking” (and I mean that in the Mafia, Sopranos sort of way) the breasts was absolutely the right call.
I went home from the doctor’s office, took a couple pain pills and fell into a deep and needed sleep for four hours. Rog came home from work and gently woke me up to take us to Dr. Olson. The car ride was pretty quiet.
February 10, 2010
I was absolutely thrilled to have my twin drains out last Thursday. I acted like a kid on Christmas morning. As I left the surgeon’s office, I began singing, “Drain Free” (to the tune of “Born Free”). I wore a cheesy grin all day. The drains had been voyeurs of my life for too long. I’ll happily admit right now, that copulation is possible with them in place. Ladies, remember that our men don’t see things the way we do. I’m not saying that drains are as sexy as a black garter, just that they are virtually invisible to men…perhaps in the same way a messy garage is invisible…
Drains are high maintenance when it comes to taking a shower. To start with, it means pinning them on the corners of a washcloth I’ve hung around my neck. Split drain dressings and tape have to come off the insertion sites, which means wrestling sticky tape, drain tubing and gauze in a place that’s hard to see. The multiple dressing changes have left tender skin and a tremendous amount of scummy tape residue. After showering, I set the drains on the counter and try to dry myself without them slipping off and yanking on the stitches. The drains have a pretty short leash. Then each site needs to be redressed before I can pull on my underwear, again without pulling the drains off the counter. Redressing the drain sites is a form of gymnastics for this less-than-youthful body. I have to “Do the Twist” to each side while looking down, accurately aiming the new gauze and tape so that it will be on the site, but not on the incision. Trying to accomplish this in a foggy, post-shower mirror usually created some muscular complaints from my neck and back. On to getting dressed and finding the right place to pin drains on the shirt de jour. That is an art in itself. I’ve worn shirts where I repositioned the drains and safety pins at least eight times to find the “sweet spot.” A couple times I thought of just pinning them were my boobs had been. They would have made very youthful and pert protuberances that might have fooled some one. I suppose putting a clean shirt on first and pinning the drains on before my round of “Underwear Tai Chi” would have been a smarter strategy, but for 49 years, I’ve always put my underwear on first after a shower! It only occurred to me NOW that I could have done it differently. Remember that I am a dork. The process is not awful, just a hassle and it has made me late to appointments. It’s reminds me of when I had a new baby and I underestimated how long it would take both me and the baby to be ready to go anywhere. The good news is that when you have cancer, neither the surgeon nor her office staff “climb on you” because you are ten to fifteen minutes late. Phew! Drainless however, I have no excuses.
It’s true, I have complained about the drains a lot. I feared infection that never happened. I became testy after three weeks of drain omnipresence. I griped when the drain tubing repeatedly caught on the edge of the pullout cutting board. I fumed when one of the stoppers popped open and leaked serous fluid all over my cozy fleece pants imitating incontinence. I resented losing sleep due to necessary awareness of positioning them as I turned over in bed. Yep, I’ve really indulged in whining about them. So, it may come as a shock to you that I wish I had my left drain back. That’s right, I’m pining after it like I did after my first boyfriend, Mike. He left me to go back to his previous girlfriend after our “Puppy Love” summer just as our senior year began. Even though he was a trumpet player and therefore a great kisser, I wasn’t willing to “give up the goods” and simply put, she was. Oh, how he broke my heart. Like all first “loves,” I thought I might physically die! I can’t tell you how “gross” (to use the slang of my generation) it was to have both of them in my Speech Class after that. I had good reason to sit in the front of the class in order to avoid their PDA. Even so, I longed to have him back, sort of, in a seventeen-year-old’s kind of way. Now it’s about the same for my left drain and it serves me right for all my sniveling.
The drains had established some pretty nice tunnels during their inhabitance. In fact, I continued to drain fluid from the sites until Sunday. I’d like to know who told the little Dutch Boy to put his finger in my drain dike because they have “some ‘splaining to do!” Pressure began building as the fluid recollected with no where to go. I felt achy allover and my previous superstar left arm was too sore and swollen to lift more than 30 degrees. I tried and tried to express the fluid down the tunnel, but nothing budged. I had to take a couple pain pills to even go to sleep. On Monday morning I was in Dr. Wheeler’s office at 9:30 AM, slightly less chipper than I had been on Thursday. There would be no singing of movie themes on this visit. A long sterile Q-Tip opened the floodgates and blessed relief flowed. I thought she might do a needle aspiration of the fluid, but she said there was more risk of infection with that versus reestablishing patency of the drain tunnel. Go figure. She placed an occlusive dressing over the drain site while holding pressure on the breast area to prevent air from entering the space through the drain tunnel. Hopefully, this will send a message to the body that it needn’t make so much fluid because the space wasn’t as big as it seemed. Then she wrapped me in a couple wide Ace wraps for compression. Things were much better. They needed to be. We had an appointment with the oncologist at 4:40 that afternoon. Finally, we would get the results of the Oncotype-DX test that would predict my probable chance of breast cancer recurrence. This is the piece of info we’ve been waiting for to determine if Chemo is part of my therapy plan.
Early in the cancer journey, when I was still a “Poster Child” for lumpectomy, both surgeon and oncologist thought it was possible that I might dodge the Chemo bullet. When the path report came back from the third surgery with clear margins for the first time, I remained hopeful that Chemo might not be necessary. There was one surprising find from the bilateral mastectomy pathology however, a third cancer was found. This time it was lobular cancer. Good heavens, I have got to stop overachieving!!! While it is not good that I hosted a veritable buffet of breast cancer, it did reassure us that “whacking” (and I mean that in the Mafia, Sopranos sort of way) the breasts was absolutely the right call.
