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

The Laundry Fairy

Hooter Hotline #10 The Laundry Fairy
January 18, 2010

And what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a Laundry Fairy in pink wings, and Dryel flower perched on her ear..

Good heavens! How many Oxycontin did I take? Maybe I’m having an allergic reaction to the antibiotic! My eyes were wide when they first caught site of her. I was brushing my teeth at the time. All the excitement made me brush more vigorously and soon mint green foam was dripping down my chin. Do I spit first or take a picture? These mythological creatures are rarely seen in public, let alone in daylight. Do I need to cover the mirrors or set out milk and cookies? I don’t have an algorithm for this kind of event. Then it occurs to me, grab the ironing board, fill the steam port on the iron and heat up the dryer with a Bounce sheet and maybe she’ll feel at home. Phew! I figured it out just in time. She flitted around the house for hours collecting laundry and dusting everything in her path. Her Spray-n-Wash holster was fully loaded and her yellow-gloved trigger finger was faster than the speed-of- light. A merry little tune and the sweet scent of Dryel anti-static softener sheets trailed behind her as she went about her work. She was living out the motto printed on her Laundry Fairy-issue uniform; “Live, Love, Launder.” Some of us are too old for the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus, but believe me when I tell you that you CAN believe in the Laundry Fairy!

A few days after her appearance, I was still convincing myself that she actually existed when my sister Gayle stopped by with a load of folded, pressed and hung laundry. She arrived in her usual vice presidential fashion, coifed and dressed in successful business attire. I couldn’t help but notice that something about her reminded me of the Laundry Fairy. I glanced outside to see if there was a telephone booth where she might have changed outfits, but the usual mud and gravel of my driveway was all I saw. I desperately wanted to tell her I recognized her and thank her for the good deeds, but something told me I should keep that to myself. There must be a litmus test to see if this Clark Kent was really Superman. Of the items she brought, I noticed that some were inside a clear plastic bag from a dry cleaner. My cloth shower curtain was one, crisply folded in lengths and hung precisely in the center of a proper slack hanger. This was my big chance to expose her. “Gayle, you really shouldn’t have taken this stuff to the cleaners! Let me reimburse you,” I offered. First there was a flash of indignation that shot from her blue eyes, but she caught herself immediately as she realized that she had actually been flattered. She averted her gaze to the floor and blushed with a humble pride. Yes, she really was THAT good at laundry. That was all the reward she needed.

As you might imagine, the Laundry Fairy is a big step up from my style of laundry service at home. The downside of her visits is how readily the men have adjusted to her presence and have moved from gratitude to, “When’s the Laundry Fairy coming?”
I have to admit that I was pretty embarrassed when Gayle and her family came over Sunday night and cooked a delicious, maximum comfort food, pot roast dinner for us. After we had watched a silly Jackie Chan movie together it was time for them to pack it up. Everyone was making the rounds with good bye hugs when I noticed John was no where to be seen. “John, where are you? Get out here and hug your Auntie Gayle and Uncle Kyle,” I hollered. He emerged from the bedroom hallway lugging his full laundry bin with an urgent look on his face, which clearly read that he didn’t want to miss the Laundry Fairy! I looked at him in surprise and waved him off as he started to say, “What about my….” “We’ll deal with that later, Dear,” I whispered.
Not all change is hard on kids.



Laundry Fairy siting, January 2010

The News from Lake Boob-be-gone

Hooter Hotline #9 The News From Lake Boob-Be-Gone
January 17, 2010

“Name the Drains” Contest Results

And the winner is…..drum roll please…..uh, well, it’s just not that simple……

There were eleven submissions, two entries were the same, but all names were hysterical and RICH with meaning…so, the winner is….everyone!

With ten name winners, that’s a name a day! The drains will take on the personas of each name set, a different one for each day of their lives…The names and the winners will be revealed along the way as the drain photos are posted.

All winners will receive an alpaca product.

Now, for all you losers that didn’t get in on the name game, there is a secondary contest for:
1. Choosing the drain with the most drainage by time of removal: Right vs. Left
2. Estimating the total output of both drains in mililiters by the time of removal

Okay, the important stuff has been taken care of. Now, The News from Lake Boob-be-gone!

It just hasn’t been THAT bad! I did not know what to expect. I didn’t know how wiped out I might be or how much pain I might have. I’m not trying to be tough when I say that it has been very manageable. The pain occurs in a thin line beginning under my arms and stretches out to the center of my chest. It is the stingy, burning pain you expect with an incision. The drains have their own exit sites below the incisions. When I move in a way that pulls on the stitch that holds each in place, that’s the only time they hurt. If I tap over the former breast area and the space between where they were, it feels like a dull thud. My chest is wrapped with roll gauze and two wide Ace wraps. The wrap feels pretty good and keeps fluid from collecting. I’ve been able to cough and laugh without much discomfort. The surgeon reassured me that they just don’t see infections because of the drains. In other words, “Chill!” Sometimes just reaching across my body to roll up my sleeve or reaching up to brush my bangs aside will elicit an “Ow,” but it only lasts for a second. In some ways, this is better than the engorged football I had to carry around with two ice packs after lumpectomies. Four days after surgery, I’m feeling a good amount of energy, but that is of course while I’m just hanging out watching “Clean House” and “Super Nanny.”