I went home from the doctor’s office, took a couple pain pills and fell into a deep and needed sleep for four hours. Rog came home from work and gently woke me up to take us to Dr. Olson. The car ride was pretty quiet.
Three Weeks Out and Loving It!
Hooter Hotline #13: Three Weeks Out and Loving It!
February 9, 2010
Howdy Hooter Hotline Friends!
February 3rd marked three weeks since bilateral mastectomy surgery. People tell me I’m looking good and that it looks like I’ve lost weight! I know that both are lies, but I love hearing it. I’ve only lost four pounds since surgery and I blame that abysmal result on my good friends who’ve shared their culinary prowess providing delicious meals for my family. For example, Janet M. sent a large picnic basket filled with everything to make our own fiesta dinner. Her healthy taco casserole was something I’d been craving. She didn’t stop there, she added salad, condiments, fiesta themed napkins, plates, tablecloth and a dessert that adds 2 lbs of body fat for every bite. Here is the “thank you” note I was compelled to write:
“Damn you Janet M.! I was going to use my leave to eat right. Yeah, I did have a craving for your taco casserole and you delivered....with sour cream and extra olives. Then you had to go and do it! That's right, your sweet exterior has been proven to be just that, a clever disguise to hide your truly wicked heart. As if it were an innocent version of Pandora's box, you slipped a shinny blue bag adorned with sparkling butterflies into the picnic basket. How could one resist opening it? And once open, I fell captive under its spell. I ate three that night. I've had one nearly every morning. I monitored how many Rog was scarfing to make sure there would be some for ME! How could something taste so divine and yet be so evil? Moist coconut and dark chocolate macaroons, only the dead could resist. As a child, I loved Mounds and Almond Joy candy bars. I was a snob about macaroons because they are not created equal. As an adult I found Cannon Beach Bakery could scratch my forbidden itch with its chocolate macaroons and that "Coffee People" kiosks in the airport also offered a wonderful version. Despite my knowledge of their existence, I restrained my self to an annual indulgence, but now, the shinny blue bag is on my counter...every day...whispering to me..."Come closer, I have something wonderful for you"... Yes, Janet M., you should be very ashamed.
Okay, maybe you shouldn't be more ashamed than I should be for not having the discipline to refrain, but they are soooooooooooooooo good.
I have loved them and you are truly sweet through and through to have gone to that trouble to make them. I am a little embarrassed about how my eyes light up when I remember I have them as I am trolling the kitchen for a snack.
I can't thank you enough for the fiesta dinner. You really went overboard, but it truly lifted spirits around here. The tulips are in full bloom and are the prettiest pastel pink, like the blush on a young Dutch girl's milky cheek.
Thank you Janet M. As my husband said, "You're a good soul."
Jen”
Here is Janet’s casserole recipe. If we’re really nice to her, maybe she’ll share her macaroon recipe too. I’m pretty sure that if I were in a persistent vegetative state, waving one of those under my nose would yield positive results. If not, pull the plug.
Mexican Cassserole
3 cups tortilla chips, crushed
1 lb. ground chicken, cooked
1 eight oz. can garbanzo beans, drained
1 eight oz. can kidney beans, drained
1 15 ½ oz. can whole kernel corn, drained
1 8 oz. can tomato sauce
1 cup salsa
½ cup fresh cilantro leaves, chopped
1 TBS minced garlic
1 cup red or white onion, chopped
1 small can diced green chilies
6 oz. Jack Cheese, grated
6 oz. Sharp Cheddar Cheese, grated
Salt & Pepper to taste
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Grease 13 x 9 baking dish.
Scatter chips on bottom.
Combine chicken, beans, corn, tomato sauce, salsa, onion, chilies, cilantro, garlic, salt & pepper.
Place half the mixture evenly on top of chips.
Combine cheeses; spread ½ over meat and bean mixture.
Spread rest of meat and bean mixture next.
Top with the rest of the cheese mixture.
Cover with foil and bake for 30-40 minutes.
Let stand 5 minutes.
Garnish with sour cream, diced tomatoes, olives and more cilantro.
Omit the meat for a vegetarian version and experiment with different beans: pinto, black beans etc.
Now my addendum to the recipe:
After placing casserole on the table, bow head and give thanks to our Heavenly Father for the kindness and generosity of our friends who are extensions of His love and mercy. Ask God to richly bless those that are blessing you beyond what they thought possible. Pray for the insight to know when it’s time to pay it forward to the next one in need of being showered with love, casseroles and prayer. Ask for forgiveness for those who make devilishly good deserts. Amen.
This was just one of many meals we’ve received and I plan to share as many recipes as possible with you along the way. It has been a huge gift not to have to plan, shop, prepare and clean up for dinner’s main course. Thank you all so much.
Physically, three weeks out is a good place to be. My drains came out on day 22 and I’m not really having pain. My energy is coming back and I’m driving around. The steri-strips are finally off the incisions and I still think it looks pretty ugly. According to the few friends I’ve “bared my chest” to, they say, “It’s not that bad!” They said it so genuinely that I have no choice but to start believing them. My sternum does protrude a bit, kind of like the bow of a boat and I joked with Sally that I should have a naked lady’s torso tattooed on it like a pirate’s ship!
I do have one complaint however, I have wasted three weeks of leave actually getting well. I had big, big plans. When one hears they will be off work for four weeks or so, one gets ideas. I know I’m not the only one. Wouldn’t it be a great time to get going on those photo albums? What about finishing the quilt you started for your daughter’s high school graduation? This would be a good time to finish it because she’s already completed two undergrad degrees and just finished her MBA… Maybe it would be easier for me to accept that leave is for healing if I were a guy. I might be suffering from a peculiarly feminine syndrome. Recovering is the opposite of multi-tasking, which is second nature to a woman. If I were a guy with four weeks leave ahead of me, it never would have occurred to me to finish a quilt or catch up on the photo albums. I would have put fresh batteries in the remote, piled my favorite magazines next to the recliner, let the answering machine screen all calls and practiced a pathetic facial expression so that everyone in the family would bring me things. Sorry guys, this isn’t really a slam on your gender, but more of an acknowledgement that it’s harder for us girls to sit still without feeling guilty. I’m just admitting my female craziness. The male approach to recovery time is the better plan. Just be. Let things be done for you. Don’t plan extra work. It’s okay to simply recover. Getting well again is it’s own accomplishment. Girls, you don’t need to have a finished quilt to validate having four weeks off. Now, if I only believed that!
February 9, 2010
Howdy Hooter Hotline Friends!
February 3rd marked three weeks since bilateral mastectomy surgery. People tell me I’m looking good and that it looks like I’ve lost weight! I know that both are lies, but I love hearing it. I’ve only lost four pounds since surgery and I blame that abysmal result on my good friends who’ve shared their culinary prowess providing delicious meals for my family. For example, Janet M. sent a large picnic basket filled with everything to make our own fiesta dinner. Her healthy taco casserole was something I’d been craving. She didn’t stop there, she added salad, condiments, fiesta themed napkins, plates, tablecloth and a dessert that adds 2 lbs of body fat for every bite. Here is the “thank you” note I was compelled to write:
“Damn you Janet M.! I was going to use my leave to eat right. Yeah, I did have a craving for your taco casserole and you delivered....with sour cream and extra olives. Then you had to go and do it! That's right, your sweet exterior has been proven to be just that, a clever disguise to hide your truly wicked heart. As if it were an innocent version of Pandora's box, you slipped a shinny blue bag adorned with sparkling butterflies into the picnic basket. How could one resist opening it? And once open, I fell captive under its spell. I ate three that night. I've had one nearly every morning. I monitored how many Rog was scarfing to make sure there would be some for ME! How could something taste so divine and yet be so evil? Moist coconut and dark chocolate macaroons, only the dead could resist. As a child, I loved Mounds and Almond Joy candy bars. I was a snob about macaroons because they are not created equal. As an adult I found Cannon Beach Bakery could scratch my forbidden itch with its chocolate macaroons and that "Coffee People" kiosks in the airport also offered a wonderful version. Despite my knowledge of their existence, I restrained my self to an annual indulgence, but now, the shinny blue bag is on my counter...every day...whispering to me..."Come closer, I have something wonderful for you"... Yes, Janet M., you should be very ashamed.
Okay, maybe you shouldn't be more ashamed than I should be for not having the discipline to refrain, but they are soooooooooooooooo good.
I have loved them and you are truly sweet through and through to have gone to that trouble to make them. I am a little embarrassed about how my eyes light up when I remember I have them as I am trolling the kitchen for a snack.
I can't thank you enough for the fiesta dinner. You really went overboard, but it truly lifted spirits around here. The tulips are in full bloom and are the prettiest pastel pink, like the blush on a young Dutch girl's milky cheek.
Thank you Janet M. As my husband said, "You're a good soul."
Jen”
Here is Janet’s casserole recipe. If we’re really nice to her, maybe she’ll share her macaroon recipe too. I’m pretty sure that if I were in a persistent vegetative state, waving one of those under my nose would yield positive results. If not, pull the plug.
Mexican Cassserole
3 cups tortilla chips, crushed
1 lb. ground chicken, cooked
1 eight oz. can garbanzo beans, drained
1 eight oz. can kidney beans, drained
1 15 ½ oz. can whole kernel corn, drained
1 8 oz. can tomato sauce
1 cup salsa
½ cup fresh cilantro leaves, chopped
1 TBS minced garlic
1 cup red or white onion, chopped
1 small can diced green chilies
6 oz. Jack Cheese, grated
6 oz. Sharp Cheddar Cheese, grated
Salt & Pepper to taste
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Grease 13 x 9 baking dish.
Scatter chips on bottom.
Combine chicken, beans, corn, tomato sauce, salsa, onion, chilies, cilantro, garlic, salt & pepper.
Place half the mixture evenly on top of chips.
Combine cheeses; spread ½ over meat and bean mixture.
Spread rest of meat and bean mixture next.
Top with the rest of the cheese mixture.
Cover with foil and bake for 30-40 minutes.
Let stand 5 minutes.
Garnish with sour cream, diced tomatoes, olives and more cilantro.
Omit the meat for a vegetarian version and experiment with different beans: pinto, black beans etc.
Now my addendum to the recipe:
After placing casserole on the table, bow head and give thanks to our Heavenly Father for the kindness and generosity of our friends who are extensions of His love and mercy. Ask God to richly bless those that are blessing you beyond what they thought possible. Pray for the insight to know when it’s time to pay it forward to the next one in need of being showered with love, casseroles and prayer. Ask for forgiveness for those who make devilishly good deserts. Amen.
This was just one of many meals we’ve received and I plan to share as many recipes as possible with you along the way. It has been a huge gift not to have to plan, shop, prepare and clean up for dinner’s main course. Thank you all so much.
Physically, three weeks out is a good place to be. My drains came out on day 22 and I’m not really having pain. My energy is coming back and I’m driving around. The steri-strips are finally off the incisions and I still think it looks pretty ugly. According to the few friends I’ve “bared my chest” to, they say, “It’s not that bad!” They said it so genuinely that I have no choice but to start believing them. My sternum does protrude a bit, kind of like the bow of a boat and I joked with Sally that I should have a naked lady’s torso tattooed on it like a pirate’s ship!