My sister Jan came over Saturday evening and I asked her to help me take my first shower. Poor girl said, “Sure, Jenny.” Rog was willing to assist, but I really needed to view the “carnage” first and make my own mental adjustments without him. Seeing what wasn’t under the ace wrap was something else I had no idea how it might effect me. While a nursing student, I had the concept of “alteration in body image” absolutely hammered into me and bilateral mastectomies is the perfect example for its application. With this awareness I expected I would have some kind of emotional response to seeing my post-op chest, but couldn’t guess how it would manifest itself. Jan and I went into the bathroom and she began unrolling my mummy wrappings. Round and round I went until at last we were down to the Tegaderm clear dressings (sticky Saran Wrap) over the white Telfa strips that covered the incision. I turned and squared myself in front of the mirror. “Hmmmmm, those are long incisions! Wow, not much swelling or bruising. Gee, my chest circumference hasn’t been this small since I was twelve. Gads, with the “girls” gone, I look nine months pregnant! Gotta work on that. No biggie, I can deal with this.” All these thoughts ran one after another across my mind like an electronic reader board. Matter of factly I climbed into the warm, steamy shower. Oh, it felt so good. I washed my itchy head and rinsed off. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Jan was waiting with towels and helped dry off my pits, back and legs. I really did need the help. Then a sneaker wave of nausea and emotion washed over me. “Jan, I need to sit down,” I mumbled. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Yeah, I was doing fine and now I feel sick to my stomach,” I answered as I fought back my own shower of tears. Jan reached over and lovingly rubbed my shoulder. Silly me for thinking that my mirror time had not breached the emotion damn. The wave began to recede and we proceeded on to the comical task of rewrapping my chest. There were several attempts to get it right because the velcro on the Ace wraps only works if started in the right direction. Then there is the little matter of being able to breathe while wrapped. It took three wrap attempts to get Goldilock’s Ace pressure just right! Finally, I had to ask Jan to comb out my waist-long hair. I was exhausted by the time I was fluffed and buffed. It was time for a couple oxycodone and a long recline in the LazyBoy. I am referring to the LazyBoy which I have relentlessly maligned over the years for its cliché medium-blue velour upholstery and its hideous “Pillow-back” style. Rog brought it to our marriage in 1995 and I have not been shy with my displeasure about having to work it into our “design plan.” Yes, it is I who now has an exer-cycle as part of the “design plan” throwing stones from my glass house! The blue recliner has been exiled to either the spare room or the basement much of its life with the exception of a few key incidences which it is only fair that I now publicly admit. That’s right, Rog will have a smug smile on his face for weeks after all of you hear my confession. The embarrassing blue chair has been a blessing while nursing me through two foot surgeries, two back surgeries, two lumpectomies and now mastectomies. I asked for it to be brought to the living room and placed by the exer-cycle for the latest round of surgical amusements. It has been like an old friend ministering to my true needs which have precious little to do with décor. I have secretly loved and used Rog’s man-chair without giving it the credit it deserves until now. There, I said it. Please forgive me Rog. Please forgive me LazyBoy. “Hey, you! Get outta my ugly chair!”

Aunt Ginger

Hooter Hotline #8 Aunt Ginger
January 12, 2010

Hello Friends! I have so much to share, but will restrain myself and provide “just the facts” upfront. You can continue reading after items 1 & 2 if you wish to subject yourselves to my convoluted thought process and the roller coaster ride of the last several days.

1. Surgery is scheduled for 0730, Wednesday January 13th at Good Samaritan Medical Center. This means I need to arrive at 0530, but luckily the roads won’t be covered in icy slush this trip. I really did wish I could have a “Home IV Start-Kit” last time because it took them three sticks to get a proper IV going in my 1 inch diameter garden hose veins! What if I had one of my ICU pals start it tonight and I just showed up with it tomorrow…..hmmmmm…. It will take about 3 hours to remove these beauties. I’m surprised it won’t take longer because scalpel blades are very small…all that tissue…one little blade… Will she use a tiny little knife steel between cuts like a chef? Will she go through multiple scalpels? Sorry, I’m off again, aren’t I. Anyway, I will only be in one night and home on Thursday.
a. No reconstruction: Rog honestly concurs and this time I believe him.
b. No lymph nodes: The Sentinel Node Biopsy from the first lumpectomy showed no sign of cancer cells having migrated out to the lymph system. Of course it is not 100% accurate. It is always possible to miss one of those sneaky little bastards who might cause metastasis somewhere else, but it is pretty reliable. It is fascinating how they check the sentinel node; first they inject your breast with a blue dye when they take you to surgery, then the doctor massages your breast like a dough ball to get the dye into the ducts, finally she makes a little incision in your armpit looks to see which node turned blue, that lucky fellow gets removed and sent to pathology. Isn’t that brilliant!
c. I will have two Jackson Pratt drains: a JP drain is a clear tube connected to a clear bulb the size of lemon, they will located where each breast was in order to drain serous fluid out of the area. These will be in for 10 days.
d. Total recovery time: about 4 weeks.

2. It’s a Hooter Hotline Contest! Why not have some fun? Yes, I am indeed crazy, but I want you to choose names for my two drains! You know, something like “Chip and Dale!” The winner will receive some sort of alpaca product. Everyone is eligible to enter, even those related to the hooters or winners of any contest within the last thirty days may enter! Email you suggestions and I will choose a winner between popping pain pills on Friday. I want to name them because they will be my constant companions for ten days. They are also the only things I fear about this surgery. No, I’m not afraid of pain, anesthesia, heart attack, stroke or deep vein thrombosis (blood clot), but I am terrified of having two infection freeways available to roaming bacteria for 240 hours. This is where being a nurse is not helpful. So, in an effort to distract myself from my angst, I will give them personalities and engage them in activities over their brief, but glorious life spans. I will probably talk to them too. You will help shape who they become and I will send you updates (photos) of their “Bucket List” adventures.