I do have one complaint however, I have wasted three weeks of leave actually getting well. I had big, big plans. When one hears they will be off work for four weeks or so, one gets ideas. I know I’m not the only one. Wouldn’t it be a great time to get going on those photo albums? What about finishing the quilt you started for your daughter’s high school graduation? This would be a good time to finish it because she’s already completed two undergrad degrees and just finished her MBA… Maybe it would be easier for me to accept that leave is for healing if I were a guy. I might be suffering from a peculiarly feminine syndrome. Recovering is the opposite of multi-tasking, which is second nature to a woman. If I were a guy with four weeks leave ahead of me, it never would have occurred to me to finish a quilt or catch up on the photo albums. I would have put fresh batteries in the remote, piled my favorite magazines next to the recliner, let the answering machine screen all calls and practiced a pathetic facial expression so that everyone in the family would bring me things. Sorry guys, this isn’t really a slam on your gender, but more of an acknowledgement that it’s harder for us girls to sit still without feeling guilty. I’m just admitting my female craziness. The male approach to recovery time is the better plan. Just be. Let things be done for you. Don’t plan extra work. It’s okay to simply recover. Getting well again is it’s own accomplishment. Girls, you don’t need to have a finished quilt to validate having four weeks off. Now, if I only believed that!
The Ugly Fight
Hooter Hotline #12: The Ugly Fight
February 9, 2010
Dear Hooter Hotline Friends,
Please forgive me for my absence. I was suffering from an emotional “writer’s block” due to a very ugly fight I had with my husband. Yes, I’m talking about the very same husband that left the hard–to-reach cereal bowl out for me. Ever since we received the cancer diagnosis the first week in November, the affirmations of love, affection and simply cherishing each other have escalated to the level of newlyweds. It’s not exactly like newlyweds. We haven’t been ripping each other’s clothes off or doing giddy, mushy, nauseating smoochy stuff, but there is a depth to these demonstrations that comes with having logged many years together. I remember talking to my daughter about sex and abstinence when she was a teenager. The main point I wanted to impress upon her was how truly amazing marital sex can become over the years. Sexual activity in short-term relationships or “flings” in no way comes close to the satisfaction of making love to the one person you respect, cherish, adore and feel completely safe with. This intense marital gift has, on more than one occasion, been overwhelming and brought me to tears on an uncontrollable visceral level. Fortunately for Rog, the tears only roll in the afterglow. It would be too cruel if it swept over me before his satisfaction was complete. While his bafflement at such a response is justified, I think that women understand its origin. Everything a woman hopes for in a man, marriage, life, personal happiness and a relationship, culminates in those moments when she is freely giving everything she has and is openly receiving every thing he is giving. It just doesn’t get any better than that. So, these affirmations and demonstrations of affection have been like that without the physicality of sex. Direct eye contact without words while holding my chin in his hands, sitting on the couch side by side with hands on thighs or fingers interlaced and just more touching in general as if to say, “I’m so glad you’re here. I don’t want to lose you.” We even said openly that there was no reason to waste time fighting ever again.
So that’s how we’ve been grooving along for three months and then it happened. I still can’t believe how ugly it was. It was shocking that in a moment’s time, we fell abruptly from an “A” grade to a full-fledged “F.” There had been no signs or symptoms that war was brewing. This happened like the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor. The worst part is that the provocation was not about tyranny or world domination, but was sparked by the dumbest, most inconsequential thing on the planet…the light over the kitchen stove. Usually, Rog is the one who puts the house to bed. After my surgeries however, I have often been the one up late and putting the lights out. One night I made my usual rounds of turning off this and switching off that, when halfway down the hall to the bedroom, I noticed that it wasn’t dark behind me. I turned around and went back to the kitchen to see that the light over the stove was on. It is a small light that is controlled by the microwave mounted above the stove. It is also a very subtle light that isn’t noticed until all the other lights are off. I can’t see the light button on the microwave because the kitchen is too dark and it only shines downward. So I go over and turn on the kitchen light in order to see the microwave button and press it off. No big deal. Some one must have left it on after making dinner. Turning off the kitchen light again, I go to bed. The same thing happens the next several nights. I’m getting a little irritated because I always have to go back to the kitchen and turn on a light to be able to turn off a light. The night of the fight, we were putting the house to bed together. I turned off the living room lights and then progressed to the kitchen. After turning off the main light, I saw that the stupid microwave light was on AGAIN! We had dinner out that night and I knew we hadn’t turned it on, so of course I exploded, “Who is turning on that damn light!” Rog was shocked by my outburst and responded, “My, my, my!” He might as well have said “Temper, temper, temper,” because I was so irritated now that Henry Kissinger would have jumped off the tracks after one glimpse of my train beginning to barrel down the hill. I thought Rog was being condescending and that he didn’t realize I had been fighting with the Light Gremlin for a while now. And to add gas to the fire, I was at day fifteen of my menstrual cycle. A wise man would have fessed-up immediately that he, “Techno-guy,” had recently programmed the light to come on automatically as a nightlight for those seeking a nocturnal glass of water. A confession followed by an apology for any frustration caused and perhaps the offer of a backrub would have quelled the volcanic eruption, but as perfect as Rog is, he hasn’t yet mastered “Irate, Unreasonable Woman 401.” I have found that whenever I am irate and unreasonable, I actually block his ability to perform well and therefore perpetuate my own unhappiness, which is my just punishment for lack of control. I’m not sure when the subject actually turned away from the light, but it did and the fight went down the well-worn dysfunctional path that every couple establishes in their immaturity and we spiraled to the fights ugly demise. Demise of the fight does not mean it was resolved, only that it had stopped. Yuck. While tucking John in bed the next evening, the ugliness of our fight was further highlighted, “Could you try not to wake me up tonight?” Ouch. Hand over the cat-of-nine-tails and I’ll flagellate myself. Nice going, nice way to help your child feel secure when he’s already afraid you might die. Good job. Real good job. Are you proud of yourself? Huh? How’s that feel?
It took us a week of approaching the damage and fall-out from different angles to finally reach a truly peaceful place, but now all is well.
The good news in all this is that I’ve realized that Rog and I are so connected that I cannot be productive or creative unless things are “right.” That’s a good place to be and I need to do all I can to protect that. The bad news is that maybe it was just time for the whole cancer thing to win a round by having it’s stress bring out the worst in us in a way we least expected. I’ve been thinking about ways to be proactive in dealing with all the negative energy I’m trying to overcome. Oh sure, I can exercise, have sex, do yoga, blah, blah, blah, but what I’m actually thinking about doing is making a large breast cancer target and shooting at it off the deck with our shotgun. I’m envisioning a large piece of plywood painted with the picture of the breast from the handout the doctor uses when she explains where you have cancer. It is a side view of the breast that shows ducts and lobes. Since I had cancer in both places, I really can’t miss! Last night before going to sleep I asked Rog what the range of our shotgun was. He’s allover the idea. John can get in on it too with his beebee gun. I’m not sure this will become a mainstream family therapy tool, but I can’t wait to pop off a couple rounds!
Thanks for hanging in there with me folks!
February 9, 2010
Dear Hooter Hotline Friends,
Please forgive me for my absence. I was suffering from an emotional “writer’s block” due to a very ugly fight I had with my husband. Yes, I’m talking about the very same husband that left the hard–to-reach cereal bowl out for me. Ever since we received the cancer diagnosis the first week in November, the affirmations of love, affection and simply cherishing each other have escalated to the level of newlyweds. It’s not exactly like newlyweds. We haven’t been ripping each other’s clothes off or doing giddy, mushy, nauseating smoochy stuff, but there is a depth to these demonstrations that comes with having logged many years together. I remember talking to my daughter about sex and abstinence when she was a teenager. The main point I wanted to impress upon her was how truly amazing marital sex can become over the years. Sexual activity in short-term relationships or “flings” in no way comes close to the satisfaction of making love to the one person you respect, cherish, adore and feel completely safe with. This intense marital gift has, on more than one occasion, been overwhelming and brought me to tears on an uncontrollable visceral level. Fortunately for Rog, the tears only roll in the afterglow. It would be too cruel if it swept over me before his satisfaction was complete. While his bafflement at such a response is justified, I think that women understand its origin. Everything a woman hopes for in a man, marriage, life, personal happiness and a relationship, culminates in those moments when she is freely giving everything she has and is openly receiving every thing he is giving. It just doesn’t get any better than that. So, these affirmations and demonstrations of affection have been like that without the physicality of sex. Direct eye contact without words while holding my chin in his hands, sitting on the couch side by side with hands on thighs or fingers interlaced and just more touching in general as if to say, “I’m so glad you’re here. I don’t want to lose you.” We even said openly that there was no reason to waste time fighting ever again.
So that’s how we’ve been grooving along for three months and then it happened. I still can’t believe how ugly it was. It was shocking that in a moment’s time, we fell abruptly from an “A” grade to a full-fledged “F.” There had been no signs or symptoms that war was brewing. This happened like the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor. The worst part is that the provocation was not about tyranny or world domination, but was sparked by the dumbest, most inconsequential thing on the planet…the light over the kitchen stove. Usually, Rog is the one who puts the house to bed. After my surgeries however, I have often been the one up late and putting the lights out. One night I made my usual rounds of turning off this and switching off that, when halfway down the hall to the bedroom, I noticed that it wasn’t dark behind me. I turned around and went back to the kitchen to see that the light over the stove was on. It is a small light that is controlled by the microwave mounted above the stove. It is also a very subtle light that isn’t noticed until all the other lights are off. I can’t see the light button on the microwave because the kitchen is too dark and it only shines downward. So I go over and turn on the kitchen light in order to see the microwave button and press it off. No big deal. Some one must have left it on after making dinner. Turning off the kitchen light again, I go to bed. The same thing happens the next several nights. I’m getting a little irritated because I always have to go back to the kitchen and turn on a light to be able to turn off a light. The night of the fight, we were putting the house to bed together. I turned off the living room lights and then progressed to the kitchen. After turning off the main light, I saw that the stupid microwave light was on AGAIN! We had dinner out that night and I knew we hadn’t turned it on, so of course I exploded, “Who is turning on that damn light!” Rog was shocked by my outburst and responded, “My, my, my!” He might as well have said “Temper, temper, temper,” because I was so irritated now that Henry Kissinger would have jumped off the tracks after one glimpse of my train beginning to barrel down the hill. I thought Rog was being condescending and that he didn’t realize I had been fighting with the Light Gremlin for a while now. And to add gas to the fire, I was at day fifteen of my menstrual cycle. A wise man would have fessed-up immediately that he, “Techno-guy,” had recently programmed the light to come on automatically as a nightlight for those seeking a nocturnal glass of water. A confession followed by an apology for any frustration caused and perhaps the offer of a backrub would have quelled the volcanic eruption, but as perfect as Rog is, he hasn’t yet mastered “Irate, Unreasonable Woman 401.” I have found that whenever I am irate and unreasonable, I actually block his ability to perform well and therefore perpetuate my own unhappiness, which is my just punishment for lack of control. I’m not sure when the subject actually turned away from the light, but it did and the fight went down the well-worn dysfunctional path that every couple establishes in their immaturity and we spiraled to the fights ugly demise. Demise of the fight does not mean it was resolved, only that it had stopped. Yuck. While tucking John in bed the next evening, the ugliness of our fight was further highlighted, “Could you try not to wake me up tonight?” Ouch. Hand over the cat-of-nine-tails and I’ll flagellate myself. Nice going, nice way to help your child feel secure when he’s already afraid you might die. Good job. Real good job. Are you proud of yourself? Huh? How’s that feel?