Well, that’s it for “Just the facts, Ma’am.” And now for the usual ramblings…


I saw Dr. Wheeler last Thursday for my surgical follow-up appointment, but it also served as my pre-op appointment for Wednesday’s surgery. By the way, Dr. Wheeler’s work on the second lumpectomy was excellent again. You can hardly tell any tissue was removed from the breast. If I didn’t have “Ducts Gone Wild!” throughout my breast tissue, I would have been supremely happy with the results. Bikini-worthy, they are! Dr. Wheeler sat down and asked me how I was doing. I looked her straight in the eyes and said enthusiastically, “Great!” “Really?” she responded with surprise in her voice. “Yes, really,” I replied. “I am truly at peace with the next step because of how we got here,” I continued. After going through the last two months of decision making, I find that mastectomy is much easier to accept when you know that there’s really no choice. I believe that this clear path is God’s gift to me in answer to my prayers and yours for DORKUS here, to know what she should do. I know I am not being selfish or rash and am so grateful for the peace of mind that I have now. I am actually feeling light-hearted. So light-hearted in fact, that I was making up names of movies and Broadway shows I could star in as I drove to the appointment:
Bye, Bye, Booby
The Sentinel, (Node)
Flashless Dance
Double D-Day Invasion on Carcinoma Beach
Flats (CATS)
As Flat As it Gets
The Good, The Bad & The Ugly (no change needed)
Jennifer’s Technicolor Boob
The Ta-Ta Sisterhood

I shared a couple of these with Dr. Wheeler and she quickly added, “The Hills Are Alive!” I said, “You mean the ‘Hills Are Dead, ‘right?” “No, I mean the hills are alive with cancer,” she replied. Then, sheepishly, she added, “I have a weird sense of humor.” “Oh, I get it! That could be the title song for the ‘Sound of Cancer,’” I said to my fellow medical black-humorist.

After this little indulgence, I dove into my list of questions about the cancer and the surgery. Now that mastectomy was a reality and not just an idea, I was curious about several things:
1. “How do you make sure we get it all since it is so close to my chest wall?” My past experience filleting fish for summer work had me picturing a severe method of removal with a much bigger knife than she was planning to use. I was a really good little fish filleter in my day. I was expert at getting all the meat off the spine and ribs and never left a morsel on the skin either. It seemed like my skills would be useful for this surgery and I was having trouble envisioning a more delicate procedure that would be as effective as what I could do on the fillet line in a cannery.
It turns out that she neither wanted nor needed my fillet knife from 1981 despite being long, thin, flexible and very sharp. She told me that best practice all over the country is to remove the fascia (the lining over the muscle) with the breast tissue. Science has shown that breast cancer doesn’t grow in the pectoral muscle. While it is good news for me, it is bad news for Aunt Ginger. She was some one who would have really benefited from keeping hers. In 1978 we drove down to visit her in Yosemite where she was a National Park Ranger. She had worked for Wells Fargo many years, Baskin & Robins too, but I always admired her work as a Ranger. A single-wide trailer served as her quarters there. It backed up to a rushing river and I remember how loud it was as we tried to go to sleep. As clear as day, I can picture her funny bra hanging out on the clothesline by the trailer. My mother would have been too vain to leave it drying out in the open, but not Aunt Ginger.

2. “If the fascia is gone, will my skin adhere to the muscle?” Nope.
3. “Is there any detriment to the muscle being “fascia-less?” Nope.
4. “If radiation and Tamoxifen were supposed to “mop up” any stray DCIS (ductal cancer in situ…cancer cells within the duct wall) or IDC (infiltrative/invasive ductal cancer…cancer cells that started inside the duct and then progressed outside invading other tissue), wouldn’t they be able to “mop up” the “Widespread (in the breast) DCIS?” We don’t know for sure. My situation is very uncommon. It is suspected that the risk of recurrence might be higher in my situation. Not a lot of data on my scenario exists. I may very well have been the patient who, after finishing the 5 year Tamoxifen course, would have more cancer. I don’t want to wait and find out. I’m also very curious to see if the right breast ducts have gone as wild as my left. What has happened to me? I’m looking forward to the next pathology report!!!
5. “The reference notebook given to me by the Nurse Navigator had post-op exercises and stretches in it. When should I start doing them?” Begin after the drains come out.
6. “My last anesthesiologist, Dr. Lee, gave me such a good ride; can I request her for Wednesday?” If she is working I can. This is when it DOES help to be a nurse! I give Dr. Lee top honors because, as a veteran of seven surgeries, I now qualify as an anesthesia connoisseur! I awoke with no anesthesia gas-breath lasting 24 hours, no nausea or postural hypotension and I believe she was generous with the “happy juice.” In fact, when they rolled me into the OR from Short Stay, she was waiting for me and rushed up to the stretcher and began injecting my IV line while we were moving. My escort offered to stop the stretcher for her, but she didn’t want to waist a second and besides, she was using a “blunt needle.” I chuckled and said to her, “You seem awfully anxious to make me unconscious, did I say something to offend you when we talked earlier?” “No, no, I just want to keep you happy,” she said matter-of-factly. Well, she did. Happy I was! Honestly, who would want anyone else to watch over nap-time?

Well, this is enough for now. I must get some work done for my boss and cross a bunch of things of my to-do list for John and Rog. Thank you for letting me “brain-dump” on you. It has been so helpful to share with all of you over the last two months. You’ve kept me company with your tears, laughter, empathy, encouragement, interest in learning with me and offers of help (Well, I may have been offended by the psychiatric help offers…). You have made hard times easier. You are my friends and I pray every night for God to bless YOU. Thank you for being the net under my tightrope. I can have a little more fun walking across it knowing you are right under me.

I can’t wait to see what names my drains will have. : ^ )

Boobs are like Lays Potato Chips

Hooter Hotline #7

January 6, 2010

Boobs are like Lay’s Potato Chips…

Yep, you can’t have just one! Well, at least that’s true for me. When I schedule the next surgery, it will be for bilateral mastectomies. I am certain that I would feel goofier with only one “DD” floppin’ around than to have symmetrical nothingness.

My mom’s sister, “Aunt Ginger,” had a left radical mastectomy in 1971 that included taking the pectoral muscle as well. She also had radiation treatment. I gave her a call the day I left my first visit with the breast surgeon. I had held up well during the extended conference time. After all, I wanted to appear to be the professional and medically savvy nurse as I sat in front of this prestigious surgeon. I really did give a good performance loaded with quips, puns and one-liners, but the minute Rog and I walked out to the parking lot and the curtain was down, down came the tears. Rog had driven his own car to the appointment and it tore him up to have to send me off alone with all that new information weighing down on me. In fact, he tried to call me on my cell phone while I was chatting with Aunt Ginger. I still have his voice mail from that day saved on my phone. It was precious in its earnest regret that he could not be with me on the drive to offer comfort. I just listened to his message again today when my cell phone held my new message hostage until I listened to all the “about-to-expire” saved messages. I hate being manipulated by my own phone, but that’s a different rant altogether.

Anyway, talking to Aunt Ginger, who is now around 80 years old, was the best medicine for me. I wish you all had a chance to know her. I have looked up to her all my life. She is a courageous, stable, no nonsense, pragmatic, progressive and positive person. She is an inspiration to me and is the one I model what kind of aunt I try to be for my nieces and nephews. She began telling me about her cancer and the one regret she did have. She only regretted that she had not had the remaining breast reduced earlier in her life. She told how difficult it was to find prosthesis to match the other breast and that she never really did succeed. She was forever stuffing things into her bra like hankies and hand towels to create an even appearance. During one doctor’s appointment, she remembers him asking, “What is all this stuff in your bra?” She also related being out at a restaurant with her daughter who began tapping her on her arm, “Mom, your boob is tipping over your coffee cup!” Makes sense when you realize that a prosthetic boob can’t feel a thing. Then there was the time when the prosthetic floated out of her suit in a public swimming pool. She had me laughing and smiling during our conversation as she delivered her one-of-a-kind “Buck UP” and “Get ‘Er Done” Aunt Ginger advice.
Any one who really knew my mom, knew she was crazy. I mean seriously crazy; personality disorder with narcissistic and paranoid components. It was a very rough road while she was raising the four of us. The drama and damage didn’t end as we all reached maturity and ran, ran as fast as we could, away from her sphere of influence. We’ve spent a great deal of our adult lives untangling the chaos of her impact. But Aunt Ginger was always there… She has never missed a birthday or anniversary and always included affirmations about how well we turned out despite… Every card expressed that she was proud of us and that we were making good choices with our lives. Though we never lived close to her, she remains close because she’s always been our cheerleader and as my mom’s eldest sister, she knew the score when no one else did. I am sharing this about one of my heroes because she is a magnificent example of a cancer survivor and to illustrate how you have the potential to have a positive impact on people beyond your first tier relationships. Never underestimate the power you have by giving affirmations and encouragement to others. You might be one of the life rings tossed to someone in a stormy sea, just like Aunt Ginger has been.
She had a recurrence of her cancer in 2003 and took the opportunity to have the lone breast reduced in size. She’s one of the few things I’m happy to be linked to in my gene pool!

Chasing My Own "Yellow Tail"