It took us a week of approaching the damage and fall-out from different angles to finally reach a truly peaceful place, but now all is well.
The good news in all this is that I’ve realized that Rog and I are so connected that I cannot be productive or creative unless things are “right.” That’s a good place to be and I need to do all I can to protect that. The bad news is that maybe it was just time for the whole cancer thing to win a round by having it’s stress bring out the worst in us in a way we least expected. I’ve been thinking about ways to be proactive in dealing with all the negative energy I’m trying to overcome. Oh sure, I can exercise, have sex, do yoga, blah, blah, blah, but what I’m actually thinking about doing is making a large breast cancer target and shooting at it off the deck with our shotgun. I’m envisioning a large piece of plywood painted with the picture of the breast from the handout the doctor uses when she explains where you have cancer. It is a side view of the breast that shows ducts and lobes. Since I had cancer in both places, I really can’t miss! Last night before going to sleep I asked Rog what the range of our shotgun was. He’s allover the idea. John can get in on it too with his beebee gun. I’m not sure this will become a mainstream family therapy tool, but I can’t wait to pop off a couple rounds!
Thanks for hanging in there with me folks!
Thursday, January 21, 2010
One Week Anniversary After Mastectomies
Hooter Hotline #11 One Week Anniversary
January 21, 2010
I just locked myself out of the house! It’s lunchtime and I went to the freezer in the garage to grab a Healthy Choice meal. As the door closed behind me, I asked myself, “I wonder if I’m locked out?” A quick check of the door knob answered my question. Now I had to trudge through the mud in my fluffy slippers and jammies, drains swinging, to the secret key stash on the property. I did this with some urgency, hoping the mail lady wouldn’t come bopping down the driveway to find me in this condition. All this for a frozen lunch, a lunch that only met the requirements for “healthy” and it’s advertised weight due to a disproportionate amount of chopped pimentos! Is it just me or does anyone else think that frozen meals abuse red pimentos? There must be a secret file for frozen food recipes and each begins with “2 cups chopped pimento per serving!” On any other day, it might have been pretty irritating to lock myself out of the house for the sake of soggy Lemon Pepper Fish (with pimento), but not today. Yesterday marked one week from the day of my surgery and today marked a week since I had come home.
I’m feeling good, rested and well. I’m still sore under the arms and the drains are putting out 80 -100 ml per 24 hours. I’m only taking pain meds at bedtime and napping for about 1 hour in the afternoons. After my second shower a couple days ago, I was able to dry myself and comb my own hair out. It is easier to reach for most things, except for where I keep the cereal bowls. They are in a corner cupboard that one can’t get in front of. They sit on the top shelf and the last time I tried to gingerly reach for one, the attempt elicited a yelp. Rog was nearby at the time and helped me out. Yesterday, I got up after Rog had taken John to school and shuffled to the kitchen for some Raisin Bran. As I passed by the stovetop, something caught my eye. It was a cereal bowl and spoon with a white paper napkin over the top and a note that read, “Clean. Love Ya, Rog” “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” was all I could say. It was such a sweet gesture and demonstrated a concept Rog and I have coined as “Life-mate shit.” Sorry for the four letter word, but I’ll explain that another time. I felt so loved and cared for, it was like a wearing a cozy sweater all day long.
This is the same guy who, after telling him how ugly my chest looked once I’d seen it without dressings, simply grabbed my right wrist, palpated my radial pulse and said looking gently into my eyes, “Yeah, you’re here.” Later that evening while sitting on the couch, I turned and looked at him. It had been bugging me ever since I’d seen the full-meal-deal in the shower. “I don’t know when I’ll be able to let you see it,” I said. “It might be a long time. It kind of looks like a big, wide ice cream scoop has been there. I don’t think I want you to see it until all the scars are healed. It’s just so ugly and the incisions are so long,” I explained. He looked at me with a completely normal expression on his face and said, “That’s okay, but I’ve been getting ready to see it since November.” I almost fell off the couch. He made the statement with such resolute assurance that I was very surprised. Could this really have come from my guy who, while being big and strong, can be overwhelmed by a flu shot or blood draw? There was no denying his calm and steadfast position. His genuine personal strength will make it easier to reveal my new “African-Marathoner” chest when the time comes.
It seems longer than a week ago that I slowly awoke in recovery room. At the end of my recovery room stay and superb care from Mandy, RN, I noticed my stretcher was square in front of the “PACU Supervisor” office. “Hey, is your supervisor in there?” I asked almost being surly, which a little anesthetic and narcotic cocktail tends bring out in me. “She is? Good, I’d like to talk to her, STAT!” She emerged from her office with a serious expression on her face, “What can I do for you?” “Well, I just want you to know that you have a first class operation going here. Your staff is awesome and since my three recent surgeries qualify me as a frequent flyer, I know what I’m talking about. I’ve always had the best care and my pain has been well controlled.” Her face broke into a smile. I love to sneak-attack people with praise. It’s great sport and it’s a good thing to recognize an employee’s work in the presence of their boss.
Shortly I was wheeled up to my room on the sixth floor. It was just the “sixth floor” to me until the next day when I learned that I was on the “oncology” floor.
That was a little wake-up call in itself. I viewed myself as a surgical patient, not an oncology patient, but I needed to face the reality. My room was ultra-deluxe. In fact, it put most Family Birth suites to shame. Sage green walls, rich dark wood shelving and entertainment center, wall sconces, pull-out bed in a custom cabinet, Corian counter top, and lots of room for visitors were key features. On my first trip to the bathroom, the nurse assisted me. I had to ask, “What’s with this deluxe room? It’s like a presidential suite!” “Oh, it’s our “Comfort Care/hospice” room,” she replied. I looked at her with wide eyes and exclaimed, “Am I going to die here?!!!” I was joking of course and we had a good laugh over it, but it seems that the breast surgeons try to get this room for their patients whenever it is available. What a nice touch and so thoughtful of the patient. It really did help my overnight stay be extra pleasant.
It was a busy afternoon and evening once I was settled in my room. The surgery had taken about four hours which was longer than anticipated. My anesthesiologist planned for a long, slow wake-up in PACU, so it wasn’t long before Rog brought John in after school. As he came in the door, I tossed my legs over the side of the bed and dangled there, arms wide-open to receive my sweet boy. I wanted to appear as normal as possible for him. He knew this surgery was a bigger deal than the lumpectomies and he had been worried. He smiled with relief and gave me a gentle hug. We talked about school and how well I was doing. I really was doing well. I was giddy-happy about being on the other side of this surgery and the process that had made it necessary. It was done. Now we could focus on healing and moving forward. I felt as good as those first moments after you’ve pushed your baby out. Labor is over. The whole body experiences relief. Episiotomy stitches, afterbirth delivery, so what? I wore a goofy “I’m so glad it’s done” smile for several days afterward.
My happiness was only tempered later that evening when I turned on the news and learned of the earthquake in Haiti. I was crushed to see the massive devastation and the desperation of the people. The news reports revealed that medical resources were already being exhausted. I closed my eyes in my deluxe room and asked for God’s mercy to be upon Haiti and help provide for their needs. I thanked Him for the simple fact that I had access to pain pills while Haitian victims were experiencing extensive trauma without pain relief or antibiotics. One doesn’t need to have experienced a big quake to be sensitive to those that do, but I have. I was four years old when the Great Alaskan Earthquake hit with a magnitude of 9.2, March 27th, 1964 at 5:36 PM. I remember very clearly that my family was assembled around the dinner table having a “fancy dinner” for my parent’s anniversary. Above the table on the wall was a clock with little coves around the dial that held pretty glass things. When the shaking started, they began to fall down onto the table. The red drinking glasses started to fall over and my mother’s bumpy white milk glass pieces began falling on the floor. The kitchen cupboards flew open and their contents poured forth. Suddenly, I could hear my parents begin to shout orders. My brother Jeffry, four years older than me, was told to take me out into the center of the front yard. My mother, eight months pregnant with Gayle, struggled to untie two-year-old Jan from an old-style springy rocking horse that served as her high chair. She had a congenital hip problem that required both legs be in casts up to the hip, leaving her legs in a V-shape. We all got out safely and our home did not sustain any significant damage. I remember when it was all over, we went back in the house and picked debris out of the dinner and ate it. Downtown Anchorage was really hit hard. I think a lot of my memories of the quake were from years of seeing the subsequent damage as I grew up. When kids in the neighborhood played “grownups” or had tea parties, we would always talk about the earthquake just as we had heard the adults speak about it. I didn’t know until much later that I had some issues because of the earthquake. Apparently, wanting to be prepared for another disaster, I emptied out my Barbie case (Remember those rectangular cases with a snap buckle on the side and a handle on top for carrying the doll and her clothes?), I filled it with food and water, keeping it stocked beside my bed. Turns out a lot of kids had reactions to the quake and counselors had to be brought to the schools. Anyway, my heart goes out to Haiti.
Anchorage, Alaska March 27, 1964
January 21, 2010
I just locked myself out of the house! It’s lunchtime and I went to the freezer in the garage to grab a Healthy Choice meal. As the door closed behind me, I asked myself, “I wonder if I’m locked out?” A quick check of the door knob answered my question. Now I had to trudge through the mud in my fluffy slippers and jammies, drains swinging, to the secret key stash on the property. I did this with some urgency, hoping the mail lady wouldn’t come bopping down the driveway to find me in this condition. All this for a frozen lunch, a lunch that only met the requirements for “healthy” and it’s advertised weight due to a disproportionate amount of chopped pimentos! Is it just me or does anyone else think that frozen meals abuse red pimentos? There must be a secret file for frozen food recipes and each begins with “2 cups chopped pimento per serving!” On any other day, it might have been pretty irritating to lock myself out of the house for the sake of soggy Lemon Pepper Fish (with pimento), but not today. Yesterday marked one week from the day of my surgery and today marked a week since I had come home.
I’m feeling good, rested and well. I’m still sore under the arms and the drains are putting out 80 -100 ml per 24 hours. I’m only taking pain meds at bedtime and napping for about 1 hour in the afternoons. After my second shower a couple days ago, I was able to dry myself and comb my own hair out. It is easier to reach for most things, except for where I keep the cereal bowls. They are in a corner cupboard that one can’t get in front of. They sit on the top shelf and the last time I tried to gingerly reach for one, the attempt elicited a yelp. Rog was nearby at the time and helped me out. Yesterday, I got up after Rog had taken John to school and shuffled to the kitchen for some Raisin Bran. As I passed by the stovetop, something caught my eye. It was a cereal bowl and spoon with a white paper napkin over the top and a note that read, “Clean. Love Ya, Rog” “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” was all I could say. It was such a sweet gesture and demonstrated a concept Rog and I have coined as “Life-mate shit.” Sorry for the four letter word, but I’ll explain that another time. I felt so loved and cared for, it was like a wearing a cozy sweater all day long.