Hooter Hotline #6 Chasing My Own "Yellow Tail"
January 5, 2010
Yesterday was a really good day. I felt so good that I got on my semi-recumbent exercise bike and worked hard for 35 minutes. “Boys, I want you to help me do this six days a week,” I declared to my husband and son. “I really need to drop some weight and get fit.” I bought the used Nautilus bike several months ago. After rearranging the living room furniture, it has a permanent place there. “No excuses now,” I told myself after moving it in. It is practically silent when in use and looks like a slick piece of modern furniture (that’s what I tell myself). I can watch the news and be in the same room as Rog & John instead of the cold, lonely basement. My goal was to “prehab” for future hip surgery. Frankly, I’m just tired of being as big as a 3,000 square foot house and want my original 1,800 square foot floor plan back. My little 12 mile ride during World News Tonight felt so good that I only had a bowl of raisin bran for dinner and declared I was not going to have any wine until 10 PM in an effort to limit available time for caloric intake. I know New Years resolutions generally start out this well, and that most never cross the finish line. I quit making resolutions years ago because I got sick of disappointing myself. Looking back, that is the one resolution I was successful at keeping! There was some consolation however, when I was making resolutions in those days, I usually got a couple weeks or even a month of clean living out of it. Little did I know that I would derail from my latest attempt at clean living wihin about forty minutes.
John’s New Year has started off well too. He is setting out his clothes for school the night before and is up and at ‘em in the morning without nagging. He has also started taking morning showers…just like Dad. Getting him to bed on time in a positive way is my contribution to his self-motivated plan. I was headed to his bedroom at 9PM to tuck him in and read a quick chapter from Perloo, when the phone rang. I heard Rog pick it up in the living room behind me. I heard him say, “Hello, Oh, hi. Yes, she’s right here.” In an instant, my teeth were clenched and I was ready to snarl, “Why did you say I was right here? I need to get John to bed! You could have told them I was busy and would call them back!” Before I could hiss anything ugly, he said, “It’s Dr. Wheeler.” In the same amount of time it took me to switch from loving mom off to read a bedtime story into bitchy wife shooting darts from her eyes, I did yet another about-face. With a high degree of sweet perkiness, I began the conversation with my surgeon.
After the expected “How are you doing?” questions, she mentioned that the post-op pathology was back. Before surgery last Wednesday, she warned that pathology may take a week and a half or more due to the holidays. I felt the prehistoric hair on my spine bristle like a cat’s when she said that. Having worked every other weekend and many holidays during my 27 year nursing career, it has been my experience that disease never takes a holiday. One of the most frustrating scenarios for nurses giving 24/7 care is to be told, “We can’t do that now because we don’t have staff on the weekend/holiday.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been told something to that effect over my years working in a hospital. But I digress. Dr. Wheeler’s call meant that my hunk of breast tissue really didn’t sit neglected in the pathology fridge so that some one could watch football all day on January 1st. Suddenly, I am wondering what they keep hunks of human tissue in. Is it a standard ZipLoc? What about Tupperware? My little Seal-A-Meal bags would work quite well. Maybe those Debbie Meyer Green Bags are the ticket! But I digress again. “This is great!” I thought, “Now I won’t have to wait until my follow-up appointment on Thursday to hear the results.”
The only word that left an impression on me as she started to go through the report was “widespread.” She mentioned it several times mingled with the phrase, “Ductal Cancer In Situ.” I listened closely with my jaw somewhat gaping while pacing back and forth in the living room. John came out of his room and stood nearby, hearing the revelation of more cancer and more surgery. “I am so sorry,” Dr. Wheeler said. “Well, I wanted clarity and now I have it definitively,” I answered. “I would not have been comfortable removing my breast without good reason and now I have good reason.” I must say that having the two lumpectomies is a relatively minor procedure and I don’t mind having paid that price to know what must be done now. I said there was no great sense of relief with my decision to have the revised lumpectomy, but there was relief in hearing that now they had to go. I am okay with it. The “glass half full” view is I don’t have to have radiation and increased vigilance for recurrence. I will have to make peace with all the cons for mastectomy though.
When the conversation ended, I noticed that John was no longer in the room. I went down the hall and saw that he was in bed, light off and holding his Hershey candy bar pillow over his head. Leaning over him I asked, “Oh, Sweetie, are you okay?” He shook his head “no” without moving the pillow. “Are you worried,” I asked. He nodded “yes.” I crawled in beside him just like I had the night he had called out in his sleep. I had nowhere to rest my head. “I really need your Hershey pillow for my head, Sweetie.” He reluctantly handed it back over his head to me, and then pulled his sheet over his head to replace it. “Are you crying, Sweetie? It’s okay. You don’t have to be embarrassed about crying. I know it’s because you love me. Tears are just liquid love,” I said trying to soothe him. “I’m sorry you had to over-hear the conversation. I would have liked to tell you about it in a different way,” I offered. Trying to reassure him I continued, “It’s going to be okay. I’m going to be okay. This will be the last surgery. The bad guys don’t know we discovered their evil plan and we’re going to stop them before they have a chance to launch another attack. I know it sounds like bad news, but I’m glad we know it and we also know exactly what to do to take care of it.” There where lots of kisses on the top of his head and a prayer said for God’s comfort to come over John and bless him with a good sleep.
I returned to the living room at 9:40 PM and sank into the couch. “Open the wine. We’re not waiting ‘til ten o’clock now!” By 11:40 PM, 1.5L of Yellow Tail Syrah had been consumed. As one cannot drink that much wine on a bowl of raisin bran eaten two hours earlier, something else was needed. While still trying to be calorie conscious as we were swilling wine, I portioned out 18 Tostito corn chips each in separate bowls, closed the bag and put it away. I told Rog just to nibble them to make them last longer (right). Pretty soon he got up to get us “one more portion.” Then I got up to get the “for real” last portion and saw that he had left the bag out and open on the counter. Dumb stuff like that makes me smile. So I smiled, ate the chips, finished the wine and slept like a baby.

If the MRI is "IT," I must Aquit!

Hooter Hotline #5

If the MRI is “IT,” I must acquit!

Well, here I am. It’s the night before surgery and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, ‘cept my Microsoft mouse…. Naaaah, I won’t make you read through a wretched rendition of the “The Night Before Christmas!” Besides, New Years is only two days away and I want it to be HAPPY for everyone!

If you ever wondered how shallow I am, I’ll tell you right now. I am bummed about going to surgery again. It’s not the surgery that is depressing me though; it’s the fact that I have to leave the house at 0445 (if the snow has melted)! I need to be at Good Sam by 0530 for 0730 surgery. For a non-morning person, two hours pre-op time feels excessive. My fellow ICU nurses would concur that it doesn’t take two hours to get a healthy person ready for surgery! I’ve helped whisk critically ill people off to surgery in 20 minutes. I’d like to show up to Good Sam at 0700 having inserted my “Home IV Start Kit” with the Lactated Ringers running at about 100 ml/hr, Ancef dripping slowly and a purple surgical marker’s smiley face drawn on the underside of my left breast. I would walk into Short Stay repeatedly chanting my name, birth date and Social Security number if it meant I could sleep in a little longer. But alas, being the patient means being submissive to higher powers and protocols. And for those of you who really know me, being submissive is what I’m all about.

No more time on the fence. Going to surgery means a decision has been made. I think I arrived at my decision a while back, but wasn’t forced to say it out loud until a day or two ago. Speaking my decision made it more real than just floating a thought around in my head. It was kind of odd and monumental to say it because it suddenly became concrete and contractual. I’m having a revised lumpectomy. After considering the MRI results and bearing out my commitment to making a decision based on data, I have to concede the MRI offered no scientific reason for bilateral mastectomies. There was no happy dance with the decision. There was no great sense of relief. And I have wavered a bit since. I have wondered if I’ve taken the easy route, but I always return to the same decision after reworking it. The darts of doubt have ceased their barrage except for the occasional stray, like the one that hit tonight as I looked at Rog with big eyes and asked, “Am I making the right decision?” “Yes, I think you are for you,” he said. Poof! The dart was gone. There is a strange and resolute peace now.

Sometimes I still wonder if I may have wimped out somehow. I know several brave women who have taken everything off so that they can move forward without looking back. They are gutsy ladies. I am in awe of them. I know their decisions were right for them and I trust that God has lead me to the right decision for me. I did sort of put God on notice (in moment of impudence when I wanted to believe I had ultimate control of my destiny), that I function under a “Two-Strike Law.” Should these breasts suffer a recurrence, they’re OUT! He didn’t respond.

Maybe I’ll buy a few more years of good times with them. Maybe I’ll find a bra that I don’t actually hate in honor of their new lease on life. Maybe it will be a pain in the ass to go through radiation and step-up the monitoring vigilance, but I have chosen that with full disclosure. I was looking forward to my button-down wardrobe options blooming, but I will have to be content with the same boring stretch tops that always shrink after the first wash, threaten exposure of my less-than-six-pack midriff and are the source of constant hem tugging,

Our Pastor just left a couple hours ago. He stopped by to read some Psalms and pray with us. He called this morning to set it up, but when the snow and ice started to tinkle down, I called and left a message for him that he could just “mail it in” and pray with me over the phone. Thinking he wasn’t coming, I was running around the house bra-less, in a hoody sweatshirt, baby blue Capri PJ bottoms, sweat socks and fluffy gray slippers when he knocked on the glass slider. “You didn’t think I’d let a little snow stop me from visiting a former Alaskan, did you? I’d never hear the end of it!” In all my glory, we prayed for God’s will to be done and for me to remember that I am in His hands. He prayed that God’s will be accomplished by the hands of the doctor and medical team. He reminded me that God created me and loves me.

So, second round of the “Auroraboobealis” comin’ right up! My lovely little sister informed me the artisan pottery glaze I was referring to in HH #2, is RAKU. At Christmas she presented me with a ceramic star ornament with that very glaze! What a hoot! When I am displaying full post-op northern lights, I’ll whip it out (ornament too) and compare hues! There may be a modified photo coming your way…

Not long after I was diagnosed with breast cancer and before my first surgery, one of the gutsy bilateral mastectomy ladies I referred too, welcomed me to the “survivor sisterhood.” I replied back that the only thing I had survived was the first round of decision making! How true that has turned out to be. I’ve made it another round and you came with me. I am so grateful for my Hooter Hotline friends. Your replies have provided much comfort, laughter and encouragement. I continue to be lifted by your prayers and thank you for them. God Bless all of you and may you have a very Happy New Year.

More to come after I get tired of holding large ice bags like pet dogs and am taking only the occasional pain med!