This is the same guy who, after telling him how ugly my chest looked once I’d seen it without dressings, simply grabbed my right wrist, palpated my radial pulse and said looking gently into my eyes, “Yeah, you’re here.” Later that evening while sitting on the couch, I turned and looked at him. It had been bugging me ever since I’d seen the full-meal-deal in the shower. “I don’t know when I’ll be able to let you see it,” I said. “It might be a long time. It kind of looks like a big, wide ice cream scoop has been there. I don’t think I want you to see it until all the scars are healed. It’s just so ugly and the incisions are so long,” I explained. He looked at me with a completely normal expression on his face and said, “That’s okay, but I’ve been getting ready to see it since November.” I almost fell off the couch. He made the statement with such resolute assurance that I was very surprised. Could this really have come from my guy who, while being big and strong, can be overwhelmed by a flu shot or blood draw? There was no denying his calm and steadfast position. His genuine personal strength will make it easier to reveal my new “African-Marathoner” chest when the time comes.
It seems longer than a week ago that I slowly awoke in recovery room. At the end of my recovery room stay and superb care from Mandy, RN, I noticed my stretcher was square in front of the “PACU Supervisor” office. “Hey, is your supervisor in there?” I asked almost being surly, which a little anesthetic and narcotic cocktail tends bring out in me. “She is? Good, I’d like to talk to her, STAT!” She emerged from her office with a serious expression on her face, “What can I do for you?” “Well, I just want you to know that you have a first class operation going here. Your staff is awesome and since my three recent surgeries qualify me as a frequent flyer, I know what I’m talking about. I’ve always had the best care and my pain has been well controlled.” Her face broke into a smile. I love to sneak-attack people with praise. It’s great sport and it’s a good thing to recognize an employee’s work in the presence of their boss.
Shortly I was wheeled up to my room on the sixth floor. It was just the “sixth floor” to me until the next day when I learned that I was on the “oncology” floor.
That was a little wake-up call in itself. I viewed myself as a surgical patient, not an oncology patient, but I needed to face the reality. My room was ultra-deluxe. In fact, it put most Family Birth suites to shame. Sage green walls, rich dark wood shelving and entertainment center, wall sconces, pull-out bed in a custom cabinet, Corian counter top, and lots of room for visitors were key features. On my first trip to the bathroom, the nurse assisted me. I had to ask, “What’s with this deluxe room? It’s like a presidential suite!” “Oh, it’s our “Comfort Care/hospice” room,” she replied. I looked at her with wide eyes and exclaimed, “Am I going to die here?!!!” I was joking of course and we had a good laugh over it, but it seems that the breast surgeons try to get this room for their patients whenever it is available. What a nice touch and so thoughtful of the patient. It really did help my overnight stay be extra pleasant.
It was a busy afternoon and evening once I was settled in my room. The surgery had taken about four hours which was longer than anticipated. My anesthesiologist planned for a long, slow wake-up in PACU, so it wasn’t long before Rog brought John in after school. As he came in the door, I tossed my legs over the side of the bed and dangled there, arms wide-open to receive my sweet boy. I wanted to appear as normal as possible for him. He knew this surgery was a bigger deal than the lumpectomies and he had been worried. He smiled with relief and gave me a gentle hug. We talked about school and how well I was doing. I really was doing well. I was giddy-happy about being on the other side of this surgery and the process that had made it necessary. It was done. Now we could focus on healing and moving forward. I felt as good as those first moments after you’ve pushed your baby out. Labor is over. The whole body experiences relief. Episiotomy stitches, afterbirth delivery, so what? I wore a goofy “I’m so glad it’s done” smile for several days afterward.
My happiness was only tempered later that evening when I turned on the news and learned of the earthquake in Haiti. I was crushed to see the massive devastation and the desperation of the people. The news reports revealed that medical resources were already being exhausted. I closed my eyes in my deluxe room and asked for God’s mercy to be upon Haiti and help provide for their needs. I thanked Him for the simple fact that I had access to pain pills while Haitian victims were experiencing extensive trauma without pain relief or antibiotics. One doesn’t need to have experienced a big quake to be sensitive to those that do, but I have. I was four years old when the Great Alaskan Earthquake hit with a magnitude of 9.2, March 27th, 1964 at 5:36 PM. I remember very clearly that my family was assembled around the dinner table having a “fancy dinner” for my parent’s anniversary. Above the table on the wall was a clock with little coves around the dial that held pretty glass things. When the shaking started, they began to fall down onto the table. The red drinking glasses started to fall over and my mother’s bumpy white milk glass pieces began falling on the floor. The kitchen cupboards flew open and their contents poured forth. Suddenly, I could hear my parents begin to shout orders. My brother Jeffry, four years older than me, was told to take me out into the center of the front yard. My mother, eight months pregnant with Gayle, struggled to untie two-year-old Jan from an old-style springy rocking horse that served as her high chair. She had a congenital hip problem that required both legs be in casts up to the hip, leaving her legs in a V-shape. We all got out safely and our home did not sustain any significant damage. I remember when it was all over, we went back in the house and picked debris out of the dinner and ate it. Downtown Anchorage was really hit hard. I think a lot of my memories of the quake were from years of seeing the subsequent damage as I grew up. When kids in the neighborhood played “grownups” or had tea parties, we would always talk about the earthquake just as we had heard the adults speak about it. I didn’t know until much later that I had some issues because of the earthquake. Apparently, wanting to be prepared for another disaster, I emptied out my Barbie case (Remember those rectangular cases with a snap buckle on the side and a handle on top for carrying the doll and her clothes?), I filled it with food and water, keeping it stocked beside my bed. Turns out a lot of kids had reactions to the quake and counselors had to be brought to the schools. Anyway, my heart goes out to Haiti.
Anchorage, Alaska March 27, 1964
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