The Tenth Circle of Hell

Hooter Hotline #4 The Tenth Cirle of Hell

December 15, 2009
Dear Hooter Hotline friends,
If Dante was correct about his Inferno, I would have reason to be very afraid. According to his order of the circles of hell, I would still have eight circles left as I prepare to leave "surgical decision-making-Limbo." Reviewing his list below, it occurs to me that in my 49 years of life, I have already slogged through, in no specific order, at least six levels. With the exception of Treason and Fraud, I freely admit to dabbling in circles 2-8, with an emphasis on wrath, sloth and gluttony. I seem to be working through the list from the bottom up with "Limbo" being my most recent stop.
First Circle (Limbo)
Second Circle (Lust)
Third Circle (Gluttony)
Fourth Circle (Avarice or Greed)
Fifth Circle (Wrath and Sloth)
Sixth Circle (Heresy)
Seventh Circle (Violence)
Eighth Circle (Fraud)
Ninth Circle (Treason)
Don't rat me out to Dante, but the last ten days of "surgical decision-making-Limbo" actually haven't been that bad. I credit your kindness and prayers for helping me pass the days with uncharacteristic patience and calm. Make no mistake though; ten days on the 50/50 fence (Lumpectomy/Bilateral Mastectomy) have not been fun. In fact, it's left deep chain-link impressions all over my ass. "It's a personal choice. It is an emotional choice. It's a lifestyle choice. You need to consider what baggage you bring with you. If you are a worrier, you might be happier with mastectomies. I would recommend bilateral mastectomies. I think you will be just fine with a revised lumpectomy. Whatever you choose, life expectancy is the same, but recurrence is higher with lumpectomy and we should be able to detect it on yearly mammograms. Radiation after lumpectomy mops up stray cells that may be left and taking Tamoxifen for five years will decrease recurrence by 50%. It's rare for a cancer to develop to a point of metastasis within the year between mammograms. It's really your choice. It's what you think you can live with. You have to think about whether you would have regrets down the road. You should listen to that little voice inside you." After listening to the doctors, that little voice inside me was screaming and I couldn't make out what it was saying except for a very shrill, “You guys are no help!” Between surgeon and oncologist, the message was clear...my choice was UNCLEAR! I felt like my head might explode. When they talked to me about my options, they seemed to speak as if they are comparing apples to apples. News flash: This choice goes beyond comparing even red apples to green apples. We're really talking about comparing a grape to a pineapple. It surprised me that my doctors seemed surprised that I was waffling about what to do. “When I first met you, you talked about just taking them off,” my surgeon reminded me as I leaned towards a revised lumpectomy for surgery #2 during a phone conversation. Stanford and Harvard teach Breast Surgeons excellent techniques, but may be a little deficient in teaching about the rapid evolution of a newly diagnosed cancer patient's reasoning process. It's true, I had the standard knee-jerk reaction when I first heard the news, "Take 'em off! Take 'em all off! Give me a Leatherman tool (or give me death) and I'll hack 'em off right now!" Initially I thought that, said that and believed that. If I had gone to surgery within 72 hours of getting the first pathology report, I'd be flat as a pancake now, wearing button-down shirts that have been languishing in the back of my closet ever since my bra size cruised by the first three letters of the alphabet. But my pseudo-decisive bliss would not last for long. A steady stream of doctor appointments, statistics, information, educated opinions of respected physicians, nurse navigators, scary stories from friends, friends of friends, coworkers, family, neighbors, and acquaintances followed, flooding most of my waking moments. Now the crystal clear reactionary picture became shrouded in the dense fog of my new reality. It is one thing to talk about having a mastectomy, but it is an entirely different thing to write one’s name on the surgery schedule for bilateral mastectomies.

“Gayle, I need to see you. I need to talk to you,” I said in a quaking voice on the phone. “Sure Jenny,” my little sister said, “I'll be home in a minute. We'll go some where and we can talk.” When we arrived at the Chinese Restaurant, I vomited the previous paragraph on her in a way that made my dilemma surpass the need for peace in the Middle East. “Have you made a pro and con list for each option?” she asked sensibly. “No,” I said sheepishly, silently chastising myself for being emotional and not having used the most basic tool from Decision-Making 101. Just as the crab puffs were brought to the table, she made me start writing the pros and cons. For a moment, my only dilemma was whether to eat a crab puff or start working on my assignment. I made the right choice of course. As I was chewing that savory bundle of cream cheese and crab with a “K” in its crunchy little pouch, I scratched out this table:

I have to admit that as I put pen to paper, the reality of each option was freshly impressed upon my mind and I found myself welling up with tears. My sister rightly had no mercy and just sat there until I had finished. “Oh, Jenny,” she said, “I’m so proud of you! Look at how you were able to pour that out so quickly.” Yes, it did feel good to get all that mental debris organized. It had been dominating the landscape like a Kansas tornado, but now it had quelled to 40 mile per hour winds. Phew! We began to talk about the pro and con list. For me, the cons of having mastectomies without a definitive reason were too expensive. It seemed a high price to pay for something I couldn’t justify statistically. To be honest, there is a portion of me that would be happy to remove all potential breast cancer tissue, but my decision also effects my husband and how I experience the remainder of my life. I really don’t want to miss my breasts, have a numb chest or go through reconstruction.

I was tired of talking to the surgeon and the oncologist. I was getting no where. It was time to call my PCP, Dr. P. Pena. He was supposed to be in charge of me, right? He will consider all of my health concerns and not just my boobs. I went to my appointment and he listened well. He never spewed statistics. He told me that whatever decision I made would be "the right" decision. Taken aback, I remarked, “Well, that's a new one! No one has ever said that yet.” “Whatever you decide, it will be the best decision you can make at the time with the information you have,” he said. He finished with a big hug. It was refreshing to talk to him. I felt lighter than when I had come in, but did not volunteer to get on the scale as I was leaving to verify it.

So, what do I do? Well, it might be the nurse in me who loves science, but I rebel against the concept of making such a Double-D size decision based on emotions or on a projection of “what I can live with in the future.” Geeze, I pretend to be more evolved than that on a daily basis despite ample evidence demonstrating that I have made MANY emotional decisions in my life (Thank God for selective memory). I wanted to make my decision based on data. I plan to consider the psychological and social stuff too, but not exclusive of science. I figure I can train my heart and head to live any way I need too. I've done it before out of necessity and this is just a new necessity.

Breast MRI had been explained to me as an option regarding mastectomy decisions before my first surgery. It had not encouraged because of the many false positives it can register due to its sensitivity and furthermore, the MRI biopsy process may take several uncomfortable hours on the table and is difficult for the radiologist to accomplish. I didn't see any of those issues as true obstacles and I called the surgeon to ask for a MRI order. Again, I was cautioned about receiving false positives. I was also told that many women who had MRI's with suspicious findings, made decisions to have mastectomies which they later regretted when post-op pathology showed no cancer. “But I don't plan to make any decisions unless I have biopsies if something suspicious is found,” I reassured the surgeon. I had to go through another cautionary round of conversation before I was able to convince the doctor that I would go into the MRI EXPECTING positive results and COMMITTING to biopsy if needed. I had the MRI on Friday. Monday morning Dr. Wheeler called and said it was clean. Nothing suspicious was found, not even a spot that could be a false positive. I was very neutral about the results. I think she might have been disappointed that I didn't squeal for joy or sound relieved. "So, what are you thinking about doing?” she asked. I guess other patients are capable of entering a new piece of data into the blank, pressing some kind of “enter button” and computing a decision instantly, but I have old fashioned cogs and I need to get the WD 40, squirt a little here, a little there, let them grind for a while and in a bit, I'll have an answer. “I haven't decided yet. I was waiting for these results. I will take them into consideration and let you know in a couple days what I decide,” I said. “Oh, that's fine. You can take your time. We got the cancer out. We just need to go back in and get clean margins around the new area,” she replied.

Now this is where you come in. That's right; you Hooter Hotline friends have a hand in this. Don't worry; you get all the glory and none of the responsibility! I really did not know what surgical option to choose. For an extremely decisive person, wallowing around in indecision is as stressful as having to take showers after gym in Junior High School. If only I had the body now that I had in Junior High, I'd be taking showers in public and not even charging! But alas, here I am, fat, nearly fifty and about to make a decision that will impact:
• how long I live
• my chance of breast cancer recurrence
• the amount of surgical disfigurement
• degree of remaining chest sensation, mastectomy creates a wide band of permanent numbness across the chest
• potential impairment of sensuality/sexuality/body image: “The girls” have been my heavy hitters in the seduction department...Come on, you and I both know that even if we have a little wine-belly, a couple saddlebags, a few chin hairs, smile lines and stray grays, we relish the fact that “the girls" still work for our men and have a supporting role in making sure “it was good for me too!”
• whether I need radiation treatment
• whether or not to have reconstruction if mastectomy is chosen

With just a few things on my plate to think about, I’ve found it strangely difficult to pray. And when I do close my eyes at night and earnestly give it a try, it is like I have ADD/HD of my thoughts. I can’t seem to pray one complete sentence. The thoughts bounce in and out like a box of Ping-Pong balls dropped on a hardwood floor. This makes me extra grateful that others are praying for me. I literally feel “carried” by your prayers. Never underestimate what your prayers are accomplishing. You have gifted me God’s peace and I am sleeping well at night and being productive at work. I threw a big birthday party for John, decorated for Christmas, mailed the Christmas cards and had a wonderful, non-breast cancer discussion get-a-way weekend with Rog, all with your help. Your prayers have sustained me in this muddled, fuddled, noodle eating poodle beetle battle in a bottle fox in sox Sir. Thank you and let me know if I can return the favor.

I am absolutely certain that if Dante had been a breast cancer patient with all the options medical technology offers, he would have written about a tenth circle in hell…indecision.

Antidote

Hooter Hotline #3A: ANTIDOTE to HH#3


Good Morning everyone!

Click on the link below to receive your antidote for "Hooter Hotline #3." I realize now that I caught many of you off-guard with the depth of emotion that surfaced in the HH #3 update after learning of the lumpectomy pathology. Well, it was the same for me too. But, a bad night is followed by a good day, a good night and an even better morning. I just watched this video below and didn't want it to stop. I also want to go to St V's and hug everyone in it. I'm still smiling as I write this. About midway through the video, it occured to me that all these people are committed to excellence and compassion in their care of breast cancer patients and now that includes me. What a great booster shot to see that motivation for me, you, your mom, grandmom, sister, aunt etc. On this Thanksgiving Eve, I am already compiling my list of blessings to be thankful for. First is for the faith that gives me strength, second is for family and friends like you whose love, care and prayers are the arms and legs of that faith, the gift of the pathology mentioned in HH #3 (it gave us advance intell. of the "enemy's tactics"), and for my absolutely awesome medical team: Dr. Amanda Wheeler, The MPMC Breast Health Center Team (for offering a gift basket raffle which motivated me to get my mammo. three months early and saved my life by finding the little bastard), Dr. Kevin Olson, Dr. Margaruite Stewart, the pathologists (never rush them) and the GSMC OR to name a few...
I'm off to make some pies for tomorrow. You have a wonderful Thanksgiving. I hope you feel my love and appreciation for each one of you. God Bless You and Your Families tomorrow and always.
Love,
Jen




From Connie K:
"From a friend...so worth watching!!" Out of Providence/St. Vincent Med Ctr:

Our daughter-in-law, Emily, created, directed and choreographed this in Portland last week for her Medline glove division as a fundraiser for breast cancer awareness. This was all her idea to help promote their new pink gloves. I don't know how she got so many employees, doctors and patients to participate, but it started to really catch on and they all had a lot of fun doing it.

When the video gets 1 million hits, Medline will be making a huge contribution to the hospital, as well as offering free mammograms for the community. Please check it out. It's an easy and great way to donate to a wonderful cause, and who hasn't been touched by breast cancer?

www.youtube.com/watch?v=OEdVfyt-mLw - 140k -